Pasta Cake

Pasta Cake - The idea originated from a shot shown during a promo of Masterchef Australia. The new season was coming and the promos were here and the colourful beautiful food was making my fingers itch. At any point, I am, at best, a decent cook. So the itchiness is something I generally ignore. But there was one shot there, in between those divine food and which, to my naive eyes and mind looked vaguely familiar. My culinary naïveté will be evident when I confess that it took me days before my rookie mind gave a name to it - Pasta Cake. It wasn't pasta cake and I wasn't able to find out what it actually was as we skipped this season of Masterchef Australia. But the thought stuck. And as usual, I trawled the depths of culinary blogs via an old friend, Google Search. I found quite a few. I wanted a vegetarian one and hence, I took elements from a few recipes to make a delicious Saturday lunch or comfort food on Friday night.

Here it is: 

2 cups of heavy cream

3 large eggs

Salt

Black pepper powder 

100 gms of cheese 

11/2 cups of spinach

3/4 cup of carrot (grated or 

finely chopped, as you wish)

1 large potato, finely chopped

A handful of French beans

2 large tomatoes

1 green chilli, deseeded and chopped finely

400 gms of spaghetti, freshly cooked

1/2 cup butter

Small handful of coriander leaves, to garnish

First step: Cook that spaghetti. Do not substitute spaghetti with any other kind of pasta.once cooked, let it drain. 

Take a skillet and heat oil. Lightly stir fry your tomatoes. Keep them aside. If it appeals, you could also lightly stir fry the other vegetables. 

Now it's whisking time. Take a large bowl and beat the cream and eggs with pepper powder and salt. Add the grated cheese, the tomatoes, chilli, vegetables and cooked spaghetti. While you are integrating all your elements, pre-heat your oven to 180 degree Celsius.

(Note: You can add more vegetables like cauliflower, pumpkin, sweet potatoes, peas. Also, make sure the mixture should not become watery as that makes for a mushed up pasta cake. Trust me, that does not taste good at all.)

Melt the butter and pour it into the pan; swirl the pan around so that it is nicely coated. Now pour your spaghetti mixture into the bowl, slowly, and make sure that the mixture is evenly distributed in the pan. Let it bake for 30 minutes. Your spaghetti cake will be ready when it begins to crisp at the top. Take it out of the oven and sprinkle some coriander leaves over it. Sprinkle some more grated cheese over it and bake it in the oven for another 10 minutes. Take it out, now, and let it rest and cool. Your magnificent Saturday lunch is ready. Have it with a lemon pickle or a good side of green salad. 

What a comfort food! 

The divine lemon cake

My dear little daughter is quite a fussy eater. If she agrees to milk one week, she will make up for it by refusing it for the next two weeks. If she likes idli with chutney in the morning; in the afternoon, she wants it without chutney; she will like upma without banana in the morning but will not mind it with banana at noon. And she fiercely refuses to have anything to do with fruits. Except apple, but then she doesn't realize she is having it as we disguise it within idlis, dosas and pancakes.

In my quest for simple baking recipes, I stumbled upon a divine little dessert - the lemon bar. Or as I eventually ended up making it, the lemon cake with shortbread. The first time turned out to be too tangy, too sweet, oh too much lemony. This was for these reasons: the shortbread dough was lesser than anticipated, so the filling overwhelmed the edges, instead of sitting comfortably within the shortbread; the lemon juice was a tad too much and the sugar a tad too less. So yesterday I tried to prepare it again. It turned out beautifully. Here are the measures:

For the shortbread:

1 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar (powdered)
1/2 cup butter (at room temperature)
 A pinch of salt

Making the shortbread dough is key here because the filling is fairly simple to prepare. Into a bowl, add the butter and sugar. Use an electric beater to mix them till soft and creamy. In a small bowl, mix the flour and salt. Add the flour mix into the first bowl and beat it again. Be assured, the mix is supposed to look like bread crumbs and not like a proper dough. Take a baking pan and pour this mix into it. With your hands, spread it evenly across the pan. Press down with your palm so it is a compact mix now.
Preheat the  oven to 375 degree C for 5 minutes. Place the shortbread pan in the oven and bake for 15 minutes or until the shortbread begins to become golden brown at the edges. Remove from oven and let it cool for about 20 minutes.

While the shortbread cools, get about preparing the filling.

