Chronicles of Nevin:. Year One

Talking to my mother over the phone recently, I reported the current status of my son Nevin’s movement capability. Well, he is still crawling (rapidly like those very hungry alligators or crocodiles or whatever if you can tell them fucking apart) and haven’t started walking yet.

He can hold on to furniture or wall and walk, and actually stand for few seconds on his own. But the weight of his diapers surrenders to the gravity and its back to square one which happens to be crawling to the TV decoder and speakers that he keeps terrorising at no end.

Nevin is one years old today and still yet to start walking. My mom said that I myself was a late bloomer. I was one years and three month’s old (Christmas day, little would I know that it coincides the most important festive event my-would be wife would celebrate) when mom first saw me walking, after which she was immediately whisked away to deliver her second baby, my brother and my best friend, Balan Kumar, the next day.

I think it was the dismay of my mother not relishing the “first walk” moment, that a year later I pushed Balan off the bed onto the floor causing hairline fracture on his shoulder bone (we still have the X-Ray. He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother..

Currently, Nevin is making lots of noise. We are trying to get to call us mom and dad in Malayalam, “Accha” and “Amma” (according to my family’s tradition; wife’s folks are referred to as Daddy and Mommy, which I feel is a tad too overused in American sit-coms). Unfortunately, “Accha” through his mouth becomes “Attta” a local Indian Muslim version of “bro” and  his version of “Amma” sounded like “Hanna” a possibly name of a Malay girl.

We confronted him and he never revealed the reasons for those pronunciations, especially the Malay girl part (I have a Malay colleague by the name of Hanna who actually has a cute baby girl….but that’s a different matter).

Anyway, not much progress o report here. He just crawls around, terrorising the living room, bedrooms, store room and….kitchen.

Kitchen is becoming important to him. If one of us are in it, he doesn’t want to miss the moment, especially Accha ruining another dish. And if Amma is having her meal, he has to have it no matter how baby unfriendly the dish is.

Right now, we are already thinking of his future, of what he should be one day.  Like most mommys and daddys with failed aspiration, we really love for him to become a musician or a singer.  One of  the relatives, during Christmas got him a tiny piano-toy, shaped like elephant.

He started plonking it and joy we felt. Will he be the next Ilayaraja? Or Danny Elfman? Or Jimmy Page? Well, it was not until second day when he started to beat the shit out of it on the floor and ruined it. Looks like he’d be the next Pete Townshend.

But damn, he’s one year old now. Every morning I wake up to see an extremely tiny man sleeping next to my wife and I ask, “Whoa, how did that happen?”

And how he changed our life.

Everything is now centred around him, or behind him when he does his extreme poo-poo. One years passed by and looking forward to many more years, especially when I don’t have to buy diaper anymore.

Happy birthday Nevin Shankaran Kumar, accha and amma love you so much.

Nevin, when he is in good term with the toy piano.

Chronicles of Nevin: Rise of the crawler

Nevin making earnest promise to be nice to the bolster.

Continuing occasional documenting of Nevin Shankaran Kumar’s passage of time, or how he abuses his Accha (dad) and Amma (mom).

Well, here’s a great news about Nevin (to long suffering Accha and Amma), the drool phase is sort of over (re: previous instalment on this series). That’s about the only good news. The thing is, Nevin can now sit on his ass on his own without tumbling over like an empty whiskey bottle next to a drunk.

And he has started crawling! Aaaarrrrgh! You can control a house pet, including your alcoholic uncle, but one thing you can never be fully in charge of is a crawling baby (and the terrifying sequel, The Walking Baby [unrated]).

One moment he’d be down there at your feet where you are blocking him from something (the lower rack of your bookcase for example) and you scratch your bum, distracted slightly, and voila! He’s halfway to the kitchen to wreak havoc there.

Nine month’s old last week, Nevin is now increasingly showing the traits of an animal in survival mode – bite anything that you can grab on with your hands. There’d be bits stuff on the floor, but his rule is, if you can’t grab it with your hands, you don’t put it in your mouth.

You see, one of our rooms in the apartment has faulty parquet flooring, you know, those wooden bars held together. One day, again I was distracted by something, maybe hunger while waiting for wife to have the meal first, there he was, found a loose parquet wooden bar and looking at it lustily like we would to a Hershey chocolate bar. Luckily, dad was in time to remove it from his hand, and he revealed another in the other hand!

