Captain Yechwando - Resurrecting My Childhood Monsters

Tales From Yesteryear Series.

Summer 2011, 2 pm and I had just picked up my son from elementary school. He's sitting in the rear seat behind me. As I drive by, I am watching some of the hoodlums idling their lives away in the street, waiting for nightfall, clenching a cigarette between their teeth and a malt beer sitting at their feet. They're all eyeing me. I eye them back. "You want a piece of me? Punk Ass Yo!" I say to myself discretely, not to his face. I'm always alert in this part of town, subtly glancing at the imprinting of the cheap pistols and .38 revolvers they have stashed under their loose clothing. Those cheap toys still work I cue myself. With a single button press, I ensure all my doors are locked. I keep driving without incident and eventually reach the tortuously long student pick up line at the middle school to get my daughter. It's going to be an arduous 20 minutes of waiting before another 30 minutes of stop-and-go driving. Unlike every one of the three hundred parents waiting in line I believe in protecting my good Mother Earth that I was gifted. In this 95°F merciless Florida heat, humidity and relentless sun I hear the hissing sound of scorching pavement, three hundred engines running continuously, powering the compressors of their air conditioners. In this heat the A/Cs don't even cycle, they simply work full-time. The people inside their cars are glued to their phones in comfort. My windows are rolled down and the air conditioner rests in silence. It hasn't been turned on since my wife sat in the car three weeks ago. She won't tolerate my nonsense. My engine is shut. We sweat it out. Every single day. Breathing a sigh of relief, you glance at your husband through the corner of your eye and smile knowing you married the right person instead of marrying me. Happy? I don't blame you.

Life in the parking lot could get boring if I didn't always entertain myself. We have a plan. I turn around in my seat and I am faced with little monster Rajeev who growls at me with his meanest little face. I act scared, collapse in my seat and die. I return back to life. It is my turn to scare him. I make a scary Freddie Kruger Halloween face and growl back. He acts scared. I smile at him and he smiles back. We're buddies for life.

Flashback. The year is 1978. I was in the 7th grade at St. Xavier's High School. "Bacchon ki jaan khatre mein hai. (The lives of children are in danger.)" I hear the man saying as he pores over the newspaper. I am standing next to him at the B.E.S.T. bus stop waiting for bus number 87 Ltd to take me to school. Two young children of an Indian Naval officer, a 15-year-old boy Sanjay and his 17-year-old sister Geeta (raped first) have been brutally murdered in New Delhi. Back in 1970s India such an act was unheard of. But we're in Bombay, not Delhi. Why should we be afraid? The brutality of these killings was unprecedented. The entire country is on code red alert, in the grips of terror. The man goes on to explain that the murders were committed by two thugs Jasbir Singh (alias Billa) and his ruthless accomplice Kuljeet Singh (alias Ranga) who had daringly broken out of jail. Their whereabouts had been confirmed in Delhi during the time of the murders. They could be back in Bombay or any other city you could name. Nobody was safe. I gulp in fear. I look at my schoolmates who are waiting with me for the bus. They do the same. We stick together. There's safety in numbers.

Back at school things are no different. The normal discussions of test cricket matches and Vivian Richards or Don Bradman being the greatest batsman ever are now replaced by discussions of Billa and Ranga. Fear has infiltrated every school and waiting for news of the capture of these criminals has infatuated every mind. In our best interest, our school teacher, dearest Mrs. Shyamala Seshan has been instructing us to play it safe and walk in groups. "If she's so worried about us, why doesn't she take us home safely and feed us fresh medhu vadas, dosas and hot Mysore coffee instead?" tongue-in-cheek I ask my desk mate Bob Rupani. Bob's slobbering at the thought of South Indian delicacies. School routine is otherwise uneventful. I reach home and the discussion at the dining table is the same. It's beginning to get nauseous. As I head to bed I make sure every door is bolted shut and each window is latched. But I'm not taking chances. Without my mother's knowledge, I sneak a sharp kitchen knife under my pillow just to be safe. My father is on tour overseas and I have a younger brother, mother and grandmother to protect.

Falling asleep has always been a problem, even during times of no anxiety. That tonight I'll be awake all night was a given. With lights out, I try to sleep to no avail. I keep hearing the tick-tock of the mechanical clock.  It gets louder by the minute until it's deafening. My hand is under my pillowcase clenching my knife. Exhausted, I finally close my eyes and drift into slumber. BANG! BANG! And again, BANG! BANG! My heart is pounding and my eyes are wide open. It's the damned Gurkha (night watchman) making his nightly rounds, knocking his baton on the walls of the building making his watchful presence known to any potential intruder. Even as a 12-year-old kid, I curse him and his ancestors for disturbing my sleep in three languages. I close my eyes again. There's a man inside my head. I can see him. It's Billa and Ranga as one entity. It is a face I cannot forget. The face is half dark and half light. Half Billa, half Ranga. My math class has taught me Half Demon + Half Devil = One Whole Wickedly Diabolical Monster. I open my eyes and try to reassure myself that everything is alright to no avail. It's 2 am in the morning. I dare not close my eyes again. I'm done sleeping. It's time for morning tea.

Few more days pass and the same routine repeats itself every night. I never get conditioned to it. Psychiatric treatment was not readily available back then. Who would want to believe me anyway. Even as the manhunt for the criminals intensifies, the Billa-Ranga creature resurfaced each night until one day the dragnet fell on the murderers and they were finally apprehended by jawans of the Indian Army who recognized the criminals from photographs. The country is jubilant and every citizen heaves a collective sigh of relief. Case closed. I celebrated simply by sleeping soundly. Both criminals were executed by hanging, thankfully in a reasonable amount of time. I was disappointed that they were not forcibly subjected to the wrath of our vice principal Father Bulchand before proceeding to the gallows. It would have been a deterrent to all future murderers. Justice was not fully served.

Thirty-three years pass. It's a hot day in Florida. I'm waiting in the car line to pick up my daughter. My air conditioner is off. I'm sweating. My son is sitting behind me. I spin around in my seat and I am faced with a little monster who growls at me in his meanest little face. Rajeev is more cute than scary, but I act startled and petrified and grasping my chest, collapse, feigning a painful death. After a few seconds of resuscitating myself, without a three-day wait, I miraculously resurrect myself back to life. It is my turn to scare him out of his wits. Until now, the monster in my head had lived a secluded existence. It was time to unleash him. I summon Billa and Ranga, monsters residing inside my brain. Like the girl from the movie "The Omen" possessed by a spirit I unhinge and rotate my head and emit an amplified, blood-curdling, supernatural growl. "AAAAARRRGH!" Although he's seen my scary face many times before and he knows I mean no harm, Rajeev turns pale white, stunned. I smile at him to comfort him and he slowly smiles back hesitantly. "That was awesome Dad." he says satisfyingly. Mission accomplished. We're still best buddies for life. And SNAP! Just like that I wasn't mad at Billa and Ranga anymore.

Captain Yechwando
(click on image if you dare for enhanced detail) 

Five years ago I started my photography business. I hoped to be good some day, a day yet to come. My ambition was to create a unique photograph depicting the character I had created in my head forty years ago. Where was I going to find an actor who would portray the true essence of my creation perfectly? He had to ooze the same emotions and share the same passions that burned in me. I looked within myself and I knew I was looking right at him. For years I had been sitting behind the camera taking photographs of boring landscapes, wildlife, real estate and smiling faces. I decided to turn the camera on myself and with a little help from my son five years ago, my very first selfie was born. I practiced my look in front of the mirror: Half threatening, half recognizable. A little of my dark, unseen, unknown and a little of my light, visible and familiar, he is someone who resides in us all, yet someone you don't want to meet in your dreams or down a dark alley. Not wishing to glorify criminals, I named myself Captain Yechwando, to this day it remains my favorite self portrait (shot with the help of my son Rajeev).

