"Culture Vulture" - A Micro Fiction.

Well, a while back I wrote a post (flash fiction) that introduced the protagonist. For those who need to refresh their memories (since its quite foggy and chilly these days *wink*) or require an introduction... click HERE.

Now... before you proceed to read any further, I advice you to read the earlier story (link given above) so as to get the drift... and avoid any disconnect.

He was mighty pleased at the simple yet effective way the 'solution' presented itself... and above all worked. It was quite innovative too. All Thanks to his senior colleague. He was beginning to feel at home... at ease with all the sudden changes that he had to encounter over the last month and half. Those of culture, tradition, language, gastronomic and climatic challenges, et al. Afterall, he had sailed half-way round the world to arrive here... on the shores of Bengal. He has managed quite well until now... managed to survive the transition between the known world and the unknown. He felt adventurous... maybe he need not learn the alien language afterall. He was a part of the Raj... at the end of the day. Or so he thought.

It was a weekend and the weather was pleasant. A perfect day for venturing out and exploring the area... on his own. In the evening there was a garden party... the khansamas (head cooks), khitmatgars (waiters), malis (gardeners) and the other servants would be busy with the arrangements already. There was an awful lot of servants he noted, people had far fewer servants back in England... except for the inhabitants of the Buckingham Palace of course. He checked the British made Smiths Empire contraption in his pocket... it was nearly breakfast time. He continued to read the newspaper. Rather pretended to read it... his mind was elsewhere. He thought about the things he had seen and heard in the last 6 weeks or so... in this British dominion.

Memsahib (the Governor General and Viceroy of India aka the Laat Sahib's better half) had taught the Khansamas about cutlery. The Bawarchis (cooks) were taught to make puddings, pies and pastries using local ingredients. Memsahib did not consider Indian food fit for the civilized masses (meaning the 'Goras'). They hated the smell of Indian foods being cooked. The Goras (Whites) had become self-absorbed and refrained themselves from learning anything about Indian Cuisine. While the Indians did not accept British food beyond the tea and the Ketchup. The tea was modified to 'Garam Chai' (Chai Hot tea Latte), and Ketchup was spiced up to Curry Ketchup... to suit the Indian palate. The Anglo-Indians (children from mixed marriages between the locals and the British) accepted the 'Western bread loaf' (Double Roti), cakes and cookies. In 1887, the British had opened a bakery in Delhi... which was doing decent business (this later became the giant known as the 'Britannia Biscuits Company'.)

To the displeasure of the Memsahib and other aristocratic Memsahibs, some British fell in love with Indian Cuisine and created their own versions: Mulligatawny soup, Jalfrezi, and Worcestershire Sauce. The British coined the term 'Bombay Duck' to describe a lizard like fish found under the piers of the Bombay dock. George V, had 'curry' for lunch almost everyday. In 1884, a group of nuns set up a factory in Meerut to manufacture 'Macaroni', 'Spaghetti', and 'Vermicelli'. (The Vermicelli has been well fused into Indian Cuisine as Sevian Kheer.)

What a strange name - 'Jalfrezi' - he had wondered, while a colleague had volunteered to enlighten him. The British created this method of reheating left-overs and the credit went to the then Governor General for the state of Bengal, Lord Marcus Sandys... who enjoyed spicy Indian foods. He is also credited with converting Tamarind/Jaggery Chutney into Worcestershire Sauce. In Bengali, 'Jhal' means 'spicy hot'. 'Jhal' led to 'Jal'. While 'Frezi' is thought to have been derived from the Urdu word 'Parhezi'... meaning 'a person with discriminating taste'. Some believe it is just a slang for 'Fried, zee!'; where, 'zee' is the Urdu word to emphasize on the instruction to fry.

'Mulligatawny Soup' was quite a tongue-twister for him... and his tongue had still not won the battle. But he found the history attached to it very interesting indeed. Indian cooks (during the British Raj) served a soup course to their rulers... who actually christened it thus. The name is derived from two words... from the Tamil language. 'Millagu' means 'pepper' and 'Thanni' means 'water'. So, the name 'Mulligatawny Soup' or 'Pepper water' was born. He smiled at the memory of his first encounter with this 'red-blooded' soup. He had almost called the fire brigade!