Yes, that damned teething again. The cannibalistic gnawing mentioned previously has not stopped. Unposted criminal records showed that he had once attempted to gnaw on Amma’s leg, her shoulder, and Accha’s ear, in particular displaying his insatiable greed for the earlobes. Once sitting down with him on the floor, and distracted for a moment, as usual, I suddenly felt something damp on my goddam heel!!! You know what that is.

Standing him up on my lap would be the biggest mistake I would ever commit: he’d immediately reach for the last few strands of hair on my head and try to lead them to freedom! And I’d do it again and again. Yes, when you are a father to an infant, your IQ goes right down the drain and into the sewerage and join many other dad’s runaway IQs.

Speaking of which, in the name of grooming him to become a macho man, I’d engage him in a fight. Yes, a real fight, only we do it like they do in cinema, not really hitting each other. Mano-o-baby. I’d grab hold of him (on the floor), and rabbit-punch his bum (fully protected by disposable napkin) and emit the fight sounds they use back in the 80s in Tamizh and Hindi films.

Aside: There are differences in those sounds. For example, in the 80sTamizh films, if the guy is blocking or just smacking, the sound would be “tub”, “tub” and full-on ass-kicking, “toobuhait!”, a departure from pre-80s “dishyum!”  as Tamizh films were embracing Jackie Fu at that time. For Hindi effect, I use the full-throated male-voiced “Bishyumbhhh”. No, seriously, checkout the Hindi films of that time. End of aside.

Of course, with my vigorous fake punch-throwing, blocking and voice-overs, he’d just try to crawl his way out as if nothing is happening. And I am the one who gets tired. Why can’t he accept this as serious sport, jeez man!

As for feeding, he’s started eating rice cereals with chicken bits or anchovies. Occasionally he gets yummy chocolate rusks, which he really loves, as does his chin and nose. Meal or milk is never an issue with him, unless its ads time on TV.

Yes, you moms and dads know this. They just get hypnotised when the ads are on. He’d be as interested as a cow over medium rare steak when other shows are going on, but when the advertisements are on, he’s hooked. I even tried to take advantage of this situation, the ads segment would be on, and I’d go:

Me: Nevin will stay put for the next twenty minutes while Acha and Amma finally have our dinner.

Nevin:

Me: Correction, Nevin will stay put for the next half an hour because Acha might go for second helping.

Nevin:

Yes! Total hypnosis. When the ad ends and the regular programs begin, he’d be at that room attempting to gnaw the loose parquet piece. 

Chef Jacob – Cook-in-peace.

What a devastating day yesterday was. I was at home, on medical leave due to excessive eating of spicy chicken Varuval that I cooked on Sunday that literally backfired in the early morning, when I was informed that the one of the most important persons who was influential in my cooking, Chef Jacob, had passed away. And he was only 38.

Saturday 1.30 pm is the best time of the week for us, as Sun TV (channel 211 here)  airs Aha Enna Rusi, a cooking show hosted by this maverick chef who specialises in Southern Indian cuisine, especially the traditional ones. It is divided into three sections. The first section is his, called Jacob’s Kitchen and that’s a joke, the title.

We are not invited to his kitchen, but rather the various outdoor locations where he sets up his little stove and does the cooking there and then. He’d be by the waterfall, in the middle of a plantation, in a boat cruising by a river, and in one episode, I kid you not, right in the middle of a famous railway track!! Nonchalantly talking to us, giving tips, while we viewers nervously lookout for the goddam train to come.

Second segment takes us, again not in his kitchen, but to various family homes, where a member, sometimes two (husband wife/ mother daughter/etc) show us their home specialties, followed by our beloved chef tasting and appraising the dishes.

Third segment sees Chef Jacob with a bunch of kids, where he teaches them basic dish (usually involving bread), and get some other kids to judge the dish and awards the winner with prizes and crown. Rather than this, my wife and I enjoy the outtakes at the end of the show, of this segment, where Chef Jacob has fun with the kids.

The main highlight of his first segment is that it commemorates all those Hindu, Muslim and Christian special events. He’d be there, at those temples, churches or mosques, explaining the history behind the event, background of the holy place, and cooking suitable dish for that event.

