Thought For The Day

Wise words from a talking head I bumped into in a Halloween Trick and Treat store:

"Eat right!"

"Sleep well!"

"Be fit!"

"We are all going to die one day anyway, so it we might as well look good while we live!"

With that, the pallid head wobbled inside its crystal ball and swung away from me.

Hmm...

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

 

- Pablo Neruda (1904 - 1973)

The Best Dressed Gentlemen

Trollope once said, "I hold that gentlemen to be the best dressed whose dress no one observes."

As proof of Trollope's words, a group of homeless men protected a 15 year old girl from being molested by a fellow passenger, on a bus in ... (the story does not mention the city). Read on: http://now.msn.com/homeless-guys-save-15-year-old-from-sexual-assault

Great work, guys!

Lucid

Hot white Sands

Sea of diamonds

Sensuous palms sway their emerald fronds

Sky, entrancing azure

You by my side

In prayer we dream

We, the acolytes of these dunes

Warm crucible oil, breezes envelop  

This beneficence

My love, feast with me

Now, play this hour long lounge piece when you visit your love tonight: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEk0bamXv6k&feature=related Well, at least the first 20 minutes are all you might need...just guessing :P.

Bravo!

It was most heartening - amidst numerous reports of global violence, war, unrest, civil disobedience, abuse, the lack of social responsibility, etc. (it just seems to be going on and on these days, doesn't it?) - to read about this little 7 year old African American girl in Miami, who kicked, chopped, and punched away a deranged man who attempted to kidnap her 4 year old cousin.

You know as well as I do that if her cousin had been taken away, there would have been a very slim chance of seeing the little boy alive again.

This girl is a ray of sunshine! A-nari Taylor's presence of mind, her singular purpose in fulfilling her mother's words "Safety comes first!", and her courage, were fittingly commended by the Miami police :). God bless her.

Read about her here: http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/09/19/13961387-miami-girl-7-honored-for-fighting-off-would-be-abductor?lite

Are We Forgetting?

In 'Nature', Emerson describes the act of communing with nature as a spiritual experience that elevates the soul, and renders it capable of perceiving the sublime.

Emerson explores the relationship between man and nature as one that heals, one that continuously extends sympathy, affection, acceptance, and perpetual youth and joy...thus effectively countering the shackles we are all weary from, as a result of our interactions with "civilized, sophisticated society" where acceptance and relationships seem to be built upon external accoutrements.

Emerson also acknowledged that the extent upto which one could imbibe this healing influence from nature depended greatly upon our state of mind as well - in other words, how receptive or intuitive one could allow oneself to be.

Well, back then as a student, as now, I agree with Emerson. Not saying here that I've been smelt by the presence of the sublime - well, I try to get a glimpse or maybe its my imagination working overtime. More the latter.

Also, don't get me wrong - I love socializing, exchanging wit and banter - but it can get banal...I end up seeking to recharge in private with a book, a walk, some music, or just going for a drive to admire the beauty of my heavily wooded neighborhood.

I often find in nature what I seek in humankind...just a pure, simple love and acceptance. A conversation sans words. A beauty that is true and lasting. The truth of emotion. An Emersonian communian perhaps, that rejuvenates in the form of a visually vibrant prayer reaching out from insignificant me to the immense awe-inspiring oversoul. A deer standing frozen near the lake, a hummingbird's silent whirr, the stir of a weeping willow's train in the summer breeze...all soothe, speak, and bless.

Which is why this article caught my eye: http://www.grindtv.com/outdoor/blog/34869/fisherman+adrift+for+106+days+in+pacific+says+shark+led+him+to+rescuers/
It speaks of a Pacific Islander who was stranded on a boat at sea for 106 days, and was eventually nudged to safety towards another boat, by a shark. Interestingly, sharks are worshipped by the South Sea tribes, just as Native American Indians worship animals and revere them as totems.

