Life etc...

Life Etc... has moved

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Yucca and fistfights in the West Village

Elizabeth Eapen — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 05:57:00 GMT

Once the charms of Bed Bath & Beyond had waned (it held good for a couple of hours, I must admit, while I pondered, among other weighty matters, the relative merits of a bamboo chopping board and a silicone cake tin), my friend Anita and I made our way a couple of nights ago to Havana Alma de Cuba, on 194, Christopher St, in the funky West Village in Manhattan.

Fortified by a couple of mojitos and some (short-lived) live music, this is what we ate.

Tostones Rellenos (green plantains with shrimp fricasse): We are no strangers to the green plantain – it’s a Malayali staple. We chop them into cubes and fry them like potatoes, use them in avial, pressure cook and mash them into a porridge-like concoction which is then treated with coconut and tempered, they can even be diced small and made into a thoran with grated coconut. The Tostones Rellenos were delicious. Not spicy, but the vastly different flavours of shrimp and green plantain melded beautifully.

Maiz a la parrilla (grilled corn with chili mayo and Cotija cheese): This looks like your normal grilled corn, but tastes a whole lot better – fresh and faintly sweet and salty-cheesy.

Churrasco (skirt steak, we asked for "well done", with boiled yucca {cassava, again a Malayali staple, kappa in the lingo} and chimichurri): The steak was succulent, the combination with yucca unbeatable.

Past the shops on Bleecker St., we peeked in at the Magnolia Bakery (of Sex and the City fame, the cafe with the cupcakes) on the corner of Bleecker and West 10th, which was brimming with customers even close to midnight. Just around the corner, though, was something quite unexpected.

A voluble-slowly-turning-a-bit-bloody fistfight between young men was puncturing the night, a small crowd had gathered and before we knew it, there were the cops, blue and red lights flashing on their cars, batons and handcuffs being put to effective, noisy use. We paused too, on the onlookers' fringe. I’m not sure how many offenders there were, but there were at least 10 cops, all armed in the impressive NYPD way (how do they manage to carry all that weight around their waists –-- gun, handcuffs, notebook, torch, baton…all in holsters), and more vehicles arrived, sirens blazing. It was all impressive and efficient, but I’m not sure the incident merited all that attention. Rather different from how the “With you, for you, always” Delhi police would’ve reacted...and as the wise man would remark, “Much can be said on both sides."

By this time, we were in need of further fortification, so we headed for Mamoun’s Falafel on MacDougal St., where you can still get what looks like a pretty big sandwich for $2.50. Their famous ‘hot tea’, however, is unremarkable, and has to be sweetened by the ubiquitous sugar sachets, which is I believe quite a comedown from the way it used to be served: “It's not what it used to be," remarked a customer outside the shop, who seemed like a ‘regular’.

Signs of the times, I guess. And as we sat sipping it on a park bench in Washington Square, it was well past midnight and there was the scent and touch of rain in the air.

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Private building, public space

Himanshu Burte — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 08:57:00 GMT

The Levi Strauss & Company campus development, just off the Embarcadero in San Francisco, is a great example of how you can enhance the public space of a city when you put up a new building. The site of the development is the original Levi Strauss factory--yes, the birthplace of denim.

The development is placed on two generous lots across a street. The buildings are organized to create well-shaped spaces between them. The arrangement of buildings on the western lot is the more remarkable part. The two corporate office buildings snake around the periphery of the lot to create a generous plaza in the centre with a sculptural water feature. The plaza provides a great welcome as one enters the complex.

But the subtlest, and most significant part, is that the two buildings leave a generous path between them that connects to the famous Filbert Steps leading up the hill to Coit Tower. Remember, this path through the plaza was created for the public, and did not exist before the development. If it had been business as usual, a building would have been placed at the centre of the lot, and would have blocked the view of the mini-forested hill. Instead, fresh thinking by the team of client, architect (HOK with Howard Friedman and Gensler & Assocs), and landscape architect (the eminent Lawrence Halprin) has transformed an ordinary office building project into a gift of public space. The beautifully landscaped park on the other side of the street on the eastern lot (by the side of another office building) completes the gift to the city.

The only thing, going by reviews on the web, is that security is rather strict: you are not even allowed to spread a blanket on the grass. Just goes to show that a good design is only half the battle in the struggle to make great places.

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Meen molee in Manhattan

Elizabeth Eapen — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 01:37:00 GMT

Call it my piece de resistance. Or my comfort food. Or the one thing i can cook at (literally) a moment's notice and be sure of success. I'm always surprised when I hear of meen (fish) molee (fish in coconut gravy is a simple description, but read all the disclaimers below) talked of as being difficult to make... When you read my easy recipe below, you'll know why.

Cousin Sanjay's Manhattan kitchen is as good a place as any for the business of fish molee. Light filters gladly in through the 23rd floor window that overlooks a strangely coherent jigsaw of brick and glass and steel and concrete, all towering over 59th and 9th, which is where we are, and much beyond.

And it's hot in Manhattan. Hot and humid, a lot like Delhi is at the moment. So that's one more reason to cook fish molee, you can be done and out of the kitchen in half an hour flat.

