Moorish Escapades

My only knowledge of Morocco comes from the movie Casablanca, which I later learned wasn't even shot there.

Before we left, I had mental images of Oriental splendour and deep dark intrigues in narrow alleyways. I wasn't disappointed.

The Riad - A home away from home

We spent most of the five days in Marrakech, in Southern Morocco, a couple of hours away from the sea. We decided to stay in a riad which are old Moroccan homes converted into guesthouses.

They usually have 3-5 rooms each and the owners or care takers stay on the premises. You get home cooked meals, a flavor of Moroccan life, and a chance to meet other tourists as well.

Riad Ghallia - on Derb El Khemis, Place Mokhef

Our riad was in the heart of the Medina (the old city) with streets so narrow that taxis had to drop us off on the main square. Maps aren't really reliable amongst the tiny unmarked streets and its best to orient yourself well during the day so you don't get too lost.

The Square and the Souks

Djemma El F'na, the central square in the Medina at the heart of the old city is a designated UNESCO world heritage site. With snake charmers, dancers, mini boxing rings and story tellers, the square buzzes with life.

While a lot of tourists do visit, a large percentage of the patrons are locals for whom the story tellers etc are a nightly entertainment.

The square also has innumerable stalls selling freshly cooked cous cous, calamari, dry fruits, juices, pastillas, snail soup and more.

Djemma El F'na - the main square in the Medina

Just off the square is the intricate maze of the souks. We spent hours browsing here for knickknacks from intricately worked baboushes (shoes) to spice holders shaped like tajine pots. Bargaining is elevated to an art form in the souks and we learnt that a good bet is to quote 20% of the salesman's initial figure, and expect to pay about 30-40%!

The Souk

A Gastronome's Paradise

The one great thing about travelling from the UK is that things are invariably significantly cheaper ever where else. If NY seems affordable, Marrakech was like paradise. We ate at some truly exquisite restaurants including La Trattoria and Pacha Marrakech

La Trattoria is an Italian restaurant in the heart of the new city (Gueliz). They have a beautiful bar and a delightful restaurant by the poolside. With warm fires blazing in the winter and excellent seafood, it was a great evening.

Pacha Marrakech is the newer, younger sibling of Pacha in Ibiza. Apart from a world renowned club, they also have two restaurants with luxurious decor and decadent indulgence all around.

The Ruins - Palace El Badi

At the southern end of the old city is the Palace El Badi, next to the Mellah (Jewish enclave). This 16th century palace was built by the Saadian king Ahmed El Mansour based on the design of the Alhambra palace in Granada. Much of its splendour was lost when it was stripped by a subsequent king, Sultan Moulay Ismail, to decorate his palace in Meknes.

El Badi Palace

Essaouira

After a few days in Marrakech, we decided to head to the seaside, and went to Essaouira. Earlier called Mogador, Essaouira literally means "well designed". And well designed it is! A beautiful tiny seaside town on the Atlantic coast, its white walls and buildings give it a very Meditteranean feel. We lunched here (you do notice the amount of eating we did!) at Les Alizes - which served up some delightful Moroccan fare, including the inevitable tajine.

We spent most of the afternoon sitting in a cafe in the port, facing the sea, enjoying the sun and reading our books.

All in all, a wonderful way to spend Christmas!

Every day at 3.30pm

The sun shines through the corner office and hits me in the eye.

Sun worshipper that I am, I enjoy seeing its gold orange glow reflected off the modern steel and glass structure opposite the window, and I imagine briefly, that I am sunning myself on some tropical island..

And I wish I could exchange the tweed umbrella in my bag for a tiny coloured paper one in my drink.

Of the small and sundry

There is a strange pleasure in the repetition of manual tasks.

In the slicing of an apple for instance.

The knife poised expectantly above the freshly washed skin. Leaping, almost, out of my hand in an eagerness to slice through the firm red fruit.

Thick creamy slices edged in deep maroon.

Or in the crispness of a freshly ironed collar.

I lose myself in the heaviness of the iron filled with linen water. Erasing wrinkles and crumpled lines on the cotton blend fabric with every movement.

A warm cloud of steam rises from the board mingled with the smell of cotton and detergent.

How she made sambhar in the London borough of Tower Hamlets

She waves her hand above the saucepan. The oil is hot enough. She throws in the mustard seeds that burst into life, crackling. Adds the chopped onions. Saute the onions until translucent.. she reads her mother’s neat handwriting. Recipes written for onions that were bright violet in the cart that Muruga brought around every morning. Her mother would run down in a nightgown and haggle merrily with him before returning with the day’s vegetables. Small tomatoes, potatoes still covered in spots of mud. And a handful of bay leaves that he would throw in for free.

