Raspy vocals and the right expression, to wit,
A self-proclaimed hermit with spectacles rimm’d
Koshy’s most scandalous patron yet,
With that shock of a beard, unkempt and untrimm’d

Equal parts Dubliner, Agony Aunt and the Bard,
With a propensity for Gaelic and of questionable origin
But the rascally, flirty coot thou art,
Thou can win over even the female Aborigine

One and sixty summers cannot wane thine charm, you see,
So long lives thine pen, and gives life to us, and thee

And true to his style, he starts it off delightfully enough:

A couple of days ago, I was forwarded a piece called ‘Date A Girl Who Reads,’ doing the usual rounds all over the Internet. Affectionate at first glance, this was a rather offensive piece of simplistic drivel that assumed women who read don’t do anything but live within paragraphs of their beloved books, books they keep mistaking for real life, presumably because they smell them too much.

Right.

Right.

It may be my genetic structure, (that is to blame, usually) but I wasn’t offended by it – it was slightly (okay, a little more than necessary) romanticised, but it didn’t really suggest women spend their days smelling old books, getting lost somewhere between prologue and epilogue, but that when in the company of an engrossing read, they tend to lose themselves in it.

While this may not be the best pitch for men to date women who read, it was not in any way “simplistic drivel”. Rose-tinted, yes. A bit too idealistic, most definitely. But drivel? I don’t think so.

More importantly, this could be true of either sex – or if you actually are an ardent supporter of the concept of political correctness, anyone at all, irrespective of the placement of their plumbing/reproductive systems. Bibliophiles, irrespective of their chromosomal makeup, *prefer* to live in the larger-than-life world of fiction than in “real life”. I’m speaking for all the book lovers I know here, and I’m glad the ratio is at least 1 for every 10 who aren’t. (I must have chosen the company I keep that way). Show me one who doesn’t and I’ll show you a pseudo/wannabe/trying-to-make-an-impression-on-someone-hence-pretend-to-be-a-book-lover book lover.

He goes on to extol the virtues of books that have appendages growing out of them or hidden between the sheets. (Real life much? Give me fiction any day ) A book with benefits might hold some appeal, no doubt (not really), but a book that straddles you when you reach for the phone? Really?

He closes his argument with:

You could, of course, choose to instead go for a book with breasts. They’re just fiendishly hard to close.

Riiiiiiiight. How…simple.

Extrapolating this argument, one can easily arrive at Dic-tion, but let’s not go there.

Date a Girl Who Reads to me was more a wonderfully articulated personal piece on the love of reading and not so much a Meredith Grey inspired “Pick me. Choose me. Love me.” plea to the opposite sex. But a sexist rebuttal because you think it is simplistic drivel?

Come on.

Good luck with finding those tits between the covers, Raja.

For example, though I knew of the community kitchen at the Temple, the langar, I did not know this – “Sikhism, which emerged in the Punjab region of India in the 15th century, strongly rejects the notion of caste, which lies at the core of Hinduism.“ Guru Amar Das, the third Guru of Sikhism is said to have established the practice of offering langar (free food) to disciples before spiritual services.

First food, then God:

Guru Nanak’s tenets of Sikhism endorse two as the most important: Pangat (one row, loosely translated as sitting together in a row and partaking of a meal) and Sangat (association with the good). While it may be way too optimistic of me, I think this is a wonderful way of perpetuating peace in this disturbed world. Hunger is said to be the root cause of all evil – acts of terrorism, violence, murder. I belong to what I believe should be the most recognised sect of Brahminism – the “A satiated Brahmin is a devout Brahmin” sect. And this tenet of pangat first, sangat next sits very well with me indeed.

There are variations of this in every faith: Do unto others what you would have them do unto you, to name one. It’s simple, isn’t it? We get together, we talk, we eat, we pray and we part.

