trav(w)ails

Thought process before embarking on a long trip:

• Sit up late into the night downloading songs that you arent sick of listening within a minute. The ultimate scare of 10 hours of silence broken only by the incessant “nagging” / questioning from Munchkin would be the ultimate motivator.

• The above task of downloading made easy as everything you listen to sounds new. New doesn’t necessarily mean nice.

• Hindi is relatively easy and sticking to the language would be awesome. Until sudden realization that I have the ultimate critic in dad. Debate. hesitate. Decide. No matter what songs, unless they are sung by BMK or Ghantasala or SPB, dad would’nt be a happy camper anyway. Decide to unearth some black and white DVD’s.

• Daughter decides to take her closet with her. Sadly, she was brought down quick to the ground with doing simple math learnt long ago in kindergarten, and the days of the week count.

• Have no idea why I started cleaning out the basement. Found some treasures. Relics that were once thought of as treasures and now wree stared at wondering why those were saved ever in the first place.

• Dry wall dusting collecting over my hair, arms, legs, pants and behind. A geisha would probably want to run and powder her face a little more.

• Sending son camping seemed more traumatic and stressful than sending a daughter to her in-laws claimed the dad. Well, seven days and six nights is no joke, and all the unsettling stories about insect bites, pottying in the wild, open showers, throwing 11-12 year old boys into ponds lakes with slimy slithering creatures as they make a makeshift floater with their shirt and pants. Yes, the ones they are in when they are pushed into the water. I am glad I wasn’t born a boy. The daughter agrees.

• Munchkin changed in and out of 11 dresses. 6 came from her grandmom, and 5 from older sister’s hand-me-downs. She was delighted to have found the vault of colorful dresses. I had no idea I saved them all. I had no idea why I saved them all. Sure, they are pretty, but still?!

• If anyone’s thinking am a hoarder, I would gently ask you to tilt your neck to the far end of the basement. IIT Kgp’s stamped notes and text books along with U of Alabama’s tomes lay in a few boxes turning yellow. Not a soul’s to lay hands on them. In contrast I have just 2 containers. Filled to the brim and the writing’s too round and cute for my own comfort.

• Discovered my 12th grade ( senior year ) white uniform scribbled all over with love, goodbyes and sayings from classmates of ‘88. Wow. Brought some fine memories back, along with trying to explain to the guffawing tweens why we wrote over our white uniforms and didn’t just have year books like them. Bah. Like they’d understand?

• Mom’s plotting to watch Maya Bazaar, while munchkin’s swearing by Shrek, and daughter is eyeing Harry Potter, but is inclined to Spidey. What do I care? I will be devouring Hungry Tide even before we hit the first pit stop.

• Have a birthday celebration every day till we leave sister’s. Way too many gifts to think of. Figured will deal with it once I get there. I really need to learn to not stress over the “perfect” gift. I know for a fact my mouth’s gonna be hurting by the time am back.

• Am tired and sore, my legs and back hurt. I still have to find that button down tight shirt that the son will be wearing before he makes a life saving device out of it. And here I am blogging about it all. See how much I care!

Toodles all, enjoy your weekend and hope the sun’s not too harsh on you, wherever you are. If i get lucky, I may just enjoy my vacation.

..and o, I plan on piercing my nose. Why? Coz my nose is lacking attention it deserves. I mean, it just occupies like say a thrid of my face, so why not add a shiny 3-d on it and see if it occupies the whole of it. Yeah? Yeah. Any kindred soul, say a prayer for me. The date is set for July 2nd me thinks. Am at the mercy of my sister, so we’ll see how much she manages to make me look like a maami from Ayodhya Mandapam in West Mambalam. (We actually have a wiki entry for Mambalam?! I am shocked!)

That moonu kallu mookuthi is resounding in my ears. Go Maamis! Go Mommies.

 

lighting up

So sometime back I was browsing around youtube and along the hops I kept digging through the archives of the 80s, the movies, scenes and the actors we grew up on. The ones I had crushes, small and big, the ones whom we’d want to emulate [in dreams only for fear of the dad slicing us and roasting us if we dared try in real life], and the songs. The songs that triggered some beautiful memories, the tunes rising through my voice sub-consciously, the words tumbling quick with surprise at memory, recognition and recollection.

I suppose one can spend a whole load of time in the past with these triggers on Youtube.