Twenty, thirty years from now if I'm alive, I'll enjoy reading my childhood memories and the beautiful times I spent with my children as I reminisce in my older days. I'll hope my children appreciate the countless hours their parents put in to keep them safe. As you age, you may remember your childhood adversaries and make new enemies, but you always have the power and teachings of great teachers and parents by your side to defeat them. Billa and Ranga may have been frightening, but certainly nothing was as terrifying as a trip to Father Bulchand's office. Cheers!

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

A Memorable Memorial Day

Memorial Day, 2016. It’s been memorable in the past. I stepped out of my car parked at Lake Morton only to find myself completely covered in dog hair. As I opened the rear door of my car to assist my elderly puppy-child Radar step out, I could see a “sixties-ish” aged woman approaching from about 50 feet away. I'm cursing but also thankful she's not like the young hottie I met last week who was selling me loads of toothpaste - it would have been a poor first impression. Believe me, this toothpaste thing happens "alot". I don't bother fixing my appearance or dusting off dog hair. At my age I could care less. The elderly woman wore loose clothing, donned a convertible cap and wore sunglasses to protect her eyes from the rising sun, which in spite of its low morning intensity, can stress sight enough to trigger migraines. As Radar started to sniff the interesting smells on the fresh-dewed grass, the woman broke the silence of the calm lake “He’s reading the newspaper you know.” “Excuse me?” I replied failing to understand what she meant. Smiling, she explained “A sniffing dog is equivalent to a human reading the newspaper. Dogs do that to find out who’s been there before and what happened before they got there.” I smile back at her appreciatively, simply to express my gratitude for her conversation and smile.

Today, exchanges of pleasantries between strangers are rare commodities from the dinosaur era. Lucky for me, I'm Mr. T-Rex and I prey on smiles. I tell her how I happened to adopt Radar after losing my dearest Elsa and what a great life-saving companion he’s been for me. The conversation suddenly changes its direction without indication and catches me off guard. “Jesus can be life saving too you know” the woman says. I sardonically exclaim to myself “That’s just what I ordered!” but I don’t stop her. I am not going to be just polite, but I want to appreciate her for taking the time to talk to me. Ever since I reclined from my engineering duties I don’t come into conversations with anyone other than my wife, children and my friend Walter. I lead a completely isolated existence. Any conversation is good therapy and free is best.

Judging from my non-native appearance the woman tries to confirm “Have you heard of Jesus?” I nodded affirmatively explaining I wasn't born in Papua New Guinea. I grew up in India going to a Jesuit catholic school and college, having not only read the bible before, but having one in my possession. “Jesus died for our sins and the only path to heaven is through Jesus. If you believe in Jesus you’ll go to heaven forever. Otherwise you’ll end up in a really hot place that's not very nice. Once you’re in the other place you’re in for eternity.” I know the place she’s talking about. Life’s not so bad, yet I have a feeling I’ve been there before. The woman asks “Would you like to go to heaven or would you like to go to hell?” I am not presented with much challenge here, my decision taking a split-second before I answer “Heaven.” She takes out a little yellow printout from the front pocket of her white capri and asks “Would you like to say a prayer with me? You simply repeat what I say.” “Sure thing.” I respond, knowing I have nothing to lose. We start reciting the prayer by the verse. She goes first followed by me. It’s the one that is aptly titled “Pray this prayer with me” which I present in it’s entirety for you.

Pray this prayer with me

Heavenly Father, in Jesus name, forgive my sins.
I believe that Jesus lived and died and that You raised Him
to life again, all because You loved me.

Lord Jesus, come into my heart and be the Lord of my life.
Give to me the assurance of my salvation, which is your
Holy Spirit filling my heart as a child of the living God.

In Jesus name I pray, Amen.

(Click on images for enhanced detail)

That's Right. One Way Ticket to Heaven, Babeee. No Charge.
I didn't have my camera on Memorial Day
so I had to Return to Lake Morton for Nostalgia.
Image taken on June 02, 2016.

When we have stopped reciting we look at each other and smile. I'm feeling good. It’s true. As I read along I experienced a simultaneous parallel flashback that time-transported me back to 1979 when Father Jose Luis Aran, our Spanish vice-principal at St. Xavier’s High School used to teach us how to sing prayers in the name of God. The brilliance of Father Aran was in the fact that in spite of being a Spaniard in a foreign country, he embraced India as his permanent home and all his prayers were Indian influenced so the common Indian could relate to. Pure Genius!

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the woman I’m with suddenly starts talking in a foreign language. Surprised, I ask her what it was and what it meant. “It’s Vietnamese, or Vietnamese like.” I asked her how she learned Vietnamese, to which she replied nobody taught her, it simply came to her through her belief in Jesus. It means whatever she wanted it to mean. It's not really Vietnamese. To my Vietnamese ignorant ears it sounded as accurately Vietnamese as Hanoi Beef and Pho noodles. “I can also speak Yiddish-like.” Suddenly she starts reciting something that sounds like Moses and the Ten Commandments. “What does that mean and who taught you that?” I ask knowing very well her answer is going to be “Whatever I want it to mean and Jesus taught me that.” She doesn't disappoint me. "You can chant anything you like because good can come from anything you say as long as you believe in it." she reminds me. There. Lesson learned.

I’m here to walk my dog and we’ve been talking for about 30 minutes already and I am still standing next to my car. I don’t like to waste time, but I get the feeling this time I’m not wasting my time. The woman proceeds to tell how she lived in Alaska and she had a brain tumor and cancer and how she was miraculously healed without medicine simply by asking Jesus to heal her. She asks if I had any problems or health issues. I explained that recent vision tests had confirmed the onset of cataract in my eyes and risk of glaucoma. That and my little Radar was getting old and I just adopted him not long ago. She says that Jesus can heal me and Radar by her saying a prayer as long as I believed in Jesus and the power of healing. By this time I'm thinking this is so unlike who I am, but I agree without skepticism because I have no other medicine. She places her hands over my eyes gently and starts chanting another prayer. With hundreds of thoughts flowing through my head, I am in a hypnotic trance but I can remember hearing the words Jesus, heal, cataract, eyes, glaucoma, please and Amen. If I was outside Cabrini Greens Chicago project with my eyes covered, I’d be worried for my dog, wallet and life, but I felt safe in her hands. When she’s done, she uncovers my eyes. We look into each other's eyes and smile again. I give her a thank you hug. She puts her hands on Radar’s head and recites another prayer for him. I tell her “Radar says thank you.” “Do you have any other problems?” she pushes further. I thought about answering “Duh! Like I can’t sleep at night, I miss my dearest Elsa, I have migraines, my back hurts and so on.” Instead, I graciously reply “No. Everything else is just right”. I may have a couple of little issues but I also have ten million other reasons to be grateful for. I do lead an enviable and blessed life and my family truly loves me. If I were to be offered a wish I'd want to be a kinder, gentler person. For now, I am indeed fortunate to be the chosen recipient of this most unexpected gift. Absolute healing will take patience, but I know I'm feeling better already.