Each weekday, it is said that close to 80,000 visitors go home spiritually and gastronomically satiated, for visitors to the temple don’t need to be of any particular caste or religion to visit, be made to feel welcome or fed a sumptuous vegetarian meal. People of all faiths are welcome not only to eat, but to serve in some way – they can cook, they can sweep, they can clean or they can eat in peace and sit in companionable silence till it’s time to go home.

Read: Sangat and Pangat

Double, double, toil and trouble:

And of course, fire burn, and cauldron bubble. But there is nothing wiccan or demonic about the community kitchen at the Harmandir Sahib, the holiest shrine for Sikhs, known to all as the Golden Temple. Sikhs and other community helpers toil over giant cauldrons to cook dal and over 2 lakh rotis are made every day for the hungry disciple, the accidental visitor, the curious tourist or the insouciant yuppie. State of mind isn’t a problem either, leave alone religion or social status.

And cooking for a hundred thousand hungry souls daily will leave behind a holy mess (pun wholly intended) as far as dishes and cooking space go, right? People serve in this capacity also – sweeping, doing the dishes, cleaning the massive kitchen, clearing the eating area for the next meal (lunch and dinner are served here) and then maybe indulge in a “communion before a communion” and sip a pyaala of chai before evening prayers.

Video of a tourist’s langar experience:

To everything, turn, turn, turn

When I read about this last week, I reached out to my good friend Sukhdeep, who was kind enough to let me share his pictures. Here are more pics from his photostream, when he took Bobby Chinn’s entourage around for Discovery TLC. He’s also promised to share tips on when and how to get there, so my next vacation plans have been made

A time to eat, a time to pray – this appeals to the vegetarian, the foodie, the peacenik and the spiritual explorer in me. There’s something to take away from the world’s largest free eatery for me – that if charity begins at home, then kindness probably mushrooms in the kitchen.

I’m sure even the fish in the pond agrees.

Picture credits: AFP, Sukhdeep’s photostream

And if any of you would like to share your experience and photos of the Golden Temple, leave a comment and link behind!

On NYTimes:

Peace and Roti at the Golden Temple: Video

Desi is where it’s at, baby.

Bollywood has this distinct identity crisis – the bigger chunk of it is yet to decide whether it wants to make India-centric movies, the smaller chunk veering towards designer digs and duds as far removed from the motherland as possible. But guess what? Patriotism seems to have won over pretense, if the newly-discovered love for desh ki mitti is anything to go by.

Films that revolved around the rustic were mostly indie, low-budget ones in Bollywood – no big banner was willing to touch a desi theme with a barge pole. Even those that did were grand operatic tributes to swathes of yellow fields and wide open skies, and small chawls, charpoys under a star-lit sky and the rural landscape were but a mere cursory presence in the bigger scheme of things. Think any film after DDLJ that had a village angle to it, and you’ll get the picture.

The post DDLJ era saw top Bollywood powerhouses going ga ga over snowcapped landscapes that were at least a world and a mile (ok, kilometre) away from the Himalayas. And the heroines were usually covered in attire that weren’t ghagra cholies or saris or variations of these. These were the big screen equivalents of the saas-bahu serials on television – conniving women in jewel-encrusted faux-saris with nary a trace of substance.

Yes, I’m looking at you, Karan Johar.

Lest you be mistaken, I have nothing against breathtaking foreign locales and leading ladies showing a lot of leg – they sell. Just that leading ladies who show a lot of leg can look equally gorgeous against the backdrop of a village arrack shop. For one thing, it will sell. For another, it adds a touch of authenticity, no?

Take Bipasha Basu in Beedi Jalai Le – beedies couldn’t have gotten a better endorsement:

There’s the uber-deelish Malaika Arora in Dabangg – can the woman do anything wrong?

If this seems a tad sexist, hark back to the days when Urmila Matondkar’s chammak challo act had nothing on Manoj Bajpai’s shake, shake, shake it with gay abandon:

Long live Bhiku Mhatre !

Word is Salman as Chulbul (giggle) Pandey is the second coming of the Indian hero on celluloid – complete with moustache, local Ray Bans, the typical Indian male’s swagger and dialogues that are just shy of being blush-inducing.

