In just a few days, Anno Domini 2011 will give rise to Anno Domini 2012.
And I would have gone a whole year without saying anything in this space.
I have always imagined that this space was an essential part of my Alzheimer's collection, a carefully curated collection of stuff with the somewhat lofty goal of jolting me to lucidity, should I ever suffer from Alzheimer's (of course, I expect that there will be effective, affordable, non-hair-loss-inducing, wrinkle and dark spot erasing medication by then. But meanwhile, the collection idea is appealing both for dramatic intent and well as realistic purposes.) It appears then, that I've had nothing to say in 2011 - a year which quite easily ranks as a Janani breaking-making-and-defining year. The real breaking-making-and-defining year was 1994. But there was no internet then. When someone finally invents that time machine they keep tempting me with, I promise to go back and make an entry for 1994.
Every year, since 2004, I have come here to vent, to pour out my thoughts, to slip quietly into the alley behind the universe, to warm myself in the blanket of anonymity, to assume alter egos, to be, as you may already suspect, a drama queen, to test out alternate career options, to just be creative. But never, apparently, to just be me. And in 2011, a year that I spent a good deal of time, being just myself, it seems, I wasn't compelled to come out here and hide. The thought is both comforting and disturbing.
Comforting, because perhaps I'm getting more comfortable in my own skin. No! I had a pretty normal childhood (except for the not-watching-enough cartoon network bit), and I have so far not been diagnosed with any kind of clinical or pop-culture-defined neurosis or psychosis. Some people simply find it a tad bit difficult to just be themselves - like remembering names, or being prompt with email correspondence, or not losing their pens and/or umbrellas. And so, in 2011, I got a lot better with just being myself.
Disturbing because, "Reflections" has been wonderful for me over the years. It feels wrong to abandon it for so long. It feels wronger still, that I did not feel like sharing something so good and wonderful. While I was experiencing all the ups and downs of new decisions, drastic changes, facing all the dilemmas of what would happen, and waiting forever for the change to happen, and then remembering with gratitude that there had been much,much more good times than bad in the times that had just passed, what a sad pity that I did not write it all down.
And now, dear future Alzheimer's ridden self, who will tell you about Anno Domini 2011?
There is always facebook. You can find out there. I can only hope that you've told someone your username and your ridiculous password. I can only wish that you have managed to find someone that you can trust enough to do that.
You can always hope your friends will be there around to help you. Because, dear sweet future Alzheimer's ridden self… in 2011, you had a great many friends who stood by you and kept you sane the whole time.
I can only hope that you still remember the amount of time you spent going all hippie, eating and cooking organic food. For a brief time, you contemplated becoming a food critic. And then you thought about becoming a journalist (its strange that during that contemplation you didn't bother to write as much). But you dabbled with both on the internet. Maybe Google (if it still exists) can help you dig out stuff from this year.
Or perhaps you will remember the monkeys. Juno. Malloc. Opie. Emo. Gosh! I hope the names sound familiar. The darling monkeys. Who taught you more about what it is to be human than any actual human you've ever met. Juno - stubborn, penguin shaped, fat, smart, cute little girl. You'd tell anyone who listened how Juno would sit in her chair in her very funny and endearing way. And she had large expressive eyes. And Malloc - fussy, grape peeling, orange scooping, frail, hard working girl. You spent so much time with her trying to get her to eat. It set off that cooking craze. Opie. Big ol grandpa with wisdom in every gray monkey fur he had. And Emo. Crazy old Emo. Who danced when nobody was watching and who couldn't stand bananas. You remember them don't you? For a time, every human you saw reminded you of one of these monkeys. Every baby you saw reminded you of their antics. You had a marvelous time and oh, by the way, you did some science.
And your advisor - she was simply the most generous person you ever saw.
And your parents. You said this about them in your acknowledgment and you teared up when you wrote it.
