Curry Chicken Pizza Rolls

(A Proud Parental Moment)

I reckon most parents secretly harbour a fantasy. They would live all their life for just one such moment.

Imagine.

Your child stands up on a stage to receive a worthy award – A Nobel prize, or an Oscar or a Medal of Honour or something on those lines, and makes an acceptance speech. Usually, the kids are older in life and you are aged, sitting in the front row and the camera cuts to you and your expressions as your child begins to say

"…And I would like to thank my mother (father) for all they have given me…"

Maybe your child chokes a bit, proud and happy tears stream down your face and you are smiling widely showing all teeth or your false set of teeth and wave to the camera setting aside your crutches or from your wheelchair, millions of viewers each wish they were in your shoes and many quietly wipe away a tear.

Well, a few of us parents can make it to that. But we can all have countless other moments that are just as rewarding if you feel the way I do.

I have two children, a boy and a girl, one a teen and the other a tween. As expected at their age and having grown up in these times Australia, near Melbourne (truly worthy of being called the Food Capital of the World), in this era of Master Chef, My Kitchen Rules, Australia Has Got Talent and all such reality shows, my children often exhibit upscale and upmarket expectations regarding the food on their table (or often the floor in my house where my native Indian habits persist).

The following are just some of the stated expectations of my little masters:

1) The food has to be tasty (as per their own definition), look good, smell good, presented ('plated' is the current fashionable operating word) like they do to the judges on the cooking shows. My daughter does a mean impression of Matt Preston chewing and commenting – she is the less demanding of the two! Plates cannot have traces of food trailing from knives or forks, they need to be wiped off clean. Different items on the plate should be well separated. Each plate presented should have a fresh knife or fork or spoon.

2) Each meal or snack has to be ‘appropriate’ as deemed by the esteemed judges – no mixing ‘breakfast’ items like eggs for lunch or dinner or vice-versa.

3) No mixing cuisines of different nations or cultures – I often Indianize (curry as the Aussies say it) many Italian or Aussie foods and it is a definite No-No! Even though many of my Aussie friends love the multicultural taste of my renderings.

4) My authentic ‘Indian’ dishes (that they do enjoy) are OK for eating at home, but not to be served when their friends (particularly white Aussie friends) are visiting.

5) No messy, wet or ‘Indian’ looking dishes, ‘gross looking' food, or ‘browned fruit’ to be sent as school lunches or snacks - their ‘friends’ or ‘enemies’ at school make fun of them and it spoils their cool image among their colleagues.

6) No dish to be repeated ‘too often’, the definition of ‘often’ being the prerogative of the judges. Leftovers cannot be in the next following meal. They have to be spread out. This from the same kid who wanted chocolate spread toast for all meals when of single digit age, or from one who can eat at McDonalds or KFC or Pizza Hut for the rest of the life. Chips, pizzas and fizzy drinks seem exempt from this rule, but I use this same rule on those very items.

7) School lunches have to be elegant to handle, to throw away the container or package and not mess up their hand – apparently it has to be something they cannot use two hands for – that would be too cumbersome and ‘difficult’.

8) School lunches or snacks have to be designed to be consumed within 1 minute – else they do not have enough time to eat among all the play and more important activities they have to participate in during ‘lunch’ time.

9) The dish made every time has to take into account the preferences and taboos for each judge/tyrant at home – one will not each mushrooms, pineapple, or anything with chillies or the latest meat exclusion (this can vary weekly). The other will like chillies, but not eat carrots, pork or beef – only chicken, and wants food that does not need much chewing if affected by mouth ulcers.

10) The foods also have to reflect the seasons, weather and the personal moods of the judges, be healthy and balanced. Fortunately, a good salad seems to be an appreciated favourite with both judges.

11) All recipes should be authentic (not something made up by me). Basically it has to be authoritatively proven to be a ‘recipe’ either in a book or on the Internet. Anything, I come up with, is deemed ‘not  THE original’ or ‘not authentic’, never mind the fact that I sometimes point out – "All recipes were made up by someone at some point!"

12) There has to be restaurant or café bought food in the mix of the kids’ weekly schedule with me. They spend alternate weeks with me.

As you can probably infer by now, I have, as a result of all these rules, a multicultural, dynamic kitchen that offers personalised service at all hours of the day and night, in addition to providing other essential services of banking (shopping), laundry, house cleaning, gardening, chauffeuring (I fail in some important expectations in this area, I do not dress smartly enough, I do not drive a cool car – but a clunky bus, that some kids do think is cool), homework support services, nursing and as a sparring partner in sports – boxing, dancing and tennis, even with my crook knee). But coming back to the food, I often do not need to purchase food alternate weeks when the kids are away and can comfortably live on the leftovers and food remaining and still eat well.

Still, I strive to provide ‘good, tasty food’ to my kids. I get brutally honest feedback. Occasionally, I am rewarded by ‘That was good, Dad, make it again", or "That was good, Dad, but don’t make it again this week, or too often."

There are even some of my own inventions that are regular favourites. These are some of the proud, parental moments that, I am sure, most of us are fortunate enough to garner from life and savour them.

If you asked my kids to give a rating from 1 to 10, as is fashionable these days on TV and they will do so willingly, about my cooking, I expect I will average a 5 out of 10.

But the other day, I knew I had scored a 10! It was a great feeling. After many attempts at variety and juggling with the list of expectations, I created my own ‘recipe’ - Curry Chicken Pizza Rolls. Did not tell my kids it was my own creation – just packed and sent it.

