Mohitoz’ Law #268
Newly-elected MPs who take the oath in Parliament will soon start swearing.
Mohitoz’ Law #268
Newly-elected MPs who take the oath in Parliament will soon start swearing.
A random rummage in the refrigerator can be very rewarding.
Stumbling upon an unfinished can of Nestlé Milkmaid, for instance, means you can beat your children to it and be reminded of your childhood at the same time. And that’s what happened, the other day…
My brother and I grew up in Calcutta, often on Milkmaid, the can that was always there always there in case the milk supply failed or the milk itself turned sour (not an uncommon thing in those days). For our mother, it was the quick-fix substitute to making tea. Expensive, but efficient, provided you could get through the sealed can.
I have vivid memories of holding the can with my frail fingers while either parent would pull out a rusty can-opener and try to pierce the first tiny hole so that the hook of the opener could get a grip and start cutting the lid open. Sometimes, a hammer or the mortar (of the pestle jodi) would be called in as reinforcement and the tiresome process of opening the equally rusty can would begin. The opener would slip, a finger would be cut, Dettol would be applied quickly and we would resume the operation: what lay within was way too delicious to be abandoned because the worst part of the product was its packaging.
Once opened, the brother and I would stand aside and salivate. A teaspoon would go into the tea being boiled after which it was our turn to dig into the sticky, sweet condensed manna-like milk. Those were days when we didn’t have a refrigerator and the can was too expensive to be finished in one go; so, it would be stored away in the hope that red ants wouldn’t discover it and that it wouldn’t spoil. On many occasions, both have happened but usually a plate with water on which the can would be perched, sufficed.
Puritans will swear that the best way to enjoy Milkmaid is to let a tablespoon glide down your gullet with nothing else accompanying it. However, I had some other concoctions that made it even more irresistible:
And once these were done, licking the can empty with the fingers being applied to good use made for the most satisfying spells on an otherwise boring day watching the pelting rain from our verandah.
All of this is still very doable. And thanks to Nestlé making the can easier to open with a tab, accessing the condensed milk is so much easier. Storing it still requires an improvised cover but if you’re as greedy as the kids and I can be, you won’t have much left to store.
Now, to try it with a dash of coffee and bitter chocolate…slurrp!
And while many of us complain about getting ready and coming to work in the mornings, there are thousands who are homeless and surviving the bitter cold in makeshift shelters including public toilets. Already, some news channels and NGOs have launched a drive to collect blankets for these Delhiites who have neither a roof nor a heater.
But, if you really want to help someone, and don’t have the time to donate blankets, here’s something we practise at home and you can do today:
Go ahead, spread the warmth: it’s easier than you think.
There is a strange collision of contradictions happening around us.
For, perhaps the first time since 1947, urban India is resurrecting hope from the ashes of fear. The candle is in transition from being synonymous with power cuts to romantic dinners to silent, tearful protests. Young India is coming of age, they say. From vacuousness to vigilance.
We’re seeing the death of an unnamed young woman give life to a second freedom movement that has engulfed even the most sceptic Indian. Suddenly, ‘rape’ is not just a shameful, four-letter word that tears apart lives; it is the very vocal rallying cry for all of society.
In this paradoxical point in time, parents who had hoped a child named Ram Singh would live up to the name of the god he had been given, cannot fathom how he chose, instead, to do just the opposite. He became a Ravana. There are two significant moments in the naming of a newborn: first, when his name is thought of and, then, when he is actually named – all in the illusionary hope that he will be what is called.
And there are two defining moments when a life is lost: first, when Death punctuates existence with the finality of a full-stop; and then when the physical remains are consigned to flames. Another set of parents, who had named and reared so lovingly their child, watch in disbelief how she goes out of this world and makes it to every conceivable form of media that exists: she is both famous and unknown. Unprecedented but true.
There are policemen, often corrupted and corpulent, but now driven to action and accountability. Once feared and interrogative, they are now faced with questions that will change their future – for they are seeing power slip out of their hands. When you take away their batons, tear gas, barricades and water cannons, you will see dread on their bewildered faces: the uniform is just a mask and the façade is now exposed. Strange, it is, that a political party once at the forefront of the non-violence freedom movement had its back to the Lutyens’ walls of Delhi, armed against its own electorate. Such is the dilemma of democracy. And such is the demonstrably galvanising power of truly social media.