"Last, but not the least, I would like to thank my parents. I thank the forces that be, for not giving me a choice in the parents I have. Had I been given one, I doubt I would have made such a good choice. I have spared them no hardship. In turn, they have reciprocated by sparing me no comfort. Every step of the way, they have stood by me and I cannot thank them enough."
and you well up every time you think about it.
Dear sweet, wrinkly old Alzheimer's ridden self. 2011 was a great year.
You started afresh towards the end of the year. You worked with disadvantaged children, whose optimism, grit and courage and desire to make the world a better place made you feel so much more humble. And a lot less self defeatist. That was important.
And sure, you weren't working there motivated entirely by the lure of a social cause. You were there because you wanted to learn a lot about a broad range of things.
And at least towards the end of 2011, you were learning a lot. So it worked out quite well.
Dear old mental case,
I haven't done a great job summarizing. Because I'm just rushing to add something to the blog so that I won't miss a gap. It feels wrong that there's nothing for 2011.
But make no mistake. It wasn't because 2011 was a boring year. It was because 2011 was a year worth living. And especially since the only valuable store of all that is your damn head, I find it completely unacceptable that all those memories are wasting away in random nodules in your brain.
So wake up already.
And get on that time machine, and come tell me what's going to happen to me in the next couple of years.
Perhaps in December 2012, we can we can write this note together ?
Eternally yours.
Janani
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Embracing Plurality
NOTE : This post was written during the height of the ground zero mosque controversy.
Proponents of Park51 are at pains to explain that the people planning the mosque are very different from those who attacked the world trade center. Once the difference is acknowledged, it should no longer irk the sensitivities of those who suffered from the attack, they hope.
In a previous Op-Ed in the New York Times, William Darlymple describes how Islam, like Christianity has many sects. He also writes:
"Most of us are perfectly capable of making distinctions within the Christian world. The fact that someone is a Boston Roman Catholic doesn’t mean he’s in league with Irish Republican Army bomb makers, just as not all Orthodox Christians have ties to Serbian war criminals or Southern Baptists to the murderers of abortion doctors.
Yet many of our leaders have a tendency to see the Islamic world as a single, terrifying monolith."
That the majority of Americans are able to discern the many forms of Christianity, but are blind to those of Islam, must not be dismissed as bigotry. Nor must it be taken as evidence of hypocrisy, or taken to the extreme conclusion that they are not truly secular. Why then, are Americans not able to see these parallels? The reason is likely far less sinister.
It comes down to the way the brain works. It is with experience with members of a category, that we are able to identify differences. Bird lovers readily distinguish ravens and crows while the novice sees them all as black birds. Car experts will identify two models of a car in no more than a glimpse. When we attempt spot-the-differences puzzles, it is not until we look at the pictures long enough, not until our brains have extracted enough information that the differences become apparent; sometimes embarrassingly obvious. Parents of identical twins are often asked if they get confused and almost always the answer is no. Such an ability is not born out of love or a special parental bond. It is simply that constant exposure to these kids has allowed the brain to sample the visual information repeatedly. Parents develop a sophisticated perceptual ability to identify their twins- one that is sensitive to nuance and subtle differences. With experience, we become acutely aware of deeper levels of categorization and are able to identify individuals of a broad category.
Known as the other-race effect, psychologists have long documented the finding that we’re consistently better at distinguishing those of our own race than those of others. With the other-race-effect too, the more the interaction with people from another race, the less similar other-race members will appear. Categorizing people according to the somewhat more abstract basis of religious identity may very well happen the same way. The majority of Americans may be unable to distinguish Muslims of different sects for the simple reason that they are less likely to have mingled with enough people from a minority population and are therefore naïve to the differences among various Muslim ideologies. Minorities of all nations suffer from the same problems in attitude. They’re seen and treated similarly. It should therefore not be surprising that many Americans are uncomfortable with the idea of Park51.
The Taliban and the extremists they support are under the same influence of neural processes. They too lump all of the West in one huge category and label them as evil. The Taliban regime’s vehement insistence on insularity only makes it harder for them to understand Western heterogeneity, and has further justified their passions for terrorism.