For the filling:

1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
1/4 cup lemon juice
1 tablespoon lemon zest
3 tablespoon all purpose flour

Take a large bowl. Add the granulated sugar and beat the 2 eggs into it till it becomes soft and creamy. Add the lemon juice and lemon zest into the mix. (Before removing the zest, clean the lemons well. Make sure that the rind of the lemons are a clear yellow without any blemishes. Remove the zest from the lemons before squeezing their juice.) Beat them well. Then fold in the flour.

Take the shortbread pan, pour in the filling and place it back in the oven. Let it bake for 15-18 minutes or until the filling has firmed. Take it out and let it cool for about 15-20 minutes. Once cooled, place it on a plate and cut in. Yumm...

Enjoy!

We begin da' baking...

Joy and I, both of us, love watching cookery shows. If we are not sitting down to watch anything specific on the telly, we will settle for a good cookery show. While we were often enthusiastic about experimenting with savoury dishes, the desserts intimidated us. Finally, Masterchef Australia broke us and as 2012 hit midway, we bought a small oven. And thus our ambitious efforts were born. We started off with a simple sponge cake - the first four tries of our oven was to make this sponge cake. The first time we made it, it got too fluffy and collapsed in on itself - though, to be honest, it was yummy. The second time, it didn't fluff up at all, though again, it was quite delicious. It was like eating a softer biscuit. Of course, we trawled the internet for each cake's postmortem. The first time we had beaten the eggs and flour too excessively. The second time the flour was a little more than necessary and the eggs were beaten a little too less. The next two efforts were better overall, however, they weren't something that we would have loved to serve up for friends.

Following these disappointments, we were dejected and there followed a lull in our baking endeavours. We would take turns to look at the oven wistfully a few times a day. Gathering up our spirits took a while. A few weeks later, we planned an alternative approach. We said, "well maybe not the cake, how about trying for something smaller, a cupcake recipe perhaps?" Very tentatively, we made a plain cupcake. We took a bite off the first one, chewed it and our eyes and taste buds lit up. It was GOOD. Our eyes twinkled and we could hear each other think "We should make this more often" before it was articulated aloud. Then, we laughed. And then, we spent the next couple of days wading through the entire batch with a song in our hearts. Hahahaha I exaggerate, of course. The days didn't go down like that. In hindsight, that cupcake gets us an A+ for simply trying it. Otherwise, I might have spent forever sending wistful looks at the oven.

Here, then, was the genesis for our weekend cupcake capers.

We often made little variations in fillings and choice of flours. I am still too intimidated to make any bold changes.

I will pen down these simple recipes for cupcakes and other desserts that we have tried so far and we plan to prepare next.

It is then...

In the middle of a quiet afternoon 
or in the sleepy corners of the night – 
it is then that it hits. 
It is then that it hurts. 
The loneliness. 
The hoodless-ness. 
The ties that bind 
surely are most slack then. 
Where are they 
when the heart stretches and stretches 
and yet finds that that which fills it 
is not the intangible belongingness; 
it is the more the tangible emptiness. 

Emptiness. 
Pervasive emptiness. 
The flaccidness of the empty corners of the heart. 
Kinfolk were never kin, you see. 
Shattered dreams. 
Uprooted to a distance, 
the short thread of dreams 
hardly withstood the pull and push and pinch. 
Loneliness of hearth. 
Loneliness of frailty. 
Begets loneliness of kinlessness. 
Wandering heart forever. 
Anchored in bravado. 
Moored in the gloating of meaningless triumphs. 
The pull of façade did unmoor it. 

Wandering heart. 
Pining heart. 
Seeking heart. 
Painful beyond measure. 
Thus did the heart grow. 
Thus did the heart shrink. 
And yet the emptiness loomed. 
Cynical heart. 
Questioning heart. 
Tallied up with chary mind. 
A moat. 
More like a swamp. 
The emptiness turned jellysludge. 
Trapping. 
Mocking. 
Laughing. 
Loss. 
Utter loss. 
Pervasive loss. 

A quick silver flash of fulfilled life. 
Washed away in the tide ever rising. 
Mourning heart. 
Wasting heart. 
The beats vary. 
Dunn-dunn-dunn. 
And then that’s all. 
Swamp conquering. 
Failing heart. 
Clutching heart. 
Fate beckons still. 
Quickening beats. 
Tired beats. 
Pleading beats. 
Another chance. 
Life is for once. 
Live it or fail it. 
Failing, falling.  
The falls are near. 
Drowning. 
Gasping beats. 
Final stand. 
Feeble. 
Failed.

