Tawa fried shrimp and Sake

I recently discovered the joys of drinking Sake, by complete chance.

Nandu and I were at The Pub one evening after a particularly stressful day at work. We were feeling a tad exasperated with the prospect of finishing the drinking session with the same old English cuisine (curry chips, fish and chips, bangers and mash etc.) so we decided to head over to RA Sushi which is right next to The Pub.

Now, I’ve heard about Sake before — I’ve even tasted Sake before (long break between flights at the London Heathrow Terminal — en route to USA) — but that was some weird bitter stuff. The Sake at RA Sushi was surprisingly refreshing and just what we needed after all the beers we’d downed at The Pub.

Anyway, the next day, I put the word out at work — Sake is the new Glenlivet! Inspired by my advertising, Awanish purchased one bottle from Leti’s Liquors for $8 (well apparently, Sake is very inexpensive). He left it at my place on Thursday(the one pictured above).

Today, I decided to fry some shrimp like Mom does back home — on a tawa and with rawa breading. Turns out, Sake and home-style tawa fried shrimp go superbly well together.

Cheers!

Mom’s Shrimp/Prawn Konkani Coconut Curry (Sungta Ambat)

Enough has already been written on the subject of Shrimp v/s. Prawns here. Biological differences notwithstanding, from a culinary perspective, both shrimp and prawn are the same and the terms are used interchangeably. That being said, none of the shrimp or prawns I’ve had the pleasure of tasting ever stood up to the black tiger prawns that are commonly available in India.

For the purpose of this recipe, any of the widely available variants of shrimp or prawns will do. One of the most important ingredients of this recipe is the spice “teppal”/”tirpal” — Sichuan Spice. As of this writing, I have not been able to locate this spice in any store in South Florida. I got my stash from India. If you don’t have this spice, I suggest you don’t attempt to prepare this curry. The distinct konkani flavor of this curry cannot be duplicated by any other spice. It’s not worth the trouble.

Now that all the disclaimers are out of the way, here we go –

Ingredients:

• 1 kg of raw, deveined shrimp, tail off

• 2 cups of shredded coconut

• 15 dry red chillies

• 20 cloves of teppal/tirpal/Sichuan Spice

• 100 grams of raw tamarind

• Salt to taste

Preparation Method:

• Soak the tamrind in one cup of warm water and set aside.

• Soak the teppal in another cup of warm water and set aside.

• Blend shreded coconut and red chillies with some water in a mixer. Once done, heat the blend at medium flame on a conventional stove for 30 minutes.

• Add salt, tamrind paste and soaked teppal and bring the mixture to boil. Add shrimp and heat till the shrimp is cooked.

Serving Instructions:

Serve with steamed white rice and mango pickle (on a banana leaf, if available)

into the void

My Celestron Powerseeker telescope

Galileo peered into the heavens and saw the lunar surface for the first time in 1610. I admit I discovered the joy of interstellar observation very late. But, I am glad I did — sooner than later — and it all came to me in one fell swoop — the grand beauty of the cosmos, the smallness of our existence, the vulnerability of our being and the crowded loneliness of the experience that is human life.

3AM

I woke up at 3AM. Poured myself a drink. Scotch. That’s what’s keeping me sane these days. Especially when it is raining. There is a flock of ducks who camp outside my window every night. The Resort at Pembroke Pines is full of them feathered Anatidaes. Three adults. A dozen chicks. The three adults form a protective circle for the chicks. I lit a cigar. The light woke one up. He aint scared. He knows my routine…

Bombay

The long worn uneven streets dream away at night,
of seven little tempest-tost sea rocks that became one.
The city of lepers and kings burns fiery bright,
with similes and tears of hundreds under her scorching sun.

Her Arabian sands have seen much blood,
she weeps each night for her teeming shores.
“Oh little man, of my soil and blood,
you’ve brought hatred through my hallowed doors.”

“Struck me with your indifference, your sarcasm, and more,
you forget the truth, and truth it is you know -
I’m your mother, your wife, your wretched whore,
a therapeutic escape”, she would bellow.

Behold, tiny man - I stand here as shall I forever - the truth undone,
seven little islands - destined to be one.

just screw me hard and mix me a drink

Fuck.

I dont know what I should do with this weblog. I almost deleted it a few minutes ago.

I dont write often. I am lazy. I am a bum. I like to think of myself as a blogger. But face it, five blogs a year? Really? A blog, you say? Paah!

And I have a lot of ideas — and some opinions, mysticisms, observations etc. Fuck me in the rump and call me Chrissy — why cant I just keep this weblog going?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I’m out.

