It tried to. I chased the kitten out of the room and in a fit of panic it saw the mirror on the wall and jumped at it. It thought the mirror was a window, an escape route.

For the past three weeks our internet connection has been so erratic. And sometimes we haven't been able to connect at all. After calling the BSNL office to give a complaint , we got the usual response, that they would be coming to repair the line. And we waited and they never came. I thought maybe someone dug up the road again and the cables got damaged. After three frustrating weeks, we gave up, when a bulb flashed. We took a long stick and using it opened the little telephone box mounted outside on the wall near the garden. The door flew open and we found a little nest of wasps. They had built their nest around the telephone wire, this wire which is wound around balcony railings and roof tops and tree branches by linemen whose job includes some acrobatics and dangling upside down in midair trying to connect telephone wires. So the wasps who were the culprits. Its a strange little box, painted yellow with numbers in black painted on the lid, and inside is a kind of reel around which the telephone wire is wound. It must be special because it holds a certain appeal to animals. It seems like the perfect place to make a home. Before this when the inetrnet had stopped working and we were very frustrated at BSNL, we discovered that a big lizard had made the box its home and was chewing on the wire. And before the lizard, a little mouse used to live there, climbing up using the wire and the mouse's stay disrupted the internet so badly. I wonder which animal next. When the line man called to ask our address again, even though the telephone office is located five minutes away, I explained that some kind of 'hula' (an insect) had made a home inside.

In North Karnataka, one of the first few questions women ask you is if you eat Jolada rotti (a roti made from Sorghum), and when you say ofcourse you do, they ask you if make it at home. And if you don't know how to make one, you could be the biggest dunderhead in the world. It hold a place of pride among the people of North Karnataka. Parents narrate sorrows of their miserable children who are unable to eat their staple 'rotti' because they live abroad. And I agree. Anyone who has ever eaten this roti made of jowar (Sorghum) would find wheat very very inferior. Now I had always been told that making a jolada rotti, or jari ki roti as we call it is an unachievable task. My grandmother would say so, everyone would say so, but they would make it themselves. 

Jowar is a millet, and it is grown all over the world. It lacks gluten, that wonderful protein that wheat is blessed with, which makes it so pliable and gives rise to an amazing variety of desserts and wheat is used in so many packaged products. It is no wonder that wheat is considered the forbidden fruit, and it is said that wheat was giant sixed, luscious, juicy and had every attribute that a forbidden fruit must ncessarily possess. And wheat is hexaploid, so it could have been that big in some forgotten more than ancient era. (It is also a cause of weight gain in many many people.)

But it is precisely lack of gluten that makes jowar, and its millet companion like bajra, at once a manna for anyone allergic to wheat. Because of this unique property, it is impossible to roll out a roti from jowar. You can try all you like, but it is not possible. The dough itself does not hold like a malleable mass. Water merely acts as a temporary cohesive agent. No oil or fat can make it cohesive. There are folks who mix Sorghum flour with wheat and roll out the dough to make rotis. For purists like my grandmother it is blasphemy. So the only way to get a roti that is flat, lightweight and fine as a handkerchief is to hit the ball of dough, hit it with your hands, gently, firmly until it spreads out into a thin round which can only be cooked with water.

Anyone who has attempted to make it the first time would know how impossible it seems to spread out the dough without the flattened dough tearing, how much pressure should you use with your hands. The only way to make a dough out of Sorghum flour is to boil water and knead the dough for quite sometime in that hot water, and when you flatten it, you have to be skillful enough to transfer to a very hot flat pan and quickly sprinkle water to just about wet the entire surface of the roti without leaving any part dry.

In North Karnataka, one of the first few questions women ask you is if you eat Jolada rotti (a roti made from Sorghum), and when you say ofcourse you do, they ask you if make it at home. And if you don't know how to make one, you could be the biggest dunderhead in the world. It hold a place of pride among the people of North Karnataka. Parents narrate sorrows of their miserable children who are unable to eat their staple 'rotti' because they live abroad. And I agree. Anyone who has ever eaten this roti made of jowar (Sorghum) would find wheat very very inferior. Now I had always been told that making a jolada rotti, or jari ki roti as we call it is an unachievable task. My grandmother would say so, everyone would say so, but they would make it themselves. 

Jowar is a millet, and it is grown all over the world. It lacks gluten, that wonderful protein that wheat is blessed with, which makes it so pliable and gives rise to an amazing variety of desserts and wheat is used in so many packaged products. It is no wonder that wheat is considered the forbidden fruit, and it is said that wheat was giant sixed, luscious, juicy and had every attribute that a forbidden fruit must ncessarily possess. And wheat is hexaploid, so it could have been that big in some forgotten more than ancient era. (It is also a cause of weight gain in many many people.)