And, finally, the men who plundered her await their own – almost certain – death. Men who, like beasts, ripped apart a loving couple with the brutality of drunken lust. And whose fall into instant insanity will now lead to prolonged legal logic as an inevitable drama plays itself out.
So many contradictions created in just a couple of weeks. So many years of frustration manifested into fury.
But, amidst all the questions that remain unanswered, of this one is certain: the second sex will now be the first.
Be not proud, Death. For, you gave birth to Nirbhaya.
The truth, they say, has many versions. Many shades. Oft questioned.
A lie, on the other hand, has no shades of grey. There’s just one, original, unwavering, undoubted lie.
Isn’t a lie, then, the only truth?
I grew up on 007. On Sean Connery first and then Roger Moore. And the result of every film was a child’s belief that he could grow up to be a superspy.
But annual bouts of malaria, typhoid and jaundice can put to rest the best-imagined plans of spies in the making. Add to that a quack who overdosed me on quinine and caused my heart to stop beating when I was 10. Death was temporary but true.
And, having been born again, I know what resurrection can be like. Ditto for James in the magnum opus released today.
So, when Sam Mendes decides to conjure up something Ian Fleming would never have dared, he’s playing a high stake game. One that drove me to catch the first day’s first show at DT Mega Mall here in Gurgaon (not a patch on Shanghai though where some of the film is set). With not even an hundred people in the hall, the film started to scattered applause and plenty of anti-smoking warnings. If we were on the edge of our seats, however, it was because of the damp seats in the hall (evidence of a clean-up act the morning after last night’s show, I suppose).
Adele notwithstanding, Skyfall is a let-down. That’s the blunt truth. It isn’t crisp. There’s no real femme fatale. The villain is a wimp. Q is a geek who claims gadgets are passé and M is sentimental. Mr Craig is ageing and not seductive enough; doesn’t once ask for his trademark “shaken, not stirred Martini” though he does get it at a casino.
But there is the original Aston Martin. There is Scotland. Memories of Bond’s parents. And there is Tennyson in full flow. Saving graces for a traditional Bond loyalist.
Should you see it? Of course.
Except that you’ll now pay the premium weekend rate instead of the morning price of Rs 150. Go ahead…you only live once anyway!
I was born with a nasal septum deviation except that I didn’t know it then.
And, from the looks of it, it seems to be a congenital – but fairly common – defect that my father and son both have. As a child, it went unnoticed and only much later did I realise that my constantly parched mouthed was a result of a breathing disorder that compelled me to sip water more frequently than most others. It meant that active sports like running and swimming were not my forté (though the son seems to have overcome this handicap with incredible speed). It also led to my carrying a bottle of water with me while travelling (something that the son also does).
As flights became the most-used means of transport in the days when only Indian Airlines existed and terrorists hadn’t yet discovered India, walking through lax security checkpoints at airports was a breeze. You could carry anything, through including water.
Of late, however, water seems to have become Threat No. 1 at all airports: two separate but almost identical incidents in the last three weeks at Singapore’s Chang Mai and Bangkok’s Suvarnabhoomi airports drove home the faux paranoia that security officer have. Regardless of the rule (100 ml is supposed to be allowed) the unrelenting guards wouldn’t let me carry my little bottle of water. At Singapore, the lady on duty was kind enough to let me gulp down the water in haste (most of it jumped out of mouth onto my shirt!) and carry the empty bottle through because it could be refilled at a tap just a few metres inside; in Bangkok, however, it had to be consigned to the trash can where bottles and beverages of all sorts lay awaiting a wet death.
Once you cross Security, however, you can buy as much water as you like (and any other beverage for that matter) and drink or carry it on to the aircraft…which makes me wonder whether the compulsion to discard H2O comes not from fear but from commercial pressures. You can buy beer cheaper than what a low-cost carrier would charge you for in in-flight purchase; you can buy Coke or water…why the premium for something that is essential for survival? After all, you have to pay a premium for bottled water (irrespective of its origin) at any airport or restaurant. Why, even PVR Cinemas tried it in Delhi and lost a legal battle a few years ago – but then arm-twisted bottled water brands into creating special-sized bottles that are still more expensive than what you’d pay at a retail store. And chance are that the frenzied rush to an airport and the subsequent check-in processes will leave you hot and bothered and thirsty anyway.
So, why this paranoia? Can’t security guards see that I have a slightly crooked nose but my intentions are straight? Do I now need to carry a medical certificate that will get me an ‘all-access water pass’?
Or must I pay through my troubled nose to buy water at a premium? And then for air too in the future?