The place where I grew up, Parlakhemundi, was a hotbed of adventure. We used to spend our days like the Hardy Boys and the Famous Five, solving crimes and catching criminals. Just kidding, apart from the occasional fight about whose turn it was to hog the remote control, we seldom saw any action.
Except for that one time when we were face to face with a full grown king cobra.
Our home is located in a cul-de-sac - a small pond marked the end of the road, making the entry into our street the only exit. The pond, its surrounding shrubs, and other wayward plant growth also ensured a steady stream of slimy reptiles and insects and other creatures paying us unwanted visits every once in a while. With time, we grew accustomed to their presence, and would greet them with a brisk nod of the head and a strong whack with the nearest broom/wooden stick/similar object.
So it was, that on a perfectly calm evening, without any knowledge of the impending storm that was to follow, I cycled home from my Maths tuition. I noticed a few kids lined up on our street, goggling into a neighbor's home. My Mom told me the good news the moment I stepped in.
"A king cobra has been found just inside Murthy Uncle's gate. Do NOT go there."
Predictably, the next few seconds found my brother and me racing off like rockets to the place of the scene. The Murthys had a huge gate and the cobra had nestled just inside it, coiled like a rope, its hood wide open. Now, make no mistake, the snake was huge - a fully grown king cobra, it probably was around 6 feet in length. KKR Uncle (Dad's friend and another neighbor) was sitting some way off holding a large stick (we all stocked large sticks in our houses for the same reason). Every time the cobra made an attempt to move he would pound the ground with the stick. Snakes detect vibration, and that made the cobra stay where it was. The next course of action hadn't been decided yet.
By this time a small crowd started gathering outside the gate, everyone standing a short distance away. The decision was made to let the snake go - it was some auspicious day and some elders announced it would be bad to kill the snake. The gate was opened completely so the snake could slither out and make a run for the nearest bushes, and then for the pond or wherever else it was supposed to be that night. By then it had become dark, the road illuminated by streetlamps and light streaming from within the houses. Everyone was gathered a few feet from the Murthys' place, intensely waiting for the snake to make its appearance. It happened like in a movie - the gate was yanked open by someone, the reptile finally free to escape. We saw it slither quickly onto the road, just a few feet from us - and, as if on cue, the lights went out and it was suddenly pitch dark, too dark for us to even see each other's faces.
The ensuing cry that erupted from our little colony could probably have been heard for miles. We screamed and yelled and fell over each other in our haste to escape. I ran into the nearest house and stood on an elevated surface and yelled for my brother. "I'm here!!", came a reedy cry from the terrace - how the heck he managed to clamber onto the terrace within 5 seconds is a mystery I'll never solve. After about 10-15 seconds of pandemonium the lights came back on. Which is another mystery in itself, since in our town if the lights go out they come back again only after about a week. The lights came on just in time for people to notice the snake slip into another house. It clearly didn't understand the concept of escape - maybe it was on a suicide mission, we'll never know. That house had as residents two small babies, and their very hot-blooded uncle. Now, that was its death warrant. He ignored the pleas of his mother to spare the snake and did what should've been done in the first place. He grabbed a sturdy stick, and with a brisk nod of his head whacked the snake with it. Everything was over in a flash.
For us kids the excitement of the day ended here, and we trooped back to our houses to face the wrath and fury of our parents. For the elders, however, it wasn't over. They insisted on having a proper funeral for the snake, and that too with sandalwood. Jeez! Everyone had to reluctantly give up our little precious sticks of sandalwood so the snake could attain nirvana and not haunt our grandchildren. Sigh.
