The Law of Perpetuity of Dirty Dishes

Have you ever watched those chef types demonstrate their modus operandi for culinary nostrums via instructional videos shot carefully in phony looking kitchens?  If you have, you have no doubt felt disconcerted seeing the unconscionable aggregate of pots and pans they generate in the process.  I mean, the recipe in question is usually something ludicrously simple like daal tadka, and the dude goes, "iske liye aapko chaahiye 2 katori tuvar ki daal, 1 katori moong ki daal, 1 chhota chammach ghee, adha chhota chammach adrak lasun paste,  ek chhota chammach lal mirch powder, ek chota chammach haldi powder, ek chota chammach dhaniya powder, adha chhota chammach garam masala, adha chhota chammach jeera…" etc. while pointing at his table that is full of actual katoris and chammaches.  As if that weren't enough, he then proceeds to cook the daals in a separate cooker, fry the ek pyaaz kata hua, ek hari mirch kati hui, ek tamaatar bareek kata hua, etc. in a separate pan, make the tadka with the adha chhota chammach jeera in yet another separate pan, and then pour the finished daal into yet another separate bowl for "plating", leaving your empathetic self bleeding for the support staff who would ultimately be the ones doing the dishes!

That being said, let me say that it doesn’t really need a chef type with kitchenary intemperance to create a sink in a state of squalor.  It can and will inevitably happen in domestic circumstances as well.  All it needs is a sink.  Soiled pots and pans somehow generate themselves.  A classic case of “If you build it, they will come”.  Entropy.  It’s the law.  And the rate of entropy generation is somehow exponentially proportional to the number of kids.

I realize that by pitilessly mocking these chef types for their kitchenary intemperance, I might have given you the impression that our own domestic kitchen sink is always shipshape and devoid of pots and pans.  Sadly this remains a pipe dream that manifests only in my unlikeliest of hallucinations.  I have often wondered if it is truly possible to achieve a clean and empty sink in an environment with two kids with an uncanny knack for generating scads of dishes.  The more I think about it, the more I realize that it is like a limits to infinity problem.  A clean and empty sink, like infinity, is an idea that cannot be defined.  Just like infinity, we know we cannot reach it, but can still try to operate our lives with the mere premise of the idea, just like we can work out the value of functions that have infinity in them.  

Of horrors and thrills

In the mid 90s, I would often walk past a dreary, white and yellow building.  Owing to its location, the grimy structure had become a big part of my childhood.  Apollo Talkies, Rasta Peth, Pune was a landmark so well known that the adjoining bus stop, the chowk where it was situated, the cobbler and batata wada seller positioned in its vicinity, all were known by the title “Apollo”.  On the grimy front facade of the theater would dangle a large, singular, colorful poster of the picture running at theater at the time.  As if to mock the conspicuousness of the poster, a couple dozen handbills of the same film would adorn the grungy parapet wall that guarded Apollo’s perimeter.  One film that I particularly remember being screened at Apollo Talkies was Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960s horror film Psycho.  That a 60s motion picture was running at Apollo in the 90s was hardly a worthwhile thought back then because the poster of the film was enough to permeate the entirety of my adolescent brain.  A nude woman, censored just sufficiently by a steamed-up glass pane, with an outstretched hand that seemed to thrust out of the poster, surrounded by streaks of blood, and a monosyllabic “A” on the top left corner indicative of the censor certificate type, all screamed out tantalizingly to the deep-seated immorality narrative in my brain that was a product of orthodox upbringing.  Mind you, up until then, my only exposure to the horror/thriller genre was the Zee Horror Show.  As such, this was enticing stuff.

Fast forward a decade, the poster of another cinematic masterpiece adorned the grimy walls of Apollo.  At this point, I am not going to tell you the name of the picture, but only that it was starred in by not only a few GOATs of Hindi cinema but also a bunch of newcomers.  Multi-starrer, if you will.  I did not watch the movie at Apollo.  Actually, I don’t remember exactly where I saw it, but I have not forgotten the chills it gave me when I did.  The movie opens with a completely deserted remote-Indian-village railway station.  Out of nowhere, you suddenly spot three college age dudes, who are meeting for the first time.  One glance at their unsuspectingly happy faces immediately gives you that sinking feeling in your stomach, as if you know that something terrible is going to happen to them in the movie.  It turns out that all three have left home for the first time to attend college in the god forsaken village, which for some reason they willfully chose when applying.  As providence would have it, the boys discover that not only are all three in the same class, but are also roommates in the same dorm room.  The next scene is a college assembly, which in itself is such an unusual concept that it gives you the chills.  To make matters creepier, the only teacher present at the assembly is the college principal.  Not a single lecturer or professor is present.  The principal, speaking in an unusually low-pitched baritone, delivers a particularly sinister welcome address, which consists chiefly of a run-down of the college “rules”, viz. a no dating policy, a sundown curfew for students who might leave the campus, and a threat to get rusticated if the student disobeys even a single rule.  It is against this backdrop that the rest of the movie takes place.

Cut to a few scenes later, you have now come to realize that the college is basically a single building that looks like a haunted English manor surrounded by carefully manicured lawns.  The incongruity doesn’t end there.  There isn’t a single classroom in the manor.  Students are dismissed from classes sometime in the afternoon.  You can only assume that it is classes that they are dismissed from, because like I mentioned earlier, there isn’t a single lecturer or professor other than the principal a.k.a. the Baritone Bogeyman.  Essentially, a bell rings and students are dismissed from whatever takes place inside the manor.  When this happens, the students simply walk out.  No one knows where they go because the cafeteria and the dorm rooms are housed within the manor and there isn’t a single other building around.  In fact, the only structures other than the manor are an unusually large gazebo and a Durga temple, both of which are perpetually deserted.  Students wear uniforms.  You also realize that it is an all-boys institution, which basically makes the no dating policy totally homophobic.  You also realize that it is always autumn on campus.  Trees seem to constantly generate yellow leaves despite constantly shedding.  A menacing looking gate guards the mysterious campus.  

Enter, a guy who looks like a grown up Harry Potter, sweater draped on his shoulders, violin in hand.  As providence decrees (or common sense screams), the college needs at least one lecturer.  So our sweatered violinist walks into the principal's office and solicits for the job of "music teacher", thus setting a precedent for cold calling for a job.  Powered, no doubt, by some sort of voodoo magic, he convinces the Baritone Bogeyman of the dire need of music lessons at the institution.  Within due course, you learn that the sweatered violinist is actually a psychopath with a sinister plan to avenge the death of his lover.  He manages to set up a music class in the gazebo near the Durga temple and uses his black magic skills to instantaneously procure musical instruments, sheet music, and music stands for the students.  However you soon discover that music lessons are a mere facade.  The psychopath's plan is to brainwash the boys and use his powers to not only make them subvert the college rules but also instill in them vile and wicked, anti-social and amoral if you will, values.  He coerces the boys to date girls from the neighboring all girls college by encouraging them to stalk and publicly harass them, get employed at married womens' homes as music teachers and use that position of power to sexually harass the women, break existing relationships to "get at" the girls they want, and deliver hypocritical sermons about sanskaar.  To make matters creepier, there is also the ghost of the psychopath's late lover that keeps appearing, in a singular costume, throughout the film.

I still shudder when I remember the scenes of this film.  I'm sure you have seen the film too.  Here are some stills from the film.  These might jog your memory.