But it is precisely lack of gluten that makes jowar, and its millet companion like bajra, at once a manna for anyone allergic to wheat. Because of this unique property, it is impossible to roll out a roti from jowar. You can try all you like, but it is not possible. The dough itself does not hold like a malleable mass. Water merely acts as a temporary cohesive agent. No oil or fat can make it cohesive. There are folks who mix Sorghum flour with wheat and roll out the dough to make rotis. For purists like my grandmother it is blasphemy. So the only way to get a roti that is flat, lightweight and fine as a handkerchief is to hit the ball of dough, hit it with your hands, gently, firmly until it spreads out into a thin round which can only be cooked with water.

Anyone who has attempted to make it the first time would know how impossible it seems to spread out the dough without the flattened dough tearing, how much pressure should you use with your hands. The only way to make a dough out of Sorghum flour is to boil water and knead the dough for quite sometime in that hot water, and when you flatten it, you have to be skillful enough to transfer to a very hot flat pan and quickly sprinkle water to just about wet the entire surface of the roti without leaving any part dry.

Growing up, whenever we went to the fish market, esp in Karwar, my dad would always show us all the different fishes, and even though other people ate some of the more exotic looking ones like sting rays, sharks, crabs etc, we knew we didn't eat it because they weren't halal. Once, our neighbour, a Muslimfrom Kerala who spoke very confusing Hindi, brought us a delicious smelling pilau. My dad though refused, saying the mussels in there were ones we coudn't eat. I protested saying they were also Muslims, so it must be halal. But he didn't budge. We didn't eat it. There are many Muslims who consume crabs, snails, flatfishes, and others sea food, and I don't know, but I would like to trust my dad. He says that for centuries we haven't touched those because of certain rules, so how can we eat it now.

Bhatkal is a costal town in Karnataka, close to Mangalore. It is sometimes called a mini Dubai, jokingly, because of the overwhelming presence of imported products in markets. Bhatkal was only a short visit before going to Murudeshwar. Its a small town but it has palatial houses owing to family members who work in the Gulf countries. We visited a friend's home in Bhaktal, a Navayath Muslim. They speak a strange language. Its a mix of  Konkani,Arabic, maybe Kannada, and I don't know what else. The Navayath Muslims have an interesting history. When Arab traders would sail to the Indian coast, long before the advent of Islam, they married local women, who were Jains and settled there. After the spread of Islam, they brought the new religion with them and that is their origin. They don't cook after dusk and the kitchen is closed for the day after seven pm. This is all that I could find out. There are many Malabari Muslims and Beary Muslims who live in Bhatkal, and they have their different languages, but it all seems that they have a common love for everything Dubai.

A visit to Mangalore was reliving nostalgia of my parents.

I visited the tomb of Saidani Bibi, and the old caretaker was very friendly. And we didn't speak Malayalam, so we spoke in Kannada. We visited Ullal, which is close to Mangalore and there the women spoke to me in Malayalam assuming I was a Malayalee. It happens often. Sultan Bateri is an outpost built by Tipu SUltan to guard against enemies and rests at the bank of the river. They say the steps under the fort goes under the river to another identical outpost also called Sultan Bateri, built by Tipu Sultan in Kerala. It wouldn't be surprising because Kerala is so close.

The Cascia tile factory is in a pretty setting along the Nethravathi river. Nearby is Morgan's Gate tile factory estalished in the 1800s.

The fish auction at the port where we bought so much fish and the Konkani weddings are probably the only times Mangloreans seem noisy. Mangalore Port enthralls, bustling with activity. So many fishing boats with interesting names and flags, sun baked fishermen so busy, cleaners, sellers, and even the innumerable paraiah kites flying over the skies were busy as they swooped to catch silvery fishes piled high in crates. Sometiems the kites would snatch a piece of ice. When she made a movement with her hands held up in the air, a kite overhead turned its head on one side then the other and from that long distance realised that it wasn't a fish and ignored the hand. The fish auction was where my father would buy fish in bulk, but he couldn't eat or store so much, so would take the fish to a hotel, and ask them to cook it for him and give the remaining to the hotel.

Bunder is an interesting area with a rich history. When my grandfather lived in Mangalore, he would tell his children about how Arabs came sailing in dhows long long ago to Bunder, and never went back. Why is every road named Car Street so narrow ? I saw the Mangaladevi temple after which Mangaluru is named. I saw the hotel in Hampankatta where my dad lived when he was 26 years old. I went to Sathya Sai nursing home where my brother was born, and the doctor who delivered my brother was still there as was the nurse. Incidently my brother had met the doctor last year on a visit to Mangalore. I saw the old house in Dongerkeri where my granparents once lived. Amazingly it was intact, although apartments had come up around it.