Monday, 20 August 2012
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
Finding Home (Part One)
He stood on the edge of the precipice, his small beady eyes on the constant lookout for danger. He had just started rebuilding his home at a new location that he had finally decided was safe after weeks of careful deliberation. He took a deep breath, and as his eyes rested on his pregnant partner they visibly softened. He had never really thought of himself as a family guy until he had taken one look at the pretty lass preening herself at the small pool he and his friends frequented. It was love at first sight, and he had hopped over to her as fast as he could without raising eyebrows, stumbling in his haste. His friends thought he would get shooed away in seconds and were visibly surprised when she looked at him coyly and smiled, marking the beginning of a relationship that would withstand the test of time.
That was all several months ago. A lot of things had happened since then. They had tried building a home of their own for several times, getting thwarted every time by the blue and white monsters. The world abounded with them; they were everywhere. Even here, from the lonely precipice he stood on, he could spot around ten of them in the distance. It was just a matter of time before they came and took over this spot too, he thought ruefully. This time though, I won't give up without a fight, he vowed to himself. His partner was busily giving their home a few final touches, making it comfortable enough for the babies.
This time he had chosen to make his home atop a huge concrete cave, which housed giants that were too advanced for his taste, and though the world abounded with them as well, they usually gave his brethren a wide berth. They were not in direct competition for survival. He found he might be able to trust them, with time. Twice the giants had offered him food, and made no visible attempt to catch him, or kill him. Perhaps, he might have found a safe place after all! The giants might actually give his family the protection they required, both from the living and the natural elements. He just prayed the blue monsters wouldn't find this haven and make it theirs.
His prayers went unanswered, however, and he heard a great fluttering of wings and two of the monsters swooped in to usurp the food the kindly giantess had left out for him. How dare they! How dare they get into his territory unasked, unannounced, as if it was just theirs for the taking! He flew into a terrible rage and let out a murderous roar that would have sent chills down the spine of lesser mortals.
The two pigeons paused for a moment to stare at the little sparrow who was chirping away as if his life depended on it. They paused for a few more seconds to grab the remaining grains that the people had sprinkled on their terrace, and flew away unperturbed.
That was all several months ago. A lot of things had happened since then. They had tried building a home of their own for several times, getting thwarted every time by the blue and white monsters. The world abounded with them; they were everywhere. Even here, from the lonely precipice he stood on, he could spot around ten of them in the distance. It was just a matter of time before they came and took over this spot too, he thought ruefully. This time though, I won't give up without a fight, he vowed to himself. His partner was busily giving their home a few final touches, making it comfortable enough for the babies.
This time he had chosen to make his home atop a huge concrete cave, which housed giants that were too advanced for his taste, and though the world abounded with them as well, they usually gave his brethren a wide berth. They were not in direct competition for survival. He found he might be able to trust them, with time. Twice the giants had offered him food, and made no visible attempt to catch him, or kill him. Perhaps, he might have found a safe place after all! The giants might actually give his family the protection they required, both from the living and the natural elements. He just prayed the blue monsters wouldn't find this haven and make it theirs.
His prayers went unanswered, however, and he heard a great fluttering of wings and two of the monsters swooped in to usurp the food the kindly giantess had left out for him. How dare they! How dare they get into his territory unasked, unannounced, as if it was just theirs for the taking! He flew into a terrible rage and let out a murderous roar that would have sent chills down the spine of lesser mortals.
The two pigeons paused for a moment to stare at the little sparrow who was chirping away as if his life depended on it. They paused for a few more seconds to grab the remaining grains that the people had sprinkled on their terrace, and flew away unperturbed.
Saturday, 11 August 2012
How about a peanut butter sandwich?
My recent indulgence with peanut butter sandwiches led to musing about the Shel Silverstein poem we learnt in school, and since I love it so much I am inclined to share it with y'all. Read, and enjoy!
Peanut-Butter Sandwich
by Shel Silverstein (1932-1999)
I’ll sing you a story of a silly young king
Who played with the world at the end of a string,
But he only loved one single thing --
And that was just a peanut-butter sandwich.
His scepter and his royal gowns,
His regal throne and golden crowns
Were brown and sticky from the mounds
And drippings from each peanut-butter sandwich.