Perhaps that poor man (who lost his brother-in-law on this unfortunate voyage) had an epiphany out in the deep ocean, and perhaps his intuition led him into perfect communion with nature. Dehydration, starvation, hallucination, what could have flagellated this man's soul to cry out for divine intervention? I can't help interrupting at this point with his solemn oath upon being rescued, "I've booked a flight home. No more boats for me!"

And here we have man - supposedly noble because of his thinking and reasoning abilities - who seeks to profit from the misfortune of another. No, not talking competition here, but specifically, about the absolute degradation of the spirit and the mind. I refer to the gutter journalism that is flourishing nowadays - and profiting due to the publication of Duchess Kate's topless sunbathing pictures.

Sure, yellow journalism has existed since the dawn of time. Ancient texts and archaeological finds tell us that there is nothing new under the sun. It just is more jarring today because of the global reach of our media, our different kinds of media, and the world today where anything and everything can be bought for a price.

In an age that endorses the lack of repression, enterprise, in its noteworthy effort to expose unpalatable truths, has nevertheless created some monsters. Like the Hydra, as soon as the internet helps cut off one kind of exploitation, the media coverage and global interconnectedness fuel more imaginations and perverse obessions, thus springing up 2 more in its place. Pushing the limits of these preoccupations numbs the conscience and it seems that people have been indulging in increasingly disturbing behavior in the last decade or two.

I'm not sure if this means that more of humankind is going nuts, or if simply more are being caught while torturing the weak and innocent, or if people are just losing their conscience. One only needs to read stomach-turning reports about the abuse of women and children to wonder if this hell on earth can be worse than the hell we read about in religious texts. I find it brutish and cruel. Whoever said that animals are more noble because they only kill for food, while man kills for sport certainly seems to have described the excesses of mankind correctly.

Duchess Kate may not be the "People's Princess" like her mother-in-law, but she will adapt and come out of this with grace and dignity.

As for the rest of us...are we forgetting what plain decency or good character is, or what constitutes acceptable behavior? We also seem to have forgotten that with freedom and unrestrained expression comes a certain responsibility. To not put everything out there a la Facebook, Twitter, and reality shows ("I had a cuppa", "I took a dump", "I ate", "I spoke", "I am")....this senseless Tower of Babel where anything and everything is given credence on online forums in a monumental barrage of outpouring from either end.

At times like these when the babble gets too loud, I just take a break and retreat into nature, where often silence is the best form of communication.

To Autumn

Here is Fall - to me, more romantic than is Spring - with its colors and its crisp air, harvests, startling blue skies.

To Autumn (composed 19 September 1819, in Winchester, England, after a walk one autumn evening)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
   

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.


Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

- John Keats (1795 - 1821)

Perspective

Before I say, "Yeh perspective ki baat hai" (It's a matter of perspective)...let me shut up and post this piece from the NYT blog:

http://india.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/10/22/why-i-left-india-again/

Does one have the stomach to withstand change without flinching? One requires a stomach made of tungsten, for this effort. But then again, should one need that much endurance to re-adjust to a country one once knew? We put up with its eccentricities once. So why not once more?

Time has passed.

People have changed in India.

We have changed.

We ought to know better than to ideally recreate what has passed.

We are falling under the spell of instant gratification and we want whatever wherever whenever, regardless.

Something has shifted, and we have to accept it.

Doubtless we NRIs are discovering surprising stuff about ourselves - we can withstand any amount of workplace pressure but not long-term change in returning to one's own country, and having to deal with all kinds of pressures - work, family, community, the India at large, etc.

Having moved ahead, getting married, havings kids who know of no other life than a homogenous US suburbia (however cosmopolitan and diverse a la California or NY), we begin to take decisions jointly, like everyone else in the world who has chosen to 'settle down', and we take the consequences as well as we can.