That evening the kids came back from school, not much said. Their lunch boxes were empty. I was relieved – no complaints from the judges either. If they did not like lunch, they usually let me know, even if they finished eating it "Dad, dont make it again!"

Later that evening, casually, as I was making dinner and asking what they would like for lunch the next day, my daughter came up to me and said, "Dad, if you make that pizza roll thing, can you make more? Put in an extra piece."

I was glad. My little girl’s appetite was increasing – she is growing up, I thought.

"Can I make it again tomorrow?" I asked.

"Sure," she said as she moved away.

"Great!" I felt relieved as another lunch was sorted and decided.

The next evening, my daughter again came by after dinner when I try and plan out the next day's menu.

"Dad, Can you put in another extra pizza roll the next time please? My friends like it, I share it and I cannot get enough."

"So, you did not get enough to eat?" I asked, worried.

"No, my friends gave me their lunch, but I did not get enough of my own lunch to eat and I want you to pack more so that I get enough. Also, please make them from Halal chicken meat since a couple of my friends do not eat other meat. They want to try it too."

Now, it hit me! This is the truest and highest compliment I will receive as a cooking parent! I felt honoured, privileged. I knew that I had arrived. I felt like the contestants feel in the reality show when the judges hold out cards saying "10!"

I don’t know if, one day, I will watch my child acknowledge me in his/her acceptance speech while being awarded a high honour, but that will not matter. I will settle for what I have received. This is good enough!

I went shopping with my daughter to buy some Halal chicken meat and made a batch of rolls for her to share with her friends. Its a great feeling that I now savour.



Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

His Father's Remains

His Father’s Remains

His father passed away, in his far-away homeland - India. He was not able to be there at his side in the last days and last moments. That privilege fell to his siblings, mother, family and friends who were able to gather. They all understood and accepted his absence - the price one pays for following opportunities to make a living or a better life in a different country. At one time, when he was young and left his homeland, his family focussed on being happy for his personal successes and opportunities. Now, it was time to pay the piper and they did so without rancour or grudge.

            As per his father’s wishes and a long tradition, the body was cremated without hours of his passing with minimal fuss, a simple Arya Samaj Hindu ceremony that even the least knowledgeable can perform - what with children of many generations having grown up with very little knowledge of tradition or rituals or getting put-off at the complicated ones that they barely understood.

            As per his father’s desire, the ashes were taken to be immersed in a nearby river and gently scattered along the banks. In his childhood the father had grown up downstream on the banks of the same river, played in the fields alongside and swum in it.

            Now, he realised that when he goes back to visit his family in India the next time, the absence of his father would be the most notable presence felt. He would have no grave to visit, no memorial and no remains to look at. No sign of his father! No material sign that he ever existed except in the personal family photographs. To the rest of the world, had his father ceased to exist? Was there no more meaning or value to his father’s entire life? He badly missed seeing or touching something of his father one last time.

He thought about it a little and realised that the only way he could see the ‘remains’ of his father, was what he had left behind, other than a small amount of ashes that were themselves scattered. Were the ashes really his father or just dirt that made up his father’s body?

So, what had his father left behind? He resolved to find out. Until now he had been too busy with his own life, goals, children and surroundings to think deeply about his father’s legacy.

He decided to look at people who knew his father, who were related to him and who had just encountered him. He decided to look at their feelings and thoughts regarding his father. He knew that that is what his father had really left behind and that was of some value. He knew the remains of his beloved dad were in the living world of other people and creatures. He had a foretaste of that in the eulogies that poured in through modern social media, phone calls and emails. He now understood what some people meant when they told him “Your father still lives in spirit, in you and your family and in the hearts of people that knew him.”  He realised he could now find his father nowhere, but everywhere. Nowhere in particular but everywhere that one could see a reminder or an effect of a life his father had touched.

Slowly he thought he was beginning to develop an understanding of the philosophy behind the ancient traditions and culture of his homeland. He was proud to be a son of that culture and proud to be his father’s son.

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

Homo Avarus or Homo Conscientius - Are Nerds More Human?

Homo Avarus

Or

Homo Conscientius?

Are The Nerds More Human?

I run a program called Hungryminds to get children to enjoy the struggle of thinking and trying to figure things out. In my class the kids solve problems, pretending they were the first ones to attempt the problem at hand – mostly in math, the sciences or generally critical thinking. In trying to understand what interests them and motivates them, I asked a group who their heroes were. It was around the time of the Olympic games in 2008 and most kids had famous athletes or highly paid sports stars as their heroes and role models. So, I put the following questions to the class.

“Ever wondered what would happen if the Olympic Games were open to all species, not just humans? Would we humans win even a single gold medal? Would we win at least one of the 20 most popular events?”

As we all went about trying to guess which animal species would win each of the events, it became clear that we humans would be hard pressed to win even one gold medal – perhaps archery? We probably would not win one that did not involve a specialised man-made prop or object. It was obvious to most that the average dog, cheetah, cat, mouse, squirrel or monkey would easily outperform the star, specially trained champion human athletes in speed, strength, agility or stamina. The animals can run faster, jump higher, swim better, put an acrobat to shame without any special effort, by just being themselves. Note that we are talking about the _average_ animal here. We are not even comparing our best prepared, highly trained, specialised humans with ‘champion, specially trained animals.’ We are talking about the average, normal cat or dog or mouse who does not go to the gym every day, does not train on a special diet or with highly specialized trainers. Of course, if we were ever to include other species in the Olympics, then the day would not be far-off when we see animals being trained, doped and coached beyond their natural ability so that someone could win their sponsors or owners a lot of profit!

