If the tongue didn't have taste buds................
we wouldn't have to cook.
we wouldn't require a thousand spices.
we wouldn't consume bad fats, colours, processed foods, sugar, redmeat, rices.
there wouldn't be fast food chains
or restaurants
or parties
or ice creams
or chocolates
or cook books
or cooks
or food festivals
or food.
Ramsey wouldn't hound poor apprentices.
Yan Kan wouldn't cook.
Rachel Ray wouldn't shout so much (or is that asking too much?)
people wouldn't be obese.
there wouldn't be diet gurus
or liposuction
or intestinal bypass
or aspirin.
cholestrol and triglyceride wouldn't be so common.
cardiologists would get days off from work.
fisheries wouldn't be depleted.
birds wouldn't experience hell on factory farms.
birthdays wouldn't require cakes.
There would be no pepsi
so there would be no pepsi ads.
the khans and cricketers wouldn't get that income.
the ad world wouldn't have slogans like thanda matlab...
language wouldn't have some priceless idioms
like ' you can't have your cake and eat it too'
or 'the proof of the pudding is in the eating'
or delightful neologisms like eye'candy'
or delhi belly.
smart alexis, me, wouldn't be calling the taste buds a mixed curse
or calamity in disguise.
So what am I trying to do??
I am trying to plan a lesson on conditional clauses.
But I would really like it if I didn't have to cook.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
To Whosoever It May Concern
I've been tagged. So here goes.....
First, the rules:- Post the rules on your blog.- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. -Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Out of the very many irritating habits of mine, here are six.
1. I baby talk with my kids (one is almost out of college and the other will soon be entering one) . I know it is disgusting. But I had begun to do it to irritate them. Now they talk right back at me in the same way and it has become a habit. (I must stop it before they get married. I'd hate it if my spouse baby talked with his mother.)
2. I bite my lip a lot when I concentrate on my work.
3. I count all the time - the steps I take on the treadmill, the seconds at the traffic light, while waiting for food to get done, the rings after I call someone on the telephone, when the computer takes time to follow instructions.........
4. I wake up at 3 a.m and enjoy working while the whole world sleeps. Of course I'm good for nothing after 8p.m
5. I never give compliments and I feel terribly uncomfortable when I receive one.
6. I hate to throw things away, which is why I have cartons full of them - from stuffed toys & baby clothes to seashells & expired medicines
First, the rules:- Post the rules on your blog.- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. -Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Out of the very many irritating habits of mine, here are six.
1. I baby talk with my kids (one is almost out of college and the other will soon be entering one) . I know it is disgusting. But I had begun to do it to irritate them. Now they talk right back at me in the same way and it has become a habit. (I must stop it before they get married. I'd hate it if my spouse baby talked with his mother.)
2. I bite my lip a lot when I concentrate on my work.
3. I count all the time - the steps I take on the treadmill, the seconds at the traffic light, while waiting for food to get done, the rings after I call someone on the telephone, when the computer takes time to follow instructions.........
4. I wake up at 3 a.m and enjoy working while the whole world sleeps. Of course I'm good for nothing after 8p.m
5. I never give compliments and I feel terribly uncomfortable when I receive one.
6. I hate to throw things away, which is why I have cartons full of them - from stuffed toys & baby clothes to seashells & expired medicines
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Five Great Women-Friendly Ideas
Move over diamonds - today's woman needs better friends.
It was March 8th and I was thinking about great ideas that had helped the Indian woman. I came up with five; shortlisted for their frequency of use, number of users, energy consumption and lack of adverse effects.
Number five on the list of GWFI's would be the restrooms at petrol stations.
Travelling long distances on the road used to be great fun for the men and kids. The Indian ways allowed them to answer nature's call in more ways than one - what with the fresh air and leafy bushes. Who needed privacy when freedom called. All the while the women squirmed in discomfort. Downright unhealthy I tell you. Whoever thought of restrooms on the road deserves the Mr.Considerate Crown.
