Desicritics Author: Deepti Lamba

Fiction: Misery - Past And Present

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 2 Mar 2010 07:43:01 EST

The blades of the scorched grass glistened with a steady hot stream of piss and before the vinegar smell could permeate the surroundings the dirt of the unmarked grave silently accepted the unconscious slander. The woman with a significantly lighter kidney rose from her young flexible haunches and quickly adjusted her petticoats and saree with its liberal patterns of Swarovski crystals strewn across in cheerful patterns.

She looked around at the field of sunflowers that drooped towards the direction of absentee sun for orb of fire was setting in the opposite end of the sky in a shade of hazy red and she hissed “Aarti?! Hurry up.”

Her piss partner in crime rose from behind the thick trunk of a banyan tree with an embarrassed grin, smoothed her richly embroidered saree and quickly followed Darshini into the back of the waiting BMW.

The two men sitting in the front of the smooth mechanical beast grumbled about the poor countryside and its lazy inhabitants, ignored the women folk and as the car turned away from the dusty fields onto the road they began to discuss matters of bulls and bears and money made and lost.

The car wove through the traffic effortlessly and hungrily ate the miles that lay between Chandigarh and Delhi and the passengers within remained blissfully unaware of the fifth presence that now travelled with them. The ghost of the unmarked grave now hitchhiked in the body of Darshini.

Darshini rested her head against the plush black leather coverings and numbly stared out at the shabby north Indian countryside. The declining patches of fields taken over by monstrous industrial plants, the shabby cemented blocks of homes with their rust attracting prison windows and the never ending parade of brown humanity crawling around like heat crazed cockroaches.

In the cool interiors of the luxurious car she felt a mean streak of self pity spring forth some inadvertent tears. She raised her henna coloured hands over her eyes as if she was tired and discreetly wiped away the tell tale signs of sadness.

She stared back at the ugly scenery and reminded herself again that she was better off than those living poor lives but her heart spoke about simple joys of lives lived in slums, the bonds created by hard lives and the numerous little naked toddlers running around narrow alleys with little black threads hanging over their chubby butts to ward off the evil eye.

Her heart spoke about her being the clichéd bird in a golden cage; she being the barren canary who couldn’t lay an egg whereas her sister in law who had promptly gone off to sleep once the car started and rested her head against the car window was ripening. Darshini let her eyes rest on the six months pregnant belly that Aarti lay her hands over. It was a natural protective action of a pregnant mother but something Darshini was yet to experience.

She imagined the foetus swimming in the dark womb and felt a tightening in her belly. She imagined the maternal love welling in the heart that beat above the foetus and tried to ignore the fetid smell of jealousy. She wasn’t a mean woman she told herself and she was happy for her sister in law who stood by her side through thick and thin. She wasn’t an ungrateful woman just an incomplete one.

Closing her eyes she let the rhythm of the car lull her to sleep and the ghost residing within her drank in her unhappiness and wondered why he had let himself feel the emotions of humans.

Tied to his grave, he watched the world pass by with detachment. How many years had he stopped being human? He couldn’t count. Perhaps a hundred years, maybe more? There were no emotions felt, no anger remembered over his death, the murder committed against him by his own flesh and blood and the burial of his body to hide the evidence of crime done had not let him move on.

He lived and watched, tied to his grave like a chained dog long forgotten by his master. Darshini’s slander gave him the right to possess her flesh and without much thought he took residence and he came to rue the impulsive deed.

Sadness engulfed him and made him remember dimly his own heartbreak and the loss of his family.

Her hankering for a child reminded him of his own orphaned daughter and he wondered once again whatever happened to his little family. Time had flown and those he loved were dead memories and he was left alone, a disembodied numb energy. And now in the prison of Darshini’s body he struggled against the buffeting winds of grief and madness.

Darshini woke with a start. A vivid dream had engulfed her unconscious mind. The joyous peals of laughter of a two year old running into the arms of a strong sun burned man in dirt stained dhoti still rang in her ears. She dreamed of her breath being crushed out of her little body as her father squeezed her against his sweaty chest. She couldn’t understand the love laced with pain that emanated from her father. And in her little hands she held the handsome face of her father. Darshini remembered the gentle face, the gleaming teeth behind the thick moustache, the leathery cheeks and the stubborn chin.
In her wakened moments she realized he wasn’t her father nor she his little girl but the heartbreaking joy felt real. She belonged to someone. The love was unconditional. She wished she hadn’t woken up.

“Darshini? Are you awake?”

She met the quiet eyes of her husband in the rear view mirror and gave a nod.

“Could you call Ma and tell her we will be home in another hour?” he asked as he overtook a slow mammoth truck packed up with goods like a muffin top- a hazardous vehicle no other vehicle wanted to be stuck behind.

