Blockboard

So you sit there, literally at the eleventh hour, wondering: how do we get here once again? The blackboard of the mind, so fresh and unsullied in the morning, brimming with the promise of a plan, a straightforward journey chalked out in white, red, yellow, and green, where all you had to do was to show up, follow the dotted line, and pick up the pot at the end of the rainbow.

But here we are, sitting in front of your laptop/book/slate, watching a tangled mess that even Jackson Pollock would refuse to entertain with kindness. Visual evidence of another day spent idling, in neutral, in reverse gear. And when the engine spluttered to life, it took you elsewhere, on paths in black and grey, fun but guilty nevertheless. Or so you claim.

So here you are, with the clock's hammer poised to strike down upon your head with vengeance, when you decide to sleep over it. Tomorrow, the slate will be wiped clean, freshly gleaming, waiting for your stratagems which it shall spoil - but only by the end of the day.

Business as unusual.

Yeh anda ki baat hai

I presume at some point in history, boiling an egg was an art - a minor, teensy-weensy one, but art nevertheless. Some people, the talented ones, intuitively knew exactly how long to keep it on the fire. The less talented ones had hit-and-miss days - you never knew what they would produce. The Gorans and Marats among the egg-boilers would produce a beautiful, soft yet firm, egg one day and on others, just hurl the egg at the referee and walk out. (At which point, the turbaned commentator would say: "you can't make omelettes without breaking any eggs".)

But today, in the time of timers and gas controls, egg boiling is science. Follow an algorithm, turn the heat on some H20 for 3/6/9 minutes, and almost everyone can be a yolk-star. I expect the problem went from art to science not in a series of DARPA-funded experiments that varied time, heat, and water, resulting in many post-doctoral positions, but via the obscure processes through which cultural wisdom develops over the ages.

Three cheers for cultural wisdom - which gave us much of what we love to eat (in the pre-molecular gastronomy days).

ok, this month, I actually, really, effectively learnt how to boil an egg with consistent results. Call it my Anda Andy Murray moment.

The search for 'sur'

In Stephen Alter's "Fantasies of a Bollywood Love Thief", the musician-writer-director Vishal Bhardwaj speaks of the process of writing a story and compares it to finding the right "sur". It's an interesting comparison, for even the average musically-aware person will relate to the idea of "sur lagnaa" i.e. the consonance of notes and pitch, when things click and a sense of place, time, and cosmic order sets in. When it doesn't, the dissonance is laid out uncomfortably bare.

You could apply the metaphor to anything in life, not just all things creative but everything of importance. The search for "flow", for order, for a stable orbit: find the "sur" and the tunes of life seem to sound sweet.

An algorithm to plan your retirement

What you will need: a pencil, some paper, your brain (or a calculator), access to your bookshelves, your DVD collection (read: your hard drives), your music collection.

1. Make a list of all the books you own. Find out your reading speed, i.e. no. of mins per page. Roughly estimate the amount of time it will take you to read all the books you want to read. (A).
   
2. Do the same with your DVDs and movies i.e. estimate how much time it'll take you to watch/listen to these. (B)
   
3. Add about 25% to each of these counts, to account for newer books and movies of the future. (A', B')
   
4. Assuming an average life expectancy of 75 years, calculate how much time you've got left taking up valuable planetary space. (C)
   
5. Estimate the fraction of the day you can spend in a day reading+watching+listening. (D)
   
6. if (C*D <= (A'+B')), it's time to retire.

Maybe you don't read, maybe you like to travel, to act, to paint, to bungee jump. But the general principle holds. Otherwise, you'll find you have run out of time.

You really want to find that out? Hopefully, you'll have high senility by then.

The definitive wife

I often see a lot of fellas, usually the young, articulate, can-write-well types, use the phrase "the wife" in personal narratives. An example:

Today, the wife and I exchanged glances that would make Emraan Hashmi feel chaste.

Ok, it wasn't a real example (no one can make the #me feel that way). But you get the point.

So when did references to the prettier spouse take on the definite article? What kind of egotistical world does everyone live in, where a reference to "the wife" can be made without any fear of misunderstanding?

I might understand if the Pandavas said "the wife" at home. "The wife is pleating the sari that Krishna gave her - will take some time", said Nakula to Yudhisthira.

Are people shy of using "my wife"? Has it somehow become politically incorrect to do so; does it imply objectification of the lady, a degree of unhealthy possessiveness? Or I am just the confused by-product of a post-modernist-feminist Captain-Subtextual polysyllabic era?

