A happy, average middle class family living in Calcutta with a daughter they cherish. One fine day, she’s found, lying in a pool of blood, brutally raped and murdered. She's 14. A horrible and undeserved end to an innocent life.
Years later, when the man who committed the crime is about to be executed, perhaps the family breathes a tiny sigh of relief. Their little daughter is finally getting the justice she deserved. But hey, suddenly it’s not about justice for their daughter, the victim, Hetal Parikh. It’s justice for the murderer that they’re talking about.
If there’s one news item that simply boils my blood these days it’s the stayed execution of rapist and murderer Dhananjoy Chatterjee in Kolkata.
I fail to understand why so-called sensible people like Aparna Sen and co. have filed clemency pleas on behalf of a man who raped and brutally murdered a 14 year old girl. Change it to life imprisonment, they’ve argued. For god's sake, why?
By what logic does this man deserve pardon? That he wasn't in his senses when he did it? That he has already been punished by being in the prison for years? That he repents what he has done?
People are never short of strange arguments. Check out this inane quote by the defence counsel in this NDTV story.
'Please don’t teach children this hunger for blood,' he says. What nonsense is he talking about? And what nonsense are self-righteous intellectuals like Aparna Sen and Mahasweta Devi talking about? Would they appeal for clemency if the victim had been any of their daughters?
To me pardoning a rapist almost looks like encouraging the multitude of perverts lurking out there. Go ahead, commit that crime. You can repent later in jail and there’s always some human rights activist type waiting to bail you out!
And why should they hang the rapist only after his poor, old parents are dead? What about the girl's parents who have lived a nightmare all these years? 'My son couldn’t have done such a thing,’ the rapist's father wailed in front of Calcutta Press Club according to a report. Poor man. Yes, we never think anyone close to us, anyone we love, can do anything heinous. But is that argument enough for pardon? And where does human rights come in here?
It's amazing how intelligent, educated people lobbying for someone who has committed the worst crime possible. I shudder to think how Hetal Parikh would’ve endured the last moments of her life. How come human rights doesn’t figure there?

If you suspect that the man your friend is enamoured with is nothing more than an extravagant planner and big talker, do you tell her? Do you risk years of friendship, wardrobe sharing, cribbing, laughing, movie-going, male bashing, pub-hopping, gossiping and shoulder lending over a man who you know is not exactly what she thinks he is?
Do you worry over her, wonder whether she is making the biggest mistake of her life and confront her with what you think is the truth, at the cost of your friendship? Or do you tell yourself that this is the first stable relationship she’s ever had, so let her be?
Do you convince yourself that no matter what his faults may be, this man, who is visibly uncomfortable with you or any of her other close female friends, really adores, even worships her?
Perhaps you do. Because hers is one of those friendships you value. Your heart tells you that’s the reason you should be upfront with her. Your head tells you, you’ve gone through this before and you know you'll hit a wall.
She believes in him, in his extra-large plans, in his self-important voice. Yes, she’s the same girl who laughed at people who talked big but she isn’t laughing now, she’s listening. And she’s a part of his plans. Willingly.
So you tell yourself it’s not worth losing sleep over. Nobody’s perfect. Someday, you hope, she’ll see. More than anything, you hope she’ll not see too late. More than anything, you hope she’ll be happy. Even if it's with the Extravagant Planner.

Every Sunday I call my parents in Calcutta. I call them every other night of the week as well but the Sunday morning/afternoon call is a ritual that’s been followed since the time I’ve been away from home.
Since Sunday at my parents' means food followed by more food, the conversation naturally revolves around it.
And inevitably plunges me into the depths of gloom and homesickness. At least for sometime.
When I lived with the in-laws in the veggie house, my mom would tactfully refrain from mentioning the non-veg part of the Sunday menu. Since it is usually All Flesh day, with a dal thrown in, I wouldn't be easily fooled.
Knowing fully well the consequences, all I had to do was press dad a bit and he’d start rattling off: chicken curry, two types of fish, and oh I don’t know how I’m going to eat all this because your mom also made keema paranthas for breakfast.
By this time I’d be drooling enough to flood a small country and choking an urge to rush to airport and take first flight out to Cal.
I do this to myself every Sunday. And yesterday was a double dose. Anita lovingly called to ask if I wanted Hilsa, there was an overdose of it at her place. Nope, said I feebly, stomach rumbling. The vegetarians are visiting.
Called the parents afer that. They were lazing after a very very late lunch. Guess what the mother had cooked? Smoked Hilsa.