Then what are Americans (or anyone) to do?
Thankfully , it is one thing to treat people from an unfamiliar religion as the same because we’re not able to tell them apart. It is another matter, entirely , to pretend that the diversity is non-existent. It is this difference in conscious treatment that should set apart great American Leaders from the Taliban Leaders .
In their lifetimes, most Americans aren't going to be able to live in the several Muslim countries, mingle with people from various sects , to learn to tell them apart. But it does not take much effort to endorse that differences exist even if they are not instinctively sensitized to them.
William Dalrymple, in his Op-Ed succeeds in explaining that the ideology of the Sufi sect of the Cordoba Initiative is in fact at odds with that of the Wahhabi sect of the Talibam. It is a difference one should be mindful of. It can be argued again that not all people of the Sufi sect are similar and not all people of the Wahhabi sect are similar. That too, is well worth taking note of .
Maybe battles are best fought between two individuals instead of groups of stereotypes. Borders, labeling, classification and identity after all sprung from a need for convenience; not for settling matters of life and death. To fall prey to the appeals of broad labels, to treat everyone as a particle of a homogenous moiety is the tactic of the shrewd politician. To cultivate an appreciation for differences is to embrace a layered, fine-grained plurality and is the stamp of a responsible leader.
Proponents of Park51 are at pains to explain that the people planning the mosque are very different from those who attacked the world trade center. Once the difference is acknowledged, it should no longer irk the sensitivities of those who suffered from the attack, they hope.
In a previous Op-Ed in the New York Times, William Darlymple describes how Islam, like Christianity has many sects. He also writes:
"Most of us are perfectly capable of making distinctions within the Christian world. The fact that someone is a Boston Roman Catholic doesn’t mean he’s in league with Irish Republican Army bomb makers, just as not all Orthodox Christians have ties to Serbian war criminals or Southern Baptists to the murderers of abortion doctors.
Yet many of our leaders have a tendency to see the Islamic world as a single, terrifying monolith."
That the majority of Americans are able to discern the many forms of Christianity, but are blind to those of Islam, must not be dismissed as bigotry. Nor must it be taken as evidence of hypocrisy, or taken to the extreme conclusion that they are not truly secular. Why then, are Americans not able to see these parallels? The reason is likely far less sinister.
It comes down to the way the brain works. It is with experience with members of a category, that we are able to identify differences. Bird lovers readily distinguish ravens and crows while the novice sees them all as black birds. Car experts will identify two models of a car in no more than a glimpse. When we attempt spot-the-differences puzzles, it is not until we look at the pictures long enough, not until our brains have extracted enough information that the differences become apparent; sometimes embarrassingly obvious. Parents of identical twins are often asked if they get confused and almost always the answer is no. Such an ability is not born out of love or a special parental bond. It is simply that constant exposure to these kids has allowed the brain to sample the visual information repeatedly. Parents develop a sophisticated perceptual ability to identify their twins- one that is sensitive to nuance and subtle differences. With experience, we become acutely aware of deeper levels of categorization and are able to identify individuals of a broad category.
Known as the other-race effect, psychologists have long documented the finding that we’re consistently better at distinguishing those of our own race than those of others. With the other-race-effect too, the more the interaction with people from another race, the less similar other-race members will appear. Categorizing people according to the somewhat more abstract basis of religious identity may very well happen the same way. The majority of Americans may be unable to distinguish Muslims of different sects for the simple reason that they are less likely to have mingled with enough people from a minority population and are therefore naïve to the differences among various Muslim ideologies. Minorities of all nations suffer from the same problems in attitude. They’re seen and treated similarly. It should therefore not be surprising that many Americans are uncomfortable with the idea of Park51.
The Taliban and the extremists they support are under the same influence of neural processes. They too lump all of the West in one huge category and label them as evil. The Taliban regime’s vehement insistence on insularity only makes it harder for them to understand Western heterogeneity, and has further justified their passions for terrorism.
