6 degree game

This Friday I am playing the six degrees of separation game. Of which I am the inventor and rule maker.

It all began when I met a school classmate last summer, not by chance, but by design, pre-ordained by that great connector, the internet classmate yahoo group. It’s a group begun by the enthu-cutlets (one of my favourite terms since school) and carried forward mainly by people letting others in on how successful their lives have been since leaving said institution. Every once in a while someone will post a message about how they are moving to Tokyo to be the Big Boss of something and this will be followed by a flurry of people writing in to exchange banal everyday news of the same variety, designed to show off their success somewhere in the world. Very tiring. But when this girl wrote in saying she moved to London and did anyone from class live here I immediately wrote back to her to say yes I did (thereby swiftly avoiding any interaction with the yahoo group). I know I know - why am I on the group? (Actually am on more than one but the others seem to be less inclined to show-off –something to do with distance back in time from present – as if we have more to prove because really in school we were at our very worst, most tatty, most competitive, most undone with teen angst). Well, just to stay in the loop is my honest answer. Everyone I am friends with from back then I stayed in touch with first with letters and then with the internet and cheap telephony. This way I can be a repository of knowledge on the others. And possibly show-off when I have something to show-off about.

So anyway, arranged to meet said new-to-London-classmate because, if rusty memory serves me well, in school we were both friends with the same girl, just not friends with each other – and I wanted to be nice (the disease of my 30’s). She was studious. I was trying too hard. Here we were in London, 14 years later, the playing field a bit flatter. Both in need of friends. Or at least hang out acquaintances. Owing to a leap of faith earlier in the year I had discovered that there were friends to be made even at my age. Women with the maturity to form strong good friendships and to trust with my still growing-up pains. Maybe this classmate could be a friend yet. We met a couple of times last year, just for a quick coffee after work. We never managed to make it a meal because of busy work/ travel schedules but I could see us being friends of the firm kind and so this year I decided that I would make of an effort.

I have drifted off. Let me stop now.

So instead of hosting another dinner party where I would spend nearly than half my time between the oven and the dining table (of which variety I have already hosted 2 this year) I have decided to organize a 6 degree of separation meal this Friday. It started when I decided that V and I would meet this classmate for a meal in Covent Garden on Friday evening, mainly as she hasn’t yet met the very busy V. All weekend I was thinking about V always going on about how there couldn’t quite be 1 billion Indians because if you threw 30 of them in a room almost everyone would be able to find a connection to someone else. So I have decided to put this to the test and invited people from 4 or 5 circles of my life to join us for this meal. There are childhood friends, school friends, MBA friends and new London friends. I was surprised by the enthusiastic response. Clearly I am not the only lonely one. I even asked people if they wanted to invite other friends of theirs to join us. Some of them have said yes and so now even I have the opportunity of meeting new people, tried and tested friends of friends. So far there are 16 of us.

And even if we don’t all find people in common I think it’ll be alright. We’ll find things to talk about, holidays, books, movies, exhibitions, restaurants, different Londons to share and mull over. And even if we don’t find any of that in common (highly unlikely) at least we will be eating some yummy food.

The year has begun entirely satisfactorily.

Quick facts Albania – and the shaking story

Capital: Tirana. Other cities of note: Laç, Shkodra, Durres, Vlora and Elbasan. All connected by a roadworks and train system. Population: Estimated 3.5 million. Currency: Albania Lekë (pronounced Lek). Most significant National Holiday is November 28, Independence Day (1912).

We arrived quite late at night (down to delays, not planning) and were surprised by the very clean, neat and modern new Mother Teresa International Airport. My colleagues who travelled here before assured me that it was brand new and that in previous years it had been nothing more than a very large and rundown shack. The new airport was brightly lit and efficiently run and the swaying fake palm trees in the parking area were an amusing distraction from the airline caused cramps. Our very nice Italian driver drove speedily through the narrow and badly lit roads. The air was heavy and warm and moist. A pleasant change from the chill that September brought to London.

Religion: Sunni Muslim (70%), Albanian Orthodox (20%), Roman Catholic (10%) (est). People: Albanian 95%, Greeks 3% and others 2% (Vlachs, Roma, Egyptians, Montenegrins, Macedonians and Bulgarians (1989 est). Estimates of the minority populations vary widely between different interlocutors and unfortuantely, there is a general absence of reliable statistics.

We sat and chatted in the very basic ‘coffee shop’ before retiring to our top floor canal/ drain view rooms. We each had a nice big, clean if basic room with newly plumbed bathrooms. The ceilings had a false ceiling suspended in the centre, a very large rectangle, just a foot (on each side) smaller than the plasterboard ceiling and made of stained glass put together like modern art, in random shapes. The glass artwork/ ceiling was lit with bulbs snug between it and the actual ceiling, casting funny, often scary shadows on the very red bedspread and curtains. On our first night there I decided to sleep with my bedside lamp on to prevent any disorientation. Exhausted with the travel and reading till I finally dozed off I found myself dreaming of rocking ships on choppy waters.

Languages: Albanian (Tosk is the official dialect). This is an Indo-European dialect of ancient Illyrian, with a number of Latin, Slavonic and (modern) Greek words. People also understand some Italian, English and Greek. Everyone is friendly and willing to stop and point out directions irrespective of language differences.

