Picky eater? Who, me?!

I am a fussy eater; something which my family complains about every second meal! For example, I will eat meat (which is pretty much poultry for me) only if it has been skewed and grilled. No oily, messy gravy for me thank you! I can't stand the sight of meat on bones floating around in a deep brown oily mess. My father, on the other hand, will eat anything that moves and breathes. I sometimes marvel that he is patient enough to not chomp his meat down raw. So you cannot blame him for his impatience with me.

My mother is a champion cook. So you can imagine her exasperation with me. But this is nothing, for I am at my worst when travelling. My family and I had driven to Sikkim one cold November when I was all of eight years old. Anybody who has travelled to the Himalayas would know how delightful every hot steaming meal tastes with the snow clad mountains as the backdrop. But I had not received the memo, so I decided to pass up most of the local cuisine (either meat or veggies cooked local style which I did not like the look of) I had dropped a good few kilos before the trip was done and even managed to fall sick out of exhaustion. Beat that!

Now many of you would imagine me to be a snob. I beg to differ. I agree that I have given you enough reasons so far to harbor that opinion, however, try to look at it this way: at least I know what I want to eat, right?! More importantly, I know what does not suit me, like a dish of curried fish head (uggh!!) Think about it, it's really easy to wear any outfit. But it takes class and taste to know what you look good in, right?

My parents give me a hard time for being picky about what I eat, but there are those who are luckier, like Dan Janssen. This lanky 38 year old lives only on pizza! Pizza for breakfast, pizza for lunch and for dinner, its pizza again! I am not sure that ol' Dan had managed this if his parents gave him a hard time about this. Maybe they saw potential, that Dan would go on to revolutionize the world of pizza. Maybe a Michelin star chef with his own range of signature dishes. It may not have turned out that way but hey, the chap seems happy. At least he is living out his dream, which is to eat pizza all day long!

Biryanis come in a million different variants, but I know the one I want to stick to (it's the chicken tikka one in case you are wondering) We live in a world of endless options and that makes it hard to choose. So most people go ahead and eat or wear anything and everything. But the trick is to being choosy about what you want. While many see people like us as snobs, I like to think that we are the discerning ones. That's it! Now I know what to say to my dad the next time he is grumbling at me as I pick through my dinner.

Mosquito menace

When I was little, I remember that our apartment in Bangalore was infested with mosquitoes! My parents would go hunting about the house, furiously slapping walls, shelves and even my face to kill their tiny but frustrating enemy. When nothing worked, they would fall back on their tried and tested strategy; rubbing their palms with soap and grabbing at the flying pests. This always worked. You see, the moist lather would trap the winged devils!

Days of the efficient (and nostalgic) mosquito swatting are long gone. Our trusted hands have been replaced by the menacing electric bat. You know, the ones resembling outsized tennis racquets. Today, mosquitoes are being fried to death, the satisfaction of discovering a squashed mosquito corpse in the folds of your palms is lost forever.

Just the other day however, I was waving the bat frantically at a mosquito when the rude fellow just slipped through the metal net, unscathed! My parents had spoken of this with considerable irritation. It made me realize the whole mosquito hunting business has just gotten a whole lot harder!

You see, most of us view mosquitoes as winged devils with invisible horns. But they are much more than that. They are just as innocuous or vicious as any other creature on this planet and are playing their part in keeping the delicate balance of nature. One man's pest is another man's, well, angel! The bottom-line is that we have no right to wipe these creatures off the face of earth, any more than they have to bite and give us nasty fevers. In fact, we are part of the problem, with our greed fueled urban quagmires which create perfect breeding conditions for these tiny but resourceful creatures.

Coming back to the point I was making earlier, rampant use of this electric bat to slay mosquitoes has had unintended consequences. While we have been waving the bat with gay abandon, mosquitoes have not been standing still (pun not intended) Sure, the slower and fatter mosquitoes are being struck down, while the sleeker (narrow bodied?!) ones are escaping the net and guess what, laying eggs and passing on their genes! Uncle Darwin's evolution is at play here folks and all we have accomplished with the bat is to select the faster, supermodelesque mosquitoes to survive and thrive. Need I say what is going to happen in the years to come? Forget your hands, trapping mosquitoes with the bat is going to be an Olympics sport folks!

The rate at which we are going, be it mosquitoes or gut bacteria, we are making pests peskier! Literally. Whatever it is, I am making sure that the electric swatter ends up in the dustbin. I don't care what my mom says.

A day at the mall

 I paused for a moment before crossing the road. The glass and concrete building loomed in front. Enthusiasts were making a beeline for the entrance, crossing paths with murderous motorists. These cars were headed for the same building, their owners couldn't wait to dump their rides in the basement and pack themselves in elevators to join their comrades inside. My daughter is part of this band of devotees; I on the other hand, abstain. We cross the car drop off area and stride through the giant open glass doors. We were inside the mall.