Then what are Americans (or anyone) to do?
Thankfully , it is one thing to treat people from an unfamiliar religion as the same because we’re not able to tell them apart. It is another matter, entirely , to pretend that the diversity is non-existent. It is this difference in conscious treatment that should set apart great American Leaders from the Taliban Leaders .
In their lifetimes, most Americans aren't going to be able to live in the several Muslim countries, mingle with people from various sects , to learn to tell them apart. But it does not take much effort to endorse that differences exist even if they are not instinctively sensitized to them.
William Dalrymple, in his Op-Ed succeeds in explaining that the ideology of the Sufi sect of the Cordoba Initiative is in fact at odds with that of the Wahhabi sect of the Talibam. It is a difference one should be mindful of. It can be argued again that not all people of the Sufi sect are similar and not all people of the Wahhabi sect are similar. That too, is well worth taking note of .
Maybe battles are best fought between two individuals instead of groups of stereotypes. Borders, labeling, classification and identity after all sprung from a need for convenience; not for settling matters of life and death. To fall prey to the appeals of broad labels, to treat everyone as a particle of a homogenous moiety is the tactic of the shrewd politician. To cultivate an appreciation for differences is to embrace a layered, fine-grained plurality and is the stamp of a responsible leader.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Einzelkind
I am an only child. I have zero brothers and zero sisters . There comes a time when you’ve been acquainted with someone for a significant amount of time when they will ask you how many siblings you have. And I have always wondered what anyone hopes to learn about me by the number and variety of siblings I have. Why are they so curious about precisely one half of my genetic make-up (nothing more, nothing less). And which part is it ? Are they curious about the part of me that’s the same as my siblings, or the part of me that’s not. I find that entire line of questioning mildly offensive.
A kid, I suppose, is interested in whether I have lots of fights and/or boardgames and whether it would be fun to play with me. As a tween, teen or adolescent, I imagine they’re interested in dating my heretofore unknown kin ? As an adult, I suppose they’re largely interested in psychobabble. They feel compelled to know if I was pampered, do I know how to share, am I selfish, did I grow up not knowing what to do with all the time I had on my hands ? They always proceed to tell me whether they had always suspected it. And they're always jubilant whether or not they suspected. "Hey I could totally tell!" or "Really! You don't say!". They promptly proceed to compare me to other people they know who are only kids too. And I never know what I should do with this new information on my hands. Start an only-kids anonymous club (where we'll teach other the 12 steps of adopting each other as siblings)? I’ve never seen anyone say “oh I know x yz. S/he has 1 brother and 2 sisters too”. And often I sense a dilemma – are they to take pity on me for never having had the joys of siblinghood, are they to be mean to me so as to offset the ills of pampering, are they to feel envious of me that I never had to put up with hand-me-downs or fight for the TV remote ?
Apparently, I, and others of my kind are specimens. Outliers in nature’s need to procreate jointly and severally and profusely. So I shall present the requested psychoanalysis as well. For the record, almost all of my cousins are only kids themselves. And apart from the general trend that the females among us are more troublesome than the males, I can see no other marked similarity. As for am I pampered – I wouldn’t know. Present to me a control case, where all other things are held equal, and the only difference is a couple of siblings, and fully define “pampering”. I could then tell you if I was pampered. Am I selfish ? This whole post is about me and my assumed “uniqueness”. In what way can I answer that question and not sound either self-effacing or vain ? Do I know how to share ? I am always willing to partake of anything you have to offer.
And finally, did I grow up not knowing what to do with all the time I had on my hands ? As an indirect way of answering that question – I was one of those people that learnt to tell the time quite late. I hid my face behind digital watches before I made the switch to analog for a very long time. I imagine that if I were completely bored to death, waiting, waiting, for time to move, I would’ve learnt to read clocks sooner than most other kids my age. I must have found something else to do ( in fact, a lot of other things to do).
