R for Rasam

It is a chilly winter afternoon. Your stomach is growling. You find your place on the dining table and serve yourself a large spoonful of hot steaming rice followed by a generous dollop of ghee. You carefully mash the rice with the tip of your fingers and make a well in the center of the plate. The mothership pours a ladle full of golden liquid onto your plate. You wait for it to gently coat the rice. You then proceed to scoop a bit of the runny mixture, make a dash for the potato roast bordering the plate, and hurriedly thrust it into your mouth before it escapes through the joints of your fingers. Ah! Bliss!

Rasam is the undisputed queen of South Indian cuisine. Wholesome, flavorsome, yet, reeking of humility. Unlike her vivacious, boastful cousin – the dal and tamarind-heavy sambhar, rasam prefers to shy away into the background. Rasam is not spoken about in the same breath as her North Indian counterparts like Paneer Butter Masala or Dal Makhani. It is probably not the first dish that comes to mind when asked to name a favorite. Yet, it is the one you reach out to when the tongue is sick of rich, indulgent culinary spreads. 

Few things in life are as satisfying as a bowl full of rasam. It is the perfect bridge between the decadent, vegetable-filled sambhar and the non-descript, bland (maybe boring?) curd rice. A well-made rasam is the food of the Gods. Made from wholly ripe tomatoes, tamarind, and a dash of hing, the ingredient list is as humble as the dish itself. Unlike other dishes, rasam offers no camouflage to the amateur cook. You can have a good rasam or a bad one – there is no in-between. 

Wars have been fought for rasam. It is the reason for the legendary Ganesha – Murugan tiff which led to Murugan seeking solace in the hills of Palani. Ultimately Parvati had to make an exceptional cauldron of rasam to satiate Murugan’s hunger pangs, after which he returned home happily.  King Alexander left home at lunchtime to find the perfect rasam to pair with his steaming bowl of rice. He never succeeded. The search for the ideal rasam is what kept the Britishers in the subcontinent for 200 years. All they could muster was Mulligawtany which is a poor pepper-based variant. 

There is a type of rasam for every mood. Feel like having a richer, more tomato-y version? Udupi rasam is the answer. In the mood for a nutty flavor? You have the famous Mysore rasam. Jeera-Milagu rasam, a.k.a. rasam made from cumin and peppercorns paired with some ladiesfinger palya, works wonders for that persistent cold and cough. Pineapple rasam, with cubes of pineapple soaking up the tamarind essence, is a crowd favorite at Tamil weddings. After the extravagant wedding feast, when the stomach craves unembellished nourishment, vaepam poo rasam is the go-to food. Made from sun-dried flowers of the neem tree, this bitter rasam variant is the one-stop solution for all ailments in grandma’s culinary book. Adding lemon and ginger to your bowl of rasam can transform the dish into a cracking appetizer. For the brave and the undeterred, citron or orange rasam is an exciting alternative. 

Rasam demands a messy eater. It is not for the snobbish aristocrat who cannot give up his cutlery. Table manners take a backseat. Foremost, rasam is best enjoyed in a steel plate with a rim. After tackling the rice-rasam mix, the excess rasam is polished off by slurping it down noisily.  Some may prefer the banana leaf, but the unseasoned diner may find it challenging to confine the free flow of rasam to the former’s leafy boundaries. Licking the fingers clean is a cue to the host that you truly enjoyed the feast.

For the fad-hopping relative who swears by a keto-friendly, gluten-free, lactose-free, vegan diet, this one ticks all the boxes. The best part is that it takes all of five minutes to whip it up. Winding down the day with a simple rasam rice calms those frayed nerves. A plateful of rice soaking in rasam can lead one back in time to savor those long-lost memories from childhood.

The vivid description of rasam, followed by all the constant typing, has undoubtedly made the author crave a hearty big bowl right away. Hopefully, you, the reader, are already reaching out to soak a ball of tamarind in hot water. Happy rasam-ing!

Era of the mini pachadi begins …

Earlier this year, rushing to meet the annual account closing deadline for banks, a slightly pink, tiny being with a tuft of black hair on an otherwise bald head came into our mundane lives. The light pink swaddle that she was wrapped in was no deterrent to her arm-swaying skills. Pushing her tiny arms out of the swaddle and throwing off the red blanket that was supposed to keep her warm, she thus distinguished herself from the rest of the inhabitants of the nursery. Even her cry was different – a short four-note wail as compared to the incessant whine of the others. She would smile contently, showing off her natural dimples, and bask in the oohs and aahs that followed. The little narcissist!