Only I wasn’t dreaming, as in the next instant I had sprung out of bed and was wildly clutching the walls and watching the ceiling stained glass panorama swaying and threatening to come off its fragile moorings. It was an earthquake. Albania’s first in a decade. Mild and only a few seconds long but enough to wake me and shake me into a panic. It stopped and through the curtains the world looked still and untouched and asleep. Unsure and disoriented I called my colleague who answered the phone on the first ring. We talked for a few minutes and since neither of our stained glass roofs had fallen on our heads, decided that there was no point in panicking and we’d better go back to sleep. Needless to say I didn’t sleep well. From that unearthly hour I was shook out of my bed by the earthquake till our 8am breakfast meeting, I tossed, turned, gave up, got ready and read/ prepared. There we were in Albania, shaken but not stirred.

Albania is a very young country - 65% of the population is under 25 years old.

Plain Jane to Colourful Kelly

A selection of building photopgraphs from Tirana, Albania. The one in the top right hand corner is of a drab dull untouched building but the others have all been given their lick of joy. My favourites are the two in the left corner on the bottom row (well, left and centre to be precise) which are bits of the same building. I had to take two pictures because if I went any further back I would lose the detail and/ or lose my life in the flying traffic and/ or if I made it beyond that, fall down the verge into the slim canal/ giant drain. If you click on the collage I think it will take you to a larger screen and you will be able to see what delights me - the fact that they have painted laundry lines and clothes on to the building. Sometimes you need imagination, mostly you need sunglasses.

02.02.08 (and 08.08.02) and other bits

I like symmetry. This is a well documented fact of my life. So when V and I became 'an uncle' with the birth of V's brother's son on Saturday the 2nd, all I was thinking of was how his parents now had one each, a granddaughter and a grandson and how happy this must make them. They of the beautiful wedding day have had the son. And of course we already are 'an aunt' with this young lady. So when father of the daughter, eldest brother in the trio called to tell us that he had noticed his girl was born on 08.08.02 and that new son of middle brother is born on 02.02.08 it was an additional bit of something-like-symmetry. Life is good.

*--*

I saw her post and left a comment. Now I'm turning that comment into a part of this post, just so I remember I said it:

What is with boys and excel sheets? I was moaning about not going to the gym enough and V quickly drummed up an excel sheet with calculations of how much it costs if I go 1 day a week/ 2 days a week/ 3 days.....you get the picture. And then decided that he qould do an hourly breakdown as well. Now I am motivated (just a bit, to get my money’s worth from the gym) and a little scared (of what power an excel sheet has over V). In case you are interested I went 4 days in each of the last 3 weeks. Motivated or what?

*--*

In an effort to keep at bay any winter blues we've been entertaining and being entertained like crazy every weekend in January. Last weekend it was gaggle of girls (and partners and one very sweet baby girl) for dinner at Chez 33 - I think a success. At least for me, seeing as I had both a good time and a big box of barfi to midnight snack on for the next few days. This weekend it was a 30th birthday celebration for a friend about an hour from London. Loads of food and yakking and one large doggie bag later we were home, too buzzed to do anything but stay awake till 4am calling new baby's parents and anyone who'd be awake in India. Today we zoomed off for lunch with a friend, eating till rolling full at the marvellous Raavi Kebab in Drummond Street before stocking up on groceries from the shelves of the Spice shop. Came back in desperate need of an afternoon nap. The kind where you sleep while it's bright and wake up only when dark, disoriented, disbelieving of the time and in a panic about dinner and unsure about the plan for tomorrow. (I had promised my colleagues savoury homemade goodies for tea break tomorrow; sadly it'll have to be store bought). And YAY we are done with January! This is skin deep YAY-ness as deep down I believe February is far worse, but I have a plan. We have not a spare minute (or rather very very few) in our social/ work diaries nearly until May. This includes a short holiday, business travel for both, lunches/ dinners at our home and restaurants and other peoples homes, birthday parties for 1 year olds and 30 year olds and those in between and beyond, movies, a concert and general goofing off beside undying dedication to the gym (Hahaha). With any luck before I can say Jack Sprat it'll be spring.

All about Albania

Ok, so not really ALL about Albania but it was the catchiest title I could come up with and I need the motivation as:
a. It’s the very end of January and I’m trying to blog more (I think this is going well)
b. I went to Albania over 4 months ago,
c. I owe my rug a backstory, and

d. It’s high time that my act get it together.

Be warned, this is a long post.

The West coast of Albania is lapped by the waters of the Ionian and Adriatic Seas across which lies mainland Italy. From north to south and by way of the east, Albania is wedged in by Montenegro, Serbia, Macedonia and Greece. After 46 years of xenophobic Communist rule ended in the early 90’s, the Albanians set about establishing democracy. The 90’s were a difficult time for Albanians as successive governments endeavoured to deal with unemployment, widespread corruption, a dilapidated physical infrastructure and organised crime networks. Sporadic violence in the face of being one of the poorest countries in Europe led to a large informal economy and a nearly non-existent tourism industry. Mass migration from rural to urban areas has left a huge dent in Albania’s agricultural sustainability and created a mass of unemployed but well educated public. Enough background – Google whatever else you need to know. I was in Tirana for 9 days and although entire days would pass without us seeing daylight we were always out in the evening, schmoozing or just sitting collapsed over plates of pasta. These are just my own observations:

1. Tirana is an interesting city. Its buildings are all mainly squat square communist blocks, built to last. The post communist mayors gave individual buildings money to jazz themselves up, to remove the greyness/ plain-ness and lift the gloom, and as a result many of the buildings have been used as blank canvasses and painted with shapes and bright colours, like a great big city of pieces from different jigsaw puzzles. I really enjoyed this look. It made for interesting walking and comparing the adventure of one building compared to its neighbours. I hear the older generation was most disapproving.