We shopped at Kalustyan's on Lexington Ave. (Little India) for the ingredients. Sanjay's wife Dessi had got the fish (tilapia) from near where she works. I tried hard to be blase about the fact that we were paying $3.99 (Rs 188 approx?) for two, yes, two, sprigs of fresh curry leaves. But everything is available, from Parachute coconut oil to MDH masalas. I'm the sort of person who's fazed by two types of washing powder, as I wrote in my last post. Here, in consumers' Mecca, the shelves confuse me before I've even got started. No-fat, low-fat, reduced-fat, half-fat, full-fat. And all separated by a mind-numbing 2%. The (slow) mind boggles.

Anyway. Back to the molee. Tilapia is not the best fish for molee, it's too soft and not 'fishy' enough, but it will do. In Delhi I get boneless surmai (seer fish) tikkas (chunks) or if cut comes to slice, a beefy pomfret. But surmai is the best. There was also no mortar and pestle to crush the dry red chillies with the ginger and garlic, so I put them in separately. Not the best way, the flavours don't mesh together as well. But that's not such a big concern. The ingredients took 5 minutes to assemble, 10 to put together. Add another 15-20 for the cooking. That's it.

Didn't I say it's simple? Even 12,000-plus kilometres away from home.

KERALA FISH MOLEE

I must clarify Kerala because fish molee could be confused with a Thai curry, it looks the same. It's also very different from a Goan curry and indeed, very different from other Kerala fish curries. In fact, it's probably not correct to even call it a curry, it looks and tastes more like a stew. It's light and easy on the tongue and stomach.

Ingredients (serves two)

250g boneless surmai (king fish) or any other 'meaty' fish

2 large onions, sliced thin

3 large tomatoes, quartered

2-3 green chilles (slit) depending on how hot(ter?) you want it

2 large flakes of garlic, a half inch piece of ginger, 3-4 medium-sized dry red chilles, crushed together

a sprig of curry leaves

a pinch of turmeric powder

2 teaspoons white vinegar

2-3 tea cups thickish coconut milk (I use Nestle's coconut milk powder, freely available in all grocery stores. Cocomi is another Sri Lankan brand you could use. I find coconut milk made from powder - it's just like milk powder, put some into a glass and mix with warm water till you get the consistency you require - much better than what comes out of a tin)

salt to taste

Method

1. Saute the sliced onions in some (3-4 spoons) oil in a wok, till transparent.

2. Add the crushed garlic-ginger-dry red chillies. Stir; don't let it burn. Garlic tends to stick. Keep the flame low.

3. Add turmeric powder, 1/4 teaspoon, 1/2 if you want a richer colour.

4. Add the quartered tomatoes and stir lightly so they don't break. Here you could add the green chilles and the curry leaves as well.

5. Add the coconut milk, salt, vinegar. Let it all come to a boil.

6. Add the fish pieces, one by one.

7. Turn down to a low simmer; cover and cook till done. Should take no more than 15 minutes.

Tastes best with bread or steamed rice.

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Too few sarees at the IPL... It's just not cricket!

Malavika R. Banerjee — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 03:00:00 GMT

Can a woman go watch an IPL game in a saree? Can she dress like that and sit in the Wankhede Stadium press box? The teams have uniforms, the cheerleaders are uniformly cheering. No surprise then, that uniformity has spread to the galleries as well. You could be a generous size 16, or somebody who has never really felt her best in the tee and jeans look, but when it's match day, there is no alternative.

Two unrelated incidents occurred last week that got me thinking about Indian women in sports-related spheres of work and women who turn up for a game. The first was a response to my piece on Abhinav Bindra which said: ‘You look like a pale Aunty.' This has been the cause of much mirth among my friends (yes, yes, they are not very loyal) but not enough for me to go for that image makeover. All I can say to this observation is: Dude, guess what... I am a pale Aunty. But what does that have to do with my writing on sport?

The second incident was when I chanced upon a photograph of Sharmila Tagore with M.A.K. Pataudi, watching a game in England. Just do an image search for Sharmila and Pataudi and you will see it - believe me it's a stunning image which I would have used here, but could not since it's credited as unknown. They are sitting on a grass mound near a quaint scoreboard, and Pataudi is all togged up in a suit and Sharmila is the picture of poise in a saree and jhumkas. We keep looking for an Indian equivalent of Posh and Becks, but Bollywood met cricket long before EPL met British pop. Note that Sharmila is looking this glamorous in a chiffon saree. Remember, this is an actor who thought nothing of wearing a bikini for An Evening in Paris, and who was extremely comfortable in Western wear unlike most of her contemporaries. Yet here she is in England, wearing a saree and looking like a million bucks.

There was a certain construct of what a woman who works with sport should look like, around a decade ago and it has not entirely disappeared. She should be androgynous, sporty to look at, tom-boyish in attitude and most certainly be uncomfortable in anything feminine or ‘traditional'. The assumption being that if you are dealing with sports (boys' zone basically), you should have spent your youth scraping your knees rather than filing your nails. There have been times when I have felt like a manicured misfit.

