Guess it's about caring for ones health and I got into the herbal mode. All things herbal just yelled for attention. Herbal tea, herbal pastes, herbal soaps and most of all, herbal herbs. I scour the shelves in departmental stores for the magic H word, and when I set eyes upon them, I just pull out the stuff and put them into the bag or basket respectively. (Respectively?)
I also began having herbal dreams in which I see acres and acres of herbal gardens and huge harvesters harvesting the herbs and putting them into gigantic herbal juice extractors.
I dream of lying down in a row with other herbalists and huge funnels being shoved our throats into which assorted herbal juices are poured. And our respective stomachs bloat with herbal juice. And no more juice goes in and what is being poured into the funnels just stand and the guys use hydraulic pumps to pump the stuff into our stomachs and our stomachs burst one after another respectively in an orderly manner. And I wake up sweating and shivering and yelling but the fascination for herbs grows like a mighty oak and holds me spellbound.
And the marketing guys get wind of my fascination and I began getting calls from Sonia and Sharon and Elma letting me know that there is this a once in a life time offer for me to buy acres of herbs, or an offer for the new herbal hard drive for my PC, or an offer for the all new herbal Aston Spinachi which had herbal seat covers and steering wheel and the Greencom company said I could now get herbal ringtones free for 5 dollars a minute and these calls mercifully came at 1 am or 2.30 am when I was having my herbal dreams and I would be transported from one nightmare to another.
As my affair with the herbs continued I gradually stopped taking ordinary food and relied mostly on herbs and my complexion started to take on a herbal hue and as I ventured out of my house, cows and goats and other herbivorous creatures began to exhibit a certain fondness which they demonstrated at first by sniffing me and then trying to gently nibble off my ears at which point I decided enough was enough and bought a ISO certified helmet. I wouldn't give up my herbs for fear of a couple of misguided cows!
I consulted my herbalist (this herbalist was of a different kind, of a higher order than those who lay down with me in my dreams) who thought that the helmet was a good idea for the time being but I should offset my green herbs with red herbs and vegetables so that the balance would be restored and I would get back my baby complexion for which I had been so famous. So I began taking the reddish herbs and beetroots and carrots and red capsicums and plums and strawberries and strawberry ice cream and roses and so forth and gradually my nose turned the color of a red red rose, while the rest of the face continued to maintain the herbal hue, the reason for which was the subject of much conjecture, discussion and hilarity in the Scientific Herbalist Conference held in Jamaica last July.
At the conference I was asked to stand on the stage as herbalist after herbalist from the four corners of the world and some from the middle examined me and asked me pointed questions about my food habits, my environment, my ancestry and many such things which I answered truthfully to the best of my knowledge and ability, without let or hindrance. They also wanted to know if photosynthesis was taking place in my body and if so from where I was getting the carbon-di-oxide. One helpful herbalist went a step further and brought a cylinder of carbon-di-oxide and tried to shove the tube up my nostril. But the other herbalists dissuaded him saying that other tests had to be done before the photosynthesis test.
They peered into my eyes, lifted my ears and squeezed my nose and wanted me to tell them how it felt. I really wanted to tell them but I took hold of myself taking into account the fact that all this was being done for the herbal cause which was so dear to my heart and which has so long been neglected by our politicians and bureaucrats and beauty queens.
At the far end of the conference hall there were two Spanish bulls with their handlers and also a couple of parrots. I asked the organizer why the animals and birds were there. I became a little concerned when he to told me that they wanted to see how animals and birds would react to me.
And before I knew what was happening the parrot had flown and was resting on my head poised to peck at my red red rose nose. Mercifully a compassionate herbalist quickly grabbed the parrot and wrung its neck, satisfied that the reaction of the parrot had already been demonstrated to everyone's satisfaction. The bulls meanwhile were getting restless. They did not show any interest in me but stood facing each other belligerently. With raised tails and snorting snoots, they were attempting to dislodge the flooring with their fore and latter limbs and were ready to charge at each other in mortal combat and settle the matter once and for all and sundry.