All this has happened in the street, out in the open. I'm not embarrassed. We finally start walking around the lake but she takes the very next street exit. I call out to her as she moves ahead of me “I walk here all the time, so I’ll see you again. Thanks for everything.” Poor Little Radar just can’t keep up. “Wait! I'm Yatin. Thanks for being my friend.” I suddenly shout out to her, subconsciously kicking myself for not introducing myself to my new saviour/healer/stranger elderly woman friend sooner. “I’m Anne”.

All my life I've tried to help others. Today I was the beneficiary of much needed help. This episode has only sparked my hunger to help others even further. I urge you to follow your instincts. Times like these make Memorial Day a day to be thankful for. Wishing you a great Memorial Day. Belated. I'll remember this as the day I met Jesus.

Learning Never Ceases

I'm picking up a new instrument, the tenor saxophone, knowing nothing about music and playing to compete with professionally trained teenage kids. It isn't easy, but I plan on giving them a good run for the money spent on their lessons. Having photography experience always works in my favour.
(click on images for enhanced viewing)

Learning comes slow past 50.

The inspiration comes from listening to Billy Vaughn's classic orchestra since age 5, and also alltime greats such as John Coltrane and Dexter Gordon.

You've Got to Admit - I Look Quite Saxy

Learning slows as you age, but learning always continues. Don't despair if you fail. Keep trying or try something different. The day I quit learning will be the day I'm a dead man walking.

Dr. Karl Brenkert Jr., Dean and Professor Emeritus of Mechanical Engineering

Tales From Yesteryear Series.

"Scardino". "Chach". With a pipe clenched between his teeth, the professor calls out names of students worried about flunking as he hands out graded ME 303 Fluid Mechanics test papers. Then he pauses for a moment, stares bewildered through his 1950s spectacles and exclaims "En-Gee!" and then again "En-Gee?" Ng is a student and those aren't his initials. "What the hell kind of name is En-Gee? I've never seen a name without vowels and just two letters. How in the world are you supposed to say it?" Ng, a Mechanical Engineering foreign student from Vietnam, stands up and answers "Ungh." Grabbing his pipe before it falls to the floor, an even more confounded old man, visibly shocked, exclaims loudly "UNGH? That's not a name. That's a grunt." The entire class including Ng bursts out into laughter. Thoroughbred German, completely American, and 100 percent Sauerkraut was Dr. Karl Brenkert Jr., Dean and Professor Emeritus of Mechanical Engineering at the University of Mississippi. He didn't give two hoots or half a damn. Back in the fall of 1987, such antics would be tolerated. Today, in times of political correctness gone awry, he'd be shown the door, but not before his prestigious status had been revoked. Dr. Brenkert was a trip and everyone enjoyed the ride.

Classic portrait of a younger Dr. Brenkert in his office.
Photo credit unknown

When I started to know Dr. Brenkert personally in 1987, he had just returned from a colostomy or urostomy surgery. He had lost significant body mass. He was leaving Ole Miss to retire to Arizona and himself admitted that he didn't think he was going to live much longer. Just a few semesters earlier, when smoking was allowed in classrooms and University offices, a much larger sized Dr. Brenkert was never to be seen without a lit pipe. After surgery and the ban on campus smoking, he carried around an unlit pipe in the department and classes. For better or worse, those were different times. Simpler times for sure.

I remember the incident during an Engineering Dynamics class when a smart alec civil engineering student stuck an ASCE - American Society of Civil Engineers bumper sticker to the back of his pride and joy 1960s Ford Mustang 1967 Chevy Camaro (as corrected with invaluable insight in comments below by his son Eric Brenkert). A die hard Mechanical Engineer, Dr. Brenkert squandered no opportunity to educate members of other engineering disciplines about their inherent inferiority to Mechanical Engineers. And rightfully so. Dr. Brenkert had tried to take the sticker off and failed, claiming it was stuck with some space-age glue developed by, not coincidentally, Mechanical Engineers. Pride had worked to his detriment and although he wasn't happy about it, he laughed it off. Dare I say that the student responsible had guts pulling the stunt off.

A Graduate of The University of Michigan and Stanford University, Dr. Brenkert was a popular personality among students and respected among faculty peers. When the giant finally bid goodbye to Ole Miss in 1988 he left a void in the department that was never filled. One of his peers was Dr. Tom Horton, another Stanford Ph.D. recruited by Dr. Brenkert to Ole Miss. Dr. Brenkert always spared a few moments to glorify the brilliance of Dr. Thomas Horton at Stanford, always pointing out that even distinguished professors at Stanford were in awe of his genius and regularly approached then graduate student Tom for solutions to problems.

Students were his passion and Dr. Brenkert always invited them to his home to tell stories from a bygone era. Dr. Brenkert always said "You don't have to do anything in life. You don't have to come to class. You don't have to take my tests. But you must face the consequences by failing the class. It's therefore best to do things. Regardless, you don't have to do anything in life." What a profound lesson to young engineers. I have always remembered his words. I don't have to do anything in life. I do things because I choose to do so.

Dr. Brenkert as I remember him
Photo credit unknown

Dear Dr. Brenkert passed away on May 19th, 2011 in Sun City, Arizona at the age of 89, defying his surgeries for over twenty four years. His legacy will forever continue in hearts of people fortunate enough to have crossed his path. RIP Dr. Brenkert and thank you for your service to generations of Ole Miss Engineers.

Note: Some of the above statements may not be completely accurate. I am going by a 30 year old memory. If you wish to add to the story or correct my essay, I would be very grateful. These are not my photographs and I am not taking credit for them. If I can ask for permission or give credit to the correct person I will do so. If you wish for me to take them down (which I hope you do not), I will honour your request. Capture Your Life. Dictate Your Legacy.

Ruger Single Ten - All American Western Classic

1979. Alien. Metro Cinema, Dhobi Talao, Bombay. My friend Rajesh Panchal and I wait in line for our first Adult movie. Were both thirteen and the admission age is 18. Both of us are scared stiff of being exposed. I start pulling my chin hairs ever so slightly to make them look longer. It works. I'm in. Baby-faced Rajesh is not so fortunate. He's asked to leave when he presents his ticket. I wait with him and we grease the doorman's palm with 5 rupees to get Rajesh in. Scary movie? Who knows? Damn straight I paid good money just to see Sigourney Weaver in her underwear, and before you chide me, that's what good, honest teenage boys did in the 70s. The ones who deny are liars.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Getting inside the theater to watch this movie was easier with admission rated "General". Rajesh and I watched this western twice or thrice each and every year for years. Sergio Leone's great spaghetti western is the all-time greatest gun-slinging shoot-em-up western epic ever made. Stack up your Tom Hanks, Cruises, McConaughies, Leonardoes and what-nots times three and they still don't measure up to one Clint Eastwood. Or snake eyes Lee Van Cleef. Or Eli Wallach for that matter. There's also Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More and Once Upon a Time in America - movies in which the revolver reigned supreme. The sword (gun in this case) was mightier than the pen. Before European metallurgical advancement, ergonomics and rapid round ejection wizardry there was the great American Single Action Revolver. Simple. Mechanical. Perfection. If staring into the cold steel eyes of a Western gunman didn't do your britches brown, the sounds of the revolver's spinning cylinder and three clicks of the hammer being cocked would. "Looks like sumbody jist cashed in his chips. Done got ready ta daaaa (to die)." To make it outright nostalgic, cut a generous wad of tobacco and stick it between the gum and cheek and bark it in your gruffiest southwestern drawl. Repeat. You may now spit your juice.