 

     

Pleonasms

If you grew up in India, pleonasms are no doubt deeply ingrained in your DNA.  A pleonasm is the use of multiple words in a phrase where only one would have been sufficient to convey the meaning.  If you are asking yourself what growing up in India has anything to do with pleonasms, I urge you to reminisce the moments when your English teacher taught you the art of writing formal letters requesting the addressee to "please revert back".  If you want to maintain that your English teacher was better than this, I can assure you that mine was more better.  As an added bonus, my science teacher would ask us to divide the solution into two equal halves and pour them into beakers to fill them to capacity, with an advance warning not to break them.

Let me prove to you that this is not my personal opinion.  Tell me, have you not received the message "Wrong PIN Number (Personal Identification Number Number)" on the LCD Display (Liquid Crystal Display Display) of the ATM Machine (Automatic Teller Machine Machine)?  And have you not been unexpectedly surprised when the kitchenware store in Ravivar Peth offered you a free gift when you bought multiple different kadhais?  And, isn't it a true fact that FC College (Fergusson College College) Road has some of the best eateries to pick and choose from? 

However, I was quick to learn that India isn't the only country with a propensity for pleonasms.  Pleonasms have already existed throughout American past history.  For instance, I found that the tuna fish sandwich is one of the most ubiquitous sandwiches across the US.  Sadly, I also learned that armed gunmen caused more deaths in America than did the HIV Virus (Human Immunodeficiency Virus Virus), and that made me wonder if the US was truly a safe haven for individuals fleeing persecution in their home countries, but I did understand the difficult dilemma faced by the authorities and why they couldn't simply issue a cease and desist order to stores selling firearms.  

But what convinced me that the concept of pleonasms wasn't a foreign import to the US was the announcement made by my pilot that were were flying over the Sierra Nevada Mountains (Snowy Mountains Mountains).  I couldn't wait for the airplane to fly cross the mountains, glide over the Mississippi River (Big River River) and the Ohio River (Great River River), and touchdown in my current mid-western domicile, so I could get some Indian food, particularly some Naan Bread (Bread Bread) and a cup of Chai Tea Latte (Tea Tea Milk), and plop myself in front of the TV to learn about some major breakthroughs on the CNN Network (Cable News Network Network).

To Schwa, or not to Schwa

puNE (पुणे).  The Oxford of the East.  When the little boy asked the gentleman why Poona Club wasn't called puNE (पुणे) Club, the gentleman, true to his puNErI nature, gave the little boy an estoric reply.  The confused boy asked the gentleman to "say that again".  The pundit retorted impatiently: "मी  काय  कानाडीत  बोललो  का? (did I say that in kAnADI?)". 

kAnADI (कानाडी), he quickly learned, was a language spoken in bELgAv (बेळगाव), a town on the border of Maharashtra and karnATak (कर्नाटक ).  

So, the little boy went to bELgAv (बेळगाव), karnATak (कर्नाटक ).  

This time, he learned from the local kAnADI (कानाडी) speakers that he was not in bELgAv (बेळगाव) but in beLagAvi (ಬೆಳಗಾವಿ), and that it was not in karnATak (कर्नाटक ) but in karnATaka (ಕರ್ನಾಟಕ).  The kindly beLagAvi (ಬೆಳಗಾವಿ)-ians urged the little boy to go visit other cities in karnATaka (ಕರ್ನಾಟಕ).  

So, the little boy decided to go to bengaLUru (ಬೆಂಗಳೂರು), karnATaka (ಕರ್ನಾಟಕ).

bengaLUru (ಬೆಂಗಳೂರು).  The Garden City.  India's Silicon Valley.  When the little boy stopped to buy a water bottle at a modest kirANi angaDi (grocery store), he asked the friendly shopkeeper how to say "water bottle" in kAnADI (कानाडी).  The mArwADI (मारवाड़ी ) shopkeeper quickly answered: "कन्नड़  गोत्तिल्ला (kannaD gottillA)".  Armed with the new knowledge that kAnADI (कानाडी) was called कन्नड़  (kannaD), he tried using it on a local bengaLUrian.  Unfortunately, the little boy was subject to ruthless censure.  "It is NOT कन्नड़  (kannaD)!", boomed the bengalUrian, "If you can't learn our language, at least learn to say it's name right!".  The poor boy countered with a "I'm so sorry!  The right name is kAnADI (कानाडी), right?".  It had to be, he thought, if it isn't B, then it has to be A!  Alas, this time he was met with heightened censure.  "How dare you!", thundered the angry bengaLUrian, "It's kannaDa (ಕನ್ನಡ)!  kan..na..DAAAaaaaa!  How would you feel if I said hind (हिंद) instead of hindI (हिंदी)!".  The little boy said he wasn't sure he he was supposed to feel.  "Okay...", the bengaLUrian faltered a little this time, "how about... how about if I said... um... tamiL (ತಮಿಳ್) instead of tamiLU (ತಮಿಳು)!"  

The little boy soon came to realize that bengalUrians called his beloved shrI rAm (श्री राम) rAma (ರಾಮ), and his favorite story, the mahAbhArat (महाभारत), was called the mahAbhArata (ಮಹಾಭಾರತ) here.  But if that was the case, why did his folks back north not say hind (हिंद) instead of hindI (हिंदी)?  Also, how come the bengalUrians said his friend amit (अमित)'s name correctly without changing it to amita (ಅಮಿತ)?  And which one was right, tamiL (ತಮಿಳ್) or tamiLU (ತಮಿಳು)?  In a super confused state, the little boy decided to visit a city that spoke tamiL (ತಮಿಳ್).  Or tamiLU (ತಮಿಳು).  He made a quick phone call home and asked his puNErI dad for recommendations.  "chEnnAi (चेन्नाई)!  It's in tAmiLnAD (तामिळनाड)", he said immediately.

So, the little boy went to chEnnAi (चेन्नाई), tAmiLnAD (तामिळनाड).

It wasn't long before the little boy learned that he was in chennai (சென்னை), not chEnnAi (चेन्नाई).  A particularly pious lady, whom he met at a temple, also advised him on the correct pronunciation of the language of the city.  "tamizh (தமிழ்)!", she said.  

The little boy was last spotted at a road side eatery somewhere on OMR (Old Mahabalipuram Road) eating "Gopi 65" (the "kogulized" version of gObhi (गोभी) 65), trying to pronounce zha (ழ).

Ambrosial Dualism

 

“The fact that an opinion has been widely held is no evidence whatever that it is not utterly absurd.”

- Bertrand Russell

Nestled in northwestern part of the Parnon mountains in the Peloponnese region of Greece, is the village of Vourvoura. In the early 1950s, this modestly populated village was reeling in the aftermath of depression, a particularly ruthless Nazi German occupation, and a civil war between royalists and communists. The hardscrabble and burdensome Vourvoura life of this era however did not deter young Sam from acquiring a quality education. At the tender age of 20, young Sam, like many others in his village, decided to embark on a new journey in search of a better life and began a long voyage westward. His desire was to join his older brother in Canada. Sailing across the Mediterranean Sea, he first reached the shores of Naples. Uncannily, life seemed to come full circle as young Sam decided to quell his hunger with a local delicacy that was an adaptation of the plakous, a flatbread dish that his own Greek ancestors had invented back in the 6th century BC. The Neapolitans, Sam learned, called this pizza and considered this strictly to be suitable only for the plebs and had carefully preserved its status as street food for over three centuries. Young Sam took a big saucy bite of the yeasty comestible and was categorically unimpressed.