How would she be able to tell, here where onions were white, in clear plastic bags under the bright lights of the vegetable aisle at the Tesco?

She guesses the best she can while measuring out the spices. It takes several tries to get it right. Too much salt (add some potates to soak it up). Too little tamarind. Finally, she adds the sambhar podi from a tupperware container.

Neatly labelled in tamizh, packed and sent from home, brought over by a cousin returning from a vacation. It was saved for a special occasions - when she was cooking for friends, when they were having people over. If it was only for her, she’d just throw in the “Hot Chilli Powder” (suitable for Indian curries) that she buys at the store.

But today although she's dining alone she uses the sambhar podi. On this rainy Sunday afternoon, she's trying to recreate, in Liverpool Street, a tiny slice of Abhiramapuram.

Time 'n Tide

This weekend as the clocks went back, I gained an hour. A precious gift on a chilly Sunday morning with two 1 AMs

Instead of going back the entire hour at one go, like the rest of England and Europe (Yes, as someone who had to fill countless forms, shell out a 100 quid and jump through hoops to get a visa to Europe despite living in London (or is it because of), I still think they're two very seperate entities), I savoured and spent this hour throughout the day.

In the morning when I woke up, and wanted to snooze a li'l while longer - I gave myself twenty more minutes of Sunday morning under the covers - a very guilt free snooze unlike Monday or Tuesday morning snoozes where you know that the later you get up, the more emails you'll have to deal with in one go.

In the afternoon when I met girlfriends over for lunch, I gave myself an extra half hour of conversation, laughs and gossip before I had to leave.

And this morning, when I ran into work suffering from Monday morning blues, I stopped at a Starbucks, bought myself a caramel coffee with cinnamon, and gave myself ten extra minutes to savour it before getting to the rest of the day.

Now, I'm tempted to go forward every Friday evening, and give myself an extra hour all weekend!

Anti-Symmetry

My bathroom floor is covered with mats. We have two white ovals, which are not really ovals - more like elongated circles, and two blue circles. They are currently arranged on the floor in a neat row - oval circle oval circle. White Blue White Blue.

My inner self rebels daily against this symmetry. And as I sit there meditatively, I run through a seemingly infinite set of possibilities. Oval - Circles on top of each other - Oval. Blue in one corner with Whites in a straight line. Circle Circle and Ovals at right angles to each other. Blue White White Space and then Blue.

With three women trying to get to work at the same time, it is not long before I am jerked out of my morning reverie.

A Question of Character

A couple of months ago, my (currently) housemates and I were busy searching for a place to stay. We had a very simple set of requirements :

- It has to be close to work. No more than 17.5 minutes door to door by the fastest mode of transport as applicable

- The distance between the home and the nearest grocery store shall not exceed 7 minutes by walk (4 minutes if walking briskly) for the average girl clad in no higher than 1.8 inch heels.

- There shall be a minimum average of 1.2 people per square meter from 6am to 2am on weekdays and 8am to 4am on Friday/Saturday nights.

R. finally found a place that meets all these requirements. I and I (just to clarify one of these I's is me, as in myself the author of this post, the other is one of my housemates who's name starts with I. I don't have MPD.. yet) saw the photos, fell in love with it and agreed to put a deposit on it.

Before we got the place however, the landlord wanted a character reference for each of us. Knowing almost no one in London, I volunteered the name of someone I was to work with in the near future. For the sake of simplicity let us call him X.

A couple of days later, we received an email from the person handling the lettings process saying "blah blah blah gas check blah blah telephone blah blah deposit blah NatWest blah.. and Ms. Sunjahta's character check is outstanding"

I was obviously thrilled. What a wonderful beginning. It is nice to know how well one is regarded by people one is mildly acquainted with. Of course, one is of the opinion that one is upholder of moral principles and is of excellent character. Affirmation of this, of course, pleases one no end.

Until I received the following email from X :

Hi Sujatha, Sorry for not being able to fill in your charcater (sic.) form. I'm travelling in Germany.. will do it as soon as i get back on monday. Regds, X

Once all outstanding items were resolved however, one did get the house and is now happily ensconced in above. Albeit a little bit miffed at 'satisfactory' character ref.


I started this post last week. Meant to get back to it. Hit Publish by mistake. TechnoDolt

A Whale of a Time!