Darshini pulled out her Nokia phone from her small evening bag and speed dialled her mother in law’s number. Sounds of religious bells rang in her ears along with a pious voice singing shlokas in Sanskrit. She waited for a few minutes and was about to cut the line when her mother in law answered.

“Yes, Beta? How far are you from home? How was the wedding?” the sleep crusted self assured voice of her mother in law grated her nerves. The lady was nice, enough.

“Wedding went well. Surabhi looked very pretty in her bridal clothes and Ashok looked very handsome.”

Darshini went on making polite conversation and Aarti woke up as well and smiled at Darshini. Darshini’s lifted her lips in a reciprocal smile and stifled the restless urge that coursed through her senses. Open the door and jump out clamoured her senses. She could see herself jump out and get lost in the teeming humanity, to be lost forever and never to return to the web of niceness layered with unspoken pity.

The ghost identified with Dashini’s tumultuous rage. He was familiar with the overwhelming clouds of despair that drowned the human spirit in a deluge of grief and powerlessness . He held on to the masts of her spirit that lay low in melancholia and wondered what broke her heart. The hurt went deep within the caverns of her soul. His anger ,her anger, their grief, he wondered if she could feel his presence or was so she mired in darkness that her soul had lost its rights to safeguard its own body?

Her impatience gave him the impetus to speak in her mind. Why? He asked and she ignored the question and his presence. He was startled at her lack of reaction. He spoke louder in her mind Why do you suffer?

She heard the voice speak boldly in her mind and bit her lip. Her eyes swept across the car and she gripped the phone tighter against her ear and spoke hurriedly “We will be home in another hour’s time, mom. Pradeep wants a cup of tea.”

“ Me too!” Karan turned around and gave his sister in law Darshini a smile packed with happiness. His playful eyes and twin dimples in his lean cheeks
irked the hollowness within her.

She spoke again in the phone “Karan also wants tea, Ma”

“Don’t worry. I know you people will turn home hungry. My children are so spoilt. I know none of you eat properly at the wedding. I will have some hot fresh aloo paranthas ready for you along with tea ready by the time you get home.”

Her mother in law’s generosity rubbed salt against her heart.

“Ma, You don’t have to put in so much effort. And I shouldn’t have woken you up so early as it is.”

The older lady laughed in her ear “I love feeding you. Don’t worry about me. It’s just one of the ways I make sure you youngsters can’t live without me.”
Her light hearted banter made Darshini wince. She wanted to be without the old matron of a mother in law, she wanted to be without her husband, her brother in law, her sister in law. She wanted to be without the urge to have a baby. What was wrong with her? She was blessed with a happy home but she wanted to throw it all away. She wanted to drown in the dark pit and never crawl out of it. She wanted to die and never breathe ever again.

Never breathe again? What is wrong with you?! Do you know what death is all about? He asked in her mind and she promptly negated the question. Voices spoke in everyone’s mind. Only the sick took them seriously and she wasn’t sick.

Her fingers trembled as she disconnected the line and shoved the phone back in her purse. Tears clouded her eyes and she blinked them back. Why did she want to cry at every given moment? Damn! She admonished herself and missed the concerned look her husband flicked her in the rear-view mirror. Misery was her constant companion and she was so tired of herself, tired of the hunger that eat her from within, tired of the hunger to be happy, tired of the irrational desire that a baby would fill the dark void with innocent brilliance. She wanted to put an end to it all once and for all.

Hanging. That's how most take their lives. He remembered those days when the skies refused to weep for the earth and cracked soles of human feet hung from trees.

She tilted her head slightly and a slight whimsical smile slipped across her face. Suffering had become an addiction and she knew no better. Death seemed like a feasible option but hanging was an ugly mess. She preferred sleeping pills. Drink down those seemingly harmless pills and never wake up. Be gone forever. Oblivion.

There is no such thing as oblivion. He whispered and remembered eternity of suspended living. The life of an insignificant wraith chained to a tragedy long past. He wondered if there was any way he could get across to her and show her the preciousness of each moment lived.

Delusion that death wiped away all pain gave the foolish courage to take their own lives. But to feel nothing after the death was far worse. But there was no way he could let her know.

He heard the faint beating heart of the unborn child. An empty shell still waiting to be housed by a soul. But it wasn’t his right to take what could easily be his. He wouldn’t commit another wrong. If only he could reach through to the woman. His own pain was a residual of past, leavings of a ghost but she was alive.

Happiness is a state of being. It is the perseverance to go on despite all the hurt in the world. It is to believe and to hope. He whispered softly and remembered the warmth of his child snuggled in his arms, the love of his wife and the life he had led no matter how short and for that he was grateful. Peace descended over him and for few precious minutes Darshini felt a balm over her exhausted heart.

He left Darshini as easily as he had become one with her soul. The detachment was natural for he was still one with her in compassion.

