Now Then

When I first went to the US of A in 1998 I was a relative newbie to the business of travelling alone and a definte newbie to the country. As things transpired I had 12 hours as I landed in New York to catch a connecting flight to Chicago to begin a long cross country working tour. I had that one day only to get my glimpse of New York.

My dad's first job was in an office in Battery Park, just across from the Staten Island ferry. His company then became one of the first shift of tenants to move into the World Trade Centre when it was completed in 1971. When I sought his advice on what to do in that one day he said that ideally I should get myself from the airport to the World Trade Centre and then sit in it's shadow with a Pastrami-on-Rye sandwich from any of the many deli's in its vicinity for company and contemplate the world sitting the shadow of the towers. And then I could go and do the touristy sightseeing. Of course he was being sentimental. As it turned out his conviction that this would be a good introduction to a city was spot on. They were magnificant buildings, like nothing I had ever seen before. After a quick sandwich hunting walk around the area I sat on a bench and stared at their looming dominance whilst chomping on the tastiest sandwich ever. I'm ever so glad I took my dad's advice all those years ago.

I was going back after 9 years and it was not without trepidation. So much has changed, the world itself was such a different place. It is quite something to go back to that place and not see the towers but instead a building site for the Freedom Tower. V never had the opportunity to see the original buildings but he could see how much I wanted to go back to have a look, so after lunch that the very first day in New York, we went along to have a look. The area is buzzing with people and a palpable energy but there is an unmistakable silence that resonates from the spot where the towers stood. Ground Zero as it is now known is encircled with a wire-metal fence and these wonderful large format photographs adorn it in memory of the people who lost their lives there. As we stood there I reflected on how lucky I was to have seen the original buildings. Old photographs do not do them justice.

I should listen to my father more often.

Big Small

This was not meant to be my first New York post. The pictures and bit I wanted to post first are sitting as a draft on the dashboard but when I tried to edit/ post them just now they seem to have jumped blog. Maybe because I used Picasa (thank you for the tutorial wise blogger-ji) at home to upload them into blogger and then didn’t try to post till I came into work today. Or maybe not, as this post seems to have all 3 pictures intact. I don’t know. It’s all still a mystery to me.

Anyway.

This dude lives outside the Rockerfeller Centre in midtown Manhattan. The building behind him is pretty drab although its massive girth and height more than make up for beauty.

All of V’s sightseeing in his many work trips to NYC has been the view from a taxi window. This was our first time in the city together and with no work agenda for V we decided we would stick to the take it easy plan. That’s the one with no fixed agenda other than to obey our regular cravings for food. So instead of pushing ourselves to squeeze in culture by racing around the museums on a very crowded long weekend we decided to take it all in with just walking around imbibing the air and energy. We’ll be culture vultures next time I promise

We stuck to midtown Manhattan in our two&abit short days. One of the things that appealed to me most about Midtown is the way it is set out. How the Avenues that run from north to south intersect perpendicularly with the numbered streets running from east to west thereby forming blocks. And how Broadway defies this order by running diagonally across, as if to prove its better than the others and doesn't need the same order to be just as successful. But in the main it’s all based on lovely logic and that with me is always a winner. The great wide avenues are busy busy places with madcap traffic traversing the oneway system with a great deal of honking. Everyone is in a hurry ALL THE TIME. We strolled among the rushing public, taking in Park, Madison, Fifth, 6th and 7th Avenue, up and then down, admiring the scale of it, jumping over potholes with steam escaping from the city's hot belly.

Manhattan is big and its buildings take that word and stretch it to its full meaning. If I had only two words to describe it I would use large and looming. The architecture is not pretty or ornate like in London but the sheer size is an overpowering fact. All of these tall towers are built quite snuggled together and the word concrete jungle is utterly apt. It seems to be a city that takes the business of using space quite seriously and the scale is blaringly immense. (I can't help use the word scale again and again - stop me please). They word skyscraper is literal and we spent a lot of time with our heads turned unnaturally upwardly, necks straining open mouths to their widest to catch glimpses of the tops of buildings. Every inch is used carefully with these gigantic buildings dominating the landscape and people and cars filling in the gaps. It looks busy and really it is busy as just one trip to Macy’s (which has a whole block of its own) brought home.

After a while all the big buildings began to meld into one in my blurry eyes. An unsuccessful journey to the Empire state building (seriously, the 3 hour waiting to get to the top has put me off permanently) made me crave the ornate short beauty of the square mile that is London City. The hidden gems of Manhattan architecture are the churches that dot the landscape every few blocks. These are utterly short in comparison to their neighbours but sit squarely and resolutely gleaming with purpose, daring their taller neighbours to cast shadows on them. Their stark difference from the concrete and glass scapers and obvious care of appearance was utterly endearing. The two pictured here are the two I loved most: the grey one is St. Patrick’s Cathedral on East 50th & Madison and the other is on Park avenue but it’s name now escapes me. I loved midtown for its buzz and theatre district and shopping but its buildings were overpowering, more awe inspiring by size than design.

I asked 6 genu-ine New Yorkers this question and although each thought there was definitely a cogent explanation, none of them knew what it was: Why is 6th Avenue called the Avenue of the Americas?

Anybody?

Real world transition

I have several posts to post, all words in a cloud. All neatly written out on wide-margined foolscap paper with a blue-black ink pen, and laid in a neat pile on that beautiful crafted desk that resides in the book lined library in my head. It’s all there, the information about our holiday, neatly chronicling all the places we saw, food we ate, books we read, drinks we drank and trivia bits & bobs that are worthy of this ‘content low, experience medium' blog that I call home. But before I get to the ‘what I did last holiday’ post I must first get back into the groove of the real world – or at least my very real, very cluttered, very busy world. The one we went on holiday to escape from.

So back in town mid-week and on some crazy whim I have declared that the holiday is not over till I say so or Sunday. Whichever comes first. So for the remainder of the week this means that I shall behave like a slug, drink more alcohol than water, gorge on large plates of oily food and definitely NOT go to the gym. The first day back at work was a doddle. I spent all morning showing off my now sunburned skin and pretending that patchy black was the new black. And then all afternoon trawling through the 3476 e-mails that have made my out of office assistant a mad witch whizzing around that many other poor people’s boxes. Then I posted the short post below this and called it a day.

The rest of the working week flew by as I declared each day a holiday (in my head) and basically sat through VERY IMPORTANT meetings doodling palm trees and ocean waves on expensive stationery.

It’s not easy being on holiday at home. Mainly because there are no beach loungers on my terrace, no sand to cushion my footfall and most importantly, no colourful umbrellas to twirl around in my cocktails. Then there is the annoying business of laundry, cooking and dishes to contend with. I made the most of the first few evenings back in London town, just lounging around, moving from sofa to sofa, listening to ABBA on a loop and continuing a staggering pace of reading while nursing a wine glass to it's natural end. Until my eyelids would not stay open even with the aid of matchsticks.

Thank goodness the weekend arrived. We met up with friends to talk their ears off about our holiday. Thankfully (for them) they had just come back from one as well so we spent the better part of an hour swapping tales, covering trails, weather, food, highlights, booklists, sun screen factor and generally sighing about how it had all gone by way too fast. To celebrate our safe and rejuvenated return we had decided to go out for a meal.

So to Alounak we tubed it. Thankfully we had booked a table because when we arrived in this West Kensington eatery, the small narrow restaurant was bursting at the seams. Alounak was highly recommended by a trusted colleague of our friend who said he went there to get his “fix of middle eastern grub”. It serves Iranian food in what could be described a lively, bright yet softly lit and snug space. The skylight was mainly obscured by a large glittery chandelier and fake plants hung from various corners. An indoor fountain squashed next to a table had fish swimming in it instead of water spouting from it and we sat by a long aquarium built into one of the walls. We had a mixed starter which consisted of hummus and 3 other dips (one each of chicken and aubergine and a third unidentifiable flavour) and some taftoon bread, which is very similar to a tandoori roti only a bit thinner. We shared 3 main dishes including the special of the day which was lamb accompanied by some dill flavoured rice. The chelo lamb skewers (one each of mince and fillet) wrapped in the bread and the chicken skewers accompanied by a simple salad, made up the 3. Washed down with Persian lassi (quite like chaas) and the BYOB of Spanish wine the meal was a very pleasing start to the end of our holiday time. Persian food is very meaty and subtly spiced. The service was friendly enough and the meal reasonable enough at about £16 per head, given that after that starter and main course we stuffed a plate of zaloobias (jalebis) and some other sweets including some very below average pistachio ice cream and falooda down our throats. Alounak expects to turn over its tables a few times each evening so the meal was fast paced but not rushed. The slow shuffle back to Holland Park Station was testament to a very filling and utterly satisfying meal.