Agni Natchathiram [Dubbed in telugu as Gharshana] was one heck of a movie. In all aspects. A trailblazer for various aspects of details, the story, the camera, crisp dialogs, the fresh faces of suave Prabhu and with hot blooded Karthik. The dusky Nirosha to cute and spunky Amala. The chemistry between the pairs was electric.

I was wrapping up school then, and being 15 is as impressionable as it can get. The movies [Thank the Lord for Mani Ratnam] became more us. There were still dreamy songs, and illogical stories, but hey, thats what movies are for anyways, but they seemed to connect with what the youth were facing. A beginning, and to describe the effect of the movie, and the only words that keeps repeating in my head - Fresh and Young.

This scene brought a fun memory back. :–)

It’s hard to decide which song’s a favorite between the three. The other two were just okay for me.

Ninnukori Varnam’s such a fun modern number, Amala wooing Prabhu, gave many girls wild ideas, bold and outright brash. The creative ones stemmed off branching into more dangerous wild roads, ones on thinking back could raise a few eyebrows even now, while the bound ones stuck to simpler creative venues. Like giving rooms makeovers. Mine had some funky spreads up I picked up CP Art center, with flowers in bowls and straw mats covered with little trinkets, earrings, and bangles of various colors strung across the windows. Until of course mother decided we lived in a home and not some modern art gallery and they all came crashing down.

Karthik and Nirosha’s cozying at the beach, raising temperatures. After Mouna Ragam, Karthik was the ultimate bad boy every girl in her not so right mind wanted a piece of. After the initial euphoria, we all decided Mohan, of course would make a better husband, as he seemed a whole lot easier, less stressful and stable for the kind of thoughts we held in our juvenile heads. Nirosha set many a heart fluttering. There she was in a swimsuit, a slim nice bod, glasses and a haircut that was promptly copied by the ones who could. oh, and not to mention that suddenly, being brown with an attitude was attractive, demanding and downright sexy. There was a charm about her in this movie that was hard to overlook and she stood her ground, despite Amala’s beautiful eyes, hair and just being Amala.

Later on she was whitewashed and made to look like a two-bit traditional girl [read: her un-natural self], that eventually led her down a winding path to failure. Goes to prove, don’t mess with nature.

Thoongatha Vizhighal Rendu despite the wind blown long tressed Amala looking fresh as a daisy, turned the heat up with Prabhu. Of course there was something about the guy’s dimples that I was all crazy about back then which may have contributed partly to why I feel the way about the song. Still, one of the most romantic, nicely done scenes.

The words and the music, a lovely harmony. Enjoy.

 

falafel

I absolutely love Falafels.

My very first experience of having one was in the true touristy style at one of those little, mediterranean cafes lining the narrow cobblestoned paths around Grand Place. A little history on Grand Place. It’s a courtyard boxed in by the huge majestic Town Hall that provides the backdrop for showcasing the Sonne et Lumiere show every summer evening. Brussels is the city.

Spectacular? ..and that’s just a regular evening with a lit up Broodhuis. Beer and wine flow in copius quantities and the mood is always cheery. Off these buildings, adjacent little spiked narrow paths lead away, not unlike he rays of the sun. One leads to the famous Manneken Pis Boy. I know, I didn’t have to say it, but really, how could anyone talk about Brussels and not mention the pis boy!

So in any case, what’s interesting is that Brussels is truly at the heart of Europe, not just geographically located [and being the capital of EU and all that] but more so of the liberal, relaxed [next to Swiss] and accommodative culture and lifestyle they allow. Each Rue fanning out was filled, literally filled with teeny cafes, red geraniums from rectangular flower beds, and little chairs and tables on which sat the average built diner. Concept of space is a non-issue. It’s only in the US do I find this whole 3 feet of personal space that we strictly adhere to, no matter where we are. So yes, these little cafes were so close and patrons sat almost on each other’s laps, inhaling secondary smoke, and if necessary reaching out and grabbing a piece of bread from the next table with just a slight stretching of the elbow. Not that they do it, but the temptation is irresistable.

Each road served a cuisine. Mediterranean, French, Italian, Belgian, and so on.

