Songs of the not-so innocent

I am thinking of samosas. Piping hot off the wok or fresh-from-the-fridge cold. Masaledaar (does the word even have an English equivalent? Can it?) and spicy. Lathered in cooling mint and tangy date chutney or dipped in ketchup. With green chillies fried in oil and sprinkled with salt, or pav if you're still brave enough for carbs. Leaving behind an after-taste (or pleasurable belch) of sauf. For a hungover "what's left" breakfast, as a small lunch starter (Shabari, Panchavati Gaurav, I miss your thaalis so!), accompanying a cup or more of late afternoon, hottish masala chai and when you have late night munchies.  Or, man, just whenever you feel the fuck like you want one . That last bit is what I miss. And I think when I bite into a sweetshop-bought samosa again, will it be like before ? Maybe one day. I'm thinking about sandy-brown, flaky-crusted samosas. It keeps me going. Song for the moment: The boy in the bubble - Paul Simon

Just wanted to get a few quick thoughts in about the shambles that was/is the European Super League (ESL). I won't get into the economic aspects because, frankly, this guy would do a fabulous job. However, I've lived for a fair bit in the U.S., a country that has influenced a number of aspects in this post and the situation in general and kind of understand what those jokers were thinking about. First, let's get this off the chest - UEFA, FIFA, FA, SKY and the rest are no innocent lambs . They are as power-hungry and manipulative as the cabal that dreamed up the ESL. Their smoke-n-mirrors way of working, devious & dubious television deals, invisible, unaccountable distribution and terrible ideas for the 'new' Champions League format (where imaginary coefficients give some teams an advantage) are the reason European football was thrown into a roiling shit-show for about 48 hours. And no one has been flushed out yet. Except this asshat .  Americans have been in...

In my heart of hearts, this post should be in Tamil. But I cannot write or read the language. Bitter is the taste of losing a link to my own mother-tongue and yet it is a flavour I have become accustomed to. There is no yearning for a culture from which I am largely alienated. Still, there are days, moments, when I wish the chasm was not so wide. Today is one of those. Recently, Krish Ashok made a point that I found interesting - our hankering to eat food made by our mothers and grandmothers effectively tied them to the kitchen. Now, while the mothership didn't let the kitchen define her, my Pati kind of did. And, with all due respect to Mr. Krish, I like to think that it was her realm, not her prison. Pati, the sweetest, most kindhearted person I knew, gave short shrift to those who wandered into her domain, wanting to "help". While this meant that what I ate was superlative, it also ensured that none of us could pay close attention to how she cooked. The end result is ...