Encounters of a different kind...

Yesterday, I was the queen of melodrama. No, I didn't don any grease paint, spout inane dialogues or act in any lengthy tele novella that lets you catch up on the same scene with little changed even a year later. I just went into shock. And, there in unfolds the whole drama.

I was at the National Photographic Salon organized by the Photographic Society of Madras at the Lalit Kala Academy on Greams Road, Chennai. This was the perfect opportunity to study the different approaches of fellow photography enthusiasts, learn from them and hopefully better myself. After going through the various sections including Water, Temples of India, Monochrome, Streets at Night and entries from the Club members, I diligently avoided the Flora and Fauna section.

Psst. I have to admit. I suffer from a strange (but not all that uncommon) phobia called Ophidiophobia - A fear of all kinds of snakes. Yeah, most snakes are harmless and chances of encounters with those slimy skinned, beady eyed, venomous monsters in a concrete jungle are next to impossible. Although many humans living in that environment would automatically fit that description, I really am not scared of them.

Snakes can't be blamed. It is just me. A symbol of the devil to Christians, yet adorning Lord Shiva's neck and attaining a diviine status in Hinduism or deemed a phallic symbol in psychological interpretation when appearing in dreams, snakes have a long history of association with man kind. And yet, I think mankind is historically hardwired to be scared of them. Many years ago, I had decided to conquer my fear and fed myself to 5 minutes (speaking of which, 300 seconds does seem like a very long time) of snake viewing on National Geographic. Thought, more exposure will get me acclimatized. Beats me to this day, why I did it. I didn't sleep or eat well for 3 days after. My phobia has only gotten progressively worse.

So, I avoided the flora and fauna section for fear of being exposed to a snake's tail. One friend kindly warned not to go near a section where there were some pictures of the slithery beasts. While another friend encouraged me to go bravely coz he had turned over the offending (at least to me, they were!) pictures so I could see the others at least. Despite his well-meant effort, I did see one brown speckled (or one too many, I don't know) snake in an exhibit (my friend had inadvertently missed this one) and then unfolded my trauma. I gasped and then just couldn't get a sound of out my trachea. Believe me, if I say so, that is nothing of short miracle to subdue my usual garrulity. Here I was, huffing and puffing and just trying to convert air to words to convey my misery. The laws of conversion of energy simply failed. Mechanical energy wouldn't and couldn't become sound energy. A few minutes later, I was retching near a balcony, shaking in morbid fear, 2 friends trying to hold me and calm me down. As irrational as it sounds, I was afraid that something would still creep up my back and get me. A plastic water bottle got crushed out of shape in my sheer nervousness and resembled a limp thread. All this while, friends surrounded me giving courage and saying, "Trust us, nothing is gonna happen. We are there with you."

Yet, my joints ached, my neck felt like it was swollen, teeth clattered non stop, I pulled skin off my right palm and imagined snakes rolling near my leg in my friend's car and I couldn't close my eyes. Irrational fear despite being surrounded by caring friends in a car for heaven's sake. As Edgar Wallace said in The Clue of the Twisted Candle, "Fear is a tyrant and a despot, more terrible than the rack, more potent than the snake." Irony, that fear is said to be more potent than the snake. What do I do about my phobia then?

A different kind of time zone

Yesterday, I went to pay the telephone bill. The online portal for BSNL refused to recognise our customer number so I had to go in person to check it out. I was directed to the accounts section where one bored AAO (Assistant Accounts Officer - only in the government services do you get designations like these!) got up to help after finishing her very important gossip session with her friend on the office phone. Her computer was not working, so she found another but had to move a fan which caused major discomfort for another colleague who was enjoying the breeze. So, for some time, there was a tussle to position the fan to get the maximum breeze and not to hinder sitting next to the only working desktop. After this, some banter ensued on why centralised air conditioning was required. I waited patiently.

After a good 20 minutes since I first went to the office, the desktop booted and just when the consumer billing screen came up, the power went off. She said, "See what and all (sic) we have to put up with?" Yeah sure. Then, she handed over my bill to her supervisor who told me, "May be, there is something wrong with your computer?" Okay. If their site refuses to recognise my consumer number, my laptop ain't working? I had to explain everything again. Mercifully, the power returned and the supervisor started hunting for another working computer. 5 minutes later, one was found and before we could say "Pay," the power went off again. The supervisor smiled wryly and said, "Why don't you just go to the telegraph office (the building next door) and pay?" Okay, it was the last day for payment, I had already spent an hour there and I was also plainly amused to see how far this would go.