A decade later, armed with the experience of mining in Northern Ontario, a lifetime ambition of becoming a dentist, a propensity for tough grind, the wisdom of turning into a 30 something, an underwhelming Italian culinary experience, and an older brother with an entrepreneurial inclination, Sam decided to move to the Southwestern Ontarian town of Chatham that prophetically shared its name with the Tamil word for cooked rice (சாதம்) and run a restaurant with his brother. Ironically, the restaurant made pizzas, the same Naepolitan appropriation of the Greek plakous.  The restaurant decided to hire a Chinese cook to help diversify their menu and the association helped Sam soon develop an Asian-like palette for foods combining sweet, sour, and savory tastes. Seeking to broaden the pizza menu one day, Sam grabbed a can of pineapples, and threw them on a pizza base with sauce, cheese, and some bits of ham, and history was written.

An abomination!

Repugnant!

Revolting!

Nasty!

A Polynesian perversion!

Hell hath no fury like a pizza partisan scorned. Critics spared no effort to denigrate Sam’s new sweet and savory breakthrough. Teenagers and housewives however reportedly loved it. Soon, the combination was a rage. “Hawaiian Pizza”, Sam decided to call it. Why Hawaiian? Was it Sam’s idea of the food Hawaiians in Hawaii ate? After all, Sam had never even been to Hawaii. It so turns out that the brand of canned pineapples Sam reached for on that fortunate day was called “Hawaiian”.

A little after the turn of the century, as the Greek inventor of fruit on bread Mr. Sam Panopolous was basking in four decades of his still controversial glory, a young Indian student set foot on US soil. Armed with romantic views of American rock music and the greatest pizza ever, he walked into a dingy little Hungry Howie's pizzeria in downtown Akron, just a couple blocks away from the rendezvous of a week old drug related shooting. A colorful pizza flyer adorned one of the dirty window panes that seemed to have more liaisons with colorful pizza flyers than with Windex. The graphic on the flyer was that of a succulent pizza topped with pineapples and jalapeño slices. The young Indian student was immediately enamored and his taste buds were transformed forever.

Nature is where you park your car

America has perfected the art of providing glimpses into the great woods that once dominated the continent through cracks in the veneer of the concrete jungle that has now colonized them.  These small capsules of nature, pockets of enforced wilderness, if you will, paradoxically called “parks”, give one a deceptive sense of competence in a primal paradigm, almost in a I-am-a-homo-sapiens-I-can-survive-in-the-woods sort of way, without one having to really divorce the comforts of civilization.  Walk through such a park at the break of down, or whenever you can really, and you will no doubt be captivated by how effortlessly the woods make the most rudimental of things, the sun, the soil, the leaves, all come together to paint a perfect picture of natural tranquility.  But how “real” is this?  Are you really in the woods?  While you bask in the gratification of seemingly being away from civilization, you cannot but chuckle at the irony of the proximity of this Eastern American deciduous perfectness “protected for your pleasure” by the parks authority, to your car parked a mere mile away.  After all, isn't the civilized world all about having to first get into your car and drive a few miles if you want to go for a walk? 

In any case, lest you mistake my sardonicism for world-weariness, which I realize is totally uncalled for, do know that I took these photos on one such morning walk on the super short (1.1 miles) yet picturesque Ledges Trail at the Liberty Park in Twinsburg, OH.  Don't let me enjoy my soapbox for too long!

 

The Haunted Hour

True story: 

5:15 pm
She starts preparing the kids for trick-or-treating.  The costumes are laid out.

5:20 pm
She starts feeding the kids dinner while they run, play, refuse to eat, etc.

5:40 pm
She starts feeling hungry (hangry?) herself.  Not a good sign.  
She decides she will eat dinner at 6 pm when he chaperones the kids around the neighborhood.

5:45 pm
He walks around looking tired.  
She offers to chaperone the kids instead.  
He declines.

5:55 pm
He changes mind.  
She gets furious at the last minute change.  
Sparks fly.  
A kid or two wail in the background.

6 pm 
She herds the kids and escorts them outside.  
One child complains of hunger, the other doesn’t want to wear a scarf. 

6:05pm
He offers to take the kids.  
Weak offer.
She gives him the look.  More sparks fly.  
She storms off with kids.

6:10 pm
It begins raining.  
He departs home and runs behind the ladies, umbrellas in hand.

6:15 pm
One child has had enough and wants to come back home.  
At home, her dad has turned into a witch and is handing out candy, having the most fun amongst all.

A Halloween Story

The wharf was completely deserted after the boat had departed.  The sky had only a couple streaks of sunlight left.  She stood at the edge of the wharf and stared wistfully at the angry looking wake the hull of the boat had left behind.  The swirls in the water glistened eerily in the moonlight.

Without warning, she felt a push.  Before she could turn around and ascertain what had happened, she was in the water.  She didn't know how to swim.  In fact, she hated water.  She felt herself sinking.  Time seemed to slow down, so much so that she found herself wondering how she was able to hold her breath for so long.  

Then she saw them.

A shiver of sharks was approaching her.  Horror engulfed her.  In that moment of terror she realized that the sharks seemed to belong to the same family.  She could spot a large middle aged male shark, a slightly smaller female, two little ones presumably of opposite genders, and a couple of aging sharks.  What was strange was that each shark was being ridden by those unpredictable two legged creatures.  The two legged riders looked more menacing that the sharks themselves.  The one straddling the large male shark looked particularly terrifying.  He was carrying a net.  Was he going to catch her?

She closed her eyes shut and turned around.  Instinctively she began swimming.  Swimming really hard.  She could feel the water around her get more and more turbulent as the sharks and the two leggers got closer and closer to her.  She had to do something.  They were clearly faster and stronger.

She opened her eyes.

A carcass of a whale lay sadly on the sea bed.  Oh the horrors of the sea!  The sharks must be absolute monsters.  To think that they slayed such a huge whale!  

She had to make a split second decision.

She swam directly into the ribcage of the dead whale and found a hiding spot.  Her heart was pounding.  The sharks and the two leggers were right above her at this time.  She stayed there trying her best to not disturb the water.  In about 10 seconds, the sharks left.

She rejoiced!  She thought she had outsmarted the hunters!  Out she swam, feeling triumphant!

