The word blog, I just realised, rhymes with slog.

Having just declared “I am going to go right back to blogging again”, I can see what a lot of hard work and commitment it takes to be a regular blogger. And yet the world is full of writers, who aren’t even actual writer writers, merrily blogging on, churning out in 400-words or so, ‘Dear Diary’ entries for the whole wide world to enjoy.

I remember the first time we heard the word blog, wondering uneasily if it was some kind of monster or a form of bodily discomfort. Turns out the origins of the word ‘blog’ owes its roots to an American Jorn Barger, as way back as 1997, who came up with the word weblog—to describe ‘logging the web’ as he surfed. Then Peter Merholz  broke up the word weblog to we blog, more as a joke --rendering it at once into not just a new–age noun but a verb as well. And that was in 1999.

And then arrived handy blogging techie tools to make it all a breeze for millions of wannabe authors, closet journos, and secret scribes, making it possible for anyone to become a published writer, instantly. I have just read that there are more than 8 million blogs online, and that a new blog is created every 8 seconds. (ie in the time it took to write the last sentence, another blogger was born). And I am sure most of us can’t remember when exactly the word blogging casually entered our lives, much like googling and tweeting.

Well I now have my second book out, ‘Runaway Writers’. I was told by a friend from the digital community recently, “Now that you are launching a new book, you better start a blog site at once…” I realised with a jolt that I did in fact already have one. Just sitting there in cyberspace. (It’s much like an automatic chappati-maker we all wish to buy when we see it on TV, and then realise we already actually have one , bought several years ago, sitting quietly  in our kitchen closet).

So I am now taking my blog out of the closet where it has languished for a few years, un-up dated, un-read,  rapidly uploading a few of my earlier writings to make it alive and breathe again , and start the slog again...

 I mean blog...

[Firstpost] Mustafa Centre: How India dug its feet into Singapore

Last week, I decided I need a break from Chennai.  So I bought some air tickets, got myself a visa, packed a few Indian essentials I can’t do without, and flew for four hours. And landed in Chennai.

Yes la, I did. And you’ve guessed where I am now, la.  InSingapore.  In a humungous shopping mall called Mustafa Centre, in Little India.

I could well be right in the middle of my own city, what with the jabber of Tamil shoppers all around me, Tamil salesgirls discussing the sambar and porial they made last night, and a packet of shundakai in the shelf before me to make a typical Tamilian dish. (Hey, I must remember to take this condiment back; I had trouble finding it in my store in Chennai recently...)

Ok, there’s also the jabber of Hindi and Kannada and Chinese  and Japanese and Telegu and Malayalam and many more ands, but with several shelves carrying Tamil signages, I felt I was in Pondy Bazaar back home.

Mustafa Centre in Singapore. Image courtesy: Indu Balachandran.

There are strong reasons why Mustafa Centre is a must-do tourist stop for many Indians, usually brought here by their eager, helpful relatives living in Singapore. You get just about everything here—all at cheaper rates. I mean even a stethoscope. I swear a friend of mine saw one on sale. And should a visiting doctor feel a need to go bargain hunting at say 3 am, he can set off at once to Mustafa, as this 24 hr shop never ever closes.

Your host relative may also tell you about the remarkable founder of Mustafa, Mustaq Ahmed who came to Singapore in 1957 at age 6, (from Uttar Pradesh, not Tamil Nadu as popularly believed by proud Tamilians). Mustaq, at 7, helped expand his dad’s pushcart business of tea and snacks for Indian locals, by selling handkerchiefs alongside—all bought with his own pocket money.

His remarkable entrepreneurship gradually helped buy  up space after space along adjoining streets in Little India. And that’s how he took a small family business consisting of a cart with four wheels in the 50s, to a textile shop of 500sq ft, to the gigantic mall of 150,000 sq ft that it is today. Selling over 150,000 types of merchandise... it’s enough to make you pause and take a deep breath; something I had to do often as I walked the endless aisles. (Good time to buy that stethoscope).

This was also a good time to feel extremely silly about the Indian condiments I had bought from Murugan Stores in Chennai, for some of my Indian pals in Singapore, thinking they’d be so delighted by my thoughtfulness.

You may also hear this phrase “Mustafa The Leveller” by people in Singapore... as you can spot the humble Indian construction worker from Gumidipundi, shopping here; to even the CEO of a large multinational (perhaps in disguise though) walking along these aisles. Thinking, why spend an extra buck for my monthly provisions, my electronic equipment, my cosmetics... and not forgetting, that kitchen sink?