Off I trotted to the next building. There was a huge queue of people waiting in the hot sun and from where I stood, the customer service section looked like a little cage with pathetic birds (the employees of course) with wings clipped. The loud churning of the diesel generator was adding to everybody's misery. Anyways, there were 20 people ahead of me. A girl with her tousled mane barely contained in a pony tail, a thin emaciated looking guy with his dirty lungi folded up in the classical South Indian style, the guy in front of me with a big kumkum mark on his head and a few odd faces which don't leave any imprint on my mind. I took my spot.

A boy from the shop next door was trying to get his diesel generator running and then I noticed him. Right next to this boy was a paraplegic with crutches trying to drag his feet. He was dressed neatly and looked very serious. I assumed that he was the owner of the shop and was supervising. Then I realised he was trying to move away with great difficulty. That was because right next to the generator was a slight slope leading to our queue. He was struggling to get to the queue. I moved aside and motioned him to join us. He smiled and nodded with a no. I thought may be, I had offended him and looked away, not wanting to embarass him any further. 2 minutes later, he was still struggling.

I went up to him and asked him what he needed. He showed 2 bills and cheques for payment. I told him to wait right there. I walked up to the head of the queue and requested the first person to allow me to pay for the handicapped person. He readily agreed. I handed in the documents and waited. A slight murmur started. 3-4 people were eagerly looking in my direction and commenting. I heard snatches of conversation. "So bad," "Can't see queue," "Idiot" and some unmentionables in Tamil. I kept smiling coz honestly, it felt like I had the power in me to irritate them for they knew not what I was upto. I got the receipts, went up to the handicapped person , gave him back his documents and joined at the end of the queue again to pay my bill.

Then, the heads started turning. I got curious stares and a few embarrased smiles. I just smiled back. I told myself. They didn't see the handicapped person and just saw the queue ahead. I saw him and only then, did I stop seeing the queue. Curiously, knowing that I had spent nearly an hour in the office with the lazy employees, I really don't know how much time I spent in the queue. I hadn't seen that either. Happens.

தாழம்பூவே வாசம் வீசு - Memories that linger...

Yesterday, I went for a hair cut at Sunflower Parlour in Besant Nagar. The parlour was dark, hot and depressing. The girls were having their afternoon siesta interrupted by me. Hurriedly, they wore back their uniforms, moved the curtains back and switched on the AC and fans. It took a while for the place to get alive again. A short North East Indian took on the job. She asked me if I wanted a new hair style or just the existing one trimmed. Having had disastrous runs in styling my hair at various known parlours/salons at Delhi, I was not in any mood for experimentation. "Just trim it," was my short command.

The girl started snipping away. Gotta admit, she was good. She went at it with full gusto. Snip here, snip there - just for trimming really short hair, she took a good 20 minutes. Nary a conversation passed between us. She called the owner of the parlour for the final finishing touches and lo, I was ready. I paid the money and got back into my car. The AC's full blast caught me.

And, my memories drifted. Back to sometime in 1982. We lived in Reserve Bank Colony and the flat above was occupied by Natarajan Mama, his wife, 3 kids and his aged mother. I don't remember the grandmother's name. She was just Mudaliyar Mami. City life could throw people of different castes to a big melting pot unlike in rural areas where people of similar castes tended to live together. Yet, identities were hard to shed or get rid off. So, in our block of 8 flats - we had families of Palghat Iyers, Sama Veda Iyers, Vadakalai Iyengars (my family), Marathi speaking Tamilians from Madurai (Saurashtra Brahmins as they were called), Mudaliars, Thenkalai Iyengars, Malayali woman married to a SriLankan (there was some funny story about this) and another flat which had several occupants over the years we spent there. Don't ask me how I know or remember this. Caste was never openly asked or discussed but we all knew. We didn't have to be adults or gossipy to know. We just knew.

Back to Mudaliar Mami. All I remember of her now is her pear shaped body. Big fat buttocks that heaved with her every laboured move. And, she had passed on her facial features to her son - even now when I see him (they have been our neighbours since 1976), this is all I remember. Sometime in the early '80s, I think I was in my 4th or 5th grade, my mother invited Mudaliar Mami to braid my hair with thazhampoo. I suppose that tradition is unknown to many these days - as with many other little nuggets we lose as we progress towards modernity.

