Big Brother is still watching you…

In his book “Nineteen eighty-four” George Orwell had coined the term “Big Brother is watching you” basically to postulate a theory of state surveillance on citizens. Today, the ominous tone of the book may not be there but increasingly the internet has provided a flexible media to various commercial organizations to peep into our lives.

Last week I made an internet search for hotels in Amritsar while planning a visit. After browsing through some of the hotel sites I moved forward to other subjects. Imagine my surprise that in less than 24 hours I started observing advertisements of hotels in Amritsar whenever I opened any online newspaper or magazine pages; on social media sites, and even received emails promoting hotels in that city.

This was not an isolated case. The story repeated when I showed interest in shoes, blue-tooth headsets, coffee-makers, etc. Some unknown entity seems to be fully aware of all my interests. Not only that, now has it even known the locality I live in, because out pops up advertisements for stores near my house.

This should not have come as a surprise to me. In the early nineties when I entered the IT industry I had never sent an email nor knew what a “url” was. Increasingly we started hearing about the term “search engine”. Those were the early days when the now defunct Alta Vista and Netscape were glamorous brands. Our technical team started briefing us on terms like “web footprint”, neural networks, data mining, analytics, etc. We were told that the more we browse the internet the more it understands our behavior and likes and dislikes.

Today web technology is slowly trying to take over our homes with what is referred to as Internet of Things (IoT) where all our appliances are also networked. Every evening our maid gives me an inventory of vegetables in our fridge. Based on our requirement she cuts the vegetables for the next day’s meals. Imagine, soon that interaction is replaced by my refrigerator sending me messages that I have run out of ridge gourd, or beans, or pumpkin. Or, god forbid, the washing machine telling me that my golf trousers are so dirty that they need a longer cycle of wash.

Some decades back along with my sons I would watch a TV serial called “Knight Rider” where the driver would have a two-way conversation with his car. It is hard to say whether the American entrepreneurs were inspired by that serial but today they are already testing driver-less cars that take verbal orders over the net.

But now my favourite gadget at home is a voice activated speaker. Alexa obeys me implicitly and plays my favourite songs or the latest news any time of the day. But even she draws a line when I ask her awkward questions, particularly on politics or personalities. But she does regale me when I ask her to tell me a Rajnikanth joke.

Blame it on the genes.

Owing to some eccentricity in our family’s genetic code there were no female births in our family for almost a hundred years.

My parents had four sons and my two elder brothers and I had two sons each. This obviously played a major role in our rather one-dimensional approach to life as we grew-up. With the most influential part of our life being spent in Delhi the typical South Indian way of life was for the most part missing. I presume it was a rather a lonely furrow to plough for my mother to bring in our usual festivities. For us Dussehra was watching Ram Leela and no display of dolls at home. No tinkling of anklets and no Bharatha Natyam teacher or Carnatic music vidwan. Instead it was the cacophony of sibling fights, stinky socks and sweaty school uniforms. Once there was a Kurukshetra battle even on the rear seat of our car.

When it was time for us to get married it was rather monotonous being always on the Bridegroom’s side. Presumably we were supposed to behave with a certain dignity and not let down our hair. The only time we had a bit of a laugh was when my eldest brother was driven round the streets of Coimbatore in an open Rolls Royce. Later at my nephew’s wedding baraat in Los Angeles the steed became a bit frisky and gave us all anxious moments.

Things had become so matter-of-fact that when my elder son was born my father, over the phone asked my younger brother about the sex of the baby and was told “the same.”However, the advantage my sons had while growing up was an unending stream of hand-me-downs from my nephews in the USA.My wife used to look longingly at little girls in pigtails playing in our colony park. I thought I heard her sighing once or twice. Particularly once when my younger son climbed up the window curtain and brought the pelmet down.

When the boys got married I took the easy way out and told the respective Sambandhis to conduct the wedding as per their custom. I didn’t want to go through the tension of our priest standing on ego and fighting with his opposite number.