Like  most South Indian Christian/Catholics that I know, and generally in India, I believe, he’s never shy from participating in Hindu rituals, praying, and, in fact, cooking special offering for the Hindu gods and goddesses (do note, that Hindu gods and goddesses all have their preferences, and he obliges with something extra). Likewise, excited enough to cook Briyani in front a famous mosque for the muslim brethrens (recent Haj festival), and that too, confessing that he has always been fascinated with Muslim cooking.

Its ritual for us, to be there at 1.30pm and watching the show. In fact, that would be the time sometimes we’d have our lunch in front of the TV, just to get more flavour in my poor cooking, I guess. If we had to go out at that time, we’d wonder, “What Chef Jacob up to now, and where (not what) the heck is he cooking?”

Last eight months or so, my wife started teaching part time on Saturdays. I continued our ritual watching the good chef with my son, Nevin. And when she comes back from work, one of the first things she’d ask would be, “What Chef Jacob is up to today?’

His dishes range from the very normal to very traditional, and I always look forward to the complex traditional types of dishes. In the show last week, he made a nifty fish curry by not using a fish but banana flower – fantastic for someone like me might be full vegetarian one day but still misses fish curry.

Alas, all that ends (they might have one more episode next week with him, but I don’t think I can hold back my tears watching it). The show might move on with another chef, who could be good, but memories of watching Jacob would remain entrenched that we may no longer want to follow the show.

The TVland is full of celebrity chefs now. Some are genial, good natured guys and gals, and then there are some bastards who think that being rude means they are in command. Fuck them; there will be, and are better chefs than these attention seeking sons of bitches (so far the gals are fine).

But Chef Jacob’s warm personality (as my wife puts it aptly), his keen interest in the history of the dish he is preparing, his generous sharing of the information and history of the location that he’s in (still baffled why he’d want to talk about the railway track and cook in the goddam middle of it), his easy chemistry as an elder brother to the kids, is something that can never been seen again.

Good bye, brother. We all love you. No matter where you are now, talk to those in charge and find the most weirdest location for you to cook for those fellers. And now, away from human beings, the pollutions, the erosion of great manners (in your profession), and all those nastiness that will remain and grow in this mortal world, I trust you are now cooking in peace. Thank you for everything.

If Grouch can cook, for heaven’s sake, so can you.

I borrowed the above catchphrase from celebrity chef Martin “The Highlander” Yan, who ends all of his TV shows saying, “If Yan can cook, so can you”. But he was being modest, while I am being terribly honest because if I can, by all means you can be better than me.

Aside: I gave Yan’s that middle name because he never goddam ages. I’ve been watching his shows since I was like nine years old (with my mom, both big fan), but look at him today!!! End of aside.

So, I am hoping to make this into a series so not only I get to share my bad cooking, but I keep track of various versions of tofu dish I make for my wife. Each time I come up with a new way of cooking it, only to forget it the next time when wife says, “remember that time when you made it…umm….”

Brief history of tofu in my life.

We never had any, except when forced onto us kids by mom, till I met my wife. She lives on it. During our courting days (when we broke up about 29 times, though tofu is not involved, or so it’s press secretary claimed), I’d send her back to her home after work, and she’d drop by the grocers to buy tofu. History of seeing her eating other sort of food is sketchy, but she bleeds tofu. Her mom, when my parents met hers, declared that considering her eating habit, she is “low maintenance”.

So, when I married her, I married tofu as well, and the last three years I’d been cooking so many types I didn’t keep track. The Tofu community should have awarded me Nobel Peace Prize for Tofu Massacre.

The thing is I don’t what so great about it. It taste of….okay, here’s what I want you to do. Stick your tongue out and don’t touch your lips, or do some intimate things with it. Now, leave it sticking out. Can you taste that? That’s what tofu taste like.

I suppose I was myself trying to make it interesting by trying new things with it each time.

Anyway, here we go, Grouch style cooking show and note that I’d include recipes for other stuff I kinda cooked up myself. Hah “cooked up”. You are lame, Grouch.

--

Simple Tofu Sambal.

Ingredient.

Tofu (duh!) – Maybe 2, but if you are my wife, 4 pieces.

Dry Red Chilli Paste – Two table spoons, or more if you literally hate your ass.