What's worse, these parameters don't hold for men, and they come in all forms ranging from six-pack to beer belly - a fact that can be borne out by a glance across the press box at any sports venue.

Today, when all things Western are upheld as "hi-fashion", even when it does not really suit our climate or the way some of us are made, women who want to watch sports are also pressured into assuming a certain sporty look when they go to the grounds. I feel troubled when I see these women tugging at their tees and looking ill at ease. God knows that Indian stadiums are challenging enough, for us to not challenge ourselves further with image issues. During the IPL I saw many women uncomfortably slouched in team t-shirts, clearly out of sorts. Comfort is of the essence at all times while watching a game, and style and sophistication are not achieved only in Western wear. Many of us look better, feel better in Indian clothes and there is no need to feel less smart in a salwar-kameez than in a shirt and trousers. The drawstring comfort of salwars in muggy Kolkata is incomparable and I cannot figure out why women feel the need to wear those Lycra-mixed business suits when they can be crisp as a toast in a cotton kurta.

Live and let live, and everyone must wear what they want to - no question about that. However, a corollary to that is that we must not be brainwashed into wanting to wear something only because it's behenji (or pale aunty!) not to. In trying to be fashionistas we must not become fashion victims.

Today we have a generation that thinks it's uber cool to be uncomfortable in a saree, and that West is best for all things sartorial. I would ask them to draw inspiration from Sharmila Tagore, who straddled both styles with ease, four decades ago. We often forget: to be a global citizen, one has to be confident and proud of one's own identity and culture. If sports is celebrated as a meeting ground for various cultures, why should we be embarrassed to showcase our Indianness?

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Multi-grain bread and Surf Excel for top loaders

Elizabeth Eapen — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 05:07:00 GMT

Architect and writer Gautam Bhatia's series of rants against our unplanned cities (read the 'City Centre' articles here) concluded in Business of Life last month. A recurring grouse is that "in dimension, scale, numbers or aesthetics, what people want and what the city offers are opposing and often unmanageable compromises". While one of the arguments Bhatia makes is for a cohesive urban fabric, my own grouse is that at the end of the day we are between two stools: we have neither the planned city, which would obviously make life easier, and in the (stumbling) runup to that, we also seem to have lost the sense of community, which was what we once had.

Yesterday, I spent close to an hour on the road in search of a particular brand of bread that seemed to have inexplicably vanished off the shelves, battling traffic in narrow market bylanes, heat and morose shopkeepers. A cohesive urban fabric was the last thing on my mind. I roundly cursed the retail distribution system and rued the price I pay for living in Lutyens' Delhi. Shopping for everyday items here is terribly inconvenient. If there's no multi-grain bread today, there was no Surf Excel for my top-loading washing machine yesterday. While I am yet to figure out the science of why the washing powder should differ depending on whether you dispense it from the top or front of the machine, fact remains that it's practically impossible to get everything you want under one roof.

When choices and needs were fewer, wasn't life happier? Before the high rises and demarcations, at least an uplifting sense of community prevailed. I can't really claim to have a meaningful relationship with any of the shops I frequent now. But in the town where I grew up, the arterial main road held everything from the local dentist to my father's office.

My favourite stops included the Ladies' Centre, or "house of ladies' essentials". This was where I bought my first jar of 'vanishing cream' and the multicoloured ‘love-in-tokyos' for my hair. Next was Valavi the stationer's, in whose cool interiors you could inhale, like a junkie, the sweet, intoxicating smell of scented erasers, poster colours, new paper and ink.

Further along the road there was the fruit seller Murugan, with his makeshift stall. He was a great friend of my father's, not just for the copious amounts of fruit we bought, even at exorbitant prices, but for the news of the day, both political and social, that they would exchange as he wrapped apples, oranges, grapes and mangoes (always more than the weighing scale said) for us in newspaper, expertly twirling the packages around with twine.

After the fruit shop was the general store, S.P and Sons, run by two brothers (sons of S. Pottivelu), with its shiny counter. It was here that we bought all our groceries, a simple and uncomplicated matter at a time when both multi-grain and washing machines, top-loading or otherwise, were unknown.

Two stops away was Bata, with its dapper, always smiling manager and eternally predictable, limited and dull range of shoes. Between regulation black shoes for school and simple white ones for tennis lay my well-charted region of choice. Sandwiched between Bata and S.P was the bookshop I loved, with the books always in complete and random disorder (but that made the search all the more exciting; where's the joy in today's bookstores where you know exactly where to look?)

Next door, the 'cool parlour', innovatively named Simla (without the 'h'), had a limited menu. But all I wanted were beef cutlets accompanied by a tart onion-vinegar salad and the 'ball ice cream' that was the rage then. It came in a hard plastic ball-shaped container, and you could take the top off and spoon up.

At all these places, it was never just the purchase. The whole thing took on a different flavour, marked by real conversation and shared lives. A familiarity that might seem excessive today, but bereft of continually frayed tempers, surliness, existential angst. Needs were so few, and the fulfillment so gratifying.

So tomorrow I shall do the rounds and ignore the missing multi-grain. I will also buy Surf Excel for front-loaders, and the consequences be damned.