2. There is a long canal that runs through Tirana with a one way road in opposite directions on either side. It’s less canal, more drain with banking slopes on either side of sludge water, dumped garbage and tree saplings. There are thin and quite unsteady looking bridges at various points along the ‘naala’ besides a few proper sized car roads traversing it to allow change of direction. We stayed some way away from the centre of Tirana but along the famous canal and our modest mid-level hotel proudly gave us canal facing rooms. I felt so wanted.

3. Albanian’s love their food and much like Indians they show their affection by trying to feed you large and delicious meals. While their traditional food is very meaty and heavily influenced by various invaders they eat a lot of Italian food. We ate 3 hearty meals a day, and chomped on hot bread from the local bakery while walking between meetings. Food is incredibly cheap compared to here in London and widely available from little street stalls to mid-size restaurants and by the poolside of the few five star establishments. There was a huge fresh vegetable market not far from us, a bit chaotic with yelling sellers and bargaining buyers haggling over piles of fresh colourful fruit and veg. Not like sterile-and-often-touristy Borough market, more like Church Street off Edgeware road but not as much as like an Indian early morning/ late evening subji mandi.

4. Albanians really love Mother Teresa. REALLY. We were invited to the opening of an exhibition of works by different artists to celebrate her life at the national museum. Sadly a work commitment meant that we had to decline. Our hosts were aghast that we refused to change our plans for this event. Needs must I said. Everyone talks about her in tones reserved for talking about something deeply revered like God. Roads, hospitals, schools, universities, museums and an airport among the many things that bear her name. Every Albanian I met was thrilled to be meeting an Indian, wanted to know if I had been to see her work in Calcutta and professed a desire to one day go and see her home away from home. Like a pilgrimage.

5. In our one spare evening we were guided to the shopping area, all along said canal, shoe shop after shoe shop. Interspersed by the odd clothing shop. As in food they are heavily influenced by Italian fashion and every woman no matter what economic status or age is always perfectly turned out with neat clothes, make-up and hair done and wonderful shoes and handbags made of Italian leather. It would have been easy to get carried away in shoe paradise but I limited myself to two comfortable and beautifully crafted pairs of slip-ons. Unlike some other people who bought 10 pairs of shoes.

6. The central square is bound by Italian styled buildings of red brick and yellow paint. Starkly different from the rest of the cities gloomy and uninspiring architecture. Well, it’s not exactly a square, more a large rambling rectangle. Beside the nice buildings there is also the National Museum and Opera House, marked by some fantastic pictoral mosaics. The centre of the square has its token statue and the oldest mosque in Albania (or Europe?). And it’s full of people and whizzing traffic and smog.

7. This brings me neatly on to the traffic situation. It’s chaotic to say the least. There are cabs at various street corners but we did lots of walking between offices and the hotel and restaurants and shops on the somewhat-there sidewalks when not boxed inside the hotel conference rooms. This was to get the limbs moving and to avoid sitting in traffic jams that just like India left the about 0.5 inches between vehicles on any side. When not sitting in still traffic the drivers undertake Formula One racing tactics and drive at break-neck speeds. Like shots from a catapult. I quite enjoyed it, even the heart-in-the-throat-moments.

8. On our one day off we decided to do the touristy thing and take the cable car up the mountains. Tirana is surrounded by hills on 3 sides (from what I could see) and we went up the cable car to the top of one of these. It cost us the equivalent of £2.50 and the swaying but shiny little pods were great, clean and efficient. Only we got to the top and there was nothing but a few restrooms, a café and a great view. Besides other tourists and a man with a horse leading little children around an abandoned parking lot. From the view it’s easy to see how all that migration is causing Tirana to spread quickly into cheap and hastily constructed apartments that are creating suburbia as they grow.

9. On the same trip up and down the cable we saw something that defines the Albanian landscape. The former dictator Hoxha (pronounced Ho-ja) built 600,000 concrete bunkers into Albania’s landscape. Ostensibly built to repel attack each concrete toadstool is large enough for one man and his rifle. Everyone whom I talked to about Albanian history mentioned these and the paranoia they caused amongst a population where there were 4 people for every 1 bunker built, not enough for an attack from the outside and impotent from the enemy within. The bunkers are everywhere, ugly ugly concrete spheres. I only saw them built into the hillside but I hear they exist in the most unexpected of places.

10. Last but definitely not least, it is the people of Albania I want to talk about. Among the group of people I met there was great economic disparity but each person was educated and well-spoken. The common factor between them all was the warmth and welcoming spirit they shared. From the young company Director to the older English teacher, the university researcher to the Psychology student, there was a spirit of optimism and a national pride that was heart-warming. Counting on doing the hard graft for a better future, for themselves, their families and their country. It was a sentiment I have not often heard echoed across such a disparate group.

Albania was a trip of amazing discovery. It’s more ‘Rough Guide’ than ‘Luxury holiday’ but its real, grounded and poised for a future of opportunity. I never thought I would enjoy it as much as I did.

There will be pictures. Soon. I promise.

This much I know is true

After years at college and working away from home, three-fourth of the way into 1997, I moved back to where my Punjabi heart lies, good old Delhi. To live under my parent’s roof one final time before forging my own. It was a time of recuperation for my mum after an intense illness and all she needed to do was rest. That year that ensued is a bit of a blur in mind as to the sequence of events. What I do remember with amazing clarity is that that was the year my brother and I learnt to juggle work (for me), studies (for him) and household chores (both of us and dad) effectively. Mid-morning every single weekday, while we were at work/ school, my mum would settle herself on the daybed to watch the Oprah Winfrey show. Like a prayer. Everyday.