The one word that I have managed to remember from German class is “einzelkind”. Thanks to the language’s love for compound words, “only child” is unified into a single concept. Einzelkind defines me by what I am rather than what I did not have. I am all of my DNA. And I'd love to share ALL of it.
A kid, I suppose, is interested in whether I have lots of fights and/or boardgames and whether it would be fun to play with me. As a tween, teen or adolescent, I imagine they’re interested in dating my heretofore unknown kin ? As an adult, I suppose they’re largely interested in psychobabble. They feel compelled to know if I was pampered, do I know how to share, am I selfish, did I grow up not knowing what to do with all the time I had on my hands ? They always proceed to tell me whether they had always suspected it. And they're always jubilant whether or not they suspected. "Hey I could totally tell!" or "Really! You don't say!". They promptly proceed to compare me to other people they know who are only kids too. And I never know what I should do with this new information on my hands. Start an only-kids anonymous club (where we'll teach other the 12 steps of adopting each other as siblings)? I’ve never seen anyone say “oh I know x yz. S/he has 1 brother and 2 sisters too”. And often I sense a dilemma – are they to take pity on me for never having had the joys of siblinghood, are they to be mean to me so as to offset the ills of pampering, are they to feel envious of me that I never had to put up with hand-me-downs or fight for the TV remote ?
Apparently, I, and others of my kind are specimens. Outliers in nature’s need to procreate jointly and severally and profusely. So I shall present the requested psychoanalysis as well. For the record, almost all of my cousins are only kids themselves. And apart from the general trend that the females among us are more troublesome than the males, I can see no other marked similarity. As for am I pampered – I wouldn’t know. Present to me a control case, where all other things are held equal, and the only difference is a couple of siblings, and fully define “pampering”. I could then tell you if I was pampered. Am I selfish ? This whole post is about me and my assumed “uniqueness”. In what way can I answer that question and not sound either self-effacing or vain ? Do I know how to share ? I am always willing to partake of anything you have to offer.
And finally, did I grow up not knowing what to do with all the time I had on my hands ? As an indirect way of answering that question – I was one of those people that learnt to tell the time quite late. I hid my face behind digital watches before I made the switch to analog for a very long time. I imagine that if I were completely bored to death, waiting, waiting, for time to move, I would’ve learnt to read clocks sooner than most other kids my age. I must have found something else to do ( in fact, a lot of other things to do).
The one word that I have managed to remember from German class is “einzelkind”. Thanks to the language’s love for compound words, “only child” is unified into a single concept. Einzelkind defines me by what I am rather than what I did not have. I am all of my DNA. And I'd love to share ALL of it.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Mostly water !!!
On Aug 1st this year, I took up a resolution to eat only home-cooked food. I came to the disconcerting realization that having decided that all of vegetarianism in the US was either leaves, or cheese, I was constantly picking cheese. In turn, my body, totally supportive of that decision, had decided to store it. If my sins got carried over to my next several births, I’d be staring at several interesting possibilities including being a fat bird incapable of flying, a fat snail, which when stamped would result in an overmuch of putrid squish, a fat ant incapable of carrying over hundred times its weight, or a fat leaf leaving its eating to be very undesired. I wish I could post snapshots of my imagined rebirths but I try to keep my posts G rated. Kids and their PB&J sandwiches are welcome!
So I resolved to turn a new (leaf?). Having taken such a resolution, I came to my senses rather quickly. A fat leaf ? Na! I know my biology. Leaves don’t have adipose tissues. I’m saved! And of course, I faltered several times and broke my resolve more than once. I even made the untimely discovery that Panera Bread will serve you sandwiches without the meat. No more of just Mediterranean veggie sandwich ? Hurrah to even varieties of cheese between slices of bread. Down goes my resolution.
Be assured, absolutely nothing on the weighing scale went down. So my real strict resolution is going to start again on September 1st. I shall be including potatoes in my diet now. Potatoes, not being leaves or cheese will give me more variety and are in great abundance in the US of A. (God! I sure hope I am kidding.)
