Amazing how one mail can change your day.

Was typing away listlessly on the keyboard, trying to edit horror story in a hurry, staring at the walls in utter boredom, thinking of beaches, mountains and holidays when got this mail from Meeta that read:

'Hiiiiiiiii. Am bored. Sitting at airport. Waiting for flight to take me to another idiotic meeting. Must prepare pre-meeting notes but don't feel like. Want a beach...You too?'

Telepathy? That's what friends are for?

Book That Flight

I hate flying. Nothing troubles me more than air pockets, turbulence and seat belt signs getting switched on during boring calm phases of long haul flights.
My mind throws up a million ideas from the moment the plane takes off: Omygod! The plane is almost vertical! Why haven't we been served food yet? What's wrong? Why haven't they switched offseatbelt sign yet? Why is it circling the sky and NOT LANDING? Did the pilot say somehting about flying over mountains and turbulence?
Unlike some lucky people who start snoring the moment they hit the sky, I stay wide awake during the entire duration of the flight, whether it lasts for one hour or fourteen.
The end result of being the worst example of in-flight bad nerves is that, while flying, I need distraction. Loads of it. This means not the eye-straining in-flight movie or ear-popping channel music but books.
If it's a two hour flight I carry at least three books in my hand baggage. The numbers increase with the flight duration. The max I've carried is five books and three newly bought mags for a 16 hour flight with a two hour changing halt.
There is of course a perfectly good reason (To me obviously) for this book mania. The first book I put in is something I've been reading. Which means there are chances it could be over by the time the flight is halfway thru'. What would I do then? To prevent such panic attacks I carry Book No. 2. However, I have no idea whether this is an engrossing, enjoyable read and if it isn't, then I'll be reminded of being suspended over oceans and mountains again. To avoid this extremely unpleasant situation I carry Book No. 3 and so on...
The number of books to be carried is always a sour point between the man and me. He thinks I'm plain crazy. I think he's one of them lucky peoples who can sleep through the entire journey.

If you live in Gurgaon, you can’t escape the malls. You want to watch a movie, you go to the mall. You want a drink? Head to the mall. A cup of coffee? The Barista in the mall. You even go there for your buckets, Surf Excel at sasta rates and vegetables.
All this was too much for my inner villager (yeah I know v politically incorrect) when we first moved in. I’d move up and down the see-thru escalator at Metropolitan, wide eyed at the display all around me. Never mind the fact that I’d seen it all before in various shops in Delhi, but what chance did expensive Benetton pants in dusty South Extension shop window have against the ones in clean and shiny glass?
I grumbled about the crowds on weekends, wished the car park was bigger and wondered for the umpteenth time what I was doing dodging Chunnu, Munnu and Nita bhabi in the crowded food section of Big Bazaar on a Sunday afternoon!
But reluctance be dashed, I was a convert soon. And so was my wallet. Converting into nothingness. I couldn’t catch a film without attacking the linen section of Shoppers’ Stop and buying Fab India inspired kurtas at Good Things.
And I couldn’t stop eating. At the Food Court. At the stall selling masala corn. At the Chat Kiosk...
I couldn’t help but go tut tut at the price of two metres of clothing in places like Marks and Spencer and Tommy Hilfiger (what else could a loony looking smiley firang give you!) but check them out all the same.
But that was the distant past. The present is even more dismal.
Even with the inner villager suitably placated, even after the discovery that all that glitters is not gold (Don’t go to Arcus for furniture. Go back to good ole’ Amar Colony), going to one mall is never enough.
I have to cross the road and raid the others. Never mind that this involves weaving thru rush hour Haryana traffic. But who cares for life when there are things to be admired, envied and er...even bought? The wallet has all but disappeared by now but who cares when the Inner Villager has met and fallen in lust with the Inner Mallrat?

Pune

I dreamt about Pune last night. The Pune I knew in my college days. Don't remember what exactly the dream was abvout but woke up with a great longing to be in Pune.
...Walking up and down FC Road for entertainment; checking out Super Shoppe (which we thought was one hell of a superstore!); bunking lectures to sit in Vaishali, eating SPDP; night outs in Thousand Oaks; Going to Jasbir for an expensive and trendy haircut; Sunday evening outs on MG Road and the cheapest sandwiches in Marzorin; the Chinese near Univ circle; Anda-Bun in snack breaks; Vada pav; rushing in rain in between lecture through the vast Fergie campus; learning to ride the Kinetic on the University campus; debating over now laughable intellectual issues in Kimaya; sabudana vada in the hostel mess with evening chai; the balgandharv music fest; a year of Insynch with a T-shirt to show; five women creating a racket in one tiny hostel room (I'm out of touch with all of them now); long bike rides and goofed up dates; studying just before the exams...
I want to be a student again!