But after a cold winter can’t spring be round the corner? One fine day there was rejoicing when my eldest brother had a grand-daughter. We all felt that the family had turned the corner. Then arrived our grand-daughter. My wife went berserk. All her pent-up desires boiled over. I think she secretly wanted to buy stuff which she had wanted in her childhood. Off she would go every now and then all by herself. She would return with bags full of girlie dresses, hair clips and bands, sandals. She even parted with her own childhood doll and gifted it to the little girl. Life seemed fulfilled.

But then my younger son had two boys…

Water Woes

We left for Mercara  on an early Saturday morning for a wedding. As the previous day was the Bandh we expected   road blockages on the way. To our pleasant surprise even the usual traffic on the Mysore Road was absent and we made it to Mercara in a little over five hours. The next two days were all fun and rejoicing and bonding with friends. We presumed that our return journey too would be event free. How wrong we were.

The Monday morning drive till Mysore was quick and comfortable. Just as we were to turn onto the Bengaluru highway outside Mysore cops stopped us and asked us to take a diversion further up. The alternative road was pretty nice and when we crossed Malavalli we felt  happy as we knew that we would be home a little after lunch.

That was not to be. At Hadli village there was a traffic jam with farmers blocking  the road. Several policemen stood around looking bored. No one had a clue when the blockade would be lifted. I walked across to the demonstrators, several of whom were sitting on the road raising slogans. A few travelers on the road were heard telling the cops that they had a flight to catch. It didn’t cut any ice. By now over an hour had passed since we were stopped. We finished the biscuits and namkeens that were in the car. A nearby bakery supplied me with soft drinks. 

Another hour passed. Hunger pangs stuck us. There were no restaurants nearby. I spied one more bakery that seemed to have more stock. I asked him for sandwiches. He had no clue what I meant. Then I asked him for a loaf of bread. He did not stock any butter but he had sachets of jam. I guided his assistant on how to cut the loaf into thin slices. Spread the jam and and made him cut the edges. Lo, I had a whole lot of jam sandwiches. If anyone ever gets stuck at Hadli village remember that there is one bakery there who can supply you jam sandwiches. A little later the same bakery supplied us with hot tea and even provided a steel tray for me to carry the cups to the car.

Four hours had passed by then. I chitchatted with the demonstrators. The cops told me that it was fortunate that we were stuck here as the demonstrators were a friendly lot. One old man sitting on the road insisted on shaking hands with me. At 5.30 pm a gentleman came and addressed the demonstrators and thanked them for their support and said that the blockade was over for the day. All of us rushed back to our respective vehicles and began what we thought was our quick return home. We spoke too soon. Just a kilometer way there was another blockade and another wait for an hour. There seems to be some unwritten rule in bandhs that the agitation should stop by dusk, just like the battles of yore. Finally we were off.

 The journey till we reached the Bangalore portion of Kanakapura Road was uneventful. Then the nightmare began. At every crossing there were burning tyres and we were forced to take diversions to unknown roads . The last four kilometers to my home took me two hours.

We started from Mercara at 9.15 am. We reached home exactly twelve hours later. The jam sandwiches at Hadli village were our savior.

Stock Market blues

Every Thursday afternoon I have a masseur who comes to give my body a work over, presumably to make me fit enough to show-off my imaginary six abs. While he is pummeling my body he also taps me for information on the stock-market. I have no clue how he imagines that I am his ticket to quick wealth.

Thanks to reading financial dailies and magazines, and of course watching the television channels I have gained some knowledge of how the bourses work. But, it is still a mystery to me how one goes about making a fortune there. Initially, I presumed that all one needed to do was follow the tips given by the so called experts and then laugh all the way to the bank.

A couple of years back one worthy suggested that I buy sugar companies stocks as the government was going to make compulsory the blending of ethanol with fuel. No fool would have ignored such good advice so I put in a good chunk of my money in some well-known sugar units. My investment has become rather anaemic since then, as later it was found that ethanol content may affect some rubber components in the motor vehicle. Similarly with steel, ports, FMCG, financial services. Whichever stock I was recommended to buy by the experts seem to wait for my cheque to be encashed before they started the downward journey.

