Desicritics Category: Culture: Holidays and Observances

Free Hugs: The Triumph of Love and Peace

AJ — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 06:52:36 EST

One of the highlights of the past few weeks have been the Mangalore pub beating incident by the Shree Ram Sene activists. For those hiding under a rock, a bunch of goons physically assaulted girls who were simply enjoying themselves in a pub in Mangalore. All in the name of maintaining Indian culture and preventing the proliferation of Western Culture.

Soon after that, with the imminence of Valentine's Day and to gain more political mileage out of their actions, the group declared that they would "Marry Off" any couple found enjoying themselves.

This declaration probably had the exact opposite affect of their aim. The attack coupled with this declaration resulted in the kind of backlash, from the political to the student to the working people to even the autowallahs pledging support for the Valentine's day revelers.

Not just that, multiple groups sprung up overnight to protest against Shri Ram Sene, it's leader Pramod Muthalik and the moral police. The Pink Chaddi campaign, The Pub Bharo aandolan, the Walk for Love and the Hug Karo, Pub Bharo aandolan all decided to exercise their freedom and civil rights and protest against those who threaten it.

I got a chance to participate in the Hug Karo, Pub Bharo aandolan. It was organized mainly by the Blogaloreans (Bangalore Bloggers group). While there was no Pub Bharo, there was a lot of Hugging in the aandolan.

About 4 of us assembled initially at the corner of Brigade Road-MG Road at about 3 PM of Valentine's Day with posts saying:

- Free Hug
- Happy Valentine's Day
- Dear Daughter, Wish you a fear free society (Get well soon Mamu)

and similar messages.

As we stood there, in one of the busiest streets in Bangalore, people passed us by looking at us curiously but not venturing to show their support by giving or receiving a free hug.

A lot of the younger generation (read MY generation) eventually understood our purpose and came to us either to encourage us or to hug us.

(The initial Hug Karo group)

(The final group when more people had joined us out of enthusiasm)

Though we did not keep a steady count, I'm quite certain that our group gave out at least 50-70 hugs which considering the small group was a pretty good number. However, the entire time, all of us felt that people were hesitant to come for a hug, that they were skeptical of our motives and were simply embarrassed. But a lot of them also showed support, giving us thumbs up, coming and giving us tight hugs or general words of encouragement and praise. That kept us heartened and energised to go at it for close to 2-1/2 hours.

However, what was most important was that we touched so many people, put our point across to the so called moral police and all this in a peaceful process.

We also received media coverage from Deccan Chronicle, TV 9 and other independent journalists and photographers.

Some More pics (courtesy Sanjukta):

Finally, a group has collated various videos of of the protests in Bangalore for Valentine's day and against the Moral police. Visit their youtube channel to view the videos

My Funny Valentine - Sweet Comic Valentine

Aditi Nadkarni — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 00:22:52 EST

There is something to be said about friends. I mean, they give us their all without expectation. At least mine do. I have friends who will listen to me yap about everything from completely transitory issues such as missing periods or acne to permanent problems that I suddenly have become aware of such as world peace and intolerance. They will never tell me that I am boring them and will loyally stifle yawns. None of them expect rings or a gift, much less a flower bouquet.

They will be completely fine if I don't call them for Valentine's Day or might even be slightly embarrassed if I do. I can just imagine my friend whisper a quick "Hmm, wish you the same but are you trying to murder my love life?" when I scream "Happy Valentine's Day!" through telephone lines while he is trying to chat up a cute girl who having heard my loud Valentine's Day wishes walked away quickly excusing herself.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love them dearly but my family can drive me nuts because, lets face it, that is their job. A year before turning thirty, I have come to accept that as a woman I will forever disappoint my mother. That's it. I feel better just having made that admission. Let me elaborate. My dad once told me of a doctor in his locality who they later discovered was somewhat of a quack. No matter what ailment one brought to Dr.Kamat, he would immediately ask them to stop drinking tea.

"But doctor I don't drink tea" the patient would sometimes respond.

"Ok so don't drink coffee" Dr.Kamat would tell him distractedly, filling out a generic prescription that everybody received unless they were having a heart attack in which case, Dr.Kamat's drunk compounder quickly shoved them into a taxi and sent them to the nearest hospital.

"Umm I don't drink coffee either doctor" the patient would tell him, hoping this information would give Dr.Kamat some brilliant insight into what was causing his affliction.

"You must drink something no....juice, cola, something. Stop drinking that" Dr.Kamat would snap at the confused patient. The poor man would nod and walk away with his prescription wondering why drinking his wife's nimbu sharbat had resulted in such a terrible case of butt-acne.

My mother is like Dr. Kamat.

"Are you drinking enough water?" she will ask without occasion

"Yes mom, I am drinking water all the friggin time" I respond in my high-pitched whiny "talkin-to-mom" voice

"Maybe you shouldn't drink too much water. You should drink a bit less. Too much water is also probably not good" she'll say.

"What's with your skin? Are you going out too much in the sun?" she'll comment, putting on her glasses, her keen stare making me squirm

"I rarely go out. I am always in the office or in lab. What are you talking about?" I answer with a shrug, rubbing my cheeks and forehead as if hoping for the tan to come off.