His subjects all were silly fools
For he had passed a royal rule
That all that they could learn in school
Was how to make a peanut-butter sandwich.
He would not eat his sovereign steak,
He scorned his soup and kingly cake,
And told his courtly cook to bake
An extra-sticky peanut-butter sandwich.
And then one day he took a bite
And started chewing with delight,
But found his mouth was stuck quite tight
From that last bite of peanut-butter sandwich.
His brother pulled, his sister pried,
The wizard pushed, his mother cried,
“My boy’s committed suicide
From eating his last peanut-butter sandwich!”
The dentist came, and the royal doc.
The royal plumber banged and knocked,
But still those jaws stayed tightly locked.
Oh darn that sticky peanut-butter sandwich!
The carpenter, he tried with pliers,
The telephone man tried with wires,
The firemen, they tried with fire,
But couldn’t melt that peanut-butter sandwich.
With ropes and pulleys, drills and coil,
With steam and lubricating oil --
For twenty years of tears and toil --
They fought that awful peanut-butter sandwich.
Then all his royal subjects came.
They hooked his jaws with grapplin’ chains
And pulled both ways with might and main
Against that stubborn peanut-butter sandwich.
Each man and woman, girl and boy
Put down their ploughs and pots and toys
And pulled until kerack! Oh, joy --
They broke right through that peanut-butter sandwich.
A puff of dust, a screech, a squeak --
The king’s jaw opened with a creak.
And then in voice so faint and weak --
The first words that they heard him speak
Were, “How about a peanut-butter sandwich?”
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
The Pigeon's Egg On The Windowsill
It all started when my mother-in-law found a pigeon's egg on the window sill.
It isn't everyday that you wake up to a thing like that. An egg sitting nonchalantly on your fourth floor windowsill. My mother-in-law picked up the egg gingerly and called out to my husband who immediately set to making a makeshift nest. A shoebox was produced, the top removed, and some old cotton clothes arranged neatly at the bottom, with some coir acting as a tiny mattress. The egg was laid inside gently and the nest was put on a shelf in the balcony beside our kitchen. All that remained now was for the mother pigeon to dutifully take her place, and boy, she did that with gusto. In fact, she was so impressed by the turn of events that after a few days she decided to make friends with the people.
One fine morning the mother pigeon sauntered in carelessly to the kitchen, completely unafraid. Mummyji was alarmed, but there was no sign of nervousness in the bird; her attitude showed she was there for a leisurely stroll. It took quite a bit of hollering on the human's part for the bird to go back to her nest, and her face showed she was more than a little miffed at this blatant rejection. Ah well. A few days passed this way, and the egg showed no signs of hatching. We were all almost resigned and had given up hope when the egg cracked. The much awaited telephone call came (we weren't married then), and yoohoo! It's a boy!
Alright, we didn't really know whether it was a boy or a girl, but hey, we decided the baby pigeon was a he. I rushed over to take a look. The mother pigeon was all protective now; she allowed only mummyji and my husband near the baby, fluttering her wings angrily if anyone else went closer. The moment she left to get food I hurried over to get a good look. He looked like a tiny untidy bundle. A teeny tiny ball of feathers. No, not feathers, he was more like a ball of fluff. He didn't move, just sat there all puffed up like an angry kitten. I thought he was more than a little stupid, with his little beak and bulging eyes. Hard to say now.
Days passed, mother pigeon grew bolder and started venturing inside the house. The people woke up one day to find her perched royally on top of the bookshelf. My husband decided to put an end to these uninvited visits. He caught her unawares when she was trying to fly out of a closed door - yes, she was flapping her wings and clawing at the door when he caught her - and introduced her to Rocky, our not-so-ferocious Pomeranian. He was petrified of her, but hey, she didn't know that. Let's just say that after that day, no pigeon has ever dared to come inside our house again :P
The baby, meanwhile, grew into a most handsome young guy. He would give us these tough looks whenever we went to the balcony, but was meek as a kitten and would offer zero resistance whenever my husband picked him up to clean his nest. The day came when his mother took him out for his first flying lesson. We have no idea how it went, or whether he enjoyed the outside world, but my mother-in-law said he didn't venture out again for several days. But it had to be done, and as he grew older he started going out of his nest more and more, albeit for short periods.