But one thing I have failed to understand is how one day the stock market zooms to a stratospheric level because of the situation in the European Union and the next day it goes in to a free fall for just the same reason. On Monday the stock prices of banks shoot up as business sentiment is good and Tuesday they crash as the situation in Greece is a bit dodgy. Why on earth should the poor investor sitting in Channapatna be affected by the financial shenanigans in Athens is a real mystery.

Some years ago I was closely involved with the listings of my company and its subsidiary on NASDAQ and the New York Stock Exchange. An Initial Public Offering is all about glamour. The listing company is to be exhibited as a successful one so we all stayed in one of the best hotels in New York. On the morning of the listing we all trooped to the bourse in shiny black limousines. NASDAQ is more automated like our NSE but in NYSE there is a lot of showmanship on display. There is a ceremonial breakfast with the head of the exchange and then the traditional bell ringing and cap throwing ceremony. A lot of bonhomie is on display which becomes euphoric when the stock opens at a higher price. But when they study the balance sheet the poor investors will be left scratching their heads at the cost they have borne for the public issue.

Now coming back to my masseur, I somehow escape any physical damage by giving him vague suggestions and telling him that the time was not yet right to invest.

A touch of nostalgia

Recently I attended a get-together of my batch mates from engineering college. As is the norm on such occasions the initial fifteen minutes were spent on a lighthearted discussion on our expanding girth and receding hairline. Soon we graduated to the pleasant memories of our college years. That set me thinking that nostalgia is a key ingredient of our life.

College days, particularly as hostellers, in NIT-K, Surathkal were pleasant. With no parental supervision our evenings were pretty activity-filled. The only source for movies was in Mangalore, around 20 km away. Friday nights were particularly exciting as all of us wanted to see Bollywood films on the day of release. Just after dinner, fleets of Ambassador taxis would land up at the hostel blocks. Generally eight students would fit in to the car, which would wait for us at the theatre and bring us back. The theatre would be noisy as most of the audience would comprise our college mates. The next day it was obvious which students had gone to the movies as they would be singing songs loudly while having a bath.

Growing up in Delhi, we were far removed from any security restrictions as it is today. On Republic Day youngsters would be sitting on dhurries along Rajpath, near the saluting base. Pandit Nehru would get down from his official Cadillac car and walk along the low railing and wave to us even as we raised a cry of ‘Chacha Nehru’. We would wait excitedly for the fly-past after the parade. Those days the modern aircraft that our Air Force had were Hawker Hunters, Mysteres and Canberras. As a grand finale there was a formation fly-past by Toofanis which broke away just over the saluting base leaving behind a trail of tricolor smoke. It is sad that nowadays youngsters cannot even get close to VIPs at public occasions thanks to their security cordon.

My grandmother’s younger brother suffered from Arthritis which restricted his movement. Every evening he would get in to his big American car all set for a drive. One of my uncles would be the designated driver for that day. I was a student in Bangalore so I would invite myself for the ride. We would first go to Vidhana Soudha where my uncle and I would take a stroll while the old man sat in the car. My financial position would be precarious so I ended up getting treated for some chaat or spicy puffed rice with slices of tomato. The next stop would be the fountain in Cubbon Park(yes it actually functioned well those days).Here the snack would be boiled peanuts. The final halt would be MG Road where we would park perpendicular to Plaza theatre. Here, of course, was the compulsory visit to Lakeview for an ice cream.

In the years to come I wonder what type of pleasant activities people would be recalling when meeting as a group? I am sure life moves on for every generation.

Walking the talk

When I moved to Bangalore a few years ago I didn’t exactly have a svelte waistline. In the flush of moving to a new place and also to impress my new neighbours I made a resolution of going for morning walks daily.

First, I needed to take care of my sartorial requirements. I had plenty of multi-hued T-shirts free of cost courtesy my company. The Camel outlet in Jayanagar solved my shorts problem, though my wife did give me a strange look seeing me in knee length cargo style shorts. I pretended to ignore her.