Coming fourth is the moisturiser. The modern woman works in conditioned climes that leave her skin dry. This is a major toll-taker. And coming to one's help is the trusted cream or lotion that soothes, quenches and revives the epidermis. You can't have enough of it. Moisturise, moisturise moisturise. And moisturise. I'd swear by Dove.
The third GWFI is the handbag. This wonderful article is a boon to women who are expected to carry , apart from currency, id card & licence, also biscuits for the kids, panparag for husband, saridon/gelusil/ lozenges for the family, bindi, safety pins, address book, mobile, keys, pen, post it notes, tissue, perfume, vicks vaporub, rubberbands, hairclips, spare glasses, bills, lists, sanitary pad, towel, handkerchief, comb, lipstick, lucky draw coupons, bandaid, air/train tickets, cheque book, postage stamps, nailfile, scissors, dry cleaners' receipt, photo of husband, children, father, mother, self, loose change, thread, needle, moisturiser etc. And the etc could be a page long. If it is a young mother's bag , add to these : feeding bottle, diapers, spare baby clothes, wet wipes, baby powder, lotion, bonisan, rattle, squeaky toy and much more.
So let's hear it for the lady's bag; it is truly a wonder like its owner.
In the second place is the pressure cooker. She is simply priceless. She saves time and fuel . She retains nutrition. Her new and improved shapes have raised convenience to artistic heights. Hugs and kisses to my dear dear friend. Mmua mua
The winner, hands down, is however the strong , the stable, the silent hero. In the words of a great :) poet.......
He's there when I want him
He never complains
He takes all my dirt
And never shows st(r)ain
He stays in the background
He's never seen
He's my dear, dear friend
My washing machine.
But the show doesn't end. Ideas are waiting in the wings. Here are some of mine: mixie with silencer, sari with pockets, a treadmill that will turn fat into power to run itself, deceptive armour that will stun bottom-pinchers on buses (like the sting ray), lights in handbags so you won't fumble for things, things that will speak up when you search for them, DNA with the fat fixed genes removed and height enhancing ones added, hair that stays on scalp, hair that drops off arms and legs, body parts that defy ageing and gravity, body fat that will fuel vehicles, repellants that actually repel pests (not only of the bug species), roads that can be crossed, a single meal a da............................ SSomebody sstop me
It was March 8th and I was thinking about great ideas that had helped the Indian woman. I came up with five; shortlisted for their frequency of use, number of users, energy consumption and lack of adverse effects.
Number five on the list of GWFI's would be the restrooms at petrol stations.
Travelling long distances on the road used to be great fun for the men and kids. The Indian ways allowed them to answer nature's call in more ways than one - what with the fresh air and leafy bushes. Who needed privacy when freedom called. All the while the women squirmed in discomfort. Downright unhealthy I tell you. Whoever thought of restrooms on the road deserves the Mr.Considerate Crown.
Coming fourth is the moisturiser. The modern woman works in conditioned climes that leave her skin dry. This is a major toll-taker. And coming to one's help is the trusted cream or lotion that soothes, quenches and revives the epidermis. You can't have enough of it. Moisturise, moisturise moisturise. And moisturise. I'd swear by Dove.
The third GWFI is the handbag. This wonderful article is a boon to women who are expected to carry , apart from currency, id card & licence, also biscuits for the kids, panparag for husband, saridon/gelusil/ lozenges for the family, bindi, safety pins, address book, mobile, keys, pen, post it notes, tissue, perfume, vicks vaporub, rubberbands, hairclips, spare glasses, bills, lists, sanitary pad, towel, handkerchief, comb, lipstick, lucky draw coupons, bandaid, air/train tickets, cheque book, postage stamps, nailfile, scissors, dry cleaners' receipt, photo of husband, children, father, mother, self, loose change, thread, needle, moisturiser etc. And the etc could be a page long. If it is a young mother's bag , add to these : feeding bottle, diapers, spare baby clothes, wet wipes, baby powder, lotion, bonisan, rattle, squeaky toy and much more.