Fast forward to the present, and she is every bit the attention-seeking minion that we rightly guessed she was. She is the apple of her father’s eye, her mother’s kutti pisasu, and has her grandparents wrapped around her little finger. She intoxicates the rest with her wide, innocent, toothless grin.

Miss Mini pachadi is here to lighten and brighten our lives. We look forward to building a lifetime’s worth of memories with her.

P.S.: I hope she gets her mother’s sense of humor.

A dummies guide to the Navaratri goodie bag

Navaratri is almost here. If you are a South Indian, you know what that means. Golu season. Bringing out the kanjivarams that were gathering dust, taking the 9 day color-color saree challenge on Instagram and golu hopping. For the uninitiated, golu hopping is an age old tradition where the women of the house hop from one house to another, admire the dolls stacked up for display, sing a song (only Carnatic allowed and please finish the song with the pallavi only), collect their tamboola pais and don’t turn up until the next year.

Before the advent of Amazon (the website), the thrill of receiving a package of joy was during golu. Etiquette demanded that you wait until you reach home to open the bag and discover its contents (yay or meh). Given that this tradition is nearly dying, I have compiled a ready reckoner for future generations .

• Blouse bit : A square piece of clothing whose sole aspiration in life is to be converted into an actual blouse (though the probability of that happening is zero). The kind of blouse bit that you receive is a direct measure of the true feelings of the host towards you.
  • Cotton blouse bit (maroon, dark green or dark blue) – We love you so we reserved the best ones for you.
  • Cotton blouse bit (mustard yellow, parrot green, shocking pink) – Don’t look at me! These came in the bundle of blouse bits that I ordered from Shwetha matching center.
  • Polyester blouse bit with half inch border –  Lady! I barely know you and you want a Rs.100/- blouse bit? Really?
  • Printed polyester blouse bit  – This was a gift from last year’s golu hopping. This was never meant to be converted into an actual blouse bit. Its destiny is to hop from one owner to another until God destroys the world by sending the great flood. This will be one of the items that will go into Noah’s ark after which it will resume its journey.

• 4 inch comb (one piece) – A gift from us to the male members of your family.

• 3 cm X 3 cm pocket mirror – We thoughtfully chose one with a plastic flap on it because you know it can break from constant use.

• Two withered betel leaves : You can eat it. Maybe. At least people back in the olden times did so. What do I know!

• Areca nuts and dried turmeric (2 + 2) – This is reserved for privileged people only. Although I don’t know what you are going to do with it. You can probably add it to the areca nut stash that you have accumulated over the years from all the golu hopping. If there ever is an alien invasion, we can fool them into thinking that this is candy. And when they take a bite, their teeth will break. Alarmed, they will quietly go back to their home planet to see their dentists. Earth will be safe once again. Thanks to you – Adikke-Woman or Paaku-woman (you can choose your own costume and sidekick).

• 2-in-1 kumkum + haldi packet – Very useful in a kumkum – haldi emergency . You know when you want to use both together and you run out of them. 

• Coins/Notes
  • Rs. 10/- note – Pakkad mane uncle’s sister works in SBI . With great difficulty she arranged for a bundle of Rs. 10/- notes for us. Very difficult to get these days what with this sudden note banning and all. Also, do you see how influential we are?
  • Rs. 5/- coin – Sorry, I can’t waste a crisp Rs. 10/- note on you.
  • Rs. 1/- coin – Please be happy that you are getting free money.

• 2 green color glass bangles (secured tightly by a thin piece of string) – Disclaimer: Please don’t wear them. For display purpose only.

• Fruits
  • Apple – You are the chosen one.
  • Coconut – We think you are important enough to deserve one. Please think of us when you are enjoying the delicious coconut chutney.
  • Moosambi – Orange’s neglected step sister. Someone gave this to me when I visited their golu. And let’s be honest, what can anyone do with one moosambi? You need at least two to make a decent cup of juice. And who eats moosambi as a fruit? Orange yes. But peeling this is just not worth the effort. So in case someone else gifts you a second one, enjoy your glass of juice.
  • Two almost black elakki bananas – They were lying on the counter for a week. I was thinking of throwing it away but hey…

• Gift items:
  • Stainless steel dabba/cup – Got an incredible deal at Devi Prasad Superbazaar.
  • Plastic dabba / cup – Got an incredible deal from the hawker near Devi Prasad Superbazaar.
  • Metal earrings – You are not married no? Why waste a dabba on you?
  • Paper quill earrings – I made them by watching this jewellery making tutorial on YouTube.