I was an alien by virtue of my thinking, in India. I still am an alien, now in the U.S.A. - literally and figuratively. My thinking is still avant-garde. Perhaps my eccentricities make me an alien whenever wherever. Or perhaps, like one of the most affectionate (and yet most chideful) of my Indian friends told me, "You are seeking depth at the wrong place and at the wrong time." I disagreed then and I still disagree. Maybe I am the eternal fool who will keep seeking that depth - I like to think that it exists somewhere. I'm optimistic, and no, not unrealistic. Just idealistic maybe.

Like the guy who wrote that piece for the NYT blog...always, in search of...

National Milkshake Day

Does your milkshake bring all the boys to the yard?

If it hasn't so far, rest assured it might today...it being the official National Milkshake Day (!) in the U.S.A.

How do you like your milkshake? Kelis keeps asking us to warm hers up. Well, I like mine cold.

My favorite is the chocolate milkshake with 2 scoops of chocolate ice cream at Snoopy's Ice Cream Parlor in Madras, India. Snoopy's was and is a Madras icon despite the invasion of Italian ice cream (yes, not gelato) - you know, the kind made by Carpigiani machines...softies but oh so creamy and divine. Yes, Snoopy's chocolate milk shake beats even those.

Only Madras folks in their 30s and 40s would connect with what I'm talking about because Snoopy's was very popular when we were growing up in the 1980s and 1990s. Snoopy's is to us and Madras what Pop's Choclit Shoppe is to Archie Andrews et al and Riverdale. Right from the decor (red vinyl covered booths that can each hold 4 guests) to the ambience (retro tunes from the 50s to the 80s, and a smiling waiter with his white shirt, black pants and a red checquered apron). Not to forget how affordable Snoopy's treats were. No, one couldn't have them everyday, but once a month or two was perfectly alright...When I was in school, that particular chocolate milkshake cost Rs. 25, and then it rose to Rs. 40 when we were in college...the last time I had it in 2007, it was Rs. 65...I'm sure it must be thrice that now.

I make it a point to visit Snoopy's every time I visit Madras. It's a tradition - like the routine stop at Rasi, Kumaran's, FabIndia, Landmark, Eden Restaurant, Saravana's, Eliot's Beach, Mahabalipuram, etc... I discovered a lovely shop the last time I was there - Anokhi. ...I probably will be taking my sons to Snoopy's, when we make the next trip.

So. Wishing you all a very flavorful delicious Milkshake Day!

Two Things Today

Some moments in complete silence to honor those whom we lost on 9/11:


And, a moment of light, love, and joy when seeing a very very sweet couple at the Singapore Botanical Gardens on September 11 2012:



There is hope and love, and it is all in the powerhouse within each one of us, as long as we believe...

Que Sera Sera, The Future's Not Ours to See

So, who will it be?

The straight talking professor, or Mr. Handsome businessman with the sweet smile?

The first was realistic, down-to-earth, and spoke squarely, “You elected me to tell you the truth”. It was the no-frills, direct speech of a person who has led a country and has greyed in the process. It might not have been inspiring or have worn feathers of literary merit, but it was the product of experience in government and politics, that outlined a future for the U.S.A. in manufacturing, energy, education, defense, and tackling the deficit.

The latter envisioned a future with jobs, jobs, and more jobs. He was charismatic, and like a true businessman, pressed our hot buttons, pointing out that he could deliver the answer to our need. Somehow, it reminded me of a sales talk. All dreams and promises, and an abstract plan. I like Mr. Handsome, but only because he looks like a dreamboat. I can't help staring at him with my mouth open, but I don't share his vision. Sigh.

Mr. Handsome in his salad days

I’m not American and I can’t vote.

Being Indian and espousing a liberal economy with some nationalization (as it is with Europe), I’m not in total agreement with pure capitalism. I’m just thankful that for the last 4 years, the widening gap between the rich and poor was being addressed, Obamacare has been a relief for many and the insurance companies are happy as well, and that one war has come to an end thankfully. We are left with thousands of able-bodied soldiers who are suffering from PTSD, and who will take years to be able to contribute with some normalcy to the rising tide that is supposed to lift all boats.