The more I live in Delhi, the more I learn. Years ago when I came here, I was an ignoramus who preferred that crabby island-full-of-buildings with sea attached to this wide-road Greenland. Now, after four years, I’m a wise cat. Where else but in Delhi would I learn the art of showing off? The Capital has such well-trained show offs that you can’t help but admire. They’ve the ability to slip in ‘certain somethings’ in casual conversationa — like summer in phoren, children in Modern, house in GK with open kitchen, saris by Suneet (Varma, silly!), etc. And you have to hand it to them. Making people think you were born draped in designer yards, that your 1.3 crore house is really too small and even your little pups have always been dripping diamonds is no easy task!
Of course, for every classy show off act, there are 100 loud Aunty No.Ones, who are so artless that they sound like they were reading from a shopping list! I of course, am learning the class act.
Then there’s driving. I admit I’m no good behind the wheels but when I finally start, I’d know all about How To Get Ahead Of Other Cretins On The Road. It’s been my daily education on the wide, well paved, car-infested streets of the Capital. Honk, shove in, more honk, more shove, dent, yell, more dent, get off car, say you know who I am, get in car, repeat act, vrooooom….
Delhi has also opened my eyes to weddings. Had I not come to this city and attended 5000 weddings by now, I’d have thought that the Gujjus did it best (am not even mentioning us Bongs. With that clown like topor we are the pits. Am serious) in Turf Club. I’d have never realised that a Wedding Extravaganza means driving two hours to reach a farmhouse with 7000 invitees, jostling for food, dancing to Punj Pop in a corner and admiring a Lancer tied with a red bowon a revolving dias. And a bride and groom somewhere
So you see I’m really glad that I came here. If this is not education, what is?

PS: With due apologies to Hekate, Cafe Turtle, Bookshop, Fact & Fiction, Priya Market and my own home.

Ma always had a foolproof way to make me smile when I was a kid. The moment she saw me low or feeling a little sickie, all she had to do was bake her special ultra-soft sponge cake and I’d be smiling again. Me and bro loved ma’s ultra-soft sponge cake. And unlike most other kids we knew, we didn’t want it with chocolate sauce on top or whipped cream or orange sauce or wafers or anything…
Ma would cut the cake into bite-sized bits and put it into two separate cake tins. One for brother and one for me. We could just open the fridge and pick up a piece whenever we wanted to without having to take it out, cut it, etc. Invariably brother would run through his own share and attack mine. And continues to do so.
If anyone asks me what’s my favourite (and respectable) comfort food, it has to be that sponge cake. Just the way ma makes it. Last year I was quite thrilled to see a similar version in Barista but of course it came nowhere near the original version. I even tried it at home recently but let’s just say it didn’t quite have the ‘mother’s touch.’
The other ‘comfort’ dish would be khichdi, made the Bong way, served with ‘aloo bhaja’ and eaten with a dollop of butter on top. This was my fave thing to eat when I was ill or home from hostel. Also something that I now try to recreate when it’s raining outside. Can get the khichdi almost right, though a bit watery but I shy off at making aloo bhaja.
It’s the thought of throwing anything in a kadhaiful of oil…I can hear all health and nutrition related things I’ve read over the years kickboxing inside my head. I’ve reached a compromise: I can eat deep-fried stuff but I won’t be the one making it. Strange right? Can’t help it.
When it comes to comfort foods there’s another, absolutely disgusting favourite. Even the brother who doesn’t know the meaning of the word disgusting (watch him attach a chicken leg and you’ll know) shudders at this. It’s my ultimate sit-with-book-n-laze-on-Sunday-morning food: Mashed potatoes plus boiled egg cut into bits plus mustard plus haldiram bhujia plus butter. Served in a big bowl. Garnished with chopped green chillies.
Revolting right? Luvvit!