• Tamboola pais aka bags
  • Ikat/kalamkari tamboola pai : Eco-friendly, recyclable, fashionable, sustainable, durable, decomposable, vegetable, unbreakable tamboola pais that we bought from an Instagram influenza. Don’t forget to upload a pic of this on insta. Hashtag SustainableGolu. Also please join me on my insta live.
  • Cloth bag with handle : This bag can later be used by your husband to buy your daily quota of Nandini milk packets.
  • Plastic cover : You didn’t bring your own cloth bag or something? Sigh! Now I have to rummage through my big plastic bag full of small plastic bags and find one that I can live without.

Mother-in-law + Son-in-law atrocities

I grew up in a simple Tamil household where the menu would typically range from rasam + palya (everyday food) to mysore rasam + palya with grated coconut (special food). Saturday morning breakfast was always the lonely pongal (Please note that sambar/chutney was not served). A cheat day would comprise of the above menu + fried vathal. Once a year, after constant nagging the parents would take us to Hotel Gokul Veg (A/C) and we would order rotis and Navratan Kurma.

Now, you may wonder why I am writing about the culinary habits of my early life. The humble rasam sipping, palya eating household encountered a watershed event a few years back – The arrival of the Mappillai aka Son-in-Law. This incident has brought to light the latent and previously unknown culinary skills of the mothership. When the mappillai visits for breakfast, pongal with a side of coconut chutney, sambar (with veggies) and wait for it – vadai is made. Yes, you read that right. Vadai – that crunchy, golden, delicious, drool inducing snack that one eats in restaurants like MTR and A2B. And half of those vadais were put into a bowl of yoghurt with boondi on top called thayir vadai. Lunch now has 2 courses that precede and succeed rasam along with 2 palyas – one is green veggie palya with grated coconut (good for health you know?) and the other is always potatoes roasted to a crisp. Oh and fried appalam. And one payasam with a generous sprinkle of nuts and raisins.

Do you know those tiny little white cubes that are in gravies eaten with rotis? Paneer you say? Yes. Pre-2014, the only place that I’ve ever seen paneer butter masala is in South Indian wedding receptions where it it served alongside other authentic South Indian delicacies like rumali roti , white sauce pasta and chaat. The mothership put these cubes in a dish, hitherto unheard of in the household , called “matar paneer” and made methi puris to go with it. Ladies and gentlemen, not rotis but puris. Not just any puri but methi puri.

Now why am I telling you all of this? Because the great Tamil pulavar aka philosopher Mr. Goundamani had foreshadowed this in his 1985 movie Kanni Raasi. There is a hilarious sequence where his wife, Sumitra makes a feast for her son-in-law who visits them. To call it a feast is to call the Taj Mahal a building. The three feet long grocery list includes 2 kg of muna paruppu or mundiri paruppu aka cashew nut and 3 kg of pista – an item that Goundamani has so far never heard of in his life. She then proceeds to make aatukaal soup – a delicacy that she has never made in 25 yrs of her married life. Goundamani is flabbergasted that his wife is actually familiar with the term “soup”, let alone make some.

Likewise over the last few years, I have discovered to my surprise that the mothership can indeed make chole bature, badam halwa, all paneer based side dishes and paruppu urundai kuzhambu (a very rare type of sambar that takes about 173685 hours to make). The only dish that hasn’t made an appearance so far is gobi manchurian and that too only because His Highness is not particularly fond of it and not because the mothership is lacking in Chinese culinary knowledge.

The mappillai for his part unfailingly does what all mappillais do – saying hello with a big smile while entering the house, saying bye when leaving and spending the rest of the time sitting on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through Facebook on his phone. If he so much as *returns* the empty coffee dabara-tumbler to the sink, verses will be sung on his simplicity and humility and how I am the luckiest of all women to have been blessed with this 24 carat bar of gold.

It is surprising that Archies doesn’t have a category of cards to celebrate the unique and underrated bond between mothers-in-law and sons-in-law. (I’m seriously considering a signature campaign.) To think of it, ever other relationship known to man is symbiotic in nature – it involves giving and taking and mutually benefits the people involved. But the MIL-SIL bond is unique in that the concerned parties are genuinely aware of the nature of the relationship and immensely enjoy it being so.

A parasitic one where one cooks and the other eats.