Rajesh and I, both rabid rifle fans each owned an air rifle in our school days. We went on several shooting expeditions exterminating pests. Still, no revolvers. The 1990s saw me become the proud owner of a Ruger 10/22 rifle along with my Ole Miss friend John Gerrie purchasing a blued Ruger single six revolver. It was a perfect buy-one-get-one-free. We went shooting together in the Mississippi backwoods outside Oxford and exchanged firearms for added entertainment and challenge. Who needs a girlfriend when you've got a pair of Rugers to make you jumping happy? Besides Bowheads were a dime a dozen, Rugers not so cheap. You don't have to be a varmint hunter to be a master marksman. ;)

(Click on the photos for enhanced detail)

Ruger Single Ten

With some of my Spaghetti Western Comics

Years later I yearned for a slow-it-down revolver once again. Enter the Ruger Single Ten in modern satin stainless steel, walnut gunfighter grips and fiber optic sights. This revolver is a mechanical marvel, with the sights and sounds of the Colts of yesteryears, but featuring added reliability. The fit and finish is modern with old-world charm. The grips are inviting with the Ruger logo embedded for a very classy touch. It feels warm and cold at the same time. Nirvana for the hand. The trigger is short and crisp. The long 5.5-inch barrel and high-visibility fiber optic sights, fully adjustable for elevation and windage, ensure supreme accuracy. Slow down to load and slow down to shoot - it begs to be enjoyed leisurely. The 22lr cartridge is cheap and easy to fire all day long. Ten rounds makes reloading less tedious and firing opportunities plenty. Maintenance is simple and mostly for caressing this beauty even more, but first ensure that the cylinder is completely unloaded using the sprung manual ejector. Pass me the longhorn brisket and chili beans. I'm in cowboy heaven.

Detail of the Walnut Wood Grips, embedded Ruger emblem
Cylinder and Trigger

Summarized. Ruger Single Ten, An All American Classic. Everything else is simply Un-American.

Striated Hammer and Williams Fiber Optic Sights

So all o' y'all bathroom gunslingers out there, put on yer boots and Wrangler denims and go on out to your local range with a revolver to practice them target skills for some good old-fashioned fun. Or slap in yore favorit bootlegged western on VHS tape, rope up them your kids around the widescreen "toobless wunder" or grab you a bottle of rot-gut corn and rye for some "Yee Haw". Now Git!!!!

P.S.:
I thank Mr. Don Gambuzza of Sarasota for his generosity, his valuable time and in making this article possible.
Disclaimer: Please shoot and drink responsibly and never together. Be safe and have fun.
Capture Your Life. Dictate Your Legacy.

If you have a list of your favourite western movies or old revolver stories, please be sure to post them below. Thanks for visiting and I appreciate your time.

(Warning! Don't instigate violence and blame my post. This post does not serve to entice violence of any sort. It is a testament to the service provided by legitimate armed forces and law enforcement everywhere and also to everyday people who choose to act responsibly in protecting their friends and families.)

Iselyn Dallas - Breast Cancer Killer

There are millions of breast cancer survivors in the world today, plausibly more than any other form of cancer survivors. This bittersweet distinction is made possible because of cancer's unrelenting onslaught on so many women but also because regular examinations, medical technology, science and equipment have made early discovery, proper diagnosis and correct treatment possible. We now have the ability to fight back. (Click on images for enhanced detail)

An Emotional Iselyn Dallas Reliving her most Vulnerable Moments
When she was First Diagnosed With Breast Cancer.
When I look into her dark ebony-coloured eyes
I see a woman who has battle scars, but is unbroken.
Here's a woman whose strength is formidable
and her spirit resilient. An Extremely Powerful Image.

"Hi! I'm Iselyn Dallas. Breast Cancer Survivor." Iselyn Dallas is a Pediatric Nurse Practitioner at Lakeside Pediatrics in Lakeland, FL whom I've known for almost ten years. Iselyn was diagnosed with breast cancer on October 2, 2006, just 30 days before her wedding. "It was a shock. It felt like a death sentence." she says, looking back. "I was devastated, because it was a death sentence for something I was not guilty of. Until that October day 9 years ago, I never really gave much thought to my own mortality. My mortality had suddenly turned into a reality." "The words “you have breast cancer” were a slap in the face and the stark reality that everything as I knew would be no more. What do you do when everything you know suddenly becomes everything you don’t know? Instead of asking what’s for dinner, I now asked am I going to die? Fear took a strong hold of my life initially because I had young adult children and family that I loved fiercely and couldn't imagine not being there with any of them."

Iselyn Looks to her Faith in God for Shelter and Support.
Another Extremely Compelling Image.

Iselyn adds "Also what did I know about surgery, chemotherapy, radiation? All of which I now had to face. It was overwhelming, frightening and lonely. Unless you have walked this journey there isn’t any way to know the devastation it brings. I can still remember that day vividly one minute I was taking care of my patients and the next, my boss Dr. Cory was taking care of me. I was blessed to have unconditional support from my Lakeside Pediatrics family and my amazing family and friends. I also prayed and tuned to God for guidance."

Iselyn Finding Strength and Determination to Fight
and to Live Again While Reading the Holy Bible.

"Come on! I've got to beat the odds! This can't be the end of the world!" "This wasn't an easy journey, but I emerged with a new outlook about life and helping other women." That's when Iselyn decided to fight back, not just for herself, but for women everywhere. In 2008 she started I'm a Survivor, Inc. a breast cancer fund raising nonprofit organization to financially and emotionally support women diagnosed with this illness. "I learned that recovery and survival means you need to have mental, physical, financial and spiritual support, and “survivor” tries to provide all of that."

Iselyn Reflecting on her Past Struggles and Enjoying a Peaceful Day at Peterson Park in Lakeland, Florida

A Jubilant Iselyn Celebrates "Life" and her Victory over Cancer.
Life's too Short to Sit and Cry About.

Today Iselyn is the paradigm of good health, charity, optimism, good spirituality and radiance. She puts her struggles behind her and treats countless children in Lakeland every day and nurses them to back to wellness. Counseling women based on her experiences, knowledge and struggles has become second nature. "You can lower your risks with proper diet, regular exercise and de-stressing your daily life. But if it is inheritable, breast cancer may attack you no matter what lifestyle you lead. Regular screenings and early detection are the key to survival. Most importantly, if you're unfortunate enough to become a victim, don't give up!" "Life is short. Hug your kids and spend time with your loved ones."

Charting Out a New Course for her Life. Ready to go Wherever Life Takes Her.

"In January of 2014 I was appointed the Tampa chapter president of Sisters Network which is a national African American survivorship organization. Because although African American women are diagnosed the least , but succumb to this disease the most Sisters Network is my passion along with survivor  because between the two organizations I get to support women from all backgrounds. Not one of chose this journey - it chose us." "Today I live by the words “life is what you make it, So make it while you’re living”!!! She quotes Stuart Scott "Surviving cancer is about how you live, why you live and the manner in which you live."

A Visionary Iselyn Takes a Glimpse into the Future
of her Foundation as She Leans on the Handrail for Support.
She Needs Help From Others to Achieve her Goals.

We know breast cancer can be curable, yet care remains beyond reach for so many women. This horrible disease remains widespread, relentless, devastating and deadly for many. Survival chances have improved, but risks remain and recurrence and lethality are always a constant threat, never in distant memory. As you rightly knew, the poor suffer the most. Time has come to find a complete cure. This is where we can help. Lakeside Pediatrics has made a generous donation to her cause every year since 2008. My first pledge was to help Iselyn by bringing attention to her cause and her annual fundraiser. Show her you care by helping her foundation with your generous support or pledge. 100 percent of ALL profits generated from the sale of portraits (shown above) autographed by Iselyn Dallas will be donated directly to her foundation. That's my second promise. You've just met Iselyn Dallas, breast cancer survivor. Now get to know Iselyn Dallas, Breast Cancer Killer.

