ACT!

http://hostedsurvey.ics.purdue.edu/takesurvey.asp?c=Physic123854

This link will take you to a brief and anonymous health survey that forms part of my PhD research. Please participate in it. It will take no more (and quite possibly much less) than 10 minutes to complete. After you take it, please forward it to associates of yours, anywhere in the world, who are 18 years or more of age. I would like this survey to be taken by as diverse a group as is possible as it is a cross-cultural comparison of attitudes towards certain aspects of health.
At the end of the survey, you will have the opportunity to enter a lucky draw to win a gift certificate.
As you will be informed when you follow the link and are poised to begin the survey, this study seeks to examine an area of knowledge that is relatively uncharted. This is your opportunity to be the voice of your people! Your responses to this survey will contribute to the understanding of health attitudes of several populations.

To repeat, ACT!

-Ani.

Pariah in Paris

Paris – everyone raves about it, even those who’ve never been there, perhaps especially those who’ve never been there! A must-do for the romantic tripster… the City of Lights… fashion capital… and a score of other complimentary handles. What did I think of it? Overrated, vastly overrated.

The city is not very clean…no, this is not the NRI in me speaking. I am perfectly used to filth in the streets, dust in the air, slime in waterbodies etc. – but in India, not in a “developed” European nation.

Cigarette smoke – all over the place. The stereotypes that I nurtured about “healthy-looking” types fell apart pretty soon. Absolutely anyone could be a candidate for a cigarette. As a sight-hungry tourist, I found myself in queues every day, and unfortunately for the smoke-intolerant me, more often than not, my fellow queuers would light up several times each before the queue achieved its aim.

Prices – exorbitant. People may be missing one factor (besides wine, walking, vegetables and garlic) contributing to the celebrated French slimness, vide all the hype about French women never getting fat etc.– food is bloody expensive. This goes for raw and prepared foods. Portion sizes in restaurants are modest – actually sensible, except that they’re overpriced. I can’t think of a more effective deterrent to overeating. Add smoking, and the utter stupidity of driving yourself in the crowded, parking space-deficient city, and the mystery of the French figure is considerably demystified.

Thieves – unethical by definition, I know, but the extreme sadism required to steal from freshly arrived tourists in a train (train, not taxi, read not people who can afford to blow money) boggles the mind. If you must thieve, and have the sophisticated skills called for by the occupation, how about being as considerate as possible under the circumstances, and sticking to locals or blatantly rich tourists who have a base in the place or wouldn’t be deranged by material losses? Thieving is almost traditional in Paris, and the police force (who ought to be outraged, chafe and finally take decisive steps to monitor favoured thief-zones and contain the menace) talk of it with the same ease as they would of the Louvre or escargot or champagne. I wonder why people think of Paris as a good option for a honeymoon spot – it is poorly endowed with unspoilt topographical beauty, for one thing, and for another, with the high level of petty crime, could you entirely discount the possibility that your spouse may get stolen along with a piece of luggage?

Who might find Paris romantic? Someone with loads of money and a chauffeured vehicle, preferably someone white and slender (i.e., with European looks, to sidestep the shades and tints of racism/suspicion/hostility that clearly different looking people stimulate), someone supplied with a knowledgeable, even omniscient, tourist guide to direct one through the ill-organised museum routes and procedures, someone with a hawkeyed bodyguard to deter or deal with the ubiquitous thieves that the city literally boasts, someone who needs to have no interaction with the lackadaisical police force, and someone who is immune to inclement weather. Or then someone whose idea of romance includes hunger, poverty, air-pollution, some dirt, winds in combination with downpours that whip poorly made (French, by the way!) umbrellas out of shape and puddles that allow you to squelch your way to an overpriced (surprise, surprise!) hotel. Would I call Paris romantic? Not with a ten-foot pole!! I’m a comfort-lover myself, and failed to detect romance in the travails alluded to ibid.

Saving graces? (a) I could guess at the contents of signs because I can read the script even if I find the spoken language inaccessible, and English has borrowed a colossal lot from French (one notices that this transaction is not mutual). (b) Public transport is good; the metro is expensive (nothing new there) but remarkably well planned with very, very frequent and timely trains. (c) The physical structures that characterise Paris are beautiful – churches, objects d’art, the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, and so on. (d)Toilets were clean, or at least I was lucky!