Salman’s resurrection couldn’t have happened at a better time – both for him and for Bollywood.

Trademark jhatkas, item songs by choli-espousing divas who make the most desirable blond vamps pale in comparison and inappropriate colloquial humour in place of pristine European locales, hot pants and English-speaking ABCDs – bring it on, I say!

Also known as the Rakhi.

It was this month that we brother-less girls would seek out our Rakhi brothers from within our friends’ circle. As one of my Rakhi brothers put it, the ritual of Raksha Bandhan was a fail-proof money-making scheme.

I term it a bit differently; it was the one way we girls could exact revenge on boys, by making them pay for not getting any, um, how can I put this delicately – action.

During morning prayers, (yes, I religiously stood in line and recited our college prayer every day of those 3 years) girls and boys would be made to stand in separate rows. The entire sun-blessed square in front of the auditorium, with Goddess Sarasvati (WordPress suggested spelling, don’t shoot me) on the auditorium’s front wall staring down sternly on us and asking us to learn, learn and learn, would reverberate with boredom as girls nudged girls in front of them to look at the cute guy in row 7 and lesser boys would try oh-so-hard to catch the eyes of the girl they wished to score with. There was also this kook in our gang who’d say “All Indians are our brothers and sisters – except one”, her fingers crossed, every single day, sending me into fits of giggles during prayers and getting reprimanded by our stick-brandishing principal.

Decisions, decisions

It’d be all hunky dory (there was very little hunk factor, though) in the months of June and July – we’d be done with our first term tests, lab practicals, college union body elections and auditions, and the like – and then, the cloud of Raksha Bandhan would loom large over the “lesser” boys who’d have to master the art of budgeting long before they started earning while clinging onto their “masculinity” by the flimsiest of threads – not the one on their wrists, of course.

We girls would arm ourselves with cheap Rakhis brought from the nearby Archies’ store (which made a killing during August and almost clear out his entire stock of jewellery boxes, soft toys, fancy chocolates, cheap watches, etc. along with the Rakhis) and sing cheesy songs about bhaiyyas and turn the whole Rakhi-tying thing into an elaborate affair in the college canteen. Of course, each symbolic “bonding” of a girl with her brother from another mother would end with the girl asking the boy – “Where’s my gift?”

If only I’d had a camera then, I’d have captured the best memories of my life and preserved them for posterity – of all the boys whose faces would fall when the one girl their hearts hammered for would seal the fate of their relationship with a 2-rupee Rakhi. And still finagle something expensive in return.

Talk about artfully thwarting penile advances .

And here’s a Rakhi message for all you Twitter hopefuls:

1. 
   SherlynChopra Happy Raksha Bandhan to all my tweethearts.Luv n peace.Muaahhh 24 Aug 2010 from Twitter for BlackBerry®

– this quote was brought to you by quoteurl

Jokes aside, my Rakhi brothers continue to be my good friends and 15 years later, still stand in as brothers when the situation demands it

Happy Raksha Bandhan, my dear Indian brothers and sisters – may all you women always have that one Rakhi brother to count on, wherever you might be. And may all you men have that one woman other than your mother and true love to indulge, at least once a year.

Related Reading:

What is Raksha Bandhan?

My colleague Priya on what Raksha Bandhan means to a single child – don’t miss this lovely post

Rakhis are expensive now, apparently – I’m glad I’m done finding my Rakhi brothers!

I remember one episode when S P Balasubramaniam was the judge on Saregama and a contestant sang a Rafi song that sent SP into raptures about Rafi. After the song ended and was judged, Sonu (the extra vowels in his names now, sadly, and his penchant for weird hairdos, have taken away from what he originally was – a shy boy with a voice that could get every minute nuance of a song right, eerily like Rafi, and an unassuming music show host who wanted to tell the world of his love for Rafi, and music, through his songs) and SPB forgot the world around them and indulged in a conversation about Rafi’s magic for a few moments. I remember SPB humming Yeh Dekh Ke Dil Jhooma, gently warbling the “ma” like Rafi, and saying (paraphrasing) “When Rafi sang, his voice caressed your ears like the waves of the ocean.”