The moment passed and Aarti took Darshini’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. Darshini let her hand lie in Aarti’s warm clasp for a few minutes and then removed her hand and curled it in a tight fist. She had come to hate unexpected human contact.

She continued to stare at the countryside with unseeing eyes.
They reached home sometime before six and her mother in law hugged her at the thresh hold and she bore the hug in silence, then muttered something about wanting to freshen up and broke loose. Aarti and Karan followed in. Her mother in law caught the arm of her elder son, last to enter and asked in a whisper

“Pradeep, did she take her medicines? How was she there?”

Pradeep ran a tired hand over his eyes and replied “So far so good mom. She hasn’t been irate but there still is something going on within her. And I feel we should ask the doctor for more effective meds.”

Her mother in law peeked inside the house to make sure no one was listening

“But beta, those pills will numb her down completely. She won’t be the Darshini we so love.”

Before walking in Pradeep replied “At least she will stay alive mom. Better numb than dead, don’t you think?”

His mother sighed in frustration and followed her son inside the house and went into the kitchen where her daughter in laws were pulling out plates to lay the table for fresh aloo paranthas.

Fiction: Tryst With A God

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 9 Feb 2010 08:34:48 EST

The rosy cheeked cherub grinned at her. She stared back at him. No owl hooted, no wind woo wooed against her window pane and no full moon stared down at earth demanding the presence of a werewolf. Yet there was a creature straight out of the world made of mythologies buzzing way with wings at the foot of her bed.

The cherub seemed no more than three years old. His nether parts were barely covered by a coarse cotton cloth held together by a yellow diaper safety pin. His hair was the color of spun gold and in his hands he held a bow, a heart shaped arrow and a quiver on his back.

Tacky she thought and leaned against the headboard of the bed. Her fingers tightened over the rough leather collar of her dog - Banjo the Rottweiler. She could feel the tremble of the dog's low growl caused by the intruder's presence.

The thin bedsheet that covered her naked breasts slipped and pooled around her waist. Like gentle hillocks the breasts rose from her emaciated rib cage and the narrow brown nipples capped the slumbering volcanoes.

The cherub's smile widened and he pointed the tip of the torrid heart on her breasts. She lightened her clasp over Banjo who was mesmerised by the tiny dangling pink toes of the child stranger and the low growling increased a notch. Even the dog knew that the intruder before them was not human.

She cleared her throat and asked "Lets get one thing out of the way first. I am not dreaming, right?"

Cupid raised an eyebrow and raised his arrow to her head.

She nodded and spoke as if she was making an everyday observation "There is a little greek god in my bedroom and he has a weapon in his hands. Tell me why I shouldn't let my dog have his way with you? That is if you are real and I haven't lost my mind."

Cupid shrugged and she watched his pudgy arms stretch into action. The bow's string became tight and the arrow was aimed at her head.

"Bummer!" she muttered as the twang sang loudly in her room and the arrow sliced through the air to swarm her mind with hearty heart love.

Cupid sucked in a breath. It was his turn to feel the sharp echoes of surprise resound in his mind. Couldn't be, he thought.

The arrow had stopped just inches before her forehead and was clasped between her joint palms. She threw the arrow away and glared at him.

"You are a Ninja Assasin! They are extinct." His words of protest made her smirk.

She pulled back Banjo who had risen to his haunches in attack mode and replied "No. I abhor violence. This is the result of yogic meditation. I recently mastered the art of time suspension in the local YMCA evening classes."

"YMCA?! Is that some sort of a warrior community?" he let his bow fall to his side and spoke again. His words reminded her of smooth Maple syrup over hot pancakes, of musky heat between sheets.

She let out of a husky laugh and ignored the desire that curled between her legs. "Sort of" she replied and asked "Now do you mind telling me what are you doing here before I ask my dog to fetch me your wings?"

Cupid perched himself on her bedpost and his visible weenie disconcerted her and reminded the dog of sausages his mistress shared with him without fail for breakfast.

"Why my wings when you can have me?" he asked mischievously.

"I'm not into cherubs. Thank you very much" she replied and crossed her arms over her breasts causing the nipples to get squashed. The dog put his head down next to his mistress's covered thighs and fell asleep. There was no threat apparently and he had sleep to make up.

Cupid relaxed and laid the bow over his pudgy little knees and replied "Well, tonight I have to be in this form. That was one of the conditions I had to agree to."

Her lips tightened and she asked "Conditions? What are you talking about?"

He shrugged and looked through the French windows at the moon that silently guarded the sleeping world "I was called in to carry out a hit on you. A favor for someone in high places."

"High places?! you are not making any sense. I don't know any god, demi-god or ..or-"

"Or anyone who worships us? We haven't been worshipped for a very long human time. You want to know who made me come here to make you fall in love?"

"Of course I want to you to tell me who conjured you up so you could..." she raised her hands in wide circular motions and then pointed at his bow.