Aishwarya Rai and Arisi Upma

May 1998

A tiny hamlet on the banks of the river kudamurutti. A girl of 10, sporting neatly oiled pigtails is playing hopscotch in the courtyard of her grandparents’ traditional ottu veedu. Innocent kid is blissfully unaware of an event that is going to unfold over the next few days. One which will have a deep & everlasting impact on her tender heart.

As you may have guessed, the girl in question is me. And I think I would be doing my memories a great disservice if I did not document this traumatic event in my life. So here we go.

So, girl aka me was playing hopscotch when I was called inside and informed that we would be going to a movie the next day. The movie in question was one called “Genes” and to my surprise, it was a Tamil movie. It was the talk of the town because it starred Miss World 1994 Aishwarya Rai and had music by some guy called AR Rahman. Now before you judge, at the age of 10, all I watched on TV was Scooby Doo and Dexter’s Lab. Rahman who?

To give a little background, my grandparents’ place is a teeny weeny hamlet near Kumbakonam. (Actually that’s like saying Bangalore airport is near Bangalore, but you get the drift.) There was one dusty bus that would take you from the village to the city in the morning and the same bus would drop you back to the village in the evening. The other option was to order a bullock cart and you had to do this three days in advance. So, we i.e. me, Bombay cousin sister, Madras cousin brother (aka thambi), Bombay athai and Madras athai promptly woke up the next morning, gobbled our lunch by 9:30 am and scooted to the bus stop in anticipation of the bus. The bus never disappoints. Rain, thunder, floods, snow – nothing can deter the driver from making the daily trip up and down the village.

Now while getting in to this bus, I observed something weird. My Madras athai had a koodai ¹ aka. plastic basket in her hand. Now why would one carry a koodai to a movie theater? In hindsight, this should have been my first warning. So after changing two buses (village -> city, city -> theater), we finally reached the destination about 3 hours early. Let me take a minute to remind you that it is 1 pm on a sunny May afternoon when the proverbial Agni Nakshatram is at its peak. Poor me is sweating bucket loads. And then I turn around to see the poster of the movie we are about to watch – JEANS. Eh? Am I going to watch a movie about a pair of blue jeans? A little embarrassing background – 10 year old me thought that this movie is called GENES and rightly so, it had something to do with science and stuff. Though what I expected from the movie, I couldn’t tell you.

Moving on, it was soon time for the afternoon show and we found our seats in the dark and dingy theater – half torn and moth eaten. The first slide that played on the screen read “KASI A/C” . The A/C was in reference to the air conditioning facilities that this theater provided which is why we shelled out the extra Rs.30/- for the ticket. As you may guessed, the theater neither had A/C nor the humble ceiling fan. Second disappointment for the day.

Mopping my sweaty brow, I tried to immerse myself in the movie which seemed pretty okay – a beautiful Aishwarya Rai, an okay-ish plot, catchy songs. Everything seemed to be going fine. Suddenly, I heard the clink of a steel tiffin box – the sound that you can hear when you unscrew the top of the box. And Bombay cousin pushed one such box into my hands. Bewildered, I tried to make sense of its contents but given that there was pitch darkness all around, I failed. Sighing, I took a scoop of the contents and pushed it into my mouth.

Argh! There is no mistaking this one. The unappealing, the unsahikable², the undisputed king of the worst tiffin items in the whole wide world – The Upma. And to top it all, it was the queen of all upmas – The arisi upma. For the uninitiated, this is the generally accepted upma hierarchy ordered from palatable to OMG-I’d-rather-die-of-hunger-than-eat-this.

khara bath >> semiya upma >> rava upma >> arisi upma.

Basically, I would rather eat glue than arisi upma. But what can one do when one is force fed arisi upma with a side of mango pickle in the blistering Kumbakonam heat in Kasi A/C theater where the A/C is not functioning? So mustering up my will power, I proceeded to stuff the upma into my mouth silently accepting my fate. That is when I glanced at the thambi who seemed to be gobbling up his food without so much as a grumble. I proceeded to take a closer look. Hold on! That’s no upma! That’s curd rice and mango pickle!!

The cunning fellow had somehow found out in advance about the upma and had convinced my athai to pack curdrice for himself. Imagine my trauma when I saw him slurping curd rice in the 1000 degree heat while I was trying to shove little moth balls aka upma into my mouth. Ah betrayal! Piercing my heart with a poisoned spear would have been less painful. Lord Voldemort pales in comparison. I least expected my adorable younger brother, the apple of my eye, my partner in crime to “ditch” me and make me eat upma while he happily polished the cool curd rice. I decided to control my rage and asked him for an explanation.