So let's hear it for the lady's bag; it is truly a wonder like its owner.
In the second place is the pressure cooker. She is simply priceless. She saves time and fuel . She retains nutrition. Her new and improved shapes have raised convenience to artistic heights. Hugs and kisses to my dear dear friend. Mmua mua
The winner, hands down, is however the strong , the stable, the silent hero. In the words of a great :) poet.......
He's there when I want him
He never complains
He takes all my dirt
And never shows st(r)ain
He stays in the background
He's never seen
He's my dear, dear friend
My washing machine.
But the show doesn't end. Ideas are waiting in the wings. Here are some of mine: mixie with silencer, sari with pockets, a treadmill that will turn fat into power to run itself, deceptive armour that will stun bottom-pinchers on buses (like the sting ray), lights in handbags so you won't fumble for things, things that will speak up when you search for them, DNA with the fat fixed genes removed and height enhancing ones added, hair that stays on scalp, hair that drops off arms and legs, body parts that defy ageing and gravity, body fat that will fuel vehicles, repellants that actually repel pests (not only of the bug species), roads that can be crossed, a single meal a da............................ SSomebody sstop me
Monday, March 3, 2008
Occupational Hazard
One thing I'd not known would be part of my work
Is the mountain of correction that I'd rather shirk.
I spend many painstaking hours bending
over essays and answers - never ending.
Poring over writing so bad or so tiny
I end up with pain in my eyes and my spiny.
I tear my scant hair in agony to see
Mistakes aplenty, fearless and free.
My simmering rage fanned to fury,
I could hang those brats sans judge or jury.
Grammar mistakes and spelling errors,
Utter nonsense and other terrors
take away the best part of my life,
God! I can't take it - this wretched strife.
But the worst of all these terrible tortures
is when students continue to take language to slaughter.
For returning the marked work, I against hope hopen
they'll heed the correction, their eyes wide open.
But Alas! The saddest torture for a teacher
is that they persist in writing answers all fractured.
So release me, dear Lord, from these tiresome travails,
I'd prefer much rather to lie on sharp nails.
God, when will Thou deliver me from the miseries
of changing the blasted ei's into ie's?
[ This was inspired by Ogden Nash's poem, This Is Going To Hurt Just A little ]
Is the mountain of correction that I'd rather shirk.
I spend many painstaking hours bending
over essays and answers - never ending.
Poring over writing so bad or so tiny
I end up with pain in my eyes and my spiny.
I tear my scant hair in agony to see
Mistakes aplenty, fearless and free.
My simmering rage fanned to fury,
I could hang those brats sans judge or jury.
Grammar mistakes and spelling errors,
Utter nonsense and other terrors
take away the best part of my life,
God! I can't take it - this wretched strife.
But the worst of all these terrible tortures
is when students continue to take language to slaughter.
For returning the marked work, I against hope hopen
they'll heed the correction, their eyes wide open.
But Alas! The saddest torture for a teacher
is that they persist in writing answers all fractured.
So release me, dear Lord, from these tiresome travails,
I'd prefer much rather to lie on sharp nails.
God, when will Thou deliver me from the miseries
of changing the blasted ei's into ie's?
[ This was inspired by Ogden Nash's poem, This Is Going To Hurt Just A little ]
Friday, February 22, 2008
Holiday Blues
Its a week's holiday on account of the country's national and liberation days.
I look out and the sun glows white like it thinks it is the moon. There is a dust storm that's been on for two days now. You breathe in dust, walk in dust. The dust gets into the house and covers every surface, frustrating your efforts at cleaning. The 7 holidays stretch out with nothing to do. Braving the dust and cold winds is not attractive. I think back to my childhood holidays in India.
When our schools closed for summer, all my cousins, my brothers and I would descend on the bungalow on the hillock in the rubber estate where my father worked. My mother would pack goodies in picnic packs and all of us kids would burst out of the house, run among the tall green green trees, walk across the primitive bridge that swung dangerously, and jump into the small rivulet of clear clear water in our petticoats or shorts. We passed happy hours laughing and playing in the cool water as the sun warmed us. Hours later the maid would come to fetch us. And we trudged back home tired and ravenous.