Mami's efforts began days earlier than when the braiding really happened. She had summoned the neighbourhood pookkari (flower seller) to get the thazhampoo - not an easy task considering not many actually knew of the flower or how to use it. White Jasmines (mallis and mullais), bright orange Kanakambharam (Crossandra infundibuliformis), green Marukozhunthu (Exacum lawii), Kadambam (a delightful mix of all these and hence the name), the absolutely pretty Pavazhamalli (Nyctanthes arbor-tristis) with orange stems and white petals, the sensuous Manoranjitham (Artabotrys hexapetalus), the ubiquitous Nandiavattai (Tabernaemontana coronaria) which grew everywhere - flowers of every hue, shape and fragrance were brought to the door steps of every household each evening. But, the thazhampoo (Pandanus odoratissimus) was not very common. Mudaliar Mami had issued a diktat, the thazhampoo had to be procured.

One evening, the thazhampoo did happen. And, I lost my evening's play time. I returned home from school at 4, had my evening snack and my mom pinned me down. I couldn't go out. Mami was going to braid my hair with the thazhampoo. She showed me the poo (flower). It just didn't look like one. Long, greenish yellow in colour, it looked thin and leafy like palm fronds. It smelled different - I don't remember being overawed by the fragrance.

So Mami began her work. She cut the fronds/petals/whatever into manageable little strips of various sizes (the bigger ones would go on top of the braid and progressively got smaller for the lower end of the braid). I sat still amused at all the work. Mami kept talking even as her hands were in constant motion. Stories of princes, princesses, Indian mythological anecdotes, her own childhood reminiscences, her lament on a lost culture - everything poured forth. Once the strips were ready, she started braiding my hair. She strung the nethichutti first - a traditional bejewelled ornament with rubies, pearls and diamonds (mine were all fake!) and then came the flowers. She inserted the cut strips and stitched them on to strands of hair. It took a while - she was meticulous and I had long flowing hair reaching down to my thighs. She was done after about two hours. I couldn't see how she worked on my hair and I have no pictures or videos recorded for posterity.

I still wonder how many people would even know of, leave alone be able to practice this art these days. We have courses in hairstyling, beauty salons mushrooming in every street, contests in Discovery Travel & Living for hairstyling (I must admit, I watch and read just about anything), and innumerable products on grooming flying off the shelves. Yet, in a cold interaction with an undeniably professional hairstylist and little verbal exchange, I have nothing to remember like the Thazhampoo from nearly 30 years ago.

Since last night, only one song has been on my head. தாழம்பூவே வாசம் வீசு, தாயின் தாயே, கொஞ்சிப் பேசு - a delightful melody from probably a similar vintage as my memory. Memories that stay from fragrances that linger forever.

On some things that are hard to understand

About 3 weeks ago, I was at my mom's home and we had a visitor. Ambulu Mami. She had come to say good bye. I have known her since 1976. The years had changed her appearance very little but she had come to announce the biggest change of her life. She was going to join an old age home / senior citizen's home along with her husband.

Ambulu Mami. We lived in D42 in Reserve Bank Colony, a vast sprawling campus that was then the residence of about 175 employees of the Bank. Ambulu Mami lived in B12, the adjacent block to mine. She was fair, short and rotund (she still is), her thin hair pulled back in a tight pigtail. A big kumkum bindi on her forehead, a nine stone mookuthi (nose ring) adorning her nose like any typical Brahmin wife, matching diamond earrings, plump lips that gave her a permanent pout and always wearing bright sarees whose 6 yards barely made the rounds around her more than ample waist.

Some memories of her include:-
Her high pitched nasal voice with which she belted out classical Carnatic songs. I guess she went through the typical Brahmin childhood experience (or trauma for some) of having to learn Carnatic Music or Bharatanatyam dance. She sang alright. Chinnanchiru pen pole written by Bharathiyar is one that I remember a lot. In the evenings, she taught the neighbourhood kids "Aigiri nandini" the songs about Durga. During Navarathri, the nine day festival in September-October, kids flocked to her home for her different sundal (a dry lentil snack) preparations. On one of those 9 days, she made Aval puttu (a sweet dish made with broken rice flakes). My siblings and I loved it so much that it became a tradition for her to send a boxful every year. She never forgot to give a rupee to each kid who visited her home. Considering I had to fight hard to get even 30 paise from my dad for butter biscuits, it was a huge sum and a treat indeed.