His reply was “…but but…. I hate upma!”

Dei. Who likes it?? No one LIKES upma. Upma doesn’t like upma. One is force fed upma by mothers who cunningly dangle the “I will make poori and potato saagu tomorrow” carrot in front of our eyes.

Fast forward to 2020 and I still haven’t forgiven the thambi for this monumental betrayal. Revenge will be exacted. I will wrestle a visa out of President Trump’s hands, cross the seven seas, take thambi to the FDFS show of the next VJ na movie and shove a steel box containing arisi upma and mango pickle into his hands during the interval. And he will gobble it under my supervision.

P.S: Have you ever wondered why theatres in India forbid you from carrying your own snacks? They probably want to prevent a poor child from being force fed upma.

¹Koodai : A basket that is made from plastic wires and has two handles to carry it. Mostly used by 90’s middle school kids to carry their steel lunch boxes and water bottles. 90’s high school kids, however would steer clear of this embarrassing piece of equipment.

²Unsahikable – A Tanglish word which is used as a superlative and denotes the highest ceiling of tolerance that can ever be achieved.

Synonym: Cannot able to.

Usage: I cannot able to withstand this heat wonly

Bucket list, Bantureeti kolu and Blogging

Covid 19 has done the impossible – bringing me back from a self imposed hiatus and type out these letters on a laptop (in 2020, this is a big deal). The initial 3 week lockdown brought out the child in me.

WFH = summer vacation = taking it easy = unadulterated fun!

The last time I had a 3 month vacation was in high school. On the last day of school, I would jot down the “fun things” I would do in my vacation which included stuff like

a) “Practice” music everyday. – I actually sang Bantureeti kolu at 5 1/2 kattai shruthi on my cobweb ridden shruthi box the first day.

b) Learn French from some old, moth eaten books that my aunt owned. – The only French words I learnt were “La salle de classe” but more on that another time

c) Learn cooking which meant learn how to make palak paneer and malai kofta and not the humble rasam that I gobble up day in and day out these days

d) Play tennis using a badminton racquet that I got “free”, the one and only time I bought Milo. Sorry folks, you are looking at a Bournvita loyalist!

e) Diligently learn *cough* Calculus & Trigonometry *cough* from my Thatha, a retired Math teacher.

f) Read books by John Grisham, Ayn Rand, Jeffrey Archer and all those fancy authors that everyone just seemed to be talking about. – I ended up re-reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the 57th time along with Gokulam (does anyone remember the Undir family?)

Obviously, I did none of the above including (e) which was a last minute addition to the list by the mother. All I did was while away time until the cousins arrived and then it was 10 hours of playing in the sand, feeding leaves to stray goats and frightening kittens. Now, Modi ji gave me the perfect opportunity to do justice to the above discarded list and I decided to add a few more items to the list like

(a) “Convincing” the H to “allow” me to avail the one month free subscription that Netflix offers.

(b) Try baking because clearly sourdough bread and garden foccacia are the palak paneer and malai kofta of 2020.

(c) Watching Breaking Bad, Money Heist and the Netflix series that has cute guy Oberyn Martell in it.

(d) Learn machine learning, deep learning and GAN because I have all the time in the world and can become an expert in emerging technologies.

So this time, I knew I was going to do everything as planned because two decades is a long time and is expected to bring about a semblance of traits like maturity, patience and all those complex words that mean the same. So what happened? I watched half a movie on Prime – Vijay na’s masala blockbuster Theri, 30 mins of the 1st episode of Breaking Bad, read the title card of Money Heist and typed out “Narcos” and hit the ‘Search’ button on the Netflix app.

On the cooking front, I went as far as buying a packet of baking soda and baking powder. That’s when I realized that there are more vital needs like rasam and sambhar powder and idli batter. I also bought vinegar and soy sauce and two packets of hakka noodles that are sitting on the shelf and will continue to do so until their expiry date. Needless to say, I signed up for an ML course but have clearly been “too busy” to continue learning.

Which brings me to the realization that I am the female equivalent of George Constanza from Seinfeld. I can sit at home all day, do absolutely nothing and still go to bed promptly at 10 pm out of sheer exhaustion. I’ve spent 3 months doing this. I can do this till the end of the year, probably longer and also whine about “going back to work” once the lockdown is over. For years, I thought that I have to find my passion in life, chase it, and strive towards doing fulfilling it. The lockdown and George Constanza have helped me realize that “doing nothing” is my passion and I’m already living the life.