That is where I partook of the only veggie option that the expressive little man offered me. He clucked his tongue, and wrinkled his nose, lifted his eyes onto the dark ceiling and with a waving of his hand, swished a picture of the flat round patties at me from the very soiled dog-eared menu card. I used my French on him and said “Merci monsieur, c’est perfect! Il n’y a pas de viande ou le poulet or aucune animaux dans cette petite balle no?” To which he smiled indulgently at this complete goof ball chopping his language into fine bits that even his butcher couldn’t make of his red meat, while I thought in my head, o why doesn’t he have an egg shaped bald head, he’d have been my hero, Poirot!

..and that was almost my favorite thing to eat every alternate weekend, and decided next to the Gaufres, and the Haagen Daazs ice cream parlor on Avenue Louise, falafels were indeed God’s blessing to my parched tongue! Impressionable 21 year olds and their carbon-laced cooking I tell ya!

..and then I moved.

..and then 14 years later, I discovered these at Costco’s freezer.

…and then, I celebrate.

A primer for taste buds: Pick one and Enjoy!

1. Eat plain with Hot-Sweet maggie ketchup.
2. Pretend they are veggie cutlet, and continue on.
3. Roll inside of tortilla, pita, roti, find some veggies lying around your refrigerator waiting to be rescued, dice, add and munch.
4. Chop into tiny bits and add to any dry curry.
5. Add to majjiga pulusu, mor kozhambu, or kadi, instead of pakoras.
6. Stuff kids mouths. Not spicy, and they get some protein to boot.
7. Perfect appetizer, serve with spicy tom chutney, coriander chutney, or plain ketchup. Added benefit, chickpeas fills folks up.
8. Use instead of ragda patties.
9. Perfect between buns as a sandwich to place in lunch boxes.
10. ..and the most perfect one of all - use as koftas. I like the kofta idea and curries, but making a kofta and then the gravy just seemed a lot of work, which means that the frequency of preparation declines at a rapid rate. This way, all you have to do is make your gravy, while they roast in the toaster oven, and voila, kofta curry, and no one needs to know that they are healthy for you!
    

Nice huh?

 

petty crime

Remember the times when we have indulged in something bad, really bad and felt like a criminal. The time when you jumped over a fence to get to mangoes, or the blatant lie you said looking right into your mom’s eyes without flinching or how about the time you swiped a fancy scented eraser from that spiteful neighbor at school who refused to share it with you? Despite how much ever we thought that we’d get deep fried in steaming hot oil in hell or that we’d be born a dung beetle in our next life there was a smug satisfaction of being not-good. Flouting rules and the thrill of getting caught more than qualified for the sin we were committing. They were petty little acts of defiance, propelled by an inner desire to achieve something. Right from the sour tasting mangoes to the triumphant smile on seeing a bully cry.

Now how about the times when you actually committed a “crime” unknowingly and stood mortified and aghast at what you were capable of? Such experiences usually descend on us grown-ups. As kids, the world was our loot. As adults, there are boundaries, rules, public eye, the policying, the keeping up of appearances and at the end of the day our own damned conscience to answer to. When it mocks and calls you nothing more than a common thief, a petty criminal. A few weeks ago, yours truly was an active participant in a blatant crime. It’s a miracle am running scot-free and not been reprimanded at the local courts. Really.

Remember the rushed Saturday, and the 10.15 am meet with the Noble King?

So as luck would have it, it was a cold, gray day with a steady drizzle to boot. I bundled the girls up and drove into the King’s driveway on the dot at 10.17 am [yeayea, 2 minutes is still on the dot!]. Felt happy that I made it on time and especially more so thrilled on realizing that we could very well be the first one to arrive on the scene. I chase the daughter to run up ahead and ring the bell, while cursing the rain making ringlets of my finely smoothed hair, I try convincing the munchkin to get down. She makes a big to-do on “doing it all by myself” and refuses to jump out quick enough. Finally, scooped her and ran up the stairs to the door.

I ask the daughter “Did you ring a couple of times?”

“Yeah”

So I push the buzzer once again, and put my ear to the door. Daughter’s giving me the wide-eyed look. Munchkin’s looking into the sky and feeling quite thrilled she’s in her thin stockings and huge big dots of darker spots were appearing fast on them. She’s even stuck a pink tongue out into the sky for fun.

I try the knob. It opens. I push the daughter in.

“Mom, shouldn’t we be waiting?”