She was an even bigger friend of my grandmother. The 30 years of age difference didn't mean much. They were best of friends. They went to the Ashtalakshmi Temple on Besant Nagar beach together. After the morning chores were done, my grandmother, Ambulu Mami and a few other grannies got together at the car shed below Mami's flat and played Thayam (Ludo). They played variations of Ludo and gossiped. When I grew older and into my teens, I started hating the gang knowing vicious gossip emanated from that corner. My grandmother who ruled over my mother with an iron fist typical of mother-in-laws seemed to have a soft melting spot for Mami who was probably younger than my mother. Strange!

I resented that even more. I had a special name for her. Her real name was Alamelu but she was fondly called Ammulu. I made it Ambulu, then Ambuli and then ruthlessly made it Ambu Puli (arrow, tiger) Mami. Somehow, giving her the moniker of a fearsome tiger and a weapon of murder seemed justified. She always treated me the same but my distance with her grew over a period of time. In the late 80's, she moved into her own flat in Besant Nagar and I saw less and less of her. I never forgot to ask about her once a year - for her aval puttu. Selfish ingrate that I was.

So, I saw her again 3 weeks ago. She came to say that she was moving to a senior citizen's home. She didn't have any children (there was plenty of gossip about why). She sold her flat along with all the things in it, kept a few precious possessions to carry with her. She described her home cheerfully. She would get a separate living quarters to be with her husband, she didn't have to cook and she could have her nook for her gods and goddesses. She was ready to ride into her sunset years in the home. My grandmother who is 93 and very hard of hearing kept peppering her with questions even after she had long answered them. Finally, paati said, "Ammulu, why do you have to go to an old age home, why can't you just stay at your own home?" Mami replied very wryly, "Mami, ungalakku ithellam puriyathu - you will never understand this."

My grandmother didn't understand and probably never will. With 3 children and 5 grand children and a full life (even if the definition can be pretty nebulous), she is still unhappy. She complains about many things. My mother finally giving up on towing her ultra-conservative line, not comfortable staying with her younger son for various reasons (mostly unjustified), not getting along with her only daughter, moping about grand children not talking to her enough (there is a remote for increasing the TV volume but is there any for increasing your own to blast a deaf 93-year old's ears?), about a 4 year great grand daughter not playing with her - her problems are manifold.

Surely, she will never understand the loneliness of a childless couple having to re-start their lives in a strange home. She may never understand the fear of losing a spouse and being left all to yourself to face the vagaries of old age. She may never understand the longings and unfulfilled desires of a woman who loved kids but never had one of her own. Paati may never understand that the things that she takes for granted or grumbles about are what makes her life fuller, the deprivation of which Ambulu Mami has the rest of her to life to figure out.

What is so original about the Sambhaar?

Last night’s dinner menu was – saadham (rice), mullangi (radish) sambhaar, kootu with peerkangai (ridge gourd) and sorakkai (bottle gourd), kathirikkai podimas (brinjal dry preparation with lentils), beans poriyal (dry side dish) and a salad of cucumber, carrot and baby mangoes. Cooking all this was simple enough. Following mom’s instructions, that is.

Heat oil in a pan, add asafoetida, a few fenugreek seeds, throw in chopped onions, let them turn pink, add pounded garlic, add 1-2 green chillies, add radish and fry a while. Add chunks of chopped tomatoes, salt, turmeric, sambhaar powder, amchur (dry mango powder instead of tamarind) and water. Let it boil down till radish is cooked and the raw smell of the sambhar powder vanishes. Add boiled toor dal (pigeon pea) and let boil again. Heat oil in a separate pan, pop mustard seeds, curry leaves and add to the cooked sambhaar. Garnish with chopped coriander leaves. It is that easy...

The Sambhaar took the longest time among all dishes – as it brewed and bubbled in the pot, I started thinking. How did this all begin?

According to the Wikipedia,

· Tomatoes came from South America. Known to the Aztecs somewhere near 500 BC, it took a long route to India. The Spanish took it to their colonies in Caribbean and on to the Philippines from where it reached South East Asia, probably including India. This was not until the 1500’s at least.

· Radish was domesticated in Europe in pre-Roman times but there is no way to determine its earlier history and domestication.

· Pigeon pea’s cultivation happened at 3000 years back somewhere in Asia.