Bondel was also where my grandparents lived briefly and it was the only area in Mangalore I didn't like. It was desolate and eerie. St.Agnes School & College lived up to all expectations I had seen it before, but now I went inside all the classrooms where my mum studied, the playgrounds, the staff rooms, and few things have changed but the old benches with ink pot holes still remained as was the arts classroom. It was amazing the principal Sr. Virgilia remembered my mother. St. Agnes was the first women's college in India and I can see why it is one of the premier colleges in Mangalore.

I stood outside Taj Hotel, estd, 1926. My grandfather, my mother and some friends were climbing down the steps of the restaurant when my father was climbing up. That's when my grandfather invited his future son in law for a meal. And my mom didn't know who he was, but after the intorduction was so embarassed, that she kept her head down throough the entire period of lunch. In a way, it was where my parents first met.

And no visit to Mangalore is complete without a visit to Ideal, home of the original gadbad. I've never eaten so many ice creams in my life.

Mangalore is the best city I've ever visited in my life.

Mangalore is a huge city. Maybe it seems huge. It feels as if Bangalore dwarfs in comparison. Everywhere old houses are demolished and make way for tall apartments. But oddly, it isn't an eyesore. Personally I don't prefer buildings that have more than 5 storeys, but because of the unique topography of Mangalore, how all roads flow into valleys or hills, it looks nice. And there is so much green cover. From the eight floor of the hotel room, I could see innumerable trees and it instantly reminded me of Bangaloe where tree cover was ruthlessly cut down to make way for construction and the end result is an unlivable city with urban problems and urban heating.

Like there is no straight road in the Western Ghats, there are no straight level roads in Mangalore. The roads, like in the beautiful jungles of the Ghats flow steeply downwards into valleys or rise steeply upwards into hills. Mangalore is one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited, beautiful in every way. The last time I had been to Mangalore was when I had gone to Manipal after I got admission into the university for a master's in medial biochemistry. Part of the allure of the university was my mother's constant nostalgia about Mangalore. Even when I was in the second year degree, my father's impending transfer was slated for Mangalore. But last minute changes, as usual by the government, transferred him elsewhere. And it drowned my enthusiasm for studying in my mother's alma mater. So two chances missed, when I decided that Manipal wasn't the place for me, and the tuition fees were partly refunded, and my dad didn't complain. Last week, I was in Mangalore, and I still wish I lived and studied there.

There's a charm about the city and its people that is hard to express in words. Generalizations are very often , unfortunately, true and everyone in Mangalore is polite, well mannered and courteous; everybody is honest, no one throws rubbish on the roads, no one speaks loudly, there is rash driving, the shop assistants are ever smiling - the bell boy and hotel staff were so kind and grateful for the tips, the auto drivers never charged extra and above the meters, the bus conductors were polite, the people non-interfering, no one looked at you disparagingly. During my entire stay, I wondered if all of this was real, or if it was illusion.

Compare the populace of Bangalore, Chennai, Davangere, Hubli and everywhere you are disappointed because of so much rudeness, dishonesty, uncaring attitude, mean people, service in shops is non-existant. It is such a turn off when you speak kindly with everyone and it is not reciprocated. But Mangloreans must be a different breed.

During this time of the year, when you ride the bike on Barline road in the meat market area, you cannot miss the flight of the Swifts. They fly low in a zig zag motion in the centre of the road, swiftly diving down and coming up and diving down again until they almost touch the tire of your bike when in one motion flawless flight they rise up again into the air. And how perfectly timed is their zig-zagged flight. There are no errors ,and there is no collision. It is a sight to behold.

I believe the meat market provides ample food for swifts and other birds in the form of little pieces of discarded meat and sufficient suet.

How many times have we read about animals on the brink of extinction and one of the reasons listed is their value is producing aphrodisiacs. Tigers and Gangetic dolphins are two among several species of animals in India that are hunted for the sake of aphrodisiacs. They are among the many flora and fauna that are being exploited for man's frivolity.

I wrote about the koel in my last post and last night at 8 pm a koel flew through the window and got trapped between two metal trunks. Cobwebs were entangled in its black feathers. We cleaned the cobwebs.

Its eyes as everyone knows were beady red. Its claws were scaly and sharp, its beak was sharp and its heart was beating because my sis had caught it and then it opened its beak and screamed and everything inside the mouth was red. Then I screamed. It has a beautiful voice but he koel looks like a bird made for horror movies. |We let it go and it flew away into the darkness.

Koels aren't birds that are human-friendly, No one really catches them. Like no one catches the sun birds or hornbills.

Last week was the week I was attacked by animals. Okk,not attacked, but it seemed they would. The koel glared at me and screamed so much and I shouted,"Let it go! Let it go! Before it attacks me!". Then one rooster escaped from the door while I was putting in the feed and it chased me into a corner. It was jumping like a kabbadi player and I screamed for help. It really looked dangerous. I know it isn't, but at that moment, I was shown the defensive potential of these crowing birds. A praying mantis was on the floor and I tried to pick it up to put it outside. It starled me by jumping and making kung-fu moves wiht its front legs and then it stood in the ready to attack position that is taught in martial arts class, where your fists are closed and your hands are slightly crossed and you are ready to punch back. |No wonder it's a character in Kung-fu Panda.