Until my anus stirs again.

ready to mingle

The average single Indian man in his early-mid twenties is a hopeless sucker in the realm of the opposite sex and romantic social relationships with the opposite sex.  Women are from a distant exotic, yet dangerous galaxy — to be gazed at from afar. If they’re “well-behaved”, they are to be looked upon as potential life partners. If they’re skimpily dressed, or have an opinion which differs from theirs, they are whores and should be criticized for their distasteful attire and promiscuous disposition — to be gazed and commoditified only.

As such, our average twenty-something single Indian man has one primary objective in the context of women — find one to take home to Mommy. Which brings me to my next observation — elsewhere in the world, calling a man “Mama’s boy” would be considered as an insult. Not our young Indian man! Call him a Mama’s boy and his lips will form the biggest smile he can conjure. It’s an honor — Mama’s boy. You will find him pleased beyond words — looking at you through proud, teary eyes. Now, I love my mother as much as anyone loves theirs. But this whole Mother (Maaa) thing is overrated in India. Particularly, Indian men. I think it has something to do with the way in which mainstream cinema glorifies this relationship. Another post.

So, back to our original topic, the average Indian man is on a constant lookout for a woman who he can imagine pleasing Mommy dearest. Of course she should have the goods and know how to carry them. But she should also be able to be please Maa aur Papa by her extraordinary exhibition of virtue and respect. She should also have the ability to double as a maid — do the housework and cook lunch & dinner. It doesn’t matter if she works 9-5 just like her husband.

The “lookout” begins when our dear Indian man X hits 24. By now, he has a steady job and earns enough to think about marriage. All pretty women at work are a potential “match”. Many succumb early to “knee-jerk-love”. “I’m in love with her, yaar!”,  you’ll hear him confide to you at the water cooler. Dumbass! Have you talked to her? Does she know you exist? Do you fucking even know her name??

“No. No and Yes, Rohit from accounting told me her name is Pushpa!”

After a period of this senseless “romance”, somehow X sprouts balls and asks Pushpa out. And all Indian men are in a fucking hurry to profess their undying love. On the first date, X proposes marriage! Yes. On the first fucking date.

“X, you dumb fucktard. You dont know if she is a psycho serial killer. You generally find out on date #2.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before. Arrgh!”

Too late.

And most of these relationships break up shortly afterward, as hastily as they began. When Pushpa realizes that X snores loudly or has high blood pressure or “What the fuck?! You have a  third nipple?!” That’s how most of the romantic endeavors of our average Indian man in early-mid twenties end.

We suck.

nasty habit blues

I like to observe ordinary strangers through their windows. Peering into some stranger’s window is not only extremely rude and intrusive, it is an uncannily fulfilling exercise.

When I glance into a stranger’s window and see a pretty girl curled up on a couch reading Elliots’s Middlemarch, I try to imagine what kind of a person she is and what her life is like. Is she a purist like Dorothea or an idealist like Tertius — or maybe she is both.

Or when I see an old man, deeply engrossed in his cigarette, I try to imagine what he is thinking about and how old he is and almost instantly — how long he has been smoking (for most smokers or ex-smokers, an old man holding a cigarette instantly evokes their long buried hope that one can continue smoking and live to be old)

A window offers the owner and an observer many insights. To an owner, it offers a view of the world outside and all the hues and depths it has to offer. To an observer, it offers the opportunity to judge — without fear of rebuke.

For an instant, the observer and the subject (through the window) are connected by some invisible karmic bond. The subject is, of course, unaware of this intrusion of privacy while the observer’s mind gleefully soaks in details –  constructs hypothetical structures around the subject. This “spell” is broken, if the observer loses perspective or if the subject realizes that he or she is being observed.

Such “intellectual” eavesdropping is generally different from “recreational” eavesdropping. However, that does not make it any less intrusive. Or rude.

Blasphemy — Repost

I originally posted this weblog on July 29, 2006.  On July 11, that year, militants, in an attempt to spread fear and destruction, exploded seven synchronised bombs within 11 minutes on the trains running on the Western Lines of Suburban Mumbai. 209 people lost their lives. 700 were grievously injured.

I remember, people were really scared, in the days that followed. That, in itself, was a great achievement for these terrorists. Bombay is seldom affected by anything. We, Mumbaikars, are one solid bunch. It takes a lot of terror to terrorize the people of Mumbai.

 Apparently, the success of the July 11 bomb blasts — the perfect synchronicity of the explosions, the flawless execution of this intelligently planned terror attack, the scale of destruction & loss of life, the utter failure of government machinery in preventing these attacks, was our threshold. We caved in. Widespread paranoia ensued.

 Eventually, life did snap back into shape. And as these things go, most people forgot. Others, the friends & relatives of those unfortunate men, women and children, who perished or were irreversibly disabled, do not have that luxury.

It was under these painful circumstances, that, with a mix of fear, revulsion and a strange sense of love & tenderness for my great city, I wrote these words.