Perhaps I should just ask a wife.

Of course, the wives of these gents seldom use the phrase "the husband". They use that execrable word "hubby" instead.

Manorama, six thumbs up - the sequel

Update (31 Oct 2011): WOGMA, the film review site is running "The Reel-Life Bloggers contest" on occasion of the site's 5th anniversary. Since the prizes are tempting and it gets me to pseudo-update my long-forgotten blog, I'm entering some of my reviews there. WOGMA is organising this with Reviewgang. Go visit them, and if you are the reviewing type, send in an entry.

This is about the time I went to see the desi noir Manorama 6 Feet Under the evening India was playing Pakistan in the inaugural World Twenty20 Cup. That meant a near-empty hall, an eerie suspense drama, and listening to an old couple discussing the movie. Read on.

Instead of reviewing Manorama Six Feet Under in detail (as many have done on PFC with noble intentions) and giving away plot points that could distract you from the actual viewing, I thought I'd just write about the 3 hours before, during, and after the film.

Yesterday turned out to be an unintended holiday thanks to local traffic being allergic to local festivities. There was a long day ahead and it was time to catch a movie on what should have been a working day. Sweet. Ideally, I would have liked to see the film early in the morning (no crowds, cool mornings, total peace) but no shows existed in the pre-noon section. So 4:30 pm it was.

Turned up early, so had time to kill. I have been to this multiplex on weekday afternoons, but even by those standards, the place seemed deserted. The unfulfilled recurring nightmare came to mind: that they will pull the plug on the show because I'm the only one who bought a ticket. I overheard one staffer tell another that there were 17 people for the show, which seemed to scrape past the quorum, 'cos here came the show. Great seats for anyone who wanted one, of course.

The lack of people only seemed to further increase the possibility that the movie would be good - such is my taste in films, I suppose. A couple of students took up seats, Munna-in-Rangeela style, next to me. To the left, an elderly couple eased themselves in. The students pulled out a packet of chips. I'm slightly condescending towards those who have formed an unnecessary association between movies and food, but soon, the smell of the wafers just got to me. Just as the movie began, the uncle on the left pulled out a packet of chips of his own. Darn.

The ants and Yana Gupta later, here was a look at a new-look Abhay Deol. He has earned enough goodwill for us to watch movies based merely on his presence in it, such is his taste in movies too. In his desert glasses and stubble and once-proud moustache, he looks like a father of one. Is this the first time we have a dimpled couple on screen? I wonder. I also think I spotted a dimple on the little boy who very effectively plays their son - if that's true, then give a bonus to the casting director. Some matter-of-fact comments about nano-scale corruption later, here is Sarika, and off we go.

Now, I haven't really seen any noir films before, so this is it. I know the story is heavily inspired from the Polanski classic Chinatown, so I turned down an offer to watch that film before I watched this one. Just like that. And what is that? Abhay D is watching a movie on the telly featuring Jack Nicholson. That has got to be "Chinatown" (it was). Nice touch, with that acknowledgement. Some more points for writers Navdeep Singh and Devika Bhagat.

It's been an hour and I have completely enjoyed myself. Vinay Pathak is having a great time crunching out some terrific dialogues by Abhinav Kashyap (last seen by self in Yuva), and Manoj Tapadia. Of all the Miss Indias in the last 15 years, I think Gul Panag's put on the best acting performances. Quite a surprise packet - Nagesh Kukunoor has done a magic turnaround with her. Here comes pretty Raima Sen.

The uncle-aunty nearby belong to the old school of cinema-watchers, who get totally involved in proceedings. They "ooh" and "aah" when things happen. They react loudly to plot twists and character allegations (which means a noisy hall in a noir film). In short, they keep the soap operas in business. I have uncles and aunts like that, so I'm used to it. Then the aunty asks: "yeh Satyaveer Randhawa kaun hai?". The uncle patiently explains: "woh jo hero hai." Aunty says: "yeh sab apne liye naye hai.n, na? kabhi dekhaa nahii.n in logo.n ko." Yes, and the new kids are doing a fine job.

I'm genuinely caught up in the suspense now. I cannot think of another Hindi film with such a good suspense plot, especially since "Ek Hasinaa Thi". The execution is impressive. Finally, it's come to end, all threads, old and 11th-hour, tied up nicely. Except for the last minute. I enjoyed 134 out of the 135 minutes - the last minute could have been different. Drat. Anyway, credits roll and I'm collecting my thoughts. Theatre empties soon and the vacuum guys are here. I stand in the aisle waiting for "The End". For such a small crowd, there is a lot of litter around. Shocking.

