Khan Market

Much as I hate the city, its people, the hot summer, the traffic, etc, there are certain things I love about Delhi. Like Khan Market. I’m there every week, once, twice, thrice…
It has my second favourite bookshop in the city, simply called The Bookshop (I know that everyone goes gaga over Bahrisons but I can’t ever find anything there!). The first favourite is called Fact & Fiction in Priya Cinema Complex, sadly out of the way now.
Back to Khan Market. When there, never miss a coffee at Café Turtle, the handpainted green and blue café perched above a bookstore called Full Circle. It even has a little terrace, which is a dream sit out on sunny winter afternoons. It’s fast becoming our regular ‘adda’ in the city, though it’s quite an expensive one. You get sinful iced creations for almost 100 bucks and divine camomile tea for Rs 55. Food there is another matter altogether. It’s vegetarian and pricey. But who goes there for food anyway?
Close on the heels of Turtle comes Big Chill, an Italian restaurant whose Hollywood movie posters are as famous as its food. Again expensive, with at least 20 mins waiting time (This ain’t an easy place to live, babe). Is the wait worth it? For the food, not anymore. For the desserts, anyday.
The other ‘when-in-Khan-Market-must-visit’ store is Empire. It’s a chicken, meat products and frozen foods shop. Once you take home stuff from Empire and eat, you are spoilt forever. No other chicken or mutton comes close to the taste.
The king of the backlanes is Khan Chacha, whose kebabs are mouthwatering though you need to be really hungry to stand in the gully, brave the sparks from his seekh and eat your heart out. He opens shop only after four and is there till nine. The kebabs are melt in mouth variety.
They also have hip clothes and shoe stores like Bizarre, Anokhi, Finesse etc, but few of us go to KM for clothes or even shoes. We go there to hang out and people watch. And boy, what people can you watch!
For starters, there are the ladies who lunch (and talk very loudly while they do so) in their solitaires and Chanel shades. Not to mention the Louis Vuitton bags. They step out of their huge cars and strut across the market with a proprietorial air. There’s a bewildered maid trailing behind sometimes, holding on to bags, bottles, half the apartment and what surprise…a sweet little kid!
Then there are the desi memsahabs for whom the sabjiwala keeps Australian apples. God help you (Am calling Shiva!Now!) if you ever come in her purposeful path. You’ll be cast aside like a hot potato as the shop guy hurries to service ‘medam,’ who only has to flick a finger, and her driver/Man Friday magically appears, to carry the load back to the car.
The other species that hangs around with that air of ownership are the stray dogs. You’ll find them curled up in their baskets or sleeping in front of certain shops and in winter you’ll find them cosying up in their bright red coats, bought with contributions from all the shopkeepers.
But the species that has really taken over the place are the firangs. Pardon the expression, not being racist and all that but wherever you turn, there is a white face staring back. Makes you realise that Delhi has an expat population that’s HUGER than you had ever thought. Come summer and they can all be found on the Turtle terrace, sunning themselves fearlessly. Heatstrokes be damned!
You spot the foreign students, the tourist, the professor type and the usual ambassador/highcomissioner’s wife, who doesn’t have to take care of her kitchen but shops for salad ingredients like leeks and apricots. The shopkeeper scurries towards her, even if she isn’t quite the demanding one. She sweetly smiles, ignores the fuss and walks on, dropping a little hello to ex-model and socialite Feroze Gujral, out on an afternoon stroll in Roberto Cavalli pants. Interesting place, haan?

What I do when I am vella...

I make lists. So here's a list of things I want to do RIGHT NOW:

* Go home.
* Stop working (That I have followed)
* Sit on my balcony and listen to Mark Knoffler
* Buy a dozen books
* Be in Goa
* Eat mom's sponge cake with choco syrup
* Get a sexy haircut
* Chat online on messenger
* Read blogs I can't open
* Watch old Hollywood classics
* Buy clothes
* Meet mom and dad
* Be at the airport, ready to take off
* Get a pedicure
* Go to Bombay. Forever.