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

Message from Y. Chachad: Anyone can muster enough courage and find the inspiration they need to fight from reading this essay, whether it be dueling cancer, another disease, alcohol or drug addiction or whatever demons you have. The purpose of this story is to never lose hope. Here's Wishing you a Healthy and Happy 2015.

Cliff R. Leonard - Sculptor, United States Marine and Good Human Being

Monday, May 26, 2014. Memorial Day services at Cavalry Baptist Church in Lakeland. The ceremony honouring Marines Philip Clark, Donald Vincent and Ronald Payne had just concluded and I approached the man who had just moved the entire gathering to tears. "Hi, I'm Yatin Chachad, Photographer." I introduced myself as I handed him my business card. "My name is Cliff Leonard" he replied. The entire meeting lasted six seconds. I went home and added him as my Facebook friend and directed him to a post honouring the three Marines and Cliff.

Cliff R. Leonard needs no introduction. For those who know him, he's a legend. For those of you, who once like me, had not learnt of Cliff or his cause, Cliff is a Veteran Warrior who served in the United States Marine Corps in Vietnam, and has since dedicated his life to immortalizing Florida's "Eternally In Service" Marines and Corpsmen by sculpting their life sized busts and presenting them to mourning families. I despise the word fallen Veterans or Heroes. Did they fall from grace? Were they dishonourably discharged? Fallen just sounds derogatory as though they fell out before completing their task and insulting to say the least. Cliff does not ask for a fee when he presents these busts, usually at ceremonies. However, as you may imagine, time, materials and firing a sculpture in a kiln all add tremendous cost which he bears himself. Although Cliff sports a solemn look at functions and ceremonies, his face belies his zest and fondness for humour and life. He sculpts all of his Veterans using photographs and videos, occasionally relying on descriptions as he may have never met any of his creations in flesh and blood. The presentation of the bust to the grief-striken families at ceremonies is usually teary-eyed followed by gratitude and admiration from the entire audience. What better way to honour the lives of men who courageously sacrificed their all for their country. Sacrificed everything for you.

Fast forward several months and hundreds of behind the scene exchange of words, and I was pestering him for a photo shoot on Christmas Day.

YRC: "Cliff, Bossman, I hope you didn't find my immigration and the multicultural post offensive. If so, I apologize. It was not my intention. I still wish to do your portrait and story I promised."

CRL: "Absolutely NOT.  If I had I would have dropped you a note.  I enjoyed it.  My philosophy on offending someone is that it's only a charge on the "offender" when it's done intentionally or if you had been advised beforehand."

This man won't mince words; he even drives a Subaru. We're a bit alike in that respect, but I've got a lot to learn from the master. All I know is they can't throw me out of the country for what I say because I've got my citizenship. Locked up forever in Guantanamo? I wouldn't doubt it.

CRL: "Yatin, Merry Christmas -- Hope all is well!  My Best and Semper Fi.  It's up to you and I to make this a better place next year!"

YRC: "My Dear Cliff, Sorry for the late response in spite of having read your message earlier. A very Merry Christmas to you and your family. I love your attitude on making this place better for next year. If we don't do it who will? You know there are weekends when I just struggle to keep myself busy, but then get so tied up doing things here and there it just takes the entire weekend and then it's back to work. I still want to do a photo session on your work at your convenience. Therefore, let me know a weekend that you'll be free and I'll just plan to visit you one day. I'll throw in a few smart-alec comments for good luck. I'm not a trained professional so you'll have to excuse my inexperience."

CRL: "Yatin,  Thanks.  What ever fits you fancy will be fine with me.  I'm actually beginning to put the finishing touches on a piece now.  No matter the date we can always work something out.  You can give me a holler at your connivence and we will put it together.  My best, Cliff"

YRC: "I really am in a slump and find it hard to churn out articles, but then I can get fired up and pump out a 10 page essay at the snap of a finger. However, I'll let you dictate the course; it's all about you. I'm free this Saturday"

CRL: "Well start snapping!"

Hey! Unbelievably, this man actually double-spaces after a period, just like I normally do, but he can't spell convenience. Maybe it's just a typo, but I won't tell anyone and embarrass him. I know I'm old fashioned, but this wonderful double-space after a period habit that nobody cares about was drilled into me by none other than my mechanical engineering doctoral dissertation adviser. Thank you dear Dr. Jeff Roux.

0700 hours, Saturday, December 27, 2014, and I was on my way to Jacksonville, FL to meet Cliff and his family and perhaps catch him in the act of actually sculpting a Marine statue. I know in his heart he'd rather not have made any of these in memoriam, but war is cruel, and someone has to do it. It's only up to him to do it, as nobody else will and I'm here so we can all share Cliff's selfless experience.

1045 hours, I reached his home and was greeted by his warm smile and strong handshake. I hugged him, a man I hardly know, and we greeted each other like long lost friends. I normally don't touch people. I'm paranoid. I can't get any lice from his head. He's got no hair. I, on the other hand, have a bird's nest on my head. But I shampoo my hair twice a day. Just saying. I noticed he's aged in the past few months since I saw him last. Settling down after a few pleasant moments and a cup of coffee, I commenced photographing him and his work.

(Click on images for enhancing detail)

Cliff and his wife Linda Share a Happy Moment Together.

Cliff Starts Work on a New Bust.
Cliff Requested that I keep Details of the Bust at
a Minimal to Keep the Marine's Identity Private
Until Presentation Time.

Every Detail is Painstakingly Accurate.

Such Passion takes a Physical and
Emotional Toll.
He Completely Immerses
Himself in his Art.This Important photograph also
shows his present and past work.
History Being Made in this Studio.

Eye-to-Eye.
Man-to-Man
Cliff Examines a Bust

Adding Final Details and Finishing Touches 

Nothing is Fast and Easy.
Every Little Detail
Must be Perfect.

Almost Ready for Presentation 

Cliff in a Pensive Mood. The Grim Look

Finally a Smile.
Satisfaction that the Job is Done. Perfectly. 

It's Never Easy When It's Done.
Cliff Showing his Emotions; This One May be Complete,
But Sadly, There Will Always be More.

I had stayed there longer than I anticipated and I had a long drive ahead. I hope I didn't wear out my welcome. All I know is I enjoyed my time with a larger than life figure. I had stated in my earlier essay that Cliff was a God. Do I still believe that? To the grieving families he presents the statues to, he can be nothing short of Godsend. I don't necessarily agree with everything he says or does. He's a flawed God. But still a damn good human being. And that's more important. I thanked him and bid him goodbye, not knowing when our paths would cross next. I hoped that he and his family and friends would enjoy the essay and photographs for years to come. I was a bit nervous shooting his pictures and regardless of what he thought of my photographs, I know we'd still be friends on Facebook. Capture Your Life. Dictate Your Legacy. I think he just did. Why would I spend sixteen hours in a single day (during Christmas holidays) driving, photographing, processing and writing about a person I had met for just 6 seconds? I remembered what Cliff had said, "It's up to you and I to make this a better place." He has to do the things he has to do and I have to do the things I have to do. Because nobody else will. SEMPER FI!

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

Ardbeg Corryvreckan - The Ultimate Islay

Ardbeg Corryvreckan - The Ultimate Islay
(click on photo for additional detail)

Initially, I wanted to add my tastings on Corryvreckan as an addendum to my post on Single Malt Scotch Whiskies. But when you have a whisky so distinctive as this it would be a sin for it to not have a dedicated post in its honour.