Where Shall We Go This August?

It all started with an innocuous phone call. ‘I want a break,’ I whined to AN. ‘Yup. I want a holiday too,’ she whined back.
‘I dunno why we don’t go anywhere, even Jaipur would do’ said whiny me, flipping through Outlook Traveller’s 52 weekend breaks from Delhi and wishing I was anywhere but here. AN was apparently in the same frame of mind. ‘Hmmm…I’ve never seen Rajasthan…could meet you in Delhi too...’ she droned on.
That did it.
Suddenly the idea of seeing Rajasthan in 40 degree heat has taken us over. None of us had seen much of this glorious land and we wanted to go there. Now! Never mind the heat.
And since AN is a good driver we even chalked out a plan. She comes to Delhi, chills out at my place for a day or two and then we take off on an all-girl desert drive. Ok…nothing so glamorous. All girl shopping trip to Jaipur.
Like all big ideas, this one started with a bang. And started flickering down to a whimper as fast.
NS, AN’s significant other (no man can be called a better half) got wind of our plans and decided he too could spare time off work.
But why Jaipur, Delhi's weekend backyard? Let’s drive down/up to Uttaranchal instead, NS suggested.
Impressed by his self-proclaimed hill driving skills, we women gave in. And from then on, the holiday plans had a life of their own.
Spurred by our excitement-charged research activities, i.e, surfing the net, trying in vain to read a map, etc, P decided he needed a break too. But let’s go in August, that’s the earliest I’d be free, he said in his best ‘am-pretending-to-be-busy’ tone.
Now there are four of us. We agree on a weeklong holiday. What we don’t agree on is where to go.
Rajasthan isn’t my thing anymore. In 40 degree plus Delhi heat and sweat, I’m longing for the hills, solitude and a verandah in a bungalow with a book. The Cottage in Jeolikot is looking more tempting than ever. Do nothing!
AN has shifted focus to Udaipur and is also eyeing Jaisalmer and Bikaner.
NS wants the hills like me but he wants to do something as opposed to my do nothing.
P wants Nepal and is already dreaming of lazing it in Thamel.
Never knew the search of a holiday could be so tedious!

Relationships are such difficult things. One off the mark word here, one falsely interpreted gesture there and something you’d built up over time, conversations, arguments, fights, memories, hugs and moments is gone in a flash. Almost.

In a flash you see yourself too. You see a corner of yourself that wants an end to the misgivings, to the explanations, to the effort that just being part of this person’s life brings you. And you tell yourself again and again about staying away, being indifferent, impassive and quite the bitch.

But you are a sold-for-life-slave to old friends and habits. You know they are easy to acquire but hard to let go. So you stay silent. For days, weeks and even months and then one day when you are dull, bored and numb from the heat, one day when you aren’t thinking, you pick up the phone again…

It happened last night (should've been posted yesterday)

9.40 pm: The husband is on phone with friend. Plans are being made for good dinner, good booze and a good match of football (on TV thankfully) later. I’m lovingly thinking of bed and yesterday’s leftover chicken in the fridge.

10.00 pm: Friend is coming over from his 40-mins-away home. He is husband’s pal from college days and lives in Bombay. He is also someone with a tendency to dance on the dining table after downing a couple of Old Monks. I’ve seen this with my own eyes and serenaded him during the performance in days of yore. He’s seen me passed out on kitchen sink after too many tequilas in the days of yore. Result? Emotional blackmail of gullible female by men aiming to spend rest of the night pissed drunk.

10.10 pm: Friend-on-phone: Arre yaar Rash how can we go out without you…
Husband-at-home: C’mon baby (signs that he is already drunk) don’t be a spoilsport
Gullible Me: Hmmm…these gorillas are old friends after all. Even the one am married to
The Gorillas: Hmm…she’s falling for it…we’ll have a driver for the night if things go out of hand (evil chuckle in Gorilla head)

11.00 pm: We are sitting at trendy and very expensive restaurant (because the men want food and booze and good music). The men are ordering booze in great numbers. They are trying to patao waiter to get them drinks even after the bar closes. Waiter grins=pataoed. I get familiar sinking feeling.

11.30 pm: The men have finished all the booze on table (including mine) and are discussing legendary boy’s nite out in college centuries ago. I am getting a bad sense of déjà vu because any moment they’ll discuss the enormity of Duggu’s puke on that legendary night, followed by Sandy’s vital stats, followed by more fond analysis of past misbehaviour.

11.35 pm: We have shifted to a corner table where booze can be surreptitiously passed. Am wondering if waiter has been bribed before/is gay/is boy bonding champion/hates women. The men are singing to each other. The hide-out area under the table looks very comfy.

