HIGHWAY OF MANY PLATES

That's cardamom. And that's green chilly. And that is undoubtedly McAloo.
The sights and sounds on SH 17 are replaced by flavors such as the above and many more. What was once a treat to watch is obscured and even invaded by gastronomic greed.
Nowhere would you find the colors our fields and soil are imbibed in. Lush green and dark brown. You can never get enough of the fresh air that hits you. The road is a biker's delight, except for the speed breakers. Tourists coming for the first time by road to Mysore, or going to the dreamland of Karnataka, are spell bound by the beauty of our fields. Hey, the sight of women harvesting the crop, and bullocks filled with it, is any urbanites cure for sore eyes.
When i first saw a signboard on the field, advertising McDonalds, KFC and Cafe Coffee Day, i marvelled the ironic situation. Global giants, high on making us fat, advertising on a freshly tilled land by a hardworking farmer. I'm not sure if any of our local produce goes into these chains.
The farmer's have realized that this a moolah making oppurtunity. Along the road, you will find large tracts of land covered in ash and mud. This serves as the foundation for roadside eateries. They have cropped up faster than what is sown. Every farmer has built one. From tea and biscuits to dosas and meals, it is a Highway of many plates.
The first tragedy, which is pan-India, fertile soil being lost to the industrial economy. In this case, the hotel industry. The second, the loss of beauty and tranquility of the highway. It resembles an exhibition of sorts. An ugly display of a growing need. Money.
This is one business where the farmer, hopefully, does not depend on any middle man. The stall is his own. It supplements his meagre income. Or even better, the entire land is sold, which pays for the engineering and medical seat for his son or daughter, either in Mysore or Banglore.
Most of these eateries are open throughout the night. It is not uncommon to see KSRTC buses lined up by the road, with drivers discussing the profit margins of the empty Volvos. The TV goes on in the background, courtesy set-top box. The tea is served from behind caged counters. Unlike America, tea on the highway is much more precious than liquor.
There are many speed bumps on the highway. The view on either side was the only saving grace. Looks like we have too much on our plate to enjoy anything.

FROM BOSTON TO BENGALOORU, THE MARATHON GOES ON

An eight year old cheered for the runners. Fate has that he will not meet them, ever.

A policeman on duty lies in a Hospital bed, while his son waits for him at the door.

Boston and Bengalooru. Two cities. Different individuals. Diverse cultures. United as collateral damage of Terrorism.

It was amazing to see the crowd cheering the runners to finish the race, in spite of the blasts. Marathon symbolizes a victory over obstacles. Bostonians' are good are picking themselves up after tragedies. It is after all,  the place where American Independence was carved. They know the price the freedom. And they value and cherish it. 

Bengalooru. One moment the BJP's workers are discussing State politics, and in the next, they are dousing fires and helping policemen. The Kannadiga spirit does not exist in bars and malls. It rises to the occasion in times of disaster. Let no man accuse Benglaooru being lost to the Biharis, Mallus or North Indians. Kannadigas are known for their hospitality and valor. A Kannadiga does not differentiate to help and serve. 

The American President promised the terrorists that they will feel the full weight of Justice. There is no doubt he will keep his promise. Congress party's spokesperson beat his chest and claimed BJP will be benefited by the blasts in Bengalooru. I guess so. Maybe i'll vote for the BJP. Or even better, i'll vote for the American President.

Life goes on in Boston and Bengalooru. We pray for and support the families of the victims. Americans know that justice will be served. Indians watching the news, in between the ads for Gold loans and a new car launch, hope that the next bomb will not explode when they step outside their home. 

Politics, Terrorism, Death; we do not stop. We keep running our Marathons for Peace and Humanity. 

LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR

Everything we needed for our house-warming ceremony was in place. It went according to plan, except for the part where the cow and its calf had to be coaxed to get inside the house. It would have been a monumental task if not for our neighbors. From water to recipes, well wishes to gossip, they shared everything with us.

Life is peppered with moments of smiles and tiffs. Our stairs are attached to the neighbors bedroom wall. The steps i took in my Woodland boots were amplified into missile strikes. Needless to say, the old man, his faithful and awful wife cursed us, and made sure we heard it. This was just the start of it. 

An innocent looking dog tugged at my mum's saree. It struck a cord with mum and soon it was a regular visitor for lunch and dinner. The dog proved her bitchiness by giving birth to litters of eight, twice a year. All the yapping and yelling drew the neighbourhood children; more curses followed in the night. However, all was well during the day, with fake smiles and almost true gossips.

