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!

Cheese Made Backwards

Back from a 3 day trip to Amsterdam and have spent the last week days sifting through the information floating around in my head (i.e. too lazy and cold to get on blogger)

Not that we needed an excuse to travel but V’s eldest sis-in-law conveniently had a week of work in Amsterdam and it seemed like a good idea to tag along. That is, till I had to go get the dreaded visa at the Embassy of Netherlands. I could turn this into a rant about how hellish is the process of obtaining a visa for us desi’s trying to holiday in Europe (even though we’ve done it so many times before). But I won’t say anything save it WAS hellish and after incredible scrutiny of our finances and endless gifting of paper (1 tree) to the embassy all I got was a 5 day visa. Note to embassy: See I came back without any of your precious Van Goghs….even though they were oh so tempting.

For me its quite simple. Any city that has trams toodling around, is built of more water than land, uses more cycles than any other and where people greet each other with the word OY is alright by me.

I confess that I did no research for this trip. Normally I will hunt down obscure pieces of information about the city, talk to as many people as possible for recommendations on local places to eat, nearby day trips to complete, experiences to be had and things not to miss on a sightseeing list. Normally I get the information and then completely ignore it. This time it was just sheer laziness (and the cold).

For V and me there are two sure shot ways to figure out a city: endless aimless walking around and visiting a local supermarket. This plan we followed meticulously. We walked all around Amsterdam, admiring the tall thin houses with their hoist hooks jutting out to enable furniture to be yanked onto the roof and into the house (poor design and skinny stairs are the design flaw that enable this Amsterdam-ian oddity). We admired the endless ecofriendly cycles, We admired the endless cycles, the purpose-built cycle (like car) parks and stared hard at the completely ruthless cyclists.

The city is essentially built to line the miles of canals. We took all the trams from end to end, passing past the centre and into the suburbs, looking into different neighbourhoods and local shopping areas. My favourite stop was the flower market where my favourite flower, the tulip, was being sold for next to nothing (Euro 10 for 50 stems). Compare that to ridiculously expensive London where 10 stems cost about £5.

We did succumb to some of the touristy things, the sheer essentials. A morning spent as the fantastic Van Gogh Museum. This was my highlight. I don’t recall ever seeing a Van Gogh previously and I was not disappointed. ‘Irises’ was my favourite by far – trumped sunflowers any day. ‘Wheatfield with lark’ was a close second. The colours are as vivid as if they were painted yesterday. I now know why he is revered as one of the greatest painters of all time. This is a must not miss.

We did the canal cruise by night and Amsterdam looked luminous, strung out in lights. The Ship Museum was a particularly imposing building. The third sightseeing gem we covered was Anne Frank Huis. The house where Anne Frank and her family his for two years before being betrayed to the Nazis has been carefully maintained as a museum to remind people of her bravery and hope in the hardest of time. The furniture has been removed at the request of Otto Frank and even without the incredibly tiny compact spaces are a testament to the tenacity of the eight people who made the annex their home for so long. I loved the tour and the pieces of memorabilia they have maintained, particularly the pencilled height map marked into the wall. The original diary shows Anne to be neat and meticulous. I bought a copy of the diary and a new biography of Otto Frank from the shop to mark my visit.

We walked around the famed Red Light district one evening and were frankly disappointed by it. It was nothing like we imagined and this old part of Amsterdam near the Central station was dingy and seedy. Considering its all legal a bit more class would have been appropriate – but hey what do we know? The large picture windows with fluorescent lights highlighted scantily dressed from young and beautiful to grandmotherly. I was not impressed and its guidebook descriptions are highly distorted. Went into a ‘coffee shop’ but avoided ‘space cakes’ as that is just not my thing.

We went into the fantastic Pathe! Multiplex each evening and watched ‘Rumour has it…’ and ‘Just like heaven’ as a result. Two Mark Ruffalo movies in a row; one with Jeniffer Aniston (who still thinks she is Rachel from Friends) and the other with Reese Witherspoon (who is simply appalling). Beside the awful heroines the movies were fine – romcoms in the extreme, happy endings for all.

All in all it was a good trip. I have to say though that I was not impressed to the extreme as I have been with other European cities. Amsterdam looks like a city in flux, lots of construction and reconstruction to bring out the glory of its old and sort of crumbly buildings. Met a lot of very friendly Dutch people all of whom tried out their hindi on us and explained maps and recommended stuff. It was good to go once and maybe we’ll go back in a few years (the museums are tempting). For now I’m sure I can resist (atleast till I’ve seen a whole load of other cities).

P.S. Our supermarket foray was highly successful and we came back with a round each of the cheese made backwards (edam) and baby gouda (will post picture soon I promise). Loved the supermarkets!!!

A roaring Sunday

Watched Lion King at the Lyceum with the S-Team over the weekend. V and I only end up watching one musical or so a year – sheer lazineess. And I regret that we waited so long to go and watch this one.

It didn’t matter that the compact theatre was more than half full of kids or that 7ft tall guys in front of us had to tuck their knees under their chins in the sardine can seats. Everyone forgot the restricted space and the kids were in awed silence once the show started. It was a spectacular copy of the movie – frame by frame with a few inspired songs thrown in. The sets and costumes were bright and innovative. They did so much with so few people and such creative use of space. The scene with the herds charging through the gorge was particularly well done. I can only say I was mesmerised and now know why people have kept going on at us to go. I can’t decide which character I liked best although Poomba was adorable and Timon had the most brilliant ventriloquist. This is a show not to be missed. Despite the overpowering red seats, quite dusty theatre and expensive tickets. Go. Now.

After the musical we headed to Belgo Centraal for dinner. Belgo is part of a Belgian food speciality chain. Belgo is located in an industrial looking sub-terrainean cave like space down a cobbled street in Covent Garden. The metallic touches ironically bring a brilliant design balance to the stone ceilings walls and floors. As in Belgium the main food on the menu is mussels. By the kilo pot, in warming bowls, as starters, as main meals. Being allergic to shellfish this was disappointing (only because I love shellfish but am so allergic). The menu had other fish options and I chose those: salmon fishcakes to start with and haddock as a main course. The food was served by a friendly waitress who looked like Friar Tuck (from the Robin Hood movie) – maybe the monk like robes helped that effect. All four of us enjoyed our meal - hearty portions, extremely tasty food, and about £25 per head including alcohol. Try and get to one of the five branches they have in London. It’s worth the time and effort.

It was indeed a lovely way to spend a grey Sunday.

Belgo Centraal: 50 Earlham Street/ 2b Shelton Street, Covent Garden, London WC2H9LJ. Tel: 0207813 2233

Angel

Long silence.

I find that as we grow older illnesses takes on so much importance and gravity. I remember feeling as a child that all adults had a veneer of strength and invincibility. Alas, time has a nasty way of catching up with all of us and we find that adults, whom we thought nothing could harm, are only human.

I want to remember my mausi today. Smiling, laughing wonderful memories. A full life over too soon. Surrounded by her family and friends. I remember all the time I spent with her on my trip to India last year and will cherish that time forever.

Our angels watch over us.

The Guard

Before we got the guard we did it all ourselves.

Top to bottom, spic and span; it took two of us a bit of everyday all working week and all of saturday.

Then she arrived and it took us ages to get used to her efficient ways, her whirlwind that left us neat as pins in a mere 3 hours a week.

Murphys Law: Now we are used to it and loving it, the Guard is gone.

For a year and a half she gaurded us

against dusty furniture and cobwebs that dared be spun

against muddy unvaccumed floors

against unscrubbed counter-tops

against waiting for winter until we could legimitely hide our unironed clothes under bulky coats

against a sink full of dirty dishes

against over-flowing bins and unending circles of laundry

against windows through which the views are a pure unadulterated brown

against ultimate Health & Safety iregularities in housekeeping that would cause us to be shut down

Gone after getting me used to her weekly whirlwind of efficiency.

And now I sit here with a concertina of un-ironed clothes sprawled across my bed wondering how long I can put off the inevitable.

I am the new guard.

OneHundredOne AND One

All in the same go. 101 posts round up year 1 on this mighty machine humbly known as the blogosphere. I'm glad I made it this far. I admit it has not been as easy I thought it would be. I think I began by thinking this would turn out to be an opportunity to see if I had any 'creative writing' genes, a book in me and a vent for the endless rubbish floating around in my head. It's turned out to be an tree-huggers diary, the online-ness offering up the opportunity to replace/save the numerous notebooks I scribbled in. It's my space, where I've jotted in stuff that I find amusing interesting, not so trivial, very trivial; reviewed books and restaurants that have caught my attention or not so much; but mostly its where I marked the start of my 30th year.

In 101 posts:

• I have never received more than 6 comments per post - and even then the author had stumbled and deleted 3 of their comments - I still like to think my highest ever comments was 6
• I have never been tagged
• I feature on fewer blogrolls than every other blog I read - and being jobless I read a lot.
• I have had 9037 visitors to my blog - of which half are probably me checking to see if I have any non-existant comments and to check how many bloggers looked me up.
• I had had my profile viewed 586 times - again that's probably me one third of the time.
• I can confirm that I am doggedly going to continue - this blog is for my pleasure, not a book deal, money or awards

I am resolute in what this blog is for me. My 30th year marches into 2006, happy healthy and my mind is still full of ideas on what I want to say. Whether anyone but me ever reads it or not. Happy 101/1 to me.

Talking of resolutions. As the earth finished yet another chakkar around the sun, we're mostly making silent resolutions on how we'll change our own worlds next year (silent mainly for fear of people thinking us sissies who need time to define their being; "you can and SHOULD begin resolutions when you think of them, not wait till the 1st" crap). Some of us will keep resolutions till the middle of January or just be-fore/yond, others will strive for the middle of the year or obscene goals such as losing 200lbs. Either way many of the hours without will feel like a sci-fi movie where time forgot about us. But make no mistake, resolutions are being made every minute of this past week, even in the heads of the cynics, the uber-cool, the grouchy. I wish you luck all. It's not always about the result but instead the race.

I made some pretty big resolutions despite being stared at (as if I had just landed from Mars) and told how it was unrealistic, childish, extreme (think up the remainder similar adjectives) and how I would never manage to honour them by almost everyone I told them to (except by V who is my hero). Well I really don't care who says what; I still have a list all pinned up and so far being stuck to (It's only the 3rd but I'm an eternal optimist).

I like the idea of New Year and resolutions walking hand in hand. As for begining them anytime during the year, yes you could do that but then you could just as easily discount New Years and pretend that the calender does not exist. Let Jan 1st be any other day, don't party, stay home and sulk some more. Be an optimist. Imagine that the same way your birthday marks the start of another year in your life, the New Year is just a common birthday for people to celebrate together. A handle on what went by and a clean slate on which you can write your next year. Resolutions whether kept or not will boost your spirits: give up something, take up something new, plan a holiday, smile more. Something will last. Or atleast you'll have the rest of the year to plan next years resolutions.

Meanwhile I hope you usehered in the New Year with gusto whether at home (as 20 new-baby-families probably did) or watching fireworks or at a party. More importantly I hope you brought in 2006 with a smile on your face and with friends by your side. We certainly did. With friends, champagne, music, merriment and laughter. And are all the better for it. Although we needed to sleep off the exhaustion all day on the 1st after rolling home at 6.30am! What a year this promises to be...

May 2006 glow!

Babe name game

This post is not about new years resolutions for 2006. It's about resolutions made by adults to take on new responsibilities further confirming their adult status. It's about tiny creatures who take over small worlds and rule with soft iron fists. Whose tiny tops of heads smell of the nectar of life.

Babies. Born by the million each year. Each one the centre of someones universe. Bringing pride and joy to many a clan.

On the naming of many babies I have heard The Grouchy One argue that often the minimum criteria for producing a baby is body parts and a complete lack of undestanding on how to use them (in short body parts and stupidity). As the world fancies itself more modern with each passing year these little creatures are lovingly bestowed with names that are probably the prime reason they are yelling so much. TGO reckons that prospective parents should have to give an exam to check their suitability and name choosing abilities. Luckily TGO has no say in the matter.

This year V & my wide world of friends and relatives have produced a record breaking number of babies: 20. 9 girls and 11 boys. That may not seem like a lot when compared with the millions born each year but it's the largest number born in any year of our adult lives yet. Maybe it has to do with our age, this need to procreate. The bug is ever far from us thankfully. But as these babies grow into 2006 and begin to take their first tiny steps I can only wish their parents a lifetime of happy memories.

I don't know what TGO would make of any of these names but here they are:

The little ladies:
Hannah, Tara, Rhea, Jia, Karma, Radhika, Anya, Naarayani-Gayatri, Naina

The naughty boys:
Neel, Ishaan, Arjun, Vir, Jiyon, Kavi, Akshat, Arnav, Charlie, Zain, Thomas

I don't know if I like or dislike any of the names - thankfully they aren't mine to decide on. I do know that their parents chose carefully, with thought, numerology, astrology, ancesterology and mostly with love. I am also a self-certified expert on know how much every baby gift ever made costs, whats cool in babydom and what is most definitely so last year, what little girls look cute in and little boys will smile at, what parents will approve of and what colours are sooo this season in little people world.

I also know that (no matter what TGO says) as we coo over other people's babies and tell them what wonderful names they have chosen, their expectations for their babe will have been reinforced and their sensitivities respected.

Good luck babies (and the rest of the world).

Books & Art 2005 - V

I know. You are looking at the time the past four posts have been posted at and wondering at my super typing speed. I began by typing up what I wanted to write in blogger and found it took simply ages and that I was going off on different tangents ever so often. Decided in the interest of the (very very few) readers of 30in2005 and my own sanity that I would write the posts in a word document and copy paste them. I know its cheating but the blog police is in office at this time so I’ll take my chances!

As I write this (in an actual blogger window) I am quite taken by my own decisiveness in choosing my favourite 3 books. It was a difficult choice but as I sat on the tube yesterday afternoon I quickly made a mental list of 6. This morning I wrote that list down and as soon as I saw it written down I decided which my top 3 were. The The Tiger Claw, Serving Crazy with Curry and Jigs & Reels come in a close 4th, 5th and 6th.

So that's the books.

As for the Art I cannot say more strongly what I feel about the Turner prize as I did here. Boatsheds are not art and I would not keep it in my house if you paid me the $40,000 the artist won for it. He must be thrilled with what he's gotten away with!

Next week I plan to go and see 3 galleries and 3 exhibits to renew my interest in different art forms and confirm that good art can be found outside the confines of the crazy prizes. Art for its own sake. Art that is exciting, refreshing, pleasing to the eye, a view of the world through anothers eyes, an expression that is of intriguing beauty. God help any contrived nonsense masqerading as art that comes in my path!

I hope 2006 is a good year for books and art, particularly. I hope you read something good in 2005. And saw something inspiring. Bet it wasn't the Turner prize longlist though.

Books & Art 2005 - IV

Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre (Book 15): This was borrowed off someone’s bookshelf after a sparkling dinner last weekend and I finished it in less than 24 hours. I had to call the owner just to tell them that this is possibly the best book I’ve read all year. It’s a book I didn’t buy or borrow before because I was convinced that the hype surrounding it was the precursor to a gentle let-down. And the authors' name gave me no confidence whatsoever (I know I know, whats in a name and all that - shame on me)

I was sooo wrong. Since it won the Man Booker Prize in 2003 and I’m years behind in catching up with it, there are a zillion reviews of the book, so choose one from here, here or here.

All I will say is this: It’s a book set in modern day America with a plot based on the rampant availability of guns, juvenile problems, materialism, dyfunctional families, media focus, small town biases and a multitude of scary everyday issues. Vernon Gregory Little narrates the story begining from when his life is irrevocably changed by the Columbine-style slaughter of a group of students at his high school by his best friend Jesus Navarro. The plot finds Vernon charged with the killing despite his innocence and soon he is in the media spotlight, surrounded by his ridiculaous mother and her conman boyfriend Eulalio Ledesma. Vernon is caught up in a chain of events that leads to Mexico, a scary assignation with college girl Taylor Figueros, dying minutes on death row and beyond.

It’s a brilliant book, readable over and over. The plot moves quickly, the language is very teen and the mind is boggled by the attractive simplicity of it. If you haven’t read it, do. Now.

Books & Art 2005 - III

31 Songs by Nick Hornby (Book 14 ): This I bought in Borders, Oxford Street, while waiting to meet a friend. I resisted the lights and bought just the one book!

I love Nick Hornby’s writing. I’ve read every book of fiction he’s written. I’ve seen the movies made out of them and re-read the books again, enjoying each one anew. He has a very connected way of writing, including his reader in the world he creates and encouraging ‘the little people to find the light’ kind of themes in his stories. A modern day feel good above all else magician. The kind of writer I think I’d like to be.

31 songs is not fiction. I bought it much after it came out, postponing the purchase, letting linger the thought that maybe we’d like the same kind of music but knowing deep down that we wouldn’t and that if (or honestly, when) that happened I wouldn’t enjoy his books as much anymore. I was right. Well atleast about us not liking the same kind of music. The only thing we have in common is Bruce Springsteen (hey, no sniggering out there). But the book is evocative and so well written that I feel like I was listening to the wrong stuff in my teens. Nick Hornby draws a brilliant melody with his words, describing how music often makes us feel, articulating what most of us can only do in our heads or when no one else is around.

Even if his music is not your music you should read this book. I promise you will hear things you never read before.

Books & Art 2005 - II

Anthem by Tim Binding (Book 13): Bought in a bargain store in Greenwich because how can I resist a solid hardback!?

This is the story of four neighbouring families living in Anglefield Road, small town England, in the times of the Falkland war and before. The before is the separation of a young boy Henry Armstrong being separated from his mother during a day trip to London in the last great fog of 1952. Henry grows up and as a bandsman in the Royal Marines bound for the Falklands, finds his life is still overshadowed by the fact that he has still not found his mum.

Thirty years later, in the year of the Falkland war, shoe salesman Richard Roach (coinicidently Henry's childhood friend), finds he is being ousted out of his company by a younger man who is also having an affair with his wife. He is at war with his teenage son, is haunted by his childhood mistakes and things get truly miserable before he deicides to make any changes. His neighbour Freddie Millen is eternally obliged to his brighter, richer brother and remains obsessed with lawns, both causing a huge strain in his marriage. Their neighbours Matty and Suzanne Plimsoll are crew members on the liner Canberra which is requisitioned for the war. While Matty jumps ship at the last minute Suzanne escapes her marriage and stepdaughter by volunteering to accompany the liner as it transports troops to the Falklands. The Plimsolls are next door to the Armstrongs who are missing a son (you know who) and still struggling with their loss all these years later by buying notebooks like the one he had on him when he was lost.

The story is beautifully told and Tim Binding weaves hope well into the intertwining lives of ordinary people in the face of loss, war, ambition and struggles.

Definitely a bookshelf keeper.