His mind now drifted to the 'Worcestershire Sauce'. In 1835, Lord Marcus Sandys, an ex-Governor of Bengal, approached chemists John Lea and William Perrins, whose prospering business in Broad Street, Worcester, handled pharmaceuticals and toiletries as well as groceries. He asked them to make up a sauce from a recipe which he brought back from India. While his lordship was apparently satisfied with the results, Messrs Lea and Perrins considered it to be an "unpalatable, red-hot fire-water" and consigned the quantity they had made for themselves to the cellars. During the stocktaking/spring clean the following year, they came across the barrel and decided to taste it before discarding it. To their amazement, the mixture had mellowed into an aromatic, piquant and appetizing liquid. They hastily purchased the recipe from Lord Sandys and, in 1838, the Anglo-Indian Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce was launched commercially.

One of the myriad 19th-century pungent English sauces based on oriental ingredients, it had many imitators sporting pretentious names such as "British Lion" and "Empress of India". Its exact recipe remains a secret. All that is known is that it includes vinegar, sugar, soya sauce, molasses, tamarind, shallots, anchovies, ginger, chili, cloves, nutmeg and cardamom. He has yet to taste it though... the very mention of the word 'chili'... sets off alarm bells in his head.

Words can be deceptive. The 'Bombay Duck' taught him this lesson... without a shred of doubt. Expecting a well-cooked and delicious dish consisting of a member of the feathered species... he was instead greeted with a scaly inhabitant from the salty waters. He had been so overwhelmed by its 'fragrance' that he had choked and nearly fainted... and had to be carried away to safer environs. Later... yet another colleague tutored him.

'Bombay Duck' is not a 'Duck'. 'Duck' is a slang for the Hindi word 'Dak'. 'Dak' in Hindi stands for 'mail'. 'Bombay Duck' is a small fish normally called as 'Bumla'... found near the piers of Bombay (Mumbai). The fish is scaled, cleaned, filleted as strips, salted and dried. After it is dried, it has a very strong and distinct fishy odour. In an air tight jar, it can be stored indefinitely. The British could not say 'Bumla', so they called it 'Bombay Dak', referring to the smell of the 'Bombay Mail'. The fish was not transported by train... but the mail was. And the mail would gather/catch the strong fishy odour from the area where it was loaded. He was also told that fresh fish is used to make 'fish fry'. His GK has been constantly traveling northward... ever since his arrival.

The Memsahibs brought and planted new fruits: Apricots, Peaches, Pears, and Plums in the Nilgiri Hills. The British improved the local strawberry (Fragaria indica) in Mahabaleshwar. From England, they brought new vegetables and planted here: Cauliflower (Gobhi), Cabbage (Bund Gobhi), and Kohlrabi. The Memsahibs brought in flowers to decorate their homes, and planted: Carnations, Dahlia, Daisies, Gladiolas, Impatience, Lilies, Pansies, Petunias, Poinsettias (red), and some varieties of roses.

He was deep in thought... the punkah-wallah was at his job. Suddenly... the door was flung open and two servants rushed in. They spoke excitedly... simultaneously. It was a strange cacophony... he was baffled.

The Gowala (cow attendant) was saying, "I go up" over and over again... pointing to his right eye.

The other, a Coolie was saying, "We go down"... breathlessly.

He did not understand what they were trying to convey... even though the words were english sounding. His senior had indicated that the servants here spoke a kind of pidgin english. But he couldn't comprehend anything at all.

He sat there... stunned. Then with a wave of his hand... asked them to leave.

Still no sign of the breakfast...

He decided to skip it and explore the area instead. He could even have it at a restaurant... if he wanted to. He stood up... put on his hat and coat. His Chopdar (silver stick bearer)... an old man... handed him his walking stick. He set off...

It was quite pleasant outside... with a nip in the air. Few people or transport... on the road. He walked on...