Maybe the time has come to evolve, and like the professor said, the path he offered might seem harder, but will lead to a better place. Growth is painful. Is America ready for a small change in perspective?

Were I to Kick The Bucket....

...or not, my darling sons, I hope you will keep this poem close to your heart, as I did when growing up, and as I still do. This poem has proved itself an unfailing friend through the years and gave me much strength to soldier on, no matter the crises:

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

 - Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)

God Lives in the Midwest!

...Oh well, I said that to get your attention, just so you would look at the pictures I posted.

Relax. God lives everywhere - in the Midwest, in India, in Antartica, in my toffee-nosed suburb, in the ghettoes, in Las Vegas (Sin City), for God's sake!! We often wonder - why did this happen? Or - how could this injustice or perversion have taken place??? How do we uproot this evil and prevent it from happening again? If indeed God lived in that place, then He would certainly have prevented that crime from occuring there! No, that's where evil has taken root and we need to weed it out! And so we go on in this demented fashion (increasingly, of late)...a sign of the slipping of our 21st century global civilization into the gutter perhaps.

But we forget that even that which is 'evil' or unnatural is a part of the divine plan to kick us towards spiritual evolution. This mortal life is after all just a temporary one, a brief second in time. We really should stop being hampered by the material and the here and now, and view our global network of humanity from a 10,000 foot perpective. Of late, we seem to be devolving into primal and blindly instinctive beings who react out of need and insecurity amidst consumerism and instant gratification. Not saying any of that is wrong either - as a suburban housewife, I'll be the first one to defend retail therapy...but only for the right reasons. Just saying that we create much unhappiness and then look for convenient targets to plant the blame on - perhaps one could say, ahem, that "we have found the enemy and it is us".

Unquestionably, our imagination is woefully inadequate in assessing the might and extent of His presence, as Hamlet states - "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy" (Act 1, Scene 5). I think one can spend a lifetime analyzing this line (in one's free time, of course...who would mull over shades of meaning in order to find nirvana...although this would appear a most gratifying pursuit to most devotees of Literature, like me).

I don't have the capacity to comprehend His power, but I do catch glimpses of it now and then when driving around the Midwest.

And I have my breath knocked out of me when I do.

It takes me a while to pick up my pieces and fumble around to seize the moment on my trusty digital camera (for which I give thanks - the camera and the dexterity, that is).  So. Here are some of those moments during which His beauty and grace tell me that we are going to be ok:



As you can see, it takes very little for me to go into a reverie, lol!

Yay, It's Back To School!

This morning, the colors of our garden seem brighter than ever. The scene is straight out of a photoshoot for Vogue. Vivid, lush greens, heady violets, the startling blue sky, the sun dappled street, the pleasantly cool morning - heaven itself. My senses have been awakened and primed. A little too much perhaps. Why, I even imagined stunning birds fly up from the bushes and into the trees in this Eden, violins playing in the background, the breeze lifting my hair in the most flattering way. No, I'm not on drugs...although I very well could be, given my delirium.

These, my friends, are the symptoms of a parent giving thanks to the Lord upon the departure of his/her child off on the adventure that is the first day of school. To know that you will be, for the first time in 2 months, savoring your solitude for a full 5 hours, and to be able to stand straight and wave serenely to a cheerfully chugging yellow school bus despite the full comprehension of this fact (appearances must be kept up, after all) is a feat not unlike the swan's regal bearing as it paddles furiously underwater. My little mite and I regally waved the Singapore Singaaran off to a great start in Grade 1, before turning around and walking earnestly into the glass storm door in a reverie.

For most of the summer, this is what I descended down to by the end of the day: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJMI4rE-WHs ('Clean up this mess!' clip, from 'Mommie Dearest'). So you see, really, I have no control over these psychosomatic reactions.