But that wasn't the end of it.  Before she knew it, the two legger with the net made a dash toward her on his shark.  The next moment she was inside the net!

~~~ If you are thinking to yourself what kind of a morbid tale this is, take a moment and watch this video.  It is supposed to be about a baby shark and his family.  Yes... scary... ~~~

Awwal Number (1990) - A Review

The Hindi Film Industry has churned out plenty of memorable sports films.  A sports film is generally trope-laden, and truth be told, audiences watch sports films knowing this and expecting this.  The story of the underdog.  Trial.  Misery.  Pain.  Tenacity.  Hard work.  And victory at the end.  We all love this.  You know the Chak De Indias and the Lagaans.  Even the biopics, although sometimes more like extended skits of anecdotes and recreations of actual videos from the past making you wish that you were watching a solemn documentary instead, give you the buzz of euphoria you expect from a sports film.  And within this genre, you will sometimes get a Dangal that has a narrative that transcends this cliché by addressing the human condition, a Bhaag Milkha Bhaag that deals with the sensitivity surrounding the Partition, and a Paan Singh Tomar that is raw and honest with incredible acting.

And then you have Awwal Number.

Remember how India as a whole felt proud and honored when Lagaan was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film at the Oscars but failed to win?  I think that is just gross underestimation of talent and a false sense of mediocrity.  Do you really think we don't make Oscar worthy films?  Let me tell you that the only reason we have never won an Oscar is because back in 1990, Dev Anand never cared to submit his masterpiece Awwal Number to the Academy.  In fact, Awwal Number outclasses any film that has ever won the Oscar.  

Awwal Number is a story of three men, Vicky, Ronnie, and Sunny.  Vicky, played by Dev Anand, is the President of BCCI, chief selector, cricket coach, and a retired Director General of Police who is on the Home Minister's speed dial so that he can be pulled out of retirement whenever needed because of his brilliant terrorist catching abilities.  He is a skilled helicopter pilot and can accurately shoot villains with a rifle using only one hand while flying the helicopter with the other.  He knows that the only effective way to interrogate a male terrorist suspect is by injecting sach ugalwane ki dawaa into him and a female terrorist suspect is by flirting with her.  He also knows the names of all the cricketing shots, and shouts them out at random while coaching his step-brother Ronnie, thus turning Ronnie into the world's best batsman.  He is also emotionally very stable, evidenced by his lukewarm reaction when 10 year old Ronnie shoots a man dead.  To top it all, he is also a man of principle because he drinks exactly one scotch and soda before dinner and smokes exactly one cigarette after dinner, votes to drop his own step-brother from the cricket team despite having been partial to him when selecting him the first time, and also has the gall to override the Home Minster's orders when it comes to following his usool to carry out his duties as a policeman.

Ronnie, played by Aditya Pancholi, is Vicky's younger step-brother.  While Vicky was born to an Indian mother, Ronnie was born to Cindy Crawford.  Yes, you heard that right.  Cindy Crawford.  Legend has it that Dev Anand asked his assistant to go buy the first photograph of a European looking woman he saw on Ranade Rd Dadar West, and the assistant returned with an exquisitely framed photo of supermodel Cindy Crawford, who then Dev Anand cast, uncredited and unaware, as his deceased step-mother.  Having those Angrez genes, it is no wonder that Ronnie has cricket in his blood.  With top class 1:1 coaching from his brother, he becomes a superstar cricketer who is famous for hitting sixers, because that's all really matters in cricket.  He is also a bad person because he is arrogant, disrespects his fans if they aren't pretty women, sleeps with them if they are, and also drinks a lot of beer (as opposed to drinking exactly one scotch and soda).  He usually scores centuries when he is in form, and gets out on zero when he is out of form.  He is currently out of form because of his aiyaashi and lack of focus.  He is jealous of younger cricketers who can also hit sixers, and generally wants to kill them by planting dynamite under the pitch, right around the good length area.  His MO for carrying out this operation is wearing a hat and a fake mustache and yet making no effort to hide his identity so he can use his name to get a free seat on a helicopter to fly over the stadium and press a button on a remote to activate the dynamite.  And as I said earlier, he is also a juvenile murderer on the loose.

Sunny, played by Aamir Khan, is an up and coming cricketer, which basically means he is a sixer hitting batsman.  He makes it clear right at the beginning that although his name is Sunny, he isn't the great Sunny Gavaskar.  However, he and his aging father, played by Bharat Bhushan, once receive an autographed bat from Sunny Gavaskar (not shown in the film), which our young Sunny, played by Aftab Shivdasani, then brings back to his chawl, starts playing cricket with, and grows up into a sixer hitting Aamir Khan.  Sunny is a good person, because he drinks neither beer nor scotch, he has never killed anyone in his life, and his behavior toward female fans is appropriate, i.e. he falls in love with them, sings songs with them in swimsuits on the beach, eats bhaang waale bhajiya with them on chowpatty, and eventually promises to marry them by meeting their aging mother.  He is also a big fan of Ronnie, but doesn't shy away from getting into a bar brawl with him when the senior cricketer speaks cheaply about women.  He also carries a tape recorder in his pocket, given to him by his girlfriend Aarti, played by Ekta Sohini, with "I love you, I love you, I love you" recorded in her voice in varying pitches.  Sunny uses this recorder like the Sanjeevani herb whenever he gets injured on the field, so that he can jump back up on his feet and resume hitting sixers.

Awwal Number is not just a movie.  It is a grand journey.  It is an adventure that traverses from cricket selection comprising of 5 people choosing between Ronnie and Sunny, to flash backs of cricket coaching accomplished either using a cricket bat if you are rich and by running on the streets on Mumbai if you are poor, to bad Tamil accented Punjabi actors playing LTTE members (the "Ayyo, umm tho thum ko jaantha hi nehi hey ji" kind), to Punjabi Tamil groundsmen named Kundi because apparently it is a South Indian word, to buxom women who pose as air hostesses in order to smuggle gold bars in their bras but end up becoming bar dancers without ever being arrested, to an Australian cricket team that consists of mustached white-face brown actors and just a single fast bowler that bowls every single over of the match, to policemen who are able to converse with villains in helicopters using some sort of mysterious telepathy.  Staying true to the sport film genre, India finally wins the match against Australia.  Sunny scores a century in his first ODI and achieves the rare feat of breaking Ronnie's test record in an ODI.  He is also named the Man of Match and is awarded a Mercedes Benz car, which then he gives Aarti a ride in.  Oh, and also, Vicky kills Ronnie, and the Tamil villains lose.

Continental Breakfast

A Man Who Enjoys a Continental Breakfast - Key & Peele

"Here's your key, sir.  Elevators are to your left.  Breakfast is from 6 am to 10 am."

I glanced at the breakfast area.  Through the darkness I spotted a bagel slicer.  My mind darted back to a stay I had endured at a questionable hotel in Manhattan about a decade ago.  I recalled the tempestuous debate I had had with the hotel manager regarding some crumbs I had noticed inside the bagel slicer; the point of contention being that the manager believed they were innocent scrapings from cinnamon-raisin bagels and I believed they were remnants of ordure produced by the rodents I was sure to have seen scampering around the corner.  

I shuddered.

As I walked towards the elevator, I hallucinated rainbow colored mice carrying cinnamon-raisin bagels alongside me.  It was almost midnight.  I clearly needed sleep.  Leaving the rodents behind, I stepped into the elevator.