Garden foccacia!! *bursts into laughter*

P.S: Today I found a colony of ants in my balcony and they seemed to be working in tandem, probably looking for some food without so much as a grumble. Now, did that inspire me? In a way, yes! I sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar around them so that they didn’t have to work too hard to find a bite to eat. Well I hope they learn to work a little less hard.

Marriage, Morkuzhambu and Medha Patkar

As the mangapachadi is on the threshold of completing three hundred and sixty five days with her co-inhabitant, here are some valuable life truths that have been discovered on this long, unwinding journey.

1) It is better to make morkuzhambu than lecture about feminism:

Medha Patkar might have had her way, lecturing about abandoning the kitchen and fighting for women’s rights. That’s probably because she had an awesome cook at home who made hot, piping sambhar. For the rest of the world, mor kuzhambu it is, with freshly cooked pooshnika to soak it up.

2) In times of conflict of interest in the television viewing segment, Prannoy Roy wins:

Remember those cute couples in advertisements adorably fighting over the remote and finally reaching a consensus on what movie to watch? Yeah, those things don’t happen in real life. News channels rule the roost. And if not news, death by test cricket it is! The slightest of protests will be met by a glare and a stern facial expression and needless to say a mini session on the importance of current affairs.

3) A for aviyal, B for beans paruppu usili…

Rewind to a warm, sunny day in spinsterhood where mom serves chow chow kootu and rasam.  I swallow the above mentioned mundane items reluctantly, dreaming of a green future where kadai paneer and mouth watering spaghetti is the order of the day.

Reality check: The H is an avid south indian traditional brahmin food gorger. So here I am learning the alphabet all over again! A for aviyal, B for beans paruppu usili, C for chow chow kootu…

4) It is okay to murder a guest but…

You must be wondering what crime can be more heinous than murder. Though the Indian Penal Code doesn’t rate any act higher than this, there certainly seems to be one such crime from which there is no salvation. The act I am talking about is the gifting of a 2 X 2 piece of cloth that is commonly known in tambrahm households as a “blouse bit”, to any guest of the fairer sex who makes the mistake of visiting you. Though the probability of a blouse bit transforming into an actual blouse is actually zero, the blouse bit must be given. Abstaining from doing so will lead to catastrophic results.

5) Your neighbourhood darshini *is* a fine dining restaurant

It doesn’t matter if couples around you go on a European holiday, upload pictures of fondue and plum parfait on instagram and exchange exquisite diamond rings. All that you will get is one plate mini meals at Mayur Sagar and if you are lucky, one half coffee.

Interstellar – my two cents

Living up to a humungous expectation is a gnawing thought that good film directors are forced to contend with these days. It must be professionally satisfying for the director to see his movies being often revered as piece of art as opposed to three hours of popcorn chewing time. But this must be an awfully difficult piece of baggage to shed. And this is probably what Christopher Nolan, one of the most celebrated film makers of our generation, suffers from indeed. We have begun to associate his films with his customary pledge, turn and the prestige that we must partly take the blame for imposing towering expectations on him.

I found Interstellar to be an extremely good documentary on certain high school concepts that I was confused about – relativity for example. The twin paradox of one brother aging on earth whilst the other being fresh as an apple was quite convincingly demonstrated. But as a movie, Interstellar quite didn’t make the cut for me. Nolan probably spent so much time and effort trying to get the physics of the film right that he probably didn’t pay much attention to its core – the screenplay. The film moves at a laborious pace in the first half hour, so much so that you just want to shove the leading man into a rocket and thrust him into outer space. Things don’t move any faster later either, but of course, I don’t expect a half hearted space exploration to yield results soon. But what is disturbing is the lack of urgency in the proceedings. Consider this, our leading lady and man are literally to be stranded in space, with their spacecraft out of fuel and their only hope is of latching onto the spinning Endurance. What if they don’t make it? What if they have to be stranded in space for eternity? How thrilling is that prospect? Just thinking about this possibility raises goosebumps. Yet, the execution of this is as bland as ever. There is no sense of excitement. It’s almost as if we know that they will eventually latch on, only because if not, the movie ends there and that we know cannot happen. Remember that last scene in the dark knight, where we know the two ships are rigged? We know that they won’t die but isn’t the build up to that, nail biting? That’s what is missing here.