Meanwhile, all I can think of now is real vegetarian food. Indian food. I mean food served on plantain leaves during weddings. I used to detest the entire unholy mess and all the rasam dripping hands and the annoying way in which the servers get stingy with the banana chips and the even more creepy chunks of pumpkin. The wedding-food Gods (there must be one ?) are clearly having their sweet revenge. Would that I could go back to one of those weddings and eat the pumpkin sambar.
And then my mind drifted several times to Shatabdi express’s food. I haven’t been on the Shatabdi often enough. My mom never believed in wasting precious daylight time in a train unless absolutely necessary. It was always madras mail. Board at 10:40 in Bangalore. Land in Chennai at 4:30 am in the morning (by which time the entire city seemed like it was sitting down for lunch. Those guys start their days much earlier compared to Bangalore). And Shatabdi’s food, even back in India, where all kinds of sumptuous vegetarian food was available, was delectable. I have a particular fancy for anything train and train station related (except the restrooms of course!). And now, I am fully convinced that Shatabdi’s food is a cuisine in its own good. So of course, I had to know everything there is to know about Shatabdi food. Who decided to start it ? Who decided the menu? Does that minister or the civil service official have a statue yet ? Could he be coaxed into becoming prime minister? Is the Indian government generous with its budget for Shatabdi food ? Is the catering company up for IPO soon ?
And it was in this delirious mood that I went to Wikipedia fully believing that it would have an entire entry dedicated to Shatabdi food.
And what do I find ?
“Shatabdi Express travelers are provided with snacks, breakfast, meals, coffee or tea, a one-litre water bottle and a glass of canned juice.”
!!!
(and it's in the entry for Shatabi; not the entry for Food Service in Shatabdi)
I am pretty sure that falls somewhere in the zip-code of misrepresenting information. That line almost sounds like Shatabdi’s food is completely besides the point and atrocious and that the only thing worth mentioning is the 1 litre water bottle (it may not even come with water in it. Is that what I must make of it?) and a glass of canned juice ? I mean, what about the soup and the breadsticks and the candy and the ice cream and the hot coffee served in flasks and hot rotis and the rice and the yogurt (we call it curds), and the little earthern pot it's set in, and the pickle and the sabji and the dal all wrapped neatly in aluminium foil ?
This happens to be the only time I’ve wanted to edit a Wikipedia entry.
This also makes me feel very much like Arthur Dent(of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy), who upon realizing that his planet Earth had been demolished, desperately searched the guide for its description, in an attempt to cling on to its memory.
All I can say is that airlines around the world must be described as giving snacks and meals and water bottled and canned juice. In fact, it would be perfectly alright to say that airlines are always in huge supply of ice.
But to relegate Shatabdi’s food to that pedestrian class is a gross injustice.
One that I plan to resolve in the next few weeks!
So long and thanks for nothing!
************************
The Earth.
Visions of it swam sickeningly through his nauseated mind. There was no way his imagination could feel the impact of the whole Earth having gone, it was too big. He prodded his feelings by thinking that his parents and his sister had gone. No reaction. He thought of all the people he had been close to. No reaction. Then he thought of a complete stranger he had been standing behind in the queue at the supermarket before and felt a sudden stab — the supermarket was gone, everything in it was gone. Nelson's Column had gone! Nelson's Column had gone and there would be no outcry, because there was no one left to make an outcry. From now on Nelson's Column only existed in his mind. England only existed in his mind — his mind, stuck here in this dank smelly steel-lined spaceship. A wave of claustrophobia closed in on him.
England no longer existed. He'd got that — somehow he'd got it. He tried again. America, he thought, has gone. He couldn't grasp it. He decided to start smaller again. New York has gone. No reaction. He'd never seriously believed it existed anyway. The dollar, he thought, had sunk for ever. Slight tremor there. Every Bogart movie has been wiped, he said to himself, and that gave him a nasty knock. McDonalds, he thought. There is no longer any such thing as a McDonald's hamburger.