The rest of the weekend was slow and steady, with loads of naps and music and lovely meals to make that transition between my holiday head and real world head as easy as possible. Tried to get into the right frame of mind to attack the fat/ gym by cheering the London Marathon runners along on Sunday morning. Went and watched a movie but I need to mull it over a tad longer before I can be sure what I really thought about it.

And finally V downloaded all our holiday snaps. So my long posts on the holidays shall begin in a day or so and I'm hoping to do them in quick succession. And what a change of pace that shall be...

Alounak: 10 Russell Gardens, Olympia, London, W14 8EZ

Back

The suitcase needs unpacking. The sunburn needs calamine lotion. The pictures need uploading. The house needs vaccuming. The plants need watering. The laundry needs loading. The blog needs a post or two. And I need a hot home cooked meal of dal, chawal and aloo subji. And my own pillow.

Being jet-lagged and being at work are not happy companions.

I’m off to fall asleep on my keyboard. Again.

Away. My way.

First let me get the disclaimers out of the way.

Trips to India are so filled with the loving grasping arms of friends and family, certain social obligation meetings, sumptuous meals and kilos of shopping amidst heaving crowds and maddening traffic that they don’t really count as holidays. I think of trips to India more as ‘returns’ to a beloved place, to all things familiar, many things new and that blend of memory and reality. In my very personally tailored dictionary, for any holiday to qualify as long, it has to be 7 days or more. These 7 days can include some travel, though if the trip requires more than 18 hours of travel time (including short stopovers) then it needs to be more than 7. If it’s less than 7 it’s merely a break.

Having disclaimed the returns as holidays and proclaimed what constitutes ‘long’ in my book, it appears that our last long holiday was over 2 years ago in February 2005. Last year we made two short trips to Amsterdam and Bruxelles, one at each end of the year, like bookends to a row of wonderful months.

My first job out of college involved a lot of travel to foreign climes. It was a great job and I got to look at quite a few places before it was time to move on to bigger and better things. The highlight of course was the Tiger. Then came the wedding and this life in London, where we have so many opportunities to travel that the mind boggles. Like with every working couple we know we too have only been held back from traveling more by the 3 usual suspects: the painful processes of begging for visa’s, lack of more time off from work and an overflowing bank account. We have managed to convince visa officers of our honourable intentions and used as much holiday time as our company and budgets have allowed but after a yo-yo year of stressful buying/ peaceful moving into our own home what we really need is a holiday.

Short city breaks are characterized with racing around and trying to fit in as much as is humanly possible into a 2.5 days of a long weekend. Museums with lofty art and sculpture, architecture of eras bygone and new, local flee fruit & veggie markets, show/ theatre/ dance performance, copious amounts of local food, excursions to nearby medieval township/ village known for rare crafts, supermarkets and boutiques to see what they have that we don’t, tram/ metro/ bus/ cab rides to feel the length and breadth of the city. It’s enough to make us come back to work in dire need of another break.

Holidays, in my book only, are characterized by a slower pace of life. A longer, more languid time. To explore and rest in equal measure. Eating our time away with top-notch food, under a band of ever-pleasant weather. Lots of wandering, enjoying the newness of the place and its oh-so different culture and ways of traveling. Ooh-ing and Aah-ing at the sights we never imagined we’d ever see and gazing longingly through shop windows. A firm agenda of lounging by a pool/ beach and devouring books and cocktails like we’d never get this chance again. And of course that hunt for a token souvenir purchase, something exotic and sturdy and unique. So special in fact, that every time we look at it on our return, it conjures up smiling eyes and blue azure sky memories of that holding hands time.

This will be our third such holiday since we got married 5pointsome years ago. Already I can feel the sun on my back and the wind ruffle through my hair.

This is my blog break, London life hiccup, mundane-ness speed bump, bone warming machine, mind enlightening list and gourmet adventure. I’m off to find serenity. First stop: NYC. Second stop: a Caribbean beach.

I better go pack. Seeya in a few weeks peoples......

Shock and shell

There are no words of comfort that will ease away V’s anguish. Like many other die-hard Indian cricket fans he spent Friday night tossing and turning, weighed down by the defeat of the Indian cricket team. As if he bore that burden solely and squarely on his shoulders. As if it were his faith that had come short and made Team India lose.

I came home quite late that Friday evening, having spent the afternoon gazing at glorious Amrita Shergill paintings at the Tate Modern with S and then gone for a bout of gym working to avoid watching yet another nail biting India match. I imagined that the 413 record scoring from the previous match was the start of bigger & greater things to come and that my presence in front of that TV would only jinx a good thing. I came home as the last few balls of this decisive match were being played, only to encounter a forlorn V. His chilled Gambrinas looked very cheerful in contrast.

I knew when I met and married V that I would have to change my ways and become the ‘Wife of a Sport Fan’. I signed into that club pretty quickly and quite easily because it’s not a lot to ask and really, I ask a lot more in return. Also sports are basically organised games and individually I like rules/ games/ teams and love organisation of all kinds so even combined it wasn’t an imposition I couldn’t bear. It also meant that I could have holidays around sports fixtures when we could afford the time and effort and moolah.

During the last world cup we didn’t have enough money or time to travel to watch matches. And then India got to the final and we sighed and insisted ‘next time’. Well, this is next time and many months ago V got us 4 tickets to go and watch 2 matches in the Caribbean with friends. The friends bowed out but we went ahead and booked our flights, found a beach resort, bought that sunscreen and packed our bags. Now we have 4 tickets to watch both Bangladesh – England and Bangladesh – Ireland. It’s a sad, sad day and even the sunshine prelude to our upcoming getaway isn’t helping cheer V up. I on the other hand cannot wait for the sandy shores to pick shells off while V lies under a beach umbrella, nursing a cocktail and hoping to recover from the shock. It’s a difficult life but somebody has got to do it.

I, for one, am no longer supporting cricket – not today, not next month, not next year, not ever. I’ll go and watch it when forced upon (seeing as we have 4 tickets for each match and are hardly likely to find Bangladesh/ English/ Ireland fans wanting them now) but really in my eyes it lost its lustre as a game the second poor Bob Woolmer was killed. I won’t discuss this now because it’s all under investigation, but I will say that in my heart it’s now a tainted game. Even India going through would not have changed that. And to top it all that ridiculous Usha Utthup song from the new movie ‘Hatrick’ (that plays in a loop on one of the desi channels, one of 3 world cup ‘go India’ songs on constant display), will not leave my head. Bah humbug!

At a brilliant home cooked Mexican meal with friends on Saturday night the discussion centered on India’s failure to make it to the Super 8 stage. My suggestion was to sack the entire Indian team, but hey, what do I know of sport, politics, money or the world. I had to quickly back down from that argument. Mostly V and our hosts were plotting about how Bermuda would miraculously beat Bangladesh on Sunday thereby pushing us back into contention for the next round. As V oft quotes from his phrase book of life, “‘eternal optimist’ equals ‘Indian cricket fan’”. I believe him. Bermuda didn’t triumph. I am still going to bask in sunshine and bake in the sand. The End.

I baked him a ‘cheer up’ chocolate cake. And promised I’d collect him a unique shell from my foray to the beach, string it up on a length of leather and use it as a good luck charm for next time.

He still isn’t smiling.

Twerps in Antwerp

Just my luck, the one day the darn sun shines in London, I’ve made plans to leave town. Blue toy plane took me to Antwerp airport on a rare sunny Friday afternoon.

45 minute flights are pretty perfect when they have only 15 people onboard, lounging in the 50 seats. The seatbelt ON sign stays on the first 20 minutes while toy plane attempts to defy gravity and rise to glide above the clouds. At 19 minutes the pilot gives up and we just plateau out, below said clouds and not far enough above the ground to no longer be able to see the fields and scattering of houses. We pass over the English Channel and I see a wind farm swirling vigorously in the brisk sea air. Rows of wind turbines make up a diamond shape, standing proud and tall against the sea of blue. Apt, wouldn’t you say, seeing as I am heading to the diamond capital of the world. The plane is level for just about 5 minutes before the descent must begin. This means that the stewardess has to wheel her trolley down the aisle pretty fast, chucking sandwiches and chocolate at us en route to the galley. The plane dives down towards its destination and comes to land on a tiny airstrip. The airport is very tiny and basic. And that sums up the city as well.

My mama (let’s call him Sam) and his family have moved to Antwerp 6 months ago on a posting and as I had not seen any of them in the past 5 years I decided to make amends by making this short and easy journey. So Sam and his kid (let's call him Sprout) are at the airport to meet me. And true to his name, my cousin Sprout has grown a few feet since I last saw him. Of course he was 7 at the time and is now 12. But which 12 year old towers over their 31 year old cousin? Sprout is nearly at the 6 foot mark, his still child-like face topping a tall and gangly frame. Its official: I am the shortest person in my mother’s ENTIRE family. And possibly the universe. Gah!