What an analogy, I thought, and what a picture of humility SP was, to acknowledge someone else’s greatness on a public forum, yet in no way taking away from his own musical achievements.

I wish Sonu had continued in the same fashion – wearing long kurtas, hair unkempt but neat, allowing only his voice to speak for him and not his corn-rowed hair, sparkling belts and glittering waistcoats.

Last week, Sreeram Chandra won the 5th season of Indian Idol, and from all that I’ve heard of him, is said to be a very gifted singer. While I’m glad that someone who deserved to win won the contest, I no longer have it in me to sit in front of the television and watch the million music talent hunts on various channels that vie for attention not because of the contestants’ talent, but because of staged fights between the judges, costumes that can shame a Mardi Gras drag queen, an audience that is paid to emote the way the show producer wants him to and contest rules that are an insult to every contestant.

I sat through 2007′s TVS Saregama Little Champs, because Sonu had not yet sold his soul to vowels and jewels and scrunchies, and because Suresh Wadkar was the co-judge, one of the most under-exploited singers in Bollywood. Also, because the kids were hugely talented. Sample this – one of my all-time favourites:

I cry every single time I listen to this. Till I see Shashi Kapoor’s doppelgänger in the audience, that is

Today, we have judges whose claim to fame is either one hit song, blatant plagiarism or controversy that borders on the absurd like “Is that a hairpiece under his cap?”. Sonu’s gesture in the above video has become the mainstay of every single such show nowadays – every judge has to hug some contestant or the other. And worst of all, contestants are made to fall at the feet of cap-wearing or gelled hair sporting caricatures of judges. Barf.

And as for the judging – why do we even have the voting option? Why do we have to follow the American Idol model of a music show? And since when is a Shilpa Shetty or a Farah Khan a music expert?

And as for the contestants, the less said, the better. I’m not generalising here, I’m glad there are some singers who’re in it not for fame or fortune but to actually showcase their talent, but with each passing season of every music show, it’s more about playing to the gallery than singing for the sheer joy of it.

I sing – I wouldn’t call myself a bathroom singer, though, I’m one step above that. There are days when all you can do is sing – I belong to that class of people. I sing mostly for me and sometimes, to no one at all. Music to me is life itself.

The singer and lover of music in me blanches at the very thought of sitting through one and a half hours of the most banal tripe that’s passed off as a music talent hunt today. Till such time that music takes centre stage once again and producers refuse to pander to egomaniacs with delusions of grandeur, music shows on Indian TV will have one less viewer.

(SPB image courtesy Wikipedia)

Related reading:

Guest writer and famed mentalist Nakul Shenoy makes a similar point about Indian reality shows on magic on FTP: India’s got magic. Or has it?

Yahoo! India Opinions columnist Amit Varma drives home the point that there is no shortcut to success in his column Viewfinder: Give me 10,000 hours.

Note: Tweet tweet! There’s a helpful Twitter button below – you can now easily tweet up FTP posts!

Someone had to give middle-aged people hope, right? Why should prepubescents have all the fun?

Liz Gilbert, author of the phenomenally successful memoir, Eat Pray Love, has set an example for women the world over to go on a journey of self-discovery – provided they have the financial means for it. In her year-long journey to Italy, India and Indonesia, Gilbert says she found herself and details her experiences in a warm, endearing memoir that by her own admission is a little stretched to enhance its appeal. Julia Roberts endorsed it as the book she gifted her girlfriends, starred in the movie and also “converted” to Hinduism, and Oprah added it to her book club, and you know how that impacts the bestseller list. In fact, there are custom-made tours, pilgrimages and menus designed to help the woman actually replicate Gilbert’s experience.