He came across a few flower-sellers... on the pavement. The flowers looked fresh and he was struck by all the myriad kinds in a variety of colours. He stopped... to admire them. One the flower-sellers... an old woman... kept saying "bouni, bouni". He shook his head... and kept on looking at the flowers. Now, two others joined the old woman in chanting "bouni, bouni". Confused, he walked away.

Another seller... a younger woman... approached him. She had a young boy with her. They came beside him, with a bunch of flowers, "Take take, no take no take, ekbar toh see!"

At this he shook his head even more vigorously and quicked his pace.

Feeling quite hungry now... he looked at the shops... searching for a restaurant. He found a signboard proclaiming... "Mr. Beef Seafood Restaurant". There were some Chinese characters following it. He stood for a while with raised eyebrows... on the pavement across the road.

Moving on... he came across a few more signs. "Brain Disease Curing Set", "Oil Gates", "An Excellent Winding Smoke" and a small signboard which stated, "The slippery are very crafty".

He walked on... his mind still absorbing all of this... the newly acquired 'knowledge-cum-cultural orientation' that is.

After a while he came across another restaurant offering "Mixed Chow with Garlic Mud". By now he was quite famished... and decided to try out this one. But before he could push the door open, a Chinese man appeared before him, blocking the way... and respectfully said "No go". He tried to reason with him... but the man merely repeated those two words... each time.

He shrugged his shoulders and moved on... and after a while came across a bilingual signboard: "Bengal Famous Oil-Fried Shop".

He walked on and found himself staring at "Copulation Accessories"... with "No can do" written underneath.

He retraced his steps...

Photograph:

A British couple at the dining table attended to by the khidmatgars... during the British Raj. Pic courtesy: link.

"Stranger than fiction" - A 77-Fiction.

This is my second attempt at a 77-Fiction. Hope you like it.

Author's Note: You can read my first 77-Fiction... titled, "Grief" - HERE. My first 'Flash Fiction'... "Communication"... can be read: HERE.

Before I get on with it... let me just say that I too hope, like millions of others... that Sachin Tendulkar will reach yet another milestone. Today. That of the 17,000-run mark in one day cricket... and not fall a victim to a certain "dreaded finger"... or try to 'conserve his energy' (wink!) He needs just 7 more runs.

But to quote his teammate and the incumbent 'Team India' vice-captain Yuvraj Singh: They are "tired of celebrating 'grand-dad' Sachin's records."

He maybe just 36 but he is already being addressed as grandfather - by his India teammates. "We have started calling him grandfather," Yuvraj quipped. Well the guy has been around for 2 decades now... since his 1989-90 debut... of which I have vivid memories! But... I have a sneaking suspicion... he may still be around... when his son debuts, donning the India colours.

When asked if the team has any special plan to celebrate the occasion, Yuvraj said, "Plan? We are in fact tired of planning celebrations for him. Every week, the guy goes on to make some record or other. How many times can you celebrate?"

Moving on to the racist cries... emanating from those Indian students based in Melbourne who have been, or feel they are being targetted for assault. Its been all over the media for quite a while now. With the Victorian Police Commissioner confirming that assaults against Indian students are up over 30%, one would say there was a problem. But perhaps the problem is that... assaults are up over 30% and nothing is being done about it.

So apart from some actual and efficient Policing, what can be done to show the world... that Australia is not a 'Racist Haven'? That we are all potential victims... this being not an 'Indian' issue... ?? Infact, trying to camouflage these attacks as an 'Indian' issue seems to reduce the seriousness of it. Right... ???

To me, the answer lies in a man with a very colourful wardrobe... and I must say he looks good in pink! Dirk Nannes (aka 'the man who was responsible for fellow Delhi Daredevil teammate Glenn 'Pigeon' McGrath to twiddle his thumbs during IPL 2') not only sounds like an international man of action, he is one. Being a member of an already rare species (of left arm fast bowlers, and he sure is fast), Dirk is from Melbourne but plays for Victoria, Delhi and the Netherlands in cricket competition. Can you be a better representation of multicultural harmony, with a striking and exotic-sounding name? Further, he studied the saxophone at University, has an awesome beard, speaks Japanese (thats some talent!) and competes at skiing at an international level. Everyone loves a polymath. What... ?!!