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The mysterious affair of the disappearing aitch

Papi Menon — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 11:22:00 GMT

America is a wonderful land. When I first landed on these shores, what struck me most was the purity of the colors everywhere. After the well worn, used up looks of the many Indian cities I'd lived in and traveled through, the shining aseptic primary colors of American cities seemed a wondrous thing to behold. Of course, with time, some of the wonder of the looks has worn off, but I still find much to marvel at in this country. This is, after all, the land of the double cheeseburger and the sport utility vehicle, a place where a coffee waiter can tell you with a straight face that the smallest cup they have is a tall one. Excess is as American as apple pie.

Every once in a while, as though to compensate for all this excess, certain things magically disappear. I know this may seem confusing to you, gentle reader, so let me elaborate. During the last eight years of the Bush kakistocracy (look it up), the phrase “I made a mistake” disappeared from the American political lexicon. Sure, “mistakes were made”, and by the proverbial boatload, but no one seemed to be making them. The first person active voice for this particular action just up and disappeared. We did get a few additions to the language, stellar words such as nukular and misunderestimate, and one can only hope that they continue to find widespread acceptance and appreciation for the unique creatures they are, but they could scarcely make up for the inability to make an honest mistake. With a new president, and a brave new world of hope, one wished for these disappearances to stop. Alas, the erosion of the English language continues unabated. And so we come to the affair of the fast disappearing aitch.

Growing up in India, herbal remedies were an everyday affair for common ailments. In America too, herbal supplements have become very popular, but they seem to have lost their aitch in making the trans-Atlantic passage, and in the New World they're reduced to erbal remedies. This was startling to me when I first heard it, but gradually I made peace with it. Now, however, the aitches are disappearing faster than a moose in Sarah Palin's backyard. Human has become yuman. That stuff on top of your head is just plain air now. It's not just the yokels saying it either. I heard Maureen Dowd, purveyor of columns for the New York Times, say in an interview that something was yumanly impossible. I'm not so sure – nothing seems impossible any more. In desperation, I turned to the one place where you can always find an honest opinion – the Internet. I tried to find my favorite dictionary, the OED, but learned that they did not offer a free web based dictionary. The barbarians are at the gate, and the gatekeeper quibbles over pennies!

Sadly, I turned to the one dictionary which does offer a very serviceable online version – the rather staidly named dictionary.com. It informed me that the omission of the leading aitch from the pronunciation of words like human and hair are heard from speakers at all educational levels, including professors and lawyers. I guess it is meant to be a comforting footnote, but to me it feels like my favorite language has been cut adrift on an ocean of uncertainty. The OED, which prides itself as the keeper of English, has completely lost the plot on the Internet. In their greed, they've abdicated their primary responsibility to the language, and ceded control of the online discourse to lesser dictionaries, which look upon words like yuman and yuge with a kindly eye. They have made a mistake, a yuge yuge mistake; or rather a yuge mistake has been made, but I will forgive them for it, as long as they forthwith take up their rightful position as the guardian of the gate again. After all, to err is yuman, to forgive divine.

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Guess who's watching U/A movies?

Vandana Vasudevan — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 10:44:00 GMT

A couple of weeks ago I went to watch New York. At the interval, while I was contemplating whether John Abraham was really a terrorist and marvelling at how the director could make even Neil Nitin Mukesh act, I heard a noise which struck me as being odd in that setting. It was a bunch of kids about 8-10 years old, running down the aisle and pestering their parents for popcorn. It was an incongruous sound because it was a midnight show of a U/A movie. I pondered over the fact that these kids would have by then seen in close up a man narrate his humiliating experiences in an FBI detention centre, John Abraham crouching in fear, stripped of clothes and dignity while in prison, and a brief lovemaking scene.

What is the meaning of a U/A certificate? According to the Censor Board of Film Certification U/A means unrestricted public exhibition, but with parental guidance for children below 12 years. This rating is given to a movie which contains mild violence, language and sensuality. The movie may contain some material that is unsuitable for children under 12.

Practically, what does it mean? That if a parent accompanies a child, the material suddenly becomes suitable for the under-12 kid? Or is the parent expected to cover the child’s eyes whenever something undesirable comes on screen? Obviously not. Therefore, it is a warning to parents to say that some parts of the movie may be unsuitable but if you still insist on making your kids see it, go right ahead.

It is up to parents to follow the rule in its spirit rather than in letter. Turns out lots of them are following it in spirit, their own spirit, and happily carting their under-12s to U/A movies.

I can understand babies and toddlers who'll probably fall asleep or wail through it all, but kids in Classes 3 and 4 and 5 are old enough to register the scenes and yet not fully comprehend them. That's the most dangerous and irresponsible thing a parent can do: expose the kid to stuff that he's too young to process and too old to ignore. It just ignites curiosity (which will remain unaddressed in a typical Indian home) and the kid will end up with some half-baked idea about whatever it is he saw, whether it is sex, violence or betrayal. (Read a related article I wrote in Lounge a couple of years ago here.)

