Food for Thought

I know!

It is too much to expect good food from the college lunch room.

But at times, is it wrong to crave for some stimulation of the taste bud?

Alas, it happens rarely. It happens when you pay for food at the temple town and pay for the commute through your nose, leaving the wallet weigh a kilogram lesser.

Else it happens only when there is some special occasion.

But at times, the rush in the lunchroom makes you think is it a special occasion.

Well, yeah, its SPARTA when it comes to getting that hot aloo paratha off the platter or laying the hands on the tender jucy gulab jamuns (how I wish it was!) The hazelnut colored succulent spherical balls doused in the golden hued sugary syrup leaves me all drooling, not any more.

How contradictory it is on my part to describe the not-so-good-Manamai-made-Indian dumpling as a succulent tasty one!

The wafting smell of the not-so-good curries would actually try making you salivate, mostly in vain.

It would be a rebellious affair to get yourself a plate and spoon. Once you lay hands on them, the wait is real tiring to load the plate and hunting for a place with your fully loaded tray of ‘goodies’ is really painstaking.

The food, mind you, is worth mentioning.

The paneer is made as if it was to be given for charity. Bland blood-color tinged watery gravy with rock solid paneer- ultimate!

The color of the daal looks tempting but as it makes contact with the tongue, you know what. Watery, gross tasting. Obviously it is food colors galore that gave a sensory misappropriation.

The rice would be as cold as the expression of the staff there. The grains stick on to each other in such unison and the ladle would come up a slice of rice cake.

Most of the south Indian food, when touches the tip of the tongue can get you to identify the ingredients. Not because of you being a connoisseur, but due to the cooking prowess of the self acclaimed cooks. The raw taste of turmeric stands out distinctively. An inch thick layer of oil tops the curries and as you know, it is mandatory for you to drink two teaspoons of oil for a healthy mind, body and soul. (How sarcastic!)

The sweet is often very sweet with no special flavor apart from the sugar that predominates the taste. Boiled concoction of milk and sugar becomes the payasam (kheer) and an overdose of jaggery over rice is our sweet pongal.

Curd, that is made in-house deserves no special mention. Sour or with that prickly tinge, it degenerates the taste buds and makes them capable of doing nothing during your meal, except curse the cook.

The menu is often set by experiment-savvy gentlemen who prefer eating paneer-do-pyaas with dosa and hakka noodles with coconut chutney.

Lastly, we are often denied the ambrosia if we miss the clock by a second. Sadly, the day the taste doesn’t linger on the lip puts the day to haywire.

And the saddest part:
Reading the menu to picture the whims and fancies of the ornate delicacies that adorn the table can give rise to a hysterical laugh riot.

Enjoy the ‘Pav Bhaji and Chappad Onions’  (read chopped onions)

Footnote:
All those who have abused your mom for not making good food, please do a ‘PADAPOOJA’ and seek mercy at her feet.

We got what we deserved!

The Turf

The battle was waged and the turf was sown with seeds of hope. The declarations were set loud and clear with manifestos clearly stating the plan of action. The haziness on the path that lay ahead never seemed to diminish the spirit fuming.

The turf was fertile with the attempts made by the previously strewn seeds of hard work clubbed with copious amounts of beads of perspiration that were assumed to be in vain.

But were they? The outcome led to the satisfaction of many a wants and needs.

The question that lies deep within: Was there a need for new crops to be cultivated? Or will the implementation of cross cultivation prove effective?

Fingers crossed for a bumper crop.

The Staircase to Heaven


The metro station was in a bizarre cacophony. There were Indians shouting at the top of their voices over phone. There were Filipinos who were trying to rip off their vocal chords, which sounded more like ducks quacking. There were Arabs who seemed uninterested in the expat balderdash. There were Africans whose multi-coloured multiple braids shone in style. There were some Whites lazily sitting, looking at the Metro clock every now and then. There were many other nationalities whose ethnicities unknown to me made me ignore them. As far as I was concerned, my eyes had enough material to feast on.

And there was me, standing resting my back on the wall and observing the fun.

Subway Surfer was getting immensely boring as my umpteenth attempt to better the score set by a friend on my phone went in vain. Hence, I thought of doing something worthwhile.

