Archive for the Experiments Category

Close Encounters of the Microwave Kind

Posted in About me, Cooking, Experiments, Life. Or something like it. with tags , , , on December 30, 2010 by samudranb

One of the first things I decided to do when I landed in Bangalore, besides cursing the autowalla for ripping me off of Rs. 150 by taking me round and round in circles (the bus had deposited me squarely in front of the railway station, and the only set of directions I had to get to where I had to get to were from Majestic – which, I learned later, was directly behind me when I got into the auto in the first place) and besides hunt for a place where a respectable citizen of society might be mistaken enough to take up residence in, was to decide to buy myself a microwave.

Now don’t get me wrong. I did a lot many much more important things too. But I cannot for the life of me recall any of those any more. In my memoirs, the chapter on my life in Bangalore would have this outline – “curse autowalla – hunt flat – buy microwave – get thrown out of flat – …

When I had moved to Bangalore, I had decided that I was going to cook myself, and I was going to eat healthy food. The two of them, to the uninitiated, might seem one and the same. But the truly wise know that they are as far away from each other as Jenna Jameson’s legs.

The truly wise might also realize that cooking is impossible unless you have a gas stove, or a microwave. Neither of which I had.

Having decided to buy a microwave oven immediately, I, being as perfect an example of the exemplary bachelor as anyone can ever hope to be, obviously forgot about it promptly.

Until the day three weeks later when I ran out of bread. And cornflakes. And milk. And biscuits. And cake. And pretty much anything edible. Unless you count that weird white thing that was once upon a time a light brown Monginis sponge cake, that now looked like it could walk off on its own in a huff, frustrated that it couldnt fulfill its destiny of satisfying someone’s hunger. I would not. Count it as edible I mean. Out of concern for the millions of microbes, yeast and fungi that had made it their home.

So I decided to make myself self-dependent on food. Well, as self dependent as any human without any natural means to produce anything edible, without turning to self-cannibalism, can be.

And went to shops. Small ones, where it seemed the microwave oven appeared from between and behind the shopkeeper’s legs (the shopkeeper did look like he was quite in demand in prison), to big ones, where you cannot tear your eyes away from the latest, the biggest and the orgasmically beautiful TVs which cost you a half year’s salary, while nodding along with the tiny chap, who is trying to portray a tiny microwave oven with a tiny digital display as the savior of mankind from a regression to eating raw fruits and vegetables for nutrition, and occasionally throwing in a “Hmm… that is nice. How about this model over here?” so that you can postpone any imminent impulses he might have of throwing his frustrated self off the roof of the building till after you have left the premises.

I finally selected one which promised me the abilities to cook rice and daal, brew coffee, bake cakes, cook cookies, grill chicken and fish, seduce Priyanka Chopra and save the world without having to wear my underwear outside.

I should have taken it as a sign when the landlady smiled at me that morning. I should have taken it as a sign when a guy wearing a Bhayanak Maut t-shirt came to deliver the oven. My barely present optimistic streak felt that that fateful Sunday was as good a day as any to assert itself however, and I unpacked the oven with a song in my heart (“Mar Jawa” from Fashion, another sign) and started reading in earnest the remarkable display of getting-sued-ophobia and hilarious test of human endurance – the instruction manual.

On my version of the bucket list, I have at the 23rd position a desire to meet a man who makes a living writing instruction manuals. I would like to know from him how he chanced upon the wisdom that we should not “place refrigerator on foot in order to estimate weight.” And about the circumstances which led him to issue advice to  the general public that they should not “break open microwave oven lid with a shoe while the oven is in operation.” And whether it was safe to use a shoe AFTER the oven had stopped operating.

To my feminist friends: I say that I would like to meet such a man, because I believe all women, and by that I mean all women who are outside of the walls of a mental asylum and who are not involved in a scramble to spend months of their salaries on that piece of yesterday’s fashion which they are not going to wear more than once, would somehow instinctively know that they should “Remove clothes from baby before putting clothes in washing machine. Do not put baby in the washing machine. Results not guaranteed.

But I digress.