One day a Mr. Raghu accosted me outside my apartment. Do you walk every morning he queried? Yup, I answered in a smug voice presuming my athletic build impressed him. Why don’t you join our walking group he suggested? Well, there was nothing wrong with that idea as having company did add interest to a walk. Also, a walking group sounded very professional. So I immediately acquiesced and thanked him for the invitation. He asked me a strange question after that. Do you have a car? Sure, I said. Let’s meet tomorrow morning at six sharp in the car park, he continued.

The next morning I was in the car park well in time for the assignation. Raghu came in a few minutes later along with two cohorts whom he introduced as Ramesh and Ashok. I was informed  that we were heading to Lal Bagh. I was quite impressed at their dedication because Lal Bagh was at least three kilometres from our building. To my surprise, Ramesh opened the door of one of the cars and the gang got in and signaled for me to get in, too.

As this was my first trip with the group I decided to be friendly and asked the obvious question. Do you think it will rain today? There was a stony silence till we reached Lal Bagh West gate. After a bit of light limbering exercise we began our walk through the park. I wanted to walk briskly but seeing that the rest of the group was strolling leisurely I had no option but to slow down.

We finally came out of Lal Bagh Main Gate. My companions crossed the road and we arrived at Mavalli Tiffin Room (MTR). In spite of the crowd the group managed a table. Very soon we had a repast of Khara Baath, Rava Idly and Puri/Palya washed down with a hot cup of strong coffee. Ramesh then excused himself and exited. By the time we had paid the bill and came out he was waiting in his car. We returned home.

For the past five years this has been my routine. Each of us takes turn to bring his car. The families think we are sweating it out in Lal Bagh but are a bit surprised that our respective waistlines don’t seem to reduce.

I Bet…

Recently I was observing the antics of two of our building kids. Obviously, even at the young age of eight they seem to be in a competitive mode. One of them said, “I bet I can run faster than you.” I am sure people would remember in their childhood how as a natural reaction they would come out with the words “I bet…”. “I bet I will get you out first ball. “I bet my handwriting is better than yours.”

Notwithstanding the brouhaha over match fixing, everyone has sometime or the other indulged in betting.

In our engineering college hostel, small time betting was a daily occurrence to while away our evenings. It could be on anything. We had a classmate, nicknamed Moshe who specialized in dismantling any piece of machinery. We would then have bets on how quickly he would assemble the item back again. Even then there would be some sort of skullduggery. One interested party secretly added a couple of extra components to a disassembled table fan. Poor Moshe went almost crazy wondering where to fit the extra elements. In the process the perpetrator of the crime made some money.

The other bet was on lighting every stick of a matchbox with one stroke each. It sounds easy but as the friction side of the box gets worn out the sweat starts forming on the face of the participants. In most cases the match ends with a matchstick sliding off the side without lighting up. Being from a middle-class government servant family my participation would be limited to that of a cheering spectator.

My earliest exposure to the sins of betting came from watching Hindi films of the sixties and seventies. Invariably, either the father or brother of the unfortunate heroine would lose his shirt at the Mahalakshmi race course and had to be bailed out by the hero. Thanks to an invitation from one of my friends I did get a chance to attend a derby in Bangalore some years back. I decided to be adventurous and put in a bit of money on one of the races. I had no clue on how to select the winner and decided to go by the attractiveness of the name. Unfortunately, Silver Streak did not really live up to its name and ended up last. That also ended my career as a punter.

PG Wodehouse had a whole list of characters who indulged in what would be described as ‘having a little flutter on the side”. My favourite was The Great Sermon Handicap where betting took place on the length of the sermon delivered by various vicars at village churches. The plot included all the ingredients of a horse race, including probable starters and handicaps and also inside information about the health of a ‘runner’.

The deep-rooted influence of betting at a tender age was brought home to me recently. While having lunch my four year and something old grand-daughter suddenly burst out, “I bet I can eat faster than you.” Touché.

