Bring out the candles

Always remember this: New flat things are never as simple as you’d imagine or hope.

I keep forgetting it. So now I'm saying it as a mantra to keep my head from exploding.

On our furniture and fixture list, beside the lighting fixtures row, scrawled in black pen: All light fittings to be removed and only bare wires left. Let me stop you right there. Leaving bare wires is definitely not THE problem, seeing as Vendor man had hideous UFO-like acrylic lamps hanging about 3 feet down into the room from the ceiling. In multiple places. Removing said space-ships to his new abode is doing us a favour more than anything – we’re saving hundreds in doctor’s bills by not being blinded by his bilious lights.

The problem is getting new lights sorted.

After much discussion V and I decided that the simplest best option would be rows of spotlights. We would buy them, electrician would fit them, light would shine, Ta-da!!!

Vendor man kindly gave us the name of his electrics and do-it-all guy with the warning that pinning him down to a time on the day ‘might be a problem’. The advice was ‘Just be firm’. So I call Ricky.

Me: Hi. I got your reference from RJP in Flat4. He says you very efficiently sorted out his electrics.

Ricky: Yeah.

Silence

Me: So we are now moving to his flat and he is taking all his fittings. We were thinking of putting in some spotlights throughout the house. When is the earliest you think you can do this and can you possibly give us a quote?

Silence

Ricky: Well, Let’s see. I have 10 chaps but……(silence)…..we’re mostly booked up. This is July. Almost August.

Me: So what’s the earliest you CAN do?

Ricky: Time is flying past, ain’t it? Soon it’ll be September.

Me (getting more high-pitched with every minute): So then, when is the earliest you can do this? Or just even give us a quote?

Ricky: That’ll be end of November. Sorry Mate.

As of next Thursday we will be living in darkness.

A long ride indeed

If you think finding a house/ flat that both partners-in-debt will like is the hard part, think again. After looking through what seemed like 3 million flats – literally at least one in every building in our chosen area – our to-be flat was something like an “a-ha“ moment from an Oprah show. Suddenly all doubt vanished, potential shone through the glass walls and we were ready to gift away our lives to the mortgage underwriter.

Once the offer was in we just moved to the backseat of the car and waited for the car to drive off the cliff. It’s not an unlikely situation. Most people have at least one gory story of sales falling through or gazzumping or some such wonderful terminology dooming a house purchase. We had heard so many stories that we kept our levels of enthusiasm to a bare minimum. After much to-ing and fro-ing we have exchanged and in a week we should have the keys to our kingdom.

The ride between the offer and the exchange of contract was not fun. Everyone goes on about how labour dense ‘developing’ countries are and how much bureaucratic red-tape there is when you need to apply for something in India, like a passport or ration card. Where do you think the Indians learnt it from? The British are masters of the red-tape system. They are only a bit more stiff upper lip about it.

So here’s the chain of events that a property under offer in the UK must endure (and I have spun it from our own morbidly long experience, humungous phone bills and sore throats from yelling at people):

Week 1 & 2: Offer to the agent. Agent lets the vendor know. Refusal in the first instance. All conspiring on how to leech us dry. Small bidding war as another couple also wants our kingdom. They lose. We win. Since we offer more money than them, we also lose.

I buy my first design magazine under the guidance of Shoefie – Living etc. Mind-boggling.

Week 3: Contact a few mortgage brokers for quotes. Everyone says we are in a prime position to buy. That is just sales speak as they want a big fat fee from us. No way Jose. We shrewdly take on the mortgage broker who will get paid a commission by the bank instead of us. Go to his office for a talk. Turns into a 4 hour marathon of explanations, form filling with mundane details and endless photocopying of documents. With the press of a button the form is submitted to relevant bank. Papers to follow and hearty handshake mortgage broker assures us we’ll be approved in 2 days.

Week 4: Valuation ‘expert’ from the bank goes to check out said flat. Finds the value to be the exact amount we have offered (as told to him by accompanying estate agent). He charges us obscene amount for doing basically nothing but checking out our flat and producing a 2 page letter re-iterating all the things he’s been told.