After having gleaned enough information from the 3 pages (out of the 70 in the manual, half of them in Hindi, the other half in a language that seemed oddly reminiscent of English) to start up the microwave (“Put 3-pin plug into wall socket having 3 holes of same size.” Who knew.), I was faced with the monumental task of figuring out what I wanted to have for lunch. A task which was made considerably easier once I realized that amongst my considerable array of culinary skills, the only one to pass the “Can anyone other than you recognize what you have made? What about after 3 hints?” test was that of making scrambled eggs.

But how do you make scrambled eggs in a microwave?

Not one to be deterred by minor inconveniences such as ignorance, I set out on the path of self-discovery through the discovery of a scrambled eggs recipe involving a microwave.

Which, as it turned out, was not the best idea I had had since… well… that night a few weeks earlier, when I, determined to reach work on time at 10:30 AM for once, had decided to rig a bucket of water to wake me up in case I hit snooze on the 3rd and final alarm at 9 AM. The next morning, the whole neighbourhood had been jolted out of their routine by a long, elaborate construction of words involving entire generations and dynasties which, if they had understood “Hindi”, would have made me an irreplaceable part of the housewives’ gossip, and a hero to their kids, for decades after facilitating my unbelievably quick exit from the neighbourhood.

On this day, however, the resultant shortage of raw eggs thwarted my determined, experimental efforts.

Obviously, my next attempt had to be more organized. And I needed more than 6 eggs, if I were to produce anything identifiable.

So 1 hour, 1 trip to the supermarket, 1 trip to the bookstore (to buy a cookbook of microwave recipes that I would need to criticize and improve upon to reach the dizzying heights of the culinary celebrity world), 1 trip back to the supermarket (because I forgot my credit card) and 1 trip back to the bookstore (to pay for aforementioned book with aforementioned credit card) later, I was back at my place, ready for another battle with destiny.

And 4 hours, 13 adamant attempts by the microwave to feed me either Chicken Tikka Masala or Paneer Butter Masala, 5 episodes of Coupling, 1 shouting from the landlady (because I was laughing too loudly) and 24 mummified/dehumidified/burnt/putrefied eggs later, I finally did what I should have done 6 hours ago.

I would like to think that someday, when he is retired and is dictating his life story to a ghost writer, the multi-billionaire who started out as a pizza delivery boy remembers the tip which enabled him to start his own business, and thanks the guy who invented microwaves.

This is a completely fictional account. Nothing mentioned here is true. I do know how to make scrambled eggs. Not in a microwave though.

PS: If you are the pizza delivery guy, please spell my name correctly in your book.



Posted in Experiments, Life. Or something like it., Literary on December 5, 2010 by samudranb

For the last few days, weeks, months, years,

I have been wandering.

Whiling my time away,



They say “All those who wander

are not lost”

Or am I just fancying myself

to be Faust?


Mary Oliver asked me – “Tell me, what is it you plan to do,

With your one wild and precious life?”

Figuring this out is painful,

And the cause of a lot of strife.


Being the “Captain of my soul”

Is tough, it is.

Especially alone, and without a compass,

in black rough seas.

Nobody sees it coming – a short story

Posted in Experiments, Life. Or something like it., Literary, Love, People with tags on October 6, 2010 by samudranb

As I wait for the bus to Chennai, I cannot help but notice the noisy family bidding adieu to their relatives. I hate travelling by bus, especially if I had to compromise my sleep while doing it. ESPECIALLY if there were people like this family on board.

If looks could kill, I would have qualified as a mass-murderer. Killing more than 4 people, at one place, at one time without any political motivation was the definition of “mass murder” according to the 1st episode of Grey’s Anatomy, season 7 that I had watched a couple of hours ago. I count five. Yup, I definitely would have qualified.

Why were some people so inconsiderate? Didn’t they realize that others had jobs to do in the morning? That others needed their beauty sleep? That after a hard day’s work, all they wanted was some peace and quiet?

I silently curse them, and hope they would not be in the same bus as I am.

Of course that is not to be. As I settle into seat no. 10, beside the window on my right, I realize the full horror of my situation. The entire family is all around me. Seats 5, 6, 9, 13 and 14. FUCK.