"What's happening," I asked a friendly looking herbalist beside me.
"Don't worry," he said nonchalantly, "They're trying to settle an issue between them. Both of them are eager to have you for lunch. All I can say is, may the best bull win."
He gave me a friendly smile, shook my hands ceremoniously moved away for a ringside view of the combat. While the audience was captivated by the Challenge of the Bulls, I located an anterior exit and quietly let myself out and put on a flowing head dress to protect myself from bulls and parrots and flew towards the airport and here I am now in solitary suspected of being a terrorist in herbal disguise.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Thursday, August 24, 2006
What do doctors eat?
A matter that has intrigued me for long has been the food habits of doctors.
They are so passionate and anxious about the food habits of their patients. I met a doctor recently whose concern about the food I ate was so touching that I cannot help but record my admiration.
“What about eggs, doctor?” I had asked him tentatively.
“What about them!” he shot back.
“May I, kind of, partake of them?”
“Ha, ha, ha, HA,” he said.
The joyful cadence of the final ‘HA’ ruled out any further discussion. But I persisted.
“May I have them at least twice a week?” I begged.
“Yes you may,” he surprised me. “But only quarter of an egg which must be boiled or poached. No omelettes or fried eggs. Only whites, no yolk.”
Thankful for the oriental repast he had permitted, I pressed my luck.
“I rather like chocolate cake,” I murmured
I don’t know if anyone has had a heart attack at the mention of chocolate cake. But the doctor came pretty close.
He just couldn’t reconcile himself to the outrageous remark I had made.
“Okay, okay,” I said quickly, “I’ll never mention chocolate cake again. I won’t even think of them.”
Normalcy was restored. His quivering lips settled. He began to breathe easily and leaned back in his chair.
He called his assistant for a glass of water and gulped it down.
I felt guilty that I had been the cause of so much inconvenience to this great man of medicine and did not wish to precipitate matters further. I would just ask him what foods I could eat and the ones I should avoid and quickly leave.
“No oil,” he began delightfully. “No meat. No milk. No sugar. No salt. No butter. No chocolate. No cake. No pastries. No soft drink. No hot drink. No coffee. No tea. No fat. No spices.”
“What can I eat, doctor?”
“Wheat bran, white of egg, boiled vegetables, sour curds, hot water, steamed iddlies, boiled whole wheat. Everything without salt, sugar spices, or oil”
Astounded by this surfeit of magnanimity, I thanked him profusely, prostrated before him and turned around to depart.
As I turned around, I saw an object, about seven feet high rapidly moving towards me. It had two distinct parts. The lower portion, measuring about four feet turned out to be a young boy. The upper portion was food basket, about three feet high. As it slid past, the delightful aromas of the many masalas, with which tvc daughters-in-law so effortlessly win over their mothers-in-law, assailed my senses and took me into another world.
Another boy carrying a basket containing an assortment of plates and spoons followed the carrier-laden boy. This lively little procession entered a room behind the doctor’s consulting room, marked ‘Private.’
“Please close your mouth,” said the doctor.
I realized that I had opened my mouth to almost Jurrasic dimensions. I closed my mouth.
“Excuse me,” said the doctor, and entered his ‘private’ room.
My eyes followed him in wonder and after a respectable interval, I walked towards the private room and had a peep through the square of glass on the door.
What I saw there was the great doctor, sitting in front of the huge table spread out with plates and bowls of various sizes. One of the boys started serving him mounds of cholesterol and generous helpings of diabetes. Wheat bran and boiled whole wheat were nowhere to be seen.
I slumped down by the door in shock and was revived only when the good doctor opened the door to let himself out after his frugal meal.
They are so passionate and anxious about the food habits of their patients. I met a doctor recently whose concern about the food I ate was so touching that I cannot help but record my admiration.
“What about eggs, doctor?” I had asked him tentatively.
“What about them!” he shot back.
“May I, kind of, partake of them?”
“Ha, ha, ha, HA,” he said.