· In Bronze Age settlements, onion remains were found alongside fig and date stones dating back to 5000 BC. There is also postulation that cultivation probably took place around 2000 years later in ancient Egypt.

· Chillies originated in the Americas and have been a part of the human diet since at least 7500 BC. After Christopher Columbus’ expedition, chillies quickly conquered the globe taking Mexico and Philippines enroute to India. Or, it came to India via Spain with help from the Portuguese.

· Coriander is native to Southwestern Asia and west to North Africa.

· Fenugreek seeds are believed to have been brought into cultivation in the Near East. Charred fenugreek seeds have been recovered from Tell Halal, Iraq, (radio carbon dating to 4000 BC) and as well as desiccated seeds from the tomb of Tutankhamen.

· Tamarind – is native to Africa, including Sudan and parts of Madagascar. But, the name is very Indian Tamar Hindi = Indian date, although it was known to ancient Egyptians and to the Greeks in the 4^th Century BC.

· Oh, there is something original to India in the sambhaar – the curry leaves, which most South Indians use it only for flavouring and never consume, setting them aside in their plates.

· And, the turmeric of which only a pinch is used – is native to tropical South Asia. Patents may have been granted to the turmeric in the Western World but it belongs to India.

Well, what is so original about the sambhaar then that South Indians salivate at its mention and swell with pride? Most of the ingredients didn’t originate in South India and not at least until the 1600s. So, some 400 years ago, there was a darn good chef, an unsung hero, who threw all these together to make the brown broth that conquered the native palates. He had pioneered the various uses of Sambhaar. Mix it in rice and eat with a vegetable dish, or eat the sambhaar with idlis and dosas or dunk some vadas in it. It is as South Indian as you can get it.

You think so? Not quite. A year ago, a charming 4 year old came to my Guragon home. I was to baby sit her while her mother needed the time to get her chores done. As the evening drew near, I called out to my maid and said, “Please get the sambhaar (sam pronounced like calm and bhaar like car) ready.” The kid quickly corrected me, “No Aunty, it is Sambhaar (bhaar pronounced like burr).” I tried correcting her right back, “No honey, it is Sambhaar,” emphasising on prolonging the last phonetic. She wouldn’t hear any of it. We went back and forth correcting each other. Finally, I told her, “Sambhaar comes from where I belong, so it has to be said the way I say so.” She was quite for a while after. When the bell rang an hour later and it was her mother at the door, off she ran. Just as the mother entered, the kid asked her mother, “Ma, hamare waale India mein Samburr bolte hain na?” In our India, don’t we call it Samburr?

Really, what is so original or South Indian about Sambhaar or Samburr?

Ordinary lives and extra ordinary moments

Today, a friend had posted this on Facebook. I was so moved by it. I am always fascinated by ordinary people, the unchanging humdrum of their lives and the apparent simplicity of it all. Yet, there are moments in the lives of these ordinary people that makes them rise above themselves and do things that they would have never imagined possible of them.

It was a moment like that in Pietermaritzburg that made an unknown lawyer the moral compass of the entire world. A moment that made Rosa Parks, a middle aged African American woman a surprising hero of the Civil Rights movement in the United States. Must have been that moment that made Prabhakaran an internationally marked terrorist. A moment that also made Nathuram Godse.

Here's to the moments that make us.

Family inheritance is a funny business...

Yesterday’s news showed stories of 3 important families, all inexplicably linked to each other. History is like that, strange but sure and inevitable.

The first story was that of Karunanidhi camping out in Delhi to bargain for ministerial seats for his family in the new Indian cabinet. He wanted 8 posts, primarily for his family – one son, one daughter and another, a nephew. The rest were for other common members of his party, ostensibly to balance out and appease regional and caste factors in the state. Thankfully, another son is already firmly entrenched in state-level politics and may take over as the Chief Minister’s mantle from his father.

The second was that of the “Familiy” of Indian politics – the Nehru/Gandhi clan. This family’s history is very much a part of Modern India’s history – struggle for freedom, the hard-won independence, the resurrection of a bruised nation, abuse of power during Emergency, the untimely deaths of family members, the torch passed on to the closest relatives, a “supreme sacrifice” of prime ministerial ambitions by a Foreign-born woman, the young scion successfully forging ahead in his political career while his sister waits in the sidelines, biding her own time.

The third story was that of the recently slain Tamil Tiger Prabhakaran and the death of his family. A day after Prabhakaran’s dead body was paraded as a show of victory for the Sri Lankan Military came the announcement that the bodies of his wife, daughter and younger son were also found in a lagoon nearby. Prabharkaran’s elder son himself had died a day earlier.