My nani also lives with them, and after battles for her visa she has joined them. (The Belgians do not consider single, older parents to be dependents on their son). I saw her when we went to India last October and she was all upset at being parted from her son and running around trying to rectify the situation. Seeing her again and this time in better circumstances, reunited with her precious son, was the cherry on an already rich and sweet cake.

Spent Saturday out and about, sitting in trams and buses, walking miles, taking in Antwerp, talking nineteen to the dozen. It was lovely to do all that catching up, exchanging gup-shup and baat-shaat. It must be said though that Antwerp is not a terribly exciting city and there are only a few things worth mentioning from all that touring:

1. A very large building sits empty on a road called Bolivarplaats. This is the new court house that has been built to bring together all the disparate courts in the Antwerp area. Although its very innovative ceiling is a series of fin like appenditures, the overall look of the building is quite monsterous.

2. As with its big sister city of Bruxelles just 48 kilometers away, Antwerp has a Grote Markt or Market Square. The buildings surrounding the square are not very impressive but the central statue is not half bad. Legend has it that a giant would cut off the hands of sailors who used the Sheldt river and refused to pay taxes. That statue is of Silvius Brabo, a Roman who defeated the giant and let sailors pass through with their hands on. Of course I didn’t get any pictures because I did not bother to carry my camera.

3. There are plenty of roads and buildings named after Antwerp’s greatest resident – Reuben’s. The main cathedral has four of his paintings and his house is a museum. The cathedral is missing a tower and the stained glass was unimpressive but the hushed silence within and the main hall of prayer was sublime. I didn’t go see the museum but I did pass more that a few roads and buildings named after him. Does that count?

4. Went to big electronic chain Media Markt to buy the Sprout a birthday present to cover the past 12 years of ignoring it. Passed by the largest ever collection of coffee making machines in one spot. I guess Belgians do take their coffee seriously. The store is right near the Central Station which is a magnificent building, far more pleasing than any other sight I saw. It’s lovingly called the Railway Cathedral and it’s easy to see why with its iron and glass dome, majestic stairs and gold decorations. In appearance it seems more a historical building than a utilitarian one but I am reliably told that it is a station that prides itself on being the perfect meld of both beauty and functionality.

5. I ate a lot of waffles. Again. We would stop every couple of hours and at every opportunity to wolf down hot hot waffles. We walked the length of the Meir, which is a very long pedestrian-ised length of street which serves as the main shopping attraction. It has every brand imaginable on either side of the road and I had to maintain great ‘won’t power’ to abstain from going in and shopping myself silly. On Sunday we wandered around the local market that sprung up on the roads nearby and got caught in a sharp shower while watching the bird sellers train little budgies and parrots. Picked up some very tasty cheese from a smiling lady behind a very large cheese counter and helped choose some climbers for their apartment.

6. Wandered all over the diamond district and saw the branch of ABN Amro where the great bank robbery recently happened. It all looked ordinary and unassuming enough. No sign of the diamonds either.

After that short and sweet trip to Antwerp came back on the most turbulent flight ever, rocking and swaying violently all the way from Antwerp to London. Couldn't bear to catch the sandwich being chucked at me or drink a drop of water.

And seriously, there were no twerps. I just couldn't think of any catchy titles.

When a bull sees red

Doing up your own home needs a load more concentration and effort than living in rented accommodation. For one, the rented flat was fully furnished and the big decisions were really insignificant, like the colour of the linen mustn't clash violently clash with the curtains else blindness will be absolute. Whereas now, in our own abode, every decision, be it crockery or furnishings or wall colour or lighting fixtures, must be carefully turned over in the mind, written in neat columns and compared for shade, size, multiples, usage, price and innumerable other factors.

It’s a long and badly tarred road from an empty flat to full house. And it’s filled with decision making potholes as the battle for colour, size, design and quantity find us veering towards pitched lines where neither home owner is ready to compromise. After all, this stuff costs not-quite-the-earth-but-not-far-off-it and we will have to live with it, warts and all, till it becomes economically viable to cellotape the bits of our credit card back together again.

In our old rented place the second room essentially served two purposes: dumping ground for freshly laundered clothes that needed ironing and much more than occasional guest bedroom. I was determined that when we bought our own place the second room would be more than that. MUCH more, in fact, as I repeated the mantra three times each morning while we house hunted. The second bedroom was not for guests. It was for us and we would occasionally let guests use it. If they behaved well that is. Else it’s on to the balcony with a sleeping bag.

Seeing as there is so much stuff needed just for basic flat living, like a bed to sleep on, chairs to sit on, plates to uuummmm …… eat off, you know, that kind of thing, we postponed the decision of decorating our second bedroom as much as we could, concentrating instead on decorating the rest of our house into a self-pleasing aesthetic. The only decorating idea for the second room that came to some fruition was the curtains. Even that was more because it was an essential to avoid people looking in on us while we ironed, the iron being the second item in the room – more utilitarian and essential than decorative.

The curtains were won in a pitched battle on the John Lewis floor. We quickly agreed on curtains for our own room but for the second room I wanted something with a design on it, something that would stand out. So while poor V helplessly looked on in surrender I chose the palest shade of green-almost-ivory with large red flowers embroidered onto it. Very LARGE flowers. It sounds terrible but it isn’t - truly. The advice of the sales lady was that they would be difficult to match with linen but I was mesmerised enough to coerce poor V into letting me have them. Like simultaneous arm and ear twisting, no more meals for you mister, ok here come the big croc tears mister – twisting. He decided it was not a battle worth fighting. And really the tears were just plain embarrassing.

When the curtains got delivered 9 weeks after we ordered them (yes, this is not India where master-ji will turn around 14 large pieces of furnishing overnight) the curtains for our room were a different colour from the ones we remember choosing but being an equally pleasing neutral colour we decided to keep them. The curtains for the second room were as we expected and once up they looked glorious (to my eyes only), the red flowers setting off the background and framing the wide window with élan. Soon our beloved bean sofa was returned from relocating friends and its beautiful black leather sat plump and robust against the patterned curtains. The blue covered ironing board is now the obtrusive invader.

When our first guest announced their arrival we decided we had better buy a bed. After much hunting, high and low, catalogues, internet and shops we agreed on a pullout guest bed that would give the room the space to be 'our' room as opposed to the guest room. After re-mortgaging our house to pay for the bedding – really there is an awful lot – mattresses, pillows, sheets, duvets and duvet covers, in multiple sets - we had the first guest who pronounced the bed suitably comfortable. Result.

So beside the hunt for a couple of unique bed side tables, some art for the living room and a replica of a £75 silk cushion I saw in Selfridges’, we’re mostly done. Of course I’ve now got it into my head that I want to stain/ varnish the guest bed wood a darker more teak-like shade. Well, that won’t happen anytime soon.

And in the meanwhile V has mastered a set routine in showing visitors around the house. He pauses in the doorway of the second bedroom, behind unsuspecting guests trapped within and asks in his meekest voice, “So, what do you think of the curtains”. Since we only know polite people, they all say, “Oh, very nice”. And then he closes with the killer, “So do you want to take them home, then?”

master-ji: Master Tailor (in this case)

A new day in this modern world

It’s the unsaid things that weigh most heavily on ones mind.

The weight of expectation is immense. Too large not to notice but not so large as to buckle the knees, bend the shoulders. Thankfully.

Today is International Women’s Day. This day is about ordinary women as makers of history: women around the world who challenge the status quo in their daily struggle for equality and find their own voice to guide their lives.

Let the decisions be your own, expectations be damned.

Call it the end of a road trip or a brush with death

So after V had pretty much found out everything there was to find out about Jeetu, we trundled back to the hotel and checked-out (after stealing all the toiletries, of course).

Debate raged in the car as to whether we should detour to see Fatehpur Sikri or just head home to Delhi. V won this round (used his ‘but I’ve never seen, am only son-in-law, come aaaaallll the way from UK’ sweet boy face) and we set of for Fatehpur Sikri. Well, I use the term ‘set off’ quite loosely as we were not so much a galloping caravan but more snails pace amidst all that traffic. So nai gaddi was doing her thing, purring smoothly and steadily in the very capable Nik’s hands, meandering through the crowded streets. We came to stop right behind a line of cars at some traffic light on the exit out of Agra. And then we got hit. From behind, by a Santro that had clearly had more accidents than days off the factory line. This was no gentle bump, more a loud thwacking and crunch, causing serious neck jerks and whiplash in two of the back seat passenger. So there we are full stop in the middle of a road, hit from behind for no good reason, with the bumper cracked and dented. We de-car massaging our necks to ease away the shock.

And out of the car that hit us appeared a young bloke (YB) with the world’s largest sunglasses. Immediately went to examine his car and found his radiator fussing. Told the friend he was talking to that he would call back as he had had a ‘chota sa accident’. So there it is, he came and hit us because he was talking on his cell phone while he drove, obviously concentrating more on that conversation than on his driving. And of course instead of asking us how were, did we need medical attention, YB immediately whipped out another mobile phone and dialed numbers to have simultaneously conversations with ‘his people’. In response to my mum asking what the plan was he kept saying ‘My guardian is coming’. What this meant we were soon to find out.