But for the uninitiated, Mustafa can be quite daunting at first. In a pattern of reckless logic, handbags are placed near detergents. And if you’re buying breakfast items, note that after you pick up bread, eggs are just a mile’s walk away (or so it seemed to me) in the other end of store.

My daughter who lives here, and who seems to have done a post doctoral thesis on Mustafa, knows exactly what’s where; and knows that dal is kept at an intriguing distance from rice; and can also advise committed Tam Brahms like me how to navigate the store to pick up vegetables without passing what seems like a large indoor zoo: only the animals here are all in their underwear, willing to be eaten.

Incidentally here’s my own piece of advice on Mustafa, in case you too are visiting Singapore soon. If you’d like to avoid crowds, try not to come here during peak shopping months, which runs from October to the following October.

This article was featured on http://www.firstpost.com/living/mustafa-centre-how-india-dug-its-feet-into-singapore-506437.html

[iDiva] Who Moved My Paneer?

Image courtesy: ©2009 Jupiterimages

A handy tip for health-conscious fat- fighting travellers zipping down the highway of temptations: do not exceed the feed limit.

Aha! But you're on holiday here…and don't we all need some extra fuel for those jam-packed holiday activities ahead? And what's jam without a generous layer of butter first…

That's why I love those Breakfast Included places to stay in. And although I have a careful less-cheese, more-paneer, less eggs, more fruit plan in my normal day, I reach the free-breakfast buffet table on my holiday and a compelling voice inside me says: "You have paid a lot of money for this free breakfast already! Now tank up. Eat for the whole day… You're only being sensible, not greedy!"

So suddenly eating nine types of breakfast foods, from three types of plans, and also squeezing in "live dosas" made on the spot, (and hey look, hot pancakes and syrup too; now how did we miss that?), …becomes quite the thing to do on holiday. And when there's a daylong safari through elephant country ahead, eating like one is in order.

Anyway after this one indulgence, I figure I'll be eating like a bird for the rest of the day. Only by the time lunch comes around, I'm eating like a bird all right-and the bird is a raven (so how else do you explain the origins of the word "ravenous'?)

So just give up and give in. And when you come back to good earth and wonder, where did all that holiday money go?? Stand sideways and look in the mirror.

This article was featured on http://www.idiva.com/opinion-entertainment/who-moved-my-paneer/2079

[iDiva] When Your Suitcase Packs Up

Image Courtesy: Jupiter Images

Holidays are times when people go to exciting faraway places to forget things, and when they open their suitcases, they find that they have?

Many times, my holiday has begun with rushing around looking for a shop that opens early to buy a new toothbrush and paste. Hotels don't help much either, because they give you a teeny collapsible kit the size of a match-box, and that's when you realise why they call it toothbrush and not 'teethbrush', as the amount of paste and size of brush is designed to clean just one tooth.

And while travel broadens the mind (and unfortunately for many, the midriff too), one thing that seems to shrink in size in the course of travel is the suitcase. The 3ft x 4ft compact valise that so neatly held a stack of dhobi-pressed clothes suddenly behaves very oddly at the destination. It simply spews out clothes like a tiny angry volcano, and at the end of the vacation, there will be at least 9 pieces of clothing still lying around, unable to get back in."So why don't you just discard your clothes?" advised a much-traveled person to me once.While that's great advise if you're on your honeymoon, discarding clothes can be traumatic if you've packed your best togs just for the trip. That's why I recently packed my expensive white Giordano T shirt, which had a blotch of pink on it due to an earlier washing machine mishap?now I could wear it, throw it, forget it.I blame the movies for making a complicated ritual like packing look easy. Indignant spouses and lovers are always shown flinging things into a suitcase, slamming the lid shut, and walking out in minutes, ready to begin a whole new life. How come no one shows them desperately trying to fit an umbrella in case it rains?That's why a lot of people are simplifying their vacation plans by traveling only as far as their drawing room TV, and switching on Discovery Channel. This way, they can go to Langkavi or Kilimanjaro or Masai Mara, and if, while watching a crocodile swallow a buffalo, they panic that they forgot to pack their digestive tablets?they can relax, because it is all within reach in their room cupboard.But this column is not for the timid, and adventure-challenged. Welcome to thrilling travel tales ahead! And don't forget your toothbrush.

This article was featured on http://www.idiva.com/opinion-entertainment/when-your-suitcase-packs-up/2081