He squinted at his watch. It was a quarter to midnight: certainly not the appropriate hour to stop a familiar-looking stranger on an otherwise desolate street and check if it was really him. He always thought of the consequences first and, being the cautious sort, they were always exaggerated. He imagined being treated suspiciously, or even rudely, by the man. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, especially since he had just moved into the neighbourhood, and was staying only temporarily. And so he walked on, fiddling with his Ipod until the first familiar track played, and hummed the opening lines of, “Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody …” It felt appropriate, like most songs do. Not in its detail - he didn’t know anyone with a sister who looked like a feline Frankenstein – but in its spirit. It wasn’t true that he didn’t have anybody either. They were all just extremely far away, and were probably sleeping or working, and sometimes proximity was everything.
The walk home from the station took between 15 and 20 minutes on average, depending on the time of day. On a sunny evening he would stroll, not bothering with the Ipod, say hello to passer-bys, make way for joggers, cyclists, and dog-walkers, and watch jets leave streaks of white on the cornflower-blue sky. Nights, weeknights in particular, were different. Often he wouldn’t see a soul on the street from the time he left the station, having only the wind, the sound of his heavy footfall, and sometimes the rain for company until he reached his door. He walked faster at night, and listened to music, to blot out the loneliness of his short journey. He used mundane landmarks – a curve in the road, a community rubbish bin, an intersection – to divide the walk into stages. There was no other reason to do so than to pass the time.
Stage three was the longest, and darkest, and tonight was colder than previous nights. He was walking as briskly as possible, without making the step up to jogging, but decided to slow down to fish out his Ipod. He struggled to untangle the headphones in the streetlight and that was when he heard the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. He wasn’t walking on any and so he paused to ascertain where it was coming from. Before he could turn around to check behind, he saw movement and made out silhouettes of two people walking towards him. Their voices told him one was male, the other female, but they suddenly crossed the road and continued to walk on the opposite side, causing him to wonder whether they had done so because they had spotted a stranger wearing a hooded sweatshirt walking towards them. He always thought other people took more notice of him than they actually did. As he passed them, even though they were on the opposite side and it was dark, he caught a glimpse of the man’s face, his tall frame, and was immediately sure he had seen him before. The woman, he had not. They passed by without casting a sideways glance. And so he reached home, waited for the line “I don’t know when, confused about how as well …” before switching off his Ipod, and unlocked the front door. He knew the code to disable the burglar alarm by heart, and had keyed it in correctly when less sober, yet it always made him nervous.
He had forgotten about last night’s stranger the next morning. Such a thing – a stubborn answer that remained buried in the nether regions of his mind – would have tormented him a few years ago, but not now. And besides, he didn’t have anyone around to prove himself right to. Weeks went by and he got used to his nocturnal walks, learning to enjoy the quiet that darkness brought, and used his Ipod less frequently. He had found a routine – his groove – and settled comfortably in it. And then, several days later, he saw the stranger again
He saw the woman first, getting on to the same train he took every morning, and she had striking eyes. He had definitely not seen her before. After a second glimpse of the man – in the light of day – he knew when and where. It was incredible that he should meet someone he once shared a table with for a few hours, years ago, in another country on a different continent. He went up to say hello and, after a few seconds, was recognized in return. They had been visiting family but were setting out on their honeymoon the next day. It was a shame today didn’t happen ten days ago, the stranger said. It could well have, though he didn’t say that in return.
**
He was in the lobby of a hotel in another city, waiting for the shower to stop, so that he could dash off. His work was done and his impatience grew as the intensity of the rain increased. He had decided he could wait no longer, and had pulled the jacket out of his bag to help brave the cold weather, when he heard someone hesitantly call out his name, and his last name. But he knew no one here and no one knew him. He swiveled, searching among the gathered crowd, and saw her. It had been at least five years since he had seen her last, in another country, and they hadn’t known each other well even then. He was glad to see a familiar face, though, and stopped to catch up. She looked lovely. But his work was done and he had to leave. They exchanged phone numbers and made plans to meet for dinner, or a drink. But never did.