It happened suddenly one day, and without warning. We were greeted by the sight of him sitting forlornly on the ledge; his mother was snugly tucked in his nest with another pigeon (hopefully his father, we don't know for sure). We shooed them away so he could have his home back, but this little episode started repeating itself frequently. Once a bunch of the mother's friends came over for a little pigeon kitty party, promptly rewarding us with a ton of pigeon poo on our washing machine. We saw less and less of our baby pigeon - he was quite clearly building a home elsewhere. We took the hard decision to finally take down his nest and turn out all of them. We covered the empty space with cardboard cartons so the birds couldn't nest there.
As time passed and he became a fully grown bird, we could barely recognize him anymore. We still have pigeons resting for a short while on the balcony ledge, but we don't know if one of them is our baby. Nevertheless, my mother-in-law religiously kept a bowl of water everyday throughout the summer months out there for him and his friends. We never know if he was among the numerous birds that came by for a drink everyday, but it feels good that just in case he needed it, we were there for him.
This episode, in its entirety, is something that our family will never forget. Perhaps, neither will the pigeon. Like Shakespeare said,
It isn't everyday that you wake up to a thing like that. An egg sitting nonchalantly on your fourth floor windowsill. My mother-in-law picked up the egg gingerly and called out to my husband who immediately set to making a makeshift nest. A shoebox was produced, the top removed, and some old cotton clothes arranged neatly at the bottom, with some coir acting as a tiny mattress. The egg was laid inside gently and the nest was put on a shelf in the balcony beside our kitchen. All that remained now was for the mother pigeon to dutifully take her place, and boy, she did that with gusto. In fact, she was so impressed by the turn of events that after a few days she decided to make friends with the people.
One fine morning the mother pigeon sauntered in carelessly to the kitchen, completely unafraid. Mummyji was alarmed, but there was no sign of nervousness in the bird; her attitude showed she was there for a leisurely stroll. It took quite a bit of hollering on the human's part for the bird to go back to her nest, and her face showed she was more than a little miffed at this blatant rejection. Ah well. A few days passed this way, and the egg showed no signs of hatching. We were all almost resigned and had given up hope when the egg cracked. The much awaited telephone call came (we weren't married then), and yoohoo! It's a boy!
Alright, we didn't really know whether it was a boy or a girl, but hey, we decided the baby pigeon was a he. I rushed over to take a look. The mother pigeon was all protective now; she allowed only mummyji and my husband near the baby, fluttering her wings angrily if anyone else went closer. The moment she left to get food I hurried over to get a good look. He looked like a tiny untidy bundle. A teeny tiny ball of feathers. No, not feathers, he was more like a ball of fluff. He didn't move, just sat there all puffed up like an angry kitten. I thought he was more than a little stupid, with his little beak and bulging eyes. Hard to say now.
 |
| Both of them were terrified of each other. |
The baby, meanwhile, grew into a most handsome young guy. He would give us these tough looks whenever we went to the balcony, but was meek as a kitten and would offer zero resistance whenever my husband picked him up to clean his nest. The day came when his mother took him out for his first flying lesson. We have no idea how it went, or whether he enjoyed the outside world, but my mother-in-law said he didn't venture out again for several days. But it had to be done, and as he grew older he started going out of his nest more and more, albeit for short periods.