The oblique light of dawn kissed me into wakefulness.  Propping myself up between the severely tucked sheets, I looked around, squinting.  The room looked pretty neat.  A huge window, a large screen TV, a small frig, a microwave, a fancy upholstered slipper chair, and a pretty clean looking carpet.  I took a deep breath.  No musty smell.  Not bad, I thought to myself.  I rolled out of bed and walked up to the window.  The sun was rising over the horizon the DC metro area seemed to disappear into.   My gaze got fixated on a systematic cloverleaf highway interchange that was layered carefully over a labyrinth of disorderly local roads, and it suddenly gave me a sense of security and strengthened my faith in the positive nature of evolutionary advancement of civilization.  A great deal of good cheer returned to my disposition.  Bagel bearing vermin were long forgotten.

My stomach growled.  

As I took the elevator down, I caught a whiff of bacon.  Being a vegetarian, there was a slight dwindling in the optimism I had garnered earlier, but I didn't lose heart.  Complimentary breakfast is a good thing, I told myself.  I stepped out of the elevator and incorporated my hungry frame into the esurient assemblage of a couple dozen hotel guests.  The mob seamlessly transported me to the hot food section with three stainless steel chafing containers.  I ignored the first one that contained bacon.  The second one had breakfast potatoes.  You know, the cubed and roasted and seasoned kind.  Good, I thought to myself, this I can eat!  And just I had made up my mind, the sinless fella ahead of me in the line used the bacon tongs to serve himself the potatoes!

Great!  Potatoes were out now.  

I strengthened my resolve.  Complimentary breakfast is a good thing, I told myself, and approached the third chafing container.  Scrambled eggs!  Yay, I told myself, I can eat this!  I could almost feel the good cheer returning as I dug into the eggs with the ladle.  And just as I was about to serve the eggs on my plate, I saw a small piece of bacon stuck to the bottom of the ladle!  This time, all of the good cheer vanished.  I must have dropped the ladle hard on spoon rest, because my sinless friend suddenly turned around and stared at me.  I looked at him and shrugged.

Next was a wall mounted plastic cereal dispenser with Froot Loops, and a jug of cold milk labeled "skim".  Although by no means was cereal my breakfast de choix, I decided to suck it up and serve myself some, because, you know, complimentary breakfast is a good thing.  Mustering up some of that good cheer again, I took a bowl and turned the knob on the dispenser.  What followed was an ugly crushing sound.  Before I knew it, a jet of colorful fairy dust like powder shot into my bowl!

Eggs out.  Cereal out.

By this point, good cheer was beginning to seem like an academic abstraction.  The mob now ferried me over to the section with breads.  As I walked past the cream cheeses and butters and jams, I managed to muster up just a tiny bit of some lukewarm cheer.  Bread it is, I told myself, I can eat that.  With butter.  May be I'll even throw some ketchup on it.  Oh, and I can even season it with black pepper.  Or how about a jam sandwich?  Or may be I could do a nice crisp toast with cream cheese smeared on it.  Oh, and I could season this one with black pepper too!

It wasn't exactly good cheer, but it was something.  I straightened my spine and marched forth with the mob.  And just as I was feeling more determined, the mob deposited me right in front of that bagel slicer!  

As I felt my PTSD kick in, I rapidly looked away and focused my attention on the bread case next to it.  I scanned the assortment to make my choice.  White bread?  No, I can do better than that, I said to myself.  Multigrain bread?  Nah, that's basically white bread with some grains.  Rye bread?  What is rye bread anyway?  Oh, wait, what's that...?  

Lo and behold!  I could spy with my little eyes some innocent scrapings from non-existent cinnamon-raisin bagels!

Worth Five Rupees

Today was different.  Sundar's pockets jingled with exactly five one-Rupee coins - the minimum autorickshaw fare back in 1996.  He had spent all day at school checking his pockets to make sure they were still there.  He hadn't ridden his Atlas city bike to school today, thanks to a flat tire.  His dad had given him five Rupees when he had dropped him off at school that morning, with the intention that he would take an autorickshaw back home instead of walking.  However, as the day progressed, alternate plans had brewed in Sundar's head.  As the final bell rang, Sundar strengthened his resolve.  Today was the day.  He had had all day to work out the logistics.  No one would know!, he thought to himself.  

Without saying a single bye, Sundar left his friends behind and began walking in the direction of his home.  He passed the autorickshaw stand.  Rikshaw wale Kakas looked at him expectantly, but he wasn't going to take a riskshaw today.  No sir.  His focus was completely different today.  Making sure no one was watching him, he quickened his pace.  Within 5 minutes he reached the intersection, the venue for today's covert operation.  He paused and took a moment to contemplate the scene.  As always, the street sounds began to instantly fade out and time seemed to come to a standstill.  The lone tapri on the corner began to get larger and larger in his frame of vision, sort of like the "dolly zoom" effect used in psychological thriller movies.

Snapping out of it, he began moving quickly toward the tapri.  As always, the tapri looked discordantly serene.  "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", the little chalkboard easel in front of it screamed.  Cheap.  Even in 1996.  Notwithstanding the fact that not once had Sundar seen a soul around the tapri, munching on the said kachori, he started walking faster.  The unpopularity of the kachori vendor raised absolutely no flags in Sundar's foodie brain.  Besides, he was also incredibly drawn by the mystique that surrounded the tapri.

Sundar wasn't what you would consider overweight by today's standards.  Mind you though, he wasn't a particularly lean kid by any standards either.  In fact, back in the 90s, kids with his kind of BMI were a rarity.  Heads usually turned, not in a kindly way.  Kids like Sundar were usually picked on and hazed by the skinner ones.  They were often chosen, rather callously, by physical education instructors in schools as exhibits of abhorrent body types.  Thankfully, Sundar was pretty comfortable in his, what many Indians called, "healthy" body.  He loved food.  Homemade meals, restaurant fare, or street-side pick me ups, it didn't matter.  He just loved food.  His parents took pride in that he wasn't a picky eater.  He took pride in that he never disappointed his friends' mothers when they offered him food when he visited them.

Every afternoon on his way back home from school, Sundar would always stop pedaling his bike when he approached intersection, and take a moment check his pockets to see if he had two rupees.  He never did.  Obviously.  He was 12.  He didn't carry money that his parents didn't give him.  And his parents didn't give him money he didn't need.  Today was an exception though.  He had five whole Rupees in his pocket today.  With that kind of money he could eat two kachoris!  He had it all planned.  He would buy one kachori first.  He would first make a hole in the top layer, then ask for chutney.  He would then pour that chutney into the hole and then sink his top teeth into the deliciously crisp and flaky kachori.  After the first kachori, he would then buy a second one.  This one would be sans chutney and "for the road".  What a plan!  He put his right hand into his right pants pocket and jingled the five one-rupee coins.  Feeling wealthy and twitching with nervous excitement, he walked right up to the counter and squeaked, "Kaka, ek kachori dya na…"

Sundar then peered into the tapri.  Something felt off at once.  Tapri wale Kaka looked less like a kachori vendor and more like an investment banker.  He was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, blue silk tie, expensive looking trousers with a rather fancy leather belt, and shiny black dress shoes.  Faithful to the 90s Indian male business fashion, he wore gold rimmed glasses, his beard was clean shaven, and his mustache was carefully trimmed.  Sundar rapidly started becoming skeptical about his grand plan.  Unlike typical vendors, there wasn't a single kachori in display.  In fact, barring the chalkboard easel that said  "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", there wasn't a single indication that the tapri was a kachori store.  All it contained was a singular table with a glass top and nothing on it, and an expensive looking chair on which Tapri wale Kaka sat.

Tapri wale Kaka slowly rose from his seat, and smiled at Sundar, revealing his perfectly white and even set of teeth.  In a baritone and a totally unexpected British accent, he asked:

"Would you fancy one or two kachoris, kind Sir?"

Hearing the word "kachori" in a British accent made Sundar instantly panic.  Instinctively, he turned around and bolted.  The five one-Rupee coins jingled uncontrollably in his pocket as he went hell for leather.  He ran faster than his legs could carry.  Not once did he turn around.  He didn't care for the traffic.  He charged through the intersection, causing all the Baja Chetaks, Hero Honda Splendors, autorickshaws, PMC buses, and Maruti 800s to honk simultaneously at him.  Sundar didn't stop.  He cursed his Atlas city bike for having a flat tire that day.  Had he biked to school, his dad would have never given him the five Rupees, and he would never have succumbed to the lust for the kachori.  Panting his way to the sidewalk, he decided to hold his Atlas city bike responsible for anything bad that might happen to him today.  Just as he thought he had abated danger and had begun slowing down, he heard the British baritone again behind him:

"Care for this awfully delicious chutney on the side, sir?  It's bloody exquisite, I must say…"

Panic returned like the devil.  Without turning and looking, Sundar simply started running and cutting through the wind like a bat out of hell.  He ran and ran until he felt the ground give way under him.  Then he felt himself fall into a never ending abyss.  He wanted to scream, but his lips wouldn't part.  He felt gagged.  He tried vocalizing with his mouth closed, but there was no sound.  It was as if his vocal cords had ceased to exist.  He began flailing his limbs helplessly.  Defying all laws of physics, he felt being drawn into the earth faster than terminal velocity.  For some reason, he could also hear a distant beeping that seemed to echo limitlessly in the bottomless pit.

The alarm clock jolted Prabhakar awake.  He sat up sweating and panting.  Wasting no time, Prabhakar threw back the covers and ran out through the front door of the apartment and down the stairs.  There was his teenage son Sundar's Atlas city bike, safely chained to a side rail and both tires nicely inflated!

The Proposal - Part II

"Sit", the rider said and motioned to him with an almost undetectable wave of the hand.  

Before he could fully process the unsought invitation and the brusque manner of the rider, she exclaimed, "Appa!"

He hadn't considered this possibility in his mental playbook.  He froze.

"Sit", her dad reiterated.

"Appa!", she reiterated.

A moment of uncomfortable silence.  

A battered tempo passed them.  The clunking noise its wheels made as they rolled over the railroad tracks eased the silence for a bit.  Her dad looked at him through the face shield of the red and black helmet he was wearing.  Clearly, he was being expected to show some reaction.  Quick, say something!  He unfroze.  His brain prompted him to say Namaste! and Oh okay! at the same time.  He ended up blurting out: 

"Namaste! Okay?"

Bad start.  He refroze.

Luckily, the battered tempo honked obnoxiously at the exact same time and drowned out his fumble.

"I'll walk", she said and started walking.  His frozen brain took too long to process what just happened.  Before he knew it, she had disappeared leaving him alone with her dad.

"Sit", her dad repeated patiently.  He immediately felt an unforeseen sense of warmth.  Her dad wasn't smiling, yet he felt a sense of kindliness, in the face of which his botched "Namaste" seemed all the more imbecilic.

This time he simply followed the instruction and decided not to open his mouth.  The motorcycle started its journey uphill.  They passed the battered tempo.  The poor thing was whining its way uphill.  Seemed pretty symbolic.

Suddenly, her dad asked him a question.  Unfortunately, the battered tempo honked again, drowning out the question almost entirely.  All he heard was: "… bus … time … … … … village … auto?".

Awkward.  He knew it was a question because of the upward intonation on the word "auto", but what was the question?  Was it a wh- question or a how question?  Maybe he was being asked if the bus was on time?  But what did autos and villages have to do with that?  He began panicking.  He looked at her dad’s helmet.  It had red streaks on a black background.  Or were they black streaks on a red background?  If only he could get access to the helmet later, he could then take some measurements and … Shut up and focus!  He had to respond. Quickly.

"Yes, Appa", he said irrelevantly.

"Eh?", her dad retorted.

He froze again.  Maybe he shouldn’t have said Appa.  Uncle was probably more appropriate.  But why did he say “yes”?  What was he agreeing to?  

This wasn’t going well.

They turned onto a smaller road.  The gradient got steeper and her dad switched the motorcycle to a lower gear.  He realized that this was the private access road that lead to their home.  He breathed a little easier when he spotted her standing on the front porch.  Her mother and grandfather were standing beside her.  His breathing quickened again as their motorcycle pulled up.  He got down.  Expecting them to look resentful and displeased to see him, he summoned his best Namaste and opened his mouth to convey it.  But before he could, she exclaimed, "Amma!"

"Eh?", his tongue failed him yet again.

"Ajja!", she exclaimed again.

He just realized that she wasn't having a field day with words either.  Somehow, it didn't help that both her mother and grandfather had unexpectedly warm smiles on their faces.  He hadn't considered this possibility in his mental playbook either.  Time to say that Namaste!, he thought.

"Wash your feet!"

He was caught unawares by this order from her dad's direction.  He turned around and blurted out:

"Namaste?"

"Eh?", her dad retorted.

He started to feel the situation fall apart.  Panic returned.  But then suddenly, her mom said her first words:

"Have you eaten anything?"

If you are an Indian, you know these aren't just words of cordiality.  You know the sincerity behind this question.  And the question had been asked with so much tenderness that he immediately began breathing easier.

"Let him wash his feet first...", her dad said.

"Was the bus on time?", her grandfather said his first words.

"Come, it's almost lunch time!  You must be tired...", her mom said.

"We have a little tap on the other side of this bush, you can wash your feet there...", her dad said.

"Did you walk here from the bus stand?", her grandfather asked.

"I'm not sure if you like balekayi, here we use balekayi for many items...", her mom continued.

"The tap is somewhat hidden, come let me show you...", her dad continued.

"I used to walk from the bus stand too when I was younger.  Nowadays it has become hard...", her grandfather continued.

"I hope you like our food, you may not be used to our taste..."

"Your feet will dry, don't worry.  Come, let's go in..."

"Ours is a small village, but it has become so easy these days with buses and autos!"

"Do you mind sitting on the floor for lunch, or do you want to sit at the table?"

"He's young and healthy, of course he'll sit on the floor!"

"Sitting on the floor is the best posture for eating..."

An overwhelming feeling of warmth engulfed him.  He glanced at her.  She was beaming with happiness and pride.  Things were going to be alright after all!

The Proposal - Part I

The tortuous route that bisected the mountain massif didn't exactly help his nerves.  He stared blankly out the rusty bus window at the lush green trees pass by.  The unmatched splendor of the Sahyadri ranges that disappeared into the horizon nested against an unperturbed blue sky did nothing to comfort him.  The beauty of the landscape felt jarring to him.  The late morning breeze that hit his face felt uncomfortable.  He felt queasy.  

She didn't say a word.  She held his arm tight and rested her head on his shoulder.  She understood.  She was nervous herself.  Thoughts raced in her head, as they always tended to.  How would the rest of the day go?  How would they react?  What would it all culminate in?  She tried to clear her head.  Bending down, she extracted a little Frooti carton from her backpack and waved it at him inquiringly.  He shook his head.

She recounted in her mind all the events that had transpired over the last two years.  Within that short span, their relationship had endured an elaborate arc traversing from their eyes first meeting, to the initial infatuation period, to the enlightenment of love, to long distance dating, to painful separation, to patching back up, and to finally deciding to commit to each other in marriage.  His parents had agreed for the most part, but they thought he was too young and not ready to get married as yet.  On the other hand, her parents had not agreed at all, but thought she getting older and was on the verge of entering the desi-girl-unmarriageable-age-bracket and had to be found a suitor within the community (i.e. not him).  They were both the exact same age, by the way.

