Showing posts from December, 2011

My Christ

When I joined a convent school as a snotty kid, I believe many tongues clucked, many fingers wagged, many foreheads creased with deep frowns. This was seen as a detriment to my religious development. It was predicted that I would soon forsake my own religion - my Krishna, my Vishnu, my Ganesha, my Rama; and adopt their Christ. After all, our religions were so different, the tongue-cluckers and finger-waggers murmured. Here we were – our Gods are powerful, handsome, bejewelled and bedecked. Our Gods fought wars and destroyed the evil Rakshasas – be it Kamsa or Ravana. But look at Christ – look at the suffering on His face, and He’s been nailed to a Cross for crying out loud. Why did my parents not put me in Saraswati Vidya Mandir where we were allowed to put bindis and wear bangles and necklaces – the way a Hindu girl should look like? Could my parents not see that I would be instilled with ‘Christian values’? Clearly my parents were upstarts and were ‘acting very smart’. It is anothe…

Too Sexy For Your Food

I am an average cook. Indeed some might even sneer secretly and comment that I have to improve to reach the ‘average’ rating. Not that my food kills. It is good enough to satiate a rumbling tummy – not good enough to make you lick your fingers. I can, though, boil a mean rasam blind folded. Anyway, I am one of those positive thinking fools who set about improving weak points in a plodding manner. Ergo, I’m addicted to cookery shows. I’m not alone. I’m told by reliable sources that most of Britain is with me.
What is it about these shows that nail me to the sofa? With a slack mouth I gape at the idiot box as harried wannabe chefs dash around the kitchen grating, chopping, peeling, frying, steaming, boiling, baking. And from the mess rises dishes too beautiful to behold - exotic looking, perfectly shaped lumps placed on a colour-coordinated sauce that has been spread on the plate with the perfection of zari work. Not to mention sprigs of herbs balancing here and there on the plate del…


I just bought a new comb. Not the flimsy plastic ones with a couple of teeth. This is a solid one with a thick wooden frame. Strong enough to crack a skull. It has a very specific purpose, and it is not called a ‘comb’. It is called a paddle brush. The ‘teeth’ have ceramide technology stuff in them, I’ll have you know. It’s the gateway to luxurious, glowing, silky smooth hair. Or so I thought.
From a very young age, I’ve been a bit finicky about the mane. Possibly because that is the only thing one can change about oneself in a jiffy. Childhood saw me with waist length hair, often oiled, pulled taut and plaited into two braids. Years of chasing me up and down the ‘vataara’ before pinning me down and braiding the said plaits left Amma traumatised. So she decided to get me a ‘baaf cut’.
On a happy, happy summer afternoon, Amma bundled me and the cooing sister in a bus, and off we went to Jayanagar 4th block shopping complex. The complex housed Bangalore’s best known beauty saloons of…