It happened suddenly one day, and without warning. We were greeted by the sight of him sitting forlornly on the ledge; his mother was snugly tucked in his nest with another pigeon (hopefully his father, we don't know for sure). We shooed them away so he could have his home back, but this little episode started repeating itself frequently. Once a bunch of the mother's friends came over for a little pigeon kitty party, promptly rewarding us with a ton of pigeon poo on our washing machine. We saw less and less of our baby pigeon - he was quite clearly building a home elsewhere. We took the hard decision to finally take down his nest and turn out all of them. We covered the empty space with cardboard cartons so the birds couldn't nest there.
As time passed and he became a fully grown bird, we could barely recognize him anymore. We still have pigeons resting for a short while on the balcony ledge, but we don't know if one of them is our baby. Nevertheless, my mother-in-law religiously kept a bowl of water everyday throughout the summer months out there for him and his friends. We never know if he was among the numerous birds that came by for a drink everyday, but it feels good that just in case he needed it, we were there for him.
This episode, in its entirety, is something that our family will never forget. Perhaps, neither will the pigeon. Like Shakespeare said,
How far the little candle throws his beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
My favorite quote - Of Human Bondage
William Somerset Maugham's Of Human Bondage contains some masterpieces that make you rethink your whole outlook towards your life. If I were to pick one, and only one, from that book, it would be this.
"He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was seized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world. What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands? America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he had followed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings, had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always his course had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what he wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a gesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the present always, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought of his desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad, meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern, that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was likewise the most perfect?
It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories."
It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories."
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
The Scream - Short Story
It happened some time during the night. A shrill, piercing scream let itself loose with a vengeance, lasting for several seconds. At 11:30pm, to be exact.
No one who heard that scream could sleep for several hours, such was its horror. People tumbled out of their houses with worried faces and with that faint thrill the human mind associates with a mystery. It was a gated community - secluded, safe, and boring. The monotony of their lives was such that the poor things craved some excitement, and this scream held plenty of promise. No one could scream like that without something unspeakable having happened.
"Mrs. Dunlop, did you hear that? !" That was Ms. Sheila Bishop, the kindly spinster from across the street.
"Yes, it was awful! I wonder which house it came from? " Mrs. Dunlop lived with her septuagenarian sister and at that moment could kill for some excellent gossip-worthy incident.
" It came from the Jennings's place. I hope nothing's happened!"
"I hope so, too!" Mrs. Dunlop's face showed that she hoped for the exact opposite.
People had started gathering in twos and threes around the Jennings' place, no one mustering the courage to knock. Greg, the Jennings' teenage neighbour, stepped forward bravely. He pressed the buzzer for several seconds without success and then looked uncertain about what to do. Someone called out, "Call Lisa or Jerry on their phone! They can't still be asleep, we are all pretty sure that was their little kid screaming. "
When the phones did not yield any success the police was promptly called onto the scene. They arrived quickly, tried ringing the bell again to be sure, and broke open the door. The entire neighbourhood waited outside breathlessly while the police went inside, guns drawn. It was somewhat of an anti-climax when after a few minutes they came out of the house proclaiming no one was inside.
The entire house was thoroughly searched, they said - no one was in. Maybe the people misheard? The people were adamant. They were positive that the scream came from that house.
"Moreover, the house was padlocked from the inside; how could you explain an empty house that was locked from the inside? ", was the standard dialogue on everyone's lips. The police promised to look into the matter. The house was sealed, and a policeman put on guard there.
The people talked about it and exchanged theories as to what might've happened until they finally called it a day and went back to their homes to sleep in peace. That peace was short-lived.
It happened some time during the night. A shrill, piercing scream let itself loose with a vengeance, lasting for several seconds. At 11:30pm, to be exact. People rushed outside, some of them still sleepy-eyed. Ms. Sheila Bishop was the first on the street.
"The scream came from Mrs. Dunlop's house this time. . . " Her voice was shaky.
People knocked on the door. They instinctively knew there would be no answer.
Everyone stared wildly at each other, terrified about what was going on. The question running in everyone's minds was,
Who is next?