It helped her in innumerable ways by bringing to life the challenges that a certain set of women on the other side of the world faced. More than anything it gave her something to watch and focus on beside her health and the good cheer and big hopeful stories cheered her up immensely. Even the sad dire wretched stories helped making her count her good fortune at having beaten the illness. For this distraction of Oprah babysitting mum while we needed to be elsewhere I think deep down we were thankful.

I never really got the Oprah bug like my mum did but on the odd day that I watched it I was drawn to the Oprah Book Club recommendations. As part of my ‘loving-lists-scheme’ I would write down the recommendations each time I heard them and patiently over the year compile a list to decide which ones I could afford to buy at the end of the year. I never could afford more than a couple and when I went to buy them they were either unavailable or I got distracted by something shinier or hotter amongst the Indian press and my peers. So many of the ones I wanted to read got left behind.

I eventually misplaced many of the lists but discovered that the internet was a treasure trove of replacements. I also developed an interest in a different genre of books and began making decisions on what to buy based on factors other than ‘popular on somebody’s list’. I think I owned only two of the Oprah list books (bought consciously) but both inspired me in some small way, opened my eyes to an area I had next to no knowledge about.

One of these books was ‘This much I know is true’ by Wally Lamb. It’s a very hard and depressing book about twins Dominic and Thomas Birdsey. Thomas is a paranoid Schizophrenic and Dominick’s life is intrinsically bound with trying to help his brother and cope with the turns his own life take. It moves forward in time over the course of their lives but digs deep into their own ancestral history and the secrets that every person carries to their grave in an attempt to blot out all that is bad. It highlights flaws in places that one would never consider looking and how all their lives are about coping in one way or another. I won’t say it’s the most depressing book I’ve ever read but it’s definitely up there in the top three. I know that so far I haven’t sold this book well. But it wouldn’t be truthful to say this was a book about hope without talking about how horridly awful Dominick’s life is. The reason I so loved this book was how it richly crafted each character is, from the same-but-separate-but-not twins to their timid mother and abusive step-father. It’s a vivid picture of middle twentieth century America and how this man learns to deal with anger, frustration and incredible loss. It’s a book about harshness and loss and kindness and forgiveness and above all acceptance.

I know that makes it sound a bit soppy and wimpy but really it’s not. This is a better review of the nitty gritty of the book. I was at an impressionable age in my life and I think it was one of the defining books of my mid-twenties and made me think long and hard about counting my blessings, facing my fears, limiting my needs and accepting my flaws. It made me consider a lot more seriously the idea of living my life like I mean it. With as few regrets as possible. With gentleness. And that included embedding the constant thought that every action I undertake should ideally lead to a richer and kinder life. And that those two things are not unconnected.

I think this is the year I need to re-read this book.

Sweat the small stuff

You know how people often say that New Year is just a celebration and Jan 1st just another day. Well, IT’S NOT. New Years is the chance to celebrate/ mourn the year gone by and the 1st of Jan is the chance to decide/ plan how to mould the year to come into something wonderful/ magnificent (or horrid for the sadists). Beside nursing a hangover, that is. This is not about resolutions (although I am a gung-ho / mighty resolution maker and keeper as you will shortly see). It’s about starting each year as if it will be a bigger better version of the year gone by. Being bigger is seemingly limited only to leap years but being better is up to you.

I’ve started the year in a very positive frame of mind. Last year mourned, this year anticipated. Seeing as I do not want a repeat of last year (although outward indicators like the bookshelf and endless holidays are lovely and wholly appreciated), this January I have decided that I am making small resolutions, all cosmetic bandages that will give the appearance of a better life. And in sweating this small stuff I will stop over-thinking things and making mountains out of molehills. Life is too short to be perennially depressed and this year I WILL NOT BE SO.

The small stuff is mainly inconsequential to the larger picture but I feel will give me a sense of achievement and make me feel good about the appearance of my life. I figure that if the outside looks good the insides will want to join the competition and turn for the better. Or just die and no longer be of consequence. In effect I am deciding to become a more shallow person in order to become a deeper person. Don’t ask.

So the Top 5 outward resolutions that I have decided will help my shallower/ deeper/ extreme self are:
1. Get a haircut, look more presentable, start wearing a bit more make-up. Take pride in how I look, whatever my shape.
2. Wear less black and more colour. Get new happier, less goth/ student wardrobe. And save my sneaker/ trainers only for the gym. Look less like a Hobo. Be the envy of all.
3. Follow through with the cooking more & different, eating better & wiser resolution from my birthday. And stick to the gym. The ultimate Gluttons diet.
4. Read a LOT more. The 33rd birthday is only 6 months away and if I want another bookshelf I better finish everything that’s stacked on the first one. And find suitable place for the second monolith. Display my greedy side.
5. Practice my avatar as a sloth. Sleep more and sleep deeper. Last year for the first time I didn’t sleep as much or as well as the preceeding 31 years (and no it has nothing to do with age). Previously though, if sleeping were an Olympic sport V & I would have been strong contenders for gold. I plan to claim that prize.

And I’m going to blog a lot more. If I write it here I can share my pain/ joy/ despair/ horror/ happiness/ wonder/ stories/ tales/ life.

It helps immeasurably that this is a LEAP year.

Matsuri

This is the review of a less than good restaurant that I have been meaning to write for ages.