'Tis the legend of Corryvreckan, the vile thunderous, seething cauldron named after the Viking prince Breacan, who met his watery destiny, praying his devoting to the Lord of the Isles. Breacan perished in the perilous whirlpool which now eternally adorns his name. Dead? Of course not. The prince slept in his watery lair until he was awoken a wild untamed spirit. The Ardbeg Corryvreckan. The ultimate Islay.

Corryvreckan. Repeatez afetr moi. KoRRRRyVRecken! Just the naem sendz shivres down the spiny spynes of ordinary spineless Scotch distillers. Al scotches begin vith the same threads, butt this one with its ends left unspun and unwoven. Ti also sends you spirralling head frist into a whirlpul of unimaginably ltheal toxicity and powerful intensititty (for those who insist on using preventatative instead of simply preventive) of arommas and flavoures. Simply Legendary and hence, thus and therefore the stuFF off Legends. Measure an dram inside of an Glencairn Krystal Glas. Stolzle preferably.

THE EYES: Les colores amber. Woody. Gold, but a wee bit darker. Like Canadian maple syrup and seemingly equally viscous.

THE NOSE: Roll the glass beet twin your psalms and gently warn the drink. A sniff in the Glencairn and the whirlpool magically rises in a turbulent vortexx (Reynold's Number 2300) and penetrates your lungs. Gentile Peat. Very understated. Not phenolic like Laphroaig. Very deceiving.

THE TONGUE: Strike! Aclohol. Cask strength. LoTs of it at fifty7.1 percent! Explosive. QUickly Followed by Catastrophiq. This ain't 40% Jack Daniels, Jack. Un-Chill filtred; it's all in there. wicked. Untamed. Zis is the stuuff your French grandmother never varrned you about b'cos she never saw it cummingz. You didn't know you had a Fremch Grandmother? Pay attention Huzefa laddie. Oake, Pete, diesel oil, secund hand cigar smoke from Castro's very own 88-year-old nostrills, Kandy bruthday cake, vanille, Spicee, sweet and peppery like the Naga Bhut and then some vanille and berries. And some Vanilla. Vanilla from the maturing in bourbon casks and berrys from finishings in French wine caskz. Unmistakably slaty, sorry, salty pancetta dippsed in pfish oil. I'm slurring.

THE THROAT: Finally, the finish. Dry. Long. Developinggg. Lastinggggg. Lasting long past your great great grandmotherr, bless her soul. Going down like hot sauce made with Kashmiri, Cayenne, Guajillo and Habanero Chile. Alwaysz building and evolving. You're treated to A gamut of flavours. Understand, apreciate and ejnoy them. It's hot and I simple love the burn. This scotch truly complements the mighty Uigeadail, more powerful but not as aromatique. So alike in their Ardbegness, beg your pardon, yet zo diffrunt. Unlike me this whisky exudes arroguncze.

I'm slurring more. You check my Zspellingz. You think I'm LiTt. ssZozzled! WRONG! It's just your eyes burning with jealous envy. You can tell I'm having a blast. One sip and I ask myself; why do I even bother tasting other mortal scotches? Why do I choose to embarrass myself comparing? Insisting on humiliating myself with explanations? Why are you still reading? Nothing compares. The debate ends. This is the drink that rules all drinks. Take a deep breath and dive beneath the surface of Corryvreckan to discover sophisticated swirling aromas and torrents of adventure. Hold tight and enjoy the ride. Drink Responsibly as you please.

Corryvreckan. Distinctly Ardbeg. The Ultimate Islay.

State of America's War Veterans

If you are reading this right now, you must be alive. You can thank your stars, and also your military veterans. If you think you're having a bad day, talk to someone who's been living in a nightmare. Your military veterans. Because your worst day can be better than their best day.

Gloom, despair, agony, defeat, depression and abandonment. It's the state of America's war veterans and quite possibly war veterans everywhere. I see them (or people posing as them for your sympathy) every day near my son's school. A dollar here and a dollar there. Sometimes a fiver, even a tenner if I have no change. Once in a while, I'll treat them to a McDonald's burger, fries and Coke. We as a species cherish rotten celebrities like the Kardashians and food network stars who couldn't boil an egg, yet we as a country have truly forgotten our gratefulness to the very people who fought for us and gave their lives for us. We're completely blind. We avoid them. Hate eye contact. We have abandoned them and discarded them like disposable diapers. The government cares even less; what little it does is smoke in your eyes. A deception. Yet the government spends our billions in taxes aiding Afghan and Iraqi troops and filling Karzai's coffers. If Obama can give away my hard earned thousands why can't I spend a few bucks where I want to?

They are homeless. Diseased. Suffering physically and mentally. Veterans are addicted to tobacco, alcohol and who knows what. But that's not a reason to not spare a dollar. $1. One fricking dollar. The denomination matters, but very little. What you're giving is a feeling of compassion and a ray of hope. Sadly, Memorial Day and Veterans Day have morphed into party holidays and retail sales boosters; fire the grill, let's get drunk and go buy an Ipad for the girl you just met at the bar. The only ones who remember are the ones who fought and the families that sacrificed a loved one. Give veterans a future. Invite a veteran to a local McDonald's today and spend a few minutes chatting with him.  It'll open your eyes and your mind. Many are standing hopelessly with a "Hungry" sign right outside some restaurant in Lakeland. I'm sure you'll find some in your neighborhood. No country is immune because the problem exists globally. There are many ways in which you can help. And every little bit counts. We may all learn to get along one day and end all wars. In the meantime, support your veterans today.

Living in the Darkness - America's Veterans
(Click on Image for a Larger View)

P.S.: Some of these posts take a lot of time, commitment and effort. Like this one. They can drain me emotionally. I had to aggravate my wife by growing my hair out shabbily and remaining unshaven for an extended period. I worked out in the hot sun all weekend to get ragged and physically exhausted. Finally, I willingly put myself into a depressive state to get the look of a destitute veteran facing hopelessness, while all the time remaining alert and creative enough to use the camera and lighting optimally to maximum effectiveness. It's the look on my face, the intimacy of the flag and its effect on people in real life to stop and think that makes it worth while. Sometimes I wonder if anyone gives a crap and if I'm wasting my time. But, for a good cause, I'll keep soldiering on. Thanks for your time.

Bruno Da Costa - The Three Fingered Slap

Tales From Yesteryear Series.

