Go, go, go

I was watching Collateral Damage yesterday when I was struck by how familiar a voice in the film which shouted, "Go, go, go, let's get moving," or some words to that effect sounded. And that was when it struck me.

It was the same voice that I've heard before in countless Hollywood action flicks where an authoritative voice needs to nudge people into collective action. I like to think of the owner of that voice as an ordinary, unassuming bloke who becomes quite another man when asked to issue a directive, nay, give out a command. For the most part, he probably goes through life quiet and unassuming, but when there is a need, his words, high-pitched and insistent to convey the impression that the speaker is in the throes of passionate action, galvanise others into strong and decisive action.

Today on the railway platform, as women commuters around me, sighting the approach of the train, gathered their wits and their belongings together for the partly physical but mostly mental exercise of leaping onto the train, one woman, who stood behind the small crowd, took a leaf from the book of our super competent Mr Voice of Authority and called out, “Ladies, train aane par sar kate murgiyonki tarah mat pesh aao. Jald se jald chadhne ki koshish karo. Come on, ladies, go, go, go.” (Ladies, when the train comes in, don’t behave like headless chickens. Get on to the train as soon as possible.)

Her words elicited a disgusted and disgruntled look from her listeners. There were one or two women whose faces indicated that if it hadn't been for the pressing business of getting aboard the train, they would surely have welcomed the opportunity to clobber her on the head. Clearly voices of authority must be heard, and not seen.

The action flick guy had the advantage in this. Because he is in a film, people listen to his voice. In real life, people have no use for voices, unless they resound within their own heads.

The Case of the Elusive E

All day yesterday, we spent in searching for E. We searched everywhere, under the table, in the bookcase, amid the onions and the potatoes, but E did not turn up.

E, for those not in the know, is one of the letters of the English alphabet. It is a red letter, 1.5" tall, with a circular magnet attached to its back. Until yesterday, it dwelt peacefully with A, B, C, D and 21 others in a little box that came with my 19-month-old daughter's slate.

One day ago, it was there. One day hence, it was not. Life is like that. All search attempts and rescue missions proved futile.

In the absence of the most overworked letter of the English alphabet, the others are maintaining a stoic silence, unaware (or unwilling) to reveal the whereabouts of their missing comrade.

I, meanwhile, have not given up hope.


Dear E,
If you are reading this, please return home soon. All is forgiven.
Love, Mama.




Nearly 12 hours later. Today: E returned home without a word of explanation, seemingly careless of the heartache we had all gone through. What could we do? We could not subject him to third-degree methods to arrive at the truth. We decided to let it go.

First Day in Bloggerland

Finally I've taken my first few steps in Bloggerland. And already it feels a lot like home. I think to myself, "Cynthia, old girl, what took you so long?"

My discovery of Bloggerland was more a matter of serendipity. Little Lucy in The Chronicles of Narnia, an immensely likeable book by CS Lewis, and little Alice of Alice in Wonderland fame would be familiar with my experience. I don't remember the name of the recipe that led me to my first blog. What I do remember is that browsing through that first blog, Nupur's One Hot Stove, was an amazing experience, setting me off on an amazing journey of discovery. It was like being let loose in Ali Baba's cave.

This blog then introduced me to a host of other blogs such as Indira's Mahanandi, Sia's Monsoon Spice and Meena's Hooked on Heat. Together they made a foodie out of I-only-eat-to-live me. Their recipes, the photographs of the wonders they whipped up in their kitchens, and the stories they tied their blogs with, everything was a treat. Above all, I felt humbled by their generosity, by their willingness to let total strangers take a peek into their worlds, and be the richer for it, by the honesty with which they shared their recipes, their experiences and their cultures.

I have never felt very comfortable about following recipes shared by noted chefs and recipe sites. I always suspected that these guys were not quite so scrupulous about an ingredient here and there. But with my blogger friends, I have no such qualms.

Thank you, dear bloggers. You have re-introduced me to the fine art of cooking. And encouraged me to write my very own blog. Muchas gracias!