Meanwhile hearty handshake mortgage broker has passed us on to his Head Office where incompetent liaison lady now has our file. She writes us letter of reassurance that is not reassuring in the least. Discovers that wrong side of bank statements has been photocopied and asks us to produce copies and original again. In Notting-something. No way Jose. Harass local mortgage man into looking at them and taking proper photocopies this time. You would think since it’s a major part of his job he would know which side is up. Incompetent idiot.

Cleared a drawer and a cupboard. Big bag of clothes and 15 pairs of shoes for charity. I feel like an angel. Am exhausted with the effort.

Week 4 & 5: On suggestion of friend-who-has-done-this we appoint a solicitors firm to handle the legal higgledy piggledy. Now they are in touch with vendors solicitors through agent. Reading 10 million documents, conducting searches of random things like the environment, sewage and council issues – it’s a busy life for solicitor Santa.

In the excitement of having a flat we decide to trawl through the 10 magazines I have so far bought for ideas on furnishing. We do not agree on anything.

Week 5: Liaison lady comes back asking for more documents. All irrelevant and making us feel a bit criminal like. Try to prove good intentions by showing required documents and not yelling at everyone concerned.

I want minimal, V wants minimal. Neither knows what that means in real time furniture. We both want a modern streamlined look but cannot agree on a colour scheme let alone any single piece of furniture. Oh hell, this is going to be a long ride!

Week 6: Mortgage approval letter arrives with copies to everyone. Solicitor Santa is slowly wading through documents. We go and meet him in his very tiny office and sign our contract. Pay up a whopping 10% of the dosh as deposit.

We go and look the furniture shops of Tottenham court road. Heals. Habitat. Cargo Home Shop. Lombok. Suddenly we’ve moved from modern to heavy traditional wood. Sea change hits us like a Tsunami.

Week 7: Cheque with 10% takes about a week to clear. Bloody inefficient retail banks. Talk to Santa’s secretary everyday, chasing her to check if the money has been received. Soon she recognizes the voices, pretends to be a garden centre and offers us mulch.

Week 8: The vendor does not back out – in fact after many hair-turning-grey nights he signs his side of the contract and the exchange is done. Now we are both legally bound to each other – him to sell, us to buy. 2 months on something is happening

Also in week 8: I go and meet vendor in ‘our’ house. Take measurements to see if world’s largest pieces of furniture will fit. They will; but we will then have to walk on skirting boards and jump from chair to chair. Like monkeys. Am pointed toward appliance manuals, am offered names of electrician/ plumber and cleaner and am offered advice on installing an air-conditioning unit for the 2 hot weeks in an otherwise grey year.

Week 9: Went to shop and signed away what’s left of our arms and legs to get 13 bits of heavy solid looking wood; from a sustainable forest; made by workers paid above the average wage; ethical (for all you sunflower seed chewing organic earth and fair-trade lovers!!).

Today: We are off to sign deeds and stuff. So in a week we should complete and own a piece of London for the next 992 years.

I’m off to live in a cardboard box with a roll of duck tape, scissors and 25 pairs of shoes.

The evolution of post

I’m not going to talk about the rights to freedom of speech, liberty, expression etc. The desi blogworld is doing that well enough. If you want the updates on the action you had best go here.

Before technology intervened we relied on paper, pen and the post. It was a more romantic way I think, writing in your neatest hand, trying to get down all your news in aerogram or on embossed letterheads, in the best possible order, making as few scratched out mistakes as possible. There was also the anticipation of receiving a letter from your parents or friends or lover, covering the distance between you with words of affection and bringing you all the action you’ve been missing. The joy of reading and re-reading letters from dear ones, imagined bent over their desks in concentration composing just the right things to say. There were birthday cards, anniversary cards, just because cards and made up tapes of music, all reliant on the whim of the postal service. There were cultural missives from pen pals in extreme corners of the earth asking if we rode to schools on elephants or owned any tigers. There were our own replies setting the record straight and often trying to gauge the improbable cultural stories of a land unknown. There was the trepidation of mail lost, the short bursts of static conversation reiterating that you had written and that the mail service or the weather was to blame.