It became clear during the discussion that we associate each animal species with a special ability that makes it unique. The contest in which that ability was required would favour that species. The best of that species would likely win the gold medal in that contest.  

Even the name of the species may be derived from its special ability or the name of the species becomes synonymous with the ability. The name of the species or the signature characteristics of an animal was often linked to human traits. For example, we would call someone vulpine (meaning cunning, crafty or sly as a fox) or slimy, slithering, poisonous (as a snake). We also say someone is strong as an ox or fearless like a lion. In an extreme degree of praise or compliment we could actually term a person ‘a lion’! The word species itself originates from special! What is special about a species?

Now I put another question to the group.

“What is the most special and unique characteristic of humans, that we alone excel in and would win gold medals consistently? The average human would easily beat the best animal hands down in a fair contest?”

It was a humbling experience to look at ourselves, humans as a species when comparing ourselves with other species at a physical level. There was a general consensus in the class that we are somehow specialised and superior at a mental level, so much so that all our other frailties (as compared to other species) do not matter as much and all animals truly fear (respect?) us.

While there was some discussion of the ‘soul’ and special ‘divinity’ of the humans, most felt that it was more likely that Man created God in his own image rather than the other way around. Humans were not inherently more nicer, caring and sharing of the nature around them as compared to other species, most of them only took as much as they personally _needed_ (not _wanted_) and mostly left the others alone to survive so long as they did not directly threaten their own existence. Examples of humans being kind, generous, self-sacrificing, taking care of their own young and the young of other species were not unique and there were enough known examples of these in the animal kingdom. Examples of peaceful, symbiotic co-existence were mostly not in favour of humans but in favour of every other species.

I put the following questions out to the class.

“So, what is the human species called? Note that it is humans who have given the names of various species, including the one for themselves. So, what is the human species called? What does it mean? What do we think of ourselves?”

“Homo Sapiens!” said a proud, knowledgeable child.

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“The wise one of the hominid kind,” replied the knowledgeable one.

“So, we think of ourselves as the The Wise Ones? This is the name of the human species. This defines us as special, as different from all others – we think we are wise ones! Are we really the wisest of species? Think about it!”

After a round of critical and often brutal self-assessment as ‘terrible’ human beings – the kids all mostly saw that humans alone are special in that we go to extraordinary lengths to satisfy our wants, well past our needs! They also picked up on the fact that while all other animals do sometimes dominate, control and use force against their own species, there is a clear limit beyond which they do not. Also, they cannot be as devious and put on a deceptive act, expression or words as a human can.

“We should be called Homo Greedy!” said one student.

“Homo Avarus, going by the Latin tradition,” pronounced one student who had quickly Googled the internet to find the proper Latin nomenclature.

One thing we all agreed on – we humans are truly superior in our intelligence, not necessarily in morals. Our speciality is mental and using that we can overcome and make up for all our other weaknesses. We would always win a competition in math and science over other species.

“I think we humans should be called Homo Conscientius,” I said, making up the name from Conscientia – Latin for Knowledge.

As the class was dismissed they all walked out with an appreciation for what it was to be human, what we are specially equipped to do. Putting aside our negative human traits and looking at the positives, we were meant to study math and science. We are being truly human when we do that. At our most average in math and science we beat the smartest animals hands down! Hopefully it changed the perspective of kids who thought until then that math and science were horrible and that it was abnormal to enjoy them! A new respect developed for nerds in the class, they were more human than the rest!

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

Past the Halfway Mark!

My father once told me that according to my horoscope I would live to be a 100 years old. No, no! My dad is not that superstitious.  It is a little trick that parents often use in India. They tell their kids the most positive things about themselves and their future, and attribute it to their horoscope, which is a socially acceptable thing. It can also be blamed for many misfortunes etc. It is a way of conveying a wish for a really long life or blessing and building confidence in the child. They remember in their worst moments that their parents had told that according to their horoscopes they were meant for greater things in life. This helps them overcome the immediate obstacles with greater confidence from within.

Well, I just went past the halfway mark recently. I have privately believed that the half-way point is more likely near the late 30s or early 40s.  I have sent cards to many of my friends and even marked my status or theirs with a drawing of a stick figure person just over a hilltop marked 40. The writing would wish them a happy birthday and cheekily show where they are in their lifespan, if it were a hill.

Now I am past the point that I could stretch it to the furthest year.

As a logical puzzle, I remember as a teenager, someone asked me – “How far can you run into a forest?”

The correct answer, of course, was – “Half way” because after that you are really running away out of the forest.

This seems a perfect analogy for life too. Once past the half-way mark, we are really on our way out of life. This realisation brings a certain perspective and detachment towards life itself. One can already see that we have passed certain milestones and paths never to be able to go back there again – being able to jump a whole flight of stairs, being able to touch your toe to your head bent backwards, roller-skating, trying a skateboard, dancing gracefully, singing tunefully without losing your breath, jumping over a fence without support, lifting all your kids above your head and spinning them around, carrying their school bags or wiping a stain or smudge from their cheeks in front of their friends...

The sense of belonging changes past the half-way point. You realise that things that you believed you owned actually own you – house, cars, stuff and gadgets. They take so much of your precious time, you start to value them differently in what remains in this lifetime.