In the evening, my father would tell us stories of Soorpanekha or Bheema or some vivid character as we chewed on salty steamed corn. A Kathakali and music enthusiast, my father was a great story-teller. His was no bedtime story of the west. He brought alive the figures that peopled those tales and we laughed at the antics of Hanuman, wept with pity for the young Dhruva, got angry with the mischief-maker Kooni, felt awed by Bheeshma's pledge..
We acted out these stories or performed dances and songs before the appreciative audience of my parents, neighbours and sundry servants. We played cricket(with commentary), ran after the calves, fought with each other over a piece of Cadbury's chocolate, got our hair and bodies oiled and stood together without a stitch of clothing, drawing pictures on our oiled bellies. We read books, we sang bhajans, we played cards, we blew bubbles, we followed frogs, we lay together on mats spread in the hall and giggled when we were supposed to sleep ....
I look up from the key board as I write this. My son sits alone with a tin of pringles on the sofa playing a computer game and watching Shahrukh doing the OSO dance for the nth time. My son is happy.
Then why am I feeling sorry for him?
I look out and the sun glows white like it thinks it is the moon. There is a dust storm that's been on for two days now. You breathe in dust, walk in dust. The dust gets into the house and covers every surface, frustrating your efforts at cleaning. The 7 holidays stretch out with nothing to do. Braving the dust and cold winds is not attractive. I think back to my childhood holidays in India.
When our schools closed for summer, all my cousins, my brothers and I would descend on the bungalow on the hillock in the rubber estate where my father worked. My mother would pack goodies in picnic packs and all of us kids would burst out of the house, run among the tall green green trees, walk across the primitive bridge that swung dangerously, and jump into the small rivulet of clear clear water in our petticoats or shorts. We passed happy hours laughing and playing in the cool water as the sun warmed us. Hours later the maid would come to fetch us. And we trudged back home tired and ravenous.
In the evening, my father would tell us stories of Soorpanekha or Bheema or some vivid character as we chewed on salty steamed corn. A Kathakali and music enthusiast, my father was a great story-teller. His was no bedtime story of the west. He brought alive the figures that peopled those tales and we laughed at the antics of Hanuman, wept with pity for the young Dhruva, got angry with the mischief-maker Kooni, felt awed by Bheeshma's pledge..
We acted out these stories or performed dances and songs before the appreciative audience of my parents, neighbours and sundry servants. We played cricket(with commentary), ran after the calves, fought with each other over a piece of Cadbury's chocolate, got our hair and bodies oiled and stood together without a stitch of clothing, drawing pictures on our oiled bellies. We read books, we sang bhajans, we played cards, we blew bubbles, we followed frogs, we lay together on mats spread in the hall and giggled when we were supposed to sleep ....
I look up from the key board as I write this. My son sits alone with a tin of pringles on the sofa playing a computer game and watching Shahrukh doing the OSO dance for the nth time. My son is happy.
Then why am I feeling sorry for him?
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Flirting Tips
Another Feb 14th has come and gone. I missed the controversy that the Indian people cook up every year as Valentine's Day approaches. This year there was none of the usual condemning of western culture and accusing them of infiltrating the Bharatiya sanskar.The Saudi Govt did ban its celebration in that country- a great loss for the red rose exporters. My spoilsport school begins the Annual Exam on this date every year. So boys and girls have no time to exchange candy or love-notes; they are busy trying to pass chits and copy, outwitting the eagle-eyed invigilator.
So that's where I was on 14th- in XB, supervising. I'm neither eagle-eyed nor vigilant, but have mastered the art of looking like Iam. So with the strict expression in place, I let my thoughts wander...
They strayed to the significance of the day and went on to the topic of flirting- tips for girls on how to flirt. Here they are:
Flirting is an art,a game.
It's Cupid's arrow's other name.