The metro clock read 5 more minutes for the train’s arrival. 5 minutes of observation could get me an immensely rich psychographic data.

Finally, the bombastic voice announced that the train was arriving on the platform. The announcement sounded more like a war cry to me. The people, who were scattered in the platform, lazing and chatting, sprang up to life and approached the doors as if marching to the enemy lines.

The rush to get in was tremendous. The crowding at the doors left hardly any area for the exiting passengers. The rush to get out was an equally mad crowd who wanted to rip off any thing that came in their path. The man at the last was waiting with the serenity shaded eyes, for all the mad men to ingress and egress.

At last, the last man got in. I just made it in time, just as Mr. Boombastic announced ‘Doors closing’, first in vernaculars and then in the universal tongue.

The observation was in full swing till the station where I disembarked. I experienced the similar war like feeling as I got down the train. It was really a big deal, getting in and out.

I saw the rush, following suit, at the gates of the elevator. Those who didn’t make it this time ran up to the escalators. The people were queuing up to go up. The flight of stairs adjacent to the elevators stood empty as the queue was getting larger.

Those who were in a rush did not seem to consider the time in the queue as a deterrent to their presumably already backward running schedule.

Just then, someone received enlightenment. One last entrant to the queue, looked like a Brit, left the queue and answered the calling of the stairs. No one seemed to get the impetus transferred to them as this guy was climbing up the stairs. 

I was just halfway through the elevator as he made it up through the Staircase to Heaven!

Party of a Lifetime

The scenic beauty of the hilly terrains of the Western Ghats adjoining the picturesque hamlet, accompanying the gentle hustle of the breeze made the party lawns look ever attractive than before. The tingling sound of the wind chimes along with rustle of the leaves in the orchard was a treat for the ears. The background was set as a camaraderie of Bach, Mozart and Beethoven. It was planned to set a base note for the party- truly music for the soul.

The lawn was set in white and gold with flowers flown from Thailand to add to its beauty. The golden hue of the confetti was reflecting on the buffet platters. The streamers and decorations were at their best to induce an effect of the pre-wedding bash.  Butlers and concierges were all in position to attend to the guests who were coming in ones and twos.

His friends hurried up to him, the man of the hour. It was his bachelor party attended only by his friends, dear and near. From his kindergarten mates with whom he still maintained contact, to his friends of his graduation school, everyone would be there for the day he wanted them the most. He stood at the dais, greeting his friends amid rapid flashes of light flickering on his radiant face and handsome smile.

The men at the food counter were busy setting the buffet to its best. Animals of various sizes and proportions were inside the platters, assorted with various spices and oils. Copious amount of time was put into the preparation of each of these delicacies. Chicken was the star of the food counter where he and his friends indulged into bite-sized pieces of chicken prepared in different manners that would satisfy the taste buds of both the east and west. The spread of the buffet also had cottage cheese and vegetables to tempt the tongue of the vegetarians. Desserts were kept off the main counter, having ecstatic varieties of Indian sweets, cakes and ice creams to choose from.

The mixologist had already set the spirit counter on fire which had the best of the spirits stocked to appease the guests. A tinge of lemon on the small shot glass had blazed in a chunk of fire into the inners. 

The guests were full and satisfied, both their bellies and at heart. The memory of party so grand and well planned had created a sense of wellness among the guests. This metamorphosed into blessings for him, for a happy life ahead….  

I am Sarathy, Parthasarathy


When the toll of the evil rises, 
When the noble men is sought to no mercy from their distraught
When the creation is hastened ‘up’ to meet its creator
When humanity is at its peril, 
When seeing the next dawn in a single piece is a boon
When life is altogether a rabble

I shall rise

To protect my kinsmen
To curb the uproar
To bring it under control
To evade the fear 

For I am Sarathy, Parthasarathy

The leader to lead the man to fight against injustice
Undeterred by the path I follow
I shall lead the men astray
To the light of the guiding principle 

The Colorful Festivities


Holi is the festival of colors, the day of hues of colors brightening up the dark and dismal lives of many.