Thankfully, they quiet down after they boarded the bus. They start whispering, in something quite different from Bengali and my own mother-tongue, Assamese, while at the same time being almost understandable. Must be Oriya, I think as I drift off into a fretful sleep.

As the bus pulls away, I wake up to quiet sobbing. The girl. The frigging 8 year old girl from that same family, who was sitting behind me. Whose mother beside her was trying to console her. “Dont cry! We will meet them all again next year no?” was what I could understand of it. Damn it! Not now!

In another life almost 20 years ago, I had been like that. Crying because summer vacation was over, and we were leaving our grandparents house. For some reason, I had felt I would never see them again. Although I had seen them many times since, that fear never really changed.

It had been many years however, since the last time I had had that same feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I am jolted out of my flashback by the sudden joyous squeals emanating from the seat behind me. Surprised, I peep behind, over my seat. Only to see everybody looking out the window. I follow their line of sight, and see the entire bye-bye paltan outside the window. 6 people, from 6 to 60 years old, stuffed inside an old but well maintained, dark brown Maruti 800. Driving alongside the Volvo, waving enthusiastically at the windows in-front and behind me.

Amazing how some people have all the time in the world, I think as I close my eyes again.

Dont cry! Dont cry didi!” What the heck! Again? Wondering who was crying now, I listen more closely. Nobody on the bus. Puzzling. So then? Looking out of the window, the mystery was solved. Half of the junta in the car had tears rolling down their faces. The “Dont cry”s were being spoken by the little girl behind me, as a plea to her relatives in the car. “Tell Mani di to not cry! Tell Ruma di not to cry!” she spoke through the glass, almost in a chant.

Listen, you stupid girl“, I wanted to tell her. “There is no point trying to speak to them through the thick glass! They cant hear you! Since the light inside the Volvo is out, as it should be in a bus full of people trying to sleep, they cant even see your pretty little face. So even if they were expert lip-readers, which they are not judging by their ignorant, homely, contented faces, they still wouldn’t be able to understand what you were saying. So why don’t put your head down, and get some sleep, and more importantly, let others sleep?!

I wanted to. Really. But another memory from another life stopped me. From a time when I had literally shouted the entire bus down, because my father had gone to get a bottle of water, and the bus had moved 5 meters from its original position. I remember thinking that wherever he was, if I shouted loudly enough, he could hear me.

I open my eyes, unable to sleep now. Restless, I look out of the window again. It has been almost 15 minutes since the bus started, but the car is still there. The people, still waving. Still enthusiastically. Still with tears on their faces. And the girl behind me still loudly whisper-pleading with God to not make Mani di and Ruma di cry.

We are almost out of the city limits now. I wonder how long these people are going to drive alongside the bus. It is late. I can see the drowsy eyes of the little boy in the car. It is a school night. They must be turning back soon.

Sure enough, I see an upsurge in the waving. They signal the bus people that they are going to turn back now. Everybody in the car tries to get a last glimpse of the family in the bus, so that each is plastered across the tiny windows of the Maruti. The middle-aged fellow driving the car leans over across the passenger seat, just to be able to wave a final time.

He never sees the truck.

“I told you so”

Posted in Experiments, Literary with tags , on August 19, 2010 by samudranb

You have slogged on,
Through the ages,
Inspired by the heroes,
In the history pages.
But all along, all you can hear,
Is the world laughing, and saying,
“I told you so.”

You’ve always tried,
To break the chain,
But the only result,
Was hurt and pain.
And all along, all you can hear,
Is the world laughing, and saying,
“I told you so.”

People are mocking you,
“Friends” are choking you,
But you owe it to yourself,
To your dreams stay true.
Because in the end,
You’ll be the one laughing, and saying,
“I told you so.”

So my hero, fear not,
Doubt and question yourself not.
You have dreams,
They do not.
You owe it to yourself,
To give your dreams a shot.

Because in the end,
You’ll be the one laughing and saying,
“I told you so.”

Found this by accident while deleting stuff from my old hard drive. I had written this in my first year of college, obviously still under the influence of Ayn Rand. And very possibly, crack cocaine.