He passed out. When he came round a second later he found he was sobbing for his mother.
He jerked himself violently to his feet.
"Ford!"
Ford looked up from where he was sitting in a corner humming to himself. He always found the actual travelling-through-space part of space travel rather trying.
"Yeah?" he said.
"If you're a researcher on this book thing and you were on Earth, you must have been gathering material on it."
"Well, I was able to extend the original entry a bit, yes."
"Let me see what it says in this edition then, I've got to see it."
"Yeah OK." He passed it over again.
Arthur grabbed hold of it and tried to stop his hands shaking. He pressed the entry for the relevant page. The screen flashed and swirled and resolved into a page of print. Arthur stared at it.
"It doesn't have an entry!" he burst out.
Ford looked over his shoulder.
"Yes it does," he said, "down there, see at the bottom of the screen, just under
Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon 6."
Arthur followed Ford's finger, and saw where it was pointing. For a moment it still didn't register, then his mind nearly blew up.
"What? Harmless? Is that all it's got to say? Harmless! One word!"
Ford shrugged.
"Well, there are a hundred billion stars in the Galaxy, and only a limited amount of space in the book's microprocessors," he said, "and no one knew much about the Earth of course."
"Well for God's sake I hope you managed to rectify that a bit."
"Oh yes, well I managed to transmit a new entry off to the editor. He had to trim it a bit, but it's still an improvement."
"And what does it say now?" asked Arthur.
"Mostly harmless," admitted Ford with a slightly embarrassed cough.
"Mostly harmless!" shouted Arthur.
"What was that noise?" hissed Ford.
"It was me shouting," shouted Arthur.
************************
So I resolved to turn a new (leaf?). Having taken such a resolution, I came to my senses rather quickly. A fat leaf ? Na! I know my biology. Leaves don’t have adipose tissues. I’m saved! And of course, I faltered several times and broke my resolve more than once. I even made the untimely discovery that Panera Bread will serve you sandwiches without the meat. No more of just Mediterranean veggie sandwich ? Hurrah to even varieties of cheese between slices of bread. Down goes my resolution.
Be assured, absolutely nothing on the weighing scale went down. So my real strict resolution is going to start again on September 1st. I shall be including potatoes in my diet now. Potatoes, not being leaves or cheese will give me more variety and are in great abundance in the US of A. (God! I sure hope I am kidding.)
Meanwhile, all I can think of now is real vegetarian food. Indian food. I mean food served on plantain leaves during weddings. I used to detest the entire unholy mess and all the rasam dripping hands and the annoying way in which the servers get stingy with the banana chips and the even more creepy chunks of pumpkin. The wedding-food Gods (there must be one ?) are clearly having their sweet revenge. Would that I could go back to one of those weddings and eat the pumpkin sambar.
And then my mind drifted several times to Shatabdi express’s food. I haven’t been on the Shatabdi often enough. My mom never believed in wasting precious daylight time in a train unless absolutely necessary. It was always madras mail. Board at 10:40 in Bangalore. Land in Chennai at 4:30 am in the morning (by which time the entire city seemed like it was sitting down for lunch. Those guys start their days much earlier compared to Bangalore). And Shatabdi’s food, even back in India, where all kinds of sumptuous vegetarian food was available, was delectable. I have a particular fancy for anything train and train station related (except the restrooms of course!). And now, I am fully convinced that Shatabdi’s food is a cuisine in its own good. So of course, I had to know everything there is to know about Shatabdi food. Who decided to start it ? Who decided the menu? Does that minister or the civil service official have a statue yet ? Could he be coaxed into becoming prime minister? Is the Indian government generous with its budget for Shatabdi food ? Is the catering company up for IPO soon ?
And it was in this delirious mood that I went to Wikipedia fully believing that it would have an entire entry dedicated to Shatabdi food.
And what do I find ?
“Shatabdi Express travelers are provided with snacks, breakfast, meals, coffee or tea, a one-litre water bottle and a glass of canned juice.”
!!!