After parking our car on the side of the road to allow traffic to go past on the narrow street, we tried calling 100 from 3 different cell phones which we thought was THE number to call the police from anywhere in India. Apparently not. We were repeatedly told to ‘chuck the number’ (my favourite accented saying). We had no number for the Agra police, so we turned to calling our insurer to find out how much replacing the bumper would cost. We figured ‘the guardian’ would arrive and be a bit more helpful in sorting out the mess.

Well, ‘my guardian’ arrived. Only it was not just one person – it was two car loads, 8 additional people. YB’s father led the brigade. A very large man, defining prosperity with his girth, paan dripping from his mouth, a loud purple shirt stretched tight across his belly and an attitude that matched. Accompanying him was his brother ‘Bhai’ and an assorted 6 henchmen, one of whom was clearly a mechanic who immediately began tinkering with the Santro’s radiator to get it to stop hissing.

Let me just stop here to say something I never realised before this trip. Uttar Pradesh is a scary place. A very scary place. There. I said it. Only I’m not scared anymore because I’m 3000something miles away ensconced in an office of calm. From the moment we arrived in the Uttar Pradesh we had seen guns being openly carried around. By the pillion rider on a two wheeler. Propped up next to the driver in the cab of a Maruti van. On the backs of two guys just strolling along the side of the road. It was a little intimidating but I thought nothing of it till this very moment, on the side of this road, surrounded by people who had come in a horde to make things right for their young fella.

To get our bumper fixed we needed an FIR for the insurance claim. It was apparent right from the start that the Agra party was not going to shell out the money. YB’s uncle, The Bhai, had even come up to us and blustering told us how he was going to testify that he was at the side of the road, had seen everything, we had injured his nephew, damaged their car etc. And that all the people with him would testify to the same. He did this in a sort of ‘I’m trying to be friendly, but watch me turn mean’ basically indicating that there was no way they would pay for the damage. YB’s father kept clutching his chest and telling us how worried he was when his son called, thank the lord no one is hurt, I have a BIG beejness in Agra, don’t mess with me’. And there we were trying to be cautious, not get overexcited or aggressive in the face of a wrong being done to us.

Unable to get hold of the police we finally called the hotel we had just left and thankfully the Head of their security and HR agreed to come and help us sort this out. So accompanied by hotel dude, his driver and a guard we convoyed to the police station.

The Po-lice station is a dusty courtyard with a small fairly basic building in the centre and a small temple in the front. There are numerous old vehicles crammed into a corner, forgotten debris of accidents past, caked in dust and mud from years of neglect. These rust buckets have grown roots into the ground, firmly embracing the soil, stuck in a timeless age and adorned with scary looking people on ‘most wanted’ posters loosely taped to their sides.

The head honcho was sitting in the courtyard behind a metal desk, surrounded by general lookers-on and a few junior cops and listening to him talk. We all entered together but in one sudden spurt of energy YB’s endlessly round father strode ahead and shook hands with the top cop asking if he had received a call from so-and-so, who was a very good friend of the family. We of course had no contact to offer as our own except the hotel guy. Top cop asked each side to explain what had happened and then asked if we wanted to press charges. By this point, frankly, all we wanted to do was get the hell out of there. Pressing charges would only mean both cars being impounded and left to rot in said graveyard till a very lengthy court case was won, or someone was suitably bribed. It would also mean numerous other trips to Agra which none of us had the time, energy or inclination to pursue. It would also mean lots of the YB’s witnesses bearing false witness against us (my poor mum got so het up about this – she just cannot get that the world is not a uniformly true and beautiful place) and us trying to fend that off.

So in a deal designed to get us out of there and for both parties to get insurance (which his car could most certainly do with) a compromise was reached and an ‘insurance friendly’ FIR was lodged. The only person who could write such shuddh Hindi immediately took charge of the situation – my very own, very talented V (take a bow). He has the patience of an angel and used his always polite voice to write the FIR (dictated by the cop behind the counter) with some bogus story about a cow coming in our way forcing us to brake (sacred and all that) and causing the guy behind to bump into us. Both parties with a valid claim, signed, stamped and sealed, ready to go and forget this ordeal.

I won’t bore you with more detail, just leave you with the knowledge that the entire event took about 3 1/2 hours during which my dad sat in the back of nai gaddi and read his newspaper back to back (and no, he’s no coward, just trying to stay calm, not lose his temper and for a change let the young guys figure it out). My mum and I dabbled in inane conversations at the police station, read all the most wanted posters, and watched some other poor chaps come in and try and register a case of intimidation. We left sapped of energy and enthusiasm, the image of the Taj slightly diminished by its surroundings. We had a late lunch break before we left Agra to recharge our batteries for the long drive back into the mad Delhi traffic. Poor V never did get to see Fatehpur Sikri.

And just for a splash of added excitement, on the highway a police jeep swerved in toward our car for no good reason except a fake licence and poor driving skills. We owe our alive status to some very good driving on the Niks part. He kept us safe, scratch free and swaying to the music all the way home.

Poor nai gaddi is nai no more.

Nai gaddi: New car
Shuddh: pure

Bhai: brother
chota sa accident: small accident

Wah Taj!

Forgive the corny post heading. I could not think of any other. I’m guessing any desi’s reading this are reminded of Zakir Hussain playing the tabla, advertising tea. Well, this is not about tea or Zakir Hussain or tablas or advertisements. It’s about the Taj. The one in Agra.

Fact (as far as I can see): The tree lines avenues and well manicured lawns at the foot of the Taj are a joy. Almost every tree has a little board pinned to it telling you its generic name and its Latin name. Like: Neem; Azadirachta indica. It’s very endearing.

I spent 45 minutes two nights ago trying to upload some beautiful pictures of the Taj (yeah, like we haven’t seen THOSE before) but my every attempt was thwarted. In the end I gave up and did a quick internal acknowledgment that I last posted pictures so long ago that I no longer have any idea what I am doing. So instead I am going to continue the Agra story and try and show off the pictures of the Taj this weekend (do NOT groan).

Every trip to India is filled with purpose and demand - weddings, receptions, birthdays, anniversaries, relatives and friends. This short trip too had its purpose. But before we got the purpose we had 3 days with ‘my people’ in Delhi. As V had never been to see the Taj Mahal despite having lived in Delhi for years, we decided that a fun and useful way to spend our time (instead of lounging in front of the TV with pakora’s and being waited on hand an foot) with my folks would be this road trip. You’ve probably read the post below about the car journey. Now it’s time for the real deal.

So here we are in Agra, up bright and early, wolfing down the buffet for what it’s worth. We drive to the car park nearest the Taj and park there. We tumble out of the car and pretty much into the arms of every tour guide wanting us to hire them. After beating them off with a stick we hop onto the ‘free hai sir’ electricity mini-bus that takes us to the doorstep of the Taj. Well, nearly. Enroute in this chugging thing whose primary purpose I assume is to reduce pollution, both noise and air, we see cars whizzing around. Now just a minute, I thought we were at the closest car park? I now find out that if we hire a room at the Oberoi for Rs.27000/- per night we’d not only get an uninterrupted view of the Taj, we’d also get to park in their car park and just stroll along to the Taj. At that price guests pretty much deserve to be carried there on little stools, followed by an exclusive tour around it on a Segway, don’t you think? Alternately if we worked for, or were guests, of the Armed Forces our vehicle will be allowed past the very flimsy checkpost. I have no complaints. The electric bus is comfy, gets us there in two minutes, does not add much to the global warming footprint and being free certainly beats the room at the Oberoi hands down.

V hires Jeetu just outside the entrance to the Taj, who reliably informs us that one of the ways of making sure that NRI’s do not get past by paying the local rate of Rs.20/- is by being asked questions like “Who is the Prime Minister of India? Who is the President? How many states are there in India? When is Republic Day? And Independence was when?,” etc. Tough entrance this.

Once inside the gates, Jeetu goes on to explain in a mix of very broken English and Hindi the history that makes the Taj. Built over 22 years by Shahjahan in memory of his favourite wife Mumtaz Mahal this grand monument stands on the bank of the River Yamuna and dominates its landscape for miles around. The walk from the main gate up the avenue by the stream of water is mesmerizing. It takes very little observation to see the symmetry in everything, the worship of the straight and perfectly angled lines in design are all too evident. We stop for the obligatory photographs and discourse on how where and why by Jeetu. But mainly I walk around in the lovely winter sunshine which gleams of the whiteness of the Taj making it look like a surreal painting. The restoration which had scaffolding snaking up one side of the Taj is no longer there and the Taj is truly a sight for sore eyes.