The joyful cadence of the final ‘HA’ ruled out any further discussion. But I persisted.
“May I have them at least twice a week?” I begged.
“Yes you may,” he surprised me. “But only quarter of an egg which must be boiled or poached. No omelettes or fried eggs. Only whites, no yolk.”
Thankful for the oriental repast he had permitted, I pressed my luck.
“I rather like chocolate cake,” I murmured
I don’t know if anyone has had a heart attack at the mention of chocolate cake. But the doctor came pretty close.
He just couldn’t reconcile himself to the outrageous remark I had made.
“Okay, okay,” I said quickly, “I’ll never mention chocolate cake again. I won’t even think of them.”
Normalcy was restored. His quivering lips settled. He began to breathe easily and leaned back in his chair.
He called his assistant for a glass of water and gulped it down.
I felt guilty that I had been the cause of so much inconvenience to this great man of medicine and did not wish to precipitate matters further. I would just ask him what foods I could eat and the ones I should avoid and quickly leave.
“No oil,” he began delightfully. “No meat. No milk. No sugar. No salt. No butter. No chocolate. No cake. No pastries. No soft drink. No hot drink. No coffee. No tea. No fat. No spices.”
“What can I eat, doctor?”
“Wheat bran, white of egg, boiled vegetables, sour curds, hot water, steamed iddlies, boiled whole wheat. Everything without salt, sugar spices, or oil”
Astounded by this surfeit of magnanimity, I thanked him profusely, prostrated before him and turned around to depart.
As I turned around, I saw an object, about seven feet high rapidly moving towards me. It had two distinct parts. The lower portion, measuring about four feet turned out to be a young boy. The upper portion was food basket, about three feet high. As it slid past, the delightful aromas of the many masalas, with which tvc daughters-in-law so effortlessly win over their mothers-in-law, assailed my senses and took me into another world.
Another boy carrying a basket containing an assortment of plates and spoons followed the carrier-laden boy. This lively little procession entered a room behind the doctor’s consulting room, marked ‘Private.’
“Please close your mouth,” said the doctor.
I realized that I had opened my mouth to almost Jurrasic dimensions. I closed my mouth.
“Excuse me,” said the doctor, and entered his ‘private’ room.
My eyes followed him in wonder and after a respectable interval, I walked towards the private room and had a peep through the square of glass on the door.
What I saw there was the great doctor, sitting in front of the huge table spread out with plates and bowls of various sizes. One of the boys started serving him mounds of cholesterol and generous helpings of diabetes. Wheat bran and boiled whole wheat were nowhere to be seen.
I slumped down by the door in shock and was revived only when the good doctor opened the door to let himself out after his frugal meal.
It's been a PLEASURE
There’s a gentleman called Karan Thapar who plays Devil’s Advocate in CNBC TV 18 giving celebrities a real tough time interviewing them. He also does or used to do the Hard Talk program.
At the end of one interview, his closing comments were, “Mr. Pranab Mukherji, it was a PLEASURE having you on Hard Talk.”
Pranab Mukerji, in faltering tones replied, “Yes. And . . . it was really. . hard.”
And former Tamilnadu Chief Minister Jayalalitha’s icy response, spurning the hand that was stretched forth to be shaken, was, “It was NOT a pleasure talking to you, Mr. Thapar.”
That shows how tough Karan Thapar can be.
I don’t know if he has interviewed the Prime Minister. If he did, the interview would perhaps go like this:
Q: Welcome to the show Mr. Prime Minister!
A: Thank you.
Q: Let me begin by asking you about your government’s policy on child marriage
A: Child marriage . . .
Q: Are you saying that it is not the government’s . . .
A: I did not say anything!
Q: But how can your government remain silent on such a vital issue, Mr. Prime Minister?
A: Our government has not remained silent!
Q: Can you spell out the statements you have made on this subject during the past month?
A: ?
Q: The Indian Express dated 25th January 1980 says that there were 7600 child marriages in India in a YEAR. What do you have to say to that Mr. Prime Minister?