**
He usually arrived as the trains were about to leave and so he was forced to enter the first door he reached. He was early today, and so he walked along the length of one, deciding against one compartment because he saw a leaking soda can on the floor, against another because it had too many children, and finally choosing one because someone had left a newspaper he liked on one of the seats. There are W train routes in the city, X trains every hour, Y compartments on each train, and each compartment has Z seats. The permutations and combinations are infinite and so when the train stopped at the fifth station he was startled, astonished and unnerved to see two people - whom he once stayed with for a week on a remote tropical island - get on and sit less than six feet away from him. It wasn’t quarter to midnight and so he went up and said hello. They didn’t recognize him immediately but, after he reminded them of a curious incident or two during his stay on the island, the penny dropped. He took it as a sign to return to the island again. He hasn’t managed to go yet.
October 08, 2009
May 25, 2009
There's a hole in the world like a great black pit
I was running up the stairs in the office – I’ve never been a walker when it comes to tackling staircases on my own – when I bumped into my editor. I’d been feeling a twinge of disappointment at not being given the New Zealand tour, even more so since last year’s trip to Pakistan had been scuttled because of security concerns. Those of the players, not mine.
My editor asked me what my plans for the summer were. Cricket, a few trips home, other holidays elsewhere, perhaps a wedding or two, I thought. Nothing in particular, I replied. He laughed and asked me if I intended to get married or something. He could have asked me what my plans for the next seven summers were; I’m that far from getting married. And then he said they were planning to send me to England for four months. Twenty20 World Cup, Ashes and daylight from 4.00 am to 9.30 pm. Awesome.
That was a few months ago. Since then, I’ve been planning for the trip and executing. Some things were easy, like making plans to drink beer by the Thames, others more painful, like fixing my teeth.
The first substance I ever tasted was a bit of chocolate, or so I’ve been told. And since then I’ve ignored my parents’ advice of eating a reasonable amount of sweets at a time, stolen from my sister’s share of goodies, and played the sympathy card to partake of my mother’s quota too. And I’m paying for it now, despite brushing twice a day. There were gaping holes in two teeth, a not-so-gaping one in another, and a few other patches of black on some others.
The cavities looked terrible but only one of them had hurt, and only once. The timing of the pain couldn’t have been worse, though. It was while I was in Malaysia for the under-19 World Cup in 2008. I had planned to do some traveling after the tournament but during the last week of games, my tooth began to ache. I remember not having any fun even though I was watching cricket, drinking beer and eating barbequed burgers from Australian fans because of the pain. I cancelled my travel plans and decided to go home and see a dentist. As soon as I landed in India, the damn pain mysteriously disappeared and I forgot all about it.
Dentists in London are frightfully expensive and so I made an appointment for a check up. I visited him ten more times, had about 25 anesthetic injections, had drills, ultraviolet light, and soldering irons put into my mouth, and then it was done. I had two shiny ceramic caps and several other fillings, a massive dent in my bank balance, but the ability to chew with confidence.
The trips to the dentist were far from terrible. I would get jabbed with the needle, my jaw would slacken, and I would listen to good music for two hours while he did his thing. The injections were a breeze too. What I hated was the gooey paste he used to make a mould of my tooth. Even though it tasted of fresh mint, it was gag inducing. It was probably due to the importance I give to texture and consistency of food. It’s why I detest brinjal, the only vegetable – a mass of pulpy, seedy muck – that I cannot put in my mouth. Disgustor. Would nutella taste as good if it had the consistency of brinjal, or the texture of paada?
Most of my free evenings – they were rare while the IPL was on – were spent at the dentist. My hair grew longer than it ever had, my laundry piled up, and my belly grew. I visited my family in Calicut, friends in Madras, cancelled some trips, and made unscheduled ones. I saw the prince of Pala get married too.
2009 has been a weird year. Never before have I heard bad news so regularly. Ragupathy thinks it’s because of shanni. There’s been a hilarious succession of complications with my England trip too. Details of accommodation, a cash advance, a new-fangled accounting process for travel expenses still need to be ironed out. If everything goes according to plan, I hope to be in London on Saturday.
My editor asked me what my plans for the summer were. Cricket, a few trips home, other holidays elsewhere, perhaps a wedding or two, I thought. Nothing in particular, I replied. He laughed and asked me if I intended to get married or something. He could have asked me what my plans for the next seven summers were; I’m that far from getting married. And then he said they were planning to send me to England for four months. Twenty20 World Cup, Ashes and daylight from 4.00 am to 9.30 pm. Awesome.