My dad has soon given up on Jeetu who is fairly unintelligible to everyone but V, who nods knowingly and soon knows more about Jeetu’s history than Shah Jahan’s. We wander along enjoying the space and trying not to look too surprised that there are not more tourists. The last two times I have been here there have been seas of people to navigate through. This is a pleasant change. Could I be on an exclusive tour and not know it? Where’s my Segway?

We are walking up the solid marble steps to the dias on which the Taj imposingly sits. Up close, and in one sudden step it’s daintiness from a distance is replaced by an imposing grandness, a robust sturdiness that belies it’s finesse. A look inside reveals the very ornate replica’s of Mumtaz’s and Shah Jahan’s tombs. The intricacy is amazing, detailed and delicate, purposeful and loving. The marble (sanghmarmar – I love that word) glows and is cool to the touch. We walk around in silence, some too awed to speak, other just basking in the delight of seeing it again in the company of people they love.

Let me explain. My first ever road trip was to see the Taj, the rest of Agra and Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary (officially named Keoladeo Ghana National Park). In year dot, when we were just youngsters in school, my parents bundled me, the Nik and 3 other children (of my parents very best friends) into their ambassador (that mighty white Indian car) and drove us around for 4 days stopping first to see the Taj and then onto the other places. It was the most exciting holiday I can remember and we had the best family vacation that we could have asked for. Even the bit when our car broke down and we spent the afternoon playing pitthoo and fake practicing driving a tractor outside a garage while my dad and the mechanic twiddled and toiled over the engine. All of it was fun. That vacation left me with a permanent soft spot for the Taj.

Going back with my parents and the Nik (all grown up and driving us to and fro) is very special. Having V there makes it even more so. For one moment, in the shadow of that gleaming monument to love, I feel at absolute peace, like all is perfect in my world, THE world. It is certainly a moment worth the trip.

I know plenty of people who pooh pooh the Taj and are simply not impressed. I am. Unabashedly. In my dictionary there are very few adjectives that adequately describe the Taj. It is to my minds eye a masterpiece, a wonder of the world. Even revisiting it left me astonished, the engineering, the boldness, the design, the detail, they are all a perfect amalgam in this magnificent monument. To have been built when it was is nothing short of a feat.

If you haven’t already, I hope you get the chance to go and see it some day.

Fact (according to Jeetu ji): The foundations of the Taj get their strength from being wet all the time. It was built strategically on the banks of the Yamuna so that the water of the river kept them moist on a continuous basis. Sadly global warming is causing the Yamuna to shrink and the water is receding from the Taj at an unprecedented pace. The worry is that the Taj shall collapse unless its foundations can be watered (like a plant). (Someone is doing something about this although I’m not quite sure what.). The good news is that the 4 minaret at four corners around the Taj were built so that they tilt very slightly outward and in the case of any earthquake situation they will fall outward not injuring the main structure. Although how that will help if the entire thing is collapsing I do not get. Anyway.

Pitthoo: primitive game played with seven stones and a ball by very bored Indian children.

Start of a road trip

So after dire miscommunication between a dumb colleague of my mum’s, my mum and my dad, we are cruising along the beautiful Greater Noida expressway, with the Nik in control of the car. Of course we are on the wrong route as we ignore the billboard signs expounding the virtues of the Taj Expressway being built. But the car is going so fast, the road is so smooth, there is nobody honking or anywhere within 200 ft. of us, that we are all loathe to stop and check. The blame game is being played – "You said, she said, No I did not, But I heard", etc. It does not matter that we have to turn around halfway to Greater Noida, half wondering what it would be like. The flying detour has put us off our schedule by an hour but never you mind, soon we are amidst the madness that is Faridabad.

I can already see that this will be an epic journey, five of us cocooned in our very new Chevrolet Aveo, the boom box in the boot providing the vibrating, massage-like beat to the passengers on the back seat. It is the first all-brand new car my parents have ever bought and has been lovingly, proudly, honorarily Delhi-punjabi style been christened ‘Nai Gaddi’ (first name Nai, last name Gaddi, therefore the Capitals). It gleams with newness and the love that my parents shower upon it, like an added late sibling, the baby. We buy some very dirty grapes from a roadside thela and attempt to wash them with our Evian, which turns out to be a huge waste of water, making no impact against the dirt that determinedly clings to them. Passing through Palval we hear how wonderful the teethar of his youth was when dad visited Palval and how we should stop for some. Poor dad is ignored and we bullet on, chattering and listening to some mixed CD that dad calls ‘noise’.

We stop for lunch at Bharat Punjabi Dhaba. It is non-descript, like the tens of other dhaba’s enroute this highway. A faux half wooden fence demarcating a patch of ground that is the floor of the restaurant. The little mud shack that serves as the kitchen. The khatias I remember from my last trip this way in 1997 have been replaced by bright blue plastic chairs and tables, sponsored by Pepsi. The proprietor rattles of the menu and with some canny convincing we seem to have ordered almost the entire list. We tuck into multiple plates of paneer tikka’s, saag paneer, gobhi, sukhe aloo, kali dal and fresh hot roti’s (foods too tasty and numerous to adequately translate below). And we eat like we have never seen food before. I guess long car journey’s can do that, turn us into ravenous monsters.

It is early evening by the time we reach Agra and all of Agra seems to be out on the road to greet us. In cars, trucks and buses, on bikes and cycles, in rickshaws, by foot – the throngs of people jostle for their square inch of the road. Nai Gaddi is carefully maneuvered through gritty single lanes, shrinking back from being touched by sweaty palms as cyclist lean on us to pass through. Much honking and quick-braking later we are on the right track, having taken directions from various traffic policemen, dudes in other cars, people stopped by us at a railroad crossing. We pull into our hotel driveway and suddenly we are in an oasis of calm. All five of us re-adjust bone and muscle alignment as we step out of the car and into the foyer. The Nik gets a pat on the back for his patience and control while driving. I can hear the traffic and the voices of humanity, feel the heaviness of an evening smog settling upon our shoulders but miraculously the road just traveled is removed to the other side of a wall, as if in another time.

I had forgotten how pleasing it is to stay in an Indian five star hotel. The service is exemplary and you certainly get your money’s worth. Our hotel suites are stunningly beautiful, adorned with Mughal inspired art and furnishings worthy of being stolen and transported to my London home. We have a varied bookshelf of coffee table tomes and fiction, which we shall never have a chance to read. The luxury goes on - a dining table and a big screen TV in the living area. Another TV and a chaise lounge strategically placed around our four poster bed. The plush bathroom is the size of our second bedroom at home. In England they would add a single bed to it and market it as a studio apartment. There are small glass bottles of ittr for our use, their strong and heady fragrance escaping into the room as I lift the lid to check what they smell like. Jasmine, rose and frangipani, their scents mingling, relaxing and smoothing out our tired limbs. I lie on the bed and lounge on the huge sofa’s, and marvel at the view. That is without a doubt how this strategically placed room pays for itself. From every point in our rooms we look at what we have come to see. It’s beauty has not dimmed in these 10 years since I saw it, and it sits so majestically and looks so ethereal that it takes my breath away. It is that wonder, the Taj Mahal.

Soon it shall be time for dinner. What wonders shall we eat?

Nai Gaddi: New Car

thela: cart

teethar: partridge

dhaba: roadside eatery, basic

khatias: cots, strung with rope

ittr: frangrance, scent, essence

Scintillating conversation

Talk about uneventful flights. Went to India two weekends ago for one mad rush week of intense socialising. There were no yelling children or screaming infants and senile adults. Just me with my knees tucked under my chin in a very cramped seat watching movies till my eyeballs popped out in revolt.

The only thing worth reporting beside a speeding downward slope in Jet Airways food and service was an unbelievably REAL conversation that has had me in splits of laughter ever since.

Late that Saturday night, 34000ft above the ground, I patiently awaited my turn outside the loo at the rear of the aircraft, attempting to stretch my limbs into their originally intended direction. Every muscle in my legs was revolting against this limbering move and my face was probably contorted in some unhelpful grimace. But certainly not unhelpful enough for this.

As a man emerges from within, a woman walks up to me and asks "Is this only for men? Where is the lady-ion ka bathroom?". When I replied that it was a common restroom for all she looked at me, made a face and looked past my shoulder to ask the guy behind, "Really, is this for ladies also? A man is coming out, no?".

She turned around without waiting for an answer from the visibly stunned man behind me and marched her way down the aisle in search for that elusive 'Ladies Only' loo.

I would like to think I look like I'd have reliable information on the usage of airplane loo's.

Apparently I'm mistaken.

The Poisonwood Bible

My friend H went to work with an international development agency in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) last year. She sends back some stunning photographs and long emails about her experiences of the land, the people, and her work. It all looks so idyllic, beautifully lush green and her work is exciting and will give this area many a self-sustainable aspect in another 2 years. In today’s world, international development is quite well equipped to understand what aid a war or famine stricken country needs without intruding violently into a territory or its culture.