"Maybe that's what it is. If you stay cooped up at home, you don't get enough sun. You need some sunlight." And so on.

So basically no matter what I say, I'm screwed.

My dad is mostly neutral. But sometimes his neutrality is like that of Aishwarya Rai's where you just want to scream "Dude, say something!"

He once read my short story and I sat waiting in front of him, with baited breath to hear some feedback. He finished reading, took his glasses off and got up. I thought maybe he would walk over to me and pat my back. No such thing happened. I followed him inside until he walked into the bathroom. I stood outside only to hear him fart. That was my feedback.

Lets not even talk about extended family. They care so much for you that they have decidedly compartmentalized your life and now have inquiry committees set up for each section. Reproductivity, weight and marital status make up the three big departments and by the end of this concerned scrutiny, you are half the person you once were.

So that leaves us with friends. And it leaves our friends with this beaten down version of us, to deal with our woes, to lift our trampled self-esteem, to assuage our tested patience and soothe our hurt feelings.

Last year, I had to have surgery and just before they wheeled me into the OR, my friend's face loomed over my bed. She held a cell phone in her hand and was taking a picture.

"OMG, what are you doing?" I asked her, nervous in the anticipation of my first surgery ever, my face pink in embarrassment.

"Smile" she said loudly, as doctors and nurses looked on wondering whether or not to tell her that this was not allowed.

"Come on...just one picture, you look hot in that surgery robe and the blue cap" she told me as I smiled into the cell phone feeling like a complete moron.

When I woke up several hours later and suddenly threw up she was already holding the vomit-pan as if waiting for the puke to fly.

"Oh yeah baby!" she said victoriously as if she had caught a frisbee in the pan, "the doctor said you'd be nauseous from the anesthesia" she told me when I looked up confused wondering how she had managed to just be ready for such an unwarranted bout.

Men make amazing friends. They believe that disagreements or fights end when the phone call comes to an end. Can you imagine? One day we have a heated argument and so during the next conversation I try acting all aloof hoping he'll get the hint and apologize. He just chuckles and chortles while telling me about this colleague who was caught looking at some weird porn at work. A few minutes later, I sheepishly realize that he has completely forgotten about any fight whatsoever and even wonder if I had imagined the whole heated argument we'd had two days ago. Now I am starting to get the hang of it. This attitude keeps the friendship child-like and therefore stress-free.

A few years ago I received a V's Day card from a friend. I was surprised. He hated mushy V's day crap and had told me so, many times. I opened the e-card at work and a big blue cloud turned into a pink heart and floated around. And just as I wondered what the hell had happened to my perfectly wry friend, the large pink-heart balloon turned into a humongous, burly, pink, dimpled ass and whats more, it loudly farted. This time I turned pink and wanted to float away as colleagues looked on when the audible offensive rip came from the general direction of my desk area.

In his personalized note he wrote: "Had to show you this hilarious card. I knew you'd laugh". I did.

My roommate and I are the best of friends. I am a Harry Potter fan. She is not. One night, I read late into the night and wept when at roughly 3 am, I found out that Professor Dumbledore had died. That poor, poor, dear old man with his soft beard, I thought, crying into my pillow. I can get weird like that. I will have pent up sorrow that will suddenly be unleashed by stray occurrences, ranging from watching tragic films to hearing Talat Mehmood's ghazals. Anyways, so my roommate heard me weep and came over worried, her sleepy eyes trying to focus on my face in the dark.

"Whats the matter, why are you crying?" she asked me, blinking rapidly, her voice hoarse and heavy with sleep.

"Professor Dumbledore died" I told her mumbling. I don't know what she heard but she immediately put her arms around me

"Aww, how did he die....I'm so sorry to hear that" she cooed

"I don't know" I wept. I probably had been repressing some weird grief that Dumbledore's death had now released.

"Was it an accident? How did the professor die?" she asked her face a picture of concern

"No, that asshole murdered him" I told her as she brought me tissues and wiped my face.

"with his wand" I added, my lip still quivering and she frowned.

"Murder! With his wand? Wait, did you say wand? Wand?!" she stammered, her eyebrows knitted in confusion

"Yeah you know he used this curse and..."

"Which professor is this again? This isn't the professor who taught you Maths who you adored?" she asked, rubbing her eyes, her lips pursed, now fully awake and suddenly having spotted the Harry Potter book on my bed.

When she found out that she had been helping me mourn the death of a character, from a Harry Potter book, she could have fumed, rolled her eyes and walked away, back to bed.

"You are such a drama queen!" she could have told me and dismissed me. I expected her to do that.

Instead she sighed and sat down beside me.

"Don't worry. It's not the last book. He'll come back in the next one...just watch" she told me, with a grave philosophical expression, tucking me in and giving me hope. Professor Dumbledore's death had most likely just been a trigger for some other anguish I had suppressed and even though it found vent in the most odd fashion, she was still there for me.