Over long travels far and wide, I have come to the great realization that I am a city person. I love the huge metropoli, with their sky-high real estate prices and crowded streets.


Ever so often... usually when I'm stuck in traffic for about 45 minutes on a Tuesday afternoon, I claim that I want to run away to a more pleasant environs. Where there are rolling meadows and clear air and clean water and... well... pretty much nothing else.



About 20 minutes into 'sitting quietly and contemplating nature' and I want to run to a coffee shop, take in a movie and shop at my neighbourhood grocery for everything from instant rava dosa mix to olives stuffed with pimientos.


As I said, I'm a city girl.


But on a recent excursion into more pristine environs, I had the luck to catch some of mother nature's truly outstanding creations.

Picture taken by Appa during Whale watching trip in Junea, Alaska. May-Jun 2007

Chennai Chatter

A month and a half into the longest vacation of my life. You'd think I'd be bored by now. Instead I'm having the time of my life.

I've been doing all the things I've always wanted to, and never really had the time to. Like filling in endless forms for visa applications, work permits and background checks.

I also managed to read a whole bunch of really nice books including some Gogol, Erica Jong, lots of plays - Tendulkar, Tennessee Williams, and Moliere. All in all a fun time.

Another play looms large in July, bigger than the previous one.

Plus we're going to Frisco, Colorado, Alaska on a family vacation after ages.

Much fun it is!

Of Random Conversations

Between my sister and I this afternoon :

She : If you could be any animal, what would you be?
Me : I don't know.. I'm sleeping!

She : Ok, if I could be any animal.. what do you see me as?
Me : Leave me alone.. Ok.. a .. Cat!

She : But I don't like cats.. Waitaminnnitt.. YOU don't like Cats! :(

I tried telling her about Henry James, who once said "Cats and Monkeys, Monkeys and Cats - all human life is there". She was not pleased!

Which reminded me of another James quotation, one of my all time favorites -

"We work in the dark - we do what we can - we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art. "

LTTE : Love, This, That Etc..

Miss Dolly Dilly from Walla Walla has a problem.
A big problem.
A 400 pound elephant of a problem.
Will the kind doctor be able to help?
Find out in 'Gynaecologist'

Rita plots to save a relationship and polish her diamonds.
Is all love really that fraudulent?
Are some thing better left unsaid?
Or is a full and frank 'Confession' the key to true love?

Father Joseph intervenes to help Sybil and Scotty.
Will he save Scotty before the pernicious Arabian Araq gets to him?
What will his habebe think?
Watch him tend to his flock in 'Compulsion'


Take time out this weekend to join us for asap's production of

LTTE - Love, This, That Etc.

Three short comedies about that Crazy li'l thing called love

(with due apologies to Queen, freedom fighters,

Harvard and anyone else who feels they deserve an apology)

Venue

"Top storey" Alliance Francaise of Madras, Nungambakkam.

Dates
May 5th, Saturday @ 4pm and 7.30pm
May 6th, Sunday @ 12.30 pm, 4pm and 7.30pm

Cast
Amit Singh

Anjana Iyer

Naveen George Thomas

Sujatha Santhanakrishnan

Sundar Subramanian

Directed by

Naveen George Thomas

Tickets

Rs.100/-

Available at

Landmark, Apex Plaza (Nungambakkam)

Alliance Francaise of Madras (Nungambakkam)

For further details call

98411 17773

98402 46196

Writer's Block

There are several reasons why someone might find it physically impossible to write. Some of these reasons include :
* Boredom
* The lack of inspiration
* A general laziness seeping into the system after weeks of lazing around, eating mum's food, and watching meaningless television

I however, have no such excuses.

Over the past few months I've travelled a lot, read a lot, changed a lot (Yes! Once or twice a day) and sat in enough airports to be able to atleast come up with three interesting things to say about AirDeccan, Gujju travellers or Delhi women.

However, every time I sit down to write, the words just don't come out!

There is a certain pressure that what one writes must have meaning, must be profound, must be funny. After all, the point of any writing is to make a person laugh, or to make a person think. Hopefully both.

Yet, everything I think about writing seems insipid, or mundane.
Hence, I'm taking the easy way out and writing about not being able to.

Amen!

So Long, Farewell

Isn't it funny how an entire lifetime can be summed up in 7 cardboard boxes and a cup full of loose change?

Night Riders Inc.