This has not always been the case.

The Poisonwood Bible (Book 16) is a book I was intrigued by when it appeared on a book club list in 2000. It got left behind from my reading list because it was unaffordable then and it soon slipped out of my mind and from a 'most wanted now' onto a 'forgotten till you prompt me' list.

Till now. A month ago I saw it on a friend’s bookshelf and couldn’t resist borrowing it.

Chapter 1

Leah

"We came from Bethlehem, Georgia, bearing Betty Crocker cake mixes into the jungle”

This first sentence and accurately sets the tone for The Poisonwood Bible. Like nail on the head accurate.

Nathan Price, zealous Baptist preacher from Georgia, U.S.A, has dragged his family to the Congo to spread the Word and convert a small village (and then all of the Congo) to Christianity. The book is narrated alternately by his wife and four daughters and each tells of the surprises, joys, horrors, friends, foes and weather they find in their new home amidst the political upheaval the Congo is undergoing. Orleana is Nathan’s wife and has unquestioningly followed her husband on this mission in spite of the danger that this trip is fraught with. Rachel is the oldest child, a beauty queen daughter, whose precious hand held mirror and vanity reflect on the basic rustic living that they are subject to. Leah, of the aforementioned cake line, is one of twin girls and the child most willing to embrace, adapt and accept the situation. Her twin is Adah, born the weaker one, who walks with a limp, reads upside down and refuses to talk unless absolutely essential. Ruth May is the baby, five years old and full of bright eyed innocence she charms the village children and finds ways to adapt her American games to life in the Congo.

The girls/ women are completely unprepared for the trip to Africa and by Rachel’s birthday that Betty Crocker cake mix is rock solid from the humidity. Their year in the Congo is told through the chapters with each telling the experience from a different perspective – from Rachel who hates it all can’t wait to go back to ‘Civilisation’ to Leah who forms a bond with the land and its people. Things are falling apart right from the start and each chapter tells of the increasing political instability and Nathan's persistent bullying of his family and apathy to the village sentiment. His fiery beliefs leave little room for compromise and chapter after chapter bear testament to his increasing fanaticism and its effects on his family.

About halfway through the novel a death wreaks havoc breaking up the family in different ways. The family disperses and from then on the novel moves with yet greater speed covering a span of 30 years and the different lives each family member carves out.

Kingsolver is a compelling writer and her portrait of the Congo is robust and ambitious and expansive all with beautiful detailing. She has delicately woven the historic and quite tragic fight of the Congolese to gain independence from the Belgians by introducing characters both native and foreign into the story. Each character’s strengths, weaknesses and inherent flaws come to light in the backdrop of a nation in turmoil.

One of the things I found interesting was that Nathan Price has no voice in the book, no defense for his actions. The entire narration is done by the girls/ women and in my reading I found myself thinking that just one chapter by Nathan would put a different light on things, spun things around a bit more. But I am no writer or critique so I shall just keep that thought on the backbench and give my heartiest recommendation to this book.

It is an extremely interesting book and even those with only a small interest in history will greatly enjoy this read. It is meaty and full and direct and will make your heart ache for the pain inflicted on Africa.

Like a drop in the ocean

Nowadays no one calls an apple an apple – it’s a pink lady, a Fuji, a Jonathan, a Golden delicious, a Granny Smith. Similarly, this lovely city is dotted with gyms but heaven's, let’s not call it a xxxx gym, it might be offended at such a simple title. Instead let’s call it a health club, fitness centre, exercise room, sports centre, sports club, leisure centre and my all-time favourite, The Health Hall.

Anyway I joined one of these aforementioned health/ sports/ leisure clubs/ halls/ centres 24 weeks ago yesterday and it has been such smooth sailing. NOT.

I’m beginning to wonder why I ever bothered. I had some luminous notion in my head that the higher the fee the greater the potency of the paid for machines. And once again I was wrong wrong wrong.

Week nine

It’s one week before our holiday to India. You would think that I would be motivated to go 4 days this week considering that next week I shall be eating my own weight in chaat and kebabs and rasagolla’s. Instead I have cleverly convinced myself that there is no point killing myself in the early autumnal morning chill as my body needs to calm down and get used to not doing much beside eat - legitimate preparation for India, you know. Besides which the one day I do go this week I find that both Bug-eyed Boy (BEB) and Desi dud (DD) have disappeared and that using the cross trainer with nothing but the BBC news to keep me occupied is just not good enough. And as if that was not boring enough I have also lost not an ounce. There is nothing to be excited about.

Week thirteen

India seems a distant memory. And thanks to the highly motivational cost of paying for fluffly towels and young locker room attendents, I woke up a minute before my alarm and walked it to the gym at some unearthly hour. This morning, for my experess entertainment it would seem, there is a desi aunty (DA) in the gym and she is wearing the loudest pink in the world. From dark head to stubbly toe. A fluorescent pink that is acceptable only as a flash of chewing gum in a teenager’s mouth - a tracksuit with matching bandana, wrist bands and ankle socks. All in pink. All in Velour. And her feet tucked in the brightest white shoes that money can buy. Like they have been through an intensive dental floss colgate whiteness programme. And she apparently has not been on a wonderful induction and been introduced to the various areas within our grand health hub. This is obvious in an instant to the trained eye (mine) as she has decided to do her stretches in front of the bank of eliptical machines instead of in the stretching area (which is nothing but a collection of floor mats in the corner). I have no idea what was on the news as I could barely keep my eyes off the pink goddess. As I cross-walk on the elliptical machine she conducts her stretches loudly, aiming for the loud breathing to get her metabolism and that of all gym goers going. With each bend she groans quite loudly and then standing upright she exhales with a huge sigh. The bank of machines with us fitness types (hahaha!) on it just watch in amazement, rpms getting lower as we switch concentration to this pink puffball. About 20 stretches later she turns towards us, notices everyone looking straight at her, gives us a big smile and says “I’ll soon fit in low rise jeans” before turning on her heel and trampling off down the stairs. I’m ever so glad I guilt-ed myself into going. I think I’m back on track with 4 days a week. And I have lost 300 grams. No. Seriously. Only 300 darn grams. Maybe I can eat a packet of crisps today.

Week eighteen

Sadly there is nothing to new or exciting, like a life changing body shape for a before and after DVD that is so popular on shopping TV!, to report except that we are having a mild winter and this means that getting out of bed this early is not the chore I imagined it. And yet I feel like slamming my phone against the freshly painted walls each time I hear the alarm go. The only amusement this week has been watching a very expensive Personal Trainer take his own photograph with his cellphone in the mirror in the stretching area while his client rowed for his life. His Blackberry equivalent then beeped and apparently it was the picture he had just taken and his comment to the sweaty rowing guy was “Ooh, my mum will like this picture”. Thank god rowing guy had his hands on the handle because he sure looked like he could murder someone. Later as I quietly did some stretching to relieve my aching muscles I noticed rowing guy had moved on to push-ups. I think he was about to collapse because I could hear the trainer having a conversation with another colleague about his plans for the weekend and had clean forgotten about him and any counting of reps. Such is life eh? In my own sad news I have lost another 600 gms. Another 100gms and that shall be 1kg. How pathetic can it all get?!

Week twenty three

This is the last day of week 23 and this is the end of a 5 week run of 4-5 days each week. My body has grown so used to the 45 minute work-out that I barely break a sweat. I need a re-programming session with a fitness coach. ‘Re-programme’ with a fitness coach is the free way of getting a schedule of things to do without paying a fitness trainer £60 and hour to follow you around with a clipboard and pen barking like an army sergeant (and talking simultaeously on his phone and Blackberry paid for with his fat fee). So coach M and I are talking about the strenuous nature of the Stairmaster, that mighty machine that does nothing but recreate the stairs, and I am thinking "but wouldn’t it just make sense for me to walk up the seven floors to our flat each day?". And then the flashbulb in empty head clicks on – they created the Stairmaster because I would never ever do something as ridiculous as walk up the stairs unless I absolutely had to. So I agree to walk the Stairmaster for 5 minutes. While I struggle to look graceful walking up the moving rubberized stairs who do you think comes into sight but BEB. Looking as bug eyed as before. And he has a new Tattoo on his right arm – of an angel! Dude what were you thinking? That it would cross out the effects of that skull and cross bones on your lanky left arm? That your mum would be proud now that it was a jodi (set) of Tattoo’s instead of one lonely one? And now BEB is running manically on the treadmill. For a whole 2 minutes. Till his eyes actually pop-out of his sockets. Before giving up and sitting down to admire his new tattoo. And slurp some water from the bottle attached to his freshly tattoo-ed arm. I hate to say it but this guy needs the re-programme more than me. All this strenuous cardio had made him look utterly emaciated; surely his goal must be to bulk up. For now he just looks like a walking billboard for the starving and a Tattoo parlour. Even the great entertainment has failed to move any weight off me. I'm doomed to be fat and yet surprisingly very very healthy for ever.....