Two of my very best friends are guys. I have known them since I was a tomboyish teenager. They are quintessential men who love sports, cars and beer. But for my sake, they spent a whole day at Butterfly World in Florida just because it made me happy and I had been feeling low. They had probably wanted to go the beach and watch beautiful, tanned bikini-clad beauties. Instead, they stood patiently in Butterfly World, their hands in their pockets, with tight, uncomfortable smiles, while I clicked pictures and annoying little kids ran around everywhere screaming. They tried very hard to not swat the pretty butterflies that settled down sometimes on their shoulders and hair and even gave me enthusiastic nods and a thumbs-up when I fed two parakeets on my palm.

"Please do not show these pictures to other people" they told me quietly, as we left Butterfly World and headed straight to a sports bar where macho-ism can be painlessly revived.

When I finish a good book, I call them. When I am depressed, I call them and I later find out that they had walked out of a movie theater to talk me out of my blues. When I see a great movie, I talk them into watching it and argue with them when they tell me they hated it. St.Valentine has blessed the celebration of love with his name. Similarly, Plato has blessed friendships between the genders with his name but nobody seems too keen on celebrating Plato's Day. Maybe my post will start a new wave for Plato's Day and annoy those angry Senas even more.

Sadly, in case of Platonic friendships, sometimes I feel like I am on this long wait until the guy's wife comes into his life one day and refuses to see how this friendship of his could be "proper". I spend my days fearing that one day, my best friend will turn into somebody's husband, that one day his wife will claim that him and I are just too close for her comfort. It scares me that this one whim might decide the future of a friendship that I have cherished since I was a teenager. These people are the only witnesses who knew the original me. They knew the person before the cynicism of age and experience set in and they heard the laughter that grew inhibited with every passing year. I once told one of them about this recurring nightmare where he and his wife meet me at the mall years later and he refuses to acknowledge me because she might get offended. At the end of my narration, I waited for his reaction. I waited for him to tell me that I was panicking for no reason and this it was a thoroughly stupid paranoia. And instead he giggled.

"Was she hot...my wife in your nightmare?" he asked me cackling at his own joke as I groaned and protested his ill-timed humor. I was secretly glad that he had made light of the situation; how else could I have ever laughed in the face of such credible fear.

Come to think of it, it is even harder for two girls to stay friends through all the numerous life changes. Two women who are such good friends that they are more than sisters, in the United States, are either pronounced gay or are Gayle...and Oprah.

Marriages, romance, children, jobs, geography and in the face of all the chaos, change and exhaustion is the steady, scaffold, the pillar of a good strong friendship that keeps us all going. So I have decided that I won't wait for Friendship Day to come along and pass by unnoticed. This Valentine's Day, I raise a toast and a cupcake with pink frosting to the ones that keep me sane through all the insanity and yet manage to bring in ample craziness when things get more serious than they should. This Valentine's Day I celebrate this one love that hardly ever gets celebrated and the deep affection we have for the unsung heroes of our busy lives.

Here's to you, my friend, my funny, crazy Valentine.

Fiction: Twists Of Love

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 9 Feb 2009 04:07:59 EST

He shifted on the bar stool and looked towards the main door. His eyes met hers. She wasn't the one he was waiting for. Part of him registered that she was attractive. She was curvy, with pretty eyes, wavy hair. She wore a black top with a plunging neckline along with black trousers.

The steward spoke to her and took her to a table. His eyes went back to the door. Where was she? He had been waiting for over fifteen minutes. He looked at his watch once more and then at the door. He fidgeted, turned back to take a sip of his whiskey sour and again trained his eyes on the door. He knew he was acting like a twenty year old and less like the thirty five year old man that he was.

She had finally agreed to go out with him as a date and not as a friend. He had watched her go through disappointments and heartbreaks for over five years and kept his love under wraps. She never saw him as anything more than a buddy. For her there was no chemistry between them but last night she asked if he wanted to be her date? She wondered out loud that maybe they were like old married couples and maybe she had been a fool not to see what they had.

He smiled and agreed, maybe they did have something. He gave a restrained smile. He wasn't going to lay it all out in the open. Not yet. He had his dignity and he was, after all, not a twenty year old.

But his heart was very much that of a twenty year old's. He hated himself for the eagerness he felt in his heart as he waited for her. His drink finished and he ordered another. Time was ticking by where was she?

At the table the lady in the black top and trousers played with the cutlery set next to her plate. Where was he? Was he going to make it? She looked at the door and then at her watch. She was a fool to believe him. Her eyes wondered around and she saw people laughing, drinking and eating. Feelings of loneliness washed over her and despondency came over. The tiny voice that insisted her he wasn't coming grew louder. He had stood her up, again.

He ordered another drink. It was his third whiskey sour. His stomach grumbled with hunger and he ate a few peanuts. His eyes wandered around the room and he saw the lady in the black top also sitting alone. It was close to an hour since she had walked in. Maybe they both had been stood up.

Their eyes met and they looked away. Indians didn't acknowledge strangers. Where was she? Had she changed her mind? A sense of forbidding came over him; maybe she had gone back to her last boyfriend. The devil in him twisted the knife deeper. Maybe she was in his apartment, lying in his bed, loving him, whispering sweet nothings in his ears, maybe she had forgotten all about the friend she had stood up. He gulped down his drink and ordered his fourth whiskey sour.