“Oh, he’s expecting us. Just step in already, we are getting drenched.”

We enter, and I shut the door behind us. The living area of the house is one level up. So as soon as we stumble in, there is a short flight of stairs, a landing and then another few steps up into the living room. We stand huddled at the bottom, cramped amongst the couple’s shoes and our own. I put munchkin down, and start heading up. Daughter’s still shuffling her feet, and munchkin’s behind me.

The place is quiet. All of us are straining and looking up hoping to see a familiar face appear. Any face, as a matter of fact. By now, I’ve reached the top of the stairs. I pop my head in around the corner, and I see toys scattered, the lights on and I hear silence with the hum of the humidifier on the background. I am on the very top of the stairs, with the daughter almost with one foot out of the door, and the munchkin between us.

Whispers get loud, and I ask:

“I don’t see anyone. Do you think all are upstairs or something?”

“I donno! Why you asking me?”

“er, coz no one else is around!” Pause. “Are you sure this is the house though? I don’t remember the couches being blue. Maybe not, the toy chest is in the same place. Curtains seem familiar and …

Daughter interrupting “MOM! Of course it’s the house. Look at the picture there!” Pointing to a Ganesha picture on the wall at the landing.

“Yea right! That helps. Every second house is a desi in this place!”

She glares at me. 

I start rambling again “So what do we do? Should I just call his name, coz ‘Hello’ isn’t helping?! Maybe you should shout the son’s name? You know him right? ”

“I know his name, but I am NOT going to go calling the kid. Maybe we should just step out and wait till someone shows up. Just where are you going? Mom! Oh Great! Look at munchkin!”

I turn around. Munchkin’s settled quite comfortably on the landing. Her shoes are removed and placed neatly next to the King’s shoes. She’s taken her jacket off and hung it on the stairs, is settled crosslegged in the middle of the landing, has her ziploc bag of cheerios open and is digging right in. Shocked at the comfortable scene she’s created, I now was beginning to get desperate.

Lightbulb moment and I decide to call him. Realize that I didn’t exactly have his number in my cell, and it was still somewhere in my inbox, and I didn’t know anyone else who knew it either. Flip the phone and see that I have a ‘missed call’  at 8.30 am and it’s a familiar number. There’s a voice message too, but then I have this thing about messages - I don’t listen to them. I call folks right back, why call voicemail only to hear “call me when you get this message” which is what it is for the most part. So I hit dial.

All three of us jump out of our skins.

Like programmed robots. The shrill phone in the King’s house went off. Frantically, I turn it off, worried that I’ve probably woken up the neighborhood [really, it was that loud!], and secretly hoping it’s woken the homeowners up at least. But no, not a single pip from anywhere, no hurried shuffling feet, no kid’s screams “Let me answer the phone!”; nothing.

I realize the prudent wise thing to do would be to listen to his voice mail and dial to hear the King’s voice start off apologetically asking if we could shift our meet 45 minutes later… I don’t wait to hear the end of it. I say aloud:

“Uh-UH! He isn’t home!”

Daughter’s quite mad at me by now “Mom! I told you! This is just perfect. Just perfect! I am going to wait for you in the car. Bye.” Off she takes off only to ping pong right back as I try to stuff munchkin back in her jacket with her hand full of cheerios. Dropped a few in place, and I wished I had a couple of more hands to pick up the shoes and everything else that I schlepped. Munchkin’s wondering what’s happening and she declares “But mommy, I don’t want to go home.”

Daughter in a controlled voice “Give me the keys.”

In the shuffle, I drop the keys making a loud clanking sound, and she says “It’s a good thing they aren’t dog-lovers!” before she stomps out.

I manage to hurry the munchkin out, and scoot back into the car. Buckle her and fall into our seats. Daughter in her normal stable mind tells me calmly : “I think you should go lock that door, not all petty criminals are going to be nice like us!”.  So I step out yet again, rush up, turn the catch around and slam the door again before piling into the car. Again.  

Taking in the last few minutes, daughter and I start giggling, of embarrassment, cold and the ridiculousness of it all. Munchkin’s wailing “I don’t want to go home”.

“Mom, that was just not funny! We practically broke into his house! Imagine if he had ADT!”

“I know! That would have been fun what with all the cop cars around us. Our moment of fame.”

“Yea sure! So where is he anyway?”