"Make you fall in love." he completed her sentence. He watched her with the eyes of a hawk watching an innocent field mouse "It was Karan."

"Karan?! That techie who sits in the next cubicle at my office? That fellow barely talks to me!" she threw off her sheet with vicious kicks and the dog raised his head at the sudden movement and gave her languid look of protest.

"You humans make things more complicated than they need be." Cupid shrugged. "All he needed to do was tell you how he felt but I see now why he couldn't."

"What do you mean?" she thundered and looked around for her robe. Cupid's eyes followed her slim form, the play of her buttock muscles and her elbows that jutted out like dry knobby branches.

She yanked open her chest of drawers and pulled on a large t-shirt instead. Cupid looked at the dog and rolled his eyes in disappointment. Humans and their defense mechanisms always began with ensuring their bodies were armoured with clothes.

"Okay!" she walked over to the little perched god and asked " How did he get you to come over?"

"My mother runs what you people call a flower shop just round the corner."

"Your mother?" her mouth fell open

"She gets tired once in a while and likes to play - agony mother to humans."

She corrected him "Agony aunt."

He nodded and eyed the shirt that read - no fucking me if you won't kiss da frog

"Why do you want people to kiss frogs?" he asked

"What?" she glared at him and shook her head "Oh! its just a stupid t-shirt. Doesn't mean anything. So Karan put a hit on me?"

Cupid left the bedpost and his dimunitive form stood on the bed quite close to the Banjo who opened one eye, looked at the little child he could easily maul and went back to dreaming of pork sausages.

"No, my mother put a hit on you. I came here as a favor to my mother. If it was Karan I would have come as me."

"As you? what do you mean?" She put her hands on her waist and demanded

The cherub gave a feral smile that drowned her vagina with heavy passion. She took a deep pranayam breath in all the way to the pit of her belly and exhaled.

"I would have come as Apollo. This form is made by human perception. You would have liked that?" he asked softly.

The lust on the young face sat strangely and made her feel disoriented but she refused to take her eyes off him.

"Maybe not. Banjo would have killed you in a nanosecond. Your child form saved you from becoming Greek or Roman chops."

"Fair enough. Now what are we to do? I have a task to carry forward." he asked her softly and let his eyes run over her body.

"Do you always follow what your mama tells you to do?" she whispered back and felt her nipples tweak.

The god in his small form let his bow and quiver full of arrows fall on the bed "No. Not always. But it is a hit and I have to follow through."

She licked her lips and whispered back "I am not stopping you but you must hit me in your true form."

He stood still and replied " If I do that the hit will be mine and not Karan's."

"Fair enough." She answered back and felt her knees tremble with anticipation.

"There won't be any going back. There will be repercussions." he warned her

She shrugged and as she lifted her over sized t-shirt he changed form.

The room brightened for a second. She suspended time, stared at Apollo's muscular divinity and muttered "Oh my!"

Kensei, Our Warrior Cat

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 5 Feb 2010 00:51:04 EST

He was a gorgeous cat. People used to think he was a little lion living amongst us. He had bit of an attitude probably caused by the abuse he suffered as a kitten but was otherwise an affectionate feline. But one fine day he did what cats tend to do - he squeezed through a window I forgot to close, jumped the garden wall and fell prey to the street dogs late in the night ;

We found his body next day in the open fields behind our house. The poor tom didn't stand a chance. His body was torn into shreds. We brought him back home and buried him in the garden.

The grief of losing him still stays with me and its been well over two weeks. The house doesn't feel the same without him. Zoey, our female cat is a docile little thing who likes a bit of petting and then sleeps. Kensei on the other hand was a little tornado. He used to play with us and bug Zoey to no end.

In the middle of the night while lying in our bed we could hear things falling around the house with the cats chasing each other. But the house has now become silent and I miss those gorgeous tawny eyes and the gentle nudging he did against my feet.

Grief tends to dull with time but then it returns in the form of memories. And the wound opens all over again. People who aren't animal lovers cannot understand the lingering grief felt over an animal but that's where love comes in. Its what makes us human and loving animals comes easy - they ask for nothing and give so much.

Its taken me so long to write about Kensei who had been with us for over two years. It still feels as if he would come around the corner and patiently ask for food. He was my stink bomb, my little warrior and like his namesake he died in a fight. But I so wish he died an old cat's death in our midst.

Rest in peace, Kensei.

Book Review: Victoria And Abdul

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 4 Feb 2010 04:51:10 EST

Shrabani Basu's book Victoria and Abdul takes us into a world of love, companionship, untamed ambition, colonial grandeur, petty human emotions and fall from grace that leaves a broken heart.