This day is considered as the day when Holika, the sister of the evil Asura king Hiranyakasipu, was burned in the pyre while seated along with Prahlad while Prahlad was unharmed by greedily lurking tongues of the flame. This day was celebrated hence as the victory of the good over evil. 

Well, for me, this was the first time in life, witnessing a fully fledged Holi celebration. The colors plunged onto the faces, pitchkaris astray and water cannons squirting out their might, made my sight a delightful one. 
Everyone looked almost the same as the white Tees transformed into myriad concoction of all colors and faces were gracefully smeared, diluted with sweat becoming a canvas of mismatch. From a distance, it seemed as if clones were partying hard. 

The scene was fun till the moment I was spotted clean by my hooligan friends. A cheerful uproar from the gang and I was outpaced by their muscular legs. Since I was outnumbered, my T  had a doleful fate and colors went onto the abundance of my face and body. 

Still lies the marks of Holi on my face, despite numerous attempts by my hands and soap in conjunction. 

A memorable and ‘colorful’ one indeed!!

The V-Day Brash


My Facebook wall being littered with posts about the pride of being single made me understand one thing- jealousy was at its peak. A best friend’s status update knit more loosely to let in more ideas follows: 

Oh God, you gave me everything, car, iPhone, laptop, a big house, loving father, doting brother, caring sibling, cuddling puppy, nasty faced maids, nosy neighbors. Everything!
All my friends have crushes and even some of my fat, dark, ugly and pot bellied friends have had the divine intervention of Lord Cupid.


It so happens that when you see some friend walk by with his/her crush, you get that feeling of jealousy and develop hatred towards the whole of mankind. This state aggravates when you see the-girl-who-you-thought-will-be-yours walking hand in hand with her goddamn lover, it is just like piercing in a dagger into your meek little heart.

When you see some friend walk by with his/her crush, you get that feeling of jealousy and develop hatred towards the whole of mankind. It happens!

This state aggravates when you see the-girl-who-you-thought-will-be-yours walking hand in hand with her damn lover, it is not just like piercing in a dagger into your meek little heart, it actually does.

Why didn’t I just get past at least one girl? 

But why not a love in life?
Ain’t I handsome? Am I not that good? I am on the verge of getting a sturdy six pack. I am all fair and handsome. I am tall- the Ranbir Kapoor kinda looks. Yeah, I do have it. On top of all this, the icing on the cake, I am rich. Still, the case seems to get no better. 

All I do is flirt and then, it so progresses that even before I open up my heart, they seem to open up theirs and tell me about their love.

All online social marketers were putting love on to their shopping cart to make the love-struck follow suit. Love shaped cups, love shaped cakes, love shaped rings and what not, love shaped thenga-kola?
Was love in the air? Definitely not. All what I could smell was that of the fuming ashes of my long lost love.

Well, it was, for some. For me, it is just going to be another Thursday, a Thursday swarming with jealousy and loneliness. 


After, reading his short but insightful status, I sniggered and let out a sigh, ‘You’ve got company, dude! ;)’ 

The End of the Rape Saga, or is it just the beginning?


I thought I won’t write on this again.

I thought I will not dig the grave of a now-so-forgotten story.

I kept on thinking, why should I?

After all,what can a normal human being do? A blogger with a blog less than 5 months old cannot create ripples in the minds of the masses.

Then came the thought, why not me?

With all the possible affinity I have, with all the limited number of people I can get access to, with all the people who think upon reading, with all those who wish to act but are bound by the chains of social strife around, here I begin:

India, with all its rich expanses of culture, traditions and richness to glorify the already glorious past, is now going to drains. We are among those few cultures that accepted the predominance of woman in the society. She was considered as a mother, sister and divine incarnation of the goddess herself. But now, she is the underdog in the society now.

She is allotted a special bogie in the train, where she is raped in the midst of a journey. She is made to experience the heist of ruthlessness in a moving bus which wreaked havoc in her life.

People celebrate this with candles and strikes. And this dies down within a week.

May I pose a question to my fellow Indians, what is the purpose of being in a country which is said to be guarded from all sides where women live in full insecurity?