All in all it was an art to be a letter writer. An art that has now given way, buckled under the pressure, to a keyboard and an internet connection. E-mail, chat, informational websites, personal blogs and even on-line phone calls.

My parents are tech saavy. After a lifetime of working in an office where paper was dominant, my father taught himself how to use the whole MS suite on our dinosaur computer. And once she knew I was going to be living away from her home, my mum set-up an e-mail account and taught herself how to e-mail. Today they would not know how to go back to the old ways. They both use chat and e-mail to keep in touch with me and the Nik on a regular basis, to keep our phone bills manageable and to tell us things too mundane to waste on a phonecall. They also use computers extensively for work, e-mailing work related stuff back and forth in a way far more practical than smail mail. It’s the rare occasion that warrants buying a paper card and posting it.

I have veered so far away from my original thought that I have dropped off the side of the flat earth. Before I blogged I wrote a monthly e-mail to friends and family (which was so long that certain people admitted never getting to the end!) that was a newsy single version of the hundreds of letters I wrote in the days of snailmail. It was meant to give an essence of our lives here in London, far away from home, family, friends and all things familiar. It was meant to be a record of our lives in this new and exciting land. The most frustrating thing was the absolute lack of replies. It made a once joyful task a burden and I was soon looking for a suitable alternative to keeping in touch, to keep writing. The blog seemed a brilliant idea and the blogosphere a whole new world. I could write what I wanted, let everyone I previously e-mailed know where I was at and then it would be their choice to read it or not. The pressure was off my broad shoulders. The form of my writing changed from ‘We did this last weekend’ to more generic, often fictitious stuff, reviews for books and restaurant I liked, records of important times and memories in our lives. It somehow captured the essence of who I am without revealing who I am. It’s read by more unknowns than knowns and has opened up a whole new parallel world of interesting people, thoughts and ideas, all for a fraction of the cost and the saving of a rainforest of paper.

It took me an eon to explain blogs to my folks. It’s only recently that my mum has started to regularly look at my blog. And although I don’t write nitty gritty life detail on them she reads what I’m writing in the context of knowing me as her child. In some ways it is her window into my world. This blog is my letter home.

I won’t join in the ethical debates about blogging, its consequences and it being used as a possible harmful conduit of hate. I’ve heard all the arguments and seen all the interviews on NDTV (you know who you are!). Banning blogsites won’t achieve anything as the resilient human will find an alternate way soon enough.

In the meanwhile though my phone bills are set to rocket.

Turning 31 without incident

It was hardly what you would call a celebration. Besides voices on the phone my only other human interaction was with shop assistants and the charming waiter at lunch. Went to the Royal Albert Hall to try and get myself some tickets for the proms. Everything was either too expensive, too late or just not what I wanted to see/hear. Walked along Hyde Park for a bit before deciding on Oxford Street as my destination.

I wandered around Oxford Street in the sweltering heat amidst the throng of sale seekers. I’ve had my eye on a bag in River Island for a while now and decided to treat myself to it even though it was not on sale. Mini dilemma as I could not decide on the colour and even contemplated buying it in all three. Eventually I went for the black – tried, tested, boring and the ideal replacement for one of my dying black bags. Then wandered in and out of shops till I got to St. Christopher’s Place which is a charming alley leading to a square of restaurants and shops. The square (more rectangle really) was packed like a can of sardines. Somehow the beating sun and small band of singing Spaniards added to a sudden feeling of claustrophobia and I escaped across the road to the quiet calm of Busaba Eathai. Enjoyed a quick and very tasty lunch, all the while fielding phone calls. Thank you, you know who you are, for calling*.

Took a long and leisurely bus ride that ended by the perfect park. Sat by a babbling fountain/ artificial brook and read for a while enjoying the setting sun and cooling breezes.

It was a calm day, the first birthday not celebrated with some form of partying. By the end of the day I was bean bagged in front of the telly watching double CSI and Law & Order, eating my dinner off my knees and chatting with V. And although all day I kept telling myself silently that it was indeed my birthday and I was REALLY now 31, it didn’t really feel like anything much. I plan to make up for it when V gets back and have a fantastic birthday celebration!