Out I emerge into the light. It had been slightly drizzling when I came, and it's been a cool, cloudy week. Perfect conditions for a film like this. I come home, and then the final thread is resolved. The Twenty20 final was not at night - it started at 5:30 pm, explaining why "things are not what they seem in the desert". Still, I only missed the uneventful Indian innings. It had already been a good day.

India's Got Tortured Genius?

There's no formal classification of talent, but biographies often throw up phrases to describe their subjects. One of the most intriguing ones is the notion of the "tortured genius". A tortured genius is one whose talents are far beyond our understanding, of the sublime and the ridiculously easy, coupled with self-destructive tendencies that often derails said genius' own talents. Kind of like a woodcutter so talented that when he cuts down the branch on which he's perched, the resulting pattern causes crop circles below. (This didn't make sense? Ah, you mere mortal, you).

Despite its rarity, there are enough examples of tortured genius, the most visible being from sport or the arts. Vincent van Gogh was the epitome of the phrase. Diego Maradona or George Best of Paul Gascoigne. The bizarre Howard Hughes or the tortured souls housed in John Nash Jr. Ronnie O' Sullivan. (The British seem to produce an excess of sporting TGs - or perhaps they are just very good at spotting and anointing them as such.) Gregory House, of course. With genius, can drugs, sex, music, alcohol, and psychedelic teddy bears be far behind?

But the thing is - I can't really think of any TGs from India. Our sportsmen have been an endless series of nice boys or just muscled morons. Our filmstars just got old and fat, or began blogs. If only Salman Khan was a half-decent actor. After a lot of thinking, the only ones that come to mind are the likes of Mukul Shivputra or Ritwik Ghatak. But where're our pill-popping, fisticuff-flying, call-the-curfew-on-your-child's-senses assaulting genius who can do magical things during the day to have his every sin erased off the charts?

There's many a show with a genius for torturing the masochistic bunch of viewers that can't peel their eyes off them. But finding our own tortured genius? - now that ought to be a talent show waiting to happen.

Re-creative thinking

A couple of weeks ago, Scott Berkun tweeted something that I found quite interesting:

Many adults haven't *made* anything in yrs - giving them legos/crayons would help more than reading books on creativity

I wonder if this state of affairs is by unconscious design - reading creativity books seems like a proxy for action to its readers. It is immensely easier than picking up lego blocks or crayons. Children are not (yet) intimidated by a blank canvas or a vacuum, and not so scared about being told off for colouring outside the lines. So to those who want to be more creative, especially to those who know that there are answers in books, the first instinct may be to read about how to be creative, than to practise being creative. It makes you feel you are planning your steps towards that cherished goal without having to dip your toes in the cold water.

And sometimes (who knows) it might not turn out to be that cold!

How many cancer patients will it take?

How many cancer patients will it take for us to be fully inspired? And stay that way? You could read about the ones that died, like Randy Pausch, or the ones that survived, like Lance Armstrong. Is there now a full-fledged market in cancer stories (sort of like with death row inmates)? Do publishers & movie-makers sift through them, rating cancer stories, so that we may remain inspired? Is testicular or brain cancer better than lung or skin cancer? Is a bald patient with better than one who's still got a fair crop? Are readers recommending these to others based on how much they cringed during the accounts of IV drips, chemo sessions, and supportive wives?

The essential difference between the inspired and the need-to-be-inspired is that the former did, or at least tried to. While the latter read and forgot and went back to not doing. And then came back to be re-inspired, like tyres needing more hot air even after days of inactivity. But these wheels don't spin too much. Pity. If those that inspire us with their real deeds had even a fraction of the lives that we waste, they'd probably have become even more inspirational.

But it might have all been wasted on us, anyway. Put down that book, stop being merely inspired and go do something.

Fool's Paradise

'tis "better to keep your mouth closed and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt" said someone. Presumably, he was not a fool, or perhaps just brave enough to attempt using his mouth to make this utterance. But what of those who have opened their oral orifices, widely and gapingly, to show that there is truth in such an aphorism? Nothing happens to them. In fact, it might be profitable to be considered a fool.

So we think of cricket presenters and television anchors and stock market analysts and tweeters and radio jockeys as fools. They continue to prosper, write columns, get quoted, fill up frequencies, wallow in verbiage (such as this?).