Rishi Shenanigans...

March 21, 2012 - Bangalore

Went to the supermarket to replenish rations. Rishima had her first ride in the trolley – she was curious about it and didn’t seem worried about a new conveyance :) Oh and when I was on my way out, an endearing thing occurred. I had just thanked the girl at the counter and then the guy after he had handed over my bag and who would pipe up suddenly? Rishima, of course, with a quite loud “aaaankuuu” – while I was stunned for a second, the two at the counter recovered faster and were gaily laughing. As I walked off the store, I saw the duo sharing the cause of their laugh with another shop girl. I was all smiles all the way back home!

PS: Rishima recognizes dogs now. The moment she sees one, she extends her hand, index funger outstretched, and whispers “bow wow wow”

So dreamy!

I love to look at pretty pictures but fashion photography often leaves me with a feeling of inadequacy. I mean, you see these gorgeously perfect beauties parading around in gorgeously and perfectly fit clothes in pretty pretty colours! And you begin with widening your eyes and giving your heart to the pictures... And then the pinpricks begin: Will that strikingly beautiful coat fit me? Those heels are to-die-for but I have never worn heels so can I get these same shoes without heels? Erm, that hair...oooh stylishly messy! Can I get one just like that? So on and very soon, you have moved on from oohing and awwing to aaahing over your own fashion knowledge. Sigh.

And then one day, you see something a fashion editorial that is breathtakingly creative and dreamily beautiful! Check out this editorial based on astrology signs in the British Vogue.

Feast your eyes on a couple more:

Running on Empty: But Full of Heart

River Phoenix had a precocious acting talent which drew directors like Sidney Lumet and Gus Van Sant to him. Of course, like Heath Ledger almost a generation later, he was gone too soon leaving behind a portfolio of work which has had people wondering about his legacy had be been alive and working these past two decades.

Last week by a quirk of Internet fate, I ended up watching 3 of his films - but today, we will talk a bit about the 1989 Running on Empty.

Directed by Sidney Lumet with a warm brush, Running on Empty shows us we can never run too far away from our past. Here, the past is finally catching up with Annie and Arthur Pope. Annie (Christine Lahti) and Arthur (Judd Hirsch), wanted for bombing a napalm lab, have been on the run for 15 years. A janitor, who was not supposed to be there, was blinded in the bombing. As a young couple, their politics was to oppose the Vietnam war but now it is no longer about the politics. Now, it is all about keeping their young family together. The family uses fake identities as they move towns, lie about their childrens' certificates so that nobody noses into their past and leave pets behind with an assurance to the kids that they will find a home. The kids do not argue - they have done this for a long time.

But now, things are slowly taking a different shape. 17-year-old Danny (River Phoenix), a high school senior, has been noticed by his music teacher who is persistent that he apply to the prestigious Juilliard music school. Danny has got a girlfriend (Martha Plimpton) - the rebellious teenage daughter of the music teacher. Annie and Arthur slowly realize that they have to leave Danny behind if he has to have any future. Arthur has taught his children to stick to each other and Danny shares that belief. He does wish to stay behind with his girl and his music future but knows that if he did so, his every step dogged by the FBI. The father doesn't want to lose his eldest now - the mother's heart is breaking because she wants her son close but also doesn't want his future compromised. Once they had given up their futures for the politics, but are they justified in asking their son to make the same sacrifice for something he didn't do? It's a heart breaking decision to make for them all.

There is a scene towards the last stretch of the film when Annie meets her long estranged father. It is a powerful one because of the irony. Annie hasn't talked to her father in a long time, he asks her to surrender but he still loves his daughter. She doesn't agree with his beliefs but she is meeting her father not so much as a daughter as a parent herself. He lost her long ago and now she is going to lose her son. She is here, proud, yet begging her father to take her son in so he can go to music school. Its a sad scene - and we break along with Annie.

The performances are spot on. As viewers, we relate to this family. We relate to their phobias, their everyday moments of happiness and we feel the approaching loss.

River Phoenix received an Academy Award nomination for this film and it is easy to see why. He plays Danny with a touch of pathos and thoughtfulness that we do not often see in younger actors. His rebellious moments are not about making any teenage statements. He is all fluid emotion and poignancy. You can feel his struggle - He understands how much his parents depend on him and he loves them too but he also wants to put down roots, to have the opportunity to learn music and to enjoy a love just like his parents have.