While the physical body seems past its ‘prime’ or halfway point, that is not the case for the mind. Its ‘prime-time’ seems to be a bit delayed and comes when the body starts to fade and fail. Some of the experiences so far have really prepared it for the best times yet.

It seems like I have lived the first half of life, starting a bit clueless, making a lot of mistakes, trials and errors and now have learned to appreciate the really important stuff, and alas the body has already gone past its best times. But mentally, it seems the remaining time is full of rich possibilities and could be the best yet.

My kids were born very close to my private half-way point in life – my late 30s.

It seems like we give our kids life. But that is just physical existence. It is they who give us the real life. We use the word life to mean different things. The best meaning of life as in - the joy of living, the purpose of living and the most important thing is being alive, often comes to us from our kids themselves. It is like they have given us ‘life’ in a better sense than we have given them, all without even realising it. They will likely know this when they become parents. Kids bring out the best in us, through the worst times. It is well past the halfway mark when I think we live our best lives. Often it is inextricably linked with our kids.

In my Indian culture, on birthdays we do something for our friends and family, not the other way around. Often people perform great charities with pomp and show on that day. It is supposed to be a way to make the world happier or thankful for us having been born. It is after our passing away from this life that others celebrate our birthday, if our life has been deemed worth celebrating. I live here and we have a mix of the best of the western and eastern culture on birthdays.

My kids have told me that now I am officially old.

‘It is a big deal dad, it is a big number!” they said.

I am glad my dad and mum are around to see this day as I get past this half-way mark that father marked.

“Thanks Appa (Dad)!”

I don’t feel a day older than 49!

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

That Special Someone ?

“You make me feel so special, like I am the most special one in your life. You are mine,” she said with feeling. She was happy and it showed.

“What did I do?” he asked.

“Well, you take good care of me, you pamper me, you care about my well-being and ask me how I feel. You do little things for me. You find such positive things in me. You notice them and let me know you appreciate them. You are considerate and thoughtful towards me. It makes me feel I am special, the special person in your life. My ex- never made me feel this way. Your acts make me feel as if you belong to me and I belong to you. You are so nice to me.” She gushed, looking into his eyes.

They were both middle-aged, out of their first marriages, and enjoying the process of getting to know a person who seemed to be doing all the right things. They had not even had their first major disagreement or quarrel.

His heart went out to her. He thought about it for a little bit, his brows furrowed just a little bit even as the eyes softened.

Then gently he drew her up close to him, held her, looked into her eyes and said, “I hope those are not the reasons you think I love you. I want you to know that everything I do for you is tinged with love, but I want you to understand my true feelings for you from something else besides these things that I do for you or how I am towards you. Unfortunately, these are not the acts meant to make you feel special to me. I try to be nice to everyone, unless they earn it and make me change towards them. Try and understand how I feel for you from something besides these.” He kissed her.

She seemed a bit disappointed and a bit surprised. She even started to feel a bit hurt and tried to hide her feelings.

“Oh! It’s all right. Are you not sure about your feelings towards me? Do you not love me? Tell me, I can take it.” she said, bravely with a smile.

“No, no! That is not the case. I could easily tell you I love you. But that would be too easy. I love a lot of things about you, almost everything I have seen about you and heard from you, I love a lot of your thinking and I like you more every day. I hope one day we will each feel we are the special someone in each other’s life. However, I am concerned that you feel special because of the way I have been towards you.”

“Why? Why are you concerned? What is wrong? What is wrong if I feel special because of the way you treat me?” she asked with more curiosity than stress.

“Because, I like to be nice to most people, treat them well, with love, respect and let them know they are valuable to me and special to the world. I wish we could all treat everyone else that way, even though it is not practical, I, myself, cannot do so all the time and some do not deserve to be treated that way,” he replied with a smile.

She listened silently and thought about it for a while.

 “And it gets even worse,” he continued.

“In what way?” she asked, now a bit intrigued.

“If you believe being nice to you, the way I have been, means you are the special one to me, you might infer the same about the way I treat most of my friends and even some strangers. You might then not feel you are the ‘special one’. There are times when I, like most of us, take a close loved one more for granted and am  ‘nicer’ to a stranger or a person I care less about. Would you then feel jealous or mistake my feelings towards you and towards another person? I have been through one failed marriage because of that kind of thinking. I felt compelled to treat others not nicely, or treat them unfairly to make my ex- feel special. I don’t want to repeat that with you. You mean too much to me, even now. I want you to understand me. Right now I see so many of your qualities that I love and appreciate. There may be some I come across that I may not like, but I want you to feel my love and that you are my special someone from something beyond these. That feeling will not be because I love all your qualities, but because I love YOU.”

“Do you love me?” she asked

“Yes.”

“Am I special to you?

“Yes.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“This is just the beginning… We need to grow into something more than loving each other and being special. It will not just be because of how nice you are to me, or how nice I am to you. It will be because will have grown into each other’s special someone. You are the only candidate, I am not looking elsewhere. One day, we will both realise it has already happened without us noticing it. I look forward to that. Deal?” he said.

“Deal!” she replied.

They sealed the deal with a kiss.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

Hard Rocks From The School Of Hard Knocks

It started with some soft rotten tomatoes, then rotten eggs, some felt like boiled eggs and then rocks. They hurt! It seemed everyone threw one at him sometime. He was sensitive to begin with. Gradually it seemed like he developed a thick skin, so that even the stones seemed to bounce off. Of course, they still hurt. The injuries and bruises were too many, countless. While each was a reminder of atleast one painful hit, together all of his injuries seemed to have given him a shield, making the next hit in the same spot less painful than the first time. Maybe that is how injuries worked, the hard, healed scar made you tougher at that spot.