While the meek inherit the world, the silent merely sit quietly. Where they are considered potential fool-material!

Monsoon Mania

This year, the monsoons in Pune have been part of a massive tease. It's not like those old films where the weary peasant looks up to see a sky reflect the barrenness of his unploughed field. Instead, the sky is full of dark clouds with just one catch: they aren't ready to spill the beans yet.

A set of more celibate clouds couldn't be glimpsed - they could easily trounce a bunch of champion-quality austere monks at being masters of their domain. While the Great Indian Monsoon has presumably touched Maharashtra (though in Bombay, it is as muted as Maria Sharapova with laryngitis), there's hardly been a drop in Pune. It is starting to get scary.

With the situation getting desparate, monsoon yagnas have broken out in parts of the country. Here's another idea, so madcap, it might just work. Most TV reality shows are unreal: for them, 'reality' occurs when people cry on screen while cameras zoom into their skin pores. Dunno if India has talent, but it sure has judges in packs-of-three in abundance. Reality is usually much more boring than all this, and TV is roundly criticised for denying its existence. But here's a chance for TV to be both meaningful and real, unlike the 'Rakhi' Picture Horror Show, which is quite the opposite. I refer, of course, to the Great Mian Tansen Manhunt.

The great Tansen, it is told, could bring water down in big coloured plastic buckets full of pet animals if he sung the raag Megh Malhar. If only a modern version could be unearthed? Is it not worth millions to find this person, even if s/he could only promise water every two days? (thus outperforming most municipal corporations.)

That my mind is functioning like an Indian TV executive can be blamed on the skies above. Out, out, damned spots. But it's not going to be hilarious in a couple of weeks. In fact, it'll be downright scary when I'm staring up the barrel, waiting for a drop.

Choices

Choices are infuriating. Hard to tell if they were right. Can't tell what success rate one has at making various choices. Especially those that are hard to explain or have no precedents. Those made from a flash of intuitive reasoning (or so one imagines) and not just a random popping of neurons.

No what-if projections either, of what things would have been like if a different path of the fork had been chosen.

So at the end of it all, how do you know if you're falling or still on your feet?

You're making me confess.

1. I have never been economically threatened by any kind of Indian (perhaps not yet).
2. I don't seem to have economically threatened anyone else's livelihood (yet).
3. I do not personally know anyone whose livelihood is threatened by any kind of Indian.
4. I have never lived in a neighbourhood whose demographics have significantly changed during my life.
5. I have never felt the loss of political influence to "outsiders" (Perhaps people like me never had any political influence to lose).
6. I didn't have any trouble with the last (and only) unfamiliar local language I learnt, a long time ago. Would I willingly learn a new language if I went somewhere unless I had to?
7. Would I sufficiently integrate into another culture? Have I sufficiently integrated with the current culture? Have I even integrated into my culture-by-inheritance?
8. I have never had to migrate for elemental reasons such as: "If I don't find a job somewhere outside, I don't survive"

Can I have any reasonable opinions on the fundamentals of these 'alien' issues, with such an invariant life?

But: somehow, the changing faces of Pune make me uneasy. It's hard to put a finger to it. I think it is because life becomes increasingly unfamiliar. It causes a discomfort that is hard to nail down. I catch myself being disapproving of certain ways some people speak, behave, flash. I instinctively seem to blame non-Punekars for being responsible for this. And for some of our own people for changing colours so easily. Was this tendency always there? I don't like these people changing the way it used to be. Luckily, there are still places I feel comfortable with and things that I can go do. If that goes, what do I do?

I thought I am (was) tolerant? But how can this be reconciled with the above paragraph?

I can't balance comfortable stability with drip-drip-drip change?

The Daily Pirouette

Latin is a dead language, some say.

Well, if it’s dead, then there’re a few of its phantoms still floating around in the meme-pool. Consider carpe diem. You know, the phrase that pouts across a million wall-posters, can be found tattooed on many a motivational book’s inner sleeves, or is vaguely reminiscent of the resolution at the end of a carbon black day.

And there’s the taunting. They stand, emboldened, all of them. They mock. They point. Like street dogs who know that they hold the upper paw. "How about some seizing, my friend", they jeer. "Leave alone molest us, you don’t even make a pass!".

True. Seizing the day is a breakfast ruling, made heavy by lunch, dissolving like soap in the yellow twilight, left for the end of the day. By then, it competes with the yawn, and we’ll cease the day. No wonder, the days of the past stand in front of the door, howling with ridicule.