One Size Bigger

I’ve been thin all my life. Stick-insect, that’s what Bridget Jones would call me, even though I don’t have the figure to show for it. All my life, I have been responsible for increasing sales at the children’s section of most stores, and the person behind the nasty comments about the useless women’s section in the comment book.
And all my life, I have felt left out of girlie conversations when it came to weight watch. While other girls talked about reducing their hips and buying jeans one size larger or celebrated when certain body parts went a size smaller, I sulked and sat silently, having nothing to add to the conversation. Among other things, I haven’t progressed beyond a certain waist size, the last many, many years. More than being boring, it has meant fewer excuses to go shopping.
The Girth Goddess seems to have finally looked up.
Some Sundays ago, a friend and me trotted off to buy some clothes in a Gurgaon mall. I spotted a pair of black trousers (ultimate weakness) and confidently trudged off to the changing room with MY size. Imagine my alarm, when it refused to move up my hips, no matter how much I tugged. Must have hogged too much at lunch, I thought, and gave up.
I went back the other day to the same shop, to try on the same pair of black trousers, in the same size (and didn't have a heavy lunch)…and finally had the all-important, must-have female experience. The trousers refused to budge beyond a certain point.
IT HAD HAPPENED FINALLY!
The waist had wavered! It had moved beyond the S/XS size and gone straight to M. I had a moment of natural female consternation. Yikes! I had put on weight! I’m fat! Must stop eating! Must join the gym, etc etc.
But at the bottom of it all, I was overjoyed. My excuse was here at last. I rushed out of the changing room and demanded gleefully that I needed a size larger. There was a perfect figured stick insect standing bang opposite who eyed me with horror but I was beyond care. This was an occasion to celebrate. With perhaps the entire lot of medium sized trousers!

Strangest Sunday Ever

Was determined to have a very relaxed Sunday by not moving out of the house or cooking or getting worked up about the dust (tough one, that) or fighting with P. Bathed, ensured fridge had things to munch when hungry and plonked myself on the bed to read. Had two new books to start with plus another half-read one. Fixed a hot chocolate and a plate of fabulous cookies and homemade cakes, sent over a friend of mom-in-law’s. In other words, was ready to enter the world of sloth and sluggishness when…tantarrrra……..the doorbell rang.
A man from Mother’s Diary stood there with his card. The purpose? Can deliver milk packets to my house every, he had come to tell me that. Fantastic! Couldn’t he have slipped the card under the door instead of making me get up? Well, obviously not. What if memsaab wasn’t able to understand, even if the card said free home delivery! I thanked him for his wisdom, plonked back and began chapter one. Georgette Heyer seemed perfect for the day, having heard a lot from Anita about ‘These Old Shades’, the one I was about to start.
Things were going fine. The hot choc was fabulous, the cookies were getting over and the Duke was being super nice to his page Léon, leaving no cause for doubt that this boy actually was a girl (If you don’t understand this bit, never mind). Even P was in best behaviour and left the house almost as soon as he stirred, to play squash, have lunch with people and so on.
I fixed another hot choc, snuggled in more on the bed and waited for Leon to become Leonie and the Duke to fall in love. And then, ha ha, the doorbell rang. Two little girls had come to collect money for their annual school fair. I parted with the money and silently abused the school. A fair in this hot summer? Were they mad or what!
From then on, the doorbell never gave up. It seemed to attract anybody passing by with ‘Hey! Here I am! Gimme a go! Now!’
There was the neighbour’s son (borrow Calvin and Hobbes), the plumber (why do they turn up only when you don’t want them?), the cablewala (some reason), the watchman with the maintenance bill (shock and awe), new neighbour and wife, coming to enquire if our driver knew another reliable one, lady from building inviting me to join her kitty party group (Very hard to shake off). By the end of it, I had packed up the books, given up on the bed and gone back to the living room. Why read when you can play such an exciting game as ‘answer the door’?
Have no idea if the Duke fell in love!

I used to be a journalist once. Now I work in a women’s mag

If you think the above statement makes me bitter, hah! The truth is far from it. Ever since I started working for a women’s mag, I’ve got loads of interesting responses from people. Here are some of the best:

Building airhead: OOOOOOOOH!!! So you know all about beauty and fashion!

Very Important Business Journalist: So you guys actually have an office? Do you guys have much work? (Nope. I go there to get my hair done. Yessir, Actual answer.)

My Mother: At last, you’re working in a place I understand (I worked in two/three websites before this. That explains it.)

My Brother: Why the f@#$ do you have to work there of all the places? (OK. Rolling Stones, here I come!)

PR: But you don’t cover fashion? Oh…all of you don’t? Oh…I thought all of you did!

Old uncle: So you know all the secrets of wimmenn, eh?

My journo teacher: Well, you worked in a newspaper once…(The rest is left unsaid, in Sword of Damocles fashion)

Close Friend (Guy): You have the numbers of all these models, then…?