Go to Paris if you must. But follow these bits of advice: Staple your valuables to your body from the moment you get there till you reach your hotel. Entrust said valuables to the safe deposit locker in your hotel as soon as you get there. Buy foods from grocery stores if possible. Eat crepes (mildly boring pancakes) to keep body and soul together. Learn some French, or at least carry a phrasebook around with you. Watch your companions so as to intercept pickpockets making off with their good(ie)s. And well before you embark upon your trip there, scan your passport and visa and email it to yourself, and for added precaution, keep a hard copy in each piece of luggage as well. If you lose your passport, you will find yourself in the Embassy, which need not be a place staffed by geniuses. The Indian Embassy certainly isn’t.

More than colours

-to the select few who are privy to both my ‘colour’ed stance and the provenance of this phrase


Is one justified in calling gray a colour, pray?
Wouldn’t deep purple beat it night or day?
There’s more than enough sky-blue up there
Why use it ad nauseum in your walls and your wear?
What role do cream, beige and brown fulfill
That butter-yellow or maroon couldn’t do better still?


When someone proclaims “I’m in the pink”,
Cogitate, evaluate, consider, think,
Is that really any reason to rejoice?
Who would look like candy floss by choice?
Why condemn practically every little miss
At an impressionable age to swathes of this?


I am woefully devoid of a clue
Why so many clamour after dark blue.
It’s supposed to be cool, and I’ll grant that it is.
But the fuss over “cool” is something I dismiss.
The only blue that has any claim to appeal
In my exalted opinion is teal.


If there’s a colour that’s grossly overrated,
Overused, overexhibited and leaves me sated,
That colour, or lack thereof, is black;
Ebony, jet, sable – I’d give them all the sack.
Black is a necessary evil I will attest -
Needed to form shades and there it should rest.


When the discussion swings to the colour green,
One that prompts showy peacocks to preen;
The colours of parrots, lush grasses and pine -
All hues that gladden this heart of mine,
I can fully understand the enthusiast’s zest
For the colours of deep seas and a healthy meal’s best.


Anybody who fancies yellow
Is – at least in that respect – my fellow.
I’ve a fondness for oranges from melon to coral,
And reds - carmine, rust, scarlet and cardinal.
The dyes of fire from ember to flame -
To applaud them all you’ll find I am game.


A shade that the right-minded should teach
The populace to utilise is peach.
Other pastels can’t harm in small doses, I guess.
And white can be grand – let us all confess.
But in spite of my gripes and the grudges I nurse
I’ve got to say that life is more-than-colours!

Whose fault?

- on objectivity and self-realisation –

If you think only ‘anal’ people do things on time,

That preparation has neither reason nor rhyme;

If your favourite sports are putting things off,

And finding more targets at which to scoff;

If your circle of acquaintance is comprised

Of psychos, snobs, despisers and despised;

If your criticism is particularly acute,

And regarding compliments you’re more than less mute;

If your organizing prowess is going south;

If you take your foot out of your mouth

Only to insinuate it in the closing door;

If your chaotic ways have passed into lore;

When scraps of paper give you the slip;

When rivals’ successes make your ego flip;

When you can’t find a key in a hillock of junk;

When your shelves and your guts are groaning with gunk;

If when the rainy day, that you didn’t save for, arrives,

Your sense of justice, if any, nosedives,

It’s easy to blame the weather, a colleague, your genes,

The government, the media, the end or the means.

Is it always the malefic agent, system or destiny’s game

That for your distress must claim the blame?

To this other possibility some thought is due -

Can the words “Mea culpa” ever escape you?

(Declaration: This poem is my own doing. Mea culpa!)

Mohini kyon nahin?

~ on an oddity in the Dashaavataara ~

A parade of heroes - aswim, pedestrian or mounted;

One wonders (or should) why Mohini is not counted.

Put this puzzling situation to the test,

And revealed is gender discrimination among the highest.

Matsya’s inclusion is not a bit fishy;

Parashurama wasn’t axed though he knocked off a rishi.

Kurma supports a mountain and his position is fit;

Vamana’s gambit dwarfs his ambit.

Varaha, a ‘boar’, doesn’t leave you cold;

Narasimha romps home past the threshold.

Rama tirelessly takes bows as the ideal, free from sin;

Krishna is the hot favourite whose mouth butter does melt in.

Balarama manages to plough through,

Though the light may resist shifting from Buddha and crew.

Kalki gets the benefit of the doubt,

Safe on the roster though he still isn’t out.

But Mohini, woman enough for a top priority mission,

Maintainer of the nectar-recipient deva-asura fission,

Collaborator of Shiva on a divine issue,

Is coolly denied a place among the luminaries - her due.