Last year the same thing happened during a night show of Race. A lady next to me was swaying to the title tracck: "Race chahat ki, Race shourat ki... my heart is beating on,” she hummed loudly, while her young son sat on his mom's lap, his heart probably beating on as well as he tried to make sense of Bipasha and Kareena's overt sexiness and why the women were being swapped between the two brothers and why bhaiyyas should keep trying to harm each other.

I guess there are two reasons why parents bring young kids to movies inappropriate to them.

Firstly, maybe because they think there is no harm in it and the kid won't get the point anyway. Nothing could be more naive. A movie in the theatre with its 70mm screen and Dolby sound is such an intense experience for a child, that he will never forget it. Every scene will be etched in his memory for a long time to come. All of us remember the movies we've been to in our childhood with our parents because the magic of cinema was well, unforgettable. Obviously it matters. Why else would we have something called U/A certification? It’s not only in conservative India. This rating is similar to 12A of BBFC and PG-13 of the MPAA. The Supreme Court agrees with me. Here is what a ruling has to say:

“Film censorship becomes necessary because a film motivates thought and action and assures a high degree of attention and retention as compared to the printed word. The combination of act and speech, sight and sound in semi darkness of the theatre with elimination of all distracting ideas will have a strong impact on the minds of the viewers and can affect emotions. Therefore, it has as much potential for evil as it has for good and has an equal potential to instill or cultivate violent or good behaviour. It cannot be equated with other modes of communication.”

The second reason could be that the parents desperately want to see the movie and are unable to leave the kid back home. This is clearly an irresponsible act because watching the movie is not imperative and it can't override the kid's best interests. Movies are telecast on TV pretty soon after they are released and there's always DVD, so this is a myopic reason and in fact less excusable than the first reason.

So large segments of under-12s in urban multiplexes are watching U/A movies cozily sitting next to their parents. Whether it was a good idea or not, we will know with time.

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What price convenience food?

Manidipa Mandal — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 01:05:00 GMT

First, the disclaimers: I've got a packet of frozen parathas in the fridge, and there's often lots of little miso or stock cubes in the larder (I live alone, mostly). Some mornings, there's Maggi for breakfast (my husband seems to get garlic powder cravings from time to time, and no, we weren't pregnant last time I checked.)

Now the tall claim: Only one of those short-cuts is in there because of its convenience label. The rest... It's a matter of exotic or comfort flavours, when we're both being ruthlessly honest.

Those of you who remember the look on the pizza delivery guy's face (hint: priceless!) when Jamie Oliver beats his clock with made-from-scratch dough for a fresh pie, you know what I'm talking about.

It's also what I'm harping on in today's column, though I've tried not to editorialize or unduly influence outcomes! Very often the cost of convenience is three, even four times, the DIY dish... and the hands-on time is not much different. I'm steered clear of calling the spatula a spatula in the Food Factors column this time, but I'm betting you can see the point without my nudging: Real food is not always slow food, it is often as fast (or even---gasp!---faster) than ‘fast food' or ‘convenience food'; and the only time you save is thinking about your grocery shopping or what do ahead for your next meal (what to soak, cook, marinate, thaw).

In other words, the only convenience you're paying for with many ‘pre-prepped' foods is the freedom from planning. And yeah, sure, there are days when the mindspace, as Gen Y calls it, is hard to come by. Then again, organized living is a tough habit to break.

Some of my close friends and family have this objection, though: In the First World, you can get the real thing readily and even their so-called food deserts are a sight better stocked than some of our local kirana stores. How can Indians possibly do convenience-at-home? Well, the same way we did roti and rice through generations of zero power supply and long days on the farm. By seeing it as a small, almost habitual part of your day.

It takes 10 minutes to knead dough for unleavened bread, while you supervise the children's homework or watch the news on TV, and a ball of dough can hang about the fridge for several days too! It takes 30 minutes, and not counting traffic conditions like high tides, transport strikes or deities on the march, for the pizza guy to ring your bell with the same-old blah.

The other part of it is intelligent buying: if you know what to buy to save yourself time, you can halve your sojourn in the kitchen. Some cuts of meat cook faster than others (keema can take as little as 10-15 minutes). A pressure cooker makes boiling beans a lark, so why bother with tins of baked beans? And just how long did you wait in the car for your dhaba to grill your tandoori chicken?

Would it have taken longer to get to your meat shop and pop it in the OTG, while you enjoyed your beer in the A/C room with your favourite music or a movie for company, instead of the mozzies?

Well, I’m done preaching to the converted---or the obdurate! You tell me... What’s your time-saving trick for Indian kitchens? And why (or when) is it worth paying for convenience?

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Leave me the tweet alone

Arjun Jassal — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 08:37:00 GMT

140 characters can change the world.

Ok, let me tone it down a bit. 140 characters can help disseminate information on political upheaval (Iran), natural disasters (China) and even terrorist attacks (India).

They can help connect politicians, celebrities and sportsmen, to their dedicated fans, albeit in a ‘limited way’.

They can help you and me, share our every thought, emotion and just about anything we want.

Of course, as long as its in 140 characters.

Welcome to Twitter, which, unless you live on an unconnected lonely island in the South Pacific (lucky you), has now been heralded as the latest godsent of online social networking.