"YOU BOY!!!" barks Da Costa visibly agitated, pointing his finger in one direction but seemingly looking in the other. "Stand up!" Three boys on the left side and three boys from the right side of the classroom immediately stand up at attention, each one of them including myself from the last row of benches. "No, not you." My friend Ravi Jaising just ignores him like he's not even in class." Only Anish Goel, the boldest one with the thickest bullet-proof rhino hide with Kevlar reinforcement sits back down in a loud cacophony of his unmistakable laughter (A sound that, to this day, still reverberates through the hallways of my mind and the school). The others are scared stiff of the consequences of disobeying. "I am taking to you." Three more boys stand up, for a total of eight. As you guessed and confirmed from the photograph below, this guy is seriously cock-eyed. "You with the glasses, come here." Now we're getting somewhere. Both myself and Narayan (Bob) Rupani approach the towering teacher. The others breathe a sigh of relief and sit down chanting a quick prayer. "You lamboo (tall one) go back." Narayan quickly stops in his tracks and runs back to his seat. I am doomed. There's a loud chatter the entire class can hear. It's my knees knocking. "You Boy. You're the one I've been calling. Why were you talking in class?" Before I can conjure up a sorry excuse for a response, I am ordered "Take off your glasses." I take off my glasses and prepare myself for the inevitable. Three fingers come and touch my cheek, then back off and suddenly a loud "SMACK!" The elbow never moves. I have received the famous Da Costa "LAFFA" from the former boxer turned mathematics teacher. "Go back and don't talk in class again." It's over as quickly as it started. I am safe. Or so I think. I turn around and start heading back, smiling tongue-in-cheek realizing it could have been worse. I've seen him give two or three generous ones instead of just one. I've heard him take students for a ride in his car and scare the daylights out of them. Worse, it can be on his motorcycle. I've heard all kinds of horror stories. Suddenly, the dreaded "Wait!" I freeze in my tracks and turn around to face him, eyes closed. "What did your mother pack in your dabba for your lunch?" He wants to have his cake and eat my lunch too.  If I mention I have mutton sandwiches with chutney, biriyani, butter chicken and naan, he's going to steal it. Why doesn't he chow down on Rajeev Sabharwal's lunch instead of mine? I pull a fast one "Sir, my mother was not well, so she gave me leftover boiled karela bhaji, doodhi ke kotfe, stale daal from last week and baingan bharta without spices." I have to make it as unappetizing as possible. It's either that or I'm going to starve until dinner time. He's disgruntled by my response and mumbles a curse word, but fortunately doesn't call my bluff. "Tell your mother to pack something nice next time like mutton sandwiches with chutney, biriyani, butter chicken and naan. Growing boy like you requires proper nutrition. Now go." I was right. With my back facing him, I hurry back to my seat past a smirking Nihar Modi and a gloating Girish Bhandarkar and swear never to crack jokes in class again, making a cock-eyed face mimicking the Da Costa look and winking at my desk partner Narayan. We'll never change. After all we are LLBs. Lords of the Last Benches!

Bruno "Dicky" Da Costa and the Three Fingered Laffa
(Click for larger view)

I decided to do this photograph as a tribute to the beloved teacher at St. Xavier's High School. Nobody would be foolish enough to model it for me. It is an acknowledgement of respect to one of our most celebrity teachers and in no way should it be considered derogatory. The photo comprises of two photographs, one with me looking one way and another with me looking the other way without moving my head and then cloning one eye in. I towered over the camera just like Dicky would have over a student. The fingers were as close to the lens as possible making them look larger and more menacing. I am trying not to laugh here. My hair is still naturally dark brown. The grey in my hair comprised of a generous spraying of antiperspirant with powder. I didn't possess a checkered shirt circa 1970 and so I borrowed my wife's blouse (you can see that the buttons are female). You have to do these things you know for the right effect.

"Dicky" as he was affectionately called, was loved by everyone because he was funny, but he was equally despised for obvious reasons. I hold no grudges against him. The above story was just that, a fairy-tale. But these things did happen in reality to many of my friends, including myself. The times were different, the place was different. Whether it was right or wrong can be debated for another three generations. Some things you forget in life, such as what you had for dinner last night, what suit you wore at your wedding, but a true Xavierite never forgets the 10 glorious years he spends at St. Xavier's High School. Da Costa retired from Xavier's after many years of teaching generations of young children at my beloved school.

I could do a similar tribute to all the titans at my school including Mr. Raphael, Father Jose Luis Aran, Father Bulchand, Father Emanuelle Tasso and Father Lancy Rodricks and each one of them would bring an outpouring of emotions from me and my friends. Here's to you Da Costa. Have a great day!

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

Royal Indians - Butter Chicken and Lamb Vindaloo

Royal Indian Moghlai Cuisine is popular the world over and especially so in our home. I am not about reveal every intricate technique of how to prepare these incredibly full-flavoured dishes on my blog, but I shall disclose all the secret the ingredients. Ready with your pencil and paper? The Murgh Makhani has chicken in it and the Vindaloo has lamb in it. Now that we have the secret ingredients out of the way, you can enjoy the photos and savour the e-aromas.

Murgh Makhani or Butter Chicken is probably the most beloved of all India dishes, arguably superseded in fame only by Tandoori Chicken or Mutton Biriyani. Like all Moghlai cuisines it has its roots deeply intertwined in Persian cuisine. There aren't many Indian restaurants that don't prepare some version of Butter Chicken. Sadly, commercialization has taken it's toll on this famous dish and many restaurants serve heart-wrenchingly substandard versions of the dish, so much so that it can be it unpalatable. Any restaurant worth its salt should be able to prepare this heavenly, creamy indulgence with relative ease, although the version that involves preparing tandoori chicken first infinitely multiplies the time required to make it.

Murgh Makhani (Butter Chicken), made with the softest organic chicken breast tenderloin, San Marzano tomatoes and paste, Costa Rican ginger, fresh local garlic, Kashmiri chilies, Spanish paprika, Peshawari kasuri methi, fresh cilantro, heavy cream, freshly roasted Indian cumin, Spanish saffron and Kerry Soft Irish butter. Exquisitely served with fresh garlic buttered naan from the grill. Noritake Queen's Platinum Collection dishes adds elegant grandeur complementing the dish.

Shahi Murgh Makhani - Butter Chicken

If you aren't agonizing just yet for not being invited, then I present to you Australian Lamb Vindaloo with Saffron Peas Pulav, Tatzagi chutney and fresh cucumbers. Spiceeeeee. This grandest of all dishes is considerably more complex to master and deservedly so. An art form, its extravagant magnificence will humiliate French cuisine. If you think cooking is a chore and you don't have at least six to eight hours to invest in its creation, this dish is not your cup of teaand you shouldn't attemp it. Preparation and technique should be meticulous and short cuts considered a cardinal sin or else the results will be unforgiving. There are no accidents! But execute it with patience, love and care and food connoisseurs shall be rewarded with a dish that Emperor Shah Jahan himself would have traded his beloved wife Mumtaz Begum along with the Taj Mahal for just one bite. Yes, It's that good. This dish commands the respect of butter chicken. Don't go looking for it in just any restaurant. Id Mubarak to all my friends.

A tip: In India this dish is actually cooked with goat meat. Therefore, many Indians find the strong flavours and aromas of readily available New Zealand lamb to be uninviting. If you live in the western hemisphere, goat meat is hard to find. Australian lamb is not as fragrant as New Zealand lamb and serves as a great substitute for goat meat. Significantly more flavourful than goat, I certainly love New Zealand lamb best.

Lamb Vindaloo

Food is about sharing with your family and friends. On both occasions I invited my American friends to grace our dinner table with their presence. Needless to say, they were most delighted. now, go share something special you love to make with someone extraordinary in your life. Happy cooking!

Like the story,photographs or want recipes? Call or email for a print or rights to use the photographs. Your support is truly appreciated.

The Mummy of the Masai

Hi, This is one of my favourite photographs. I had taken this Mummy photograph in May, and written about it to one of my friends, so I'll take the short-cut and post it here with a few updated thoughts. Some readers may object to the language.

This mummy photo was not even on my to-do list. But I have had this mask sitting next to my bed for many years since I was attending Ole Miss. For the record, the mask originates from South Africa or Kenya and was given to me as a gift by my father about 20 years ago. It had been above my head where I sleep for many years. The name of the mask is "Masai". As I have always told people "The spirit of the Masai protects me from bad dreams and evil women." The Masai did such a great job in college, that in fact he kept ALL women out of my bed, not just the evil ones. Bad Masai, Bad! Terrifying dreams did occur occasionally. (Laughing).