Everyday, she is getting raped. Not physically, but from the deep glares from the men who had an oath saying that all Indians are their brothers and sisters? The deep meaning glares is, if not the root cause, a trigger to this evil.

The lewd Indians makes it shameful for the whole brotherhood to say that they are protecting the dignity given to the womanhood. 

If you have feelings that actually requires a female to curb , why not go get it done from those who does it for money? It is this very thought, that makes many say that prostitution should be legalized. It could also be a revenue generator in conjunction with the tourism industry.

Rape does not have a pleasure element in it, rather does have a subjugation part. What a rapist gets is sheer dominance over a fragile, helpless soul writhing in pain. Is the motive satisfied? No. Not at all. 

Who benefits upon such a hype of a rape? The media, definitely.They get scoops for appeasing their show spaces and takes the fight for TRPs into a new level. Also benefited are some NGOs and non profitable organizations who take up fighting for protection of women. They get publicized and rake in a lot of money.

Why do we only provide benefit to such thoughts when we ourselves have looked upon her with an eye that casts a negatively impacted charm?

Benefiting from the corpse of a dead woman is sadism. Creating an uproar to get justice is nothing but cowardice. Rather than curing a seemingly incurable disease, why not prevent it?

Respect womanhood!

Preaching is easy, practicing is tough

Jaago India Jaago

Death’s knock on the door


A chill went down my spine as I saw her lifeless body.

Well, I really hated seeing her from the first instance. Every time she came into the horizon of my vision, I tried avoiding her. 

Her eyes were cute. 

Still I despised her.

She poked her nose into everyone else’s matter. Everyone liked it. 

I dint like her still.

She was loved and cared by everyone.

That did not alter my mindset.

I did not like her.

But never did I want to see that scene. It is true that to the extent of my hatred towards her had brought about a thought of her never coming back to my life. But I never wanted this to happen.

Her mother was no where to be seen. She did not want to see her only relation on earth lie lifeless. She never would have imagined her little one lying on bare earth with the little heart not pumping life. 

She was forcefully brought near the little one.

Her frisky little puppy was dead.

One sniff and the mother dog scurried her way.

Even though I just got a brief glimpse, I could see the crystal orb like eyes moist. 

A small breeze brushed past the pup’s little coat fur. 

She lay still. The charm of hyper activeness that she possessed would never resurface again.

The naughty little puppy went to the distant land of dreams or would have been reborn. Perhaps as a naughty little kid.

Perhaps… Only perhaps….

Questioning Womanhood


A school going girl 


A girl in the bus stop.

A lady standing next to you in the elevator.

A young female sitting next to you in an overcrowded bus.

What difference do they have with those who get nasty looks and touchings, let alone the ones getting raped?

Is travelling alone or wearing short dresses a reason?

Well, is it a crime?

If that is the case, all solo travelers and FTV models should be punished (And porn actors should be given capital punishment)

Or is that being born as a woman the reason for all these?

Let us put ourselves (the men) in their shoes for a moment.

Walking all the way to the bus stop and getting stares from all the passers-by just because you wore a new shirt. 
Standing in the bus stops with all the stares continuing. 
Entering the bus and people touching your groin and hips. 
In your office, as you bend down, people glaring to see the amount of chest hair you have. 
Late at night, people giving unscrupulous stares that question what business do you have at this point of time.

Now giving her back her shoes and putting back my shoes, I felt like puking after thinking and writing all these. Just imagine the plight of a lady who has been undergoing so much suffering through out all her lifetime.

Sad, isn’t it?

Still, we do not change. After all these hardships, she sees her sisters across the world undergo miseries. Some get raped too. Hearing all the unpleasant news, she gets stressed.
Instead of looking forward to each passing day, she gets tensed to go out into the cruel world out there.

Rapes are, I believe, frustrations vented out. 

But why? 

India is a country that does not lack the number of women who are more than willing to allow you to use them. Then why is against women who are expected back at home in one piece?

Is it because that going to a place of ill-fame degrading the status you have? As if conducting that heinous crime of rape will maintain it.

A word of caution to all-but-one sisters in the country and all sisters in other countries: 

”Be aware. The clan of your opposite sex is not as saintly as you think. Please take care of yourself.”