Last night, celebrations were in full swing as I did a jig - Gangnam style - by my elder son's bedside - "Yay, He's off to school! He's off to school! He's off to school!" Of course, he refused to join in prancing around with his crazy mother, choosing instead to bury his nose and giggling into the Amar Chitra Kathas his Dad had lugged home from India. Tales from the Jataka or something to that effect, if I remember correctly. Hmm, an Indian fable is never amiss at such times, my boy.

Anyways, I'll admit I felt a pang as he happily skipped away. Now, to get the other one - my American - up and running - while I'm pumped up on Psy's anthem.

I'll leave you with 'Gangnam Style' - his refreshingly irreverent Korean rap video that has been infecting all of South East Asia (and the world, probably, who knows? 100 million hits so far on youtube). It was heartening to see that there still exist people who don't take themselves too seriously, and who don't mind making perfect asses of themselves. Am especially fond of the chap who beams and wags his hips at us inside the elevator as if to say, "I don't give a fig!" (No, really, that is what I wanted to say). Enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0

Dear Little Texan Girl

Little 11 year old Hispanic Texan Girl
Who wore make-up
And a mini-skirt atop your high-heeled pins,
Who flaunted your body,
Lacked parental supervision,
And a decent upbringing,
And everything else the media said,
To justify the reason why you were gang-raped over 3 months,
Repeatedly, by allegedly 19 men,
Those very readers would avoid on any street.

 

Forgive them their ignorance, dear one,
For they know not
How you lost count
After they set upon you
One after another.
That you lived after this crucifixion
When others might have died
Is a testament to your purpose.
Embrace it like a Seer
To lead the world from talk into action.

 

Dear little Texan Girl,
Walk with your head held high
Like a South American Goddess
With your tresses flaming the sky
And your eyes clear.
Slay those animals at your sacrificial altar.
There is a dawn after this death, dear
Goddess, Priestess, Oracle.
Embrace your strength, dear one,
And love yourself again.



Granted - not a poem that would pass muster...but just letting loose in disbelief and fury at the insensitivity and judgment cast upon this poor Hispanic child since 2011, both in her hometown of Cleveland, Texas, and on internet news forums.

Here was an 11 year old who, for some reason, had found herself trapped in repeated, brutal sexual abuse by not one, but 19-odd men...and women both in her hometown and on the web were demeaning this girl for her dress sense, provocative and brazen conduct, etc. So they thought themselves righteous enough to point a finger at her for having 'split a town in half', instead of reaching out to counsel and heal her? 

Even if this child had been ostracized by her peers for "looking older than her age", surely her teachers might have cared enough to catch on? Did a friend's mother try to connect with her mother? Didn't a neighbor observe her routine? Or was this one of those stories where people just look the other way because no change or good would come of interfering? Whatever be the reason why the community support system did not work, there is no way the rape of a child can be justified.

In a country where the "woman was asking for rape" argument has been thrown out of the window, where child beauty pageants are all the rage, and where (despite the shrill voice of feminism) women have come to associate physical beauty and sex as a positive affirmation of their worth, why ever should it matter what this child was wearing or painting upon herself? She is a child.

The last article I read about her reported that her family had been driven out of town, in the aftermath of her father's efforts to secure some justice. A small relief that one of her rapists will be locked away for 99 years. The legal system in the United States conferred some ruling against the perpetrators - well, mainly because they were poor, jobless loafers themselves. Who knows - had her abusers been rich men, or had she been born in another country, the poor child might have "disappeared"...

As a mother, I feel stricken when reading this little one's trauma. May time heal this poor child, Ameen.

Ekaambaram

My mother named it Ek-aam-baram.

A name born of Urdu and Tamil,

Like us Dekkanis trilingual in our native tongues -

The vernacular, the Mother, and the coloniser’s discourse –

Because it stubbornly bore

Just one and only one Banganapalli

At the end of each sweltering mango season,

Weighing green from its stem,

Ponderous, solemn, decided.