No one who heard that scream could sleep for several hours, such was its horror. People tumbled out of their houses with worried faces and with that faint thrill the human mind associates with a mystery. It was a gated community - secluded, safe, and boring. The monotony of their lives was such that the poor things craved some excitement, and this scream held plenty of promise. No one could scream like that without something unspeakable having happened.
"Mrs. Dunlop, did you hear that? !" That was Ms. Sheila Bishop, the kindly spinster from across the street.
" It came from the Jennings's place. I hope nothing's happened!"
"I hope so, too!" Mrs. Dunlop's face showed that she hoped for the exact opposite.
People had started gathering in twos and threes around the Jennings' place, no one mustering the courage to knock. Greg, the Jennings' teenage neighbour, stepped forward bravely. He pressed the buzzer for several seconds without success and then looked uncertain about what to do. Someone called out, "Call Lisa or Jerry on their phone! They can't still be asleep, we are all pretty sure that was their little kid screaming. "
When the phones did not yield any success the police was promptly called onto the scene. They arrived quickly, tried ringing the bell again to be sure, and broke open the door. The entire neighbourhood waited outside breathlessly while the police went inside, guns drawn. It was somewhat of an anti-climax when after a few minutes they came out of the house proclaiming no one was inside.
The entire house was thoroughly searched, they said - no one was in. Maybe the people misheard? The people were adamant. They were positive that the scream came from that house.
"Moreover, the house was padlocked from the inside; how could you explain an empty house that was locked from the inside? ", was the standard dialogue on everyone's lips. The police promised to look into the matter. The house was sealed, and a policeman put on guard there.
The people talked about it and exchanged theories as to what might've happened until they finally called it a day and went back to their homes to sleep in peace. That peace was short-lived.
It happened some time during the night. A shrill, piercing scream let itself loose with a vengeance, lasting for several seconds. At 11:30pm, to be exact. People rushed outside, some of them still sleepy-eyed. Ms. Sheila Bishop was the first on the street.
"The scream came from Mrs. Dunlop's house this time. . . " Her voice was shaky.
People knocked on the door. They instinctively knew there would be no answer.
Everyone stared wildly at each other, terrified about what was going on. The question running in everyone's minds was,
Who is next?
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
The Caffeinated Joys of Filter Coffee
Growing up in a Telugu household, this is only predictable. One develops a deep rooted love for filter coffee. One tends to get irritated if the early morning shout of, "Amma, coffee!" is not complied with alacrity. One might even say, one is addicted to it.
I got hooked on to coffee at a tender age of I-don't-remember-when. That occasional drop of decoction in my daily glass of milk was a reward - a reward for being a good kid, or perhaps for having completed the necessary homework without too much prodding. I don't recall the exact day when my big glass of milk laced with decoction was substituted for a steaming glass of filter coffee. I can only imagine it must've been a big deal for me. Almost like an acceptance into adult society, that one.
Tea for me was always the poor country cousin - only drunk under extreme circumstances (meaning, when coffee isn't available).
College was hard. I was in the heart of Orissa, no relatives for miles on end, and the few hotels that served coffee had only the Instant kind. Yuck. FYI, Instant Coffee isn't coffee. Just another hot beverage. After four years of making disgruntled faces at the chai-wallahs, my luck made this abrupt U-turn, kind of like what the auto-wallahs do when they see a potential customer.
I came to Hyderabad.
Life did a full circle when I camped at the same aunt's place with whom I grew up, and - surprise, surprise! - her entire family were coffee people, just like yours truly. Ah, those magical stainless steel filters, they should be a part of Hogwarts studies! Another stint of coffee drinking followed, which went unhampered for several years. I got completely hooked onto it - I woke up to the smell of coffee everyday; and when I came back from office a steaming glass of the magical brew would be waiting for me.
Fast forward to the present day - married to this great guy who loves black coffee, and what's more, even makes it for me every morning. I know, I know, black coffee is filter coffee too, and what if he makes it with brown sugar? Isn't it kinda like Irish Coffee, with just the cream and whiskey missing? I could live with that!