Shrabani weaves the last ten years of Queen Victoria and her relationship with Abdul Karim, her Indian secretary ( also called Munshi) with brisk yet detailed narration. The love the Queen bore for Abdul caused great deal of fur flying not only in her household but also became a cesspit of gossip for the court and a source of irritation for top brass of the British bureaucracy ruling India.

Initially one may get the impression that the opposition Abdul Karim faced from the Queen's household, nobility and even her children was based on racism and social discrimination but Shrabani delved deeper and showed that Abdul's shameless desire to elevate his status and that of his family to the level of royalty was one of the main causes for his unpopularity amongst the Queen's entourage and amongst the Royalty.

Unfortunately as Shrabani points out after Queen Victoria's death most of the letters that were written between Victoria and Abdul Karim were destroyed on King Edward's command such was his shame regarding his mother's relationship with Adbul and his resentment against the Munshi.

To be fair to those who hated the high handed ambitious Mushi the Queen's preferential treatment towards her Scottish gillie John Brown in the near past made them fear that the same routine would be played out with the young Abdul Karim.

To be fair to the Queen as well, her love for Abdul Karim was that of a mother and her childlike dependence on him was probably a sign her advancing age. And despite pressure from the household, her children and despite the hawk eyed surveillance that was done of Karim's movements both within Britain and India he remained in their midst and the Queen's constant companion till the end of her days.

The rise of Abdul Karim from a vernacular clerk at the Agra Jail to being the Queen's urdu tutor and a gentleman who hobnobbed with Kings and Queens made him a darling of the press both within the country and in Europe and inflamed his enemies even further.

The skirmish between the Queen and her household continued for ten years and the go between the Queen and her employees was Dr Reid who obviously suffered the worst casualty in the war of words and veiled threats. His personal diary in fact was filled only with the pall of gloom that lay over the Queen's household over this issue.

Apart from showing the close relationship the Queen had with her Munshi Shrabani also provides detailed insight into the intricate social protocols of the time that existed amongst the highest echelons of the British Empire and how Abdul and even the Queen blundered and broke many of the sacred rules and ruffled the feathers of the lords.

The detailed research that Shrabani Basu did for this book both in Britain and in Agra has also been narrated in a matter of fact yet delightful manner.

The book till the end was intense and hard to put down. Its a must buy even for those who are not interested in history.

Travel Review: Bheemeshwari Fishing Camp, Cauvery

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 11:34:29 EST

Last weekend we wanted to get away from the city for a short trip and living in Bangalore makes such sojourns possible. We went to Bheemeshwari, a fishing camp managed by Jungle Lodges Resorts, the Karnataka Government-funded company that runs fine camps in Karnataka sanctuaries. Bheemeshwari is about hundred kilometers from Bangalore, about 40 km from Kanakapura. We drove out of the city at eight in the morning and were there by ten, much to our surprise.

The roads were butter smooth except for a few patches where a small nondescript town, a few miles before of the camp, wore a war torn look. It was quite a disturbing and dusty drive through the dilapidated town but then the deciduous greenery and rolling hillocks re-appeared and the gentle Kaveri ran parallel to the road.

As usual, there were monkeys and plastic bags littering the landscape. It seems that the Nilgiri hills are the only hills devoid of ugly fluttering plastic bags. We drove on and reached Bheemeshwari. There are two other camps along the Cauvery operated by Jungle Lodges, Galibore and Doddamakali.

The Bheemeshwari Fishing Camp has tented huts, Cottages and Log Huts. We stayed in a cottage facing the river close to the reception. The dining hall was a quite a walk for us, but one we thoroughly enjoyed. The Fishing Camp is child friendly, the food is a little spicy but delicious and the people who work there are considerate, such as Mr. Anthony, the resident coordinator, who roams around with an unloaded rifle which he points at the monkeys when they get a little too noisy.

The area is well lit and unlike B R Hills, where lights go off at ten in the night here the rooms not only has electricity through the night but each unit has an AC.

The cottages are reasonably priced -Rs 7000 for adults and 50% less for children under ten.

As usual there is no television and no cell phone connections. Its a place to relax, play with kids on the nets, play swings and of course go fishing.

The resident monkeys are quite genial, not the rough and intrusive variety we've seen elsewhere. There are also large squirrels and other small wildlife.

Swimming is not allowed, as there are whirlpools and the occasional crocodile. We spotted our first crocodile sunning itself on one of the river rocks within a few minutes into our arrival at the Camp and those around us were also excited to spot the croc without going on a 'river safari' (boat ride).

The Cauvery river is teeming with Mahaseer. These are gorgeous fish that can grow up to three feet and when caught they have to be released back in the waters. Fun fishing, as they call it, takes place early in the morning and late afternoon. We could not go for fishing since we were with kids but there were local kids at the camp who helped us fish with nothing more than a twine tied to wood. They made clumps of Ragi balls on the hooks and with a mean swing threw the line in the water.