The distance between Vastrapur and Gandhinagar is roughly 30 odd kilometers. The roundtrip took us about 1.5 hours and 74 km on an open highway. Before you do the mental math, let me clarify that its true what they say - The average man will sooner have a body part waxed than ask for directions!

My personal sense of direction has always been a little, shall we say, off. K. is, if possible, much worse :)

We left campus at 2 am and immediately proceeded for 10 km in the wrong direction. To give us some credit, we went in exactly the opposite direction. No mean feat that!

There's something about the wind in your hair on a cool morning, an open road, and no destination or timetable in mind. For as far as we could see, the road was ours.

As Sally says, in Cars

Well, the road didn't cut through the land like that interstate. It moved with the land, it rose, it fell, it curved. Cars didn't drive on it to make great time. They drove on it to have a great time.

And we ended with piping hot parathas at a roadside dhaba..

A pic of me at a sign saying Gujarat Tourism welcomes you

My Morning Run

I used to sleep at 4 am. Then it became 5. Nowadays, I usually sleep by 6.30 - 7 in the morning. Sometimes not even then. To say my cycle has turned upside down and inside out is an understatement.

For the past week or so, I've been going at 6 am to get chai from the roadside shop opposite the campus gate. Its usually an motley crew of people who're awake. We've usually spent half the night chatting, talking, or just hanging out and watching the stars at LKP. And then at 6, we get on DBab, message everyone who's online, and head for chai. Steaming hot cuttings of sweet chai, with half the junta heading to the tiny cart around the corner for cigarettes. The most amazing and mundane conversations I've had here, I've usually had over morning chai.

I have two classes left. One paper and two exams due before I'm done.
Unless I decide to go back to school at some point of time, this could be the last time I 'study'.

I feel the pressure to say something poignant, something significant about this experience. But it won't come now.. the memories, the nostalgia..

Later maybe, a few months from now when I realize with a pang that I miss the complete freedom of an academic environment. No fixed schedule. No real responsibilities. And no real pressure.

Maybe when I'm working, I'll look back and think about this time, when I had nothing to do except plan holidays and read books.

Right now, I'm just having too much fun.

Go Goa!

Before we left, we tried to understand the term susegad. From a variety of travel guides and internet resources, we gleaned the following :

Susegad, is a way of life in Goa. It's roots lie in the portugese word socegado which - loosely transalated - means 'laid back'. A less charitable reviewer even called it 'indolent'.

What is true however, is that the pace of life in Goa is slower, much slower than anything I've ever experienced.



In our quest to have a 'real beach holiday' we scouted around for a quiet, non-touristy beach. We finally hit the jackpot in South Goa near Palolem where we found a piece of unspoiled coast. For as far as the eye could see, we were the only ones on the beach. Four days with no cellphone access was a completely new experience for me. I'd never been so 'out of touch'.

Most shops open only at 10.30, only to promptly close again at 12 for 'breaking time'. At breakfast one day we ordered something called a 'transcendental juice' only to be told that the cook hadn't managed to go shopping that day. Something that would've elicited some frowns anywhere else, seems perfectly reasonable in Goa.

One afternoon we went shopping in Palolem and I sighted a pair of bamboo slippers that I wanted to buy. When I asked the shopkeeper if I could try them on, he said (with a smile) "er.. No Ma'am, I have only one pair..".

I don't think I have an accurate definition for what susegad is, but considering how happy everyone seems - I think they may have hit upon a good thing!



On the whole, it was four days of lying on the beach, getting sun, napping all afternoon, staying up till 2 am talking, reading on the deck and lazing around. On our last day we finally roused ourselves to go to a more commercial beach and managed to jetski, parasail, and fall off a contraption called a 'ringo' boat into the deep blue sea.

I can't wait to go back!

Miscellany

I've been so lax about this blog lately - rarely writing and staying away from it for weeks at a time. Not that particularly interesting things are happening in my life. But I have been reading a lot. And watching a lot of Sex and the City.

Museums and Manolos

How does a thirty something afford a 100+ shoes each of which costs $485? How can anyone really afford to live in the upper east side and own Chanel? Logic and reason clearly do not apply here.

But there's something uniquely enjoyable about this hit show that lasted six years. M observed yesterday that it shows New York in a very different light. New York is not all about museum benefits, terribly expensive shoes and Bungalow 8. And she's right. But its not just about coffee shops and purple walls either. I guess its just one tiny slice of life in the big city.