A: In 1980?
Q: I shall ask the questions Mr. Prime Minister. Your job is to just answer them?
A: What is the question?
Q: Again you are questioning me. Doesn’t matter. What do you think about it? That was my question!
A: I didn’t think about it …
Q: “Business India” in its issue of 20th August writes and I quote, “ Villagers have reported two armed men entering the outer boundary of the Kakrapur Atomic Reactor.” Mr. Prime Minister, how could you allow these two armed men to enter into such a high security area?
A: The villagers …
Q: Please do not avoid the question Mr. Prime Minister. We’ll talk about villagers later. First tell me why you allowed these two persons to enter.
A: Arey, I was here in Delhi baba . .
Q: The “Hindustan Times” which I even now hold in my hand says, and I quote, “The Prime Minister was attending parliament when the news came to him.” Mr. Prime Minister, how could you be attending parliament at the time of such a national crisis?
A: I heard about it . . .
Q: Of course you heard about it! That’s the least one would expect of a Prime Minister! Let us talk about the nuclear deal with Bush. Correct me if I’m wrong. But haven’t you surrendered our sovereignty to the United States?
A: Of-course …
Q: Mr. Prime Minister!
A: Please let me complete! I was going to say, “Of-course not!”
Q: The “Miami Herald” says in unequivocal terms, without any ambiguity whatsoever that President Bush has called you a good friend of the United States. How do you explain that?
A: What should I explain?
Q: Again you are asking questions Mr. Prime Minister! Please tell me how you can be the friend of a country that is trying to poison our people with their Pepsi Cola and Coca Cola?
A: America is co-operating with India in many areas. Our young people are employed by American companies. We have received a lot of technology from the US . . .
Q: Are you saying, Mr. Prime Minister, that in return for all this they can poison the people of our country?
A: I did not say that.
Q: You might not have said that Mr. Prime Minister, but clearly the inference is that you are willing for our people to be poisoned. And just have a look at this photograph Mr. Prime Minister. This picture was taken at a party that was hosted by you for President Bush. While all the participants are having glasses filled with black colored liquid, you are drinking something transparent . . . . water, possibly. Doesn’t that clearly indicate that the Bush had already informed you that the colas are poisoned?
A: These are really wild allegations. Do you . . .
Q: Let’s turn to another subject, Mr. Prime Minister. … your equation with the Congress President, Mrs. Sonia Gandhi . . .
A: Shrimati Sonia Gandhiji is . . .
Q: The “New York Times” of July 23rd, quotes you as saying that Sonia Gandhi is an MP just like any other MP and that you are the Prime Minister and that you know how to keep her in her place! Mr. Prime Minister, WHAT HAPPENED, WHY ARE YOU LEANING SIDEWAYS, YOUR EYES ARE GOING UPWARDS! OPEN YOUR EYES! O MY GOD! THE PRIME MINISTER IS FAINTING! SOMEONE BRING SOME WATER!
At the end of one interview, his closing comments were, “Mr. Pranab Mukherji, it was a PLEASURE having you on Hard Talk.”
Pranab Mukerji, in faltering tones replied, “Yes. And . . . it was really. . hard.”
And former Tamilnadu Chief Minister Jayalalitha’s icy response, spurning the hand that was stretched forth to be shaken, was, “It was NOT a pleasure talking to you, Mr. Thapar.”
That shows how tough Karan Thapar can be.
I don’t know if he has interviewed the Prime Minister. If he did, the interview would perhaps go like this:
Q: Welcome to the show Mr. Prime Minister!
A: Thank you.
Q: Let me begin by asking you about your government’s policy on child marriage
A: Child marriage . . .
Q: Are you saying that it is not the government’s . . .
A: I did not say anything!
Q: But how can your government remain silent on such a vital issue, Mr. Prime Minister?
A: Our government has not remained silent!
Q: Can you spell out the statements you have made on this subject during the past month?
A: ?