He had come to expect the rocks. After all, this was life, the school of hard knocks...

He used to look at the faces of the people who tossed the missiles in his direction and it used to surprise him that many were 'friendly' faces. He had stopped looking at the faces now, and did so only by accident. He had often observed a face, in the background mostly, of a figure that he had not seen participate in the stone throwing. It had an expression of calmness, kindness and wisdom. He thought he sensed in it both interest in what was going on and a detachment. It seemed to watch everything closely and yet not intervene.

It was a face framed with long, flowing grey hair upto the shoulders. The beard too seemed to flow and met up with the hair around the face and head. All the hair seemed like the tributaries of a river that met and flowed down from the face. One could clearly see the expressive eyes and a permanent slight smile on the lips through the two streams of hair from the upper lips.

He thought of this person as "The Saint". He had never seen this figure throw anything at him. If it did, he was not looking at it then. To him it appeared the one person who had not ever thrown a rock at him.

One day, he was feeling down and had received a fair bit of rocks. Now, mostly, the physical pain was something he could easily bear, but it was his heart that hurt the most. His 'armour' skin was quite tough. Rarely did any stone sting or extract blood. There was a pile of stones at his feet, all that he had thrown away all these years.

Suddenly, he felt a real painful sting, and a little spurt of blood where the rock had hit and had become embedded in his skin. It felt unusually hard. He grabbed it, all bloodied and dirty and threw it away at his feet. He was surprised. He looked at the wound. He applied some pressure on it to stop the bleeding. He did not even look at who had thrown it. This had been the most painful and hardest hit he had ever felt in his life. Just as the pain was subsiding and he was about to move on, he felt another painful sting, a similar hard, sharp and a bigger rock this time. This hurt even more than the previous one.

This time, he caught a glimpse of the person who had thrown it, the hand still completing the motion of the throw.

It was "The Saint!!" And he had an expression of a mischievous smile on his face. He quickly resumed his appearance of detachment. He could not quite figure out what was so different about the rocks that came from this person, that hurt more than the ones he had seen others hurl with more energy. He felt the sharp edge of the rock still embedded in his arm. As he pulled it out, his fingertips were showing crimson strips where the sharp edges had cut deep without him even feeling it. He had the sense to handle it carefully and take it away, wash the blood and grime off it and look at it closely. He held it up against the sunlight after wiping it gently and carefully with a cloth.

A thousand shafts of little rainbows seemed to dance around the rock, heading in all directions. He was wonderstuck. Suddenly, he understood! A smile crept into his face.

"Life Rocks!!" He thought, as he made his way to the pile of stones he had thrown away all these years.

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

Wax-N-Pickles

Memories of America

It is Easter time and I was walking along the main street of Alex one evening. It was getting dark. Most shops were closed, but one had lights flashing framing the display window and it was open.  It sells all kinds of knick-knacks that have a rustic look and feel about them. It is a store run by a local, C, someone I know. I walked in and there she was working with a friend on some decorative Easter goods for her store.

After our greetings, I asked what they had special for Easter.

“Would you like some fat-free eggs?” she asked with a smile.

“Sure,” I replied, imagining something tasty and fat-free to boot.

C pointed at some coloured eggs with little wicks sticking out of them.

“They are wax eggs. Candles really,” she laughed.

I realised that if I were not told what they really were, I would have taken a bite.

Suddenly, memories, a flash-back to my days in the USA as a student, fresh out of India, in my first days in a foreign country came vividly to my mind.

I had a good American friend of Irish origin – Ken. A tall, easy going, friendly chap. He was a great prankster and good at practical jokes. He was studying mechanical engineering and came from a family that worked mining equipment in Nevada. He drove a motorbike, a car (he had driven all the way from Nevada to Alaska where we met) and gave me rides around town.

We were getting to know each other. He delighted in my strange Indian ways and accepted me as I was. He never said a word or showed any reaction to see me eat – chewing with my mouth open. I was always interested in trying out new foods from anywhere and to a newcomer to the USA it was surprising to see the variety of attractive strange looking things. I was on a mission to try everything I could.

I and Ken were at a party where they had served different cheeses. I loved cheese and had encountered only two varieties in my life before in India – the traditional indian cottage cheese called ‘paneer’ that looks like tofu and the canned variety from a dairy corporation Amul (I would probably classify it as some kind of sharp thick cheddar now). I was not aware of the many dozens of varieties in the world and thrilled to see so many around.

That day, I and Ken sat in the elegant gathering with some elegant wines and elegant cheeses. I saw one cheese with an attractive red coating around a smooth yellow cheese with some Dutch label or something. I picked up a slice, looked it over, popped it into my mouth and set about trying to appreciate the taste. I found the inner part soft and it melted delightfully in my mouth, but the outer crust was a bit tough and took a lot of chewing and effort to swallow.

I observed Ken looking at me with a bit of interest, but he was a good poker player. He asked me how it was. Good, l liked it very much I replied.

He kept asking me how I felt during the evening. Finally, he let it out.

“Did you know you are not supposed to eat the wax around the cheese?” he asked.

“No, I did not even know it was wax! Or that it was not meant to be eaten. Why did you not tell me?” I replied.