A Japanese restaurant was recommended by a Japanese acquaintance we met at a summer do. Seeing as we love ALL food, and that Japanese features quite high on the ‘loving it’ list we paid apt attention. Blindly thinking that a native of the country would know good food from bad where their national cuisine is concerned V & I finally decided to venture into town on a cold Saturday afternoon in November to try it out.

Matsuri is on High Holborn and is the less swanky sister of the one in Green Park (of which we had heard but not sampled). It’s on a corner plot just down the road from Holborn station and its tall glass walls use this fact by ruthlessly setting up everything inside in glaring light. On a warm summers day this would probably look quite beautiful as the wood and metal interiors could do with being lit up. As it was on the grey day we visited, the interiors seemed too lofty and spare in the dull but fulsome light. The pairing of extraordinarily high ceilings and sparse furnishings make it seem cold, leaving one feeling small and quite clinically like a lab rat. The word clinical is also apt for the service which was appallingly inattentive.

I cannot bear restaurants where the staff behave as if they are doing you a favour. Almost nothing gets my goat in quite the same way. But even that I am willing to put up with in the face of really good nosh. Sadly at Matsuri neither was quite up to the mark. From the rude hostess who claimed that the restaurant was fully booked up (when clearly half of it was empty and remained so for the entire duration of our stay) to the serving staff who could just not be bothered. We eventually got a table and ordered the set meal as it seemed to be better value and include everything on the main menu as an option. The appetizers were not appetizing, just sad non-fresh sushi/ sashimi set on a pretty plate. V’s main meal was organic teriyaki salmon and mine was corn fed chicken teriyaki, both served with rice (which was the only passably well cooked thing the entire meal). The fish and chicken were bland and overcooked, the teriyaki sauce much too sweet to be classified as anything other than dessert, both meals an abomination on Japanese food to say the very least. We have never looked as glum or disheartened at a meal in 2007 (that I can remember). Finally we managed to escape with some sort of autumn discount on weekend lunches which still left it quite pricey. The stand-offish staff and awful food meant that it was not worth even a quarter of what we paid. All this made for a disappointing meal, one of the worst in 2007. I don’t think you could convince me to go back. And I certainly wouldn’t encourage you to go.

I am thoroughly convinced that being native of a country is not the same thing as knowing good food from it.

Matsuri: 71 High Holborn, London WC1V 6EA. Tel: 020 7430 1970

I heart Etsy

I've long wanted a lovely desk calender to adorn my workspace, something to bring a smile to my face when I glance away from my computer screen & paper mountains on a busy working day. Bought this from Etsy (which is where I spend all my time and seemingly at LOT of the money earned by sitting at said desk) and it's arrived and looks brilliant perched next to my toy auto rickshaw (which I also heart). The fish in January is more mellow yellow than the orange the screen throws off.

So far I'm loving January.

The Holidays: in re-cap

In lieu of any bonus (seeing as I work in the development/ charity sector which has no bonuses) our very small office was given a ten day break from the Saturday before Christmas till the Wednesday after New Years. That’s 4 paid days of leave to compliment the public holidays over and above the generous 25 days of annual leave we get. Needless to say this is the best gift we could have been given. By the time the leave was granted it was too late to book tickets to India and so I made alternate plans that evenly balanced socialising with relaxing.

Christmas was quiet, as always, celebrated with pizza and by camping on the living room floor in anticipation of the ‘every-night-we-must-watch-cricket’. Of course Murphy is so enchanted by me that almost nothing after Christmas went to plan. On the 26th, after a night of disappointing cricket, V woke up to a day of horrid flu – cold, cough, fever, body ache. He recovered quite rapidly and kept his promise by bravely trekking to south London the very next day to eat a fantastic Polish meal in my mate J’s warm and wonderful home. By then V was well on the mend and I was slowly on the way down. Spent the next few days mainly wallowing in self-pity and snot, medicated by Day Nurse and Wagamama meals and trying to decide if we should cancel our New Years do.

By Sunday my mind was made up. We would soldier along. I am nothing if not my mother's child. So I dashed off to the lovely Columbia Road market to get me some bargains while V waited at home for an enormous amount of groceries to arrive. Drank hot hot chocolate and walked around the surprisingly quiet market with my friend E. Bargain bought 100 stems of burnt orange tulips for the house. Was a pain to lug back home I must admit but having them in two giant vases brightened up the teak and green décor immeasurably and made it all worthwhile. We now know we can look quite showroom-like if the need should ever arise.

By Sunday evening I was in full organisation mode. The cold was being treated by endless cups of hot water and the LISTS were coming into their own. I am one of THOSE people, the ones who do best if guided by well planned, detailed lists. The master list consisted of two parts – the guest list and the menu. The menu list was further broken down by ingredients for each food type to be served (and further broken down by what had been ordered online and what needed to be bought from our local supermarket). This was cross-referenced with what each dish required in terms of time planning (i.e. marinate in advance, defrost, take out to breathe, cooking dish, serving dish and implements, accompaniments). V was in charge of the all important alcohol list and the music. With our not-so-big fridge it was a routine as precise as surgery to ensure that food was marinated on time and that these and other pre-prepared goods lived side by side snug as a bug in readiness for the party.