But that little imp in the back of my head nags at me, "Itsss not the same, preciousss!"
I've found a workaround though - weekdays are dedicated to my husband's recipe; and I make my beloved filter coffee on weekends. On the days when I visit my aunt, she looks at me with an unspoken understanding, and makes sure that I am plied with all the filter coffee I want. Hell, the tummy can take care of itself later.
I got hooked on to coffee at a tender age of I-don't-remember-when. That occasional drop of decoction in my daily glass of milk was a reward - a reward for being a good kid, or perhaps for having completed the necessary homework without too much prodding. I don't recall the exact day when my big glass of milk laced with decoction was substituted for a steaming glass of filter coffee. I can only imagine it must've been a big deal for me. Almost like an acceptance into adult society, that one.
 |
| Pictured: Little glasses of heaven. |
College was hard. I was in the heart of Orissa, no relatives for miles on end, and the few hotels that served coffee had only the Instant kind. Yuck. FYI, Instant Coffee isn't coffee. Just another hot beverage. After four years of making disgruntled faces at the chai-wallahs, my luck made this abrupt U-turn, kind of like what the auto-wallahs do when they see a potential customer.
I came to Hyderabad.
Life did a full circle when I camped at the same aunt's place with whom I grew up, and - surprise, surprise! - her entire family were coffee people, just like yours truly. Ah, those magical stainless steel filters, they should be a part of Hogwarts studies! Another stint of coffee drinking followed, which went unhampered for several years. I got completely hooked onto it - I woke up to the smell of coffee everyday; and when I came back from office a steaming glass of the magical brew would be waiting for me.
Fast forward to the present day - married to this great guy who loves black coffee, and what's more, even makes it for me every morning. I know, I know, black coffee is filter coffee too, and what if he makes it with brown sugar? Isn't it kinda like Irish Coffee, with just the cream and whiskey missing? I could live with that!
But that little imp in the back of my head nags at me, "Itsss not the same, preciousss!"
I've found a workaround though - weekdays are dedicated to my husband's recipe; and I make my beloved filter coffee on weekends. On the days when I visit my aunt, she looks at me with an unspoken understanding, and makes sure that I am plied with all the filter coffee I want. Hell, the tummy can take care of itself later.
Thursday, 7 June 2012
What is Fascism?
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| Perhaps this picture explains it best. |
I was reading an article about the Nazis and the Second World War, etc., when this word Fascism leaped out at me. Everyday I come across many words that I do not understand, but I work out some kind of meaning based on the sentence, get some context, and move on. Some times I check in on a Thesaurus to know that word better. Today, I wanted to learn what Fascism means. And perhaps use it in conversations to impress the other mortals. So I Googled it. And since Wikipedia is the mother of all encyclopedias I clicked on that first.
So, what is Fascism? Let's see what these sites have to say.
Wikipedia:
"Fascism is a radical authoritarian nationalist political ideology. Fascists seek rejuvenation of their nation based on commitment to an organic national community where its individuals are united together as one people in national identity by suprapersonal connections of ancestry, culture, and blood through a totalitarian single-party state that seeks the mass mobilization of a nation through discipline, indoctrination, physical education, and eugenics."
Really, Wiki? This is the definition you give to a person with little or no knowledge of this word?!
Really, Wiki? This is the definition you give to a person with little or no knowledge of this word?!
 |
| Lower your voice, you! |
Urban Dictionary:
Fascism: The Bush administration
I loved this one! :P
I loved this one! :P
A governmental system led by a dictator having complete power, forcibly suppressing opposition and criticism, regimenting all industry, commerce, etc., and emphasizing an aggressive nationalism and often racism.
Okay, quite easy to understand.
Merriam-Webster Dictionary:
A political philosophy, movement, or regime (as that of the Fascisti) that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition.
Hmm.
I should now confess I already used Fascism in a conversation today. With a straight face.
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