Teetering down the meandering ghat section, the bus finally made its descent onto the low elevation plateau.  She felt a slight sense of comfort as the bus entered the small town she had grown up in.  For him though, this was the first time in the region.  Normally he would have been taking in the surroundings cerebrally by observing the streets and shops and asking questions.  Not today though.  He was too keyed up.  She thought he might feel better if she chatted with him about her city, so she began jabbering.  He pretended to listen.

The bus pulled into the bus stand and rolled to a stop.  Debarking with their two backpacks, they walked through the noisy bus stand and exited into the busy street.  She had stopped jabbering by now, and was lost in thought.  What would her dad say?  She knew her mom sympathized.  Deep down she knew her dad did too.  She understood that it wasn’t them.  It was societal pressure.  Relatives.  Neighbors.  But she wasn’t going to knuckle under all that.  She was a fighter.  She had always been.

As they maneuvered past a pack of haphazardly parked two-wheelers, he felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him.  He looked around.  Not a single familiar face.  Yet, he felt watched.  He felt they were both being watched.  He immediately understood the importance of being formally committed.  She had harped on this subject one too many times.  That was exactly what this whole plan was about.  His trip from the US.  This idea to go and meet her parents.  That was the proper thing to do.  Right.  Still and all, would he walk away with a yes?  Or would this be the end of it all?  Was this all worth it?  But then again, what other choice did they have?  He felt a single bead of sweat trickle down his forehead.  Positive thoughts!, he told himself.

A hasty auto-rikshaw dangerously careened around the corner as they both made their way toward her childhood home.  After being momentarily startled, she went back to her thoughts.  The circumstances as they stood at the time hadn't just come by.  She had fought for the situation to be the way it was.  And she was ready to keep fighting.  She was certainly glad that his parents had agreed so willingly.  Imagine if they hadn't!  With his family on board, it felt like half the battle had been won, like they had some conditional warrant in their back pockets.  And she was grateful for this.  Then she began thinking about her grandfather.  Him being the head of the household, a lot depended on his disposition.

After about 30 minutes of walking they reached a busy intersection with railroad tracks.  She told him they were now really close.  His collywobbles began intensifying.  Suddenly, he heard a motorcycle approach behind him...

The green thumb

"What do we do with all this?"

"I don't know.  Just don't make all my efforts go waste."

"Okay, so more thokku?  Or should I just blanche, peel, and make paste to freeze?  And what about this one?  Cut and freeze?  What I'll do is dice this one up and put it in 3 freezer bags, keep one here, keep one in the freezer downstairs, and the last one we can keep…"

"Chumma don't say big big dialogs.  Simply show off…"

"Wait… what?  No… I'm really asking…"

"Leave it, Lalit.  Already that one from last week I went bad.  I had to throw it…"

"Haan…"

"What haan…"

"I mean, yeah… sorry… I meant to cut that one…"

"Your sorry has no meaning… simply show off…"

"Hmm…"

"What hmm…"

"Okay, tell me what to do with all this?"

"You figure it out na?  Why am I responsible for everything in this house?"

"Okay, so cut and freeze?  And what about thokku?"

"Grrrr… I don't know… Just don't make all my efforts go waste."

"Tell na…"

"…"

I have a problem.  Sometimes I keep asking the same question and inciting conflict even when I know the conversation has reached a stalemate.  Especially in situations where I am in denial about not being of much help.  

In any case.  The point I'm trying to make here is that I heretofore haven't adequately appreciated the fact that Pavana has a green thumb.  I have largely failed to recognize her remarkable prowess as a home gardener until now.  I mean, I always appreciated her passion for growing vegetables, but being geoponically challenged, I never comprehended the laudability of Pavana's talent in this area until recently when I realized that every single visitor to our house lately not only admired the viridity of our indoor plants but were also awed when they saw the huge ash gourds (white pumpkins) she grew.  If there were a reality show like MasterChef for home gardeners, say MasterGardener or PlantingPundits or something (ABC/NBC are you listening?), Pavana would certainly be a strong contender.

With that said, 2021 for us has been a year of roma tomatoes, big boy tomatoes, grape tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, green beans, long beans, Chinese eggplants, bitter gourds, snap peas, ash gourds, delicata squashes, drumstick greens, red amaranth greens, green amaranth greens, lettuce, karpuravalli, mint, malabar spinach, green peppers, purple bell peppers, and I feel like I am forgetting some more crop.  And mind you, my contribution of effort toward this bounty is minimal to nada.  Our freezers are brimming with veggie rations ready for winter cooking, some diced, some whole.  I am actually surprised we didn't get a censorious letter from our HOA during the summer, because when someone asked us directions to our house, we literally told them to come to the one with a cladding of trellises of tomato and squash vines near the front door!

Eat your vegetables

"Clementine for snack today, Medha?", I hollered.  "Sure!  Peel pannaadhe, I'll peel it at snack time!", came the reply.  

As part of the customary early morning scene with Medha and Mira sitting at the kitchen island eating their breakfast at their vastly disparate speeds as usual, Pavana yanking Medha's hair trying to comb it as she kept wiggling around contrary to common sense order, and me packing Medha's lunch bag at a frantic pace, a conversation that never hitherto been had germinated out of the blue.

"What do they serve at the cafeteria?", asked Pavana.

"They have two options", replied Medha, "Usually for meat they have something like popcorn chicken and for vegetarians they give pizza or something".

"Both sound great", I said sarcastically.

"Maybe it's OK for her to eat pizza once in a while...", began Pavana.

"Nah", I interjected, "I would rather her have cold lunch from home than eat that junk!"

"I don't even like pizza", lied sweet little Medha in endearing solidarity.

This conversation took me back to a day in December 2010 when President Obama brought Michelle Obama's vision to reality by signing the Healthy Hunger-Free Kids Act into law.  That day was supposed to go down in history as a step toward combating childhood obesity and helping parents feed their kids better.  The day certainly went down in history, but not because it ushered more fresh produce and whole grains into school cafeterias as was the intent of the bill.  Because it did not.  The fast food lobby obviously couldn't allow that.  I remember listening on the radio how the House GOP had declared that pizza and french fries with ketchup were vegetables!  And this is not something the food lobby doesn't routinely do.  This is no different from the argument presented by a certain gentleman belonging to the National Soft Drink Association to the Senate Agricultural Committee that soft drinks are not harmful because they can provide part of the 2 liter liquid intake as part of a balanced diet!

The story of school lunches in America is quite a saga.   The Great Depression was when it all started with society was bedevilled to an extent that was sufficient to get the Feds involved.  Specifically, the early 1930s saw extreme food price collapses that drove farmers to financial ruin.  Laborers weren't finding work, and hunger and malnutrition ravaged poor communities with children.  That's when President Roosevelt's New Deal came to the rescue by having the federal government buy surplus crops from farmers, employing thousands of women to cook using this surplus, and then serving this food to hungry students.  The system managed keep up this perfect solution through and after WW2, thanks to the National School Lunch Act of 1946.  Remember, this also marked the beginning of the baby boomer era, and keeping a burgeoning population young boomers fed meant that school districts had to ramp up production substantially.  With the post WW2 food industry rapidly growing, private companies began lusting for a slice of the action and started signing contracts with school districts.  However, the food industry was also rapidly transforming at the time, especially with the onslaught of fast food chains like you know who.  School lunches went from food like soups and sandwiches made from surplus farm produce, to rich fare like meatloaf and shortcakes, to pizzas and hamburgers, all within a span of two decades.  Luckily for the food industry, Eisenhower and Nixon increased the budgets for school lunch programs and the Child Nutrition Act of 1966 added more subsidies for school milk and school breakfast programs.  