Initially I shouted - 'Money making Scam' to Aaman as I waited holding the twine. But within five minutes there was a tug and I was screaming as I pulled the line in. I caught my first small Mahaseer, and it was gorgeous.

The slime that coats the fish made it slippery and as it flipped on the ground one of the boys caught it quickly, Aaman took a picture and we released it back in the waters.

Aaman too caught a Mahaseer, though a smaller one.

We also went on a boat ride on the Coracle. Since the boats are round we twirled around in the water and my heart thumped due to my fear of deep waters. The kids enjoyed the boat ride and were hungry pretty soon.

When we returned we had coffee, tea and sanwiches and I made Aayan read the sign that warned that swimming wasn't allowed in the waters since there were dangerous whirlpools and crocodiles in the river.

The fishing camp has a lot of photographs showing people holding the big Mahaseers and its a matter of luck whether one catches fish or one can get none. We managed to catch the baby ones without much effort and were tickled pink about it.

The food at the camp especially at night was drool-worthy. At 7:30 in the evening they had barbeque - there was tandoori chicken, pakoras and beer. People sat around and chatted and then at about 8:30 we had our dinner.

The way back to the cottage was well-lit and we didn't stumble around like we did back in BR Hills.

We saw this strange branch shaped like a monkey - it fooled many people.
We slept well at night and morning had a scrumptious breakfast before we headed back to the city.

Its best to have a heavy breakfast before heading to the camp. The rooms are available after 12 noon and food is available only from lunch time onwards.

Like us most people landed up early and on empty bellies. Also its important to carry munchies, books and other activity items like cards and board games. Remember, do not feed the monkeys nor swim in the waters no matter how calm and inviting the Cauvery may look.

Game Review: Farmville

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 7 Jan 2010 12:00:44 EST

I was anti-Facebook for a pretty long time and sometime back deactivated my account as well. I found it to be juvenile and a waste of time but I reactivated my account after convincing myself it was just another form of social media and a good way of getting to know people.

I had seen Ideasmith talk about her Farmville farm on Twitter off and on. I gave in to curiosity and decided to create a farm of my own and that was my undoing. I was plowed under and soon an avid farmer.

The game has become part of my daily routine. After sending kids to school I check my farm before I read the papers, watch the news and head off to the gym. I remember the harvest time of my crops and ensure I’m online to harvest the crops and play the game.

Initially it took some fortitude to play the game at lower levels. Money was scarce, the plot of land limiting and the rich neighbours with their gorgeous farms enviable. When I visited deserted farms I realized lack of interest in the game couldn’t be excused by lack of time but lack of consistent will power and discipline.

In many ways Farmville is like real planting and harvesting. After plowing and seeding one has to wait for things to grow and one can only plant what’s available at the level and though Zynga has the option of buying cash and coins with real money most of us realize it’s just a game and don’t give into temptation. It is best to go up the hard way from level to level and be helped initially by Ribbons and extra cash thrown our way by having bountiful harvest. Facebook reports that there are more people on Farmville than even Twitter.

Ribbons: Winning Ribbons means extra coins and XP. There are all kinds of ribbons.

Free gifts: Free gifts section opens up as one goes up the levels. There are trees, animals, objects and currently presents are still lingering around from Christmas season.

Neighbours: The more neighbours one has the more XP one can gain by fertilizing their plants, getting rid of weeds, bugs or animals by single clicks. More neighbours one has more the chances of getting one’s land fertilized and the number of gifts one gets also goes up. Also one needs certain number of neighbours before one can expand their farm.

Seeds: There are all kinds of seeds available and the crops are time bound. Some are for easy money making and others can be planted for three four days and then harvested. The most profitable plants are at the higher levels. A useful guide to the economics of Farmville is on Mahalo.

Animals and Trees: One can have a steady stream of money pouring in from animals and trees. Some can be bought from the market and others gained as gifts from neighbours. They mature and can be harvested. Horses are brushed for their horsehair while truffles can be picked from pigs.

Buildings: Buying buildings such as cottages, villas etc are expensive but they help one gain the architect ribbon, more XP and even get to the next level. Its a good idea to get a chicken coop and dairy farms to make your cows and hens more productive, and don't forget to adopt a bull for your dairy farm so you can occasionally share a calf with your neighbors.

Tips and Tricks sites: There are lot of sites which promise tips and tricks to get to the higher levels but its best to go up the regular way instead of falling for these gimmicks. One useful and legal Facebook application is the Farmville Bonus Checker, which periodically scans your neighbors' walls to check if there are any bonuses on offer.

Currently I am on Level 29 and saving to buy a manor for my farm and plan to stick it out at my farm for a while before I throw in the towel.

Aaman joined Farmville a few days after I did and after he had peered over at my farm and muttered about what a waste of time it was. Predictably enough, he soon figured it all out and was racing ahead of me, gathering the moolah, presents, and the most profitable crops. He quit suddenly over Christmas, after reaching level 31. He deleted all his crops, sold his villas, trees, and animals, and left a parting note for us hardworking farmers.