Garlic – minced, pounded, I don’t care as long it’s there. How much? Well, about five clove if you are Asian, or about 367 if you are Italian.

Onion – one medium sized. Feggedaboutit if you are a Hindu/Bhuddist monk

Tomato – One (if large), two (if medium) more (if cherry tomato, in which case you might as well don’t bloody cook).

Cooking technique

So, what’s the first thing you do, kids. Yes, the tofu. Cut them into small sizes of your preference, you can use your old geometrical instrument if you want. You can fry them first, but today I am lazy.

Cut the onion to, erm, whatchamacallit… thin slices. After that, wipe your tears and if your wife appears say that you were thinking of your dead uncle, though the bastard probably ran away with his maid and faked his death.

Oh, the garlic, mince, pound, whatever.

The tomato, you gotta dice them. How? You cut the shit out of it, that’s how. You must have seen some cooking shows on how they slice every goddam way and voila! Dices. Have a band-aid standbye

Now, heat a bit of oil in your pan or pot, whichever your wife might not use as assault weapon if your cooking sucks. How much of oil? Well, how old are you? How suicidal?

When it heats up, it will splutter like shit because you forgot to heat up the pan to dry the water droplets, in which case some of the oil hit you on your face giving you permanent scare, throw the onion in.

Wait till it becomes golden brown. Don’t get excited, that’s not real gold. Or at least for colour blinds like me.

Throw in the garlic and stir them for awhile until you realise that smell is not your son’s poo, but garlic burning.

So, scoop two (or more) tablespoons of chili paste and fry them till you hear your wife and son sneezing their lungs away.

Add in the tomato, and make sure you didn’t include the fingertip you accidentally sliced just now.

Now, you got to keep stirring till the tomato melts away, add bit of water if you want. If you don’t, I didn’t force you. That’s a disclaimer for you.

When they are about watery, add in the cut tofu. Now, here’s a tip. Instead of using spatula or any other appliances, I suggest you use a spoon and turn the tofu gently so that you don’t break them. There’s a tip for you, now take the tontee five rupees.

Cheating part

I use fish sauce, mwahahahahaha!!!! If you are vegetarian, you can use vege stock because these are the one that’s going to give taste, not the tofu.

Climax

Now, wait till it dries up. And wait. Turn the tofu. Wait. Scratch your bum. Turn the tofu. Wait. Turn the tofu. Wait. And finally when it is done, call for pizza delivery.

James Bond OO7 into 50th year (the movie bugger I mean): Some thoughts.

Ian Fleiming's impression of how James Bond should look. Your guess is not as good as mine.

It’s one of the most successful film franchises ever(take that Star Trek!). It has some of the most iconic movie moments, dialogues, glamourous, beautiful, sexy girls (take that Star Trek), great exotic locations (take that National Geographic), great action sequences (take that Die Hard),great villains and henchmen (take that Take That) and a bunch of actors playing the same character heroically, with the first one actually getting away in six (seven) films with a wig. And he’s the best.

You know the name, and you know the number, but you can never figure out how the heck did the James Bond film series reached 50 years with billions of revenue, millions of fan, thousands of rip-offs, hundreds of wannabes, ten of those who haven’t watched any of them and all that would not have happened if not for one man that created James Bond.

Well, two, if you consider the fact that the character James Bond was named after an author of a book on West Indies Birds, because Ian Fleming wanted a dull name for his hero for that espionage thriller story he was going to write.

You see. Fleming was trying to recover from the shock that he was suddenly married at the age of forty with someone (else’s wife first, who later divorced her hubby) when he was a happy go lucky, ex-Navy commander, journalist, car enthusiast, chain-smoking alcoholic trying to carve a name for himself and try to overcome his jealousy of that goddam brother of his, Peter, who was a lot more famous figure in the literature circle as awesome travel writer of that time.

Aside: Two, owing to the fact that the owner of that dull name had mom and dad, remember? You got to give credit where it’s due. For the benefit of twitter readers: James Bond nmd aftr some birdguy.Fleming mst thx his parents. Lol: N-of-asside.

It would be difficult for the present day folks, those who are, well, not even born in 1953, much less those who were born couple years later, to understand the phenomena of James Bond books. Okay, considering that most of the readers of this blog are Asians, I think it would be safe to say that it was not until somewhere in the later part of 1960s onwards when Bond started permeating Asia. And I don’t mean it in dirty way.