A day for quiet reflection. On what my 31st year will be. That’s what my birthday turned out to be.

**For those of you who will read this subsequently and had forgotten, yes I was expecting you to call and yes I am upset enough not to forgive you for it without some serious bribery!

And thank you bloggerworld for bothering to leave me birthday wish comments – they meant a whole lot!

A whole new year

365 days later the earth has circled the sun once more. I am a year older, a step closer to the big 4-0 but strangely more content and excited than I thought I would be about the 30s.

With V away on work and me on my ownsome lonesome everyone is making up by being extra kind…..

My office just went bananas yesterday. I came in to a huge happy birthday banner across the wall by my desk. Lunch time saw a well planned game of 'pass the parcel' with an old braying radio, something in every layer, mostly mini toblerones. And a game of pool. Then a surprising 8 big shiny purple balloons from 3 breathless colleagues and a small tea party with a home-baked carrot and banana cake from my boss. A card and a £10 coupon later I was nearly in tears. This is why I have always wanted to work in an office bigger than a two man show! I feel ever so justified in waiting to work here in this small friendly office.

It was not over. Went for dinner with 2 colleagues to ‘Little Bay’ on Farringdon Road. Hideous red and gold décor that was a sorry cross between Grecian, renaissance and plaster of Paris art. But the food more than made up for it: Garlic Portobello mushrooms followed by red snapper with spinach and potatoes. I will be going back. Only with my sunglasses on inside this time.

Today is the day. It’s been a big morning already

Today I’ve been up since 7am, woken by a call from b-i-l in Singapore. Dropped off again till the Nik rang to sing to me at 9am. I have given up. Sleep is for the young and bored.

Just finished reading and blubbing over 16 e-cards – I love technology for saving trees, chopping off the cost of postage and adding music to the cards. So many people remembered! I do feel blessed.

My friend P called and invited me out for a birthday lunch today. She is so kind. Have altered the plans though so that now she can spend today with her other half who is about to take off on work. And we will meet tomorrow with a third friend and have a lovely lunch out, gossiping.

As V is away on work on another continent I have to be content with phone calls and texts (I do love technology). I am getting a fabulous gift (?) and another whole day to call my birthday when he is back. So double whammy!!!! YAY!

I am off now, out into the sunshine, with no real plan in my head except that its my birthday and I should be out and about and having some fun. So seeya peeps….woohoo 31 here I come!

Little Bay: 171 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3AL Tel: 0207278 1234

This last day

It's the last day of a magical year. It’s been an amazingly unexpected ride. A lot has happened in my life this past year, almost all of it good, and definitely all of it for a reason. All at once I feel older, wiser, sadder, richer, positive, relaxed, impatient, cheerful, steady, calm and peaceful. More than anything I feel blessed – for my V, my family, my friends, my cities, my country, this country, my blog, many other blogs, some bloggers, stacks of books, sounds of music, my job, my colleagues, some lovely movies, wonderful days out, holidays, my good fortune, our (almost) apartment, my life.

Tomorrow my new year starts. It has a lot to live up to.

From a distance

After lunch I scan the BBC website for an update on the news. I see the small blurb ‘Blasts in Mumbai’. That was the beginning of an afternoon of horrid news. Many hours, phone calls, jammed news sites, and television coverage later I am nearly sure that everyone I know is safe. This brings me absolutely no comfort.

I feel washed over by grief. A bombing incident such as this is an atrocity against an honest, trusting public who have little part in the political drama that has caused it. Just fathers mothers brothers sisters sons and daughter – all on their way home after a days work. At last count 180 innocents. Life is unfair.

I feel like a cheat, an immigrant with a distance that disconnects me from the realities of my country. All night I have thought about the bravery of people who rushed to help the injured, blood donors offering their veins up, people handing out biscuits and water, shelters opened up for people who could not make it home, people with cars offering lifts to the walking public. I have felt powerless and deeply saddened, angered and shocked.

I know that danger is such an integral part of our lives. You never know where, in which city and when something like this will happen. You never know if it’s going to be you or someone you love or an unknown person who is loved by someone else. Each one important, each one a person whose whole life is changed by one moment of insanity.