12.00 am: Have told waiter to get the food packed. Have flicked three sexy steel stirrers to make myself feel better.

12.10: The men are not coming out of the loo. Call the one am married to. He answers the phone and sings: ‘It’s the time to disco!’ I think fondly of housewifely things like a good home-cooked meal, dinner on time, early to bed, etc.

12.15: Slight tussle as I try to drive but the husband doesn’t let me. ‘You don’t think am drunk do you?’ Hah!

12.20 am: Car halts at theka. More booze is picked up. We drive homewards with music (hip hop) in full blast. I have out of body experience as the man deftly manoeuvres car through a pile of sand/mortar/whatever and the friend keeps shouting ‘Schumacher!!!!’ Car reaches apartment gate and it is decided that it’s too early to call it a night. My fervent pleas of ‘Mujhe Jaane Do’ are ignored. Car driven to super trendy nightclub.

12.45 am: Entry refused at super trendy nightclub on account of being oddly numbered. I do a little jig and thank the Gods. The men have luck on their side. They spot some bouncer type they know from their ‘basketball days.’ We are stamped and pushed in.

1-2: The men have taken to the floor. In fact the floor is full of mostly men. All the women seem very happy to be left draped over table next to wall nursing drink/chatting with female friend, etc. Come to think of it, it’s tough to top a bunch of super sloshed guys trying to do a Yana Gupta.

2.00: Finally give up resolution of not drinking much and go in search of sustenance in crowded bar. The husband has just whispered in my ear that he wants to become a DJ. This requires booze.

Ungodly Hour: Drive two grown and sloshed men home. It is a distance of only 4 kilometres and the parking lot is near empty so can manage this supremely brave feat (Am no driver). The men protest and say they can drive. You throw them a look that says…(well, can’t be described)

Rest of the night: Reach building. Ignore grinning watchman (aaj madamji gadi chala rahe hai). March very happy men to lift. Reach door of own flat. Push happy men in. Lock door. Take out packed dinner. Warm packed dinner. Leave on dining table for the happy men if hunger strikes them. Go to bed. The men are pouring rum and coke down their throat and celebrating Portugal/Ethiopia/whatever’s victory by watching last moments of match/match analysis whatever.

7.00 am: Wake up to the doorbell. Bai enters and throws disgusted look. Turn around to notice two not-too-shapely human bodies sprawled on different parts of floor (one on the gadda the other on bean bag and floor to be exact), along with half finished bottle of rum, many empty glasses (never occurred to them they could use the same ones?), CDs and cassettes…

End result of emotional blackmail

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.

Are You Settled Yet?

Bumped into S’s mum yesterday. Over the next 20 mins or so, the conversation was of course about S. ‘Kya hoga uska…’ muttered aunty while staring into space. Her naani, who has to eavesdrop whenever any friend of S is around, sighed audibly.
It’s always like this. S is 28, attractive and working with a business publication. She’s doing very well according to us (her friends) but is the source of constant agony to her parents as she refuses to get married, especially go through the arranged marriage routine.
I tried to tell aunty that she’s doing wonders with her work (she’s been promoted recently, salary hike, et al) but aunty was on her own trip. ‘Beta…yeh natural nahi hai. Why is she being so stubborn? Why isn’t she settling down…’
Why is the Indian mind so demanding? It starts with parents exhorting children to do well in school, get through a good college, get a degree, then get a job. You do all that, start moving up the ladder and earning well but they (parents, maasis, uncles, even some people from your own generation) are far from satisfied. You need to get married. The thing is, even if you do that, the demands, the expectations don’t stop. Now that you are married, you must have your own house, own car and of course, your own kid. Unless and until that happens, the story isn’t complete yet.
According to a friend of mine with a kid of her own, the story isn’t complete even after that. You need to get baby no. two to keep baby number one company, you insensitive parent, you!
Seven of my closest friends aren’t married. One of them is a guy who works with a bank, gets paid decently and leads a happy, carefree life. He doesn’t ask anyone about minute details of their lives but others are really bothered about his ‘wifeless’ one. The other single friends are girls. One of them is a CA and holds a top-notch job with a finance consultancy, the other is S, whom I have described abive. A third works with a popular magazine, has her own flat in Pune and is a happy, contented soul. The fourth one is the top boss where she works. The fifth one has just moved to corporate from journalism and doing very well, touchwood. The seventh is working with Delhi’s number one paper. To me, they all look as ‘settled’ as the word suggests. But I guess the world at large demands more.
The reason for this rant…can’t forget what S’s mum was going on about. And can’t forget what some people often lecture me about. Settle down? Will somebody please define this magic term? What is settling down? Is it buying a house? Getting married? Getting a job that let’s you do both these things? Staying in one city? Producing a baby? Getting the baby married? Going to phoren? Marrying boy from phoren? Making moolah? Marrying Michael Jackson?