All of a sudden in 1981, the Raegan administration slashed Federal school lunch spending by $1.46 billion and infamously declared that ketchup was a vegetable so as to meet nutrition standards while keeping the food lobby happy.  The 2010 Obama administration law was an attempt to somewhat reverse this debacle by increasing the School Lunch and School Breakfast per meal reimbursement by six cents for the first time in 15 years.  While it was mandated that the schools had to meet new nutrition standards in order to receive the meal increase, the new nutrition standards themselves were questionable.  Like me, you too might remember the House GOP in 2011 classifying pizza as a vegetable, or more specifically, allowing tomato paste on pizzas to be counted as a vegetable to 'prevent overly burdensome' regulations!  You might also remember the asinine argument that surfaced at the same time that kids stuffing themselves with ketchup doused french fries were basically 'eating their vegetables'!  As they say, history repeats itself!  In essence, aside from the fact that the feds proved that weren't any better in 2011 than they were back in 1981 at telling the difference between fruits and vegetables (tomato is a fruit, duh), no noticeable change took place nutrition-wise.  And of course, the USDA under the Trump administration in 2020 famously had Michelle Obama get smoked on her achievement by allowing schools to reduce the amount of vegetables and fruits required at lunch and breakfasts while giving them license to sell more pizza, burgers and fries to students.  On her birthday!

I have to feel happy though, because my kid doesn't really like the unhealthy stuff.  Medha doesn't like cakes because they are too sweet and too "frostingy".  She'll eat chocolate once in a while if offered to her, but never ask for it herself.  She'll occasionally ask us to buy her Taco Bell's fiesta potatoes, but without their signature fake cheese sauce.  On occasion though, she flummoxes me by asking why a homemade potato roast curry isn't junk but a bowl of Taco Bell's fiesta potatoes is!

The Perfect Vacation

"The Perfect Vacation" is a construct as phantasmal as the elusive Sasquatch.  I have addressed this idea previously as well, and every vacation we undertake seems to only vindicate this hypothesis.  It is particularly uncanny how minor inconveniences quickly devolve into major impediments when on a vacation.  

Why this kolaveri, you ask?  Lemme tell you...

9:30 PM

We checked into the highway-side hotel in southern West Virginia.  The kids were still wide awake, so we were able to actually walk through the lobby, into the elevator, down the hallway, and into our room like regular humans, as opposed to our usual MO of skedaddling through the concourse like two kidnappers with two napping kids.  We entered our room and turned on the light.  The room was smaller than I had imagined, but it looked alright.  Pavana threw her customary what's-that-smell glance at me and I appeased her with my all-is-well expression.  No complaints there.  We quietly began unpacking for the night while the kids began their usual I-know-this-is-a-bed-but-I-will-pretend-this-is-a-trampoline jumping activity.  All certainly was well.  Up until 9:35 PM...

9:35 PM

It all started with a bathroom visitation.  You know how when you see a ball-type doorknob on the bathroom door, you automatically expect it contain a built-in lockset comprising of a lock button on one side?  Well, this doorknob had no lock button.  It looked exactly the same on both sides.  Not a big deal, I thought to myself, and came out and appraised Pavana of what I considered an insignificant shortcoming.  

That's when I received my first eye-roll.

9:50 PM

After substantial badgering and hounding, Medha finally decided to do us a favor by using the restroom and brushing her teeth.  When she was done, she came out pulled the bathroom door shut behind her.  Two minutes later, Pavana tried to to open the door.  It was locked!

"I need to pee", said Pavana irritably.

"So do I", said Medha.

Pavana and I looked at Medha, then at each other. 

"What did you do in the bathroom two minutes ago?", Pavana began interrogating Medha.

"And how did you lock the door before closing it behind you?", I added.

"Amma...", Medha began in her signature howl, "I was first trying to wash my hands but I couldn't find the soap.  Then I was looking for my toothbrush, but I couldn't find it.  So I came out to look for my toothbrush.  You never gave me the toothbrush and paste..."

"So you didn't brush either?"

"Amma... you..."

This wasn't going well.  Both of them had ignored the real problem.  I interrupted with: "Let me call the front desk".

I received my second eye-roll.

10:05 PM  

The receptionist was in our room inspecting the bathroom doorknob.  "There should be a hole for emergency unlocking...", she mumbled as she felt the doorknob.

"There's none.  I checked", I said, "and the inside didn't even have a lock button".

"That's not possible", she said.

"Lalit", Pavana interjected, "Mira needs to sleep.  It is late".

"Let me see if I can find the maintenance guy", said the receptionist.

"Please do", I said, "and please tell him that the doorknob has no lock".

"That's not possible", she said again as she walked away.

I received my third eye-roll.

10:20 PM

The lights in the room were off now and Pavana was trying to make Mira sleep.  The maintenance guy, the receptionist, Medha, and I were huddled around the doorknob like a bunch of evil scientists watching their guinea pig sprout a third ear or something.  "There should be a hole for emergency unlocking...", said the maintenance guy, feeling the doorknob.

"There's none.  I checked", I repeated and added again, "and the inside didn't have a lock button".

"That's not possible", the maintenance guy and the receptionist chorused.

"Lalit", Pavana called out from the darkness, "I'm trying to make Mira sleep.  Medha needs to sleep too."

"Appa, I need to pee", Medha joined in inaptly.

This disruption seemed to flip some switch in the maintenance guy's head, for he instantly produced a giant flat head screwdriver from somewhere, jammed it between the door and doorframe, and basically just muscled the door open like a barbarian.  I half expected him to start beating his chest and start shrieking in triumph, but instead he returned to his meek self.  "Here you go", he said and began walking away.

"Wait...", I called, "how do we lock the door?  There's no lock button!"

"That's not possible", chorused the maintenance guy and the receptionist again.

I sensed a fourth eye-roll cut through the darkness.

11:00 PM

By this time Medha was asleep, snoring softly like a cat.  Pavana was humming Mira's preferred one-note lullaby song into her half awake ears.  The white noise machine roared in one corner of the room.  The receptionist was long gone.  The maintenance guy however was still in our room, huffing and puffing, trying to install a new doorknob with a conventional lock-set.  It hadn't taken me more than a few seconds to convince him of the absence of any kind of lock mechanism in the original doorknob, but it was taking him forever to install the new doorknob.  By the time he had finished installing the rosette and the latch bolt, I had lost all patience.  The actual knobs on both sides were yet to be installed and for some reason he was sweating and gasping for breath.  The doorknob of Room 226 was clearly taking a toll on him.  Lest the dude should collapse under the intense strain of doorknob installation, I asked him to leave it half installed as is.  The dude cautioned me saying that since the spring loaded latch was installed without the doorknob spindle engaged, it would be impossible to open the door once closed.  DO NOT close the door, he warned.  We'll manage, I said impatiently.  He left.

10:00 AM the next day

"Front desk?", I yelled frantically into the phone, "my wife is locked inside the bathroom!"