If Viswanathan was the name of a wine (Schwarzriesling), a region (Languedoc-Roussillon) or anything that belonged to a culture you aspire to (read West European mostly) – you would make the effort to learn it. Or if you were petrified of being seen as unrefined.

There’s (are?) enough White/ Black/ Brown people who can get the name quite easily – or at the very least – give it a shot. It’s when you stare at the characters, and claim you can’t even try – it makes me think of you as illiterate.

It’s Vish-vuh-na-than.

If you don’t get that – your brain is small, rather than the name being long. Thanks very much. /end rant.

PS – I don’t have a problem with mispronunciation, my issue is when a person refuses to even try. And this isn’t specific to an ethnicity or a people, those who encounter this, will come across it in any country, and across settings.

All good. Except I’ve met many people who moan about the heat and the dirt/ dust like it’s a badge of honour. It’s part of their travel story, the kinds they tell you with minor embellishments (who doesn’t?) and with warmth. But I’m tired of telling them that it doesn’t make them ‘cool’.

Yes, it’s hot and uncomfortable for nearly half the year but if you stopped trying to look for yourself by suffering on purpose, you’d discover air conditioned hotels and cars. Or maybe abandon your idea that all heat and sun is enjoyable – discover the healing power of shade and an afternoon snooze.

Or stop being a miser and go when the weather is decent.

As I managed to snap at someone – “Your ancestors managed to deal with the heat and rule over the country, despite the lack of electricity. You’re made of stronger stuff. But if you want a story out of it – go ahead and slog it”.

Travelling in India is not an endurance test. And if you pretend it is, you’re not much better than the desi tourist who complains about the rotis not being soft enough whilst in Switzerland.

End rant.

Some of us are saved from the fate of low self-esteem thanks to our parents or the media. But with both feeding us messages that are inclined to make us hate ourselves if we don’t conform, what hope is there for little ones?

But then I think I became a little numb to it when I saw the mother of an 8 year old asking the woman in the salon if the baby’s legs could be waxed.

Call me traditional, but I felt like slapping the father of the 3ish year old the other day on the bus. Kid says ‘fuck’, and father grins. Brilliant. It’s probably tough being a parent, and I’d probably screw up as much as the next one, but some parents just make me feel violent.

I like sleeping with the windows open. What I didn’t account was for the beam of sunlight that was going to hit my face. Perhaps in a state of half-sleep, and deep in the memory of being a two year old wriggling bundle, I turned my head quite sharply without shifting my entire body. I heard something snap. I thought it was a sprain, hit the snooze button and got ten more minutes of precious sleep.

The next two days I continued to ignore my back. Lifted heavy boxes, traveled on a train for close to seven hours, and pumped my system with painkillers.

This is all very funny, because a week back I had carefully charted health seeking behaviour of people. It’s a beautiful chart with stick figures, illustrating how we ignore symptoms till the point it interferes with our ability to get on with our lives. It’s exactly what I did.

Well, anyhow, I call the Minor Injuries Unit, and they tell me that a back strain/ sprain is too major and I should go to the Accidents and Emergency unit. (A&E). A quick cab ride, and I find myself sitting in the A&E for over two hours before someone comes to help me out. There wasn’t much of a crowd, and this was despite the fact that I had done a quick search of recommended A&E units. I went to one with an 85% positive rating. Two hours. Excruciating pain. Made worse with me having to sit upright.

Through this, Shefaly keeps me company on the phone. In fact it’s largely thanks to her that I even went to the hospital, since I seem to think I am invincible and that I can sit pain out. At some point I start howling with pain, and I mean real waterworks. A nurse gives me two painkillers and asks me to wait. Ggrr.

Well, the story doesn’t really end. The doctor prescribed some super strength pain killers and muscle relaxants and asked me to wait for a week. I got back home. Unable even to curl myself to sleep. Sustained by Gobi-Rice. And more painkillers. Took a day off today. Saw three films. All comedies. I guess the pain is a little better today. I can move without wincing. Or howling. Too much.

Turns out that I may have torn a muscle. Not much I can do about it. Except take plenty of rest. But in the meanwhile, anger and rage against the NHS simmers within me. Thank god for Sathi Leelavathi though. It makes life easier.

But I know I’ve been neglecting this space. It’s not like I don’t want to write, but there are these dry spells, where nothing really inspires, and the wells of the heart dry up, and no stories emerge. I suppose the likes of this gentleman would ask me to be graceful, shut up and shut shop.

But grace was never my strength.

So instead, I will post a random song from Youtube. It’s not all that random, I happen to love it.

Stories, and words, like puppies, sometimes hide in strange corners, curling their tails up. The fun is in hunting for them and holding them and giving them a tight squeeze. Then they graciously lick your face. In some time, I’ll go hunt for them. For now, I am willing to play the game.

You know how when you compliment someone on their shoes/ shirt/ earrings/ table lamp, and the other person jumps and tells you, “Oooh – I got it for 3 pounds/ 40 rupees/ 4 dollars”, or some other such mindnumbingly small figure, do they realize how annoying they sound?

Especially if they remember only how much they bought it for, but their memory fails them when it comes to remembering where they bought it? Or they give you this highly general response like Khan Market/ Spitalfields/ dinky suburb of London? Look, if you tell me you bought something for dirt cheap, I don’t expect GPS coordinates, but some idea of where you got it.

Otherwise, I don’t believe you. I think you actually bought it for 20 times that price, and feel foolish. Or you think you’re being very cool and want to tell me how well you bargain.

Tell me where you got it, or don’t tell me how much it was for. Otherwise, I am just going to tell you that I think you should have paid far less. Okay?

From the time I turned about 16, my walkman was a constant fixture. It’s not like I heard it constantly. But that you can carry music in your backpack. In an instant, drown out the world, is comforting. In school, I remember SD and me sharing the headphones. To save battery, I’d listen to the FM station, instead of playing a tape. To a great extent, I completely skipped the CD revolution. I went straight from casettes to mp3s. By the time I could afford CDs, all music had become collapsible into the beloved iPod.

Thankfully the days are getting just mildly longer. Instead of the sun setting at an obscene 4 pm, there is some semblance of daylight till about 5 pm.

I started ODing on 70s type stuff a little earlier than usual today. And this song is haunting me.

I think I might leave on time today. Just to see what it feels like. :)