I submitted to the traditional welcome ritual: the sentry waving a beeping wand around my armpits and privates. I wonder if any suicide bomber has even tried walking into a mall, with his deadly cargo strapped around him. I wish him luck, provided he delivers his fireworks after the mall crawlers have left. I step off the pedestal after my friend had satisfied himself that I posed no threat. The cool sterile air had calmed me and I started looking for a deserted corner. You see, I have this compulsive need to avoid human contact. My daughter in the meanwhile, had struck gold; she was parked in front of a stall selling overpriced trinkets. The owner was licking his chops at the sight of easy prey. Like a hound alerted by fresh scent, he sensed that a fool was soon to part with his money. The fool being me.

Don't get me wrong, I am all for consumerism. After all we have an obligation to push our trillion rupee GDP along. If we bought only what we needed, the economy would be on its knees. Mega corporations would stop doling out fat bonuses and banks would stop chasing us with cheap loans. Society of course would be happier and healthier but hey, we all need to make sacrifices in order to progress, right?!

The wife had meanwhile persuaded my daughter to ignore the trinkets. The shopkeeper dropped his shoulders, like a leopard whose dinner had eluded him. His eyes soon light up however as another girl glues herself to the store front, like a moth to a lightbulb.

My daughter had moved on to the main course: the garment store. Full page print ads had promised the launch of their latest range of torn jeans and halter tops. She strode with the determination of a devotee who had heard the clarion call. I could see the wife issue instructions after her but I do not hear them from where I stand. I know I should also follow but the familiar comfort of the deserted corner held me back. I decided to pick up the scent in a couple of minutes. The feeding frenzy around me went on.

"Sir! Sirr!! I swivelled my head and braced for an attack following the angry bark. It was only the guard at the garments store. He was pointing at what I was holding. It was the plastic bag wrapping itself around a slim file like a skin tight outfit. It took me a moment to realize that the guard wanted to examine what was inside. What on earth could I smuggle in or out in a plastic slip packet which could barely conceal what it currently held? A thong perhaps! I didn't get to finish my train of thought as the guard tugged at the packet, peered inside and waved me off. Relieved at not being manhandled, I could now locate my family. Shouldn't be too hard to spot two plain looking girls in a store full of oversized women wearing dresses at least one size too small. The wife gestured me to come near the trial room. I obeyed, ignoring the dirty glances thrown at me by women shoppers waiting their turn. I should have told them not to bother: the items they had chosen didn't have a fighting chance of covering their modesty. The wife read the mark of protest on my face and explained that our daughter wanted to know what I thought about what she had picked out. Why do I have to give both, I complained, ie money for the purchases AND my opinion?? Nothing doing, she had already donned something and my approval was required. The shirt she had picked looked like an experiment gone wrong: it ran out of buttons midway so one had to tie the two ends into a knot. The pair of shorts looked like they had snagged against the shelf corners: they sported gaping tears just above the hem! Just when I thought we could get these defective items for free, I spied the price tags: they were costlier than tear free, wearable clothing!

I had to hand over my plastic to the billing person who snatched it out of my hand and thrust it into the slot. The charge message beeped. Mall 1 - Me 0

Daughter emerged victorious from the store. I dragged myself out in her wake, clutching my plastics bag, refusing any more inspections. Small victories mattered here.

Mall trips are incomplete without a visit to the food court. These span an entire floor and are conveniently located to capture and corrall lost visitors who stumble through the mall maze before emerging here. As the escalator deposits you to the top, the cleverly designed open space of a few acres, with the food counters at the far end, releases a million Newton metres of pent up energy and frustration. Small boys run amok, copious rolls of puppy fat jiggling as they make for the bright neon signs of Pizza this and Burger that. Weary parents, their pockets emptied and morale sapped, are helplessly dragged along. By the time you realize that you are about to part with your week's grocery budget for a few slices of cheesy dough, you turn around and your heart sinks. You find that your getaway lift is a few miles away, a distance that your obese child has dragged you across by your underwear elastic. You give up, surrendering the last of your credit limit in abject defeat. In return, you get to watch the small tyke chomp his way into early diabetes.

In any case, I queued up to get a pre paid token to be redeemed for food. If you thought that you could limit the damage by picking and choosing a few nibbles, these Shylocks have got you there. Another thousand rupees lighter, I get down to the business of choosing which carcinogenic fry or wrap we could poison our bodies with. My daughter on the other hand, has a very different opinion of mall food; she derives her weekly nutritional needs here. I chomped through the stale dough and smelly cheese, fighting back tears of my lost money. If it was any consolation, this was the final ritual of our visit.

I stumbled out of the exit, following in the wake of my daughter's victory march. She held the spoils of war aloft, as I was left to be mobbed by the auto thugs. Fighting for a ride home was tinged with some happiness: I had lived to fight another day. The next visit to the mall was at least another fortnight away!