(and it's in the entry for Shatabi; not the entry for Food Service in Shatabdi)
I am pretty sure that falls somewhere in the zip-code of misrepresenting information. That line almost sounds like Shatabdi’s food is completely besides the point and atrocious and that the only thing worth mentioning is the 1 litre water bottle (it may not even come with water in it. Is that what I must make of it?) and a glass of canned juice ? I mean, what about the soup and the breadsticks and the candy and the ice cream and the hot coffee served in flasks and hot rotis and the rice and the yogurt (we call it curds), and the little earthern pot it's set in, and the pickle and the sabji and the dal all wrapped neatly in aluminium foil ?
This happens to be the only time I’ve wanted to edit a Wikipedia entry.
This also makes me feel very much like Arthur Dent(of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy), who upon realizing that his planet Earth had been demolished, desperately searched the guide for its description, in an attempt to cling on to its memory.
All I can say is that airlines around the world must be described as giving snacks and meals and water bottled and canned juice. In fact, it would be perfectly alright to say that airlines are always in huge supply of ice.
But to relegate Shatabdi’s food to that pedestrian class is a gross injustice.
One that I plan to resolve in the next few weeks!
So long and thanks for nothing!
************************
The Earth.
Visions of it swam sickeningly through his nauseated mind. There was no way his imagination could feel the impact of the whole Earth having gone, it was too big. He prodded his feelings by thinking that his parents and his sister had gone. No reaction. He thought of all the people he had been close to. No reaction. Then he thought of a complete stranger he had been standing behind in the queue at the supermarket before and felt a sudden stab — the supermarket was gone, everything in it was gone. Nelson's Column had gone! Nelson's Column had gone and there would be no outcry, because there was no one left to make an outcry. From now on Nelson's Column only existed in his mind. England only existed in his mind — his mind, stuck here in this dank smelly steel-lined spaceship. A wave of claustrophobia closed in on him.
England no longer existed. He'd got that — somehow he'd got it. He tried again. America, he thought, has gone. He couldn't grasp it. He decided to start smaller again. New York has gone. No reaction. He'd never seriously believed it existed anyway. The dollar, he thought, had sunk for ever. Slight tremor there. Every Bogart movie has been wiped, he said to himself, and that gave him a nasty knock. McDonalds, he thought. There is no longer any such thing as a McDonald's hamburger.
He passed out. When he came round a second later he found he was sobbing for his mother.
He jerked himself violently to his feet.
"Ford!"
Ford looked up from where he was sitting in a corner humming to himself. He always found the actual travelling-through-space part of space travel rather trying.
"Yeah?" he said.
"If you're a researcher on this book thing and you were on Earth, you must have been gathering material on it."
"Well, I was able to extend the original entry a bit, yes."
"Let me see what it says in this edition then, I've got to see it."
"Yeah OK." He passed it over again.
Arthur grabbed hold of it and tried to stop his hands shaking. He pressed the entry for the relevant page. The screen flashed and swirled and resolved into a page of print. Arthur stared at it.
"It doesn't have an entry!" he burst out.
Ford looked over his shoulder.
"Yes it does," he said, "down there, see at the bottom of the screen, just under
Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon 6."
Arthur followed Ford's finger, and saw where it was pointing. For a moment it still didn't register, then his mind nearly blew up.
"What? Harmless? Is that all it's got to say? Harmless! One word!"
Ford shrugged.
"Well, there are a hundred billion stars in the Galaxy, and only a limited amount of space in the book's microprocessors," he said, "and no one knew much about the Earth of course."
"Well for God's sake I hope you managed to rectify that a bit."
"Oh yes, well I managed to transmit a new entry off to the editor. He had to trim it a bit, but it's still an improvement."
"And what does it say now?" asked Arthur.
"Mostly harmless," admitted Ford with a slightly embarrassed cough.
"Mostly harmless!" shouted Arthur.
"What was that noise?" hissed Ford.
"It was me shouting," shouted Arthur.
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