From this distance all I can do is pray for those who lost their lives and rejoice at the resilient spirit of a city that promises never to let anything bring it down.

Time is too long for those who grieve. God give them strength.

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em

The Beautiful Games – all over – but not for long enough!

Federrer won Wimbledon. Again. His dominance is getting a wee bit boring. But there is no denying that at just 24yrs of age he has many more winning years ahead of him. Nadal gave him a good run for his money in the third set and turned the finals from pushover to a small struggle. I like the gracefulness of tennis and the etiquette that governs it - it's one of the few sports I'll watch without a struggle. Oh, and by the way, the Swiss Government has stopped giving Federrer a 'significant' gift each year after winning Wimbledon. I wonder if they ran out of cows?

Footie widows everywhere are rejoicing. 63 games later it’s all over. The Football World cup is over and done with for another 4 years. It seems like just yesterday that all the big Ingerland flags adorned house fronts and little flags blew in the car exhaust fumes. We’ve been talking about little else for a few months – under duress let me stress - footie has been the most sociable of topics. When I deigned to watch I rooted for the underdogs in most matches – Croatia, Ukraine, Serbia & Montengro, Angola, Ivory Coast and my favourites Ghana - willed them on to fight it out with the bigger, better, richer, more prepared teams. But in the end I wasn’t so bothered by who came to the final and who won. Of teh two finalists, if pushed to choose, I would have wanted France to win (only for Thiery Henry). As V was away I only flipped back and forth every 20 minutes or so, checking to see if anyone scored. I didn’t miss this though. And somewhat because of it, by the penalty shootout, I wanted Italy to win. It was the right outcome.

There are claims that extreme provocation caused the infamous headbutt that marked Zidane’s final exit from international football. I still think his actions were uncalled for and the red card much deserved. His punishment will be to be forever remembered for the headbutt rather than his exemplary years of football and his captaincy of France. All greatness washed away by one foolish final act.

Sports are a never ending event - all over the world and in my house. Get used to it. One finishes and the next starts – or like the last few months they conduct themselves simultaneously - India v WI cricket tests and one-days, FIFA WorldCup, F1 every 2 weeks, Wimbledon. Being married to a ‘Sports mein to meri jaan hai sir’** person means that it’s any one of the numerous sports all vying for his attention. Remote control and ten sports channels all get a good run for their money. I’ve learnt to be patient and even begun to enjoy some of the sports as a result. I can even explain the offside rule with a ketchup bottle and assorted cutlery. What is this world coming to?

**From some Hindi movie (Golmaal?) meaning (somewhat) “I live for sports, sir”/ “My heart is in sport, sir”.

I am the Master of my Fate. I am the Captain of my Soul

I want to say this before I turn 31 in the middle of this month. It’s been brewing in my head for ever so long now; a seedling of a thought brought on by the newness of the New Year, now grown into full fledged thoughts.

I was not a ‘successful’ teenager in any sense of the word. All these years on all I recall was being desperately awkward, pudgy and not particularly popular. I spoke too much (and this was not an endearing quality) just to cover up my teen insecurities, was basically the odd one out who never really fit into any one group of friends and mainly spent my high school years flitting between the teenage cliques that dominate the school hierarchies. Some of it had to do with being in a school where most of kids came from creative background families: journalists, publishers, IAS officers, gallery owners, news readers, rich industrialist entrepreneurial families. My dad was in ‘service’, worked in an office and my mum was a ‘home manager’ making sure me and the Nik ate well, studied hard and generally grew up alright. I was never embarrassed by this difference (and I am so thankful my mum was home when I got home each day) just acutely aware of it. I tried to gravitate towards the ‘service’ background kids but didn’t really find any group to belong to, just one-off friends (some who’d last a year or two till we moved to different sections) with whom to walk to the canteen every few days, to share girlie chatter. Then I tried desperately to fit into the cool arty family teen groups but just did not fit. Again I found a few friends from this group, people willing to engage with me on an individual level but not really willing to be my introduction and support into a group in which I truly didn’t belong. By the time I was finishing school the whole ‘trying to fit in’ got boring, then frustrating and then I just walked away. I lasted on my single friendships quite well. Anyway, school did end and with it all the angst of not belonging.

It was only temporary. I got to college and hostel life - all the way at the opposite end of the country. I was thrilled by the idea of a whole college of people to possibly befriend. Year 1 was easy as I bonded instantly with the 5 other girls whom I shared a flat with, 3 to a room. Then we moved to a hostel and I got my first taste of late teen rejection. The rooms were built to line either side of a corridor. Every set of two rooms were connected by a shared bathroom in the middle, with interconnecting doors. As the hostel was new and huge there was no pressure on rooms and the 6 of us decide to share 4 rooms facing each other. So my 2 roommates and I had to decide who would be the singleton and which two would share the room on the other side of the bathroom. It was a similar situation for the other 3. I pulled the short straw as my two roommates chose to share and for me to live on my own in the other room. I was devastated, my teen eyes seeing this as outright rejection. I kept up my brave face (which was difficult to start with) but as with all things time evened out the creases and found joy. I eventually grew to love my own space (who wouldn’t – two beds, two cupboards, two desks – more than enough place to spread out my junk and no nagging roommate demanding spic and span cleanliness) and we remained great friends for the rest of our college days.

When I started working I was a bit at sea again where friends were concerned. I was in a city where the language was not familiar and the possible office colleague/friends all kept breaking into their own language/ culture things. I found my way though, growing more confident with the passing year and adapting to make myself more friendly/ approachable; basically forcing them into being my friends. Not attractive but very essential in my minds eye.

Back to work in Delhi in my mid-twenties I suddenly found myself in a group of friends just on the back of being V’s girlfriend. And it was fabulous. Suddenly I was included not just by accident, clumsily in the middle of a group, but for real. And what a grand time we had! But all good things must come to an end and after 3 years we all moved to different cities to pursue different things.

I don’t mean any of the above to sound sad or pity seeking. It’s not in any way. I have plenty of dear friends; individuals from school, college, different work places who have kept in touch even in the tbe (time before e-mail). Equally I have slipped out of touch with a whole bunch of people, time and circumstance just overtaking their importance. It’s just to put some chronological order to my life in the context of friendships: for me to be sure of where I’m coming from, and know where I’m headed.

All I’ve been thinking these past months since I turned 30 was that my immense need to be popular, be swamped by friends who loved me, was gone. *Poof*. Just. Like.That.

I think the 30’s can be a time of great personal security. It’s like a magical feeling of finally knowing your place in the world, being surrounded by the few lasting friendships that truly matter, being confident in what you do, who you are and finally shedding the insecurity that comes with youth. That is not to say that there aren’t any insecurities, because there are. Just more mature ones, things that don’t hinge on looks or brains or how many people will invite you to their chaperoned dance parties.

I feel all grown up. Responsible, mature and sure of what I’m here for. Secure enough to spill out my guts on a blog read by me and 3 unknown people.

I love being 30. Enough said.

Wanted: A downpour

Mumbai is getting it again. And I am sorry if this post sounds unapologetic in a time of difficulty.

A few days ago (before the deluge) there was a news piece/ end of the news filler** on NDTV titled Monsoon Magic. It basically tried to romanticise the Mumbai showers, spinning it to show loads of little kids walking around the semi-flooded streets of Mumbai and splashing each other with dirty street water, couples walking along the beach in the pouring rain holding hands and smiling beatifically and generally a lot of green foliage blowing in the lashing winds and downpour. It made everything look romantically beautiful and accompanied by some fairly good music made for one of the few pieces of non-news worth watching.

But this post is not about the rain in Mumbai. It is about the rain in London. Contrary to common belief, London gets a good hot summer interspersed by short drizzly bits that act as the temperature control. Winter however is an altogether different season. Grey skies, a constant drizzle and the sharp claws of cold pretty much sum up 7 months of the year. I have long hated winter but after 4 years here have got used to the cold and built appropriate defences against it. I can safely say I am used to the winters and to a point even like them. Talk about sea change.