Click. Buy. Pay

I am in trouble. Deep trouble. I have been diagnosed with an incurable disease called ‘onlineshopitis’, and it is becoming worse day by day. But, this is not something that happened overnight.

As a teenager I used to see advertisements released by two correspondence course institutes in a well-known, but now defunct, weekly. Without bothering about the consequences I cut the enclosed coupons and posted it to the colleges. About ten days later the postman brought two big bundles containing the prospectus and application forms. A couple of weeks later a further letter came inquiring about my application. This continued for some more time with the institutes wanting to know whether the fees were too high and offering me a concession. By now I was in a blue funk expecting the authorities to land up at our door step. Luckily, the institutes soon gave up on me.

Soon after I got a job, I seemed to have got on the mailing list of a well-known monthly magazine. I started receiving direct mailers from them saying that I was in the shortlist to win sweepstakes worth crores of rupees. Who was I to fight fate. With the sight of currency notes floating in front of my eyes I subscribed to the magazine. Well, I presume someone somewhere must have won the sweepstakes, but definitely not I. But did I learn a lesson from this? Definitely not. Soon I subscribed to a weekly where I received a shoddy toolkit. Then another one where the promised bag looked nothing like in the picture. Now I am awaiting a car bottle cooler that also has a radio. Meanwhile there are a lot of unwanted magazines in my house.

The internet has been my final downfall. It makes things so easy. I discovered this well-known American online apparel store. I started by ordering a pair of suede shoes. Then another. Now I have a whole lot of them in different hues and textures. But my ultimate purchase is something called all-weather clogs. These will keep me in good stead in case of a snowfall in Bangalore.

Now my sights are on the Indian e-commerce sites. My purchases have made the owners attract mind-boggling valuations. I mean which self-respecting, red blooded individual will let go the opportunity to receive five shirts for only Rs.999/-, when the original cost was nearly Rs. 10,000?The shirts are still lying unused in my cupboard. Then there was this mobile phone for just Rs. 2500/- that was an ‘exact’ replica of that iconic brand named after a fruit. Our dustbin bears testimony to the early demise of that instrument.

Today, I am well-equipped to face any eventuality of a breakdown of equipment in our house. Wireless routers, mobile phones, cameras, watches, Bluetooth speakers. My latest discovery is this site that sells spectacles. They are even offering the first frame free. So under different identities I have hoodwinked them and ordered reading glasses, distance one and even tinted glasses. One should never be caught unawares without specs!

Is there a cure for my disease? Let me check it online.

TGIF

"Thank God it's Friday"(TGIF)  expresses the joy one feels in knowing that the work week has officially ended and that one has two days off with which to enjoy. Through most of my career I was fortunate to have worked in companies that had a five-day week.While a two-day weekend sounds enjoyable it does have some pitfalls.

As a bachelor in Bangalore I did not have any friends, being new to the city.It was only so much that one could impose on kind-hearted uncles and aunts during the weekends.Some of the single men in our firm thought out-of-the-box.As a rule we were entitled to lunch if we attended office on holidays.So every Saturday I would land up at office on some pretended urgent work.Coincidentally this would end exactly at lunchtime. A few colleagues and I would make our way to a haven for creative people called Embassy Bar (sadly now defunct) near Shivajinagar. By the end of the third hour we would be giving our take on what ails the world.When I got engaged to be married I was horrified to note that the owner of the bar lived next door to my in-laws.

Many years later in Hyderabad,after my sons grew up and flew the coop I was at a loose end,particularly on Saturday mornings.My wife had her own agenda with domestic chores.I would start off from home and visit electronic and appliance stores.Successive salesmen would religiously brief me on the merits of various brands of televisions,fridges,washing machines and airconditioners. Each time I would give the excuse that I needed to consult my wife and that I would return later in the day.After a few months I had run through all the major stores without spending a  rupee.