As usual, Japan was one of the first to catch up…so much so that in 1967 the producers decided that You Only Live Twice should be shot in Japan because the Novel it is based on is based in Japan. Hah! Fabulous decision, eh?

Well, Fleming fans knows this. And we say it in most sincere manner, “Fuck you, producers…"wait, where are all those asterisks. Okay, “F*** you producers, You Only Live Twice novel takes place after On Her Majesties’ Secret Service novel where Bond’s wife dies????”. I exaggerated. Back in 60s they used fewer exclamation marks. It hurts the typewriter (they existed as a job function)’s little finger.

Anyway, it was so phenomenal that we Asians actually managed to, with some difficulty, to spell, “Phenomenal”. The 70s upped the ante with more action oriented, humour laced Bond films that so much so, in Asia, any action films were labelled “James Bond styled action films” unless martial arts were involved (India and Turkey especially will understand what I am talking about).  

This writer is confused as to remembering which was the first Bond film he saw. Was it Octopussy bootleg video he watched in a relatives house during a festive season. Or was it You Only Live Twice open air screening we (he, his brothers and dad) watched in their plantation (we had to sit on straw mat, till dad has to force us to walk back to our home to bed, I, 8 or 9 years old, cried).

It was after this that I (this writer, who were you thinking) started to wonder who the heck James Bond was. I believe many of the non-European and American kids were figuring out too at that time. And in 1986, they decided to get another guy as Bond and that was the time when the name Ian Fleming was bandied about broadly.

This, is because the actor who was chosen at that time insisted that the character should go back to the book. I was intrigued. I borrowed books of the author from the school library. In fact, I stole three of them.

I kept up with the paper clippings at that time. The new guy is serious following Ian Fleming’s work. This was the time when reboot means you kick your brother again with your boot. And the producers and this actor just did that, brought back Bond to what Fleming was thinking about.

Also, at that time, they started screening the older Bond movies on TV and I was hooked as fanatic Bond fan for life, unitl 1995, of course, where I declared that I am an ex-Bond fan.

The point is. At some point in someone’s life, James Bond OO7 (not 007) has impacted some or other useless buggers’ life, including mine. Even if I hated the 1995-2002 version, and feel the 2006-present version got the right guy and everything else wrong; I still wait in bated breath for the next installation. 50 fucking years, I mean, 50  f****** years. That’s one badass achievement. Tonight, wife requested for us to start indoctrinating my son. Dr. No, here we come.

When Ilayaraja dusts his .44

Decades after Clint Eastwood has done the last Dirty Harry movie, a reporter asked him what Harry would be doing now. Eastwood replied that he’d probably enjoying his retirement and probably fly-fishing. No more .44 Magnum, but a fishing rod. Sweet, though I feel the old man is chuckling to himself thinking of penile reference. 

Then he did Gran Torino, where you’d swear that that is old Dirty Harry and he picked up a gun again (granted it was not the Smith & Wesson) and gave us a hell of a treat. And went with a bang, saying that that might be his last acting role.

The truth is, he was never away. He was involved in more interesting projects, having had long left making mainstream thrillers, leaving them to the younger generation.

When Ilayaraja unleashed his masterpiece album, Neethane Enthan Pon Vasantham (NEPV) film songs, I was reminded of Eastwood. While he was away doing interesting projects, I turned away and was involved in my own exploration of music (listening, not playing), only indulging in his 70s/80s.  

The truth is, Ilayaraja never went away. I say this because the media and the Netizens are roaring that he’s back.

Apart from personal projects, he was also involved in other film industries, namely Malayalam, Telugu and getting better recognition that he should have long time ago in Hindi. True loyal fans were following. Once hardcore fan like me had basically lost interest in entire Tamizh film songs and was pursuing other musical stuff  and occasionally we’d go “oh, was it?” when reviews of one of his latest outing comes out.

“We” here referring to those who abandoned him back in 90s, like this idiot writer. And the new album made my conscience hurt as hell.

A very rich, layered, complexly composed album boasting great sound and awesome use of guitars, this album is to be cherished for years and should be sent to space in case for possible Alien invasion, so that they will go back in peace listening to it.

