Chepa Mach, Shidol, Ngaari in the DC Metropolitan Area !!

I by nature am not a very helpful person. However there comes a time when one is armed with such invaluable knowledge that one has to pass it on. As the spiderman movies have so wisely opined -- "With great power comes great responsibility."

So ladies and gentlemen, here is the momentous news. After two months of frenzied and single-minded research, I have been able to, in my DC Metropolitan Area apartment, create a full bodied, volcanic, sweat-inducing shidol-chutney, completely from locally procured resources. A significant portion of my scant readership is now raising the Questioning Eyebrow and saying "Eh ? Shidol what ?". So I proceed to do some light-shedding. To the faithful, Shidol is also known as Hidol, Ngaari, Sepa Maach and Tungtap among other hallowed names. The faithless however prefer to term it as that-fermented-fish-from-stinky-hell. This treatise is for the faithful.

Any true aficionado of the Shidol-Chutney realises that there are two essential ingredients which make the soul of the chutney. The first being the awe-inspiring and volcanic Naga Morich or a pepper/chilly of equal potential. The second of course, is the Shidol itself. Once armed with these two, the rest is personal artistry. Here is how one may go about procuring them:
How To Get the Shidol:


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The location depicted above houses a row of Bangladeshi stores. Some of them do stock frozen Shidol. Ask for Sepa Maach or Shidol. They are not as fragrant as the ones one is wont to have, but they do serve very very well.
How to get the Naga Morich:
Sadly, the Naga Morich is not be found around here. One however has a more-than-passable substitute. One can drop into any supermarket and pick up a bunch of one of the Scotch Bonnet peppers. The Habanero variety is the best of the lot. After some experimentation, I have arrived at the conclusion that about two of these peppers amount to one small Naga Morich. These peppers however are not as fragrant as the Indian counterparts. So, one could contemplate adding a slice of a red bell pepper for the fragrance. So in review, if you crush two habanero peppers with a slice of red bell pepper, you get one Naga Morich.

I shall not explain the method for actually making the chutney because the ingredients and proportions in ones chutney are deeply personal nobody can tell one how to do it. One just knows.

UPDATE : On the Bhoot Jolokia / Naga Morich. If possible, use this one in the chutney

Money and Happiness

Money cannot buy happiness, but can buy interesting alternatives.

An Open Letter To Mr Andrew Symonds

Dear Mr Symonds,
This letter is about this recent fracas that you have got into with our cricket team. I understand that there has been some serious offence taken, on your part, with respect to some part of our cricket team pointing out the rather hairy (no pun intended) fact that you actually look like a monkey. I can understand your anguish and I truly empathise. I however am rather perplexed at the fact that you have decided to play the race card on this count.

I would like to assure you that the fact that you have the simian-semblance has nothing to do with your race, colour or heritage. It, like the proverbial shit, has happened. Some people remind others of the Brad Pitts and of the Denzel Washingtons. They are lucky. They are called good-looking. Some people sadly do not carry the same visual appeal. They remind other people of monkeys. I too occupy the position of the monkey-reminder within my peer group and I am fully aware of the fact that the position is not enviable. The consolation however, is that this lack of visual appeal does not result in making me a bad engineer and neither does it result in making you a bad cricketer. All it results in, is the paucity of sex. We monkey-reminders do not get the hot action as often as we would want to (or deserve to). That is all.

I am therefore rather puzzled at the fact that you should construe such an observation as racism, and as a result throw up such a tantrum. I have travelled and lived in different parts of the world and I would like to inform you that I have seen monkey-reminders in all colours and races. It is an international, cross-cultural phenomenon. To prove my claim, I present Exhibit A:

Although hard to believe, this is the very person who called you those names when you had called him a few. The next time he says not-so-nice-things about you, show him Exhibit A. That should shut him up. Running to the match referee, in all honesty is a bit pansy-ish.

Calling you a monkey is a a shallow observation, and a cheap shot at something as facile as personal appearance, but racism ? Come on Mr. Symonds, that is a wee bit extreme. What would be really really sad would be the fact that if people would construe your ( and Ponting's ) act as a convenient and cheap ruse to get back at a player who has been giving Ponting a difficult time on the cricket pitch. We would never know, but if you have done that, that would sadly be a great disservice to your heritage.

A great fan of your cricket,
Bald Monkey

My Opening to Page 3 -- Ankush's new Book !

It was during the late nineties that I joined the not-so-exclusive club of listless-Delhi-to-Gurgaon-commuters. During those days we had the unprecedented luxury of an employer provided bus which would at reckless and breakneck speeds, ferry us between Gurgaon and Delhi. To distract me from the near death experiences during this roller-coaster-esque ride to Gurgaon and back, I decided to carry some reading matter with me. That is when I discovered Page 3.

The Times of India served the purpose of the above mentioned reading matter. This particular publication had been picked for two reasons. Firstly, I thought that the regular perusal of a newspaper ( the TOI being a newspaper ) would broaden me as a human being, and secondly, it was extremely convenient to pinch the neighbour's copy on my way to work. So there I was, one day, trying to catch up on the latest political developments, whilst being violently jolted from side to side, when my eyes fell on Page 3. I immediately knew that it was the one. It was the only way in which I could ever get my picture into some sort of publication, and if I should fail to do so, the rest of the voyage of my life would be bound in shallows and miseries.