Read all about ‘Eat Pray Love’-inspired menus for globetrotters

And as with all things successful, appealing and inspiring, there’s a tremendous amount of backlash the book and everyone connected with it are attracting. Gilbert is being reprimanded for giving false hope to “lesser” women, for telling them that there’s more to their life than wifely duties, womanly obligations, motherhood and unfounded worries about visceral fat; the first third of Gilbert’s self-discovery was about acknowledging that her taste buds were as big a deal as her uterus could be in the grand scheme of things that is life. I believe we can coin a new term to describe her epicurean adventures – gastronomic hedonism (if it’s not been done yet, that is).

Sign me up for some, sister.

The last third of her journey sees her letting go of long-held inhibitions and fears and allowing love into her life in the magical, volatile land of Bali, sold as “Paradise on Earth” – there are love potions involved, of course.

I’m surprised pharmaceutical biggies haven’t come up with an EPL-branded KY Jelly yet.You know, for those times when it’s not Javier Bardem you’re with.

But the most surprising bit is that the middle third of her soul search that she spent in India evolving and coming together with her higher self, as occult sciences will describe “you”, is facing enormous backlash from women who’ve not achieved the same kind of spiritual awareness that Gilbert did. Indian spirituality is apparently a way of fleecing unsuspecting westerners of their hard-earned dollars, they allege.

Kamasutra, they’re not willing to badmouth, though.

And never you mind that that unfortunate scene where Julia’s draped a sari around herself in the movie makes her look more like Andalamma than Julia or Liz.

Score 1 for us!

And if that’s not controversy enough, there’s a mini-EPL franchise that’s doing the rounds that can actually get Mr Lalit Modi to question his lisp-laden acumen – pillow covers, shower gels, lip balms, Hare Krishna Hare Ram shawls, trinkets, cheap jewellery, you name it.

Smells soul sellout to me.

That being said, I’ll still watch the movie when it hits theaters here and review it on FTP – it has James Franco, Billy Crudup, Javier Bardem AND Richard Jenkins, Julia’s million-watt smile notwithstanding. And if there’s a kind, generous soul out there who’s willing to fund my midlife crisis-induced self-discovery for a year where I’ll eat cheese and drink wine in Italy, take love advice from a toothless soothsayer/shaman in Bali and live in the lap of luxury in a country that is not my own, (I’m Indian, so I don’t need to scrub temple floors or be hugged by spiritually-evolved people to gain insights into myself)  I’ll take it up in a heartbeat and write a bestselling memoir myself.

One caveat, though – if Karan Johar wants to buy the movie rights for the same, all bets are off.

Disclaimer: Franchise or no franchise, Eat Pray Love is one of my all-time favourite reads and top of the memoir/travelogue genre for me. This was a personal take on the gross commercialisation of Liz Gilbert’s journey. And Liz Gilbert is my soul sister, if Train will – if we can all be that searingly honest with ourselves, I think it’s half of life’s battles won.

Related reading:

Sandip Roy’s take on EPL on HuffPo

Hollywood’s Spiritual Hopscotch

Andrew O’Hehir on the movie on Salon – MUST read

Potato-filled South Indian crepes, as Epicurious labels it in its “Around the world in 80 dishes”.

We’ll stick to the time-tested, easily rolled-off-the-tongue, pentasyllabic ‘Masala Dosa’ that doesn’t need accentuation in the form of  carets or tildes, what say?

This could be seen as a proud moment for South Indians who’ve long had to deal with well-meaning countrymen from north of the Hebbal Flyover, as Thejaswi calls them, pronouncing the “Do” half of the second word as a hard consonant rather than a soft one.

It’s pronounced Though-Sah. Yes, like that. Try it, it’s not tough at all.

I’ve seen some very ladylike friends try to eat it in small nibbles with knife and fork – you can’t commit a bigger sin than try to eat a Masala Dosa with any instrument other than your fingers. For one, your digits are God-given. Secondly, they don’t add a metallic taste to the dosa-eating experience. Thirdly – um, do you need a third reason when a Masala Dosa is staring you in the face?