Thanks especially to two completely unconnected, but powerful people, Ahmadinejah of Iran and Oprah of TV, there seems to be no stopping this new network. Oh and not to mention Britney Spears, who is decent enough to tell us about every fight she has with... uh, umm, I-really-don't-care. And Ashton Kutcher, who decided to talk about his once very famous, and now still more famous than him, wife Demi Moore. Before I forget, it also hosts a word of people who like to share almost every nerdy thing they can (these types are usually people who I call friends). Their tweets can range between anything from ‘XYZ is sleeping’, ‘ABC is eating’ to the agonizingly exciting ‘PQR is tired’, ‘LMN is having an existential crisis’.

I am not denying the fact that everything I mentioned above is news. If Iran is playing around with the ballot, it is a matter of concern. If Oprah is making celebrities jump up and down like apes that is also, at least for some people, news. And if my friend wants the world to know that he’s awake, and can now reply instantly to instant messages, well, that's news for people who actually want to message him (I feel he’s kinda lonely). If they want to know, all they have to do is to click ‘follow’, after they have signed up on Twitter, and they can get a barrage of interesting 140 characters. Well, if they think it’s important they should.

But why am I ranting about this? Because in the last three months, roughly 40 new people have started following me. I know I should feel like a mini celebrity. What’s fascinates me, though, is that I haven’t said anything new on Twitter (which saying incidentally is called, hold your breath for the new zinger for old stuff, a ‘tweet’) for over six months. If that wasn’t bad enough, a significant portion of my followers are people I could have stayed in touch with the conventional means of the mobile phone, email or even sms, but I chose not to. I chose to stray on to the service which, at least when I joined it, was reserved for geeks, so I could have an inner circle away from the confines of the ‘others’.

Don't get me wrong, I am not decrying the newbies who have stolen Twitter. Even when I was on the service, I just found it more convenient to email or sms people. In fact, putting things on Twitter from my phone was much more expensive than calling someone and saying hi. Even when I stopped using the service, and this may come as a surprise, I didn’t lose my friends. So since everyone has been following me, with clearly nothing to follow, I decided to see what they were saying to each other. I swear it was so quiet, that if there was a real bird somewhere I could have heard it tweet.

Political action or banal ‘news’, Twitter is just another social network that seems to be in vogue right now. Twitter is now cool, so Facebook is bad. No one wants to remember people who organized protests and circulated news through Facebook or even email (yes, it does happen). And like all fads, something else will soon replace it. We forget that online networks are tools: as more people join them (especially if they are celebrities), more people follow. But simply more people doesn't mean participation or quality debate. That needs to fostered and nurtured. And it’s not difficult to see this...of course, until something new comes along.

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Work-life balance...or work-life choice?

Elizabeth Eapen — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 11:40:00 GMT

A recent article in Mint quotes Jack Welch, former CEO of General Electric Co, as saying "there's no such thing as work-life balance (for women) ..... there are work-life choices, and you make them, and they have consequences."

Sounds rather ominous. Is it really as cut and dried and never-the-twain-shall-meet as all that? Surely many of us who also work outside the home try to achieve the balance through the choice? Of course, every choice comes at a cost, and sometimes its worth every rupee, sometimes it's a rum deal.

In this context, I couldn't help thinking of an article a friend sent me recently on these choices, and how she, like many others, juggles the often difficult, sometimes conflicting demands of home and work. She is an MBA from a top business school, and has two children - a boy aged 2 and an 8-year-old girl. Between errant maids, school homework and PowerPoint presentations, she struggles with, or should I say balances, occasional guilt pangs and crazy schedules, to do what she does.

There are many women like her, and her reasons for wanting to work outside the home (the independent income, the confidence and broader world view, among other things) will also find resonance with many.

But could there be another reason for some others? Something commonly felt, but seldom expressed, except to sympathetic girlfriends? Why do so many opt to do two jobs instead of one? Running a home efficiently (hands-on running, as opposed to managing/supervising) is as difficult a task as any, but an underestimated and undervalued one, devoid of all the glamour that seems to exist just outside its walls. By its very nature, as all who do it will bear out, it calls for a bewildering variety of skills, whereas in most other jobs the skill set can be limited to a specific area.

And yet, as more and more women (still) try to work off the shackles of a role-bound society where father goes out to work and mother looks after home and children, trying to fit in work outside the home if she has the b...s to do it, the job of ‘home-maker' is treated with derision and scant respect at worst, polite amusement at best.

The reasons why women juggle jobs may be as many as there are types of people and situations and circumstances. What's good for one may not be good for another. But could it also not be a fact, that over the years, more women have got tired of the role play than men have (like on a 99:1 average) and are finding gratification in different roles outside the home. Perhaps they're realising that there's no great conspiracy to ‘keep women in their place', that its part of the human condition to be taken for granted, whatever the nature of the job. What they are also perhaps realizing, is that there's quite a lot of satisfaction in being paid for it.