Yet, this is terribly addictive, simply cos it shows women in a different light from the traditional stereotypes that popular television slots them in. While the "Why doesn't he call" cliches DO exist, they are not the be all and end all. On this show atleast, its clear who has the (excuse my language) balls ;)

Mancini

Confession : I've only seen a part of Breakfast at Tiffany's. But I love the theme song. Moon river however wasn't Mancini's most famous composition. He also composed for Love Story, Godfather etc.

After a gap of several years, I recently bought a CD. An actual physical music dissemination device. Even in this age of BitTorrent and InstiLANs, we need them sometimes.

ChickLit

The term ChickLit is reserved for books that are :
a/ Usually pink (or in a sharp departure from the traditional - a baby blue)
b/ Have loopy cursive titles
c/ A story line that can be broadly summarized as :
* Twenty something woman in New York struggles to find herself
* Works hard and suddenly finds success
* Cannot find man despite dressing well, having ash blonde poker straight hair
* Meets Mr. Wrong
* 276 pages later - realizes Mr. Right was under her nose all along
* end of story :) Roses and Champagne are usually involved at this point!

Yet there's something magical and endearing about this genre. This is Mills and Boons for the next generation of women who have careers and want it 'all' but still dream of knights sweeping them off.

Mostly, they're light, fluffy, comfortable and are the literary equivalent of gooey chocolate cake. Comfort-Lit.

I must guiltily admit to devouring tonnes of them the past few months. It started in New York mostly because books are so hooribly high-priced there. No wonder almost everyone watches tv instead. I finally stumbled upon the 3 for 2 section where I found 2 books I'd been meaning to read. After going through the rest of the section twice, I finally just picked a pink book without really glancing at the title. (Can you keep a secret by Sophie Kinsella for the truly interested). Was immediately hooked!

Frontiers and Futehally

I usually tend to avoid award winning authors. I haven't really figured out why, but I prefer unearthing my own gems in some forgotten corner of my favorite bookstore. I pick up books without ever having heard of the author simply because the blurb grabs me. And I still haven't read The God of Small Things (there, I've said it.. Sue me!). Somehow the idea of trudging through award winning prose bores me. 18 lines into a review of The Inheritance of Loss and I get the feeling I'll never be able to pick up the book.

There have been a few times when I've been pleasantly surprised though. Jhumpa Lahiri is a favorite example. I picked up the Interpreter of Maladies on a whim and fell in love. Other gems include Chitra Bannerjee Divakaruni, Ladies Coupe by Anita Nair. Do you notice a very strong female bias?

Once, early in a month (when I'm usually flush with pocket money) I re-read Catcher in the Rye. On an impulse, I bought Franny and Zooey. What an amazing turn of prose! What a picture he paints!

I've had my fair share of mistakes too. Lolita for example, was bought after hearing that it was one of 'those' definitive works. Another book with its covers too far apart (to paraphrase Churchill)

Recently, I came across a review of Futehally's prose and decided to check out her posthumous collection of stories titled Frontiers. It was in one word - Amazing.

When I was younger, I remember trying to come up with ideas for my contribution to the school newletter. I didn't know about writers block then but I knew I couldn't think of a single thing! I came across a rather 'global' piece of advice - "Write about what you know". When I later thought about it, this is probably the best advice you can ever give a writer. Shama Futehally had followed this to a T, and it shines in her prose. She crafts tight personal spaces and slices a neat knife through them - opening them up in ways I've never seen before.

Her prose makes me stop, put the book down, and think. In short, she is the kind of writer I want to be when I grow up. Read the book - you will not be disappointed.

Auld Lang Syne

A friend recently observed that January 1, is simply an arbitrary end to a certain time period. It is not spring (traditionally the beginning of a new year in several cultures). It is not harvest. It is not Christ's birthday (that's 5 days earlier), it is not the longest day and it is not the longest night.

What's so special about this one date that makes us all glam up, party all night, buy new jewellery, make new resolutions and sing Auld Lang Syne?

Is it simply a chance to relive the past one year? A chance to think about the happy times, forget the sad mistakes and gear up to make completely new ones over the next 365 days?

I remember making resolutions every year. To lose weight, to keep a diary, to suddenly change all my bad habits or to undo all past errors. This year, I promise nothing of the sort. I've spent years making plans - assuming my life would follow a fixed path towards some destination, and getting frustrated at deviations from the same.

While getting to the house with the picket fences and kids is important, I think its equally important to live life now (do I sound like an alcohol/music brand ad yet). Cliches aside, I want to live in the here and now, and let the big stuff work itself out.

Que Sera Sera.

Happy New Year to all of you! May all your dreams come true!