Close Friend (Girl): What I want to know is, do you get any discounts on the products you shoot?

Women’s Development NGO: You’re doing a story on violence against women? Really? Why would you people be interested? What’s your name….blah blah.

Me: I’m still getting my hair done.

If...

(The song's been in my head since yesterday, so I thought I would get it out. Been listening to this for years but it still gets those goosepimples going. The perfect laidback evening, close pals, crates of beer and mind-in-a-haze song.)

If I were a swan, I'd be gone...
If I were a train, I'd be late
And if I were a good man...
I'd talk with you more often than I do

If I were to sleep, I could dream...
If I were afraid, I could hide
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain

If I were the moon, I'd be cool...
If I were a book, I would bend
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends

If I were alone, I would cry...
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry
And if I go insane will you still let me join in the game?

If I were a swan, I'd be gone
If I were a train, I'd be late again..
If I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do

Designer Births

At the rate things are turning into boutiques, I'm scared soon I'll have no money to spend anywhere, even the local bania store.
Just now, a PR girl called to inform me about the latest 'Birthing Boutique' in town, in a 'I'm about to give you the scoop of the century' voice. I gulped as she went on about baby pink walls, a cafe and a mom & baby bonding rooms. Had visions of heavily pregnant mothers wearing four inch heels and led screaming to the delivery room in Gucci and Dior type clothes.
Soft PR voice went on to coo about the piped music, satin sheets (not exactly that but something similar), gourmet meals and designer cots. 'They do have doctors around...?,' I ventured. 'Of course!' she switched to a voice that was now talking about incidental, unpleasant stuff, 'It is, after all, a hospital!'
There it was! A hospital! Why didn't they tell me before!
Now, I'm all for bright, cheery looking hospitals that make you feel comfortable from the moment you step in. Even if they cost a bomb. And if the doctor is a George Clooney lookalike, well....(allow me a moment to drool).
To get back to the 'Birthing Boutique.' I was a little bothered by the name at first. Then I thought, at the rate the world is going designer, it's wonderful to have a mall cum spa with a hospital attached, where you can shop, have a massage and come back home with a baby! Why not?

MAN WHO COOKS DOESN'T CLEAN UP

There’s something sexy about a guy who knows his way around the kitchen. And I mean a guy who knows his way around garlic and onion, pots and pans, strainers and knife-holders, the list can go on…
This is the kind of guy who switches on some great music, lights a cigarette, places the ashtray at the edge of the kitchen platform, doesn’t bother wearing an apron and chops onions faster than even TV chefs can!
It may be grimy in there but this guy isn’t in the least bit bothered as he goes about blanching, tossing, sautéing, crisping and frying. He’s focused with the assurance of someone who knows the end result is delicious.
All this while you sit at the dining table, comfortably flipping through the pages of Cosmopolitan, watching him get delicious and dirty and try not to think what comes next…
Achtung Baby!
Keep aside those salacious thoughts. What comes next is a clean-up job. Chances are that you’re the Kitchen God’s Wife. Or the Live-in maid. Your job is to undo what he has done. In other words, splotched tomato puree on your tiles, sent little green peas flying everywhere and in that heart-stopping demo of omelette tossing, fed some eggie bits to the burner. There’s also some mashed potato stuck to the sink but you’ll deal with that later.
The Kitchen God, of course, is oblivious to all this. He can only see the gourmet meal he's fixed, bottles of wine and a thank-you smile on your face.
You can see mops, tissues and wipes.
For the moment, you’re silently regretting the day you first cooed at the Kitchen God’s cappuccino and slobbered over his seekh kababs. Your romance has taken a new direction since that fateful day. He has become the God of the Good Bite. You have turned into a human mop that follows him around.

Read Alert!

I love reading. Will read anything under the sun at any given point. Bedtime, breakfast table, potty, train, bus, autos, flights, restaurants, coffee shops, bookshops, the doctors, movie theatre, five-star lounge, interstate bus stop…you name the place and I have pored over the book there. Apart from being my favourite hobby, a book is my guardian angel when I wan’t to avoid or escape or forget an undesirable situation.

Take for instance, bad movies. In Bombay, we were a huuuuge group of friends and sometimes when the bonding reached great heights all of us went to a movie together, whether you wanted to watch that particular film or not.