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Is casual cruelty a peculiarly Indian trait

Vandana Vasudevan — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 10:31:00 GMT

Is casual cruelty a peculiarly Indian trait? I think it goes back to our feudal system where there was always some caste or community below one’s own, which one could deride and harass. Now, although the caste system has been officially abolished, it appears as though some primal gene is still active in many Indians. It suddenly gets activated, often in public spaces and causes the person to inflict casual, unprovoked cruelty on people or creatures in a vulnerable position.

A visit to the Delhi zoo is enough to gather evidence about this shameful trait. Large hordes of noisy people, fresh off a DTC bus, will swagger down the leafy paths, noisily chattering and shrieking at the ducks, heckling the monkeys, calling out to the chimpanzee to match wits with them or put their faces against the cages of the exotic parrots and make annoying chirpy sounds. The lion and the cheetah get a little more respect but the smaller and more helpless the creature, more will be the show of bluster.

In zoos in other countries, children and their parents are just as excited to see the exhibits, but they don’t try to score points with the animal behind the cage. It is simply not anyone’s idea of fun.

My driver Suresh had an unusual request the other day. He wanted some kind of i-card bearing the word “Press”. It was, as he explained, a way to fob off a couple of local constables who accosted him on his way home, late every evening and abused him or kicked his cycle or thumped his back and threatened to lock him up. It’s a petty display of power, somewhat like throwing stones at stray dogs and cats and enjoying their yelping---another common street sight. It is what makes us tolerate ragging, speaking of which I saw a mild version of it on a flight recently.

A flight purser was distributing feedback forms. A young man in the row behind mine thought this might be a good way to amuse the giggly, impressionable girl next to him, whom he had just got acquainted with.

He took the form and told the purser that he would be monitoring him closely through the flight and writing his name in the form, so he better deliver. For the next hour and a half, he kept calling the purser on silly pretexts and asking him inane questions, each time reminding him about the feedback form. He laughed triumphantly to the lady neighbour, every time the crew member appeared and patiently answered him. It was supremely petty and yet another instance of deriving small pleasure by hassling someone who cannot/will not protest.

There’s a children’s story which always makes me flinch. It’s about an elephant who comes to a tailor every day because he feeds it a banana. One day, just to amuse himself, the tailor inserts a needle into the banana and enjoys watching the elephant in pain. The elephant of course takes sweet revenge in the end. But it occurred to me that this had to be an Indian fable. Casual cruelty is one of our people’s core competencies.

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Why India should root for the return of the Elgin marbles

Manidipa Mandal — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 07:55:00 GMT

"Both sides stand on shaky ground," prevaricates NYT critic Michael Kimmelman, in today's Business of Life lead story.

The Greeks, never in fear of racial stereotyping, have been emphatic in their demands. (What's to worry about? Everyone just knows they are the guys with the big weddings, the voluble chatter, the long community lunches, dinners ~~and~~ and dances, the quick and loud tempers a la Hollywood cabbies --- and all that surprisingly, uncharacteristically subtle and contemplative, ancient art and literature, as well as balanced modern views on them.)

The British have been characteristically (dare I say, imperially, even imperiously?) starchy and condescending in their response.

Critics beyond these national fences are, well, fence-sitting, paternalistic or indignant. Or appealing to nobler English sentiments of fair play.

Indian art and culture critics seem to hardly have taken notice, though --- and yet they should. For the sake of the peacock throne and the Kohinoor that has become a ‘Crown Jewel' in quite the wrong crown. They sit in British hands, like the stigma of imperialism. Gazed on out of context, a continuation and reinforcement of the myth of exotic East, of bejewelled India peppered with elephants on every street, a cow and a turbaned fakir at every traffic light (a la Tintin), a peacock in every garden. May I venture to suggest that the backdrop of a real Delhi, plagued equally by BMWs and beggars, would be more culturally educational for gazers-upon?

The argument of "world heritage" for "global consumption" falls flat to my ears. Why not argue the same about Nazi relics? Because of course to the victor belong the spoils, and the right to write history. Yet surely imperialism is a memory that should be as severely ousted as genocide? Or do I, a Third World citizen of a developing nation, speak out of turn?

To those who argue that it sets a poor precedent which could empty prized collections: I agree---that is the point, precisely. The precedent for emptying out poorer collections has long been set, and the need is for perspective, preferably a global and non-parochial, anti-imperial one, to be restored. No longer is Greece, or for that matter India, a beleaguered nation incapable of protecting its heritage and waiting for divine (White missionary) intervention for their salvation. Where, for that matter, was Big Collector Brother when Buddha fell to bits in Afghanistan? No, the white man's burden begs to be put down, and aspirants to global citizenship must acknowledge the entirety of the globe as capable hosts of culture... or there is no democracy in this world.

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As in cricket, so in tennis... yesterday once more?

Malavika R. Banerjee — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 04:41:00 GMT

After more than a decade of teen rule, men and women, as opposed to boys and girls, are once again ruling sports. I hasten to add that none of the men and women mentioned below are senior citizens in normal everyday terms, but they are veterans when it comes to the world of sport. Take the just-concluded Wimbledon as an example: Serena Williams, 27, defeated sister Venus, who will turn 30 next year. And Roger Federer will turn 28 next month.