She drummed her fingers on the table and then looked at the alcohol menu and ordered whiskey on the rocks. He was late but he had always been late. She wasn't going to lose her temper. The guy at the bar also seemed alone. At least she wasn't the only one waiting for someone in the pub. He was a nice enough fellow. Easy on the eyes, actually. Her mind reverted back to her husband of ten years who couldn't keep his pants up when it came to pretty women. She wondered why she was a glutton for punishment. She was a fool.

Her drink came and in anger she gulped it down. Gritted her teeth when it hit her gut hard and asked the waiter for another. She crossed her arms and sat back against the chair and began to brood. The waiter returned with her drink . He whispered that the gentleman on the other table sent her a drink. She looked to her right and saw two twenty-somethings smile at her. They looked decent enough. One of them raised his glass at her. He was more than easy on the eyes. He was hot! He was a Shahrukh Khan look alike. She raised her glass and took a sip. He came over to the table.

Sitting on the hard stool he wondered whether on his fourth or fifth drink? He wasn't sure but one thing he was sure about- he had been officially stood up by the woman he had waited for what seemed to be most of his wasted life! But he looked at the door hopefully. It opened and a couple walked in. Disappointment punched his gut. He cursed himself and ordered his fifth; yes, it was his fifth.

The bartender raised her eyebrows. He glared at her. She smiled at him. They started talking. He was tipsy and his mind became hazy. He couldn't remember her face anymore. He concentrated his swaying senses on the bartender. She made him laugh. He ordered another, she told him to go easy on the drinks and he replied only if she would go easy on him. She showed him her pearly whites and he felt a balm on his soul.

The lady in black smiled when the good looking twenty something asked if she wanted to go to the nearby nightclub with him. She didn't let herself think about the risks and agreed. She wasn't a wet blanket; she too could have fun. She finished her third drink, got to her feet and swayed a bit. He grabbed her elbow to steady her and before he helped her out of the restaurant he nodded at his friend who raised his glass to him- Jackpot! He had a date.

The bartender gave him his sixth whiskey sour and lightly said if he would stop drinking she would take him up to her apartment for coffee; her shift was over. He smiled, pushed his drink to the side, inclined his head at her and gave her a devilish smile. She blinked. She wanted him. She gestured towards the door and they went out of the restaurant towards the stairs. Her apartment was on the first floor.

Something was wrong. She felt her world whirl around her, the nightclub would have to wait. Drinking on an empty stomach was never good. She bent over and threw up right on the porch of the restaurant and her black trousers got splattered. Humiliation, embarrassment and stomach ache made her groan out load.

As he was walking out with the bartender, he saw the lady in black throw up a few yards away from him. The lady in black was drunk. The bartender went up to the lady and asked if she wanted a taxi. She declined and asked her young companion to take her home. Her companion looked uncomfortable but felt he couldn't leave a drunk woman to fend for herself and agreed to drop her home. Taxis weren't safe.

The bartender returned and put her arm through his and took him to her rooms.

She, on the other hand, was carefully bundled into a Scorpio and she mumbled her address. Later, she didn't resist the helping hand towards her door and then her room.

Morning came in it's sunny glory. They both blinked and groaned. He was in the unfamiliar apartment and she was in her own bedroom. Memories of the sex escapades spilled forth.But hangover warded off the shock.

She stumbled into her bathroom and looked for the Ipill kept behind the mirror. She wondered if that kid had used a condom.

He sat up and grabbed his head. This was his first one night stand in his thirty five years of life . Did he use a condom? he wondered. He didn't carry one; he wasn't expecting to get lucky. The woman on the bed snored loudly and he stifled the next groan.

Her cell phone rang.

His cell phone rang.

They both groaned as their partners continued to slumber peacefully.

She wrapped herself in a robe and gingerly walked into the living room, side stepping the clothes left strewn around. Her black bra lying on the floor made her cringe and she closed a tight fist against the little butterfly encrusted Ipill.

He grabbed his trousers lying next to the cheap bedpost and pulled the cellphone out.

They answered their phones in a whisper

"Hello?"

His deep baritone in her ear made her close her eyes in pain. She tried to remind herself that he had hurt her all over again. She promised herself that she'd be strong for once and not given in.

"Sweetheart! There was a big jam on Brigade Road and the Airtel lines were jammed. I couldn't get through. I was so worried. Have I blown my chances with you? Sweet heart I am so sorry. I love you. I don't want to lose you. Can I come over? Please honey. Give me a chance? Give our marriage a chance? "

He went on pleading .

She stared at the Ipill in her palm and replied "No, I'll come over at lunch time. We'll talk then" She closed her cellphone and went into the kitchen to have her pill with water.

He remained quiet as his friend of five years gave him an explanation.

"Babes! I made up with him. We are fine now. I tried to call you but the lines were jammed. I know you will be happy for me......"

She went on speaking but he stopped paying attention to the flighty chatter. His eyes were on the bare chested woman who lay on her back and smiled up at him. He smiled back at her. His twenty year old heart did a little skip. Being with her seemed right.

She held her arms open and as he lay down with her he whispered "Happy Valentine 's Day."