The film may be about a couple facing consequences of their political expression years ago and its director himself certainly had leftist leanings but the film is not a political statement. Running on Empty is about family life, about parents who have given up a lot to keep their family together but they are called upon to make another harder sacrifice and about children who understand the responsibilities of a family life and the burdens that come with it.

Q for the day

What do you do when your hot afternoon escape zone turns into an oven?

Back with a Trivia

Thomas Carlyle made up the word 'Environment' as he could find no English translation of the German 'Umgebung' which roughly means surroundings. Carlyle's friend Scottish writer John Sterling scolded him for making up barbarous words like 'Environment'.

For want of a hold...

The land is craggly. The twisty swirls of the dunes make you want to travel on them. But tempting as they are, you know their true story. You know how they shiver like fireflies and will quench themselves on a desirous touch. They are traitorous. They make you want to want them. They test you. They only want to see your eyes when you step on them. They want to see the surprise in your eyes, better yet, they want to feel the drop of your heart when you step on them and they morph into vortexes.

You see, each dune is a vortex of its own opening up to worlds unknown. Yet you know that each of these worlds is wrapped in candy paper for lure and what is inside is this shaky mass of nothingness that leeches at the warmth in your heart. Whatever warmth is still left after it has turned cold on seeing the façade falter.

You know this because you have dreamt them. But as prophecies, you cannot escape them. You may think you will if you do this and that, but a sight of those living crawly dunes and your heart is stolen. Your hear the sibilant hisses as the sand creeps under your closed eyes but because you can stop a sword cut in your dreams, you think you can stop the sands by waking up. But what if you wake up to a world where matter is sand? Where the very air is sandy? Where there is no concept of oxygen, of optimism, of hope? Where all that is there is the susurration that erodes the base of your soul and drinks from your marrow of faith?

So you want to believe but believe me, belief is overrated. Everyone wants to believe because we are lazy to find out if what we believe can be touched or smelt or felt between the thumb and index finger. You think, you will believe and this selfless act will inspire the universe to act as per your belief. But you see, this is such a selfish belief and really, how then can it happen?

I am very question-y today. I am often like this. I do not want to be like this. But you see, those sands, those fang-y colourful sands continue to shift under my feet, they caress my in-step and I hold on to the quaint trills of my fading sanity but they are relentless, they probe, they pinch, they cajole, they whisper how they want me and need me in their world of lone sands and I feel my hold slip even though I think I am in my dream and even if the hold slips, so what, I will wake up. I will wake up and see that it was all a dream but then, there is that little question that reverberates across my eardrum – which part is the dream: the waking or the sleeping and the incessant push and pull of the answer is all that I can slowly hear as I devolve into a million little sands, slowly and sandfully…

Back on ground after a month-long flight :)

Hello Blog, I am deeply sorry for having neglected you for the past few months - but you see, there were some really strange things happening in my life.

I got married on September 6, 2009 and so August was my last month at work at plaNETsurfCreations, Bangalore. That meant hectic days of finalising the process of setting up teams for the Specials, Videos and Accenture projects as well as training the team members. It was a chaotic but fun endeavour - left the company with some really exciting people in place. They will be fine and I was happy to leave with some wonderful memories of a set of beautiful and great people there.

But it was time for me to move on, ya see. After 30 years of a lone existence (I will not call it lonely as I enjoy solitude and the peace to think soaringly) I was voluntarily going to share my life and days with another person. I would have loved to have just gone ahead with life as it is, but sometimes, one must pause to follow societal rituals and familial obligations. This pause was extremely boring for me as I was stuck in my native place of Kanichurangala, in Kerala for a good 2 weeks with no internet, no television and worst, no books to read. Though the last could have been amended if only, I was not too boringly lazy to open my packages.

The wedding ceremony went off well, the in-laws weren't allowed to get too bored for the two days that they were there and my dearest friend Daisy kept me completely and pleasantly sane. I hail a thank you for the dear girl.

From Kerala, we tripped off to Chennai to spend a few days with my new family. It was a fun few days of getting to know some close relatives and getting to know Chennai. The trip concluded with the quite successful Reception evening.

From Chennai, we went onward to Munnar for the honeyed moon sightings. Munnar is all that the tourist brouchers promised. Of course, as all other travellers, a bit of advice - Munnai aint the place if you want to do something, but it is absolutely divine as a place to just lie back, relax and charge yourself.