The 31st dawned grey and dreary. My escaped-from-London-for-middle-of-the-countryside friends arrived by mid-day and what a wonderful afternoon we had. We laughed like the drought was over. She brings out the very best in me and I had clearly missed her terribly. Her quiet husband and my quiet V commiserated over the less than thrilling cricket and other lamentable mentionables like Vishwanathan Anand not even getting a mention amongst Indians of 2007 on authority (whatever?) NDTV. We girlies stayed out of it and immersed ourselves in ‘Khoya Khoya Chand’. She stuck with it and continued to relay the important bits of the story to me while I gave up and moved on to the final stages of prep. J arrived early in the evening and wine in hand efficiently helped me pull together final bits in the kitchen. Girlie-girls then got ready in double quick time and by 8.30pm our first guests were arriving and soon the party was in full swing.

What can I say? People kept arriving till about 11pm and I swanned around the kitchen for a bit but mostly sat and stood and chatted with my guests, making sure everyone had something to eat and drink and someone interesting to talk to. 30 people do fill a room and the food seemed to go down well as the crumbs gave testimony to. We had:
Cold eats: crudités & dip/ tortilla chips & salsa guacamole sour cream/ cheese board & grapes
Hot eats: paneer shashlik/ aloo tikki’s/ falafel & hummus/ salmon, sour cream & caviar blinis/ garlic parmesan bread/ chicken tikka’s/ lamb galouti kebabs (which had a mini disaster that the S2 took care of)

Everyone left by about 3.30am and the staying lot settled into sleep by about 4am. V and I tidied up just a bit and then sat down and shared a glass of wine and thoughts about what we wanted 2008 to be like for us. Also called various family around the world and finally gave into sleep at around 5am. The 1st was spent with friends and old movie watching. A sublime day if it must be described, lazy and happy, like the rest of the year I hope. By the time everyone left it was nearly 6pm. V and I gave into the exhaustion fairly early and before I knew it morning and work beckoned. A pared down office made it an easy first day back but by the end of the day I was flagging and ended up spending the remainder of the week down and out with a recurrence of flu.

This week it’s back to work full swing. Aaarrrrggghhhh.

Keeping up Appearances: 2007 reflections & 2008 hopes

Happy New Year!

If you were watching from the outside 2007 worked like a dream for me. A great job, exemplary new friends, much travel, a home beautification project, good food (and lots of it), the motivation to stay with the gym and finally, mostly healthy yet always endlessly loving families to boot. I really should not be complaining.

But although on its surface 2007 was an exemplary year in reality it’s the year I have least liked in this entire decade. The one I most want to forget. This is not an easy thing to explain. In many ways and on most days this year I have felt some level of frustration, anger, anxiety and sadness. It’s been a bit like being on a scary fairground carousel that slows down but never quite stops to let you off. I have felt sadness like never before and for no real singular reason. And not deep dark bouts of dreary depressing sadness but nonetheless there, spread just under the surface of my skin, manifesting as occasional pins and needles. I don’t explain it well. But I have thought long and hard about it during this 10 day break and talked at poor V till I think I know it’s ins and outs. Had long e-mail banters and conversations with two of my best buddies from school, people who know me well enough to deal with any crisis, who dealt with mine lovingly and firmly. I feel calmer and brighter and more hopeful than I have in a long long while. I’ve decided for the purposes of this blog that I don’t want to dwell on it at all. Just note it so I never forget how happy I am to be leaving 2007 behind.

I do take away two things I am utterly proud of in 2007. One of them is not losing my motivation for the gym. I owe some of this to a latent will-power that seems to have blossomed late in life but most of it to V who smiles, encourages, gently prods and keeps pace with me. 73 weeks on I am still going with as much cheer and hope as I can possibly muster. As for the waking up before sunrise to do so, that is something only my dad can truly appreciate.

The other is managing to make and keep a few birthday resolutions. The one about eating new exciting food by and finding my lost love of cooking new things has worked well. I have a few gorgeous new cookbooks and while I experiment on V and myself each week, I also put them to good use catering for our New Years party where for the first time ever I made ALL the hot snacks instead of ordering in. I didn’t lose the 15 kilo’s I resolved to but I guess I need something to do in 2008. The final and hardest resolution I made was about cutting out people from my life who were clearly in it for their benefit alone. It was one of the hardest things to do and has been done so subtly that I am sure many of those people have not even realized it. But make no mistake I have done it and in some small measure I feel better and brighter for having the gumption to finally take control of my life. I know I am truly richer for it.

We are no longer keeping up appearances. Of either the weight kind or the people kind.

Bring it on 2008.

This Christmas week...

...has been quiet and reflective. Full of late nights and sleep-in mornings. Skipped meals and big meals. Devoured movies and books. Seeking and finding warmth in the blustery wind. Imagining what 2008 could look like.

I am constantly drawn to these pictures of a beautiful summers day spent at Columbia Road Market in London earlier this year. It was a beautiful and busy day spent laughing with V and friends, shopping, eating and talking. One of the most sparkling days I will remember when I look back on 2007.

I hope 2008 is bright, healthy, hopeful, loved, clear, wonderous, full of promise, good food, family and friends - all within reach of fingers. For V. For me. And for you. Happy New Year!

Why my Boy is best

I wrote about my birthday resolutions back near the day and I am happy to report back that things have gone well-ish since then. I must do an update on what happened with each resolution but this is not that post.

This is the post to do with the very last line of that post - the 'more on that later' bit, about my fabulous birthday gift. This image you see is of a series of bookshelves packed with books. I originally saw the bookshelf in a design magazine I part share a susbcription to. I was instantly smitten with it. Thin sharp back with perpendicular shelves neither of which would show once the shelf was full of books. It would look like a tall stack of precariously balanced books. Minimal yet haphazardly full. Theoretcial opposites coming together to make something of great beauty very useful. However I immediately dismissed the idea alongside that of owning a circular stone bath I saw a few pages along (only £19,500). While not quite in the same price league, the bookshelf's exhorbitant price tag meant that I couldn't quite see myself owning it.