Fiction : Happy Divine Day

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 5 Feb 2009 07:22:01 EST

"Happy Divine Day!"

"Eh? What is that?" Sharmila tittered at her air-headed friend.

"Oh! it's when we pledge that our love will be as infused and divine like that of Vishnu and Lakshmi or like Shiva's and Parvati's or even Ram's and Sita's."
"Not like Rati and what's his name? Kamadeva! How could I forget." Sharmila shook her head at her sudden amnesia

"No!" Aradhana looked around to make sure no one in the Archies store heard them. "Where have you been? Don't you read the news? It is no longer Valentine's Day. We call it Divine Day to avoid Ram Sena."

"Huh? Since when did this happen?" Sharmila looked bewildered

"About nine days ago when Pramod Mutalik said he will stop Valentine celebrations from happening in Bangalore. You really have been hibernating!"

"Er, no not really. I never did have a boyfriend. All this is immaterial to me." Sharmila shrugged. She browsed through the cards then gasped.

She held out a card with a religious picture of Shiva and Parvati on it with a big heart behind them.

"Is this what you are talking about?"

Aradhana opened the card and read the message "May our love be as pure and divine like that of heavenly beings."

"Yes, and I think I will give this card to Nikhil my fiance. "

"Fiance? When did this happen? I thought you guys were just going around. How could you hold such big news from me. You two are the most important people in my life and --"

Aradhana grabbed Sharmila 's elbow and pulled her to the cash counter and spoke in a hushed tone " Be quiet! They have police here in plain clothes. They will follow me back to the food court and arrest Nikhil and me"

She smiled and paid for the card and yanked her friend away from the crowded shop.

"Let us talk in the car!"

"In the car? Aradhana I know it has been a while since we met. I was busy studying and didn't pay attention to the news and all but I do think you are acting crazy!"

"Sharmila don't be stubborn; come with me. Nikhil can wait for another ten minutes. I can't have him sit with us in the car. That can get us into trouble."

Sharmila shook her head and let her friend drag her out to the parking lot and into the car.

While Aradhana SMSed her 'fiance' Sharmila looked at the crowd moving into the mall. Mixed groups of boys and girls moved in and out of the stores. But there was something very peculiar. Apart from older couples who were obviously married she saw very few college going couples around.

Aradhana put the cellphone back in her purse and looked out of the windshield.

"It has become very bad. We fear that they may drag us out on the roads and beat us up. The cops do nothing, the politicians are hand in glove with this whole mess. We have nowhere to turn."

Sharmila took Aradhana's hand and tried to comfort her "This will all blow over. You'll see. "

Aradhana yanked her hand back and hit the steering wheel hard "What I don't get is if my parents are fine with it who are they to tell me what to do? I don't go around telling them to take their asses out of Medieval times"

Sharmila sat back and watched a young couple get into a nearby car and the boy handed the girl a single rose. They smiled, the boy started the car and they drove off. Young romance, if only she had someone to love her.

"Don't take it too hard Aradhana." Sharmila spoke gently. Her friend was always the passionate kind.

"You know what Sharmila? My maid had three live-in relationships. Three! These moralistic groups say nothing to the lower classes who have different sets of morals but they are forever trying impinge their authority on us."

Sharmila looked at her watch. They had a movie to go to and began to get impatient.

"It is quite simple Aradhana. The lower classes don't care. They are thinking of survival. That's their day-to-day life. Love is a notion indulged by the middle class. They cannot afford it. They don't care if it is Valentine's Day or Divine Day. They just want to get through the day with at least one proper meal. Now come let us meet Nikhil. We'll get late for our movie."

They walked into the mall and then into the crowded food court.

Nikhil was easy to find. A clean shaven boy in a regular t-shirt and jeans. Aradhana ran a trembling hand through her hair and Nikhil brushed his clammy hand against the side of his jeans. They both looked nervous and Sharmila grinned at their mutual discomfort. She was, after all, the one who pushed them towards each other. They were her best friends in college.

Nikhil gave Aradhana a shy smile and handed her a card " Happy Divine Day."

Sharmila tried to smother the laughter that bubbled in her throat. She began to cough.

Aradhana gave Nikhil a strained smile and then a dirty look to her friend.

"Open the card" Nikhil urged.

Aradhana took the card out of the envelope and found herself looking at the identical card that sat in her purse.

Disappointment hit her hard .

Aradhana tried to put up a happy face.

She grabbed Sharmila's hand and smiled up at Nikhil "Let us go for the movie."

Once they entered the theater Aradhana made Sharmila sit between them.

Sharmila joked "But people may think I am Nikhil's girlfriend. We still may get beaten up."

Both Nikhil and Aradhana glared at Sharmila and the lights went off.

Related Article : On Divine Day Give This Divine Gift To Your Divine Man

Does Palmistry Work?

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 00:19:06 EST

Does Palmistry Work? The answer is yes. You can predict behaviour based upon certain medico-engineering facts based upon your hand measurements. But a bit of history before this. Once upon a time, in the dim and distant past, I was laid up on a hospital bed for months on end. At that time, I was handed a copy of Cheiro's Palmistry book. As it so happens, its available on Project Gutenberg as a free downloadable e-book. Knock yourself out. At that time, I was a spotty teenager and soon got into it. Besides the obvious benefits of getting to hold women's hands and saying profound but totally BS stuff that spotty teenagers do to impress girls, it was fun.