3 days of awe inspiring scenery and it was time to head to Mumbai for a more grounded existence.

And yeah, the air trip to Mumbai was my first flight and all pre-flight jitters turned out to be just that, fortunately. I would not have relished the idea of a 30-yr-old puking woman in the presence of waaay cooler infant travellers.

The view...oh the view. My first look at Mumbai was as stunning as Munnar's mountains. The myriad brilliant garlands and the vast blackness of the sea (it was 9pm). Mumbai had won me over at 30,000 ft. But of course, on the ground, Mumbai is still alien to me - I am aware this will require more than 2 weeks to be redressed.

Anyways, I am back on the ground but it will be sometime before even a semblance of status quo can be achieved. I am still going to be offline most of the time, but I am keen to sit down and begin jotting again.

Good night blog.

See ya back, Ciao!

El Cielo Dividido - A Review

I stumbled upon a little treasure this past week – and it has enthralled me, intrigued me and beguiled me by its quaint charm. El Cielo Dividido (Broken Sky) is Mexican director Julian Hernandez’s second feature film. You would not think so if you watched it.

It is a simple story at its core. A story of two young lovers, who meet each other at university, fall in first lust and love, cannot keep their hands and lips to themselves when with each other, have roaring sexual encounters and fall to temptation of new adventures and watch jealousy and regret corrode a relationship with potential.

So then what’s so special about this film if it boasts the same stale formula? Quite a few reasons, actually.

Significantly, the film treats the homosexuality of young lovers’ Gerardo and Jonas, students of University of Mexico, as a matter of fact. This is no coming of age story or a coming out story. At no time does the film show a third party reaction to the boys’ very demonstrative relationship. Except a little scene when the boys are kissing each other near the garage and the camera slowly pans to show a straight couple walking past holding hands. For me, what appealed is the film’s unapologetic treatment of gay love. Most often, filmmakers use internal and external conflict arising from the protagonist’s sexuality to culture angst; here, the angst arises from the natural foible of first love – the temptation of the what ifs – what if this new person I met in the disco is my spiritual half?

Secondly, there is minimal dialogue - The film is over two hours long and there are probably only about a couple of scores of lines.

What helps is Alejandro Canto's complicated, confusing and utterly captivating cinematography – Canto exploits his lens to reveal viewpoints, the and uses camera spins and pans to move across scenes and gently shows us the evocatively lingering glances that the leads share. Canto and Hernandez are so taken in by the beauty of their leads that they do not make any excuses for the way the lens’ caresses the lead actors – Admittedly, Miguel Angel Hoppe and Fernando Arroyo are delicious to look at but they are also equal to the demands asked of them.

Gerardo and Jonas share a deep passionate relationship and the film’s first third devotes itself to one of the most honest portrayals of simulated sex ever on film. Soon, Jonas strays and is attracted to Bruno (Ignacio Pereda), who he meets one night at the disco, but he is also reluctant to leave Gerardo. The affair ends with Bruno’s sudden disappearance but Jonas cannot shake Bruno from his mind; it is Bruno he thinks of when in a passionate cinch with Gerardo. Frustrated with Jonas’ continued disinterest in him physically, a broken Gerardo begins a series of flings before seeking solace in the arms of college custodian Sergio (Alejandro Rojo). The film stays true to the end with a very ambiguous conclusion.

Fernando Arroyo’s Jonas is dark and intriguing and a perfect foil for the pouty and wide-eyed Miguel Angel Hoppe. Hoppe, especially, conveys the awe and wonder of the first spring of love and later, his eyes eloquently express his heartbreak and frustration.

El Cielo Dividido is less an art film and more of a relentless ballet filled with choreographed moves, gestures and conversations through eyes. It is not easy to watch – you have to dig into your deepest reserves of patience to sit through this silent masterpiece. This is also its worst, perhaps only, flaw. Not many audiences are so kind to indulge the slow passage of thoughts, the careful body movements and the intense back and forth that the leads convey through their eyes. Also, the periodic sex scenes will not interest the straight audiences. There is also an irritating and presumptuous voiceover which talks about love and life – Hernandez could have got rid of this device and added a few more lines for his leads. Understandably, the film did not do well in the US while it was welcomed in Mexico and Europe.

I, for sure, am awaiting Hernandez’s third venture – Rabioso sol, rabioso cielo (Raging Sun, Raging Sky).