There however was a slight problem. To get my characteristically facile smile flashing on Page 3, I had to be someone, or actually know someone. I am sad to report that despite my sincere efforts, I magnificently failed on both counts. As a result, over all these years, no Page 3 happiness has ever graced my unfortunate life. I am therefore now, extremely happy to deplane the news that at last, the silver lining has appeared. There is hope. I now shall ( most probably ) not be denied my rightful place under the Sunday Supplement anymore !

The news is that my good friend and the possessor of a gigantic brain, Ankush Saikia has unleashed his first book. The book is called Jet City Woman and the prosaic details for the book can be found here. The cover of the book looks like this: (Click to zoom)

Ankush of course, has been previously short-listed for his very clever writing in the Outlook/Picador India Non-Fiction Competition. The short-listed entry is called Spotting Veron and was one of the better travel essays that I had read in some time.

This time around he has published a complete novel. It is an intense, funny, sad and engaging coming-of-age novel set in New Delhi and in north-eastern India. The author also maintains a blog, documenting the happenings and events around his first book. I would therefore urge my scant readership to go visit the blog and also buy the book and in the process, promote my brainy chum.

The Readership, at this point of time, must be raising its collective questioning eyebrow, and asking "Whats in it for you chump ?" Some must be also asking "And what of the Page 3 tish-tosh that you were waffling about ?" The combined answer is -- long awaited Page 3 domination ! Allow me to soberly outline the whole process.

1. Hordes of impatient readers converge in bookstores and start buying Ankush's book like there is no tomorrow.
2. Ankush, as a result, is showered with an insane amount of biscuits, doubloons and accolades.
3. Ankush starts getting invitations to extremely trendy parties and fashion shows.
4. He, in a moment of foolishness, invites me to one of these parties.
5. I appear on Page 3, in the Sunday Supplement, wearing a violently pink shirt and carelessly holding a drink, in a photograph titled -- Ankush and friend.
6. I achieve elusive happiness !

This makes...

Priyanka Chopra's raising-Mother-Teresa-from-the-dead look like the theory of relativity... Seriously !

On Watching Hyderabad Blues - 2

Me: You know what sweetie ? I really did not like the movie....

G.: Why ? It is a tolerable movie. Is it not ?

Me: No it is not that. The point is, that I really cannot relate to all this stuff... This family thingy... you know ? All this sipping tea on the balcony; All this baby planning, and all that stuff.. you know ? That is not really me. It is not my type of storyline. Not my kind of movie. I just am not able relate to all that stuff...

G.: Aaah.. I see... Not the kind of movie you identify with... Let me see... The kind of movie that you would identify with, would be about a guy, who spends all his time at home watching TV, or surfing the net. So, this guy's wife gets very angry. Really angry. So, this wife ends up brutally murdering her husband with a shiny meat-cleaver. Get the picture ? Now does that sound like a movie you could easily relate to ? Huh ?

Me: Yeah... probably... What ?

About Afternoon Naps at the Workplace

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a lazy man with access to a voluminous free lunch must be in want of a quick nap in the afternoon. Although I have deep appreciation and respect for the above mentioned want, I would like to warn one and all against yielding to such an urge when one is in the workplace. It is an indulgence fraught with peril, as I have very recently discovered. I am aware of the fact that the robust section of my scant readership would collectively ejaculate a scornful "Pah !" at my marked pusillanimity, but I would like to warn the robust section that such a cavalier attitude is in fact, utter foolhardiness. Allow me to describe the the dangers surrounding the whole exercise.

All skill practitioners of the afternoon-nap-at-the-workplace fully realize the importance of being sufficiently horizontal for the successful execution of the activity. The new-fangled ergonomic chairs at the workplace however, do not agree with one's desire to be horizontal. They actively oppose any such effort on the part of the aspiring napper. This inflexible stance on the part of the stiff chair then necessitates the lifting of the feet onto the desk, while sitting on the chair. This approach, in one fell swoop, neutralizes the inconveniences introduced by the obduracy of the chair. The chair however does not take this whole scheme too well. Having been relegated from it prior position of power, the alienated chair, in an act of existential angst, decides to tip over with a raucous clang. Due to this sudden development, one is left with one's feet on the desk and the rest of the anatomy suspended in mid-air. The astute reader will have realized that such a juxtaposition between man and desk cannot be maintained for a protracted period of time. So, one falls down, while one's feet are still resting on the desk. During the descent, one's head catches the edge of the laptop. Also, in an act of self preservation, one tries to grab at something which might break the fall. One therefore grabs the keyboard. The keyboard however, magnanimously decides to join the descent.

When the dust settles, one realizes that one still has his feet on the desk, while the rest of the person is uniformly dissolved in a concoction of cables, keyboard, chair and floor. One also finds the pretty girl in the adjoining cubicle peering into one's remains, and making polite queries regarding one's general health. Muffled laughter is heard in the background.