Nannes is known to be not too fond of team meetings. "I don't listen too much. By the time I enter the field, I have forgotten all about it. So when you see me wander towards mid-on or mid-off, I am actually asking them what was discussed! I don't like team meetings much. I am thinking where to eat." Wow! Thats some 'food for thought'... !

And here's his take on cricket: "Cricketers are completely a different breed," says Nannes. "I wouldn't say that cricketers are boring, but their sense of humour is a bit different." Spoken like a true diplomat! On his disappointment with Australia's selection, he says: "If I am not good enough to be in the top 30 Australian cricketers, I will eat my hat." He certainly dishes out quotable quotes... move over Rakhi Sawant and Mallika Sherawat!

Now... to get back to my 77-Fiction. Read on:

She walked slowly... unmindfully talking into her mobile. Failing to notice the fast approaching bus... until it was too late. Confused and in panic she looked around for an escape route. The 2 feet high platform next to her... was impossible to climb... without assistance. Suddenly, a pair of strong hands gripped her arms and pulled her onto the platform. Relieved and grateful she turned around to thank her saviour... only to find noone. Not a soul...

Note:

Some info gathered, Courtesy: Wikipedia.

Photograph:

A beautiful pic... showcasing the 'miracle' that is nature.

"Communication" - A Flash Fiction (a form of 'micro-fiction')

Author's Note: You can read my first 77-Fiction... titled, "Grief" - HERE. This post also contains info on the various genres of micro-fiction... so you can acquaint yourself with the 'dribble', the 'drabble', the 'droubble'... and the like.

Well, this is my first attempt at a flash fiction. But before I proceed with it, I am reminded of the fact that this is my 112th post. Which means that the previous one was 111th... aka cricket's equivalent of the "Nelson". Made famous by the recently departed English Umpire with the kindly looks and ruddy cheeks, David Shepherd or Shep... who will be fondly remembered for his quirk of hopping from foot to foot whenever the scoreboard registered the dreaded "Nelson". That was his trademark... or should I say his 'signature manoeuvre'.

There are others too... like Billy Bowden... known for his dramatic signalling style (link). THE Billy Bowden with the "crooked finger of doom" and the "double crooked finger six-phase hop" to name a few. Most cricketers are superstitious and a score reading 111 (said to represent one of Nelson's eyes, one of his arms, and one of his legs) is thought to bring bad luck. To counteract that, players on the batting side are meant to lift one leg off the ground until the score moves on. Shep never lost the fear and, commendably neutral, would shake a leg for both sides. So endearing... na... ???

But since this is a mere blog and not the cricket field I did not resort to any such measures... and am none the worse for it! *a big grin*

I also understand that the great and indomitable Gaul... the redoubtable Asterix turned 50 last week (on 29 October 1959). A very Happy Birthday to the perennially plucky little big hero and may he complete a century and more... while remaining in the pink of health! Ummm... half a century and still going strong... ?? Must be those magic potions conjured up by that medical magician, the Druid Getafix.

Wonder where does all this leave Asterix' best bud... the Gaulish menhir delivery man and warrior Obelix though... ??? He too must be turning 50 simultaneously then... and indulging in his favourite pasttime of hunting and eating wild boars and beating up Romans (all the while uttering his catch phrase: "These Romans are crazy"), with Dogmatix at his heels. By Toutatis! But try as he might, he is not allowed to drink the magic potion ever again. Much to his chagrin though. Reason... ??? He fell into the cauldron with the magic potion when he was a small boy and is always strong. You know... evergreen strength... !!!

Here is a write-up marking Asterix' golden jubilee... that contains an interview with his co-creator and translator who helped him conquer an English readership - the artist Albert Uderzo, who is still sprightly at 82. He has continued to create new Asterix adventures after the death of his friend René Goscinny in 1977, taking on the scripting as well as drawing.