I forgot about it until a few days later when I had a was wandering around the house with a few books that just would not comfortably fit into my standard wooden giant bookshelf. I piled the books on the side and began praying to the Gods of Google as I hunted the web for a cheaper alternate. I came across the exact same bookshelf at a quarter of the price on an American design site but after much e-mail to-ing and fro-ing they apologised for being unable to actually deliver safely across the seas. They did however offere up a suppliers name who might just be able to. Voila! A bit more browsing and calling and I found it could be ordered in London and imported from Italy. At this point I handed the details over to V who was pestering me for ideas about my birthday gift and he ordered it and tracked it everyday for weeks.

The delivery of my shelf was quite botched up and even as I wrote my birthday post in mid-July it had not arrived. Lucky me, birthday gift was a multiple part gift: I got one of these giant bookshelves and ALL THE BOOKS I COULD FIT INTO IT. This from V was my birthday gift. So in anticipation of the bookshelf's arrival, on my birthday we wandered into a Waterstones and bought the first 14 of numerous books. The bookshelf finally arrived in early August and was assembled in 3 minutes flat. It sits neatly between a wall and a piece of furniture. It can hold up to 70 books (some dependence on the thickness of the books) and since July I have already bought over 45 of the books. It's good for my soul to go into a bookshop and wander around. All those written words and covers evocative of a story; so much to choose from, so many to choose. These wanderings, as leisurely as they are, lead me to a canvas bag of books and intense longing for a weekend afternoon curled up on the day bed with something playing in the background while devouring a book.

It's my best gift yet. And one I am inclined to ask for as a repeat gift when my next birthday comes around. Now you see why my Boy is best

The Passport FAQ: The final countdown

1. Will my details in my passport be printed?
Over 3 years ago now (that’s the distance between sharp and dulling pain over my kaagzaath), just one weekend before I was due to apply to the Indian High Commission for both additional booklet and change of name, we went for lunch to friends in leafy Golders Green. In anticipation of the process we were talking about how the website seemed to have all the information one might need (ha bloody ha!). My friend K then said that she had had her passport re-issued in Mumbai just before coming and she showed us her new passport – typed front page with her details all in the correct places.

Gazing at it I too dreamt of a neat typed/ electronically digested professional looking passport. The leafy tree lined street and the plate of steaming hot pav bhaji lulled me into believing that all would be right with the identity documents. How wrong was I? My passport is not only hand written, a mistake has been scratched out with a blade, written over and signed by someone before being laminated. And the laminate is full of air bubbles.

But apparently things have changed. It’s all printed now – even in London. I don't believe it.

2. Will the passport be ready on time?
The website assures me that it is a 48 hour turnaround. Completely shell-shocked by the trauma of getting my OWN name on my OWN passport I don’t take in the slip which asks me to come back in a week until I get out. I am drained of all emotion. Why did I believe the website you ask? Naivete.

I pay the money, grab the slip out of the cashiers hands and dive through the crowd desperate for fresh air. Outside, the air is fresh and people free. I uncrumple the slip only to see the collection date is 9 days from now. 7 working days plus a 2 day weekend. WHAT? So I walk back to the door which is being guarded by a bouncer dude with dark glasses. He is not friendly. After all he can barely see me standing there. About a foot shorter than him and a few feet through the grey-ness that has set in. He won’t let me go back in but will go and find out himself. He comes back in under two minutes with “Yes, that is correct. Please come according to the slip”. OK then.

So no, my passport will not be ready on your time or even the High Commissions time. It will be ready in Indian Slow Time.

3. Will the handwritten passport, scratched out and written over correction or air bubbles cause any grief?
Of course it will. A year and a bit after getting the passport I was flying back and forth from Germany with some regularity. After a fantastic 5 days with the troupe of colleagues we are all leaving from Berlin airport on the same flight. Our trip has been wildly successful and all 20 of us are ready to go back and have a bit of a break. The guy at the immigration counter has other ideas. He has decided that he does not like what he sees. Well over 6 feet, blonde and with clipped voice he asks me where I got my passport from. I tell him. He continues to peer at it, adding a small magnifying glass to his own eyes. Then he adds a few extra colleagues into the mix and soon they are having a mini party in German all the while handing around my passport and the eye glass, running their hands along the edges, asking more clipped questions. In the meanwhile my colleagues have gone through and from where I am standing I can see that the entire seating area for our flight has filled up. I ask Blondie what the problem is and he smiles and says “Oh maybe you made this at home? It has a lot of airbubbles, no?”. No. Yes. OK.

I give them the IHC’s phone number but they decide that a higher power needs to decide this. So they whisk my passport away leaving me under the watchful eye of a guard. People keep coming back and asking me random questions like where I was born or what my mothers name is. Things I would definitely NOT know / have learnt if I had forged my own passport. About an hour later they come back to tell me that the IHC’s phone number just rang through. Well obviously. The babu’s went home at 4. It’s 5 now. So now what? They keep saying WUN MINUTE. But my flight is about to leave. My colleagues are waving madly from behind the immigrations counter. They have to go or they will miss the flight. I am surely going to miss mine.