That was a few months ago. Since then, I’ve been planning for the trip and executing. Some things were easy, like making plans to drink beer by the Thames, others more painful, like fixing my teeth.
The first substance I ever tasted was a bit of chocolate, or so I’ve been told. And since then I’ve ignored my parents’ advice of eating a reasonable amount of sweets at a time, stolen from my sister’s share of goodies, and played the sympathy card to partake of my mother’s quota too. And I’m paying for it now, despite brushing twice a day. There were gaping holes in two teeth, a not-so-gaping one in another, and a few other patches of black on some others.
The cavities looked terrible but only one of them had hurt, and only once. The timing of the pain couldn’t have been worse, though. It was while I was in Malaysia for the under-19 World Cup in 2008. I had planned to do some traveling after the tournament but during the last week of games, my tooth began to ache. I remember not having any fun even though I was watching cricket, drinking beer and eating barbequed burgers from Australian fans because of the pain. I cancelled my travel plans and decided to go home and see a dentist. As soon as I landed in India, the damn pain mysteriously disappeared and I forgot all about it.
Dentists in London are frightfully expensive and so I made an appointment for a check up. I visited him ten more times, had about 25 anesthetic injections, had drills, ultraviolet light, and soldering irons put into my mouth, and then it was done. I had two shiny ceramic caps and several other fillings, a massive dent in my bank balance, but the ability to chew with confidence.
The trips to the dentist were far from terrible. I would get jabbed with the needle, my jaw would slacken, and I would listen to good music for two hours while he did his thing. The injections were a breeze too. What I hated was the gooey paste he used to make a mould of my tooth. Even though it tasted of fresh mint, it was gag inducing. It was probably due to the importance I give to texture and consistency of food. It’s why I detest brinjal, the only vegetable – a mass of pulpy, seedy muck – that I cannot put in my mouth. Disgustor. Would nutella taste as good if it had the consistency of brinjal, or the texture of paada?
Most of my free evenings – they were rare while the IPL was on – were spent at the dentist. My hair grew longer than it ever had, my laundry piled up, and my belly grew. I visited my family in Calicut, friends in Madras, cancelled some trips, and made unscheduled ones. I saw the prince of Pala get married too.
2009 has been a weird year. Never before have I heard bad news so regularly. Ragupathy thinks it’s because of shanni. There’s been a hilarious succession of complications with my England trip too. Details of accommodation, a cash advance, a new-fangled accounting process for travel expenses still need to be ironed out. If everything goes according to plan, I hope to be in London on Saturday.
May 13, 2009
It feels so right
I was at work at 8am, seven and a half hours after I had left office the previous day. Sleepy, hungry and cranky. Then the phone rang and the news I heard in those four minutes made me genuinely happy. It’s a rare and precious emotion – genuine happiness. A feeling of selfless joy and it transformed my day instantly.
They’re a shining example to people who say long-distance is too hard. Theirs is a shining example of the effort it takes to make the most important things in life work. I’ve spent a lot of time in their company, through happy and not-so-happy times, (New Year’s Eve, even) and not once have I felt anything less than perfectly welcome. They are two of the best people I know. So here’s to the two of you. You deserve all the happiness that’s coming your way.
They let college go, and weren’t fazed,
They always have their purple haze.
They’re a shining example to people who say long-distance is too hard. Theirs is a shining example of the effort it takes to make the most important things in life work. I’ve spent a lot of time in their company, through happy and not-so-happy times, (New Year’s Eve, even) and not once have I felt anything less than perfectly welcome. They are two of the best people I know. So here’s to the two of you. You deserve all the happiness that’s coming your way.
They let college go, and weren’t fazed,
They always have their purple haze.
April 22, 2009
A script from the crypt
Decided to check one of my Yahoo mailboxes after a long time. Came across something I had written in 2004. I can't be sure what made me write it but I have a vague feeling that it was an incident in K nags - a couple of street kids wanted to watch a cricket match at one of the shops. The shopkeeper yelled at them. Another one asked them to come in and watch. I do remember when I wrote this - in Kausthab's room, in between mindless hours of playing MOHAA (or was it Miami Vice?).