I spent my Sunday with that Faith No More song playing in my head: Easy like Sunday morning…
Well I know that song that as much to do with Sunday morning as I have to do with driving but I love that line. It sums up how a Sunday should be: Easy…
Yesterday was like that. And strangely enough I didn’t spend it lolling around in bed, having endless mugs of chai and lounging listelessly. I spent half of it cooking (toiling in the kitchen, slaving over the hot stove…get the picture you lazy Sunday loungers).
By the time I finished filling half the fridge with curries, chutneys and a pasta dish, Madhur Jaffrey’s face had a yellow haldi smudge across it, my fingers reeked of garlic and the microwave top had black spots thanks to the jumpy little mustard in hot oil.
I was sweating, needed a shower again but very happy (the prospect of the fridge being full for the next three days always makes me happy). There was beer chilling in the fridge and a nice book to look forward to. The afternoon couldn’t have been better.
It made me wonder how my ‘wonderful’ Sundays have changed over the years but that’s another blog. But I never really thought that I would wake up on a Sunday morning, spend just an hour with the papers and the rest cooking and feeling happy.
Relaxation? Or just the freedom to do what you want to in your own home? I choose to think it’s the latter.
When I lived on my own in Bombay and had a roommate who was one of those natural-born cooks, I never thought I was the 'cooking type'. But then I never thought that one day I would be married, buy a house, want children, spend my holidays cleaning the house…(If you’re getting visions of a sacked up maid in the making, stop reading immediately. I'm toned, brunette, Uma Thurman lookalike!)
Much to my surprise, over the last one year, I have discovered that I really like to cook. Not just the regular 'dal chawal' variety but even elaborately planned meals. I love poring over cookbooks, trying out recipes, testing my own combinations and er…sometimes even eating them myself coz not all my combos come out right.
My mother called when I was in the middle of pounding spices for the chicken curry and muttered for the 59768th time how I took after ‘dad’s side’ of the family when it came to cooking.
‘Has P demanded a huge meal?’ she wanted to know. No ma, he hadn’t and if he had I would’ve sent him packing to the nearest restaurant. Am not cooking for him. Am cooking for myself. For the joy of it. Yes hard to believe (can hear audible gasps if any of my Bombay friends were to read this) but c'est la truth!

Harry, What Else?

This isn’t a review. Just random thoughts about the latest film I HAD to see.
The best thing about Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban is Daniel Radcliffe. Finally.
Can finally forgive him for his irritating Good Boy act in the first and second Potter films. Here he looks 13 and behaves accordingly with all the mischief, meance and impishness that characterises the Harry JK Rowling wrote about, not the woodfaced, can’t-do-no-wrong-boy we saw in the first two movies. Here’s a boy who’s itching to do just the opposite of what he’s been told to. The film closes with an image of the Marauder’s Map and Harry’s voice: ‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.’ Loved it. I hope the next film continues in this spirit.
The other wonderful bits?
* Hogwarts has never looked better. It’s as magical as you imagine it and with a lot more of the outdoors thrown in. I loved the sloping, rocky way to Hagrid’s hut. Hogwarts also looks centuries old (which it’s supposed to be), with hints of dark corners lurking here and there. It’s a relief to see it like this, unlike the postcard-type castle in the last two movies. Any castle that houses snakes, ghosts and trolls has to look somewhat sinister.
* Harry’s ride on the Hippogriff, though he looked like he was going to slide off any moment.
* Hermione. The movie should be renamed Hermione Granger and How She Saved Buckbeak and Black. She storms out of a class, punches Malfoy, doesn’t like how her hair looks from behind, comforts Harry when he’s upset and gets him out of tricky situations. Love that girl. She also clutches Ron’s hand when scared and sobs on his shoulder. Hmm…
* BIG disappointment: Sirius Black. C’mon…this is the adult hero of the film (even if bumped off in book number 5). He’s the raking guy all women like. Gary Oldman isn’t what we imagined.
* Moment of Happiness While Watching The Film: Very loud laughs shared with 12-year-old sitting next to me. Turned out to be a complete Potter fan and we bonded over our extensive knowledge of spells and charms. Her mother smiled. A bit strangely at me I thought.
What is it about a book that makes devotees out of us all? I discovered Harry Potter on a holiday four years ago and like many people I know have been hooked ever since. I still think the films are no patch on Rowling’s imagination and the complexities and relationships she weaves for her characters. But this one comes close enough.

At Last...

Have taken the day off and going to do complete vellagiri. Feels wonderful....

