Cafe

Had a nice leisurely lunch this past saturday. eggplant moussaka and veggie cannelloni. The cafe at the top floor of Max Muller bhavan has great food. Carrots and beetroots and fresh salad on the side was mouth watering. We sat sipping our iced tea and tasting the hot, delicious lunch. Gentle breeze lulled and a slight drizzle tattooed. Sitting under the very Indian coconut leaves roof - pundal - I thought I was closer to heaven. Until some more folks joined us, pulled out cigarettes and decided to have a puff, that is. Why can't they make restaurants non-smoking zones. Why, oh why do they have to puff and ruin my afternoon, my health.

Sacrifice

My car driver is a very religious man. He insisted on a prayer ceremony this past dusshera for our car. Not wanting to let anything disturb him while driving on our construction-sites ridden bangalore roads, I nodded my head absentmindedly, gave him some money and thought that would be the end of it. I wasn't prepared for the crowd of people in front of our car when he invited me to witness the puja.
Two plantains were tied to either side. A huge garland adorned the front window. All the other windows had bright hindu religious symbols drawn on them. Fellow drivers, other folks working in various capacities in the apartment complex were milling about. Sweets and sundry paraphernalia sat waiting and I stayed in the back, terribly embarrassed about associating myself with the racket. I needn't have been embarrassed. All other cars in the apartment had similar things on them. I wondered uncharitably if it was the opportunity of showmanship that drove my driver and not the gods.
He went around he car with incense, went around with a lighted lamp and then with much gusto broke a coconut to pieces. A pumpkin followed. A lemon was crushed under the wheels. The red water from the vermilion splattered on the ground. I gazed at the broken pieces and the red liquid, sighed at what it symbolized and with a heavy heart declined the professed sweat.

Parlour

A beauty parlour is the best place to ponder about feminism. All kinds of aroma assaults my nose, the TV blares in the background, I sit there watching women of various ages, sizes and skin conditions walk in, get stressed out about looking good. The peacock has the feathers not the peahen, the lion has the mane, not the lioness, I wonder why in our species women work so hard to look good. Culprit must be some gene in the X chromosome. My thoughts face must have been transparent on my much scrubbed face. The woman there hastens to assure me it is not about looking beautiful, it is about being well groomed, it is about self image. I agree fervently.

Moon

Have been following all the news with Galileo. Arent the moon names very interesting? Understandably, some are the children of the greek god the planet is named after. Some like those of the Uranus moons are offbeat. Shakespearean characters. Must be the British astronomers. But the Jovian moons are the best of the lot. After all there were enough characters the colourful Zeus pursued. There he is still holding them in orbit.

Car guilt

As my big, foreign made, four door sedan car along with other redirected traffic glides through the small street - lined with single room houses, open drainage, littered with garbage - men and women there go about their usual work without paying the least attention to the incongruity and I am embarrassed about not feeling guilty.