But I did dig around a bit about this palmistry business. Did you know this stuff emerged from India from our old friend, Valmiki? Who wrote a treatise on this subject. But two things sort of made Palmistry a bit of sense to me. The first was that after my accident and being on crutches for well over 18 months made the lines of my hand change. I had a different palm line structure in 1987 and by 1988, the lines on my right hand were significantly different from what they were before.

Second was a scientific explanation. Did you know that the palm area is one of areas of the skin which has the highest density of nerve endings? Given that you and your behaviour is driven quite significantly by your nervous system, it made sense to understand that the lines made on the palm have something to do with the nerve endings and thus have some predictive ability.

Also, let us not forget the fact that the development of the opposable thumb is one indication of the difference between us and the animals. The very fact that we have opposable thumbs means that we have fine motor skills and our intellectual development path has diverged from the animals. For example, the fact that we have a thumb means that writing is possible. So, our hands and digits do have "stuff" to do with our own personal development. But I am slightly drifting from the point.

But its a childish pursuit, fit only for people who are not confident enough to rely on their own skills but require confirmation from others. That's what I thought about the range of studies relating to jewels, palmistry, astrology, numerology and the like (even though I ended up studying them way too much, but then, you dont have much option when you are stiffed inside the hospital bed for months on end).

But others do believe in it. My own marriage came nearly a cropper when my father in law spotted the length of the fingers on my right hand. See above on the fingers of my right hand (its on the left) (and no jokes on hairy hobbit hands and feet, I have heard them all!). The middle and ring fingers are roughly of equal length, in fact, the ring finger is slightly longer even than the middle finger as is the case on my right hand. Guess what he said? He said that people with that condition are great gamblers. He gave me a very suspicious look and mumbled something about how his daughter will be married to a gambler and how that's not good and and and. Close shave, I tell you, I had to talk very quickly. But he still gives me a pained look whenever we meet.

So since then, I spasmodically do the palmistry stuff, usually when I am drunk or when I am drunk. But you know what I mean, its only for a bit of a laugh and fun. But not true.

Here's an experiment which you can do. Go grab a ruler or a scale. Measure the length of your index finger from the knuckle to the tip and the same with your ring finger. Then divide the 2 numbers. The higher the ratio, the bigger is your ability to do do profitable trades. This ratio is called as the 2D:4D ratio. I quote:

Traders with the lowest 2D:4D ratios had an average annual income of £680,000 – 11 times higher than those with the highest ratios. The ratios, measured from photocopies of volunteers’ hands, ranged from 0.90 to 1.02.

I further quote:

Researchers at Cambridge university have found a strong statistical link between the profitability of male traders at a London bank and the ratio of index to ring fingers on their right hand. The longer the fourth digit in relation to the second, the more money the traders are likely to make.
This ratio, known as “2D:4D”, is affected by the amount of male hormone to which people are exposed while growing in their mother’s womb.

Previous research has shown that higher prenatal exposure to testosterone and other male hormones leads to a lower 2D:4D ratio. Finger ratios have been used to predict performance in competitive sports.

Go now you have ended up with another scientific explanation for human performance as measure by bio-engineering factors on the hand. So Palmistry does seem to work in certain aspects. Now where is the damn parrot?

Technorati Tags: Humour,Financial Institutions,trading

BBC Series Review: The Story of India

Blokesablogin — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 05:09:44 EST

Like Slumdog Millionaire, yet another Indophilic British production http://www.pbs.org/thestoryofindia/about/episode_summaries/, this time around, less fiction and more fact on Indian History. While I missed watching the first 2 episodes, I did get around to watching the next 2 exotically titled Spice Routes and Silk Routes and Ages of Gold.

Michael Wood, the narrator and primary tour de force for this series has this infectious enthusiasm about India and the remnants of history that continue to find relevance in the 21st century. At least, that is what I got out of his portrayal of "Indian History" through the eyes of a "foreigner".

If objectivity is the value of having "foreign" accounts to be given greater academic honor than Indian sources, so be it. However, I have never understood why Indian notes on their economic interactions with the Romans or the Greeks never find value in western sources cited in academic circles- a bit one sided, don't you think?

While the British continue to believe that it is their duty to interpret the history of the world, including the only surviving ancient civilization of the world (apart from the Chinese- but they have lost a lot of their "cultural currency" to communism), India continues to muddle along just fine with all the good and bad press. She is a juggernaut. Nothing can stop her. And that is precisely Michael Wood's point.

My perusal of Tamil texts when forced to learn that classical language in school mentioned economic ties with ancient Rome, and a healthy one that was under the title Pandaikaala Tamizhargal (ancient Tamils). Nowhere in any of my NCERT Indian History books did I find any information regarding the economic links between ancient South India and Rome. Michael Wood's serial is perhaps the first one of its kind where sufficient Southern Indian History has been included in telling the story of the sub continent, much of it missing from regular Indian History textbooks. His inclusion of bits from Turkmenistan and Afghanistan makes the telling more congruous.