The internet reached yet another milestone - the middle age - aka 40 years last month. With its birth... it changed the world forever. 40 glorious years of breathtaking innovation. But then most folks say that 40 is the new 30... so, the internet must be in the prime of youth then. What... ???

Veteran sports journalist and stellar cricket writer Rajan Bala passed away last month. As an incisive and analytical writer, he simply had no peers. It is a very sad day indeed and I'm sure avid cricket fans will remember him with warmth and reverence. I will miss his columns. May his soul RIP. Cricinfo, the 'Bhagavad Gita of the Beautiful Game', has a short obituary. His protégé Suresh Menon pays tribute. The Times of India's Satish Vishwanathan used a Sachin Tendulkar anecdote to demonstrate Bala's hold.

Now... to get back to my 'flash fiction'. Here you go:

He was new to everything... having arrived barely a couple of weeks ago... on the shores of this British dominion. As one of the administrators assigned to the then Governor General and Viceroy of India. Yes, the one referred to as the 'Laat Saab' by the locals aka the hoi polloi. The many languages and the strange customs that the country boasted... were alien to him. He seemed tentative and unsure of himself, an unusual change.

Being totally unfamiliar with Bengali... the local language of Bengal or even Hindi, he was completely stumpted for words... while interacting with the servants. Thankfully, one of his senior colleagues... sensing his predicament... had given him a few 'tips'... saying that there was no need to learn the local languages.

That most of the staff spoke English while the servants spoke a kind of pidgin english... which he'll soon get used to.

The older man had then smiled and added, "Hindi is very much like English, they say." And then proceeded to share with him a little 'trick'. He was astonished at first... and then thought perhaps it was meant as a joke... and laughed.

The strange and amusing part of it, however, was that it worked... leaving him quite flummoxed. Perhaps by the familiar-sounding words and the unexpected results they produced!

In the evening he would call, "Chawkidar!"

The fellow would appear, "Ji Saab?"

He then said, "There was a brown crow."

The Chowkidar: "Ji haan Saab," and carried out the task.

In the morning his instruction would be, "Chawkidar! There was a cold day." Again the fellow would do as asked...

And all the while... he would chuckle to himself and silently thank the old man profusely.

Footnote:

Some info gathered, courtesy: Wikipedia.

On the evolution of the internet: What better time to recap on the last 40 years and provide a brief history of how a technology that has changed our lives, came to be. Before you begin reading however, if you'd like a more visual representation, you may want to sit back and watch this wonderful video that will take you through the decades to today (Link)

Photograph:

A handmade oil painting reproduction of "A British Officer of a Madras Sepoy Battalion Attended by a Sepoy Servant" - a painting by (attr. to) Imhoff, Carl C.A. von (Pic courtesy: link)

"Grief" - A 77-Fiction (a form of 'micro-fiction')

Offlate... I have been reading a slew of short stories, variously referred to as: 55-Fiction, 66-Fiction and 77-Fiction. Courtesy: Vipul, Shilpa, Sid - the 'Ravan' kid, Amit, Dmanji, Pawan, Shankar... and other fellow bloggers aka FBs. All veterans in this genre... to be precise.

Finally, yours truly too decided to try her hand at it. Therefore, with butterflies fluttering about incessantly in my tummy... I write my very first 77-Fiction. Afterall, this is my first attempt at a 'micro-fiction'... so butterflies got to flutter... don't they... ?!! *Wink! Wink!*

Now, 55 Fiction is a form of micro-fiction that refers to the works of fiction limited to a maximum of fifty-five words. So, you can decipher the meaning of the other types, 'I presume'... (to borrow the latter part of the famous line uttered by the Welsh journalist Sir Henry Morton Stanley... on finally tracing and meeting the long lost Scottish Missionary and explorer, Dr. David Livingstone)

So, here you go:

They sat silently... staring at the lifeless bodies of their precious babies. Not even the hint of an unshed tear in their eyes. I guess... grief is too numbing.

Finally he got up and walked out of the garden.

She remained there, as if still guarding her dead babies. A mother's love...