Not because only human forms qualify

As Matsya, Kurma, Varaha and –simha testify.

Krishna and Balarama shared space and time

As they celebrated their arts and curbed crime.

So it isn’t because two incarnations cannot coexist.

Alas, it’s simply because the gods are not at all feminist.

Puerto Rico

The first view from the sky was of shades of green - deep, bottle, sap, leaf - draping brown undulating land bordered by restless white and blue water; rivers and snaky roads. The sea, viewed from a distance, is a bright blue, betraying its Caribbean setting.
On landing we were somewhat startled to see stocky iguanas with quizzical expressions waddling off the runway!


We drove through hot, humid, colourful, busy roads with signs in Spanish. That didn't pose too much of a problem - one can read as slowly as necesary for comprehension or conjecture, unlike when following a rapid oral delivery. Distance is measured in kilometres, and petrol in litres.
Practically everyone spoke to us in Spanish - it is the language of choice there, yes, but our appearance played a role too - we look perfectly ready to receive and generate Spanish. The lines I used the most were "No entiendo Espanol" and the somewhat contradictory (to the first) "Hablo espanol, muy poquito"!

Puerto Rico came across as a cross of the physical aspects of Kerala and the hilly parts of Tamilnadu, and the industrial output of the USA and Japan (cars and trucks, though none as humongous as the megatrucks in the US). It felt, many a time, that the most natural thing to do would be to talk in Malayalam or Tamil; instead I had often to crawl over English and be prepared to exercise the meagre Spanish that I had floating around in my head.

The hill roads felt very much like the ghat roads in India, with sinuous curves, no dividing lines in many places, and the frequent need to stop, and sometimes even reverse,to let bigger trucks pass. We found ourselves traversing green arcades of bamboo, and quite a few creeper-covered wires on the hills.
Banana, bamboo, jackfruit, mango, guava, hibiscus, bougainvillea, gulmohar, palms, lilies, lantana, ferns,umbrella trees, tall grasses, cycas, and myriad gaudy flowers crowd every available spot.

Dogs and chickens crossing the narrow roads singly, in pairs or broods, were a familiar sight. Some were utterly stupid, overconfident or rash. We came across more than one dog sitting calmly in the middle of the road even faced with a car moving towards it!

The island is rather small. We actually drove from the sea at the south end (Ponce) to the sea at the north end (Arecibo) in one afternoon, with a trip to the Arecibo observatory thrown in.

People display their mixed ancestry of various combinations of Native American, Spaniard and Black. We saw many a chubby kid, and a goodly number of overweight adults, but by no means can their percentages compete with those of the US. We came across lots of trim, beautiful persons too, especially female (needless to mention)!

We ate a good deal of good food, but I was completely saturated with meat (ad nauseaum is the phrase that strikes me) and yearned desperately for more fruit and vegetables within a couple of days. Tea was the biggest casualtea. In this regard there was no mistaking this place for good old Kerala or Tamilnadu. People here mop up cold drinks of all kinds - chilled beer and lots of fruit juices, even iced tea (yuck) - and condescend to drink coffee (it takes all kinds...) sometimes, but no hot tea...I combed fast food joints and convenience stores, in vain, in an emotional search for my favourite beverage, got heartealy sick of the situation and finally compromised and had hot chocolate instead. It was a taxing day...!
Food is not as expensive in PR as in the US. Another refreshing difference is in the food portions - small is fairly modest (not 'tall'!), 'medium' is really convincingly medium. We ate some delicious "all natural" ice cream - mango, coconut and almond flavours - in Ponce (a city named for Ponce de Leon).

The towns are quaint, with tree-studded plazas equipped with fountains and usually flocks of pigeons, narrow roads, and colourful shops.

Houses and other buildings are stunningly coloured - pinks, greens, bright yellows, oranges, peach, blue, violet, lavender - reminiscent of craft paper samples in a stationery store. There is lots of trellis work - sometimes entire houses looked like cages with the abundant trellises they were wrapped in. Houses are mostly squat, with plants cascading over and around them. Most houses had bougainvillea or hibiscus tumbling out as if to monitor the passers by.

By the way, Christopher Columbus was the European "discoverer" of this island, and there are inevitably lots of statues of him and roads and plazas named after him all over the island. He is called Cristobal 'Colon' - yeah, yeah, it's Spanish for Columbus, but I can't help feeling that it has got to be more than a coincidence that the name comes so close to the anal aperture: the punctuation mark is not so significant here!