Today

I have listened to lots of contradictory information about cabbage soup and every new agey diet going and ignored it all. As a result of not doing any real dieting I have lost only a few hundred grams of weight and that too is purely due to keeping doggedly at the machines. And carrying around my gym gear everyday is surely building some muscle in my shoulders and arms. And my back is building character with all the pain it must bear. V constantly tells me how thin I have become but I suspect this is mainly a ruse for me to reciprocate it and tell him how thin he has become (which he has – how do boys do it?). Not another person has noticed an inch of weightloss or trimness. Yet I can do 45 minutes of high intensty eliptical or treadmill or swim 40 laps without collapsing under the weight of my own sweat. It is all because I am an ocean of being, a freak of nature and THERE IS NO WEIGHTLOSS.

I shouldn’t complain. It did take me near on 17 straight years from 13 to 30 put on the weight, layer by fat-I-don’t-care layer. I do not believe why I imagined that 23 short weeks would do the trick. Or at least part of it. I shall persist regardless.

At the moment I have no hope in hell of looking any better on my next beach holiday in 12 weeks. But frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn as my heart shall be healthy as a horse by then. I shall gallop across the sandy beach with a load on my back. I shall then win the most interesting holiday photographs competition 2007.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

This morning I walked to the gym on a bed of freshly fallen snow. And the soft gentle flakes flurried down covering my coat with a momentary design. I even took a quick picture of the snow on the path ahead of me with my phone camera (which I have no clue what to do with now). It's all fleeting and by 9am there will be nothing but slush and memories of the white carpet.

It rarely ever snows in London and any snow is usually turned to water when it hits the energy consuming machine that is this city. This has been a record mild winter and it's only in the last two days that real winter has started. It's finally cold and frosty and overcoat and scarf wearing weather. It probably won't last but I will certainly appreciate winter when this is over.

The snow covered rooftops and straggly tree branches looked so beautiful as I traveled in to work a few minutes ago. The pleasure of an overland journey in a heated train capsule looking out on a city washed with wonderland quality is a morning charmer.

All this beauty came crashing about my ears with the words "Due to adverse weather causing signaling failure there are severe delays occuring (to almost every) line". In the underground, which is UNDERGROUND, what's the weather go to do with anything? And no I don't want someone to give me an answer. I just want this city to get its act together and not act like a child caught out with fobidden chocolate. It's not even 10mm of snow and it's OUTSIDE. And now I am late. Bah humbug!!!

the mojo one

In the past 15 days I have not been blogging (with the exception of the tag) because I’ve been searching for politeness. And my mojo. Since the start of this year increasingly my mood has darkened and all I want to use my blog for is to rant and rail against various people and the world in general. Of course I cannot do that because I am simply not that person – and because I am hoping it’s a phase that shall soon pass. I must admit that it has taken all my willpower not to yell lately, to say things I know I will not mean in a while but seem real right now and I will definitely regret later. Simply not blogging was the simplest way to simmer down.

So it’s 2007. And I’m hoping that at work (and in life) we’re all done with the chirpy New Year’s greetings and story exchanges of how wonderful their break from work was. Yada yada yada. I know I should be a bit happier at the start of a NEW year but I can’t help feeling this bit blue. And the reason for this unhappiness is ironic. Really. It’s mainly because 2006 was such a fantastic year that I really can’t see how 2007 can beat it. I’ve decided that maybe talking about 2006 will help me focus on how to better cope with 2007.

2006 was the year it all happened for me. So many things came to pass that it seemed almost like the climax of a summer movie where all the trails and tribulations are overcome, hurdles thunderously hurdled over, before the characters walk into the sunset and a wonderful life. In 2006 I felt most at peace with myself and the world than at any other time in what I remember of my 30 preceding years. At work I finally figured out what I wanted to do, chased what I was looking for and loved every minute at my incredible job. In love, V and I celebrated 15 year of having first met and then 5 years of blissful marriage. We finally bought bricks&mortar to surround us and joined (and kept to) a gym to get the ‘us’ in good health. We did our house up with love, care and tasteful décor all to make it into a warm and safe home. I watched my family prosper after years of not – mainly my joy is at seeing my parents in exciting jobs which make them smilingly happy and satisfied – and I am convinced that all our waiting and good deeds finally paid off. And each day of the year I watched my brother grow into a wonderful responsible human being that makes me proud to be his sister. I learnt to finally banished all the demons and people from my life that plagued me. I learnt to not hanker after 'friendships' where the giving was all mine and I was blatently hanging on for no good reason. I finally understood why a few good friends are a far better deal than a load of so called ones. London and I made firm friends at long long last, after 4 years of tetchy battles. I decided to be firm in my convictions, steady in my plan and to always listen to my instincts – and all those things stood me in good stead. I reached a good place in my head and heart, a satisfied place, a tranquil place, a place where each morning it’s great to wake up.

There is almost no way to beat all the goodness of 2006. And 2007 has not yet inspired much confidence. I know this dark mood and all these irritants will disappear with the spring sun and a wave of my hand. I just can’t see it just yet. I want 2007 to be satisfying, like the aftertaste of a tasty meal, if not special, but I fear that sometimes all my hoping for too much will jinx it all. I want the joys of 2006 to linger and not be swept away in an instant.

Over the past 15 days I have felt my mojo slip away along with the quiet confidence of a good year gone by - for no apparent reason other than the stretch of year ahead of me. On Thursday evening I went for dinner with colleagues and visitors and on our route home we decided to show them some of the sights from Waterloo Bridge. So at 10pm we walked around the lit up ice rink set in majestic Somerset House on the Strand before setting off for the Bridge and Waterloo Station just south of it. As we walked on to the bridge on a clear and mild winter night the view just took my breath away. I’ve walked over this bridge many a time in the past 4&something years but never at night. It was a sight to behold. All those grand buildings and landmarks that draw people to London, all lit up, shiny and sparkling and ethereal. Big Ben framed by the London Eye. Houses of Parliament. NFT. Shell. St. Pauls. RAF Church. Gherkin. Oxo tower. South Bank. Bobbing boats on the Thames. The old and the new. The shiny and the matt. I’ve seen it all before, at night even. Just never with these eyes and in this somber mood. And suddenly in one instant it was back. My mojo. Uplifted by the sparkly twinkly beauty of London’s grand skyline.

In that one moment I knew 2007 will be just fine.

Another year. Another me.

This is the way to start a New Year, a tag from WA. There’s quite a lot of stuff about me that this blog has not betrayed and at some level I am loathe to let go. At another though it’s a nice thought to share some of the madness and a challenge to do it without betraying more than I want.

1. I am a technophobe. And I’ve learnt to hide it very well. I love technology, make no mistake. In fact I am amazed and awed by the strides technology has taken. From being able to listen to music on my dinky cassette playing walkman as a teen to the fact that something as big and bulky as a jumbo jet can fly – most technology to me is nothing short of a miracle. On the outside I’m confident with the technology I need in day to day life (like my computer, mobile etc.) but even none of these ever comes to me without terror. Deep down I live in perpetual (and obviously irrational) fear I shall irrevocably break/ delete/ morph/ kill whatever I am using. It took weeks for me to start using my fantastic new 2006 iPod because I was terrified that any movement would make the songs all disappear (because there was no CD / diskette to remove and make safe).

2. I make resolutions every year. I have ever since I can remember celebrating the turn into the New Year. I know I know everyone is always saying how they don’t bother because they don’t/ can’t keep them past the first week/ month. I’ve been taunted about making New Year resolutions for the longest time but nothing will change my faith in my resolution keeping system. For me resolutions are about starting as you mean to go on – and I nearly always manage to keep up at least half the resolutions to reflect on when the year ends. I have a long list this year too. So sue me.

3. I love my food - A LOT. In fact so much so that I began a failed blog about it. It failed mainly because I was so excited to be eating nice things that I forgot to take any pictures and then I slumped into an unending laziness. Top 10 foods to include in one last meal: Chicken Thai curry, Bhindi (like my mum makes it), Paneer tikka, Toblerone, rajma, idli, momos, Club sandwich, Chicken hot & sour soup with naan (counts as 1 for me), shammi kebab (from Wengers). Reading back that combination of things as one last meal is pretty gross and would probably kill me anyway.

4. I am just a bit obsessed with lists. Nearly everything/one in my life features on my lists. They don’t need to be even or odd numbered. Or coherent to anyone but me. Either the lists are written down ones (like groceries, things to do, party guests, meals) or each one is counted in my head (yummiest meals, best books, loveliest days, ironic moments, friends). I have a mind rolodex and every page has a mini-list. Most things are graded and assertively given their place in the list. I got to this list keeping way-of-life organisation much before I had read High Fidelity. Way before I even knew who Nick Hornby was. Often I’m not proud of it but once in a while the order gives me great comfort and sometimes great joy.