History links these 3 families incredibly. Prabhakaran was the man who murdered Rajiv Gandhi and Karunanidhi is the man who calls Prabhakaran a friend or freedom fighter or a terrorist as it suits his political convenience. Karunanidhi is also a political friend of Sonia Gandhi, the widow of the very man Prabhakaran killed. Wow!

History unifying these families apart, the events also got me thinking on the whole issue of family inheritance. Why is meritocracy a mere entry in the Oxford Dictionary? Why do you see bloodline taking supremacy over everything else? I am not being harsh on only a few people. Look all around you. Hollywood, Bollywood, Kollywood, Tollywood – sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, all follow their famous relatives’ footsteps. Seriously, how many Kollywood stars would have been given a second glance on a screen test but for their talismanic famous surnames or family identities? Let’s look at the world of business. Kids go to fancy business schools, come back and join as directors of companies by the time they turn 25 and are on a fast track program to become heads of business conglomerates. Be it companies listed on Wall Street or Dalal Street,
this is true.

Be it the world’s largest democracy or the oldest democracy, the same holds good. George W Bush has to thank his grandfather Prescott Bush for his incredible luck, not just hanging chads or Katherine Harris in Florida. His most formidable opponent Al Gore was no less blessed having Al Gore Sr. as his father. The number of political dynasties in India is plainly mind numbing. Turn to any corner of the country – there are Singhs, Yadavs, Raos, Reddys, Bahuguna, Dutts, Patnaiks etc. The Magna Carta may have happened in 1215. But, the British Commonwealth still bows its head to the Queen.

I suppose that only in skill-based activities does meritocracy truly reign supreme. Performing arts (I am not including the movie industry for obvious reasons) and sports are prime examples. Yes, there are musical lineages in both Carnatic and Hindustani classical music but they can survive and have survived only if the progeny genuinely had the talent to showcase to the world. Being Gavaskar’s son did not help his son beyond the ill-fated Indian Cricket league.

Is that why parents take an active interest in promoting their own? Is it parental instinct to provide for their own or is it genuine fear that the children cannot survive without the protective nudge from above? There is a saying in Tamil, “Vaathiyar Pillai Makku.” A teacher’s son is a dunce. Does that fear make parents fallible?

But, does blind love also impair and imperil parents? Push them to fatal errors? Was it Prabhakaran’s love that kept his family with him? Or did he think that sending his family to safety would signal a betrayal of his commitment to the Eelam cause and his suffering brethren? Was his blind affection that helped promote Charles Anthony as the head of the Sea Tigers? Why did Prabhakaran’s wife, daughter and young son have to meet with such a gruesome end?

Why else would Azhagiri whose supporters killed 3 innocent people in an attack on Sun TV’s Madurai office today be in the contention for a Ministerial post? Why would the self-styled poet Kanimozhi be rumoured to be in the race for the Health Ministry? Of the 39 MPs across parties from TN, and the 20 from across DMK, only the family is miraculously capable and deemed fit to head ministerial positions?

What but family legacy could have propelled Indira, Sanjay, Rajiv, Sonia now followed by Rahul to head the Indian National Congress, the same party under whose banner men of taller stature and persona fought for India’s freedom? Or if you have to see it differently, was his mother’s sacrifice of the Prime Ministership the right example for Rahul to spurn any power-play roles, which he can so easily claim?

Don’t get me wrong. I am not being harshly judgemental and implying that family dynasties are all wrong. The Ambani brothers have increased shareholder (and their own) wealth more than in their father’s lifetime. The Tata family has been the conscience keepers of the business community in India. Naveen Patnaik may have gotten a backdoor entry into Orissa politics but is also in the forefront of a radically fresh image in Orissa. Just that the abuse of this privilege makes me feel sad.

On a lighter vein, when I was diagnosed with Osteo-arthritis almost 1.5 years ago, I asked my doctor the reason. Why did I get it such a young age? He answered, “May be genetics, you may have inherited it.” Made sense, 3 of my maternal aunts have either arthritis or bone related problems, although they acquired it a much older age. I promptly called my mother and asked, “Of all the things you could have passed on to me as family inheritance - money, good looks, fair skin, intelligence and anything else, you chose to pass on Arthritis from your family?” My mother just laughed. Enough said.