My First Friends

My earliest literary memories are of stories in Misha and Sputnik.

Long before I could read properly, these were my eyes to the distant world. I would gaze longingly at the images and the printed word, wondering at the mysteries locked in their fist. And every letter and word identified was a triumph.

Of course, these magazines also proved how well literary propaganda works - because as a 9-year-old when I first began reading comics, mostly about World War II, I would cheer every time a Yank got hit and I would be disappointed and confused because I loved the Japs and Jerrys, while also disliking them for initiating the war. I could only stand the Yanks in these comics because of the logical and resigned (and ‘rummy’) Brit. These American comics, while making a case for American values of freedom and bravery, also made a case for German and Japanese technical ingenuity as well as British patience and resilience - all traits that I admire among these nationalities even today.

(yeah, no Russians versus Americans in most of those comics - yet as I felt culturally closer to the Russians, I was distant with the Yanks irrespective of who they were up against – isn’t that some propaganda? But 15 years later as the Red bastion crumbled – the second-hand books no longer came from the Soviet Union but from the US and I watched my little neighbour spend two summer vacations mooning over my Marvel copy of how America finally conquered the moon.)

But Sputnik went where even Kennedy's dreamy eyes couldn't with me. The wonders of science and the possibilities of crossing space frontiers and the literal stars in my eyes as twilight closed in was all because of this little piece of sky in binding.

But if I am no closer today to anything that is remotely related to science - blame the politically incorrect Enid Blytons I gorged on in parallel. The fantastical stories were just one aspect of my envy - most of it was reserved for the writer's prolific genius. I once promised I would read every Blyton in my school library.

(Knowing something is great but the path to knowing is what flavours our ultimate knowledge and harvests the greatest thrill.)

In my school, we could borrow a book every alternate week. Most times, I would bribe the librarian to let me borrow 2 books. I would argue that I was a prolific reader, I brought back books all taped and repaired and that I would never tell anyone. I will never know which point swayed her for she would sit, head bent and scribbling in her books and as I stiffly stood wondering if she wasn't going to be moved this time, she would just extend her hand, note down whatever librarians note down and hand them over to me with a stern 'be careful with them.'

My modus operandi was simple: finish mine as soon as possible and then spend the next 7-10 days borrowing my friends' library offerings of the week. For some, the bribe was the awesome breakfasts mom packed for me, for others, it was help with notes while for some others, it was the chance to simply exchange books. I didn't grudge the first for loving my mom's cooking - clearly she is the awesomest and I couldn't grudge the second, because they inflated my ego. But I loved the last best of all.

Even with all these shenanigans, by the end of the year I realised the effort was futile. Also, childish considering all the Nancy Drews, Oliver Twist (adapted), Hardy Boys, Tinkles, Chandamamas, Tenali Ramans, Malory Towers, Tom Brown, Huckleberry Finn, Robert L Stevensons, Super Commando Dhruvs (ah yes, that lost genre of Hindi comics!), Jane Austens, Louisa Alcotts, Alexander Dumas’ and the list only increased every day.

Every story luring me further and further into the quicksand of lively imagination. And when there seemed no likely rescue for a pre-teen lolling in the easy world of indulgence and drama and quiet romance, along came Charles Dickens to shock and repel and disgust and fascinate and mesmerise with the romanticism of reality. Dickens, and what a stay he made in my head!
(More on Dickens, Premchand and their writings soon.)

phah!

I think I am slowly being converted.

From a confirmed shopaphobic to one who looks forward to shopping trips.

whackery pockery

Hmmm...What a weird dream I had this morning. Ever since waking, I have wondered what connects Naseeruddin Shah and Pakistan and my mom (!) drinking martini.

I dreamt of Naseeruddin Shah and another man (I knew him in the dream, cannot remember now) ride into the Pakistan High Commissioner's house located in a random mountain outpost (I have no idea why the HC would live there) and proceeds to talk to him in chaste Urdu.

I have forgotten most of it now but the meeting went something like this: Naseer and friend are treated to a lunch of biryani, curd and salad. Naseer takes a lemon from the salad plate and asks the HC if the biryani will still taste the same if he squeezes a drop in. HC laughs and says of course a drop will not leave its bitter mark. So Naseer squeezes the lemon thoroughly and says 'How about now?' Naseer and HC banter some more and the HC is left with a glass of lemon juice. Then Naseer says something like 'You should be able to drink that then.'