“oh right, the voice mail, let me listen.” Sitting in the driveway my eyes widen with every word he speaks. The man has taken his son to the doctor and so wanted to meet us later. He left a detailed message couple of hours ahead of time.

“Mom, you so totally broke into his house!”

“I did not! The door was open!”

“But how could they have left the door unlocked?!”

“oh, they’d have driven out through the garage right?”

“Right.” She parrots again ”You so totally broke in! haha”

“ hey, wait a second, if I broke in, so did you!”

“No way, you led the way, and am a child with a guardian, you are the one in trouble. In any case, where did the mom go?”

“To the doctor’s right?”

“But why would all the three go? They aren’t visiting the park right?”

….I explained the phenomenon of single kids and close-knit families as I drove off with a protesting munchkin kicking the seat with all fury, in search of gas, as it was running dangerously low and I sure didn’t want to be a criminal who broke into someone’s home and then got caught with no gas to hit.

There’s more such follies but that would be part 2.

 

huff, puff, cuff

As I was running through the reader glancing through posts of interest, I came across one where the blogger had written about he helped folks on the road with their car trouble as a random act of kindness. It felt good that despite us living in frenzied rushed selfish times, there are still folks out there who stop and donate what’s most precious - not money, but time. Nice? Yes, very nice.

This triggered a particular memory, something that happened a real long time ago.
I am a city girl. Raised in the city, parts of braving the various whims of the citylife is but ingrained. My student life pretty much hovered around taking the public transport [read PTC buses] from 3rd grade to starting to bike up to school from home from 6th grad, to graduating to the TVS 50 in 8th grade and then during the final year wangled the Kinetic Honda all the way into college and internship. Of course I had to share it with my mother, which literally meant huge beggings and being on best behavior to get it from her, but those were some really fun crazy times.

If I drive like I own the road, it’s purely from all the experience I’ve garnered manoeuvering through icky traffic and dangerously positioned autos and trucks. Those were such fun days, zooming between the mobike guys, playing race, winning some, losing some, doing stuff completely out of character, knowing fully well that you could throttle out fast if things went outa control, showing off to the rest o the bus-stop riders and so much more… *sigh. Sadly, all my bindaas panga maro-ing had to come to screeching halt when I married my very cautious town-boy of a husband and then of course I coffined it all out after just a month of driving in the US. The roads here are actually quite the bore, except when covered with ice, of course.

Anyhow, so I am pretty sure it was during the final internship year, that one really hot mid-day [redundant talking about Madras, but it was April or so.. ] I was in the Mylapore area. Now that I think back, I have no idea what I was doing in those parts and at that hour, must have been something to do with Sukra Jewelers or I’d have been sent errand-ing off to Ambika Appalam or some such. I was returning home alone on my Kinetic Honda.

The sun was burning down hot. Very hot, and I was scorching, turning a nice shade of black from an already roasted brown color that I was reminded of constantly at home. I was in some salwar and the thin dupatta wasn’t exactly helping by way of a shade in any way. These days I’ve noticed girls back in Madras wear some funky arm covers and cover their faces - Taliban style - and all visible parts of body in a neatly packaged manner. Quite like how we’d see HAZMAT warriors during alerts in downtown DC. So, with having no such gear, girls braved the sun turning the uncovered arms/hands four times darker than where the sleeve covered.

I was coming from Mylapore tank and had to take that left towards Vitan/Nilgiris or that Rangachari - Luz Church Rd is what I hope it’s still called.

Update: Got this nifty little Yahoo! maps for India comme GoogleMaps here, and I HAD to use it. You see that star, yeah, that’s the infamous spot.

I know I missed the signal barely, and so was the very first rider and traffic piled fairly quickly behind. The green wasn’t going to come for a while and I was getting quite annoyed having to sit there with my arms stretched out at the handle bars. Frustrated, with my motor running idly and feet on the road, I put my hands behind my back. It was a bit cooler and I sat there feeling all smug on beating the sun. Of course since there’s really not much else to do, I looked all around me.