Haagen-Dazs Not Allowed in India

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 12:24:24 EST

Indian netizens are in a tizzy although the rest of urban India has yet to catch up on the news. At Select City Walk in Saket, New Delhi, the new ice cream parlour selling Haagen-Dazs ice cream put up a sign: Preview Only For International Travellers.

The individual who took the photograph and holds an international passport was also not allowed in since he was an Indian. The franchise owner who happens to be an Indian took the sign down and claims the signboard never existed but the photograph proves otherwise.

The Twitter crowd has already taken the protest banner under the hashtag #HaagenDazsucks. The news is spreading like virtual wildfire to ensure the fiasco is known to as many people as possible. After #chetanblocks and the 'Cow' moment of Shashi Tharoor, it appears, Indian Tweetizens have come of age, as far as virtual protests and mobs are concerned.

An apology from Haagen Dazs is not enough. Pressure should be put on Select CityWalk not to renew the ice cream parlour's lease. What's more people can peacefully picket outside the CityWalk mall in protest.

This is obviously a sensitive issue for Indians and a direct reminder of the Raj period when Indians and dogs weren't allowed into clubs and other 'white' places.

Times of India writer Rajesh Kalra summed it up well under the headline, Sorry, Indians Not Allowed,

Then I felt, why not use the power of the social media? Next thing I knew was that I had put up a few pictures on facebook, added a caption and also sent out a tweet with a request it be retweeted. In a few hours, it had turned into a viral and I started getting messages from angry Indians all over. Why just Indians, even friends in international media wrote to say “this is the stupidest thing they have seen in a long time”.

I didn’t stop at that. I ended up calling a few MPs I knew I could speak to bluntly and told them about it, taunting them about it.

I don’t know what finally worked, but it seems word did get around to the outlet’s franchisee and they started claiming there never was any restriction on anybody entering the outlet.

While this may be considered a victory for people power, I am still unable to figure out who in his right senses would have advised the dessert company to do something so stupid. Was it a way to generate controversy for free publicity? Did they think it will work subliminally on Indians mind that now that it has been ‘certified’ by international travelers it would be good for them too?

Whatever it is, it is idiotic. I checked later and found that the franchisee is an Indian company based in Delhi and the man incharge is also an Indian.

I have often maintained that we ourselves are our biggest enemies. Our mentality is that of slaves and we think anything is good only if its approved by foreigners, or the “holders of international passport”.

Unfortunately what Rajesh said happens to be true for many urban Indians until they do go to the US or Europe and realize its much ado about nothing. The well-lit Pizza Huts with impeccable service in India are no more than little holes in the wall, one of the many Pizza joints in strip malls along with Domino's and Papa John's. But let's give them their due - they have gone somewhat native and have lots of items for the Indian palate and like McDonald's are quite successful in India.

Designer bags and shoes are a dime a dozen and the best time to buy stuff in US is during the Thanksgiving and After-Christmas sales, from stores like TJ Maxx, Marshalls and from regular outlet malls. Exposure to the West is important for it takes away the glamour some Indians suffer from.

The issue is not about boycotting foriegn brands people can buy whatever they like but racist brands deserve to be boycotted and thrown out of the country. There is no other way of looking at it. I am not indulging in some chest thumping patriotism but stating a fact.

Some things are unforgivable.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream
(Wallace Stevens, 1923)

(Image, Times of India)

Politics - Pigs At The Trough

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 1 Dec 2009 09:19:11 EST

If we were told that Azim Premji or Narayana Murthy spent Rs. 13 crores on themselves what would we say? We'd call them all kinds of names for this sort of monstrous expenditure but if the government spends crores over a report that has been lagging for over two decades or over a now-toothless terrorist, none of us bat an eyelid. Why is that?

Is it a reflection on our government or a reflection on us who let our government and bureaucracy get away with wasteful expenditures?

Are these expenditures transparent for us to review? More importantly, is the government audit acted on seriously? So much for the Congress's austerity drive when food prices are at an all time high and power hikes under BJP's rule in Karnataka will see a hike of 40 paise per unit.

But no, none of us bat an eyelid. We cannot hold the poor for not mobilizing protests. They are trying to survive each day as it comes but its us the smug middle class driving our Tata SUVs or American/Japanese cars who have to raise a hue and cry.

Heck, we never did it under the socialist era when they ate into the coffers and made the country bankrupt and we didn't ask why the fuck are we so poor? And now like well fed pigs we whine and let them loot us once again.

Crores spent on a pip squeak of a terrorist who should have been hung long time back and no protests? Why the fuck not?