**
I am entering a fancy theatre, going to watch the latest movie. My eyes wander to the stalls selling ‘Pepsi’ and ‘Popcorn’. I cannot read the signs but I know what they are from years of wondering what they taste like. Fifty rupees for a bottle of water? What am I doing here? My mind cannot fathom but my legs take me towards the inviting display of various temptations. My hand reaches into my pocket and draws out a wad of hundred rupee notes. I have never held a hundred rupee note in my hand before.
The fancy theatre fades away, the neon Pepsi and Popcorn signs are turned off. I am awake and reality bites hard. The five feet of stony floor which serves as my bed has been encroached upon by the limbs of the other sleeping children. We are seven, in a space meant for barely three. Seated at a table in the corner are my mother and father. Or at least I think they are. They have been around for as long as I can remember but my memory fails me often. They do not love me. They do not ill treat me either.
I set out, to seek my fortune that day. My stomach is racked with pangs of hunger. My elder brother had snatched away a sizable chunk of an already meagre dinner the previous night. I make my way to this large arch with lots of grassy ground around it. I do no know what it is called. I watch as groups of boys quarrel during a game of cricket. I watch longingly, hoping that they will ask me to join their game. They never do. Perhaps it’s because I’m too young, I tell myself.
It begins to rain. Suddenly everyone seems to be running trying to avoid getting wet as though the water would somehow scar them. I hear somebody say in dismay that her clothes are ruined. I smile. I have no such worries. I’m glad it is raining. I can wash myself. I used to have a bath in the fountains near the arch. But now they have a policeman there to stop us.
It must be a good day. Someone has left a packet of food behind on the grass. I do not have to worry about lunch anymore. I better get down to work, I tell myself. If I do not take home my share of alms my parents will be angry. I do not like to beg but I have never been taught another trade. Perhaps one day I will disobey my parents and refuse to beg, but not today. I wander up to cars, wiping their windscreens and knocking at their windows hoping some appreciation will be shown for my service. I rarely receive any. Soon my quota of alms for the day is done. I really have been lucky today.
I’m beginning to feel hungry again. A kind shopkeeper once gave me food when I did not have the energy to walk anymore. I find his shop easily. There’s a crowd in his shop, gathered around a television. Is that Dravid I see batting? My thoughts of hunger disappear as I worm my way through the crowd to catch a glimpse of the match. I may not know the name of that arch but I do know the name of everyone in the cricket team.
The match is over. It does not matter who won. I enjoyed the game. I try and watch whenever I can. As I make my way home my mind begins to wander. I’ve always wanted to watch the Indian team play. But they hardly ever come to this city. Perhaps I should go to Bangalore. I dismiss the thought as absurd.
Since that day, the thought of going to Bangalore kept coming back to me. I ignored it for a while but after a point I couldn’t. I am now in Bangalore. I don’t understand the language very well and I feel colder at night than I did before. I do not have the freedom that I did before. I have a job now. It’s a bit like gardening. I have to cut grass, dig up and relay the earth and when it rains I have to cover the ground at the Chinnaswamy stadium with big plastic sheets. And I get to see India play at least once a year.
**
Saw a familiar face on the bus today. Thought hard about where I had seen him before. Finally got it. He looked like an Indian Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson in The Shining). Same crazy eyes that wander all over the place, same thin mouth that droops downwards. Decided I had to take a photo with my phone. The resemblance was uncanny. Positioned camera into nonchalant yet strategic position, zoomed in as far as I could. Then saw pesky co-passenger peeking into my phone and decided to abort. What a prat.
**
I am entering a fancy theatre, going to watch the latest movie. My eyes wander to the stalls selling ‘Pepsi’ and ‘Popcorn’. I cannot read the signs but I know what they are from years of wondering what they taste like. Fifty rupees for a bottle of water? What am I doing here? My mind cannot fathom but my legs take me towards the inviting display of various temptations. My hand reaches into my pocket and draws out a wad of hundred rupee notes. I have never held a hundred rupee note in my hand before.
The fancy theatre fades away, the neon Pepsi and Popcorn signs are turned off. I am awake and reality bites hard. The five feet of stony floor which serves as my bed has been encroached upon by the limbs of the other sleeping children. We are seven, in a space meant for barely three. Seated at a table in the corner are my mother and father. Or at least I think they are. They have been around for as long as I can remember but my memory fails me often. They do not love me. They do not ill treat me either.