Some from those litters grew and started a family of their own. A few chose our house to do so. The mother, two daughters, a father, and around twenty pups; the ruckus was accompanied by stench. Sterilization followed. A short lived peace was achieved, and before the newly weds/new negihbours could make it to the bed, the dogs beat them to it.

The breeding season was on, it was the summer, and dirty secrets were out in the open. The dogs refused to believe that "Doggy Style" was to be done in private. The kids on vacation, along with their posh cousins from Bangalore, stood in silence and disbelief. At the end of their holidays, they knew how they that the birds-bees-stork was just not true, why the bed in papa-mama's room rocked and a whole lot of questions on male-female anatomy for the teacher. All of this was OUR fault. We had failed as good neighbors in teaching our dogs the basics of PDA (public display of affection).

Yes, the scenario did change when mum bought a car. "Could you please drop my kids? May i use your landline? How about donating your gas cylinder for a day? Do you have a 1000 bucks to spare?" Of these, the gas cylinder returned after two days, and the money lent rarely found its way back.

The saree aunty and Tupperware aunty were not far behind. My mum ended up with more sarees than occassions to wear them, and more Tupperwear than food. Thankfully, we managed to convince the papad aunty that all of us, including the dog, had undergone bypass surgery and considered deep fried as Enemy of the House. 

A new family moved in, with their same-as-my-age daughter, opposite our house. She was cute, and i did steal a few looks on the pretext of drying the laundry. However, it was discovered that her room's window on the first floor was strategically placed to look down our bathroom on the ground floor. In the thick of her board exams, she had got the sight of my naked bum. That was the end of her burning the midnight oil. The family never walked in front of our home and the poor lass shifted her room.
Parking wars were altogether a different affair. Any tree with a shade was booked for parking. The owners had the last right. The make and model of the car decided who should park first. For a few years, it was the Alto vs Swift. The matter was settled when a neighbour bought an Audi Q7. The meek put the gear in reverse and beat a retreat. The competition grew during Diwali and Mahalaxmi pooja. More the sound and glitter, better the rumor and loads of free publicity. Desperate Housewives met Gossip Girl and peppered with Akshara and Bade Acche Lagte Hai, served hot.
But, the neighbours did more than the needful whenever tradegy struck. A sick child or a dead old timer. Some offered coffee while some ensured hot meals reached on time for the mourning family. I will always be greatful for the love and support i received.
My neighborhood is just like yours. We fight, squabble and listen intently when others are fighting. But, in the end, we look out for each other. We know you will do the same.

LOVE THY NEIGHBOR.

HOLY COWS, JEANS AND THE PRIEST

The garden resembles my room. Torn, dirty, dusty and strewn around. The roses are gone, the banana devoid of their plantains and the soil all dug up. The culprits are cows, including a calf. But, the only thing i can do is shoo them away. Their clientele involves the local temple. They are worshiped  in return for milk, holy urine and some fresh dung. The priest turns a blind eye towards our destructed gardens and the overturned dustbins.
However, the priest strains his eyes and more when the neighborhood aunties gang shows up at the temple. Their daughters, some in jeans and some in tight-fitting clothes, draw in more devotees than the Gods. They get extra prasadam, fresh flowers, and some more time with the Gods. Hey! the priest throws in a special aarti for them too. For us, the meek and the simple, and those with warts and acne, we are shown the God and then the door. Beauty and divinity is in the eye of the beholder, in this case the priest.
Yes, the priests do frown upon the kids who show up. They are no longer the representatives of Gods, but that of the Devil. Apparently, the priest with his dhoti around his waist is a mascot. The kids give a hard tug, and the truth is laid bare, literally. It is a Jockey for some and VIP for the other.
There is no dress code for visiting temples. For girls, God doesn't differentiate between jeans, Tshirt, sleeveless or a low neck. This becomes a reason why uncles and grandpas, with their testosterone pumped sons and grandsons, show up in temples on auspicious days, without fail. God has answered their prayers. Damsels in distress are aplenty. A young mother trying to control her kids, a girl struggling to light the lamps, a young bride trying to locate her sandals; all this requires a divine intervention. That is exactly what the men over there have come for.
Yes, you have the right to blame that i too am a participant in this visual voyeurism. It is human desire and nature, given to us by the very Gods we have come to worship. But, a midst the chants, this unfolding scene sure makes for an entertaining evening. The ways of the Gods are strange, but human behavior is more or less predetermined. Do visit an Indian temple on any auspicious day to have your share of this holy offering. Hari Om or Hurry back home, all the best!