Wouldn't have written this. But a comment from a friend after checking out the steel and glass corporate edifice that another friend works in has got me going.
It has reminded me (due to the lack of work. Otherwise am not one to hanker after materialistic pleasures) that I have always wanted to work in a swanky office. At least for a while. Till I get matter-of-fact about full-length bathroom mirrors and ACTUALLY clean water dispensers.
The closest I came to working in one was with a Chennai based dotcom's branch in Bombay. I was a freelancer for their filmi website and would walk into that office only to key in copy, send mails (and chat on the net), chat up hunky young men, etc. It was another battered building in Fort from the outside but inside they had managed to turn it quite swanky and colourful. Perhaps it had to do with the top boss being a woman :)
Having come to that place from a dying magazine in another crumbling
Fort building with a rickety lift and a newspaper* that functioned out of a bunch of barely held together cubicles with a smelly common loo, I thought the dotcom place was the coolest yet.
Then one day, after a late night Sterling movie, a couple of us went
with a friend to his office nearby, while he picked up the keys to his car to drive us home. It was the end of innocence.
This was a bank. Foreign one obviously, in one of those heritage-type
Fort buildings. Inside, it was a haven of plushness, cleanliness,
comfort, etc, etc. Two of us, the girls in the gang, had to check out
the loo. It was ideal. (Refer to loo demands in appraisal blog ha ha)
The 'workstations' as S, our banker pal called them, were clean, with
ergonomical chairs that didn't have broken legs and didn't plummet down when you wanted to adjust the height.
That was the first. From then on, I have been subjected to a sense of
despair every time some friend talked about her office cafe getting a
makeover (again Fort, again bank) and making it to Inside Outside. It
was of course, bright, cheerful and functional. With clean cups and nice looking coffee machine.
Yet another one started going to his office half an hour earlier to
workout at the gym. By this time I was in Delhi and worked in a duplex flat that would've been nice had 49 people not been crammed into it with strange partitions put up between 'departments'. It boasted of a pantry operated by a man who was addicted to dust, and as we later discovered, fungus on pots and pans. The only bright side was a patch of lawn outside, which was the smokers' and coffee-addicts' corner.
Now I spend my days in a windowless semi cubicle with the most
uncomfortable chairs, overflowing drawers and a dustbin that requires a thorough washing up with the strongest disinfectant available. For recreation and contact with the outside world we have a couple of porthole-type windows near the smokers' staircase and three telephones on our desks, one of them with STD.
The husband works in an ultra modern, glass n steel structure, with
state of the art private lifts, 'workstations', headsets for hands free communication and Italian coffee machine (Yes. The coffee machine is an obsession with me. Period). There's a gym on the terrace, with a swimming pool and a view of the Gurgaon skyline (I'm sure you can see nothing but buildings but I ALWAYS want what I can't have). The cafe has juice, organic bread, five types of yoghurt and five-star catered lunch.
The man of course is totally blasé about the place and says most people he knows work in similar kind of offices. By an act of coincidence most people in such offices ALWAYS work a five-day-week!
Naturelment, any conversation regarding workplaces and workstations at home is PURE TORTURE. Sigh...

PS: For all its lack of amenities, I LOVED the newspaper that functioned
out of barely held together cubicles, including the conference room on
the stairs.

Random...

Very listless and bored. It's the heat. To make matters worse am doing trend story on wine and food festivals and high end stuff like that. This means for the better part of the day, am on the fone with hoteliers/sommeliers/PR chicks and other such people who have accents and with whom one has to speak politely coz otherwise they don't understand. Makes me feel very 'back-to-school' trying to remember my Ps and Qs (Does an apostrophe go there?) and smoothing down my wild hair even if they can't see me over the phone.

Hate the heat. Thinking with deepening nostalgia about Bombay, where it's raining and people are lucky enough to not just have the sea but also weather that is not 45 degrees. Also local trains, bhelpuri, chutney sandwich, polite cabbies, nice people, toto's, Mondy's, freedom to move around as you like, fish thalis, bandra, vadapav...
Was planning to drown myself in beer yesterday and pretending I was in Toto's (dimmed the lights at home and all that) when my mother called from Cal to inform me that is had just started pouring there. Why?

Was dreaming about getting out of Delhi over the weekend or on a short weekday break but can't. The man can't take a day off on a weekday and is even booked over the weekend playing for some wrongly punctuated corporate football tournament. I have become bored wife. Yikes!

After mother's fone, called single pal in Bangalore to crib about domesticated life in horrible weather. She is planning to go on some exciting trek this weekend but muttered sad things about men being bastards and nothing ever working out for her. Said she felt ready to settle down at last, blah, blah.

The grass is always greener...