Looking at the thick coating around food and something that encases it, from an Indian habit, I thought it was all food and meant to be eaten. If it were not, one would remove it before serving or at least warn a newcomer. The wax itself looks very attractive and looks almost like a lovely candied jelly or something. I felt a bit embarrassed, thinking of all those elegant people that observed me down a good sized chunk of wax, struggling to keep my mouth closed while chewing and wrestling with the plastic wax in my mouth to finally, manfully, down it. I must have made an interesting sight.

“Well, after you picked it up and looked at it, you suddenly popped it into your mouth and started chewing before I even got over the shock of what was happening. I wanted to see what you would do. I kept watching and then it was too late,” said Ken honestly, but with a smile at having witnessed something rare, something he could share with his grandkids.

Many months passed. Ken became a close, good friend. He would often be my guest at gatherings of my Indian friends in town. We plied him with food from many regions. He started to take an interest and venturesome attitude to trying out new stuff.

One day, we sat at an inelegant gathering of Indian guys at our rented apartment. We all ate inelegantly with our hands. We served stuff on plates with forks and spoons, we could wander around the room, sit around on the floor with the food at the centre. We had food from all regions – yoghurt rice from the south, roti from the north, Mango pickles from Andhra Pradesh. The pickles were a special treat, recently made from home, sent through a visiting friend – little raw mangoes marinating in a hot-chilli sauce. It takes months or years to mature and slightly mellow. It is a bit ‘flaming’ when fresh.

“That looks wonderful and interesting,” said Ken.

Ken picked up one mango politely with his fork, and looked it all around.

“You should try it. It goes well with the yoghurt rice at the end of the meal and…,” I started to explain. Before I could finish, Ken had popped the whole mango into his mouth.

In his elegant polite manner, he chewed with his mouth closed. Those of us watching him all looked a bit shocked. We knew the pickle was meant to be eaten a little at a time with mouthfuls of rice in yoghurt.

The white Irishman turned pink and progressively red. Ken finally manfully downed the whole thing. As he opened his mouth, he was swamped with offers of coolants, water, and anything to soothe him. I offered the fire-extinguisher first and then got him some ‘Rasagollas’ a sweet made from Indian cottage cheese. Those provided real relief and a sweet ending.

Now, I too have a story to tell my grandkids.

Photos credit and Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

BADvertising and Role Models For Our Kids

I watch a bit of TV when my kids are around - can’t help it! They watch their favourite programs as I walk through the living room  on my way to and from the kitchen. I too watch what the kids watch when I sit down to chat or eat with them.  Usually I don’t really watch a program fully unless it is a documentary and I am alone. The only things on TV I get to see completely are the commercials or advertisements!  They are too short to miss.

I saw one particular ad that caught my eye. It has undergone many changes or it appears that a different version of it is played during different programs.  This featured the popular singer, Katy Perry, who is spruiking a product called ‘ProActive.’ It seems to be basically a zit-cream to help rid one of pimples. In listening to her songs, which can only be fully appreciated when watching the video that goes along with it, it becomes clear that if there were any imperfections, like a pimple or a freckle almost anywhere on her body, it would soon become obvious to her ‘listeners’ (or should we say watchers?). Now, I or anyone can understand why a person like Katy Perry might have a justified ‘need’ for a zit cream. We would want nothing to detract from the perfection of her stunning looking body and many would take personal offense at a ‘zit’  or something that dares to transgress upon the person of Katy. While we listen to Katy explain at great length how she deals with these lumpy trespassers on her face, we can still sympathise. We are all duly shocked at a picture of Katy with a few pimples and really exhilarated at her vanquishing them with ProActive.

I was less sympathetic when I saw another young singing star,  a young lad called Justin Bieber, come up one day on the commercial for ProActive, saying how he found a zit on his face and how his confidence faltered and he was able to finish a recording because he was saved by the zit-cream. He too talked at length about his zit. It was not very pleasant to listen to him. I could listen to Katy Perry talk about it for ever, because it did not matter what she was saying, one could simply look at her talking animatedly for hours on end without getting bored. With Justin, it was different. It occurred to me to point out to him that if he was truly talented in singing, and relied only his vocal chords as he should, a zit on his face should not get in his way. He should simply get on with his singing. How did he get this far in life with his singing? Was he always kept zit-free to reach this far? I have known of truly exceptional singers whose faces were scarred- one even had leprosy. It did not matter a whit what they looked like, their voices were divine.

Now, coming back to Justin B, if his confidence was faltering because of a zit, then did it call into question his true singing ability? I know a few who questioned his singing talent even without a zit being visible… Still, it just struck me as mildly odd, as it does whenever I see a man too concerned about his looks, unless his profession absolutely demands it.

However, I was even more concerned and alarmed when I saw the latest version of the ProActive ad! It featured a world champion bike rider or roller skater who again seems to have a taken a hit to self-confidence when a little bump appeared across his face! Now, that really says something about his real talent in biking.  This ad seemed downright disturbing to me.

One wonders what will be next? Will we see top scientists and mathematicians stopped midway through a scientific calculation due to failing self-confidence because of a zit? Will top surgeons performing life-saving surgery need to get their zits cleared before we can trust them with our lives in danger? One wonders what formula Einstein used to clear his zits before he made his discovery. What were the secrets of Alexander the Great or Genghis Khan in maintaining a zit-free, world conquering confidence?

          What about our elite soldiers at the war-fronts? Do we assure them a sufficient supply of zit-cream? According to the ads, even with this miracle cream, it takes a few days for the zit to clear? How can we prepare a sufficient supply of zit–free commandos all ready for action in times of war?