Back to the photo. So all of a sudden a couple of days ago, I run into the Masai, and immediately yelled "Photo op!" This couldn't be a self portrait. I am too fat and too hairy to be a Mummy. There was no question in my mind that Rajeev was the person for this job. Point blank he refused. I used reverse psychology on him, and told him he was too chicken for the job. That, a $2 bribe and a new Yamaha Trumpet convinced him. I also told him nobody would see his face. He finally agreed. Here's was my skinny specimen with no hair. A bandage wrapped mummy was right out. That was too mainstream and stereotypical, and nobody would know there was a real boy inside. I had to show skin and bone. Take a look at his shoulder bone, ribs and skinny arms!!! Look malnourished, right? This kid eats more than I do.

The eyes too, had to be present. This was not a dead mummy, but a Mummy that came to life as soon as his slumber was disturbed. And then bang, his eyes opened. That is the moment that photo is supposed to be taken, just as the offender opened the coffin earlier having violated the sacredness of the tomb. The lighting had to be perfect, with dark and bright areas. I chose a half lit face to show the mummy coming from the dark underworld to the bright living world.

Rajeev could not have shot this photo of me as a Mummy, as he had to stand over me, point the camera straight down, not use the tripod, not move a muscle and then shoot. The kid can barely control my camera even when it is on the tripod!!! The light had to be coming from where it was or else you would see the shadow from my legs standing over him. The beauty of this shot is that it came out exactly as I envisioned. And it was all done in 3 shots!!!! One shot to check the light and exposure, and by Toutatis, I got it right the first time. By now, Rajeev was pissed off that this heavy mask was on his face and he had to balance it on his nose, as it kept sliding off, Therefore, I couldn't shoot for 15-20 minutes anyway, as he threatened to leave. If he left, no mummy shot ever!!! So I take the second shot. I thought everything was in, but the tip of the mask at the top was cut off. Too bad. Again, I this was shot with a 4 megapixel camera, so no room for error or cropping (I have a 12 MP now). I also had Nisha (very reluctantly) holding a flashlight blasted into his eyes so they were visible, reminding Rajeev every 10 seconds, he was a fool to do this photo shoot. I quickly realized the eyes were not going to show (even without looking at the photo). That means the mummy was going to be dead and useless. Just another photograph shot at the museum. But this mummy had to be alive and come back from the dead, just as I opened the coffin for the first time. Rajeev was ready to leave. I told him, "Fine, take the mask off", so he was comfortable, and then I shot him one more time without the mask with the exact lighting. (you guessed it - so I could photoshop his eyes and the direction of the catchlight in his eyes remained true to the original mummy shot making it more believable. Three shots is all it took. It took minimal amounts of processing, I cloned the eyes, and converted to B&W, as this mummy's casket was opened in the early 1900s when most mummies were discovered and there was no colour film. The casket shadows came from making Rajeev lie down on a pillow in a cardboard box. Neat huh?

What did my lovely wife think? "I cannot believe you are going to do this terrible thing to my poor little innocent baby boy." She saw him lying on the floor and knew what was going on, but she has since refused to look at the photo. "I DON'T want to see it!!!"

Flashback!!! The night before the photo shoot, I also asked Sairah (my wife) if she had any really big gold earrings. She said what for? I said "Well, I just need them for this and that". She showed me a couple; she did not have any that I liked. I asked Rajeev take off his shirt, lie down, wear the mask and see how it fitted. Everything seemed perfect. Then I told Sairah, the gold was to cover his "royal nipples" in case they were visible, since this photo was not about child porn. "YOU ARE NOT GOING TO DO THIS TO MY POOR LITTLE INNOCENT CHILD!!!!" Fortunately, the mask had covered his nipples.

I could go on, but as you see, a seemingly mundane shot takes a great deal of vision and planning to come out the way I want it to. An evil mind at work I suppose. People just don't get it. You are not going to walk into my studio and walk out in 30 seconds with a photograph. BTW, I just found out, Walmart sells a photoshoot, a 8x10 and a bunch of 4x6s for under 8 bucks. It is my intention to not compete with Walmart or Sears. I am deliberately not going to give you a 10 minute photo shoot. That's what Walmart is for. I want to give each person I photograph a legacy shot. A photo that you want to leave for your descendants and children and their children. Good or bad, like them or not, I am fanatically proud of my photos. If you don't find them to be controversial or unique, go elsewhere. There are a lot of great photographers around.

I recently also shot a macro shot of a single "Cheez-It"; let's not even get started about how I took that one, and how much time I spent thinking about it. It wasn't a lot, but it wasn't like bang and we're done. Fortunately, the Cheez-It didn't complain too much about having to sit in one spot, and it became a tasty snack along with a few more of its siblings. I hope you had fun reading this as much as I had writing it. I would love to hear your comments about this one.

Disclaimer: No children were harmed or mutilated in the production of this photo.

Take care.

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

Pani Maharaj - Swami at the Ganges

Pani Maharaj - Swami at the Ganges
Shot by my son, Rajeev Chachad

This self-portrait is one of my favourite photos. It is not a true self portrait as it was clicked very reluctantly by my son. I bribed him $5 to do it. It does define me as a person of Indian origin, so much so that I decided to make it part of my logo in addition to the Marathi Devanagari script font.

The Ganga. The holiest river in the world. The most polluted river in the world. The Swami is performing "Surya Namaskar - paying homage to the Sun" whilst bathing and meditating at Benares, on the banks of the Holy Ganges. The time is early morning. The sun is rising to his right.  You can see the waters flowing in the background. This photo was shot in my studio.

The idea of shooting a saint or sinner (take your pick) bathing in the Ganges has been swirling on and off in my head for decades.  Ever since I unknowingly dispersed glasses of refreshingly cold, dangerously nauseating, potently toxic Ganges water to my friends after a game of cricket, soccer or "aba dhubi" around 1978. You see my father had gone to the Ganges and filled up bottles of water and brought it home.  He decided to store it in the refrigerator along with bottles of drinking water. Well, nobody told me!!! Since our household was one of the few that had a refrigerator with clean, filtered, boiled and ice-cold water, I invited all my friends over for refreshments and served them - you guessed it - the toxic Ganges water!!!  Later, my father questioned me about where the holy water was, and the deed was revealed.  Fortunately, nobody died or even fell sick as a result.

Back to the photograph.  The photo was shot using a single source of light to my right and front, with a white card to my right to simulate ambient light which may reflect off the waters or diffuse light from the sky. I wet my hair to show that I had dipped myself a few times under the surface. Having set everything, I had to transform my mood from being myself, directing my son about when to click the shutter, into a swami face that exhibited no expression or an expression of  serene peacefulness in a deep meditative trance within 12 seconds. I practiced this several times but I had no idea what I would look like. Finally, I went and shot the waters of Lake Morton in Lakeland, Florida and gently introduced them around the Swami.  I even had the brilliant idea of having a human corpse floating in the background for authenticity, but I was sternly warned by family members not to do so for fear of embarrassment of living in the same household as me. The end result and effort was very pleasing.

On a historical note, Pani Maharaj was a freak, quack, crooked Swami in Bombay when I was growing up who whispered tantric mantras into jugs of water and the drinker of this elixir was miraculously cured of all illness and maladies.  All at a price; most of his clientele were rich, affluent Indian ladies with too much time and money on their hands. It was rumoured that the problem he fixed most frequently was infertility as most of the women who visited him regularly ended up getting pregnant!!!

Dhanyavad and Namaste!