Not that it is as great of his past works, but this is this is what would have happened to all the old songs if he had access to the resources and equipments (not that I want them to remastered, well, ….hmmm). For this, we need to thank Gautham Menon for taking the initiative of no expense spared and making Ilayaraja wear a goddam suit, finally.

The best part of the album is the use of guitars. If not mistaken, this would probably be the most use of guitar in an Ilayaraja album. And it has goddam heavy metal sound/guitar too! Hot damn. Who would have thought that the usually monotonous warbler Yuvan would be awesome!

As a great fan of Ilayaraja, I have a feeling that Gautham want Ilayaraja to not only to reach out to the younger generation, but also reconnect to old lost fans like this knucklehead owner of this blog site. Boy did he succeed or what.

Just like Eastwood picked up that gun and proved who’s the real badass in Gran Torino, Ilayaraja picked up his own .44 and showed who’s the real maestro.

Oh, metal fans, listen to Penkal Endral. If someone were to question me asking if Ilayaraja can do Teutonic thrash metal, I ‘d say, “you betcha!”.

This needs no caption. Seriously.

Chronicles of Nevin: Drool, gnaw and headbutt

I hope to make this a series so that I can cut down on the readers who are visiting this blog. Hah! Caught your attention.

Well, you know how new parents are, bragging about their baby, posting pictures after pictures, flooding their friend and family’s Facebook to the point that they actually reach for  a razor blade to sever their vital blood vessel, only to realise that it is Mach 3 Turbo shaving blade.

But, this is a blog, which is a shortened version of Weblog, which means I damn well write whatever pleased me, and I am going to keep it as a chronicle on my son – Nevin Shankaran Kumar. Which also means there will mention of lots of drool and poop.

Humorist Dave Barry once wrote that babies are gigantic drool  machines, and I concur as I wipe the big deposit Nevin left on his dad’s wrist (he tried gnawing on only let it go after hearing his dad’s stern whimpering).

Seriously, where does that gobs of spit come from, they are more than the milk he’s drinking. We’d be watching TV, him on my lap when a sudden moist starts to form on my wrist, or palm or any part of my hand that attracted my soon-to-be carnivorous son.

I did a google search on baby and drool and realised that actually the drool is good for him. It helps to clean the teeth (in his case, the gum) and helps with stomach acid. But with most of the drool all over mom and dad, how is it going to help him?

And then there’s the teething (or gum gnawing as I call it). We got him few of those teething toys but I think it would be a matter of months before he swallows those things. The way he pushes it into the mouth you actually feel sorry for the toy.

Oh, and did I mention about his thick skull.

No I am not insulting him. Apparently he does have skull of steel, just ask my wife. One day while she was playing with him, he fell forward (the neck still weak that time) and “bang!” my wife’s gum was bleeding. And he was unaffected. I myself got many back-headed knocks on my nose, cheek, shoulder and dammit, indifferent, he simply went on with his business of disseminating drool.

Nevin has now started on solid food. Well, not too solid, rice porridge with bits of potato or carrot all blended beyond recognition. He seemed to love it; hopefully it will lessen the drinking of his formula milk, a box which costs about the same as the GDP of Falkland Island.

He’s six month plus now (14^th August),and damn, time does not only fly, it beams by. He has started talking gibberish, as usual, but you know how baby gibberish are – cute and speculative. We would translate them liberally. Like, “He is saying he loves accha (dad),” ; “No, he says he loves amma (mom),” ; “But…okay, dear. Agree with you. You can put down the weapon now. Slowly.”

I recently gave him a hair trim. This is opposing my mom’s insistence (“this is not about religion”, said twice a day praying Hindu lady) that he should be tonsured (thanks Ajay Baskar for that word). Surprise, he came out looking like mini-Bruce Willis (as per the same Ajay’s comment).

He is a bit slow, just started turning over like that roasted chicken you see in at restaurant roasters, when he’s supposed to attempt crawling. But he’s happy go lucky kid as recently demonstrated when after rolling off the mattress we laid for him on the floor, he banged his head backwards on the floor and then went on smiling and attempted to communicate to his feet in extreme close proximity.

So there you go, Nevin at his sixth month. A wonderful journey for parents who wkjiojfdlkjfasf ….oh crap, he drooled on the keyboard..mplkjijojirera;lknlslsdflasjf….

1973 (left) and 2012 (right)