I read stories about a famous slogan used to ‘sell’ something like this cream to millions of women who likely never needed the stuff. The slogan I am talking about is – “I’m worth it!”

It is considered a success because it helped sell a product worth probably millions or billions of dollars to make a handsome profit for the company. It perhaps did not make many women more handsome or worthy. It worked by actually making them feel worthless in their normal life - being a mother, a carer, a professional or whatever. The message was really, you should or do probably feel worthless. But if you wanted to feel worth something, you would buy the cream or shampoo because you were then worth something. You were worth something alright, to the company that made the stuff, but not worth anymore to the world than you would otherwise be. The idea seems to have been that they would feel worth something only if they bought and used this product, which was expensive. When it comes to women lacking in self-confidence, this is really preying on a vulnerable class.

Now, what is this sudden recent outbreak among men? Have they started to evolve into this new species that cannot perform at their job unless they look good or perfect? Or is this kind of commercial and talk that actually tries to start this kind of thinking? Are they trying to get a whole new generation of kids obsessed with their own looks, even kids of the gender that is usually genetically less worried about its looks when it comes to doing the job? All to make a buck! It is truly a shameful message to push out. It is BAD advertising. I call it BADvertising.

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

 The Currency in Heaven?

The summer days are starting to have an autumnal feel. The last of the fruits in the trees are ripening – apples and figs in my yard. It is a bit of a race to put all the fruits that are available to good use – the birds get the lion’s share (even if that sounds incongruous!) and I have given away a few to people around Alex. Needless to say, I have been getting a few things in return. I begin to realise there is an interesting process going on in my dealings with folks around Alex.

As I walk  or drive around, a beautiful, sunny evening with clear blue skies, surrounded by lovely green grass, mountains and the blue mist in the distance, a certain awareness of peace, gratitude and contentment takes over me. It lasts for a few moments until I suddenly realise from the news in the papers, the radio and TV that a lot of people and countries around the world are in deep trouble.  They owe too much money to others. For many there is no realistic chance of repaying – since debt is the one thing that grows without limit as time passes. The number of atoms in the universe is a finite number – there is a limit to it, but not the national debt of many famous nations. Those can and are growing exponentially (since compound interest is an exponential function). It is the tyranny of numbers.  We learned to try and watch for the trap of the exponential growth when we learned mathematics.

I can see the stress in the faces and actions of people all around. I can see the artificial attempts of ‘world leaders’ and government spokespersons to put on a smiling face and use complex words that sound reassuring. I can see them put off hard decisions or not telling it like it is. I see wonderful people, not able to pay off their debts, and struggling to live decently.  Some around the world are paying for the mistakes or the misdeeds of others – their own governments or retirement funds or investment ‘advisors’ and they neither had nor have a choice about it. For most, there is something about owing money that eats into the human soul and does not let one sleep easy.

Now, in my little personal world, a world away from all these turmoils, there is a certain domain where life is great, wonderful and pleasurable. I can see most others around me in Alex also have their own such worlds, all overlapping. There is a lot of trade going on in this parallel universe; truly I should call them exchanges or interactions. There is a ‘currency’ to this trade. It is truly a currency of Heaven!

It is inflation proof. After 2 or 20 years you only owe the same, not more. It is not measured in numbers! (Don’t get me wrong – I love math, working with numbers as a mental challenge, but not as a social one.) It is measured in feeling and is surprisingly accurate.

If you ‘borrow’ too much and don’t pay back sufficiently, it surely shows up – you and others will surely feel it. To trade in this ‘zone’, you just need to be tuned to your feelings and others’ feelings. In fact, if you are well tuned to other’s feelings, they become tuned to yours. If you care about them, they will care about you. If you want to make them feel special they want to make you feel so. In fact, it seems odd that you always get more than you give out and everyone involved feels the same way.

It is a currency in which you look forward to repayment, with interest and with pleasure. You don’t mind when you get deep into debt, sometimes you are flooded in this marvellous currency. You don’t mind, so long as you have the right currency yourself, you know you can and will clear the debt. It is one currency in which people look forward to lending, nay giving more and more, because they know, by a certain law you will get back all that you put into it and a bit more – a priceless feeling. Sure, there will be times when you will be cheated in this currency, and seemingly lose a lot. But it is not really your loss; it is the greater loss of the one who took advantage of you. You will have to learn to deal a bit wiser.

So what is this heavenly currency on earth, you ask? It is ‘Goodwill’, my friend.  Never leave home without it.

We are quite rich and well-to-do here in these parts around Alex.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

Illusion and Imagination

Three friends were in the small country town that was seemingly dying. One of them wanted to move into it.

“There is nothing here. Look around. Just a couple of stores on the side of the road and a few houses on the main street, there is no future here. What do you see here?” asked one.

“I see a lot of stores, a bakery, a library, a busy main road. I see beautiful parks, holiday homes all around. I see a bright future, a large, thriving, community holding fun activities. I can hear the bands playing in the theatre, the children playing in the park over there,” replied the one who wanted to live there.

“Mmm… Do you really see all that in this near emptiness? That is an illusion!” remarked the first man.

“No, it is imagination,” said the third man.

The three friends were in the heart of the bustling metropolis of over a million people. Tall buildings all round, electric wires, trams, trains, buses, cars, traffic lights, crowds such that everyone barely had standing room, you had to keep moving to keep your space. It was noisy and loud all the time, but one got used to it as the background sound.