What is essentially a simple one line story of men in search of habitable land is needlessly complicated with over the top physics. But I guess that had to be the USP of the movie. We have seen far too many movies which deal with similar topics that a unique dimension (literally) had to be brought in. But after a little over two hours, that sudden burst of concepts towards the end which is meant to tie everything together, really didn’t work for me. Too little too late perhaps.

I was reminded of a similar movie a few years ago which covered the same premise but far more convincingly. The movie in question is of course , Wall-E. This movie was surely a little different in that the people back then, in the future (oxymoronic! yes 🙂 ) were trying to get back to Earth whereas Interstellar talked about moving away from it. But the underlying concept of searching for a habitable land remains the same. What Wall-E could achieve is the emotional connect with the characters. In spite of knowing that Wall-E and Eva were mere robots incapable of finer human emotions (though they did demonstrate that), I was left rooting for them. There was this genuine tear-in-the-eye moment at the end, when the human population returned to the Earth and took that first step onto the soil. But here, I find that moment missing. When Cooper wakes up from his deep slumber, we are shown the present world through his eyes. Everything seems green and prosperous, yet it failed to evoke a similar emotion in me. I’m supposed to be excited by the prospect of Cooper continuing his mission to now find Amelia, but given the lack of chemistry between them, I really don’t care for them anymore.

As I write this review, I know that I will be pounced upon by a certain segment of fans for failing to look beyond the nitty-gritty of the film and appreciate the effort of the director for packaging complicated physics in a mainstream movie. But honestly, if I need to learn about them, why can’t I watch a documentary on relativity on the Discovery Channel? Why must I endure three hours of unappealing drama only because the director dared to be “different”? To an average viewer like me, the one thing I expect from my movie, is to not be boring. And I’m afraid, Interstellar is very much boring! There, I said it!!

Tambram wedding stereotypes

Tambram weddings are all about colors, Kanjeevarams and uncanny mozhams of malli poo. You may immediately register a protest claiming that the event is inherently about the two people on the stage, exchanging marital vows and it is they, who are the fulcrum of the event; the glue that binds everyone together. Of course, I cannot disagree with that. Any tambram event needs a hapless couple on the dais, one dedicated vaadhyar maama lazily chanting some slokas whilst fingering a mobile phone, a mandatory dabara tumbler filled with coffee by his side, and a couple of madisar maamis running from pillar to post. But what is the essence of a tambram wedding? What must an event possess in order to qualify as an agmark tambram event?

Don’t fret! I’ve made a list

1) The “what next” maami: The quintessential maami who likes to pop the “what next” question. She is a living nightmare to people of all age groups. The what-next maami would question the skinny, nerdy schoolboy about when his impending board exams are. She would question the 20-something  bachelor on his reluctance to shed his singular status. And for a society that is remarkably hush hush about …  err, certain delicate matters, this maami would demonstrate her progressive nature by popping the “when is the child coming?” question to couples.

2) The puritanical English speaking maama: This maama loves to indulge in Wodehousian English. He would begin any conversation with “In those days…” and go on to explain as to why the early 20’s were the best times to live on the planet. He would lament about the younger generation’s irreverence towards the Queens’ language and would also randomly quote George Bernard Shaw. If Shakespeare were alive, he would have attended tambram weddings with the sole motive of listening to such discourses and taking down notes.

3) The Hindu-maama: In the midst of the ruckus that is the tambram wedding, if you spot a spectacle clad Maama seemingly uninterested in the proceedings of the day, do not be alarmed. He is in all probability, “The- Hindu” maama. The Hindu-maama visits any wedding, clutching a copy of the day’s Hindu. All the yellow rice throwing, petals showering and loud nadaswaram playing can in no way disrupt his austere activity. He would start reading the paper when the groom sets out on his kasi yatrai, read more when the oonjal ceremony is in progress and read some more when the groom ties the mangalyam around the bride’s neck. What does the maama do when he is done reading, you may ask? The maama simple pulls out a pen from his breast pocket and immerses himself in the literary fantasy that is the Hindu crossword.

4) The NRI maami: The NRI maami has just landed after her first visit to the “states” and will leave no stone unturned in order to drive home the point to every stranger she meets. Armed with an iPhone 3GS and a suprabatam ring tone, this maami will recount her English Vinglish tales to any unassuming person who makes the mistake of lending a ear. Be prepared to listen to details of her west coast tour( bay area perumala sevichelo?), her shopping spree at Macy’s and how she made mor kuzhambu for a bunch of home sick Indians.

5) The ‘bakshanam’ maami: No, she is not the maami who hops from one house to another during Deepavali season to makes bakshanams for its inhabitants. This is the maami who will sneak into the kitchen during the pre-lunch time, bribe the cook and neatly tuck away some yummy bakshanam into a plastic cover for later consumption. She is also the same maami who will later complain about the absence of the complimentary baadusha + mixture packet in every tamboolam pai.

6) The match making maami: This maami is the walking encyclopedia of eligible tambram  bachelors/bacherlorettes. There isn’t a single (pun intended) man or woman, who can escape from her radar. She loves handing out horoscopes to anyone who wants one and also gives you a one minute gist of the boy’s profile in reverse chronological order including his board exam score in mathematics.

A few other stereotypes that have been pointed out by thoughtcheckin

1) The handycam mama, who is recording every single thing, to send to Anu in Sunnyvale

2) The ‘Khanna’ kids, who, although being Parthasarathis, will wear ghagra and lehenga for muhurtam and call the pradakshinam as pheras and will have mehendi and sangeet as though it is Priyanka Chopra’s wedding

That big block…

I greet the first rays of the sun with half open eyes. I can feel that familiar sense of dissent spreading through my body. With clockwise precision, I fill my cup with the hot, brown stew. As I take a measured sip from my cup, I can feel the caffeine traveling through my veins. I can feel it awakening my sleep deprived brain. My eyes lighten. I feel rejuvenated. Another sunny day. A day filled with possibilities.  With renewed vigor, I spring from my sofa only to hit my head against something solid. I nurse my injured forehead and take a second look at my obstructer. I find a giant, wooden cube taking up my living room.  I have no idea how this piece of wood found its way into my nest. Puzzled, I give it a gentle push. I feel a sharp pain as tiny droplets of blood start to appear on my fingers. I suck my injured finger; my other hand scratching my head. I know that I have to get rid of this ugly block, but I don’t know how. I bandage my injured fingers with my dupatta and inspect the wooden block to find any smooth edges. I quickly proceed to summon all the energy that I have to push the cube. To my dismay, I find it standing exactly where it was. Clueless, I narrate this weird happening to the newspaper reading, coffee sipping co-inhabitant of mine. I can see a pair of eyes look away from the newspaper, towards the cube and then back again to the paper. All I hear is a small grunt about the non existence of the object in question. Disgruntled, I try my hand once more at pushing this away. I am greeted by failure. The clock ticks away and the scheduled activities of the day need my immediate attention. I decide to procrastinate this activity until the evening.

I come back to my nest at twilight and turn my key in the lock. The door creaks open slowly. I look intently in the darkness, hoping to not see that block; hoping that whatever brought it here has now taken it back. I carefully turn on a single bulb, wishing to see my living room, the way it was before. Alas! I can see that block still in its occupied territory, reflecting the light from the lone, bright bulb.  Frustrated, I kick it, only to scream in agony. I decide to retire for the day and pray for it to disappear by the next morning.

My prayers are not answered as I have to contend with that ugly block the following morning too. And the following evening. And the next day. And the following day. And the following endless days in the calendar.  Often, I try to close my eyes and imagine that it didn’t exist at all. But once I open my eyes, I know that it is there. I try to work my way around the block. I try to ignore its presence in my nest. I try to not think of it. But the moment  I let my thoughts wander,  they hit that wooden block and go no further.

As I type, I can see the block sitting happily in its fortress. I can feel it smiling triumphantly at me. It knows that it hasn’t been conquered yet. It looks at all my unsuccessful attempts and adorns a smug look on its visage. Probably, it hopes that it can make my nest its permanent abode. But I cannot let that happen. I cannot lose. I cannot let a block of wood win. I need to reclaim what was rightfully mine. I can no longer let a stranger share my roof and destroy me. There can only be one winner and that has to be me.

Determined, I gather my thoughts and pull out my laptop. I scribble the random thoughts that come to me in an aimless fashion. I stop in the middle to take a look at my opponent. I can see tiny cracks appear on its once flawless body. I start typing harder and faster. Through the corner of my eye, I can see that block disintegrating. Smiling wickedly, I compete my keystrokes and hit the ‘publish’ button. Satisfied, I turn to face my blackmailer.  I see the once immovable wooden threatener now burst into flames. I unflinchingly stare at the block burning to ashes.  Calmly, I blow away the fine powder that now rests on my floor.

I shut my door and heave a sigh of relief.

The writer’s block has been demolished.