But I had my way out! When the film happened to be intolerable (Jackie Chan, Govinda, horror film, highly intellectual type movie, etc) all I did to survive death by boredom was to sit outside in the lobby with a book and pretend it had to return to the library the very next day and I had to finish it, or else…

Some may call it insecurity or impatience but if I have to wait anywhere even for a minute, I need something to read on my lap. It works wonders. Nobody bothers you with silly questions like what’s the time, are you waiting for the dentist, where’s the loo, do you have two legs, etc, because you never look up! You’re also spared the forced ‘polite conversation’ that invariably happens when three or more people are waiting in a confined space with nothing much to do. They probably think I’m the rude, anti-social type. Suits me fine.

At home, books have always been my road to salvation. If P and I have had a fight, I promptly open the most romantic or hilarious stuff I can find and dig deep. This has two advantages. I forget fight has happened and that he is a male who won’t analyse our relationship to the minutest detail that it deserves. A good read also keeps me silent. Thus ensuring peace and happiness all around!

Books are my knight in a jacket when I’m travelling — by air or road. Since I’m God’s chosen one to sit next to the strangest people on earth, books come handy in more ways than one. On a flight for instance, I forget that I’m suspended mid-air. And I can avoid conversation. I don’t know what is it with me, but ninety percent of the times, the person next to me is a lady who wants to know every detail of my life, a man who creepily asks if I’m going (?) for business or pleasure or someone who hasn’t bathed in three months.
I once sat next to a teenager on a Bombay-Goa flight who wanted to speak about her love for Aamir Khan non-stop. At such times, a book is the best protection. The fatter the better. Look serious, turn the pages and ignore. When airhostess approaches, distractedly pick up with orange juice/water giving impression that you are lost to the outside world.

Golden rule: Don’t chuckle to yourself, however funny the book is. It elicits questions like, ‘Aap kyun has rahi hai?’ to even ‘Everything alright, you not crying are you?’

Heartless, am I? Thing is, I have no desire to form strong attachments in four hours flat. Unless of course it’s a super-hot man. No one like that has ever sat next to me. Never!

Beautiful Girl

Why do they become beauty queens, I wonder, as I watch her, tired, trying to catch up on a quick nap in a room full of a dozen people. The simplest answer would be the glamour, fame and money that follow especially when you inevitably land Bollywood. But hey, what about the gruelling life that comes attached?
Standard beauty queen shift post contest-win includes: Shoots, shoots and more shoots, with appearances at events thrown in. You are under contract with the company that organised the contest, so you can’t even squeak when called to work — whether it’s your mother’s birthday or an upset stomach or lack of sleep.
For that extra cherry on top, the shoots are back to back, usually from the crack of dawn till late evening. She needs to look good (and feel good, coz no matter how much make-up you have on, if you’re feeling like shit, it shows). One shoot is followed by the other, as the company has many magazines and papers where they would like your mug plastered, now that they have you under their thumb for a year.
But she can’t complain. After all, she volunteered for this. She mentioned in her first interview after being ‘crowned’ how it was always her dream to win, how she would pirouette in front of the mirror for hours as a nine-year-old, and so on…
At the hotel where she is shooting, the PR girl comes up to congratulate with a beautiful bouquet and asks how she is doing. Great! On top of the world! She replies with that eye-sparkling smile which by now comes to her with unpractised ease. Only it feels far from great. “All I want right now is home food and my own bed,” she whispers to the fellow winner, who’s having her hair murdered for the fantasy shot next.
Home, the place she left three years back for ‘further studies’ that turned into modelling stints, suddenly seems very far away. She thinks of her kid sister, screaming with excitement into the phone, after she won the contest. The wardrobe they shared back at home would total what she was going to wear for this one single shot — Gown: Rs 40,000 plus, shoes: Rs 2,500 plus, bag: Rs 5,000.
She thinks of getting her sister down to shop with the complimentary gift vouchers from the hi-fashion stores, given to her after the win. But where’s the time? Her sister would have to bunk college and she would have no time, shuttling between fittings with designers, shoots and preparations for the international contest less than a month away. But she is missing home, more than she ever did in the last three years.
How would it feel to run away from all this? To chuck her no-carbs diet and gorge on some rice and prawns? How would it feel to not wear make-up for a day, sit with oil in her hair and not smile? How would it feel to wake up late and not have bronzers and creams slathered all over her five times a day? How would it feel not to act like the diva she is not all the while? She is surprised by her state of confusion. Wasn’t this what she had worked towards? How could she let a slight hectic schedule upset all that?
It’s time to wake up. There’s a reporter from one of the papers. Time to remember her lines and that sparkling smile.