                                                                   xxxxxx

This article has been written on invitation by a dear friend. Thanks for reading:)

Closer but farther still

I am a gen next netizen, born in an era where technology is a fact of life. I am sure you will agree that the biggest impact of this is how we interact with each other. Distance just does not seem to matter anymore. I am always exchanging messages with my bestie who lives a million miles away in snowy Scandinavia. Isn't it fascinating how family and friends are just a few taps on my smartphone away?! My parents used to brag about trunk calls and brick like mobile phones. I think nothing about zoom calls and facetime. Beat that! Don't think the day is far when we will step through a portal in muggy Kolkata and step out in sunny Rio; all in a blink of an eye! Its scary and exciting at the same time.

I don't know about you, but all this information superhighway is not strewn with roses, me thinks. They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. Whoever said that obviously lived in the pre Whatsapp era! If I can eat breakfast with my nani over Facetime, share gossip on Facebook between classes with my cousins in Europe and swap stories over zoom with a pal in Japan, we might as well be all living under the same roof! So when I meet my childhood buddy face to face on her annual trip down from Denmark, there is no suspense. Heck, I already know that she was treated to stale fries on her flight!

When I read "letters from a father to his daughter", I was inspired. They were so well written that you get the feeling of being there, when the events happened. What I could also feel, was the bond between a father and her daughter. Where has the art of writing letters disappeared? In Victorian novels, star struck lovers would wait for letters with bated breath; how else would love have bloomed in those days? We shared the anxiety of worried mothers in countless war movies, waiting for notes from their dear sons, hastily penned between bloody skirmishes. Can you even begin to feel what they felt when they saw the postman approach? I think WhatsApp and Gmail have made us less human, even if, thanks to these, the world is a smaller place. We take communication for granted, we share more information than we need to, but it does not bring us any closer. A video call is convenient, but has none of the intimacy of a cup of tea shared by two lifelong friends in the balcony on a rainy afternoon.

Is art dying?

I love sketching. Scratch that; I pull out my plus size notebook whenever I can and try to trace a landscape or draw a portrait. I don't claim they are perfect; I have spent countless hours watching tutorial videos to get the technique right. Art is hard. I can only imagine the effort it took for the sculptors of our medieval temples to get the figurines spot on. The same sculptures that I gaze at and hours go by. I fear that such perfection is no longer possible. 

All kids love to doodle, paint, mould or even make a mess for the sake of it! It is a natural human instinct. Now, with all of us hooked to our phones, slaves to technology, we have no patience for stuff which takes time. We are used to things happening in the blink of an eye. So things like painting, sculpting, weaving etc are taking a backseat. It has taken me years of practice to be able to sketch a human face which wouldn't be laughed at! 

I visited Hampi recently, you know the living museum with its stone temples of breathtaking architecture. Admiring the pillars inlaid with intricate carvings, each depicting scenes from the Ramayana, my mind went back a few centuries. I could almost see the gifted artists chipping away at the stone, not rushing, painstakingly bringing them to life. An achievement which stands even today, so that we can admire what they created. I feel inspired when I look at the temples of Hampi, or when I admire the bold colors of a landscape painting hung on a wall and forgotten. Isn't it incredible how several generations of artists devoted their lives so that they could bring to life the caves of Ajanta or the temples of Somnath?

I wonder in the middle of a difficult art project, what is the point of it all? Is it even worth it? Who will bother with painting and pottery in the age of Netflix and Snapchat?

Then I remember the glorious view of the sun setting into the Tungabhadra river, behind the immortal temples of Hampi, and I get back to work.

behi

      Image credit temple-ruins-at-hampi-india-dominic-piperata.jpg (900×675) (fineartamerica.com)

Can schools do better?

Education is a fundamental right and schools are an integral part of the system. I am a high school student and take part in the dreaded rat race along with my fellow students. So while we go through the grind and trust the system with our future, are schools in tune with the changes happening around us?

As a student, I feel that schools force us to focus on exam results, instead of spending time on getting to understand the topics better. I am forced to memorize facts and numbers without always understanding what they mean. I am asked to follow certain steps to solve math problems, even if I come up with a different method which is original. I have my own way of thinking and like to express my opinion and ask questions. However, I get the feeling that there is a pattern to follow, and I cannot question the system. I respect my teachers and admire them, however, I worry that asking too many questions may be frowned upon. 

Moreover, I want more opportunities to learn by doing things instead of memorizing paragraphs and chapters. Why can't we experiment and explore? Why are we always racing against time to finish things? So that we keep writing questions forever?

The schooling, pressure from parents and the nagging self-doubt are stark realities of every school student today. It not only wastes future potential, but makes it difficult for us to follow our dreams. Why can't we change the way we look at learning and try to discover what a child can do, instead of forcing her to be a carbon copy of the perfect student

Published in the Times of India, Reader's corner, Hyderabad edition on 15.03.2023

https://epaper.timesgroup.com/digital-article-share?article=15_03_2023_004_019_toih_TOI_Times_City