What I still intensely dislike (someone keeps telling me how 'hate' is too strong a word to use so flippantly) is the Chinese torture drip-drip rain. Pins and needles when it gets beyond weightless mist, London’s rains are a bit of a joke in the rain game. All you get is what you can’t really see: a rain mist that is a soft, weightless and continuous, that sinks into your clothes even though you can’t really see any droplets and renders you sopping wet by the time you reach the tube station. A barely there drizzle that leaves you wanting more power - oomph if you like - a deluge with a punch. No umbrella really helps – only your head is protected from the sideway moving rain – and strong winds usually mean your umbrella will upturn or be snatched from your hands. When the rain does become a smidgeon heavier it’s for a few scant minutes. And by the time this Indian has pulled on her shoes and run out with every intention of feeling the weight of the rain on her face, it’s gone back down to nothingness. To me the English rains are such a disappointment – not nearly as romantic as story books make them sound.

In my minds eye I can see the big terrace in front of our first floor flat in Delhi being pounded with a monsoon downpour. I was 7 yrs young and the Nik had been born a few month before. As there were no impending exams (my parents excuse for not letting me play holi till I grew up enough to not want to play it myself) my mum allowed me to stand/ dance on the terrace while the heavens opened. The smell of the ground, the smell of the rain, the feeling of getting soaking wet in the rain legitimately, the smile on my mums face as she watched me from the doorway with my baby brother in her arms, the feeling that all was well with my world, that everything was perfect in those moments – everything about that day is clearly etched in my memory.

All these years on, even newly in my 30s, the magic of the monsoon has not diminished for me. In my world, to be classified as rain, it should be constituted of heavy, big, robust drops that cannot help but be attracted to gravity with their sheer weight. The drops should hit the ground with a perceptible ping, a bounce releasing the sweet smell of the earth beneath. A sheet of water that means business. Once in a while it should catch you unaware, soak you before you have the chance to get under that umbrella. It should wash your face as you gaze skyward, running in rivulets down your cheeks.

It’s bright and sunny in London and we are going through one of the mini-heatwaves (30 degrees in which all the newly-moved anglised desis are complaining about how unbearable is the heat – grow up people!). Despite immensely enjoying this hot and bright weather I am longing for a downpour. A sharp shower that will bring the temperatures down a bit and possibly drench me as I walk home. I’ve only ever seen one serious downpour in 4 years of London living – isn’t that a shame? And before you ask, yes I have been looking, monitoring and waiting patiently for the rain to be worth my while! Watching that NDTV filler brought back all those memories and I cannot help longing for heavy rain.

**This new footnote thing is attributed to Falstaff:
Since the advent of 24 hour news channel, the smart masses and not so smart producers have realised that there is only so many times you can repeat the same thing. Very often a slow news day will appear (like 5 times a week) and since nobody interesting enough could be found to be hounded to death/ spycammed into admitting something riveting, news channels will create ‘interesting’ fillers. It is this bloggers opinion that news fillers are usually boring bits of non-news that have been jazzed up to fill in the time between the actual news and the repeat cycle of news that starts in 4 mins…beep….

Lazy dreams

Poor Lazy.

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

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

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

She wakes up upset. Too.Many.Times

What does it all mean?

Out of this world

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

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

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

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

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

Love and Fish

Jane got me thinking about anniversaries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunny sunny days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it rains, it pours

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

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

Two things have happened/ are happening.

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

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

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

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

Da Vinci Disappointment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you been 'told you so' yet?

coins coins everywhere but none in my wallet

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

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

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

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

The Da Vinci debacle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lazy thinks up an explanation

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

She says: Very often lately.

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

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

Till another day.

Poor lazy has blogger block.

The Mumbai one

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dilli Dhaba

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

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

Places I ate at:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delhirium

Warning: Another long post.

Credit: Post title is a word stolen from Marginalien

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mitti: Ground

Firang: Foreign

Namkeen: savoury snacks

Mithai: traditional desserts or sweets

Shakar para:tasty sweet made of flour

Halwai's dukan: Shop owned by maker sweet desserts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One happy birthday surprise all wrapped up.

Lucky stripe me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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