“What do you see around here?” asked one.

“I see a vast, quiet beach, with grassy paddocks leading up to thick bushland. Farmhouses scattered around, a wide main road with a few dozen shops and buildings on the main road.  I hear crickets chirping. I see a few roads branching off from the main road, with houses in neat rows on either side. Maybe a couple of thousand people living in the area,” said the second man.

“That’s an illusion,” said the first man.

“No, it is imagination,” said the third man.


Photos credit and Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

The Sweetest Apples Are…

The apples are starting to ripen on the tree in my backyard.  It is late summer in March. The birds have gotten most of the fruit since I do not net or cover my trees mostly.  I try and cover a small portion of it and still get more fruit than I or my family can eat. Apples are good in that I can preserve them for long term use – slice and dehydrated them to form dried apple chips that go well in cereals or a snack – my daughter has a liking for them.

While I wait for the fruits on the tree to ripen, there are a lot of them fallen to the ground – due to wind, rain, insects and birds having a nip. Many of the fruits lying on the ground are perfectly intact, just not ripe enough and got knocked down - one cannot easily tell if such a fruit is ripe enough, usually it is not. Most fruit that have fallen down have the distinct beak marks of the cockatoos or parrots. Some such fruit still remain on the tree. One can tell almost exactly how many bites have been taken. If you see many bite marks on an apple it is a sure sign that the fruit is ripe, sweet and tasty. I try to use as much of the fruit as possible to make these ‘chips’ by cutting off the parts and sections that I can use and throw away the rest.

I don’t care much for fully intact and perfect fruit like from the supermarket. In fact, getting a polished, waxed manufactured looking apple without any superficial ‘flaws’ due to chemical treatment does not interest me. Until I take a bite from one, I can never know how it actually tastes like. If it does not taste to my liking and I have bought a kilo or more, it seems such a waste!

My home grown apples are tasty, I know from experience. They are truly organically grown, no hazardous chemicals involved. Most fruits have a weathered look and some spots. Only a few fruit from my tree, due to fortune, grow large, full, ripe and totally unmarked. Looking at these, a stranger could not tell whether they are tasty or not. But looking at a spotted or bitten fruit one can usually tell.

This brings me to something I have observed. People too are like apples. When I see an apple that wears a bite mark, has a worm, or got knocked down while a bird sat on it while nipping it, I know what it has been through. I know that it is scarred because it is sweet.  Others have tasted it and taken more than a bite. The character of the apple shows through for all to see. To me, that is the ‘perfect’ apple; not something that looks like a clone or model with nothing to distinguish it from any other with no idea how it is inside.

So, the sweetest apples are those that carry many bite marks …

Photos credit and Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

Someone I know suggested getting married today the 29th of Feb, saying one could save on anniversaries and anniversary gifts. So, I am putting out the resume of a middle-aged character named Kannan Iyer. It might take another 4 years exactly before he can find a partner with this resume..

Kannan Iyer

Objective:  Application for the position of lover and partner.

Qualifications:

_Separated successfully with body parts and sanity mostly intact from previous relationship.

_Most body parts and the mind still continue to perform their major assigned tasks to a reasonable level of performance.

_Ego a bit battered (which is a good thing, right?)

_Can provide unconditional love, with very little sought in return (a kind word a day and a smile will do).

_Will share food, clothing, and shelter.

_49 years old. Still a Spring chicken.. really more of a rooster! Even if I crow about it myself ;-)

_Will work to support ‘needs’, and ‘wants’ in that order.

_Can cook, clean, mow the lawns, do odd handy man jobs around the house.

Additional qualifications:

Still have original hair (what’s left of it),

Original set of teeth (2 wisdom teeth taken out in 1995 to match actual wisdom then, a pity they don’t grow back to match the wisdom now)

Failing eyesight (everything and everyone looks warm and fuzzy and nice),

Failing hearing (can ignore most rantings and high pitched yelling),

Original knee and hip joints with only normal, expected wear and tear.

Overall, body is in good condition with no leakages.

Possible disqualifications:

_Can and do sing,

_Cannot, but do dance (a natural at the old-man-in-pain shuffle)

_Cannot play any musical instruments (any instrument musically) unless the kitchen counter and spoons count

_Brutally honest at times, without even realising the consequences

Education (in Matrimony):  Have learned painful lessons for over 21 years.   A great measure of wisdom has been acquired very recently.

Prior Experience(in Matrimony):  Terrible Experience! Been married 20 years and failed at it once so far. Please note that if I had succeeded, I would not be applying for this job AND would be automatically disqualified for the position I am seeking. I understand that if this experience and failure is repeated too many times, that might count against me. Since it has happened only once and that makes me a prime candidate for the job due to the wisdom and knowledge gained by prior experience.

Achievements: Two wonderful children from the prior marriage, though they are accidental achievements, they have been truly loved, provided for, raised well, and are a testimony to my parenting capabilities. They are the only willing and truly independent referees.

Communication skills:

_Can nod head and agree with everything

_Can make sympathetic noises

_Can hold hands

_Can hold tongue (to counter the brutal honesty disqualification)

*******************************************************

Looking at my objective and my previous experience, one person has rightly questioned my claim of still being sane ;-) since I talk about being brutally honest sometimes. He says I have not learned anything from my previous job and hence should be disqualified for the job.

I can only plead guilty and plead insanity as my defence..

-Kannan Iyer


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved