Lazy dreams

Poor Lazy.

Lying supine on the sofa, Lazy tells me about her dream(s). In each one the water has finished, dried up or been drunk by her or other people. No 'leading up to it' scenario repeats itself but each episode ends with her being thirsty and panicking, looking for some water to drink.

Lazy says that as a result of these odd ‘missing’ water dreams she wakes up at night to drink water from the full glass on her bedside table and only sips a little, never finishing the glass or fully quenching her thirst.

Every morning Lazy wakes up thirsty, and looks desolately at the half a glass of water by her bedside. That night she drinks a whole glass of water before placing a full glass on the bedside table. Her dream ends exactly in the same way – not a drop of water to drink.

She wakes up upset. Too.Many.Times

What does it all mean?

Out of this world

I’m feeling a bit shell-shocked. Went with Shoefiend to watch ‘In this World’ at the Amnesty Human Rights Action Centre last night. Directed by Micheal Winterbottom, it is a documentary following 2 young Afghans, Enayatullah and Jamal, from a camp in Pakistan making their journey overland to London with the help of people smugglers. The film shows every horrible struggle of their journey: sitting in the back of lorries driving endlessly on dusty roads, being caught by authorities at a check post in Iran and sent back, bribing someone to get back on their journey, having to exchange their attire for something that would make them fit in, walking for days through a dusty cold plain, and then over snow laden mountains, being shot at by Turkish authorities, working off their accommodation in a sweat shop, being transported hidden among a truck of orange crates, being shipped in a metal sea container for 40 hours with dire consequences, hanging off the underbelly of a truck supported by nothing but two wooden planks and sheer willpower. All this with a small bag each and the single-minded goal of reaching a supposedly better life in London. I haven’t recounted the story very well and I suggest you read some more official reviews here and here.

The beauty of the film lies in capturing not only their journey in such detail but in showing you the hope & persistence that these two young journeymen have. Throughout the journey Jamal tells funny stories and jokes to keep Enayatullah amused. Enayatullah shows his wordly-wise side by hiding money in his shoe before he is caught in Iran and uses this to get them back on the trail. Periodically Jamal tries to teach Enayatullah words in English, enough so that by the time they reach Turkey Enayat can dish out a few slanted sentences. Jamal bribes a border guard with Enayat’s walkman much to his chagrin. Jamal gets Enayat to buy him a big ice cream cone in Istanbul and they sit and enjoy it by the side of the road. They both play football with various groups of kids wherever they get the chance. Both boys become quite friendly with an Iranian couple and their small child who join them in being smuggled to the West. There are so many moments where you see a glimmer in their eyes, their recognition that their life could actually become better at the end of their journey, that when tragedy strikes you can’t help but think how unfair life is.

The film was utterly powerful and has made me think about many things. Primarily, the sheer desperation that a person can feel, that would compel them to undertake a journey fraught with danger and uncertainty in the hope of a better life. And then how different and cushioned our lives are that we know so little and react so minimally to atrocities and the plight of fellow human beings in other parts of the world. I cannot even imagine what life is like for refugees. Their camp looked clean and neat but they live under the brand of being outsiders stuck in an unending mire of joblessness and seemingly without any hope of a better life where they were. They never once consider any of the other European countries as a possibility, looking single-mindedly at London as their destination. They know they will probably never see many of their family members again and yet they leave cheerfully. How convinced they must be to believe that there is nothing worth staying for and how strong in body, mind and spirit to attempt this excruciating exercise. Their journey was horrific and you could often see them draw on inner strength and each other to keep going in the belief that what they were attempting would lead them to a better existence.

I honestly do not know what to think. This film has got my mind working overtime. Working in the development sector I have read my share of horror stories from around the world. I’ve also seen and heard about wonderful development and reconstruction programmes work their magic. Did they make the right decision? Was their life so hopeless? Was there no other path for their lives? And conversely how does a developed country react to asylum? How should they be reacting? How should the layman react to a young boy selling 2 wristbands for 1 Euro to make some money to help his journey along? What’s right and what’s wrong? Does each drop of our contribution, monetarily or in kind, really make up an ocean or just a small ineffectual pond? Is there any hope that this world will one day be a better place for everyone? So many questions and no good answers.

It was a heart wrenching watch. If you get the chance watch it – I guarantee it will make you thank your lucky stars for your health, your family, your security, your access to technology to watch it, a computer & the internet to blog about it.

Love and Fish

Jane got me thinking about anniversaries.

In early May 1991 V and I met for the very first time. I was on my summer vacations having just completed my class 10 exams. V had just finished class 11 exams and had this serious and handsome face with a smile that caused a flutter in the heart. I was 16 and he was 17. Yes, like the song…

At the time we were both too young to know what the future held for us. It was not till a few years later and many reams of friendly correspondence that things turned romantic. The rest, as they say, is history.

Girls, being far more sentimental than boys, think up anniversaries for every occasion. Well, both of us (and by that I mean me, followed by poor V) like to mark the years that have passed since we first met.

2006 marked 15 years since that day we first met. Knowing your other half for half your adult life is quite a landmark (I think). And we decided to celebrate by going out for a lovely meal in the evening sun. After much deliberation about where to go, we chose ‘Fish!’ in Borough market (since our Zanzibar holiday two years ago we are both hooked on seafood). It’s a restaurant that is always full on Saturdays during the day - which is when we usually pass it while shopping in the bustling Borough market. We’ve been tempted to go in many a time but mainly due to the crowds have always ended up sitting in the church courtyard eating falafel in pitta or brockwurst in a bun from the market stalls.

I booked at ‘Fish!’ for an early meal as it was a Monday and we both had work the next day. It was a lovely sunny albeit windy day and the glass walls of the restaurant kept the inside nice, bright and toasty. To start with, V had smoked Salmon and I the halibut rarebit. As main courses V had halibut with vinaigerette and I had tuna steak with Hollandaise sauce. I have only good things to say about our meal. The fish was fresh, beautifully handled and cooked and artistically served. The portions were a good size and the service friendly. Fish! is highly recommended. I would say a weekday evening meal is probably a better option than a weekend day time meal. If you love fish this is an excellent choice to dine at.

We had a lovely evening reminiscing about when we first met. I remembered a totally different version to V – and with his razon-like memory compared to my rusty old one I’m relying on his! It was interesting to see how far we’ve come since we were teenagers, how much we’ve evolved as people and grown as a couple. We laughed a great deal, talked about our life together, enjoyed basking in the past and dreaming of the future. The evening was perfect in every aspect.

May 1991: Calcutta – May 2006: London - May 2021:?

Fish!: Cathedral Street, Borough Market, London SE1 9AL. Tel: 020 7407 3803

Sunny sunny days

I had all of last week off - a week between my short term contract and a whole new world of permanent full-time work. With the impending flat move and the new job I made up a to-do list that would ensure I had a busy fulfilling holiday week. List included:
- Need to shop for new work wardrobe and sort/ chuck out my old tired wardrobe.
- Need to sort through all the junk we’ve accumulated so we don’t clutter up the new house.
- Need to file our mountains of paper for easy transportation.
- Need to organise huge plastic bag of photographs and the accompanying 5,768 stubs to museums, trains, planes, buses, trams, parks, movies & 6842 tourism brochures and maps of ‘interesting’ places while said photographs were being taken – all to be pasted neatly in my scrapbook of life in the correct order.
- Need to think about buying furniture for the whole of the new flat as we own nothing but a bean bag sofa and a tiny wrought iron table.

What did I do? Nada. Zip. Nothing. Kuch bhi nahin.

Why? Glorious weather bestowed upon me by BBC and the weather gods meant that I spent most of each day sitting in a park under the gleaming sun and reading, sipping cool drinks and people watching, lazing and gaining some bone-soaking warmth – all wonderful things, all at the same time. It was too beautiful a week to spend indoors with mudane tasks and even the prospect of clothes shopping was not enticing enough to shift me from a park bench. Blue skies and a light breeze made the sunshine ‘just right’. I had a truly lazy week.

I started off in earnest to accomplish my list. Sorted out one set of drawers which was full of paper and assorted junk. Or maybe I should say shape shifted because I took them out of the drawers and made them into neat little piles on the floor instead – sorted but not really.

Looked at the plastic bag of photographs and accompanying ‘junk’ every morning and put it off till the next day citing reasons of laziness, ‘there’s always tomorrow’, ‘unable to tackle it because it’s grown too cumbersome’, ‘it’ll be easier to carry to new flat in big plastic bag’ etc. It has to be done and when it is it will be a feat in itself since I stopped pasting anything in that album after March 2004. We’ll talk again in 2007.

Did not buy any clothes or even venture near any shops to window browse. Old wardrobe is doing just fine for the moment. New excuse is that we should avoid buying anything as we will have to move it to the new flat – best wait till we have moved before I buy.

Did dream about new furniture and eagerly leafed through a few home design magazines while sitting in the sun. No decisions or short lists yet. The design wars loom ahead of me and V (and now I’m clapping my hands in glee). With every piece of furniture I’m sure we will disagree although in principle we seem to want the same look for the flat. It’ll be fun fun fun.

And now I am in office – being all official and sitting at a desk, leafing through files and making lists of things to be done. My holiday week is over and the good weather is still here. When I had no job I cribbed, when I have a job the sun turns on and I’m still cribbing (although only a little). When will I understand that life is happy and good? I’m looking at the sun through my window and dreaming of a picnic on a sunny day. It’s only day 2 of full time work. Thank god for the weekend in just 3 days - I can hardly wait!!!

When it rains, it pours

The post title was not meant to be a precursor to the troubles that the deluge is bringing to Mumbai. At this distance I have no first hand knowledge of what the situation is – I only hope it does not turn out like last year. I do remember how disrupted things got with last years monsoons when at the end of July we were delayed for days by the weather conditions.

But as I said, this one is not about Mumbai or any actual rain for that matter. It’s about a turn of good luck that has been long awaited. Suddenly things are looking up and falling into place. All at the same time.

Two things have happened/ are happening.

First and foremost – I got a new job. Exactly one year to the day that I quit my old job I got offered a new job at a place I was really keen on working at. It’s a great job with great benefits and a wonderful working environment. It’s only a half hour commute from home and I have flexible working hours. In retrospect it was great to have a year off (courtesy V) to entertain the multitudes of guests and generally be a social bee. So back into the world of the employed with great joy and enthusiasm!!

Second and not least by any means – We found a flat. You will recall our horrendous experiences with estate agents while we hunted for an abode to call our own. Well one of the numerous visits with an estate agent paid off. She is the second Ms. Butterfly – and has consistently shown us flats since August. Her selection was better than other estate agents – she understood what “2 bed 2 bath and not on the ground floor” meant! Anyway, both V and I saw this flat and simultaneously began affirmative head nodding. It was bound to happen sometime - although the prospect seemed so distant. Of 80 flats viewed since August we had never both liked the same flat or even elements of the same flat. Well, it finally happened - the moons must have been in our favour. We put in our offer. After much negotiation to outbid the competition and one nail biting week our offer was accepted. Now we are waiting for the endless searches and solicitor like things to happen. (Hmm, if things do not speed up I may have to have a go at the Solicitors as well!).

I said "are happening" above because rejoicing would be premature. In the British system of house purchase a zillion searches and contract readings are done before an actual exchange of contracts takes place – and up to that point either vendor or purchasers can pull out. We won’t but he might. So finding, offering and being accepted are small but premature victories. Will keep you posted on whether it goes through. If it does, there will be the trials and tribulations of moving (to which I have made various people promise to come and help!)

So lots of excitement in our lives. As I said - when it rains it pours.

Da Vinci Disappointment

Hindsight is a lovely thing. It’s the perfect opportunity for people to glibly say ‘I told you so’. Some books just are not meant to be turned into movies. In hindsight, the Da Vinci Code is one of them. And I have heard so many people who warned me not to go watch it say ‘I told you so’ that I think I should take advice more seriously.

As I’ve said before, I unabashedly loved the book. However, I had no similar expectation that the movie would be brilliant. I knew it would be mediocre at best. Nevertheless, I was going to watch the movie with the enthusiasm of viewing a thriller and although I thought I would re-read the book before hand there was absolutely no time and as it turns out, no need. I must say I was sorely disappointed.

Books turned movies will also always be beset by critics looking for flaws, discrepancies in what they believe should have been told and what was told. I believe that the book form is always more telling, with detail, and it allows the reader to picture the scene and characters in their own minds. This is short-lived luxury when books become movies and some actor takes the place of the ‘man in my mind’. Tom Hanks (whom ordinarily I like very much) was so completely wrong and bland for the part of Robert Langdon. He looked wrong, acted badly and brought nothing to the character. The same can be said of all the other actors. None of them brought joy to the screen – or looked at all happy about being there (and I don't mean giggly just enthusiastic). Each one lacked depth (the monk Silas was alright) and looked tired, almost as if their performance was being forced – poor casting and subsequent poor direction was probably the reason.

Another basic problem was the amount of historical detail that the book goes into. Directing a book into a movie is always going to have its shortfalls – how much detail to keep and what pace to follow? With such a short time to tell such a long story I think they did a great job of breaking up the historical detail into important info bytes. So all the basic information was in – but lots of colourful detail was lost. And putting in lots of theory into the narrative meant that the movie was rather slow – not a thriller in any sense. The interesting bits were about the art and symbolism and this was depicted well.

It was a disappointing movie. The story was clear but did not flow well. The characters were shallow and fleeting. I don’t know if any other director could have done a better job. Big budget does not mean much if the story is so cumbersome and heavy with detail that it needs 6 hours rather than 2 to tell it. The telling of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci code would have made a much better 6 part TV drama but I guess there’s not enough box-office money in that.

The movie makeover of the book is drawing full houses and beating box-office records. That’s understandable considering the hype that religious groups are bringing upon it by trying to get it banned. Even those who had no intention of watching it were forced into going out of sheer curiosity. To see what all the fuss was about. Oh what a letdown! Anyone who watches the movie will quickly dispel the myth that it is trying to bring down the church. The movie is not strong enough to bring a wry smile let alone bring down an ancient institution.

I’ve been anti enough. Now I’ll tell you what I liked about it. I liked the way they depicted historical moments – in black and white shaky film. I liked some of the pictography – beautiful settings in the Louvre, the images of which had disappeared since our trip to Paris. And finally, the musical score – which was exquisite, both in content and delivery. It’s definitely a soundtrack worth buying.

I still plan to watch it again – with V once his exam is over this Saturday. Will I notice things I missed last time? Will I love the music even more? Will Tom Hanks seem better or just more out of his depth? Will the story seem more insipid? Will Audrey Tatou be less Angelina Jolie poutie? Will I love the art even more? Will I dislike it more or find some redeeming quality? I suspect I know the answers to all these questions: Yes. Yes. More. Yes. No. Yes. More. We’ll see.

Have you been 'told you so' yet?

coins coins everywhere but none in my wallet

I never get it. Or them. Literally. Cashiers AND change.

In London supermarkets, without exception, I am always handed back my change and stuff in one fist, at one shot and in this order: receipt at the bottom, currency notes above, loyalty card above that and then at least £4.63 worth of coins to top it all. And of course with at least 2 plastic bags in the other hand it’s near impossible to put away the pyramid/ money and change and loyalty card without dropping either said bag(s) or all the coins all over floor. So there I am scrounging on the floor for 5 x 2p and 4 x 20p coins while the guy who has come to the till after me is just looking at me with their deepest frown and thinking “what a moron”. I can’t wait for them to get all their change in a huge pile! Sometimes I think I’ll collect myself – coins in coin compartment all zipped up, notes where they should go, loyalty card in card holder and receipt in bag with groceries – and then turn and look on, waiting for them to drop everything as well. Knowing my darn luck they would have paid by credit card and have just a card and a receipt both of which will deftly slip into wallet with no mishaps. Well, good for them! Harrumph!!

It’s wrong though of me to feel so upset about the guy behind me. Sometimes they just look sympathetic or is that empathetic – as if they know it’s their turn after mine and it’ll soon be them on their knees looking for tiny 5p coins. It’s the supermarkets and their cashiers that this is all about. Why can’t they do this???? Simple handover: Receipt in bag with groceries, notes next and then coin change. I’m sure the current method is something to do with the “optimising-time-while-handing-back-change” module of their training. Well, someone read this and do something (If you work in the retail business or business consult in retail! Apologies everyone, else including poor guy next in line). It is NOT optimising to have customers crawling about on their knees. It is NOT possible to give people huge amounts of change – all in the smallest denomination possible – and then expect them to move off at lightening speed without dropping anything.

I’ve switched to online groceries years ago – once a month for all our staples and packaged food - but every few weeks we need to top up with fresh milk, bread, veggies. So I’m off to get groceries – and I’m paying with my credit card this time.

The Da Vinci debacle

Whatever happened to just going to watch a movie for entertainment? I am deeply bothered by the fact that countries around the world are debating banning the Da Vinci Code. Not only is it a violation of the most basic of freedoms – speech. It’s also just a movie, an obvious piece of fiction. Whatever happened to our right to choose what we can or cannot watch and to making up our own minds about what it all means.

I will admit I loved the book (I'm a big fiction fan, and this was a thriller extraordinaire!). The Da Vinci Code. I even like how the title rolls off my tongue. I read it in one night in Madrid, despite being exhausted by sightseeing and knowing that if I got too little sleep I’d be in no shape to do continue on the endless sightseeing the next day. I still slept only at 4am but my mind was still buzzing with the plot of the book next morning. I had no problem sightseeing - all the while rabbiting on at V about how it was one of the most exciting books I had read in a while and how he should waste no time before getting his hands on it.

Proof that EVERYONE was reading it could be seen at airport lounges, train stations, in buses and the tube, peeking out of handbags, in sweaty hands. I needed no further proof of its popularity when we saw the book in the hands of EVERY holidaymaker at the resort in Zanzibar – translations in no less than 12 langauges. We were already done reading it and stuck out like sore thumbs with our ‘Ji-Mantriji/ Pradhanmantriji’ collection!

Veering back to the current day I still can’t believe that Governments are being tasked with deciding if a film is religiously ‘accurate’. I mean, come on, Dan Brown’s book was clearly a piece of fiction and like any novel had a backdrop based in reality, for context if you like. The movie is just an adaptation of the book and is clearly just entertainment fiction, dramatised with a thriller type story. I cannot believe that ANYONE is worried that people will go watch the film and think it’s the truth. If anyone who went to the movies (as opposed to fact based documentaries like the ‘March of the Penguins’) believed that everything they saw was true we have much bigger problems my friends! We’d then have droves of people waiting for King Kong to attack their city centre, Godzilla to climb over their fences and apocalypse to strike at any minute. On the other hand all the droves will probably be hiding at home, feet at the ready toward fully stocked bunkers, with their binoculars and digital cameras at the ready to record any ‘untoward’ incident. So no need to worry that they’ll go watch the movie and yell, “blasphemy!”.

As for Governments, what do they know – and why hasn’t anyone objected to any of the other films that might offend some religion. How do all the other movies get by the various religions? And why should they be checked for religious accuracy anyway? Since when are we too dumb to make logical sensible conclusions from watching movies? This is such a big brother action. Oooh, I do not have a good feeling about this suddenly. If they do decide to ban this film I can see all kinds of problems for the film industry and the future of any kind of movie with a religious angle or undertone to it. If all these religious groups feel that the 'story' is a distortion of their religion, they should just not watch it. They shouldn't bar all the smart people, with great judgement (ie, me and the like) from watching it.

Just to be irritating I’m planning to watch the movie twice: once with friends next Friday and then again with V when he’s done with his CFA exam on the 3rd of June. And I’m sure I will enjoy the thriller bits, Tom and Audrey racing around through Paris and my lovely London. I’m also planning to re-read the book before I go watch the film – just to refresh my memory of all the details and see how closely Ron Howard has recreated the plot. I was disappointed in Tom Hanks being the choice for Langdon and am hoping he will exceed my fairly low expectations of him in this part! For the moview I have high hopes.

I hope all these Governments and all the people lobbying to ban it lose their battle. I hope you can go watch the movie – because it is just that, a movie, a piece of entertainment. Where you can leave your mind at home and sit in a cool air-conditioned cinema hall, eat popcorn, drink cola, forget your worries and revel in a cinematic experience. At the end of the day I hope your right to see a movie is still your right.

Lazy thinks up an explanation

Lazy has her own blog. She won't let me tell you what it is though.

She says: Very often lately.

The mind has intentions that are positive. Keeps meaning to write. To blog. The body however is on a journey all its own. Slouched in front of the television with no intention of moving unless it’s a matter of food or sleep. Finally convince the body that the mind is a smidge brighter and knows what its doing. Wrests body from in front of the TV and switches on the laptop (which is not a laptop at all but that’s another story). Fingers to the keyboard. There it is. The frozen mind.

It’s back to the couch to think it all through again while body smugly informs mind “I told you so”.

Till another day.

Poor lazy has blogger block.

The Mumbai one

Note: This is the last of my trips down memory lane India holiday in March 2006. I hope you enjoy it.

It was so long ago that I barely remember anything about my 4 short days in Mumbai. Blame it on procrastination (which I like to think of as a person, an opportune friend if you will)

The battle of which is better, Delhi or Mumbai, is something that has long been fought over by populations of each respective city. Each claims the charms of their city as unique and would gladly fight you over your differing opinion if they could. They each (mostly) claim would rather live in their city than anywhere else on the planet.

I’m not willing to get into it though I will admit to having strong feelings on the subject. And enough people have debated it both in the Blogworld and the realworld. I am a Delhi girl. Even after three years of college/ hostel living in faraway Manipal, one year of work experience in Chennai and four years of London living I still consider myself a Dilliwali.

I landed in Mumbai on a Friday evening, glad to be off the Deccan Air flight and missing my parents enormously. I was squashed into my window seat by a 6 foot something giant British cricket fan who had been separated from his fellow travellers by a row (blame free Ryan airstyle seating to match the prices). He spent a large part of the flight yelling across to them (statistics of the match they had just watched, arbit bits about accommodation, the heat and the next match) in the vein “Hey Rob…”, “Hey Justin…”. Each of these conversations also entailed him lifting his arms to wave or gesture. Leaving me to deal with the sweaty armpits and associated odours. The only saving grace was a loud Bengali guy who had the aisle seat, boxing in our cricket-loving friend, and talking to (or is that at?!) him nineteen to the dozen. Bong dude was too cool (I say that in some jest). He had on a T-shirt and cap that proudly displayed ‘Schlumberger’. He carried a knapsack and laptop bag that also proudly bore the same word and logo. He was like an advertisement for the company. So overdone infact that I am tempted to think he bought all that matching kit from somewhere (like ebay – they do sell EVERYthing) just to impress someone. He expounded on the greatness of Eden Garden, Sourav Ganguly and Calcutta in long and convoluted sentences’. Poor Britfan kept trying to cut him off by talking to his friends, pretending to doze off but Bong dudewas having none of it. He was determined to make the Britfan admit that it was terrible that Sourav, Eden and Calcutta had been ignored by the cricket scheduling people. If I remember accurately I think Britfan finally agreed to everything about 5 minutes before landing, beaten into submission by 2 hours of non-stop talking. Told you - my flights are never uninteresting!

Mumbai was humid and overcast, as expected. It’s brightly lit streets guiding humanity home after a long day of work. A doorbell broke the spell and left my brother-sister-&-mom-in-law completely shell shocked at my surprise arrival. R & T and father-in-law had kept the secret well.

Mumbai and I just do not agree. Normally I have a bout of illness when I’m at home (mainly for the mollycoddling efforts of my mum!) but this time although I ate tons of junk from the side of the road I did not fall ill for a second in Delhi. From the morning after my arrival in Mumbai and for the following 3 days I lived in extreme food poisoning hell. I couldn’t really eat out, do much shopping or meet friends – heck I could barely move from the weakness. I wandered into Crossword in Bandra, picked at my m-i-l’s birthday lunch in White Orchid and propped myself up for an afternoon of my best friends yakking. All worth it although I didn’t give any of these events the attention I should have. I am unhappy to report that I even had to go see a doctor who wanted me to go in for re-hydration treatment to hospital. Warded him off knowing that I had a plane to catch and got him to prescribe me with enough antibiotics to keep me standing.

In fact I looked so ill when I checked in (I could barely stand and the heat was not helping) that the check-in guy upgraded me. So I travelled back in comfort. My trip was short and precious. It was lovely to see V’s family although I wished I was in better health to enjoy it more. Next time…..

Coming back to the Mumbai –Delhi debate. I see the charms of Delhi mainly because it’s where I grew up. I also see its problem and faults. I love it just the same. I guess it’s just that for people in Mumbai. Love for the city where they grew up, feel most comfortable. Acceptance of its issues and an attempt to justify and correct them. What I don’t get is why it’s an extreme emotion. With most Mumbaikars I’ve ever met they claim to hate Delhi and the Delhiites seem to feel the same about Mumbai. I don’t particularly care for Mumbai but I certainly don’t hate it. I just can’t imagine ever living there.

My first ever trip there was when I began working in 1996. I was used to the Delhi way of life and I didn’t find Mumbai exciting or alluring. All the wonderful things people had hyped it up with seemed to be a mirage. I hear you say that maybe I was just hanging around with the wrong crowd. Maybe. But even subsequent trips have not changed my view. I have tons of fun in Mumbai but I think that’s more because of V’s family than the city itself. I think my biggest challenge is understanding, accepting and acclimatising to the weather because let’s face it both cities have traffic problems, endless crowds, great places to eat, filled shops, lists of stuff to do etc. I won’t defend my stance. Live with it. The things I must say for the Mumbaikars is that they have indomitable spirits and unwavering belief in themselves. The ‘can do’ attitude and endless pride is something inspirational. I'm still unconvinced about living there though.

I’ll be back in Mumbai on holiday quite soon I’m sure. I hope that by then my attitude is more positive and I find something loveable about the city. Any pointers?

Note: This was not a very focussed blog post. Deal with it.

Dilli Dhaba

This is almost my last post about my long ago trip to India. Just one more after this about Mumbai and then we’re all done.

No trip to India is complete without a gastronomic roundabout of ones favourite foods and eateries. With so little time and so much to eat its difficult making choices – the only decisive one was that this time I would not eat any meals at home as my mum was working too hard to cook me my favourite meals and I would have had to put up with our dreadful cooks meals. A lot of my meals were decided by the friends I was out with: “our favourite restaurant is..”, “dying to eat so-and-so cuisine”, “lets try this new place”, etc. You get the drift.

Places I ate at:

Corriander Leaf, Gurgaon: Favourite eatery of my cousin Mandy and her family. Lunched there with them on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Claims to be Pakistani cuisine but the menu read and the food tasted much the same as north Indian. Must recommend the Dal makhni.

Flaming Mustard, Vasant Kunj: Yummy north Indian and chinese cuisine. A lovely quiet evening with parents, cousins and niece. Endless kebabs, soft rumali roti’s and delicious chilli paneer.

Chaatwala, Anchal Plaza, Vasant Kunj: Random guy with his stand, outside some shops in Anchal plaza (which I know as ATM plaza because it seems to have every Indian bank ATM possible - all in a row), makes the best aloo tikki and puchka’s. Walloped!!! Made multiple subsequent trips – all very satisfying – the dirt and grime adds to the taste!

Ano Tai, Vasant Continental, Vasant Vihar: An evening of gourmet Chinese food with a dear friend from school and her hubby. Delicious water chestnut starter and sumptuous food in a setting to match.

Geoffreys, Ansal Plaza: After a morning of window shopping with my friend V we decided to lunch at Geoffreys. IT was absolutely empty and the service was excellent. We shared a vegetarian thai curry with rice and a vegetarian tandoori platter that had an array of kebabs and tikka’s with miniature naans. Very tasty and filling

Italic, Vasant Vihar: This brightly lit and well decorated restaurant has taken over the place of what was a seedy nightclub/ restaurant in Vasant Vihar’s C Block market. Had dinner with my parents and cousin A & his wife P (who is more delightful everytime I see her!). Well presented entrees from an extensive menu and there was no talk at the table. My dad’s tuna on toast (had a fancier name that I no longer recall) was simply fantastic.

Swagat, Defence Colony: This is the replacement restaurant on the site of my childhood favourite Faley’s. As a child I craved their wontons and going there was considered the biggest treat. Now it’s North and South Indian food and even on Tuesday night it was packed to the gills with eager customers. Spent a great evening with two MBA buddies (now married to each other) eating a very tasty north Indian meal

TGIF, Vasant Vihar: My mum’s birthday lunch was a toss up between this and Punjabi by Nature which is also in Vasant Vihar. We had eaten so much North Indian food by then that this became the obvious choice. TGIF was once the most exclusive place to eat mainly based on its price and being a frontrunner in Mexican style food. Now it has competition at every level and its veneer of exclusivity seems to have faded. This fall from exclusivity is also evident in the general upkeep of the place (dull to say the least) and the appalling service. The food was alright, served in generous portions possibly to try and hide the mediocrity of the settings. We had a pleasant enough time although maybe Punjabi by Nature would have been a better idea.

Near East, Vasant Vihar: Not guessing that I was planning to arrive in time for her birthday two of my mums’ cousins had planned dinner at this Vasant Vihar eatery. We went along after the very exciting world record cricket chase. High on the buzz that a good game of cricket brings we ate a fusion dinner of Thai and Chinese dishes. I have to admit that the décor and ambience of the place seem confused and quite dull. The food thankfully distracts you from all these problems. It was a lovely evening with my uncles, aunt, parents and the perfect finish to my mothers’ birthday.

Olive Bar & Kitchen, Mehrauli: After a morning of exhausting window shopping in one of the ugliest Gurgaon Malls our eyes needed the restful ambience of this haveli courtyard restaurant. All the white walls and gently flowing water made for the prefect setting for lunch. Between my mum, my friend V and me we shared a simply delicious meal of vegetable risotto, stuffed bockwurst and a four cheeses pizza.

Nanking, Vasant Kunj: This is a rather fancy restaurant for such an un-fancy colony. Looking at the uninspiring shopping centre block in which Nanking occupies a few floors you would never be tempted to go in. Despite its unassuming exteriors this gem of a restaurant is perpetually full. Very simple décor and an extensive menu are the ideal combination. My parents and I enjoyed an evening of wholesome, hot Chinese food - my idea of heaven!

Passion my cup of Tea, Vasant Vihar: I know I know you can get chai at any corner roadside shop so what’s all the fuss about. This is not really their competition. This is the new concept of a tea bar, beating an unknown path in competition with the various coffee chains that have popped up in every part of Delhi. The first of its kind in the capital it has won a few awards and is being much talked about. Went along to see what the fuss was all about. Warm sunshine through the glass walls of the tea shop helped. They had quite a varied selection of teas on offer and each of us chose something different. All 3 choices were excellent. It was a pleasant change from the nauseatingly similar coffee shops. I guess that will only last till it becomes a nauseating chain all its own!

Any meals not accounted for were at the chaatwala. My stomach was in seventh heaven.

I am not enamoured by Indians who live abroad for a few years and then go back and behave like tourists visiting a country for the first time. I agree that our immunity changes and becomes lower abroad. I think thats mainly due to a combination of factors like a stricter hygiene standard in restaurants and less spicy foods - in India we build up higher immunties to help us weather all that comes our way. I admit that it’s likely for returning desi’s to fall ill the first few days due to a change in style of food or the water. I agree the pollution levels are different and that the traffic can drive you to insanity. I agree that the sheer volume of the city and extreme temperatures can be loud and stinging. But I also think that the body has enough resilience to deal with all these things. We were after all born and brought up there. No matter after how long you go back you body will readjust itself to the rhythm of that life – in a few hours or a few days. I think that it’s better to be brave and enjoy all the delicacies you can’t get abroad. A few tablets, some good sunscreen and care with drinking water will take care of any serious illnesses. I had a brilliant time – food wise it was everything I hoped for. I ate in lots of different and new places. The taste that the Indian atmosphere adds to the food is different – everything tastes special. Things are spicier than you remember them, sweeter than you though possible and tastier than you dreamed of. This is the food of my country and I hope I am never afraid to go out and eat when I am back in India. I hope you aren't either.

Delhirium

Warning: Another long post.

Credit: Post title is a word stolen from Marginalien

I left Heathrow on a rainy day. The skies had been grey and overcast for days and the drizzly Chinese torture water droplets were more a heavy mist than actual rain. The continuous ‘mist’ had left my spirits dampened – why couldn’t the skies open up and the rain fall in sheets – avoiding the endless mist and clearing the skies in quick time. My conversation with my father in Delhi while we waited impatiently for the crew to arrive was mainly about whether my mum suspected anything and what the weather was like. He assured me that my mum had no clue and that the sun was shining, “afternoons a bit too hot, but the evenings are lovely and cool”. Spirits lifted and we were on our hilarious way.

Of course, as with most things in my life, Murphy’s Law applies to trips back home. Our flight landed at Indira Gandhi International at 3am in pouring rain. A covered walkway took us to the carpark and the smell of the wet ground too me back in time. I have to admit here that the smell of rain on mitti is one of the nicest but I was so looking forward to clear skies that I did not really enjoy this as much as I should have.

My first 4 days in Delhi – the Friday to Tuesday preceding Holi on the 15th of March – were wet wet wet with the exception of Sunday. All good because Sunday was my mum’s birthday and I got into the whole rain thing within 15 minutes. I loved watching the big fat raindrops pelt everything in sight, the skies turn black-blue with threads of silver lining running through and the tremendous boom of thunder.

Despite the initially torrents of rain I went out each and everyday (and thankfully the last four days were bright and sunny). Neither mum nor dad could take time off from work so I spent my days trawling the city with a dear friend (who is also V’s sister-in-laws sister), my mums trusty driver and our dinky Maruti 800. The first thing I noticed was the increased number of cars on the road. Where once the shiny Maruti 800’s threatened to dwarf the mighty white ambassador, today the maruti is outnumbered by a huge range of newer, bigger, more powerful cars. In fact the number of cars has increased so substantially (even since my last trip in July last year) that pedestrian sidewalks within suburban colonies are overrun by 2nd and 3rd cars that every family seems to ‘need’. My parents have neighbours who have 4 cars for two adults and two children – unhealthy display of wealth or necessity to ferry each member of the family to a different destination simultaneously? Hmmm.

The endless flyovers that circle Ring Road make driving smoother but the huge population of cars will soon make even those mighty constructions congested. Braving the crowds we went to a few of the Malls in Gurgaon on what is jokingly known as Mall Road. Nobody seemed to know its real name. It’s end to end Malls with the gaps between being overrun by construction sites that you can just see will turn out to be hideous buildings. It’s as if all architectural principles and aesthetic design have been abandoned to the whims of insane builders. So the road is basically a higgledy piggledy of buildings competing for the ‘most ugly mall‘ title. Walked around two of the bigger malls and admired all the ‘firang’ shops such as Tommy Hilfiger. Couldn’t see many people buying things although browsing seemed a popular sport. Large groups of quite young teens roamed the malls in groups wearing scant clothes, high heels and toting mobile phones while deciding which horribly expensive restaurant they were going to lunch at. Do their parents know where they are?

Another day we walked around Ansal Plaza, just window shopping. I could not find anything tempting enough to buy and carry back. Connaught Place was a day well spent, looking at the emporia on Baba Kharak Singh Marg and generally enjoying the buzz that it brings. Bought loads of small gifts for people (and subsequently left the whole lot behind by mistake!).

Lajpat Nagar was the best shopping experience because I managed to buy some beautiful cloth to give for bespoke stitching. Also window shopped the beautiful furnishings and small stuff that is available in the maze of shops that gets me hopelessly lost. Everything from bobby pins to rubber bands to garbage bags by the kilo to flowing tissue curtains. Looked at the mounds of namkeen and mithai at the halwai’s dukan with longing and ate a few shakar para’s for good measure.

The main day, and decidedly the best, was the 12th. It was my mum and the Niks birthday. Niks being baby brother who my father claims as the renewable birthday gift he gave my mother 24 years ago. The Niks was in Bristol and it was because he decided not to come to London to celebrate that I decided to surprise my mum at the last minute. Anyway back to the day. As a special favour the weather gods gave us a break in the rain. A bright sunny Sunday and we made a slow start. Got to Vasant Vihar in time for lunch and ate enormous portions of food at TGIF. Then spent an hour at Om Book shop buying 10 books for my mum and 5 for myself. An afternoon cup of tea in the sun while fawning over the books and chatting about life in London and Delhi. All dressed up for the evening and a short trip to my uncle’s house. Watched the world record chase by South Africa on big screen TV – fabulously exciting till the very last minute. Then we went to dinner with two of my mum’s cousins. A wonderful Chinese meal crowned the evening and my mum declared it had been one of her better birthdays – she now feels a young 19!

It was a short but full trip. I’m now terrified about the speed and density of traffic – being run over or squashed. On the other hand I’m over my initial (and utterly irrational) fear of ceiling fans. Short explanation: There was a year between moving to London and my first trip back to India. And with no ceiling fans in London (infact little need for any sort of fan) I was terrified that the whirling ceiling fan would unhinge and fall on me while I slept. Completely ridiculous notion that had me cringing in the corner of the bed closest the walls and with the fan on its slowest strength so in case it did come down it would be slow and cause less damage). All done with now. Thankfully.

The memories I have brought back from Delhi this time are very simple: Spent a lot of quality time sitting around and yacking with my parents, did a minimum of socialising (if you are reading this and I did meet you YAY; if not then I am sorry), spent a lot of time sitting in the car, gazing at endless shop windows, did almost no actual shopping, and ate nearly every meal out (that’s the topic of my next post!).

My time in my beloved city was simple and joyful. The urgency of my initial visits from London seems to have dissipated. I seem to have found other ways (beside retail therapy) of dealing with my homesickness (lots of Indian authors is one way) and also seem to have made my peace with living in someone else’s country (for the moment). The need (and its required energy) of shopping till I drop and meeting every relative, friend and acquaintance ever made seems to have given way to a more relaxed holiday-taking style. I’m enjoying this new mantra.

And it is this slower pace, the more acute observations and distinctly important memories of my time in Delhi that will be my fill till my next trip.

Mitti: Ground

Firang: Foreign

Namkeen: savoury snacks

Mithai: traditional desserts or sweets

Shakar para:tasty sweet made of flour

Halwai's dukan: Shop owned by maker sweet desserts

Let's go fly a kite, up to the highest height..........

Warning: A long post – so look away now if you have no patience!

I’ve never had an uninteresting trip on a plane. In my minds eye planes are one of the most wonderful inventions. Huge steel birds to take travellers from city to city, country to country, over the seas, through storms and clear blue skies. I don’t particularly like flying but I love the idea of planes.

The day after I wrote my tiger cub post I left for India. The plan was to surprise my mother for her birthday and then go and surprise the mum-in-law for her birthday the following week. With such short notice and to minimise the possibility of word getting to my mum I told only my dad (in Delhi), one of my brother-in-laws (in Mumbai) and my dad-in-law (in Calcutta). Risky proposition and some people needed serious bribing to keep the secret!

Anyway, BA reasonable ticket on short notice zindabaad and I was booked on a plane Delhi-bound. Full of funny people. As usual.

And of course a cheap weekday ticket means that nothing will ever be on time. Arriving early in pouring rain was at my own peril I realise while sitting along with 900 other disgruntled passengers, many of whom had bawling children under 2. Those children not bawling are attempting to destroy other peoples hand baggage, run a mini-marathon among the obstacle course of legs the standing crowd offered and draw pictures on the glass windows with spit while pointing out and repeating “plane plane plane” without coming up for breath. All while their parents feign ignorance and sit far behind making friends with other passengers. By the scheduled time of departure boarding has not even begun. The unclear announcement on the intercom informs us that the crew is stuck in traffic and is yet to arrive and take up their posts. This of course is the wrong thing to say to a hall full of people who HAD arrived on time, in the pouring rain, probably on the same roads (especially since terminal 4 at Heathrow had no tube connection). Small skirmishes with gate staff are defused by the more peaceful travellers and an American man seated in front of a spit covered window finally erupts at the crowd demanding that the mother of the 2 year old jumping over his knees be handled better. This begins another inane conversation on how Americans ‘don’t love children, use too much discipline, should let them be etc’. All this excitement is brought to a quick halt by the announcement to board as the crew have arrived.

Not that it meant we were leaving. Once seated we wait another hour because fresh glasses for the business class passengers had not been delivered (boohoo for them). We wait patiently, twiddling our thumbs and drinking juice from disposable plastic. Take off is over an hour and a half late.

Travelling by cattle class to India is never easy because the plane is packed to the rafters but the mix of people also mean there is never a dull moment. Going to Delhi means that a large part of the passengers is originally from and headed to the mighty Punjab. In pre-checking in I opted for a window seat thinking I would be able to sleep in peace. The two seats next to me are taken by the time I arrived at my row. The middle seat has an old lady who probably needed wheelchair assistance to get there and the aisle seat had her obviously doting son. With about 5 inches of space in which to ‘comfortably’ squash your knees I climb over the poor old lady. Once seated and strapped in I realise that she has turned to me and is whispering something. Out of an ingrained respect for elders I attempt to listen and it turns out she is repeating this phrase: “Mein tumhe maaroo?” (in english: Should I hit you?). Not sure how to respond I turn to the window and proceeded to look at the ant-like people below load luggage. I pray they don’t lose mine. Her son leans over, catches her hands gently and says to me: “Mind mat karma, ise ‘Dementitis’ hai” (in English: please don’t mind, she has dementia). It’s the use of the word ‘dementitis’ in place of dementia that almost had me in splits of laughter. Maybe he was trying to make it sound more official?! Anyway, I ask him if they wanted to exchange so she could be more comfortable (leaning against the window with a pillow under your head is the most comfortable way or rather the only way besides paying thousands of £ for business class of making 9 hours whiz by) and he declines leaving me trapped near the window forever. He holds his mothers hands gently and talks to her continuously. I cannot tell if she understands because for much of the flight she keep murmuring/ muttering and gesturing, trying to reach for my book and bag.

Lunch time and two sweet old ladies in the middle bank of seats refuse the food claiming they had bought their own as airline food did not suit them. So while the smell of gobhi parathas and mango pickle from a round tin waft around everyone looks on greedily while being served airplane trays of c**p. After an awful lunch of cardboard masquerading as an asian vegetarian meal, everyone in my row (and the plane actually) stands up, almost simultaneously, to queue for the loo. I take this as my chance to escape and unhinge my cramped knees from under my chin. I wander to the galley at back of the plane where there is a bit of place to stand and stretch. Only to find it was occupied by 40 other people wanting to do the same. After a time the loo queues diminish and synchronised snoring begins as people tuck themselves in for a doze in front of the dilated pixel mini-screen movies. I continue to stand at the back and am soon embroiled in a conversation with two gentlemen that went something like this:

Man1 (to both of us): Aap kahan jaa rahen hain? (in english: where are you going?)
Man2 (instant response): Harcot (I think that’s the name of the place although I can’t be sure)
Me (after a confused minute): This plane goes to Delhi
Man1: No madam I meant after arriving in Delhi
Man2: Where are you from in Punjab
Me: I’m not. I’m going to Delhi. I’m not from Punjab
Man1: Madam, aap touring karne jaa rahe hain? (in english: are you going on tour – I think he meant holiday)
Me: Yes, to my parents in Delhi
Man2: So you are from UK. Got passport?
Me: Yes from London. No passport (thinking I should have added that it was none of his blooming business, but so relieved to be standing that I thought it better to be amiable)
Man2: I am going my sisters daughters wedding. Long journey no. Birmingham to London to Delhi to Harcot. In Sumo, very fast. All direct direct no stopping.
Man1: I’m going to Jalandhar visit my family. Taking my family.
Man2: Me too. Whole family. And my parents. So you are from UK. Got passport?
Man1: yes yes many many years now. Settled in Newcastle with business.
Man2: Madam, why no passport?
Me: Ok then, bye (quick scoot away)

Back at my row the old lady is in my seat and her son is in the middle. So I am free to move around, extend my legs into the aisle. The old lady has fallen asleep and this gives her son the opportunity to down 4 beers and tell me his life story. He immigrated from Punjab to a small village just outside Milan in Italy about 13 years ago and is now successfully running a chain (read two) Indian restaurants. He’s become an Italian citizen and brought over his wife, 4 kids and mother and converted them to ‘Italian-ism’ as well. Now that his mothers’ condition has deteriorated he was taking her back to Punjab to stay with his brother and his family. Better than an old peoples home in Italy is his rationale. I also learn that I could not follow most of what the old lady was whispering because she is fluent in Italian. I also learn that his whole family had changed their surnames to an Italian sounding one – Pissarro – not realising it's a French artists name Camille Pissarro.

Little children with no clue of time zone or what to do with their bottled up energy run up and down the aisles, followed by vaguely concerned parents. Often a child stop and stares at a startled passenger, drops a toffee in someone’s hand and demands it back instantly. All the little kids seem to smile a lot and want to shake hands with absolute strangers. Innocence that many sleepy (read drunk) passengers seem unwilling to welcome. The poor harassed parents looked like they could do with a few drinks or winks of sleep.

The low resolution movie finishes and disembarkation cards get distributed. I seem to be one of only 5 people in cattle class who need the landing card for Indians. Three fourths of Punjab seems to hold that all-important red passport that classifies them as foreigners in their own country. A very young and beautiful sardarni mother in the seat across the aisle from me manages to put her bawling 2 year old to sleep after 7 hours of lung strengthening exercises. She fills in her form. Italian Punjabi next to me gives me his card to check (Why me? Do I look like someone in charge?). Sardarni aunty leans across and asks me if she should return the form to the steward. I assure her that it needs to be presented when she reaches immigration. Unbelievingly she asks the guy in the seat in front of me and when he confirms the same she looks disgusted and proceeds to ring the bell for the steward. When he arrives and assures her that we know what we are talking about she asks him to re-check it and gets very agitated when he refuses to take back the form from her. I think it’s the late hour, the constant yelling of her child and sleep deprivation that make her a disbeliever. After being convinced by a number of passengers that the immigration official would indeed want her form she proceeds to wake up her just fallen asleep child menace to get him ‘raady’ for ‘meeting his dada-dadi’.

Thankfully we land at Delhi just (and I do jest) 10 hours and 20 minutes after leaving the pouring rain grey skies of London. The only problem being we land in pouring rain and oppressing humidity. I don’t care. Immigration is shockingly quick seeing as half of Punjab is in the queue for foreign nationals. The Pissarro’s smile and Sardarni aunty scowls at me while dragging her kid through the snaking foreign nationals line. Man1 & 2 seem to have introduced their families to each other and a group of about 8 people are huddled into a loud group while an irritated immigrations official tries to get them to form a queue. How quickly the British queuing instinct disappeared! Or maybe it’s something you are born with, not something gifted with the red passport.

Suitcase arrives undamaged, I smile at customs officials and lug my way past the foreign exchange and taxi cab counters. Through the sea of people I see my dad, still in a tie at 3am having told my mum he needs to pick up a delegation to do with work. Home sweet home.

Never a dull moment or an iota of sleep - what a flight!

It’s all worth it when I see my moms jaw drop to her knees at 3.30am, woken by the opening door.

One happy birthday surprise all wrapped up.

Lucky stripe me

I saw a web-link recently of an exhibition of photographs featuring children interacting with traditionally wild animals in zoo-like settings. I went back to find it just now and after marathon googling have been unsuccessful. So even though I don’t have the link the exhibition reminded me of something I wanted to share.

One of the most exciting things to ever happen to me in my 30 years of existence happened in good ol Australia. I was on a work related trip confirming a incentive holiday for 300 delegates of a fizzy drink company. Our partner in Australia and I were doing our best to convince the cola company rep that we were indeed providing a valuable/ economical service. Everything went to plan. To end our few days of reconnaisance on the Gold Coast our Aussie Tour company organised a trip to Tiger island in the Dream World theme park. 4 new tiger cubs had been born just weeks before in October 1998 and by special arrangement we got to go into their temperature controlled nursery and I got to hold one of them in the palm of my hand for about 15 minutes. It was a boy cub and he was tiny & unbelieveably soft. Much like a pup he slept peacefully through it all, purring softly whilst he dreamt. (The 4 cubs got named through a huge competition. Bengal tigers with Indian names: Sita, Rama, Taj and Sultan)

I thought holding a cub was utterly exciting but hardly. We then got ushered into a separate enclosure and 4 of us got to pat & be photographed with a huge tiger called Rakhan for about 25 minutes. Although it is a possible to pay and get this done now, at that time they were just experimenting with the idea and we got one of the earlier 'tester' opportunities. Rakhan is a huge male tiger and sat quietly growling only because one of his handlers rolled around a blue dustbin in front of him – something he is mortally afraid off despite the fact that he weighs over a 150kgs and could probably dismember a persons head from body with one light swoop of his giant paws! This was the most wonderful surprise organised by our partner; more so because it was completely unexpected wildly unimaginable.

I remember how soft his fur was and how I could feel his muscles ripple under his skin. I remember how majestically he sat and allowed me to pat and stroke his back. I remember how directly he looked at the camera and how every few minutes he would turn his head slightly to both sides to make sure he could see his trainer and then look to see who was patting him. I remember how powerless I felt next to this wild animal. I remember smiling broadly, not so much for the camera, more in disbelief that I was right there next to this amazing animal. I remember thinking that this was a moment I would never forget. I remember how wonderful I felt, how blessed to have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I remember how the minutes just slipped away leaving me with prints in my hands and on my heart.

I was no child when this happened. I can only imagine the excitement running through the veins of those children being photographed with the animals. As an aware adult the feeling was probably less primal but no less wonderful than for children. I must find that link!!!

I have all the wonderful photographs of this trip kept safely. I’ve tacked one onto my fridge to be my constant lucky charm.

When I am old and defunct I will always have this memory to bring me a smile and remind me of how exciting my young life was.

Now we know..

..what all these bloggers read or don't:

Shoefiend: the promise of cheese in any form! A lovely long list. Makes me want to go back and read a whole set of books I had forgotten about. As for revolting rhymes maybe we can swap favourites over our fondue caquelon!!

Keya: A wonderful long list - with loads of titles for me to steal and read.

Inspired Shyamala: Now we know where she gets some of her inspiration to write so beautifully from.

Updated:
JAP: All done. The most brilliant list!

Oh so many books to read and so little time!

Ta-da I've been tagged.

By Jane Sunshine. Thank you kindly

Luckily its about my favourite subject. Books. I hope I've done this justice. Here goes:

1. What is the total number of books you've owned?
I own books in different continents – too heavy to transport, to precious to give away. On my bookshelves in India I think I own about 200 books. My mum claims that ‘we’ own them – I beg to disagree! Got my brother to count up the four book towers that hide the mirror on our dressing table. Rough count indicates about 180 books in London. Other books have been lent to travelling cousins and friends and never returned. I still consider them mine. So around the world, in all, I would say I am the proud owner of near 400 books.

2. What is the last book you bought?
Ash & Bone by John Harvey. From WH Smith at Euston. And I read it before a whole pile of others I had previously bought. Never read JH before but it was a fast paced murder mystery solved by a retired detective with his own personal issues. Obviously. Very good bus/ train/ plane reading. On the sofa it was just OK.

3. What is the last book you've read?
How to be Lost by Amanda Eyre Ward. Good but not great. Came highly recommended but sadly did not leave a dent.

4. What are you currently reading?
The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. The first novel I've read that is connected with Afghanistan. A present from my friend K on her recent trip from Mumbai. So far I’m loving it.

5. What are the 5 books that have meant a lot to you or that you particularly enjoyed?
I don’t like shortlists. They are constricting. I’ve been influenced by a few of the books I’ve reviewed on this blog in the past and although some of them mean a lot to me I’m keen to concentrate and think of 5 other books that mean something as well.

What the Body Remembers by Shauna Singh Baldwin. This is probably my all time favourite book. I’ve read and re-read it so many times and each time it’s a revelation. I won’t say a lot – I do want to do a proper book review for this one – but it’s my on a lonely island book.

Blackberry Wine by Joanne Harris. This is her best book, better even than the much acclaimed and movie turned Chocolat. She manages to make any situation shimmer with magic. Joanne Harris has an innate ability to see things in the distance and write with a complex charm. This book will seep into your being and make you feel warm and loved.

The Hungry Tide by Amitav Ghosh. Such a powerful writer and such a powerful theme. It taught me to look beyond what I know of my country and even if imagined, to appreciate the complex diversity that is our sub-continent. Set in the Sunderbans in North East India, environmental issues form the base for intricate human interactions between an American Scientist and the various classes of local people. The prose delicately brings to the fore the plight of displaced people and their struggle for land, and more importantly the struggle between the fragile ecosystem and its human inhabitants. It’s a wonderful read that gently weaves together people from different classes and culture, and breaks down all barriers of gender and language.

Abandon by Pico Iyer. This is a departure from his brilliant travel writing. A spiritual mystery that makes you sit up and think about the choices you make, And here is an interview with its author.

Memory Box by Margaret Forster. This is why. Beautiful.

6) What book(s) would you wish to buy next?
I’m a sucker for anything by Indian authors. It’s my medication for homesickness. So my list is ever growing (will be fulfilled on my next India trip and then the cycle will start again) as the number of young Indians putting pen to paper gloriously grows. My list of ‘want this’ is about 50 long but I’ll just pare it down for this:

The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai

Weight Loss by Upamanyu Chatterjee. Mainly because everything he writes is always just so funny.

The Shadow Lines by Amitav Ghosh. It’s bound to be sublime.

Babyji by Abha Devesar. I’m a sucker for anything about my lovely Delhi. God I miss that city.

Two Lives by Vikram Seth. I’ve read everything else he’s ever written. I don’t see why I should stop.

The Bouganvillea House by Kalpana Swaminathan. Its got some good reviews.

7. What book(s) caught your attention but you never had a chance to read?
The Argumentative Indian by Amartya Sen. I keep meaning to but I wonder if it will hold my attention

The whole series of Ramayana interpretations by Ashok K. Banker. They’ve been highly recommended but I just have not bothered. Soon.

8. What book(s) that you've owned for so long but never read?
A house by the River by Sid Smith. Bought at a bargain bookshop about a year ago as the jacket flap read well. The inside was too slow to follow. I relegated it to the bottom of my book towers after chapter 2 and have not bothered ever since. Don’t know that I ever will.

9. Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?
Here are a few bloggers whose book habits/loves/hates it would be interesting to find out. I know it says 3 - I’ve put in 4 incase one of them declines:

Shoefiend: Because I can and with her writing wouldn’t it be great to know what her inspirations are?!

JAP: Again it’s his writing that intrigues me. Where does it all come from

Keya: The influence of all her travels will probably make this a wonderful list

Inspired Shyamala: Where does she get her inspiration from. Again how interesting it will be.

I can't wait.

Love actually

Valentine's day - again. Two people near beating each other over a sorry looking bouquet of carnations at M&S. Couples on the bridge pointing at stars they've named for one another. Helium filled balloons attracted to ceilings in every corner of the mall. Delivery vans with buckets in the back holding arrangements booked well in time. 20% off the boxes of chocolate in the supermarkets which have overstocked by about 300 boxes. No chance of a seat on the water taxi home due to overcrowding by couples using it to replace the overpriced cruises they were too late to book. Full house of singletons at the 'special' comedy cafe, burdened by their singledom and boosted by a few beers. One hour waiting time for food home delivery because of the 'tables for two' rush.

Conspiracy theorists would agree that Valentine's day is a marketing gimmick thought up by greeting card & gift companies in cahoots with chocolatiers, florists and resturants.

When we were young (very, in our teens) and newly in love we fell for the hard sell and exhanged cards and tapes of love songs for a bit. Then it got old and we didn't need Valentine's day to remind each other how special our relationship was. In our minds 14th of February became the day for 'young kids' to enjoy spending their pocket money on 'future hopefuls. And also for florists to have their busiest day of the year. Our special day became a series of special days, anniversaries to mark time - of when we met, our first movie, our first date, and then when we got married, of months gone by, holidays together, years notched up. These were our Valentine's days.

So really any day is good to declare your love for someone. Don't wait in line for the overpriced flowers today. Those flowers will be welcome any day.

Flat Out

I hate estate agents. They bring out the absolute worst in me - pretty much more than any other group of people I can think of. I do hate generalisations, but all estate agents (and I will limit the generalisation to all of London) are ignorant, slimy, rude, money obsessed, pressurising and lying fools. The women less so than the men. Only slightly though.

Actually I take it back. It’s NOT a generalisation. Bring me an estate agent who isn’t like that and I will show you an estate agent who has lied to you to convince you that they aren't like that thus confirming exactly how much they are like that in reality.

We have been dealing with estate agents since we got to this small island, having forgotten our 'guide to renting & buying' back home. In my opinion the process should be quick, easy and fun. But it never is and the fault is entirely the crappy estate agents.

When we looked to rent 4 years ago we had 3 specifications in the two areas we were looking in:- 2 bed/ 2 bath modern-ish flat- not lower than the 2nd floor- not more than 8 minute walk to the tube station.

Of course every estate agent we registered with decided to ignore our requirements and we ended up saying no to basement flats with tiny cloakrooms 20 minutes away from the tube station. No I am not a mile a minute runner and nor was the estate agent. I was tempted more than one to make them walk it while we timed him. We saw 3 bed/ 1 bathroom flats, garden flats, upper ground flats, flats that were held up by cellotape and wishes . Make no mistake we are not particularly fussy but c'mmon! We saw 40 flats before we found even one that matched all 3 criteria. And it was finally through a newspaper add and not an estate agent. We grabbed and all these years on we are still wow'd when we walk in the door.

The new situation is that we are house/flat hunting. Have been since August last year. The only reason it's taken this long is that now I am dealing with 6 different and equally rubbishy estate agents who are attempting to sell me my new house. The women all dress like butterfly's trying to get on the catwalk or planning on going disco dancing in the middle of the day. The men meanwhile are all caked in some kind of foundation make-up and lip gloss. And that's meant to hide their absolute lack of manners or common sense. Well it doesn't.

We've seen what seem like a zillion flats in our desired area and we still have not found a single one matching all our criteria. We've seen flats where the 'seperate' kitchen is one wall of a tiny living room demarcated only by ugly tiles, where northeast facing miraculously shows southwest on the agents 'magic' compass, where a 20 minute brisk jog is pronounced 'close to tube', and where 'storage' is 5 inches under the mini-queen size bed in the closet masquerading as the master bedroom. Is it my English?

To top it all the shoeboxes are being offered at exhorbitantly inflated prices under the guise of the Olympics coming to East London in 2012. Who in their right mind will buy a flat just to be able to watch 10 days of olympic games? But try stopping an estate agent from tell you how 'quickly the flat is going to go because the Olympics are around the corner so you MUST put in an offer ASAP'. 6 months on most of the flats that I saw at the begining are still up for sale. At reduced prices. But beside fast-talking agents that's probably because the flats have paperthin walls, oddly shaped rooms, terrible proportions, bad tube connections and shaky infrastructure.

One final rant about the agents before I go. They all have two door four seater cars (OK there is one exception). That is quite a dumb decision considering that any house buying decision will be made by more than one person and will not include the agents opinion. Either V or I must tuck our knees under our chins and sqeeze past a half bent over tiny front seat. For 6 viewings in an evening. That equals cramps and stunted knee development. At the very least.

I am exhausted and highly demotivated by the whole process and all the people involved. I need a break and a fresh outlook. I wish estate agents were better educated, not as rude, less overbearing, more worried about the interests of the buyers, less worried about the commission, heard more and talked less.

In the meanwhile I'm no longer going flat out.

Re done

Took the bull by the horns and rearranged the side bar of this blog.

I needed to remove quite a few blogs that I no longer read because
- they don’t hold my interest
- I don’t agree with their views
- I find they’ve grown too pompous for words
- they have turned into formal-ish websites and lost the sheen of amateur blogging (don't lose the .blogspot/typepad
- I’m not on their blogroll (I know selfish, but hey...)

I have added in
- newly found blogs that are holding my interest (for the mo)
- a new column to hold onto blogmarks that are no longer active but oh so worth the read
- all the food blogs I frequently steal recipes from to feed us

Time flies. Soon I will need to re-do this.

Here a puff, there a huff

Ever since the non-smoking office, restaurant, mall, station came into existence it has been hell for the non-users. Instead of lessening second hand smoke it has concentrated smoke clouds around entrance/ exits to these places. So when a non-smoker enters the clean air mall they breathe a sigh of clean air. All entrances to malls, exits to tube stations, bus stop shelters, office porches are meeting points for the avid smokers. Should you need to use a mall, go to office, wait for a bus, travel on the tube your chances of smelling like a stale cigarette and inhaling as much smoke as before remain much the same as when everyone smoked everywhere. OK I admit its better ventilated on the outside but with the numbers of stained finger smokers at one place the concentrated effect exists instead of the spread out version. A majority of pedestrians are all trying to get their last smoke in before entering somewhere where it is not allowed and for the non-smokers by their side there is often little space to escape on a crowded pavement.

As far as I can tell the only positive things about the ban in indoor places is to make smokers re-examine their smoking habit. An aggressive anti-smoking, get help campaign combined with the limited indoor spaces to smoke has encouraged many smokers to rethink their habit. Hypnotherapy, group sessions, Smokers anon, exercise regimens, nicotine patches. Banning tobacco advertising is mean to discourage the association between smoking and cool activities (like F1). It’s all a step in the right direction. All designed to beat a bad habit and reinstate some will power.

But till every person decides that its bad for their own health and for those around them there will be no real relief for us non-smokers. Like the horrid man with a cigar on the pavement in front of us this morning…….yuck!