I set out, to seek my fortune that day. My stomach is racked with pangs of hunger. My elder brother had snatched away a sizable chunk of an already meagre dinner the previous night. I make my way to this large arch with lots of grassy ground around it. I do no know what it is called. I watch as groups of boys quarrel during a game of cricket. I watch longingly, hoping that they will ask me to join their game. They never do. Perhaps it’s because I’m too young, I tell myself.
It begins to rain. Suddenly everyone seems to be running trying to avoid getting wet as though the water would somehow scar them. I hear somebody say in dismay that her clothes are ruined. I smile. I have no such worries. I’m glad it is raining. I can wash myself. I used to have a bath in the fountains near the arch. But now they have a policeman there to stop us.
It must be a good day. Someone has left a packet of food behind on the grass. I do not have to worry about lunch anymore. I better get down to work, I tell myself. If I do not take home my share of alms my parents will be angry. I do not like to beg but I have never been taught another trade. Perhaps one day I will disobey my parents and refuse to beg, but not today. I wander up to cars, wiping their windscreens and knocking at their windows hoping some appreciation will be shown for my service. I rarely receive any. Soon my quota of alms for the day is done. I really have been lucky today.
I’m beginning to feel hungry again. A kind shopkeeper once gave me food when I did not have the energy to walk anymore. I find his shop easily. There’s a crowd in his shop, gathered around a television. Is that Dravid I see batting? My thoughts of hunger disappear as I worm my way through the crowd to catch a glimpse of the match. I may not know the name of that arch but I do know the name of everyone in the cricket team.
The match is over. It does not matter who won. I enjoyed the game. I try and watch whenever I can. As I make my way home my mind begins to wander. I’ve always wanted to watch the Indian team play. But they hardly ever come to this city. Perhaps I should go to Bangalore. I dismiss the thought as absurd.
Since that day, the thought of going to Bangalore kept coming back to me. I ignored it for a while but after a point I couldn’t. I am now in Bangalore. I don’t understand the language very well and I feel colder at night than I did before. I do not have the freedom that I did before. I have a job now. It’s a bit like gardening. I have to cut grass, dig up and relay the earth and when it rains I have to cover the ground at the Chinnaswamy stadium with big plastic sheets. And I get to see India play at least once a year.
**
Saw a familiar face on the bus today. Thought hard about where I had seen him before. Finally got it. He looked like an Indian Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson in The Shining). Same crazy eyes that wander all over the place, same thin mouth that droops downwards. Decided I had to take a photo with my phone. The resemblance was uncanny. Positioned camera into nonchalant yet strategic position, zoomed in as far as I could. Then saw pesky co-passenger peeking into my phone and decided to abort. What a prat.
April 21, 2009
Reality blogging
I don't like reality television. Hate it in fact. But over the last two days I've become addicted to checking what purports to be an IPL player's blog. When I first read it on April 19, the blog had no followers and the profile had been viewed 30 times. Check it out now.
**
It's phone bill day in office. I tell a colleague I can guess what his bill amount is. He asks me to go ahead. Rs 8400, I tell him. He opens his bill. It's Rs. 8400.53. Freaky trivial coincidences haven't happened to me in a while.
**
Take the AC Volvo bus back from work to home. The traffic is heavier than usual. Get off at the Leela and seeing that the cars on my side of the road have come to a standstill, I wander across listening to the radio, not really paying attention to what's going on around me. I reach the divider and then begin to walk across because the other side of the road is empty. Suddenly someone grabs me and shoves me back, what the ... It's a cop and he's yelling in Kannada. Then I notice everyone standing around, not crossing the road. This hasn't happened to me since school. Storm clouds gather, the winds pick up, people are getting restless. I wonder what would happen if an ambulance needed to enter Manipal hospital. Then I hear a siren, not an ambulance, a cop car. Then another and then some more. I count 18 cars in the convoy and when one of them with funky aerials passed by, my cell phone radio burst into static. Signal jammers. Cops relent and people on both sides cross the road like the parted Red Sea coming to rest.
**
It's phone bill day in office. I tell a colleague I can guess what his bill amount is. He asks me to go ahead. Rs 8400, I tell him. He opens his bill. It's Rs. 8400.53. Freaky trivial coincidences haven't happened to me in a while.
**
Take the AC Volvo bus back from work to home. The traffic is heavier than usual. Get off at the Leela and seeing that the cars on my side of the road have come to a standstill, I wander across listening to the radio, not really paying attention to what's going on around me. I reach the divider and then begin to walk across because the other side of the road is empty. Suddenly someone grabs me and shoves me back, what the ... It's a cop and he's yelling in Kannada. Then I notice everyone standing around, not crossing the road. This hasn't happened to me since school. Storm clouds gather, the winds pick up, people are getting restless. I wonder what would happen if an ambulance needed to enter Manipal hospital. Then I hear a siren, not an ambulance, a cop car. Then another and then some more. I count 18 cars in the convoy and when one of them with funky aerials passed by, my cell phone radio burst into static. Signal jammers. Cops relent and people on both sides cross the road like the parted Red Sea coming to rest.
April 16, 2009
Khao suey!
In 2006, I can’t remember exactly when, I attended a workshop where I met one of the prettiest women I have ever met. We went out for dinner one evening to Lemon Grass in Bandra. I’d never been there. She had, and didn’t need to look at the menu. She wanted khao suey. I told her I didn’t know what khao suey was. She was shocked, much like I was when Tawakeley told me he had never eaten drumsticks before a surprising day in college when there was some in our sambar. She asked for the chicken khao suey, I got the beef. An hour later, it became one of my favourite dishes.
I went back to Lemon Grass a couple of times and always had khao suey. I haven’t found a restaurant in Bangalore that serves it.
It’s a pretty easy to make, just that you need a lot of ingredients, and company is always welcome (was cooking with a colleague). Took a kilo of boneless chicken, cut it up into small uniform pieces and ran it under a tap. Rubbed the washed pieces with grated garlic, ginger and crushed pepper corns and mixed some fresh lemon juice into the meat. Left it for a while to let the marinade do its thing.
Roasted lots of spices - coriander seeds, tumeric, methi, red chillies, pepper etc – and powdered them in a mixer. Cut up onions, garlic, ginger, and whipped them in the blender as well. Added some masala powder to the onion-ginger-garlic paste and let it cook in a wok. Added the roasted spices to the wok and used some water to let the mixture reach the right consistency.
Browned the chicken in another pan before adding it to the spices. Cooked the whole shebang for a while before adding the crucial ingredient – coconut milk. Didn’t make the effort to make fresh coconut milk, used Dabur. Curry done.
What makes khao suey so awesome is the garnish. Cut spring onions and coriander and mixed them together. Fried onions and garlic. Kept the oil in which the onions and garlic were fried. Made a sauce with red chillies – similar to the one we used to eat with momos – and mixed it with the onion and garlic flavoured oil. Boiled some eggs and sliced them up (sounds weird but tastes good). Sliced a few lemons into wedges. Cut up a few green chillies too. Kept all the garnishes in separate bowls.
Made noodles. Preferably rice noodles. Ran noodles under cold water after they were cooked to avoid sticking and lumping together. Served everything in separate dishes. You create according to your taste. I took some noodles, dunked a whole lot of chicken and coconut-milk gravy over them, covered it with a sprinkling of spring onions, coriander, fried onions, fried garlic and green chilies. The eggs I kept on the side and ate with the red chilli sauce. Squeezed lime over the whole thing. Quite terrific, it was. Wish I had taken a picture, it looked pretty too.
Had vanilla ice cream with caramelized walnuts and amaretto for dessert. I’m going to get fatter!
I went back to Lemon Grass a couple of times and always had khao suey. I haven’t found a restaurant in Bangalore that serves it.
It’s a pretty easy to make, just that you need a lot of ingredients, and company is always welcome (was cooking with a colleague). Took a kilo of boneless chicken, cut it up into small uniform pieces and ran it under a tap. Rubbed the washed pieces with grated garlic, ginger and crushed pepper corns and mixed some fresh lemon juice into the meat. Left it for a while to let the marinade do its thing.
Roasted lots of spices - coriander seeds, tumeric, methi, red chillies, pepper etc – and powdered them in a mixer. Cut up onions, garlic, ginger, and whipped them in the blender as well. Added some masala powder to the onion-ginger-garlic paste and let it cook in a wok. Added the roasted spices to the wok and used some water to let the mixture reach the right consistency.