Q: The Indian Express dated 25th January 1980 says that there were 7600 child marriages in India in a YEAR. What do you have to say to that Mr. Prime Minister?
A: In 1980?
Q: I shall ask the questions Mr. Prime Minister. Your job is to just answer them?
A: What is the question?
Q: Again you are questioning me. Doesn’t matter. What do you think about it? That was my question!
A: I didn’t think about it …
Q: “Business India” in its issue of 20th August writes and I quote, “ Villagers have reported two armed men entering the outer boundary of the Kakrapur Atomic Reactor.” Mr. Prime Minister, how could you allow these two armed men to enter into such a high security area?
A: The villagers …
Q: Please do not avoid the question Mr. Prime Minister. We’ll talk about villagers later. First tell me why you allowed these two persons to enter.
A: Arey, I was here in Delhi baba . .
Q: The “Hindustan Times” which I even now hold in my hand says, and I quote, “The Prime Minister was attending parliament when the news came to him.” Mr. Prime Minister, how could you be attending parliament at the time of such a national crisis?
A: I heard about it . . .
Q: Of course you heard about it! That’s the least one would expect of a Prime Minister! Let us talk about the nuclear deal with Bush. Correct me if I’m wrong. But haven’t you surrendered our sovereignty to the United States?
A: Of-course …
Q: Mr. Prime Minister!
A: Please let me complete! I was going to say, “Of-course not!”
Q: The “Miami Herald” says in unequivocal terms, without any ambiguity whatsoever that President Bush has called you a good friend of the United States. How do you explain that?
A: What should I explain?
Q: Again you are asking questions Mr. Prime Minister! Please tell me how you can be the friend of a country that is trying to poison our people with their Pepsi Cola and Coca Cola?
A: America is co-operating with India in many areas. Our young people are employed by American companies. We have received a lot of technology from the US . . .
Q: Are you saying, Mr. Prime Minister, that in return for all this they can poison the people of our country?
A: I did not say that.
Q: You might not have said that Mr. Prime Minister, but clearly the inference is that you are willing for our people to be poisoned. And just have a look at this photograph Mr. Prime Minister. This picture was taken at a party that was hosted by you for President Bush. While all the participants are having glasses filled with black colored liquid, you are drinking something transparent . . . . water, possibly. Doesn’t that clearly indicate that the Bush had already informed you that the colas are poisoned?
A: These are really wild allegations. Do you . . .
Q: Let’s turn to another subject, Mr. Prime Minister. … your equation with the Congress President, Mrs. Sonia Gandhi . . .
A: Shrimati Sonia Gandhiji is . . .
Q: The “New York Times” of July 23rd, quotes you as saying that Sonia Gandhi is an MP just like any other MP and that you are the Prime Minister and that you know how to keep her in her place! Mr. Prime Minister, WHAT HAPPENED, WHY ARE YOU LEANING SIDEWAYS, YOUR EYES ARE GOING UPWARDS! OPEN YOUR EYES! O MY GOD! THE PRIME MINISTER IS FAINTING! SOMEONE BRING SOME WATER!
Where is the MG of MG Road?
Some time back I heard an indignant observation from a citizen that it was not right to call MG Road MG Road. He felt scandalised that the name of the father of the nation should be so abbreviated. While appreciating his sentiments, I thought it would be rather impractical to pronounce the full names of all the leaders of the nation in whose memory roads, hospitals, lanes, by-lanes and beauty parlours have been named.
A recent encounter, however, has changed my opinion. I was walking along the shaded path from the Governor's little home towards the gate of Cubbon Park, when a group of tourists accosted the person walking before me, wanting to know how they could get to MG Road.
"It's easy," he said. "Just keep walking in this road, and at the end of it you will see a statue of MG. And all that you see in front of MG is MG Road."
As he was himself going in that direction, he offered to accompany them. Having paused to enjoy this happy little interlude, I followed the group. As we approached the end of the road, our guide (if we may so call him), with an expansive motion of his hand declared,
"Here is the statue of MG."
The tourists exchanged doubtful glances. I had a look at the statue.