Right at my 5 o clock, was this really nice looking dude on a shiny black Yamaha. At 1sh that was a rare sight. He wasn’t a college student, as far as I could tell, and didn’t look the rugged creepy working fellas. So, after doing a double take without looking too desperate, I sat back watching the mirror. I normally have a good memory for faces and usually can transpose them years down the road, but I am getting this uncannily clear image of this dude in my head now. Ugh, so much useless stored information the brain carries, I tell ya! Okay, maybe it isn’t that useless after all…

Anyways, I am not much of a jewelry person, and on Mom’s insistence, I had on 2 thin gold bangles on my left hand, something I still have on now, and as a then new fashion accessory, a simple gold-plated kada on the right hand, a design I fell in love with and had to have - similar to the one below, except that it was 1.5 circle. [As an aside, there are way too many gold jewelry sites on the web, and then to top it, none offered the style I was looking for. People should really quit buying gold. Such a waste of money, really!]

 

Between eyeing the mirror image and the traffic light, more on the former than the latter, I lost track of time and sat there oblivious to the heat, until of course I was jostled by the loud honks. The light had changed. I start, and lurch forward, only to find that my hands refused to move. No prizes for guessing what transpired behind my back. Yes, in a freak twisted fate, the bangles plotted against me and the left hand bangles slipped between the open ends of the kada and there I was seemingly handcuffed behind my back.

No rush, guffaw away, I shall wait.

Needless to say, the realization was let’s say a mix of panic and embarrassment. Throw some blazing heat of the temperature kind, a very good looking dude witnessing the whole spectacle you’ve made yourself, and the angry honks behind you, I was not really having a good moment. I struggle to un-cuff myself, and was doing an extremely clumsy job of it. The bangles were snug and as with most panic situations, nothing works in your favor. I could’ve dug a hole and buried myself, and I’d still be squirming so much that the worms would plot to silence me once and for all.

So, by now, there’s enough commotion and a couple of riders were already yelling at me for not moving. This is when I turned around and the look on my face must have been precious, coz the dude in a very stylish move pushed his stand down, swung his long legs across, and with an amused smile on his face, walked up to me. I sit there flushed, as he struggles to find my wrists under the layers of dupatta and un-cuffs me. Very un-characteristically for a guy to show concern rather than a tease, he adds “You okay?” I nod, and I think I manage to whisper a thank you, when he laughs and says “I go straight, so don’t go cuffing yourself again, I won’t be there to rescue you”, and with a good-hearted laugh swings back on his bike.

I swoon, almost; wake up, and throttle as fast as I can.

Act of random kindness I’d like to believe, and no one dare say a word on the contrary!

 

 

 

a white memory lane

Thats what I see from outside my window.

The outside is beautiful with thick, lush, white sheets of powdery snow. The green lawns are disappearing fast, the cars are becoming one with the concrete and the rooftops look like grand sheets of cake with icing.

Our very first snowfall in the area and boy, am itching to run out into it. The snowflakes remind me of thick jasmine flowers of the summer - it’s raining mallipoo’s in zero degrees temperatures indeed. Splats of snow as they hit the ground take me back to my grandma’s backyard. 

My older guy cousins would shake the creepers and dozens of flowers would fall over my head, as I scramble to collect them all. More buds the better. Long braids needed lots of white flowers. The poola jadas would be braided. A summer ritual everytime we visited the grandparents. I think I beat my sister in the number of times I got that done. Though painful keeping still, not just your body, but your neck and head and we didn’t have Doras or Elmos to keep you entertained those days, I absolutely loved the end result. Top it with a silk skirt, and later on with the more traditional langa voni and running all around feeling cutesy and pretty [not to mention the blatant showing off to anyone remotely willing to pay attention], it was like a dress up party of the present day generation.

It is indeed quite satisfying to see that the daughter now wants to wear langa vonis and does want to do all the traditional jazz. The reasons can vary from emulation of the heroines,  to wanting to hold onto roots, or just maybe because like me in the corner of our secret minds, find the attire, flowers and the jewlery a way to like ourselves.

Despite it all, the end justifies the means. Always.

[On a completely dejected note, I realise despite all the googling, I couldn't find a single snap of the original style of braiding. The one linked above is another blogger and is a lot more elaborate wedding style. I should go home and dig some of my older ones or even my daughter's perhaps... hmm..]

*sigh..and now apparently we are allowed to go home with the weather threatening to get worse. So yay, driving back, I can dream of times when all I had on my mind was flowers, my favorite kuppelu [yes, I had my own and despite being smaller and not as showy as my sister's they were the best!] my gajjelu and my green pattu langa.