It was then the turn of the car dealers.Hyderabad had a stretch of open road around the Tank Bund that was ideal for test drives.During the next few months I knew every bump and pothole on that road while I tested out the specifications of all the brands available at that time. I also discovered that car salesmen usually make four phone calls to a potential buyer after a test drive before giving up as a lost cause!

Even after  retirement , when every day is a weekend, I still yearn for a Saturday morning outing.Thanks to Bangalore’s burgeoning real estate,developers are bending backwards to sell their apartments and villas.The Friday newspapers feature advertisements for housing projects  and entice people to come and see their model apartments.One phone call is all that I need to arrange my Saturday schedule.The developer sends his vehicle to pick me up and show me various projects.This also has helped me understand common real estate jargon. Example: when a developer says five minutes from the centre of town, it is based on a speed of 100 km/hour.

During my working days I used to enjoy my afternoon siesta on Saturday as I knew I had one more coming on Sunday.I presumed that once I retired I would enjoy this luxury every day.Unfortunately,this did not turn out true.I wonder what is the medical term for “afternoon siesta insomnia”?

Domestic issues

Last year the state government  issued guidelines for recommended wages to household domestics. I am afraid the mandarins in the secretariat were ignorant of the ground situation when they fixed a rate of Rs 224/- per eight hour day. This constituted all work including taking care of a child. I reckon they did not consult any housewife before making the decision.

For several years we had one maidservant who practically handled all activity. Unfortunately she pushed her luck a bit too much with her boss, my wife which resulted in her being given the pink slip. Since then, my house has been overrun by a bevy of female domestics. We have a 24 hour maid; a morning maid; an evening maid; and a cook. Obviously, this has played havoc with my routine and I have been confined to my study most of the time.

Some months back when my wife and I were on an extended holiday in London, politics reared its ugly head in a so far peaceful household. Thanks to her superior designation, the cook had become the self-appointed head of the worker clan and she was also giving the general work orders. Somewhere down the line, the morning and evening maids seemed to have had a conflict-of-duties disagreement that simmered till our return. The morning domo who had her lunch at our place for the past two years also seemed to suddenly have developed a dislike for our cook’s creations and decided to eat at her afternoon employer’s house.

On returning, we could sense coolness in the overall atmosphere of our employees. Panicking at the situation, my wife followed an age old corporate formula and declared a ‘loyalty bonus’ to all of them, plus some gifts from London. Peace reigned after that.

That men in our family have problems with domestics also has a historical perspective. After my father retired from service and settled down in Mysore there was a need for a cook. Based on recommendation, an old lady came on board. Unfortunately, she happened to have served in my father’s household when he was still a youngster. She took this old connection rather seriously and made herself at home, including having her afternoon siesta on our drawing room couch. However, what bugged my father was her regular commentary to my mother about the episodes from his younger days. At an opportune moment he found a valid excuse and packed her off.

My wife is always on tenterhook when one of our staff would defect, as there is a big demand in our apartment complex and cases of poaching with enhanced lucre are quite common. Further, she may need to find a substitute for our day maid from Nepal who recently claimed that she needed to return home for two weeks to put her kids in hostel.Now we find that the whole story was a fiction and she had actually gone to Jigani to find herself a new job in the garment industry.

In this nebulous situation, as the only male member in a household of seven, domestics included, the only loyal associate I have is my computer. Somehow we manage to go through the day.

Undone by perfidy

When one embarks on a journey called life one hopes for a smooth passage. However, fate has the habit of throwing unexpected obstacles on the way. This is an event that took place a hundred years ago but the cause came to my knowledge only a few weeks back when I came across papers belonging to my grandfather who died at the age of forty nine.

 We were told that he died of pneumonia. Another version said he died of injuries sustained when mortar fell on him while supervising the construction of his house. I would like to believe that he died of a broken heart resulting from a major deceit from a close relative.

My great grandfather was a priest, a rather learned one. To honour his prowess in Samaveda, the Pontiff of Sringeri Mutt conferred upon him the title Samaga (the ‘S’ in my name).However, his son had other ideas. He wanted to be in the civil service. He was a brilliant student, generally topping his class. In 1892 armed with a BA degree in English from Central College he joined the government as a Précis Writer & Translator, a clerical job at   Rs 30 per month.