Browned the chicken in another pan before adding it to the spices. Cooked the whole shebang for a while before adding the crucial ingredient – coconut milk. Didn’t make the effort to make fresh coconut milk, used Dabur. Curry done.
What makes khao suey so awesome is the garnish. Cut spring onions and coriander and mixed them together. Fried onions and garlic. Kept the oil in which the onions and garlic were fried. Made a sauce with red chillies – similar to the one we used to eat with momos – and mixed it with the onion and garlic flavoured oil. Boiled some eggs and sliced them up (sounds weird but tastes good). Sliced a few lemons into wedges. Cut up a few green chillies too. Kept all the garnishes in separate bowls.
Made noodles. Preferably rice noodles. Ran noodles under cold water after they were cooked to avoid sticking and lumping together. Served everything in separate dishes. You create according to your taste. I took some noodles, dunked a whole lot of chicken and coconut-milk gravy over them, covered it with a sprinkling of spring onions, coriander, fried onions, fried garlic and green chilies. The eggs I kept on the side and ate with the red chilli sauce. Squeezed lime over the whole thing. Quite terrific, it was. Wish I had taken a picture, it looked pretty too.
Had vanilla ice cream with caramelized walnuts and amaretto for dessert. I’m going to get fatter!
April 15, 2009
Radio haha
A few people looked at me curiously when I laughed out loud (twice) while on the bus to work (AC Volvo rocks, no more bastard auto-drivers). Here’s why:
Radio Indigo RJ: So do you know the next few lines of the song?
Girl with Convent-School Voice: Yes, yes.
RJ: So will you sing them for me?
GwC-SV: Most definitely.
RJ plays the first line of the song (I feel you creeping, I can see it from my shadow ...)
GwC-SV, in a voice that could have been singing Amazing Grace: Wanna jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo
Maybe go to my place and just kick it like Tae Bo
And possibly bend you over, look back and watch me
Smack that, all on the floor
Smack that, give me some more
Smack that, 'til you get sore
Kids these days!
**
Spelling competition on the radio. Contestent No 1. Damn I forgot his name.
RJ: Ready for your first word?
Contestant (bubbling with enthusiasm): Yes.
RJ: Spell miniscule. It means something tiny.
Contestant: M-i-n-u-s-q-e
RJ: Did you hear me correctly? M-i-n-i-s-c-u-l-e
Contestent: Yes yes, m-i-n-u-s-q-e
RJ: OK that’s wrong. Next word – syllable.
Contestant: S-y-l-a-b-e-l.
RJ: Right, that’s wrong too. The last one is easy – professor.
Sheepish contestant: P-r-o-f-e-s-s-o-r.
Hooray!
I'm terrible with spellings too. Rarely remember that 'i' comes before 'e' except after 'c'. Had to check the spelling of receive (and similar words) for the longest time. And I thought miniscule was the right spelling for minuscule. Google gives me both. Confused now.
Radio Indigo RJ: So do you know the next few lines of the song?
Girl with Convent-School Voice: Yes, yes.
RJ: So will you sing them for me?
GwC-SV: Most definitely.
RJ plays the first line of the song (I feel you creeping, I can see it from my shadow ...)
GwC-SV, in a voice that could have been singing Amazing Grace: Wanna jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo
Maybe go to my place and just kick it like Tae Bo
And possibly bend you over, look back and watch me
Smack that, all on the floor
Smack that, give me some more
Smack that, 'til you get sore
Kids these days!
**
Spelling competition on the radio. Contestent No 1. Damn I forgot his name.
RJ: Ready for your first word?
Contestant (bubbling with enthusiasm): Yes.
RJ: Spell miniscule. It means something tiny.
Contestant: M-i-n-u-s-q-e
RJ: Did you hear me correctly? M-i-n-i-s-c-u-l-e
Contestent: Yes yes, m-i-n-u-s-q-e
RJ: OK that’s wrong. Next word – syllable.
Contestant: S-y-l-a-b-e-l.
RJ: Right, that’s wrong too. The last one is easy – professor.
Sheepish contestant: P-r-o-f-e-s-s-o-r.
Hooray!
I'm terrible with spellings too. Rarely remember that 'i' comes before 'e' except after 'c'. Had to check the spelling of receive (and similar words) for the longest time. And I thought miniscule was the right spelling for minuscule. Google gives me both. Confused now.
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