Have a blast, all ye who work today ;)

Confusion is my middle name. Give me a choice and chances are you’ll need to wait a good five minutes for me to make up my mind. Sample the latest. P was finishing early yesterday and wanted to catch a film. Tickets were available for both the 7.45 pm and 10.30 pm shows. Can you imagine the amount of confusion it caused in my muddled mind?
7.45 meant rushing home and rushing back. The 10.30 show meant time to finish stuff, relaxed dinner, etc. I took the 10.30 pm tickets and regretted the moment I’d left the counter.
‘Oh god…this show’ll finish at 1.20 am, that’s too late for a weekday. I need to get up early. 7.45 would’ve been better. Why didn’t I book that, now what, etc, etc…’
I’m always like this. The moment I’ve decided on Chinese for lunch, I want Pizza or Pulao or…basically anything but Chinese. It takes me quite some time to order a meal, especially if it’s a fancy restaurant with a menu that explains each and every dish. This means I check out the ingredients mentioned in one, then go back to the other, then wonder if I should have nothing but a salad…etc.
I’ve solved this problem somewhat by ordering whatever my eyes sight first on the menu, unless of course it is a dish that is tomato based or has broccoli or…
When it comes to buying regular household stuff, groceries etc, I usually dedicate an entire evening or afternoon. I can never decide fast between Surf Excel or Ariel, salt from ITC or salt from Tata, shampoo for dry hair or shampoo for dull hair, banana or apple or both or watermelon instead…it’s a constant battle!
I’ve been wondering if everyone’s like this? Is it normal to be so confused, indecisive, etc? Or do I have some disorder here?
There’s only one thing I can order straightaway, without thinking it over — it’s a regular cappuccino at Barista. It comes from being a coffee slave over years.

They were the first travelling musicians I’d ever met (not counting those in Mumbai local trains, they travel too). But I met them in a café near the Bazarhallen in Oslo, without knowing who they were or what they did. They were a father-daughter duo and we shared a table in a crowded café, me and the daughter, all of 14, communicating through broken English and smiles. The two grabbed a quick bite and while I struggled through my cold sandwich (am very Indian in this. Don’t like a cold lunch), they crossed across to the other pavement and set up their equipment.
What followed was magical.
I still have no idea what exactly was the language in which she sang. I suspect some of the songs were in English but it was so heavily accented (Polish, I later learnt) that it was hard to tell. But the 14 year old had the kind of voice that lifts you out of your surroundings and places you elsewhere. It was the kind of voice that you pray stays with her forever (for she’s 14 and growing); a voice that holds promise, happiness and an unusually mature longing.
The girl kept singing for more than half an hour with the father on the guitar and suddenly I realised there was quite a crowd gathered there. This was a weekday and beyond lunch hour but I think like me, something in her voice kept those people waiting. Coins dropped, she flashed a smile, sometimes at us, sometimes at her dad and carried on.
I went up and spoke to them after the performance. They were on their way to the Molde Jazz Festival, which happens in Norway’s West coast, in a town called (obviously) Molde. Right now, they were coming from Germany, had stopped in Oslo for a couple of days and were singing along the journey to raise money for the trip. The man (who it turned out spoke decent English) said it was one of the best Jazz Festivals in Europe. He had a CD of his music, which he hoped to circulate in the festival and sell along the way. He hoped to bring out a CD of his daughter’s songs too, he told me. He’d written some of it, some were old folk songs. He had any hopes for her, his only remaining daughter. The other stayed with his wife who he calmly said he ‘didn’t like.’ The girl had a new mother now, his girlfriend.
I was dying with curiosity. I wanted to know if Ely (that was her name) went to school, if they had a permanent home, if she enjoyed her life, liked her dad’s girlfriend…
But suddenly it seemed rude and very work-type. (So, Ely, do you enjoy singing? Who’s your idol? What are your future plans?) So I left, asking them when I could hear them sing next. Ely muttered something in her dad’s ear; he gave her head a playful whack and laughed. Twenty minutes and a coffee later, all three of us were walking along to their next destination somewhere near a shopping centre, Ely giggling at a bunch of hot American students walking with a holiday swagger and me cursing the fact that this was the day I chose not to bring a camera.
So that’s it. A memory. The afternoon I spent with the travelling musicians.