There will be people who will protest over my cuss words but not the money wasted by the government. Yes, personal morality has nothing to do with bigger picture, nothing to do with being treated like personal piggy banks by the big saabs in their bullet proofed Ambassadors.

Stay away from pointless trips to foreign lands, Mr Prime Minister, we have a bone to pick with you. We will never forget 26/11 nor the wasteful expenditure you people have sucked from our wallets in the name of national security or 'good governance'.

That being said, its time for us to move from criticizing governance to participatory governance, and from political won't to political will.

Illness, Morbid Thoughts and Lack Of Sun

Deepti Lamba — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 11:33:28 EST

Last week I fell sick and then was deprived of cable and Internet as well. The landline was dead and the cable bill had to be paid and to top it all my help went off on his usual one month leave. It seemed as if the gods were conspiring against me. Between the nasty coughs, short breaths and general low feeling, I woke up at the crack of dawn, cooked and packed tiffin for the kids and did my nasty mundane chores.

Each day seemed like the day before - lousy to the core and the nights were the worst when I had to put two pillows under my head and still felt like a fish out of water - gasping, choking and unable to sleep.

It felt as if I was the only one manning the castle. The truth couldn't be further than that. I suffered the downside of living in a nuclear family - there is no support structure to fall back on. Initally the kids fell sick, then Aaman and finally me. We were one sick family and between the chest racking coughs, watery eyes and desperate painful breaths I remembered the movie Secret Lives Of Dentists where illness brought the couple back together.

Yes, nothing like feeling like death warmed over to re-ignite the dying embers of passionate love. But for me, love was the last thing on my mind. I could hear loud coughing noises from the kids' room and from my hubby lying next to me on the bed.

We coughed and we suffered and even as the kids bounced back and so did Aaman, I remained my whiny exhausted self. Life seemed miserable and days became gloomy as well.

There was no sun for a week and it rained tirelessly. I didn't enjoy the sound of water feeding my garden, nor the cool winds but wanted the Bangalore sun to heat my muscus-ridden chest and stuffy nose.

I was one miserable chick then and even now with the occasional cough I continue to feel a bit morose. Illness does that. It takes time to get back to one's usual self after a battle with germs and viruses and more so if one happens to be an exhausted parent of a nuclear family.

When Dyscalculia Strikes

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 5 Nov 2009 13:28:49 EST

I stood at the ATM machine and fumbled. I had forgotten the numbers. There was a dude talking away on his cell phone next to the other ATM machine. I fed in the numbers and the ICICI machine showed a grumpy face. I got stressed and I had brain freeze. Numbers danced before my eyes and I felt a surge of panic drown my lungs and bank against the back of throat demanding a scream and I blinked.

My disability kicked in and I knew I had to lay off the machine. My daughter grabbed my fingers and asked why we were returning home without money and I bit back the comment that we were returning home because her mother was an idiot. Self recriminations are the side effects of my disability that I give in to once in a while.

Driving back home, I got a call someone asking for my husband's cell number and in my stressed out mode I mixed up the cell numbers. The person called back and my mind drew a blank again and panic rose again. Numbers skidded and slipped as if on thin ice before my eyes and as I shifted the gears of the car, I apologized and gave the correct number again hoping I didn't let myself down again.

The individual on the other end must have thought I was an idiot. I, too, called myself an idiot - an idiot who couldn't help herself because of her disability.

Dyscalculia is not easily accepted by people. It isn't as simple as forgetting numbers or being bad at simple maths. Its about being colour blind when it comes to maths. The brain interprets everything differently - the values of numbers seem flexible, they blend into each other like warm reds blending into the cool blues, giving you a muddy black that makes no sense. Its a vortex that sucks the person in and panic steps in, aggravating the situation further.

Dyscalculia fucks up my sense of direction. Under stress I mix up my right and my left. Put me in the driving seat and scream -right- RIGHT! and I will inadvertently take left. Stress isn't good for a person suffering from dyscalculia.

The mind shuts down, unable to process or perhaps unwilling to process. Its a disability that I have to live with and I have to live with people trying to explain to me that it isn't a disability. I then have to extricate myself from a long drawn conversation as delicately as I can since their intention is to make me feel better about myself, as if the stigma of the term disability shouldn't smudge my sense of self-worth.

But it does cause little tremors to shake my sense of well being when it strikes, and that's natural. Wouldn't a blind man feel fucked up if he found himself in the middle of speeding cars and there was no way of getting to safety? Wouldn't he rue his disability?

But I live normally despite my disability, what choice do I have? I could scream there is more to me than my disability but it isn't the world I'd crying it to but to myself in those blinding moments when helplessness gnaws my innards.

I feel like a dog bound on a short leash, knowing her potential and yet held back by what is obviously not under her control. Its a feeling I have come to accept and yet continue to rage against. Its a disability - something I have to work around, something that makes me a wee bit different from majority of people and something I have accepted but rage against once in a while.