My cousin Shoaib took us to his coffee plantation in Hassan district. It's a biologist's delight, a nature lover's paradise. It's stunningly beautiful. The road from Hassan to Hosalli was festooned with flowers of every colour and hue. A profusion of inflorences, that made me wonder if I was in a South Indian hillstation. There were yellow flowers and pinks, lilac, blues, purples, orange - it was a riot of colour. Along the way Shoaib stopped to greet some of the workers of the estate who were walking towards the estate. As we reached the nearest village my cousin introduced us to many more workers. Farm help are so valuable, that neighbouring frams and plantation owners always poach workers. But I could see how happy the workers were with my cousin. They seemed excited to be working for someone who was young and around their age as opposed to working for his grandfather who is eighty-four years old. Shoaib is twenty four, is friends with everyone and seemed to inject fun into everything around the plantation.

We saw how coffee was washed and dried. He showed us C. arabica plants, some of which were around a hundred and fifty years old. A hundred and fifty years because that was around then that their cuttings were obtained. The dense pepper climbers looked like dresses on tall trees. The neighbouring estates belong to other family members and to differentiate between them, a particular species of tree is grown which demarcates where one plantation ends and another begins. I asked how peppercorns were picked because the trees on which they grow are gigantic. A bamboo culm whose branches are cut off at the nodes is propped against a tree, a worker swiftly climbs the pole using the almost there jutting out ends of the branches as steps on a ladder plucks the green peppercorns and puts them into a bag that he hangs over his shoulder. I couldn't imagine how someone could climb using a bamboo pole.

I saw a magenta dragonfly, a real woodpecker (I've only seen woody woodpecker in a comic), a hoopoe and many other familiar birds like hornbills, cattle egrets, bitterns, quails etc. There were many native breed of cows which my cousin informed , didn't give much milk at all.

Opposite the entrance to the plantation is a huge pristine lake. We drove right upto the edge of the lake. A friend of my cousin wanted to show a foreign tourist the lake. He took him up here after sunset and drove right into the lake. The road which was there was submerged and he didn't know about it. When the tourist shone a torchlight,all they could see around them was water!  From the lake a stream enters the plantation and flows through a deep furrow in the ground. We looked for crabs, and my cousin poked around for snakes because he loves catching snakes (dangerous passion for snakes). We went to the neighbouring plantation and saw many breeds of pigeons and in one his relative's houses I saw antlers and horns mounted on the walls. They were supposed to be very old and the men in the family very good at hunting.

After climbing uphill and downhill and soaking our feet in the stream, which Shoaib claimed was pure enough to drink and even drank some to prove it, we went back to the old house which along with the grandparents is a relic of the past. These days we give importance to sunlight and big windows entering the houses, but this house like all the otehr old houses I've seen had a few rooms where there weren't any windows at all. And most of the house seemed to be built to trap in the heat. Maybe it was colder years ago. The light that streamed in was through the few glass tiles fixed here and there with the roof tiles. The bathroom was odd. It had a place to light punkwood to heat the water and the smoke that filled the room made you cough and made your eyes water while having a bath. It reminded me of the bathroom in my grandmother's house. I think life is so easy now, compared to then.

Next to the lake was another plantation that a white person had bought and intended to start farming soon. My cousin showed us some old rifles which were very well maintained. Mehroun who works in the house showed us a plant whose leaves are crushed and soaked in water. This water is then strained and when it is left for a little while the water truns to jelly, which is used to make sweets or it can be eaten as it is. On the way back to Hassan we visited an animal farm and I saw turkeys, guinea fowl, emus, ostritches, ducks and sheep from Switzerland which were taken for grazing. I missed the coffee flowering season, maybe I can go next year. Its the time when all plantation activity is stopped and everyone admires the hills adorned with flowers.

I didn't think I would see the bee-eaters this year. There were supposed to come early. But there is so much havoc with the weather and the climate. But finally, they arrived. yesterday. When bee-eaters come, you know that there will be a drizzle, a fine drizzle and sure enough the sky had clouds and then it, rained. It didn't drizzle. I haven't seen as many bees this year. There are so many kinds of bees for every species of plant. My favourie is the bumblebee, but the bumblebess weren't around because they normally come to pollinate the aurekalu beans plant. This year we didn't look after it, and there were only a few flowers.

When you hear the koel, it is not a sign of impending rain. But you can sure that the weather will turn pleasant and the skies might seem grey, but its just the sun's rays being diminished so that we can all enjoy the weather.