Then, it descends into the realm of complete whackery. As Naseer and friend drive away, I look up and see my mom and aunt (in their sarees) standing at the balcony of the next building watching them. Then, they are laughing and toasting each other as they down their martinis.

As I said, I have no idea what was going on.

Note: Apparently, in dream state I can speak Urdu - Though I am sure Naseer knows the language.

- And my mom drinking martini (snorfle!)

Ssh...Bitter Confessions

How do people live in a place for years? How did people work in one place for years?
For me, this is an enduring question.

I like meeting new people and making friends. The whole process of making friends is a fine chemistry experiment - how much of this to add - how much of that to subtract for now - how much of compliments, confessions and treating, knowing the right time and amount of blunt truth to be dished out - how much of coffees, movies, and lending of books - how much of sarcasm to be dished on a Tuesday and how much of wit and humour to be showcased on flagging Thursday spirits.

So is it any wonder that once a friendship connection is managed, I am usually flummoxed on how to proceed? You told me I must make a friend in a new place - Done. But Step 2 is what? Maintaining that friendship? Ah so easy...Step 1 rinse and repeat! But wait. What is this new substance that my 'friend' waves hello to, goes on lunches with, makes calls to while I am 'waiting' and generally, doing exactly all that I am doing with my friend?

I will play the hop, skip, slide to the side but are you now asking me to hop, skip, slide to both my sides with the guarantee that I will fall on my arse every once in a while? At the best, that is. At the worst? Hah, I will fall and will probably cause no single goosebump to rise and disturb the larger scheme of things.

So now, I am at a situation of 'Ahem...ahem...what? oh no, I didn't say anything, just a scratch in my throat, oh no I do not mind at all, please carry on' with a parallel commentary in my head going 'Oh are they planning to watch Star Trek this Saturday night? And I am not even being asked about this? be still, make no movement, oh heck, here goes, shucks should have invited over myself, pharaoh! after spending a whole month talking about nothing but Enterprise? Hrmph! I will catch the Saturday morning show!' and poking out an imaginary tongue.

See, if it was you - you will probably have been laughing and having a real conversation rather than an imaginary one and you would have had a fun evening and offered a boost to your friendship with not one but two people. Maybe not enough that they would forget home and ambitions to war with the world for and with you. But then, that happens only once in 500 years, right? So why lose appetite worrying about that?

But with me, the chemistry of friendships is nuclear science. I may know the base elements but I have no idea what to do with them. Most of the times, I do not care. This is sad because I do have an idea of what could be done in a certain situation, but the effort stymies me. I would much rather subject myself to soliloquies, day dreams, lone jaunts to movies, chocolate binges, exotic food haunts (my translation for fried spicy food) and eventual boredom. In a weird way, I like this. I look forward to days when I can do just this. I will sit closeted in my room, with a juicy chicken leg, a plate of biryani on the table, a cup of chocolate cake in the wings, a sexy story to read and a comedy on the telly on standby and during this all, keep moaning about my lack of friends while answering a telephone call from a friend and saying I am too busy and hence, cannot come over for a Barista coffee trip.

And when this gets too tiring and predictable, the city gets too stuffy to negotiate and I am off to a distant land with no friends and acquaintances to slog and grind at new works and tackle strangers through the day.

Oh Woe! Such is the fun of life.

Where are the cookies?

What is depression? I do not know. The first sentence about 'depression' from psychologists and scholars will probably last 2 minutes. I think 'depression' gets its name from the way a person feels the chest cavity bottoming out - it sometimes feels like free fall.

Or we can use a cookie analogy here: Do you know the dismay you feel when you dip your hand into a box of cookies for a midnight snack and your hand keeps dipping lower and lower into the box and meeting no cookies on the way?

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Laziness - The Cherry Atop The Block

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Lo! Who is that, sprinting amidst the freeway! It is muses, hands clutching a thorned whip! And with a vengeful bellow, her voice cometh: "Hail the blood-letting! Skulls will be fucked for Satan!"

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Writer's Block Persists: Quiz Times Roll!

Your result for The What Sports Car Am I Test...

The Corvette/Mustang Mix!

4 Corvette, 17 Mustang!

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A Corvette and Mustang mix!
That's very unique... Only 0.7% of people share your personality!
You're passionate about what matters most and NOTHING stands in your way of true goals!
You have the speed and drive of a Corvette and the Muscle and integrity of the Mustang!

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