His hard work and diligence paid off and soon he started climbing up the ladder. He passed various civil services exams with flying colours. In 1899 he was promoted to the post of Deputy Amildar and given a privileged posting to the Sringeri Jahgir with additional charge as Chief of Police. In 1898 when the Plague hit regions in Mysore area, he was put in charge of some of the camps. The Plague Commissioner wrote a highly complimentary report about my grandfather’s actions during the crisis. By 1910 he had risen to become an Amildar 2^nd Class.

By now it was generally agreed that my grandfather was on the fast track in his career and his promotion to Assistant Commissioner was just a matter of time. That is where there was a twist in the tale and an ending that that was hugely disappointing, if not tragic.

I came across a letter he wrote in 1912 to the Deputy Commissioner appealing for his promotion to Assistant Commissioner. He wondered why so many of his juniors had superseded him and had been promoted. There was a ring of pathos in each sentence as my grandfather mentioned all the testimonials and commendations he had received from his superiors. He was particularly hurt that he was stuck on the same salary of Rs 200 per month for three years. It was then that an explanation was given.

Unknown to him, a very close relative from his wife’s side had conned people off money by offering them government jobs or contracts using my grandfather’s name. This had gone as a black mark in his confidential report and affected his career.

He was a shattered man after that and died even before his dream home could be completed.

Food for thought

I am a true blue Kannadiga with my ancestors hailing from a hamlet called Sosale in the heartland of the erstwhile Mysore state. The gastronomical inputs in my growing years were such Mysore delicacies like Maavinakaai Chitranna, Nuchina Unde, Hulitove Majjigehuli with a reward of Gasgase Payasa on festival days.

I presumed that one day I would marry a pretty damsel from T Narsipur or Arsikere and my food preferences would be taken care of in the manner I was accustomed to. In fact I would have encouraged my bride to add Gojju Avalakki to the menu.

However, fate had something else in store for me. I ended up marrying an Iyer girl from Palghat. Since then the dining table is full of dishes with tongue twisting names like Keerai Moologootal, Maangai Araitchukalakki, Vazhakkai Mezhukkuvaratti, Nendrapazham Pulissery, et al. In fact my wife goes gaga over something call Olan. Once she made light brown chutney which I sort of liked. She quickly corrected me that it was Parippu Thogayal and not chutney. I retorted that I knew chutney when I saw one. This argument went on for several years till the well known writer V. Gangadhar (also from Palghat) wrote in his column, “Slice of Life” that Thogayal and chutney were two different items. That newspaper cutting, now yellowed occupies pride of place on our fridge door under a magnet.

However, being an eternal optimist I put all my hopes on my two sons marrying dainty girls from Narasimharajapura or Hosagrahara. I was confident that our dining fare would be become a cheerful congregation of delicious Hurli Saaru, Kosambari and Kayi Hollige.

Thanks to the machinations of my wife and her crony my elder son married an Iyengar. Now the dining table repertoire includes Kandathippili Sathamudu, Vazhaikai Kariamudu and

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Akkaravadesil .It was rather confusing in the beginning when my daughter-in-law referred to something called Thirumadapalli. I later found out that was the Iyengar reference to the kitchen.

To rub salt on my wounds I had to utter et tu Brute when my younger son somehow persuaded a Gujarathi girl from Kutch to marry him. With the addition of Bajra no rotlo, Guvar nu Shaak and Dal Dhokli our household menu reads something like the one in the Indian cuisine restaurant at the Taj.

I have somehow survived my sacrifices over the years. Unfortunately my culinary skills are limited to heating food in the microwave so I could not really overcome the deficiencies in my diet. Driving all the way to Malleswaram to eat Akki Roti at New Krishna Bhavan is not practical. It is particularly stressful for me when the Avarekai season arrives. Imagine a life without Avarekai Uppitu or Saaru…..