Someday, today will be nostalgia

Of late, the term ‘after party’ has danced its way into our collective lexicon. Though it may have been bereft of a formal eponym, at some point a few overzealous party goers decided to recognize it. This is a fictional recreation of what might have occurred. Resemblance to any party animal, dead or alive is purely coincidental. Somewhere in a party long long ago, the liquor would have been flowing freely and everyone thought the night would be forever young. Everything appeared to be going according to plan until for some reason, everything and everyone seemed to epitomize boredom. The booze only got you so high, there is only so much you could chat up that pretty damsel, and when the heck did you start drinking vodka and cranberry juice?  From there on, the night started getting old very fast. Until some weary hung over partygoer said ‘where do we go after the party’? And another drunken soul misconstrued it as ‘after party’.   To someone unfamiliar with the part...

  A story is told of two bricklayers laying brick on an afternoon when one wished the sun would scurry back behind the clouds and offer a smattering of respite. This very ordinary scene caused curiosity to get the better of a passerby in search of conversation. As the story goes, a question was posed to each as to what they were building. One replied he was merely laying brick. The other said he was laying the foundation for a cathedral. Ostensibly, the purpose of this story being recounted time and again is to get us to look at dreary tasks with a sense of reverence. And maybe, just maybe, they can turn into a masterpiece. Maybe this zealous approach is the distinction between the humdrum existence of a journeyman and that of an enchanter, who in Jack Kerouac’s words, makes everybody go ‘aaawww’. Which is why there are such few masterpieces, be it a song, a book, a movie, or a sportsperson making the field his stage, keeping an audience of a million glued to...

Doctors are a strange lot. I should know, being a sibling to one. Most of us spend our education and subsequently, our lives, chasing elusive rainbows. Our formative years are spent willing the clock to move faster and for classes to get over. Medical students spend their formative years cutting open human bodies (the dead ones) and one fine day, graduate to cutting open live ones. It was this strange fortune of having my elder sister choose medicine as a career that introduced me to Ronnie.  As a part of their learning, medical students are supposed to go to a designated store near their college and buy a very unique set. This very unique set consists of a skull and a few bones. They then sit in class, hold the skull in their hands, and listen to their lecturer explain to them about the  neurocranium   and the  viscerocranium.   Cutting cadavers, it may be presumed, is slightly more complicated and cannot be delved into with the same  hilarit...

On April 21 st , 2006, if you ran into me on the maternity ward floor in Malathi Memorial Hospital, I bore a strong resemblance to any expectant father. A few minutes past 11 am that same day, I became an uncle to a bouncing baby boy. For those who have trodden the path, it is one of life’s most   enthralling adventures. It is my opinion that the joy one thinks one will derive from parenthood is largely an illusion. Nappy, baby powder and cerelac ads make parenthood look like a slice of heaven. On the contrary, there is always a sense of apprehension in parenting- when will my child talk, walk, become the teacher’s pet, break the neighbour’s glass, start using cuss words, fail in an exam, among many others. When the child finally leaves home, parents can’t wait to be grandparents – that’s where unbridled joy lies. Scour the shelves in any book store and you will find that the parenting section has plenty of sugar coated advice on how to be an amazing mom/dad and raise l...

Date: July 2, 2022 2012 was a watershed year in Indian sport. Tennis and cricket in India seemed to be besotted with their aging stars, refusing to believe that all good things had to come to an end. The Indian cricket team had lost 8 tests on the trot, one of its most prolific and respected cricketer’s, Rahul Dravid, had announced his retirement and one of the cricket's  most revered figures, Sachin Tendulkar, would bid adieu to the game a year later, (another legend, VVS Laxman had also retired a few months earlier) leaving a billion and a half people inconsolable. The UPA government was on its last legs and the US was slowly but steadily withdrawing troops from its misadventures in Iraq. Everywhere one looked, it seemed the old was reluctantly making way for the future. Right in the midst of all of this, two of India’s aging tennis stars were fighting a war of their own. Indian hockey was yet to make a comeback into people’s hearts and the purses of sponsors....

Picture courtesy - Natasha Shiggaon Luthra On some days, Bangalore weather becomes nostalgic. And for some time, everyone is permitted to live in the past. On one such June day, the sun wistfully playing hide and seek and the clouds emitting just enough raindrops for an instagram photo, the weather flirting with winter, the craving for rasam becomes telling. Rasam. Rasam rice. Whichever, doesn’t matter. First, use your fingers to make space in the middle of a heap of rice. Don’t protest when the dollop of ghee gleefully sinks into the rice. The rasam should scald, otherwise the ride isn’t worth it. The flesh on your fingers crawl when you dip them into the rasam, but trust me, keep with it. No good thing has been known to ever come easy. The impatient wait for a few seconds and an insignificant morsel is savoured. Gooseflesh ensues. Slowly but steadily, bigger portions are savoured. to enhance the experience and attain nirvana, combine i...