————————

Oh hell yes. I’m spent. Spent and lent. I’m not going to make you roll in agony. with my sad prose. My lack of comic timing. My timid hellos and mighty(wannabe) goodbyes. I will not let you tell me that the sun’s still shining. no-permission-no. no permit granted-thank you -Govt. of Maharashtra. jai Bheem, jai Shivaji. jai Maharashtra. My Bombay, but a whore, will look at you and will sleep with you and make ugly babies with you. You yellow-livered-nilly-hearted-fcuk-wasted young-mistress-of-green-paper. I will damn you to hell. never-ever-heal. I will cry foul. I will give you away.

O Apollo-Bundered-Marine-Drived,Mumbadevid-Malabar Hilld-Chowpatty-breasted Bombay. Squatting-potty-clutching-The.Times.of.India(Mumbai Edition). With a Wills Classic Milds in the dark slit between your lips. The bum-bum-Bholenath. The Tadi-Madi-Vikri-Kendras. The Babloo-Da-Dhabas. With it’s Salted-Kebabed Lamb-Balls and Bombay-Ducked Masalla. Critter Fritters. Angry mobs of facist Sainiks-Communist Maharashtrians. Religious Fanatics-the Muslims. The angry fangry. The lolitta-I-fcuked-your-daughter thrice. The Maratha-Proud-Bhenchods. The Musllman-Minority-Madarchods.

The Racist regime. The fcuk-chut-Kamathi-randi-Pura whores. The Bhandup-Sonapur hijras. The Night-Lovers-Mulund-Checknaka. The Fcuk-me-while-you-cans. The Chicks-In-Hot-Panties. The Nirmal-Life-R-Malis of Gutter Gardens. The Kentucky-Fried-McDonalded invisible poor. The shit laden slaughter houses. The Hijra-Bazaars. The general hostility against Muslims. My brothers. My brahmin father. My whoring myself to the world. Accepting the ways of Hindu India-Muslim India-Christian India-Sikh India. Fcuk you, you religio-casto mongrels. You cocker-spaniel-disguised-strays. You St. Bernard-wannabes. You saffron-robed-religious-disinfectants. You green-loving-five-times-namazee-terrorists. You sister-fcuking-tonga-riding demi celebrities. You know what you’re doing to the world????

You half-livered-one-testicled monsters. You religious fanatics. You Hindu-Muslim-Sikh-Christian-Dalit-Agri-Junglee-Jhopadpatti-hating sea-faced-building-walas. O, my Bombay bleeds. My Bombay hurts. You bomb-exploding after-life-harem-seekers. And you, the ones with the smirk on your faces - the saffron-clad-masjid-burning-religious-cleansers. You modern-day-21st-century-many-headed-Hitlers. How many lives will your prejudice claim? Did your father fart you out of his ass that you behave so badly?

You Hindus haters. And, you Muslim despisers. You have done us in.

O joy.

————————

Originally Posted here.

Marathi Manus — Jaaga

Images of Dombivili — in the news — a North Indian taxi-driver gets the living daylights beaten out of him, while his taxi is destroyed by activists (read; goonda mowalis) belonging to the Maharashtra Nav Nirman Sena.

Dear Raj — pray, listen — give me a chance to change your mind –

Maharashtra is a great state — and its people; magnificent and kind, upright and honest. In the form of Bombay, Maharashtra has given India, its economic headquarters. Agreed. Remember however, that this prosperity was not born, merely on the basis of the potent Marathi blood. No. When people from the south and the north, and the west and the east — all worked together, in brotherhood and love, the greatness of Maharashtra was enhanced — the glory of our great state, Maharashtra, belongs to not just the good people of the soil, but it is also the property of the rest of India who participated in its growth.

Let us not deny people from outside Maharashtra, their right to a shared prosperity. Remember, always, my brother — that we are a part of a larger entity — India. And the constitution says that every Indian has the right of dwell in any location of his choice and pursue prosperity and happiness. It would be unconstitutional to deny anyone this right. Consider for a moment, the thousands of people of Maharashtrian origin, residing currently in some other state of our vast nation — how do you expect them to be treated? Wouldn’t you feel your blood boil with a strange mix of fury and shame if images of these people being beaten up by the local people of that state started flashing in the news? Expect that feeling to have been evoked in the hearts of the good people of Uttar Pradesh over the senseless violence that has ensued in Dombivali and other regions of the Thane district and parts of Bombay after your speech.

After your speech — must make you really proud — and a little afraid. To wield that kind of power over the collective destinies of millions. Raj, please use this responsibility with great caution. The lives of many thousand men, women and children hang in the balance. It is not very late to make amends. Start fresh  — start with tolerance.

Remember, tolerance was something the great Chattrapati preached — I believe, we have forgotten — its not too late to remember.
 

Jai Maharashtra. Jai Hind.

Amit
A proud Maharashtrian