There are a few nicer ones. "Come out and play", they suggest. "Gather the day, pick it up, run your fingers over it". "But I haven’t done much of that", you say. They shake their heads. How do you seize the day, if you’re afraid of even touching it?

To seize the day, you mustn’t clamp down, clutching at emptiness. Instead, try opening that fist and let the shy day make its way up to you. Then you can slide your arms around its waist, pull it gently towards you, and... well, you might just figure out the rest.

Remembering Minal Panchal

I never met Minal Panchal. Regretfully, I only heard about her when this happened. It doesn't matter. Minal, whom I've never known, except via the outpourings of people who are also strangers to me, continues to affect me in ways that many near ones never will.

She was a year younger, and that hurt. That she was on a popular social networking site, sketched out in almost three-dimensions, made her more than a bystander in an avoidable tragedy. From what people said I can imagine someone, infinitely more enthusiastic about life than I will ever be, looking forward to classes, to learning, to adventures of the future, of life-changing events. Cut short abruptly. No fault of hers. Wrong place, wrong time. You can rail about unfairness, but it won't help. You can say 'that sucks' - nope, makes no difference. We've got to trudge on. We'll falter too.

In the 10%x zoom of time, we are fairly insignificant beings, most of us, just happened to be put together for a briefest of jiffies. Whether ember or diamond, star or firefly, we have a chance to shine, even if at sub-lux levels. Some of us extinguish early, sometimes due to no fault of our own. Don't wait too long to sparkle.

* Sepia Mutiny remembered Minal in the aftermath last year.
* As did Minal's former classmate.
* Prof. Loganathan too.
* This year, Minal's family hopes for a fitting tribute by way of a museum for children.

PhoNervosa

Matthew Yglesias asks why someone who is introverted would be so adverse to talking to others on the phone. As someone who is (at least to himself) a classic introvert (I've had several aha! moments reading the popular Jonathan Rauch article that Yglesias also mentions, so I think I am almost a textbook case), I can only attest to this strange phenomenon without offering any useful theories of my own.

I have trouble calling up people and speaking to them. Without doubt, I prefer emailing them. Even meeting them in person is (sometimes!) preferable. There are several theories in the comments of the above article as to why this would be such a common anxiety for introverts. Some seem feasible, some don't. Under rational scrutiny, it seems extremely silly, but I usually end up trying to get others to make calls for me which I could easily make. I sometimes have to practice what I'm going to say, though I do not necessarily lack spontaneity. It's as if each call is like preparing to ask that pretty girl out but anticipating that the burly and over-protective brute of a brother will have to be negotiated first.

When I get down to it, it's not difficult, but it's a relief when done, out of the dentist's door. Thankfully, I'm not totally neurotic and there seem to be others who face this too. Anyway, perhaps a post on life as a practising introvert some day later with special scorn served up for those extroverts around me who can't tolerate the sweet peals of silence :-).

Till then, this super quote from the comments of the afore-mentioned article:

How do you tell if a blogger is extroverted? When he talks with you, he looks at your shoes.

(though I think the popular bloggers are likely to be extroverted)

The great Failure post

Previously on failing

I remember the day this post was composed (I'm merely writing it down today). I even remember the time, give or take a few minutes. I had just finished taking one of the hardest exams I had ever had the fortune to attempt. The trouble was that there still was an hour and thirty minutes to sit out. I knew I had done all I could and no amount of staring at the paper or cajoling my brain was going to help. It wasn't a question of giving up the battle. It had been a slaughter and the duty of the slain body is to lie still and let the other warriors save their heads. It was the 28th of November, 2005, and it was about 10:30 in the morning.

I did not want to leave. The simple reason was that the instructor and both TAs, having finished clarifying questions (people had questions!), had nothing to do. I did not want them to see my paper and trace it back immediately to me. It would take them one swift pass over the largely drought-hit answersheet, even before I could step out of the classroom. I resolved to stay put, to do whatever it took to pass the next excruciatingly lengthy passage of time.

Some time later, I had my own version of Edvard Munch's The Scream on my notebook. Appropriate. Stratagems evolved during concerts endured as a child bubbled up onto the surface. I counted desks, heads, books, perhaps even pixels. I drew some more. Finally, I went back to the question paper. I stared at some Gaussians. Metaphors plunged down either side of the normal curve. I realised once again that I was pretty bad at taking failure.