What I saw was the antithesis of all that MG was. In the place of angles and bones we associate with the Mahatma, I saw an image made entirely of curves. A certain fullness of form, magnitude of size and imperiousness of manner declared to the world that this was no Mahatma. There was hardly the hint of a smile on the ample and chubby face. Dressed in elaborately embroidered finery it had enough clothing to keep a middling family warm through two winters. In the place of Gandhi's puckish smile was a particular haughtiness that is so unique to the beautiful sex. Its left hand held a finely worked globe and in the right hand was a sceptre. The entire aspect of the statue reminded one of Queen Victoria of happy memory, which indeed it was, for engraved at the bottom of the statue were the words, Queen Victoria, Queen of England, Wales and Ireland, Empress of India etc., etc
"Are you sure this is the statue of MG?" one of the tourists wanted to know.
"Of course I am. This is MG Road, and this is MG."
His line of thinking was beginning to become clear. Of MG road, he was sure. And if this was MG Road, this statue which looked upon the road with such grandeur must surely be MG.
By this time, the group was beginning to swell with curious onlookers ready with comments, suggestions and opinions, if any.
"This is MG road.. " someone suggested hesitantly, "but the MG statue is over there."
"That is Mahatma Gandhi's statue," exclaimed our guide "And this is the statue of MG.”
There was a rerun of exchanged glances not only among the tourists but also among the members of the small crowd.
The guide was silent for a moment, but suddenly understanding dawned. He realised that MG was Mahatma Gandhi and not this fat lady as he had imagined all these years. It was getting a little embarrassing for him and for the audience.
And they that were gathered disbursed, one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last, until the guide was left by himself, with just the Queen looking upon him.
A recent encounter, however, has changed my opinion. I was walking along the shaded path from the Governor's little home towards the gate of Cubbon Park, when a group of tourists accosted the person walking before me, wanting to know how they could get to MG Road.
"It's easy," he said. "Just keep walking in this road, and at the end of it you will see a statue of MG. And all that you see in front of MG is MG Road."
As he was himself going in that direction, he offered to accompany them. Having paused to enjoy this happy little interlude, I followed the group. As we approached the end of the road, our guide (if we may so call him), with an expansive motion of his hand declared,
"Here is the statue of MG."
The tourists exchanged doubtful glances. I had a look at the statue.
What I saw was the antithesis of all that MG was. In the place of angles and bones we associate with the Mahatma, I saw an image made entirely of curves. A certain fullness of form, magnitude of size and imperiousness of manner declared to the world that this was no Mahatma. There was hardly the hint of a smile on the ample and chubby face. Dressed in elaborately embroidered finery it had enough clothing to keep a middling family warm through two winters. In the place of Gandhi's puckish smile was a particular haughtiness that is so unique to the beautiful sex. Its left hand held a finely worked globe and in the right hand was a sceptre. The entire aspect of the statue reminded one of Queen Victoria of happy memory, which indeed it was, for engraved at the bottom of the statue were the words, Queen Victoria, Queen of England, Wales and Ireland, Empress of India etc., etc
"Are you sure this is the statue of MG?" one of the tourists wanted to know.
"Of course I am. This is MG Road, and this is MG."
His line of thinking was beginning to become clear. Of MG road, he was sure. And if this was MG Road, this statue which looked upon the road with such grandeur must surely be MG.
By this time, the group was beginning to swell with curious onlookers ready with comments, suggestions and opinions, if any.
"This is MG road.. " someone suggested hesitantly, "but the MG statue is over there."
"That is Mahatma Gandhi's statue," exclaimed our guide "And this is the statue of MG.”
There was a rerun of exchanged glances not only among the tourists but also among the members of the small crowd.
The guide was silent for a moment, but suddenly understanding dawned. He realised that MG was Mahatma Gandhi and not this fat lady as he had imagined all these years. It was getting a little embarrassing for him and for the audience.
And they that were gathered disbursed, one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last, until the guide was left by himself, with just the Queen looking upon him.
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