5. I know with an ingrained certainty that I will never ever be thin. No matter how many cold winter mornings I get up and go faithfully to the gym. And yet I shall not give up. I am nothing if not eternally hopeful.

That’s me and this list.

I hope you had a lovely celebration to ring in the New Year wherever you may wander - with family, with friends, with good food & drink, with laughter, with hope and with dreams. Have a lovely 2007.

Dispatches from a biscuit tin

Courtesy impulsive decision making (one dreary Sunday night two weeks ago) and an excellent Eurostar deal, we spent the two days preceding Christmas in Brussels, There were four of us: S&S, V&me.

I don’t much care for the name Brussels as it reminds me of its namesake sprouts (ghastly cooked any way no matter how much Nigella Lawson tried to boost them up). I prefer Bruxelles, its French avatar which sounds far more exotic to my uncultured ear.

Instead of a rambling travelogue I shall round up our trip in 12 short points:

1. Never having been on the Eurostar in these past 4.some years I had built up great expectations and sort of imagined it being a bit like one of German ICE trains. Check in was a bit like at Heathrow only far closer at London's Waterloo station. The train itself was a sore disappointment, looked a bit worn out, had not much leg room and was quite like any other train within the UK. I think Virgin trains might have been a bit better. But the journey was smooth and on time so I cannot complain. The dotted sheep and countryside look exactly the same both sides of the channel and having a tunnel under it is a technological miracle I am thankful for. Our ‘Customer Service Train Manager’ was “Erve” whose lovely French accent made me and S giggle a bit. I like French names –they sound nothing like they are written. Like Hervé.

2. What’s nice about Bruxelles apart from being 2.something hours away from London is that there is no mad clutch of must see things and a two day break is a relaxed getaway as opposed to foot blister inducing manic rush.

3. Bruxelles has picturesque medieval streets and beautiful boulevards and we wandered up and down them wearing down some of the cobble. We took lots of pictures but have not even uploaded them yet. Strong sturdy trainer type shoes was a good idea.

4. The big buildings are not particularly impressive and the monuments were, well just monuments. There was a nice winter market near the Grand Place Square and we stood in the cold amongst the crowds enjoying a Belgian Waffle and some hot Gluhwein.

5. We went to the City Museum which is housed in a grand old building one side of Tourist Central, Grand Place or Grot Markt (Historic Square). The museum was nothing to write home about and its artifacts would have fitted comfortably in a very small room at the V&A. The Building was an altogether different matter. It had majestic vaulted ceilings propped up by solid beams, a sweeping central staircase, intricate stained glass windows and flooring that made me want to lie down and weep. The building could easily have been an architectural tour of its own.

6. We visited the famed Mannekin Pis which is the statue of a little boy peeing. Located on a street corner with a grill guarding it from the marauding throngs of tourists this little fellow is the pride and joy of the Bruxelles Tourism people. It’s one of those things that is built up in the mind as being magnificent and then in reality it disappoints. The City museum (Pt.5) had a whole room of the Mannekin Pis statue dressed up in costumes from all over the world. So many of the same in one room was deeply disturbing and quite gross.

7. We stopped often, each time in a cosy cafés or small restaurant and indulged in what the Belgians make best: Waffles. They were light and airy and we often had them covered in something: covered in dusting sugar or chocolate or the piece-de-resistance Whipped Cream.

8. Our only dinner in Bruxelles was at a restaurant called Le Cap, recommended by the dude at the hotel reception. We had no reservations and the restaurant seemed quite full but we were quickly given a table in a little cave like box next to a wall of wine bottles. The food was excellent and service was excellent and I must mention my dessert which was warm strawberries with peppercorns and ice cream. It was a perfect evening and we spent much of it chatting and laughing.

9. As always V & I popped into a little supermarket (the best way to buy some local food to take back) and bought some cheese. S&S were buying some biscuits in really cute tins (designed as biscuit shops, designated to brighten up any kitchen) and I was inspired and did the same, bringing back two tins of biscuits to London. All the way back I kept wondering who would eat all those biscuits as neither V nor I are great lovers of biscuits. Well, these were different. Three sealed packs inside each tin: Almond thins, Butter thins and Butter crumble. Since Christmas day I have eaten my weight in biscuits. Groan.

10. We went to the Comics Museum which is housed in an old Art Noveau warehouse designed by Victor Horta. It’s a magnificent building and really showcases the Belgian art form of comic strips to its very best. While most strips were in French or Flemish it was the skilled drawing and colouring that drew the eye and brought the characters to the forefront. The best and most famous of the Belgian comic strips is of course Tintin and there were numerous pieces of original artwork to look at beside great big cutouts, a few plastic statuettes and the rocket that took Tintin to the moon. I recently bought the entire collection of animated Tintin movies so I was quite thrilled.

11. The previous afternoon we went into the Tintin Boutique which sells everything Tintin in it. S bought a lovely big blue umbrella and we bought a framed Tintin print for our dining room.

12. I love taking tram rides or bus rides through cities because for me they provide a whole new perspective to the city, outside the touristy trail. We took a nice tram ride and I thoroughly enjoyed looking through the windows at the passing homes and quiet suburbia of Bruxelles.

It was a lovely two days away from the hustle of London. It was lovely traveling with friends. We didn’t go crazy with sightseeing or shopping – the calm pace is a luxury that Bruxelles affords. It was cold but not freezing. It was touristy but still homely. The waffles, biscuits and Tintin made it all perfect. As did the French accent of Hervé.

The Traffic One

I bet you thought my Calcutta One was the last of my reminiscing posts about our trip to India over Diwali. Not so. After all I have yet to tell you about my near death experiences.

But I’ll be quick and neat and precise. Promise.

Let me start this tale of woe by saying that I am now petrified of traffic in Delhi – this after living my entire ‘younghood’ in Delhi and maneuvering around the city between trucks, buses, autos and cars. The number of vehicles on the road has just exploded and my only defense is to sit in the middle of the back seat with my eyes shut and my hands balled into tight fists. I thought Calcutta would be a better. Wrong. Calcutta is a whole different ballgame - its black & yellow taxis and trams that rule the roads. Day before Diwali we have a hired Indica taxi from the local stand to transport us around Calcutta.

And here are three ways to possibly perish in a car:
1. Left Orly after buying kurta’s for the boys and almost immediately got stuck in front of Loretto House. Our smart* Indica driver first climbed onto the pavement, and nearly drove into a bunch of small kids. Then off the pavement and stuck between a mass of cars who were all mad at the driver for even trying to get ahead. With less than an inch between us and any of the surrounding cars one of the cars on our side decided he was not going to let us through. So he scraped past us and the loud metal on metal noise was deafening and our car tilted threatening to roll over. Our driver let forth a stream of abuse, stopped the car, climbed out of the window and went around to examine the damage to the passenger car. No apology for anything that might have happened to any of us on the passenger side.
2. In the evening, traveling from A to B, our driver decided that he was faster and more able and more needy of the road than a tram. Yes you read that right – A TRAM – big bulky thing that transports its millions across the city on tracks built into the road. A TRAM. So we jostled for space on the tram line and what happened? The obvious. Our car was side scrapped by the tram and carried some distance further by that momentum. With me and my sis-in-law screaming at the top of our lungs for “the madness to stop” (those were not our words, just a politer version of the verbal yelling). The driver was well protected on the right while those of us on the left of the car were in fear of the windows bursting inwards and scarring us for life. The tram was tooting its horn as was our driver. And crowds of people were yelling and pointing on the outside. Deafening noise was over in a few traumatic minutes while we disengaged from the side of the tram. And once again what does our driver do? Goes to check the damage to his precious car. Not a word of apology for the bad driving, complete lack of sense and trauma to his passengers. How many times can I say this to make my point – A TRAM.
3. Next morning we had a new driver with a new (read unscratched/ unscathed) Indica from the same stand (when will we ever learn?). Under a famous Calcutta flyover he decides to take a U-turn. In the middle of full flow traffic on Diwali/ Kali pooja day. Scaped a few taxis and other cars, none of whom seemed to mind or stop. One car hit us from behind, rocking the car akin to a boat on high seas. And still we kept going. Even the Calcutta black and yellow cabs are safer.

Maybe all this time in London has made me soft but I couldn’t help thinking we were lucky to come out of these ‘episodes’ physically unscathed. Mentally I am still a reeling a tad bit.

Here in London all my traffic troubles seem so far away. This morning some guy in his jazzy sports car careened through a red light and just missed me. Moral of the story: It does not matter where you live, traffic is crazy. And whether you are in a car or anywhere near one, bad things can and do happen. So watch the road while you cross and avoid hiring an Indica in Calcutta!!

The fingernail marks on the palms of my hand have deepened becoming permanent symbols of our car journeys in Calcutta.

The end. Of my India trip reminiscing. Finally.

Notes: * When I say smart I really unequivocally mean asinine