My classmates will tell you that I've never liked to discuss question papers at the end of an exam, sometimes vehemently so. Why spoil the rest of the day when the inevitable silly mistake bursts into view? I am not very good at participating in things that could be fun but I think I'd suck at. It crushes me to suck. That Monday, I realised I need to learn how to suck. I can't go on failing at failure.

Some two years later, I still haven't been able to fail properly. This prevents me from doing things. Being awkward, being laughed at (gently), being found out, kissing the dust. I hide away. I admire those who plunge forth and trip, but seem to get better at staying up. Most of all, I envy those who just have it; sometimes they have it all. There were times when I'd rail at the unfairness of the world that chose to hand it out to a few while we, sweat cascading out of every pore, hands on knees while we draw in long breaths, toes stuck in the mud, watch as they canter away pleasantly. It doesn't help that I find it hard to confront my failures. I look away. I cross the street and hurry into the smog. There are people and places and times that remind of battles lost, making it harder to die another day. I'm not good at amnesia either.

Still, here we are, in the bulge of the bell curve, among those claustrophobic crowds. But remember: we make the successful ones look good. If we weren't around, you couldn't make head or tail of the victory graph. Perhaps, on top of the bump, in the middle of the tracing, we can see farther than you. It's improbable that we'd get there before you, but it's not impossible, right?

There were so many ways to look at my distraught answersheet. I'm not going to say that I chose only the noble and brave option of the gallant acceptance of defeat, the resolve to fight till another sunset, to salve the scratches. The pendulum shifts from mood to mood; towels have been flung and retrieved. But one thing is clear: the game is as yet afoot. The fat lady is still a petite lass who hasn't discovered the pleasures of icecream with walnuts topped off with sinful chocolate and has just begun practising her solfege. It's only fair that we re-calculate the scores at the end of full-time.

Do I speak South Indian?

Do I speak South Indian?

Venkat sent out a link about more examples of the dumb insular American being more than a mere stereotype. With the Hindi version of "Are you smarter than a fifth-grader" around the corner, we can (and we will!) show the amreekans that we can be as good (or bad) as them. Partly because, the popularity of the show will depend on showing that people aren't as smart as a fifth-standard kid (I've noticed many people say "grade" for "standard". Sigh.)

Well, if the only proof of incompetence needed is that of geographical ignorance, then I would like to send in a candidate of my own. This, a well-educated person, who has spent all his life within India, asked me: "So, you must speak South Indian, right?"

I almost gagged there, not out of horror or something, but since there were so many alternative answers to give there, L'esprit_de_l'escalier prevailed. But the sad thought that the education system seems to have utterly failed this chap did cross by. Now, putting on the self-critical hat, I'll readily admit there are several Indian languages I wouldn't be able to identify. But just as I wouldn't ask anyone if they spoke Maharashtrian or Pakistani or Madhya Pradeshi, all I ask is to be extended the same courtesy.

The long dark cool tiffin-times of our roohs

The long dark cool tiffin-times of our roohs

It's been four months of winter and each time the Freddie seems to finally begin defying gravity, it dips back down the next day. It makes the mornings (especially in the shade) shiver and the brass balls of the night look for cover. The days are fabulous, especially on Sundays, when the road has enough breathing space for a walk in the polite sunshine. This is the famed Pune climate which we have seen very little of in the last few years.

Many other parts of India have faced the brunt of this extended winter, but we in Pune have been a little lucky to have the temperature just about right. Perhaps, if the climate doom-sayers are to be believed, this is strange but final flourish. So in addition to cutting down your C-footprint, get out a little more and enjoy it while it lasts.

The little saffron handbook

The little saffron handbook

Culturally, I consider myself to be part-Maharashtrian, not because it's expedient to do so, but by sheer force of time spent here, influence of friendships, and habits shaped by my environment. I reckon it'd have been the same had I spent a similar amount of time elsewhere in the country. I don't necessarily see it as anything worth trumpeting about, as there are enough similar examples all around me. I also know a few Maharashtrians who hardly fit the traditional maraaThii milieu.

Since (warning: stereotyping ahead) I do not eat poLii-bhaajii or shiiraa each day, prefer gulping down mugs of coffee rather than glasses of tea and medu-vaDaas to baTaaTaa-vaDaas, I sometimes wonder whether I do behave like the "marathi manoos" that one hears a lot about. I wish one of the Thackerays would pen a little primer on what being a "marathi manoos" entails so that one can measure one's level of conformance. In fact, a little electronic arm-band could be made compulsory for everyone that automatically displays a colour from green to red depending on how dangerous you are to the local climate.