An hour later, he came back with traces of blood around his mouth. Yes... he has had his 'revenge'. Their revenge. They could cry now...

Footnote:

Henry Morton Stanley was a young and very ambitious American journalist who had already made himself a name in the newspaper business. He took the task of searching after Livingstone for the New York Herald. Other expeditions were sent out with the same mission - to rescue Livingstone if possible or find evidence of his possible death. He picked up the track of Livingstone at Lake Tanganyika. The two explorers finally met on November 10, 1871 in Ujiji in the present-day Tanzania. As the story goes, Stanley's first words, when approaching the only other white man in this part of Africa, was: "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

Note: Some info, courtesy: Wikipedia.

Post Script: Intrigued by the micro-fiction genre... I turned to 'Professor' Google. My research 'enlightened' me regarding the existence of the 50-word fiction (aka the 'dribble'... and I thought this term existed only in the arena of football and hockey!), the '69er' (a 69-Fiction), '88er' (an 88-Fiction - possibly), '99er' (a 99-Fiction)... even the 100 word flash fiction aka the 'Drabble'.

A drabble is an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length, although the term is often incorrectly used to indicate a short story of fewer than 1000 words. The purpose of the drabble is brevity and to test the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space.

Flash fiction is fiction of extreme brevity. There is no widely accepted definition of the length of the category. Some self-described markets for flash fiction impose caps as low as 300, while others consider stories as long as 1000 words to be flash fiction. Other names for flash fiction include: "sudden fiction", "microfiction", "micro-story", "postcard fiction", "prosetry" and "short short story", though distinctions are sometimes drawn between some of these terms; for example, sometimes 1,000 words is considered the cut-off between "flash fiction" and the slightly longer "sudden fiction".

Richard N. Hill recently coined the phrase "dribble" to describe a story that is only 50 words. Michael Kent of "The Next Big Writer" used "droubble" for a double drabble, a story in exactly 200 words. More information and correct definitions are found at 'Save the Drabble'.

"Drabble" is also sometimes used colloquially to refer to any short piece of literature, usually fan fiction, where brevity is its outstanding feature. Some stories, called "drabbles" by their authors or readers, total as many as 1,000 words in length. However, such a story should be termed by the more accurate description of "flashfic", "shortfic," or "ficlet," in addition to the older "short-short story". The particular language used may greatly affect the ease or difficulty of writing a drabble. For example, the Finnish two-word sentence "Heittäytyisinköhän seikkailuun?" translates English as "What if I should throw myself into an adventure?", a sentence of nine words. This density of meaning makes Finnish a much easier language in which to write a drabble than English.

Similar concepts are flash fiction, microfiction and nanofiction.

Flash fiction has roots going back to Aesop's Fables and practitioners have included such leading lights as, Anton Chekhov, O. Henry, Franz Kafka, H.P.Lovecraft, Arthur C. Clarke and Lydia Davis. A ready market for flash-fiction works is ezines; however, flash fiction is also published by many print magazines. Markets specializing in flash fiction include SmokeLong Quarterly, Flash Fiction Online, and Vestal Review.

One type of flash fiction is the short story with an exact word count. Examples include 55 Fiction, the Drabble and the 69er. Nanofictions are complete stories, with at least one character and a discernible plot, exactly 55 words long. A Drabble is a story of exactly 100 words, excluding titles, and a 69er is a story of exactly 69 words, again excluding the title. The 69er was a regular feature of the Canadian literary magazine NFG, which featured a section of such stories in each issue.

Vignette: Flash fiction differs from a vignette in that the flash-fiction work contains the classic story elements: protagonist, conflict, obstacles or complications, and resolution. However, unlike the case with a traditional short story, the limited word length often forces some of these elements to remain unwritten, that is, hinted at or implied in the written storyline. This principle, taken to the extreme, is illustrated in a possibly apocryphal story about a six-word flash allegedly penned by Ernest Hemingway: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

And much more... and isn't "more the merrier"... ?!! All of which I intend to explore... by and by. For sure!

Photograph:

A lovely pic... 'Life is precious'.