Of course, it is your classic textbook version of history- none of the challenging of the Aryan Invasion Theory stuff- I was hoping to see some updated version and sadly disappointed. The usual Romila Thappar variety of "Hindu brahmins" destroying the society and causing the rise of Buddhism etc.

All the interviews and visuals are desperate straw clinchers. We need to be well versed in Indian History to fill in the details. After all, telling the story of India that spans over 10,000 years (according to Wood's synopsis of the series) within 6 hours is indeed a Herculean task. Kudos to him for even trying to attempt it.

The excessive shots of the Indian Railways was overmuch in a land filled with History. It was interesting to see how he "put words" into the mouth of his interviewees. Like him interpreting the Karkathars tradition as being responsible for irrigation (after talking about the Grand Anaikat) when they are actually farmers who farmed their land on rainwater alone. One of the serious gaffes he makes is in his interview with the current Maharaja of Thanjavur. He mistakes him to be of the lineage of Raja Raja Chola. Little does he realize that the current lineage is Marathi and has no connection with the Cholas. Oh well.

I suppose, one can get overwhelmed with India if you are not "born" there. For instance, in this shot in Madurai, where Wood is "soaking in" the market place with its colorful array of products, his jaw is almost hanging- as he admits. For the average Indian, it is Ghar ki murgi daal baraabar (taken for granted) attitude.

There is this cute shot of him chatting up 9 ladies from Ahmedabad who are on their pilgrimage to Mathura. The true "emancipation" of Indian women is exposed there- the women are on their own with no husbands to cramp their style! I remember my grandmother going on such a pilgrimage with her Mahila Mandali way back in the 70s with none of them speaking a word of Hindi!

If you would still like to catch this series, you still can on PBS in the US. It airs Monday night (19th Jan).

poetry: january 1, 2009

temporal — Thu, 1 Jan 2009 15:39:29 EST

georgiou emptied the bins - coffee cups,
crushed cans, mickeys, wrappers, paper tissues
and sweeeping the Nathan Phillips Square
gathered frozen kisses, melting sighs,
discarded resolutions and shouted greetings
that had ushered in the first day of an uncertain year
as he went about methodically he knew he'd survive
- as would most in the west, relatively unscathed

the future is full of long shadows
for those in occupied Gaza, Somalia,
Darfur, FATA, Afghanistan, Iraq...
the world has shuttered the window
blinds drawn

wish you and those around you
health and peace for the coming months

having put in his hours in the chill
georgiou smiled pensively, took off work gloves
changed and went home

Bazaar Walks: Today at Dadar

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 3 Dec 2008 07:46:05 EST

I went to Dadar today, to chalk out new routes for a Dadar Bazaar Walk. Here are impressions from today's walk, clicked on my Nokia E90.

At Phule covered market - crabs for sale
There were mussels, dried fish, bombil, and all sorts of other fishy treasures on sale. The fisherwomen as usual, had tongues as sharp as their curved fish knives. I was asked if I wanted to hold a live crab. My hurried refusal led to much merriment.

Resting after the morning's sale
See the green and maroon khun blouse? The fabric is probably soft and comfortable after repeated washes. Have you ever tried a khun? It is an absolutely beautiful brocade. Rich as silk, soft as satin, with the coolness and comfort of cotton - what more could a woman ask for! This is me, in case you're curious, in a glorious golden khun.

Outside the covered market - Goddess in Finery
Someone please, please tell me what's going on with the coconut + eyes + jewellery + new clothes thingy. I'm dying to know. Is this Lakshmi? Durga? Some other devi? I wrote about it earlier as well. I know this mystery woman is a goddess that the fisherfolk worship.

The Goddess obviously has a thing for bright skirts!
Lots and lots of women were buying things from these stalls. We asked them, but got incomprehensible answers. "It's for puja", they said. All I gathered was that there was a festival this month.

I call him The Yam Accountant.

She was concentrating on making a "veni" - flowers for the hair
The flowers come from the wholesale market nearby. If you want to see what the finished veni looks like, I have a photo here.

Plastic covers for computers and television sets
So it's not just Goddesses who like colour - see how the Indian love for colours transforms even these practical covers into a feast for the eyes! Near the plastic covers, green bangles (favoured by married women) are stacked in a basket in sets of twelve.

We stopped for lassi and snacks at a nearby restaurant. I had misal-pav, a brilliant Maharashtrian invention that doesn't get the press it deserves. Misal is a tangy spicy dish, eaten with bread. In my hurry to eat it, I forgot to click a photo, but if you want to see what misal is like, there's a great photo here. The most satisfying part of the misal is when you dunk the last of your chunky bread into the last of the gravy, and polish it all off with a final tasty mouthful. Sigh.

It is clear to me, people. I have inherited my mother's love of bazaars.