At the Wimbledon this year, the young tykes of tennis were either nursing sore knees or buckling under the pressure exerted by partisan Centre Court crowds. One of the men’s singles semifinalists, Tommy Haas, is 30-plus.

However, nowhere is the maturing of champions more evident than in the shortest version of cricket. T20 was famously described by Richie Benaud described as “the cricket game where kids bring their parents to the ground.”

This year’s IPL as well as the T20 World Cup proved that the game was fast and furious, but that experience was the trump card needed to master it.

The result is that T20 has become to 35-plus cricketers what Botox is to 35-plus women. It makes them feel young once again. What’s more, they are confident of lasting out the three-hour duration, and they have played enough cricket to be able to soak in the pressure that is such an inherent part of this super-short format.

Adam Gilchrist, who lifted the IPL trophy as captain of the Deccan Chargers, has often said that this game will lengthen cricket careers as it is less punishing for cricketers on the wrong side of 30. No surprise then, that the finals of the IPL were being played between two teams led by two players who have retired from international cricket (Gilchrist and our very own Anil Kumble).

A repeat took place at the T20 World Cup, where the Pakistan team won the tournament, led by Younis Khan who retired from the format immediately after the finals. Younis Khan is almost 32, while teammate Misbah-ul-Huq is 35 years old. We may never live to see the day when Shahid Afridi admits to turning 30, but he is thereabouts as well. The rest of the team are largely between 26 and 29, but significantly older than the Indian squad, which resembled a crèche XI and sadly, played like one. Significantly, the Indians were the only team in the fray which did not have a single dad! This is important because during the last Ashes in 2006-2007, the Australians were called Dad’s Army because almost all the players were 30-plus. They went on to whitewash the England side to regain the Ashes.

Any sport needs what Imran Khan calls the 3Ts – technique, temperament and talent. In your teens, talent can get you ahead, unless you are a Sachin Tendulkar or Michael Phelps who can be termed precocious talents, every talented athlete needs time to really achieve their potential. Temperament and technique are constantly evolving qualities, and technique can often be the most critical of the three Ts – the Indians were sorted out by England’s bowlers because they were short on technique when it came to facing short-pitched bowling. However, without the right temperament, you may not have the hunger and tenacity to want to keep improving, which explains burn-out.

The next T20 World Cup will take place nine months from now. Any takers for some fresh 30-plus blood while our jaded 20-something veterans get back to the nets to sort out their 3Ts?

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It's raining... or is it?

Elizabeth Eapen — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 10:30:00 GMT

The Met department says there will be less than normal rainfall this year. But then so many of these pronouncements are like dew in the morning. Briefly alive, and soon gone. And another, or rather many others, will take its place tomorrow. South-west monsoon reaches Delhi, is the Met’s latest. The time spent filtering all this information, whether on oil prices, the state of the Sensex or the monsoon, becomes more an impediment to enjoying the here and now rather than a value-add to life.

This great truth occurred to me this morning as I sat on my front doorstep savouring the first cup of ginger tea. There’s something about a morning after rain. The fruit cakey-ness of the earth, moist and indefinably fragrant. Spent flowers on tousled grass. A large family of parrots, freshly green and vocal. All this bounty, after a few hesitant showers. Rain in Delhi is not exactly what one would call a force to reckon with. The uprooted trees and clogged roads after what can at best be called a heavy drizzle must have other reasons. My three umbrellas remain rolled up and in the cupboard where they are stored, somehow I never feel the need to carry one with me, even at the risk of a drenching.

This could be because I grew up in a place where the south-west and north-east monsoon, quite different in character, play quite a big role in one’s life. First, the very nature of it. No pitter-patter of raindrops or other gentle descriptions the poetically inclined might favour. There the rain is tempestuous, relentless, totally in control. Sometimes, it’s like sitting inside a waterfall. The steady roar, the blue-grey-green sheath with a life of its own. The continual damp, the instant mould on anything left untouched for a few seconds. The burgeoning green and soaked laterite. The art of walking in the rain in a sari, holding the soggy mass up around ankles with left hand, trying to control umbrella from folding upwards with right, all the while envying men the dhoti that could be tucked up like a short skirt. The putting up with rubber and plastic for footwear, as nothing else would survive months of walking through water. The umbrella as fashion statement: Black and coloured, printed and plain, foldable to different sizes (they now have one called nano) and non-foldable. My father had one specially sent to him from England, classic black and authoritarian. My uncle went around with its curved handle tucked into the back of his shirt collar, the umbrella hanging down his back.

I’ve grown used to Delhi rain. Or the lack of it. Now I can’t cope with anything more than a shower. Last year, when it rained more than normal, I was quite miserable. New species of winged things, some too small to see, were disturbed from the garden into the house. Termites burrowed their way up in sandy channels through cracks in the floor. Garden mice, their burrows flooded, sought refuge indoors, one even found its way into my cupboard. Large patches of damp created new artwork for walls and ceiling, my carefully stored umbrellas finally did duty and all in all, it was just a very trying time.

This year I don’t know whether to believe the Met or not. For now, I’m enjoying being out of the tandoor and reading about a new model of ‘aero-dynamic folding umbrellas’ that promise not to fold back even in gusty rain.

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