Manjula and I planted the slimy seed one muggy summer afternoon,

After we had scraped its flesh off with our teeth,

Flinging the skin over our shoulders into the shrubs

Surrounding the sun-bleached trough where we eight year old’s crouched,

In a worn blue pavadai sattai and a white cotton slip,

Shoulder’s wrapped around her bony and my chubby knees.

Ten years later, Manjula visited to ask for help with her newborn daughter’s surgery

Because her drunkard painter husband was

Dipping into an arrack glass as thick as his head.

My mother gave her Rs. 500 back then

And a basket of mangoes from the shower

Ekaambaram defiantly pummeled us with that summer

To be carried by our new domestic help from the slum

As Manjula walked home barefoot on the blistering tar road

And I watched from my cane chair, in jeans and a literary classic.

When I visited my parent’s home the last time,

A mother myself, with my first born in my arms,

Manjula’s striking 13 year old slung the mangoes home in a gunny sack

While her mother and I cried at the casual divergence of our lives

After our girlhood summers,

Our eyes squinting from the glint of the kaleidoscopes we called our separate paths,

As many hued as Ekaambaram’s fruit scattered in my mother’s backyard.

Manjula carrying my first-born in December 2006, in my mother's garden, Madras, India.
As is evident, her beauty remains as youthful as ever thanks to back-breaking labor on construction sites, while I was already sagging even 11 months after my very first delivery (!).



Breakfast of Champions...

...alternatively titled 'Goodbye, Blue Monday' by Kurt Vonnegut, prods the reader to take a second look at reality and fiction, compassion and inhumanity, and the grey areas in between...in this hilarious story about 2 old white men who meet and experience a mental combustion of sorts...in the unmistakably-named fictional town of 'Midland City'.

Of the 2 men, one is a writer still waiting for worldly fame. Only one person has heard of him after all these years, apart from readers of adult sci-fi magazines. The other man is an extremely successful car dealer who has devoted his life to the worship of Mammon, and has been suitably rewarded. What do these guys have in common? Like I said, a kind of an ignition, a candesence, stemming from a glorious, uproarious, misunderstanding - the car dealer, now slowly losing his mind, meets the rather bitter writer, and takes his fictional works as the whole truth. What ensues is what my realtor friend would describe as a "hoot!".

'Breakfast of Champions' is itself an easy read, but blows you away with its spiritual message - that in a flawed world, as illustrated by this haunting, quirky, tragic tale, there is still hope for humanity. Vonnegut addresses the insanity of our world via his characters, his tongue-in-cheek observations, his typically zany humor...as though explaining life on earth to an alien audience. Becoming his own character, as it were, writing his sci-fi stories, accentuating the process within the process, and encouraging us to take a second look at ourselves.

Thank you, Vonnegut. Although your novel is 30-odd years old now, it still contains a message for us even now, and probably will address our stupidities in the future. I would say, a most appropriate novel for the times...for those who get its lyrical prose.

But to take a step into my here and now...the 'breakfast of champions' I actually want to describe is the breakfast we had this morning - 'Khaaraz' or omelets studded with 1 deseeded, chopped, jalapeno, a handful of cherry tomatoes, and chopped white onions...

 ...lovingly drowned in a 'Saalan' (sauce) made with sauteed onions, tomatoes, ginger-garlic paste, chilli powder, turmeric powder, cumin seeds, and fresh chopped coriander...

...and served up with 'Dosaas' or Indian crepes, made with a fermented rice and maash/urad dal (black grams/pulses) batter...

The cherry tomatoes and jalapenos were left on our porch one evening by our friend and neighbor KS, who is a teacher, healer, and nature-lover with a fabulously green thumb, to whom we are ever grateful for her tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and so on...An American Shakumbhari Devi (an Indian deity worshipped by North Indian Hindus, for her powers to provide a bountiful harvest), one might say.

Thank you, KS! Your organically grown vegetables are outstandingly intense in flavor and beat the grocers' anyday.