Bengaluru International Airport - A Few Rants

Vinod Joseph — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 16:22:06 EST

Very recently I was in Bangalore after a gap of almost four years. My Bangalore break was very brief, less than two days, and I hardly had the time to do even one-tenth of all that I wanted to do. In the limited time I had, what struck me most about Bengaluru was its new airport. A beautiful and reasonably clean airport, easily accessible through a world class road, it has replaced the much reviled HAL airport which clearly wasn’t sufficient to meet growing Bengaluru’s needs. I have a read a few reviews criticising the inadequacy of the luggage conveyor belts, but we collected our luggage in record time. The Meru cabs outside the airport were unbelievably good and took us to our destination in comfort and at a reasonable rate.

However, there were a few things about the new airport which struck a discordant note.

On our way out, after clearing immigration, we had a good two hours to kill before catching our flight. It was eight in the morning and we were hungry. I looked around and found just two restaurants – a pizza hut and an Italian restaurant – and a Kingfisher Sports Bar. I don’t know about you people out there, but I don’t fancy pizza for breakfast. Nor do I like to start drinking at eight in the morning, even if it is at a branded sports bar (ever wondered what the connection is between sports and drinking?).

This left the Italian restaurant. It was very clean and very empty, though there were quite a number of people at various gates nearby waiting for their flights. The menu listed only Italian bread, coffee and pastries. The waiter confirmed my worst fears. ‘Yes, we serve only Italian items,’ he told me proudly. They didn’t have ciabatta bread and I had to settle for a ham sandwich made out of focaccia bread. I wanted to scream. Why on earth can’t Bengaluru airport have a restaurant that serves Indian food?

No, I am no chauvinist and am all for diversity everywhere, including in cuisine. I enjoy western food much more than the average Indian does. However, I find it intolerable that Bengaluru, home to ragi mudde, bisi belle bath and masala dosa, should have a world class airport without a single Indian restaurant inside the airport. Our bill for the focaccia sandwich, a croissant, a caffe latte and a chocolate chip muffin came to around five hundred rupees, which I think is decent for an international airport. At least 90% of the people at the airport at that time of the day were Indians. I am sure that most of them would have shelled out this amount for a warm Indian meal before catching a flight that would take them away from home.

The second irritant, which is more serious than the first one, was the inadequacy of baby changing facilities. The toilets outside immigration control didn’t have any baby changing area, but we were told that we would find one after clearing immigration. And as promised, we did find a set of toilets which claimed to provide for ‘baby change’. My wife took our infant daughter into the women’s toilet and came out looking very irritated after ten minutes. ‘The baby changing facility consists of a sofa,’ I was told. ‘That’s it?’ I asked. ‘Yes, that’s it.’

What made things worse was that there were no wipes or paper covers for the changing surface on the sofa. A previous user had soiled the sofa, which had been cleaned in a very unsatisfactory way. I hate to sound snobbish and uppity, but the mid-size shopping mall in the small British town we live in has better baby changing facilities! If Bengaluru Airport is to be of international standard, this is something which ought to be taken care of. Also, I don’t understand why the baby changing area should be tucked inside the women’s toilet? What if a man is travelling alone with an infant?

The third irritant (not a serious one, but I may as well get it out of my system) was that the men’s toilet did not have double doors. This may not sound like a big deal, but the toilet I used was right next to a couple of gates and all those sitting there could have had a clear view of the urinals every time the door was opened.

Bengaluru is growing. Bengaluru has a million needs, a zillion demands and very finite resources. However, the lacunae of the type mentioned above can be taken care of by a bit of extra care and thought.

Devi Comes Home

Blokesablogin — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 00:03:17 EDT

It began with a trip to the local hardware store and we found several Tamilians looking for the same item: deck steps. What is that for?, you may ask. Well, it is time for Kolu.

While the Bengalis begin their Pujo, many of us in Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, set up "steps" and have a dolls exhibition, many of them themed after stories from the Ramayana, Mahabharata and Shrimad Bhagavatham. The exploits of Krishna, Dashavatharam, Rama Pattabhishekham, Shiva-Parvathi, Durga-Lakshmi-Saraswathi, Ganesha, Santa Clause, Buddha, Sai Baba, every one exists in harmony, rubbing shoulders with each other, adorning the "steps". There are always odd number of steps- three, five, seven, or in some elaborate ones, nine and so on!

My Gujarati friends are gearing up for nine nights of Raas Garbha and there are several Non Profits hosting Raas Garbas as fundraisers which are jam packed. You will never feel that you are in America, given the next few days: Everyone is decked up in their Indian finery, going to temples, attending Paats, Jagarans, Raas nights and Kolus.

The weather has turned cooler reminding us that autumn is here. The tree tops are slowly turning color, getting tinged with yellow, orange and red. My Jewish friends celebrate their "New year" (Rosh Hashana) on Mahalaya Amavasya and on Vijaya Dashami, Yom Kippur.

The Kalash, symbolic of the universe, represents the Devi, during these nine days. Chanting and recitations from special texts, especially Durga Saptashati (called Chandi Paat, in the North) are part of the festivities.

The Devi is here, ready to be propitiated for the next nine days. Let us reflect upon the mysteries of the Divine Feminine. Just as we reside in our mother's womb for 9 months, these nine nights take us deeper within the spiritual realm of ourselves. This is a great time to meditate and engage in other spiritual practices such as fasting and Kirtan. Happy Navarathri!