Every dart carries a flare -
a sexy pout or a brazen stare.
So budding flirts must coach your faces;
never mind that your teeth are in braces.
Teach your lips the flirty action,
your nose to flare in subdued passion.
Don't worry that your hair grows in traces,
as long as you have curves in the right places.
And if your legs are shapely and long,
the attraction is bound to be strong./ the boys will come panting along.
I had got till that when I was called to give extra sheets,putting an end to the profound musing.
These thoughts are the result of keen observation, not my own experience. I never flirted.
So that's where I was on 14th- in XB, supervising. I'm neither eagle-eyed nor vigilant, but have mastered the art of looking like Iam. So with the strict expression in place, I let my thoughts wander...
They strayed to the significance of the day and went on to the topic of flirting- tips for girls on how to flirt. Here they are:
Flirting is an art,a game.
It's Cupid's arrow's other name.
Every dart carries a flare -
a sexy pout or a brazen stare.
So budding flirts must coach your faces;
never mind that your teeth are in braces.
Teach your lips the flirty action,
your nose to flare in subdued passion.
Don't worry that your hair grows in traces,
as long as you have curves in the right places.
And if your legs are shapely and long,
the attraction is bound to be strong./ the boys will come panting along.
I had got till that when I was called to give extra sheets,putting an end to the profound musing.
These thoughts are the result of keen observation, not my own experience. I never flirted.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Stars
The other day I watched Taare Zameen Par and wanted to thank the director for pushing the issue into our faces, into the Indian mind. Kudos also for allowing the child to steal the show.
Be that as it may... Despite the good intentions, the plot is overoptimistic. I've seen many parents and haven't found any who accept that that their child has a problem. Actually dislexics are not so uncommon. Colleagues will not change their mindset. Not so fast anyway. In short the life of a dislexic usually remains a solitary nightmare.
So why can't teachers be like Amir's character. The answer is simple. They are simply not trained to handle such cases. The BEd course should be equipping a teacher to do so instead of / along with the history of education and statistics.All that a teacher can do is identify the problem and inform the counsellor or parents. In a class of 30-40 students it is not fair or even possible to give time to slow learners. Even if an attempt is made it can't be consistent.
The film also left me wondering- What if Ishan hadn't won the prize? What if Einsein had not figured out the theory of relativity? What if Da Vinci had not painted? Why do we as a society admire only the larger-than-life achievements? Why don't we acknowledge the simple conquests, the everyday miracles? Would Ishan's parents have loved, respected or cherished him less if he hadn't been great at something? Should parents expect their children to bring in results? I wonder and I find solace in Gibran's words :
'Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.'
Another reason why teachers can't be like Amir's character (whats his name?): No teacher I know can do cute bumshakes like he does......
Stop! Don't even imagine it.
Be that as it may... Despite the good intentions, the plot is overoptimistic. I've seen many parents and haven't found any who accept that that their child has a problem. Actually dislexics are not so uncommon. Colleagues will not change their mindset. Not so fast anyway. In short the life of a dislexic usually remains a solitary nightmare.
So why can't teachers be like Amir's character. The answer is simple. They are simply not trained to handle such cases. The BEd course should be equipping a teacher to do so instead of / along with the history of education and statistics.All that a teacher can do is identify the problem and inform the counsellor or parents. In a class of 30-40 students it is not fair or even possible to give time to slow learners. Even if an attempt is made it can't be consistent.
The film also left me wondering- What if Ishan hadn't won the prize? What if Einsein had not figured out the theory of relativity? What if Da Vinci had not painted? Why do we as a society admire only the larger-than-life achievements? Why don't we acknowledge the simple conquests, the everyday miracles? Would Ishan's parents have loved, respected or cherished him less if he hadn't been great at something? Should parents expect their children to bring in results? I wonder and I find solace in Gibran's words :
'Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.'
Another reason why teachers can't be like Amir's character (whats his name?): No teacher I know can do cute bumshakes like he does......
Stop! Don't even imagine it.
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