Much as I love paratha and vada pav and aloo poshto, my South Indian roots and gastronomical leanings have been validated that India is defined by the Masala Dosa amid food-loving circles the world over.

Here’s a documentary on the origins of the Masala Dosa.

What’s your favourite dish/cuisine – Indian or otherwise? Talk food with me!

Other food posts on FTP:

Nippat Masala

Much Ado About Momos

Breakfast Recipes for Singles

Mocha or Madras Filter Kaapi?

Sampat Pal Devi, the self-proclaimed leader of this feisty fuchsia fraternity, has empowered the women of her village in Uttar Pradesh to safeguard themselves against abusive husbands, corrupt officials and male miscreants of all shapes and sizes, for she says that “women have to protect themselves these days”. These women garb themselves in saris in various hues of pink and are often seen brandishing sticks and brooms to take law into their own hands when there’s no help in sight.

They’re not just feminists, mind you – they offer counselling to young, impressionable girls and help them reconcile with their husbands (provided the husbands don’t beat the wives); they hold regular rallies to raise their voices against corruption and for social justice; they also educate women on dowry deaths and child marriages along with the help of some well-meaning menfolk.

Nilanjana Roy’s article on women taking back the streets in NYTimes prompted me to read more about Sampat Devi. Educated, urban women have the ways and means to fight and stand up for themselves, which is hardly the case with rural women – they’re bound by patriarchal laws in every way possible. For them, life is literally under the rule of the father, husband and son; more the horror if they don’t beget a son.

Sampat Devi’s Gulabi Gang takes the pink right out of the Pink Chaddi campaign, no? The campaign was brilliant in conception, I thought, but hugely flawed in execution. Women actually buying underwear to send to the leader of Ram Sene, Pramod Muthalik, he of the anti-Valentine’s Day fame, turned the smart, cheeky (pun wholly intended) initiative into a somewhat distasteful exercise that kind of backfired and snowballed into a huge controversy. A poster of Muthalik with a strategically placed pink thong might have worked where cartons upon cartons of pink underwear couldn’t.

Case in point.

India might never break out of the shackles of its urban-rural divide, but activists like Sampat Pal Devi offer India’s unheard women a ray of hope – even if in shades of pink we might never wear.

Related reading:

• Gulabi Gang – India’s pink vigilante women (BBC)
  
• Sampat Pal Devi on Wiki
• Kanchan Gupta’s take on the Pink Chaddi Campaign’s flaws
• On FTP: Our Everyday Heroes | Father’s Day: The Incredible Story of Team Hoyt
  

So much ruckus over a tuckus.

He’s not the only one who didn’t know what to do with his hard-earned money from fairness cream endorsements and such, you know.

Jennifer ‘Jenny from the block’ Lopez, the first person to insure her enviable posterior, is said to be John’s inspiration. America Ferrera, the pardesi version of Jassi, insured her teeth sans braces for 10 million dollars recently. (Take that, John!) Madonna insured her legs, among other things, as did Pamela Anderson, who not only paid to be better-endowed but went ahead and insured those bags of silicone as well.

Merv Hughes, yesteryear cricketer, in a grand “One-up” gesture to all in the vanity bandwagon, took out a policy on his awe-inducing moustache.

But lest you think I harbour negative sentiments towards John and his body part insuring ilk, it’s quite the contrary, let me assure you.  Just that I wish I could keep aside a handful of crores to insure my – nails, perhaps.

All said and one, I hope dear John’s insured himself with Max Bupa Insurance. There’s something poetic about insuring your caboose with a company that has Max and Bupa in its name, don’t you think?

Then John can start his own production company – Bips, Bupa & Butt.

God, I love alliterations.

Related reading:

• Bizarre Insurance Policies for famous celebs’ body parts
• How does body part insurance work?
• Celebs who’ve insured body parts – Photo gallery