In a final burst of enthusiasm I make a short impassioned speech. Suddenly the original blond officer comes to the front of the gaggle, stamps my passport and escorts me to the plane. I make nervous small chat with him all the way there. Turns out that the expiry of my passport looked suspicious because it had been scratched off with a blade, written over and signed before being badly laminated and that they thought I might have done this at home. Yeah right.

I am escorted onto plane which has everyone already seated and it’s engines warmed up. As if my colour was not enough, the escort walked me to my seat and made sure I was belted in before leaving me in the glare of a plane-full of late, irritable passengers. The only people glad to see me were my colleagues. And even they aren't that glad as the flight is late because of me.

So yes, I would say grief was caused.

4. Did I Google the Prince?
DUUUDES. What do you take me for? Of course I did. Sadly he does exist and looks, in real life exactly as he does in pictures. He is a big-ish shot I guess, just not in my world. His wife looks nice too (and just like her picture) and is minor royalty as well. Am I going to tell you who he is?

No.

5. Does my passport fill me with joy?
Well, the name has caused confusion the way it is, with both surnames needing to appear in certain places because of it. Much as V predicted it would. But I love my passport and the fact that I kept my dad’s name and added V’s to it. I don’t have the energy to go back and quibble it. By the time it next comes up for renewal in 2017 (I got it in the window of 20 year passports) maybe the IHC would have got its act together and into the 21st century. I can only hope. In the meanwhile I am full of joy!

I’m glad I wrote out this story. It was taking on unmanageable proportions in my head and I wanted to put some of the facts down for posterity. And to squash the urban legends my mind was spawning. I now charge for passport related advice. The End.

The Passport: Four down. None to go

I’m determined to finish writing down my story from hell Indian High Commission before the next anniversary of the day draws any closer and it becomes nothing but an urban legend.

I am convinced that this is a test of my citizenship of India. Hours of waiting, trying rules, rubbish forms, utter rudeness, clamouring crowds, inquisitive aunties, over-kowledgable uncles, obnoxious royalty and endless humiliation.

There is nowhere to run. Even if I wanted to I would have to elbow my way through the crowd of Indians that has packed itself around me in the hope of finding out every little detail about my life. The fact that we, Mr. Kumar and I, are about to have a big fight is just a bonus.

To accurately tell this final bit of the memory I need to use my name. All bits of it. I’m choosing random British names as substitutes because I can’t think of Indian names I’d rather have and I have no emotional connect with the Brit ones. Let’s say my parents chose Patricia as my name at birth and my dad lent me his surname Jones. And then I grew up and married Boy Smith. Much easier I think than breaking up 30in2005, which, anyway I look at, just won’t do.

So here I am, Patricia Jones, waiting to get an additional booklet and add Smith to my name. Mr. Kumar peers over the top of his glasses at me and then head down and through said glasses at my form. I am holding onto the file of additional documents for dear life. There are, after all, about £20 worth of photocopies in there, no small sum for an unemployed migrant.

On the form I have filled:
Given name(s): Patricia Jones
Surname: Smith

Mr. K: “Madam, you cannot keep maiden name as middle name. Ladies ke liye aisi koi suvidha nahin hai (there is no such provision for women)”

Me: “Why? I don’t want to give up my fathers surname. I just want that to become my middle name and to add my husbands as the surname”

“No madam, ladies ka koi middle name nahin hota hai. (There is no middle name for ladies)”

“Sorry but I would like to speak to your superior officer. There must be some way for me to keep both names”

He sighs deeply, whips off his glasses and with a flourish of his hand and “one minute” disappears through a flimsy door opened by a security guard.

All around me the Indians now proffer their advice. Ranging from “kya madam, apne to sab ka kaam rok rakha hai (What madam? you have stopped everyone else’s work from happening)” to “Ladko ke to 'Kumar' laga sakte hain, ladkiyon ka to kabhi nahin suna (Have heard of ‘Kumar’ being a middle name for a boy, never heard of a middle name for a girl). And “Aaapko kya milega yeh karne se madam? (What will you achieve by doing this madam?)”. And “Aapke husband aur papa ko bura nahin lagega? (Won’t your husband and father feel bad?).

There was more of the same, everyone having a discussion about what I, Patricia Jones soon-to-also-officially-be Smith, should do/ could do/ must do/ must not do/ must feel/ must endure. A lot of blah blah blah to me. I just stood there looking uncomfortable and ready to burst into tears. I was not about to give up without a fight. Fifteen minutes later Mr. Kumar emerges from the labyrinth that is the back office of India House and strolls to his desk. Takes a seat and shuffles on the stool till a comfortable (to him) and threatening (to us) pose is struck.

“Madam, show me all supporting documents”

I concur and hastily shove the entire file through the small air hole in the glass. He goes through it sheet by sheet for about 4 minutes. Gives up and says “Aap sure hain ki aapko dono naam chahiye? (Are you sure you want both names?). Hum allow nahin karte hain ladies ka middle naam (We don’t allow ladies middle names). India mein to aise nahin hota hai (It’s not how it works in India)”. Do I freaking look like I care! I want my dad’s name to appear and that is that. With carefully constructed sentences and a modulated voice my tone perfect class 3 music teacher would have been proud of, I insisted. Sighing once more he disappears into the beyond, form, passport, papers and all.

10 minutes later I was silently bartering with God, begging for some resolution and not to be beaten black&blue by the increasingly impatient Indian crowd in exchange for being a kind wonderful human being for the rest of the year. It was November, I would manage a month and a bit. And although I fully sympathised with the baying crowds I just wanted to sort this out and go home.

Mr. K came back with a smile and “Sir ne bola hai, aap jo naam likhwana chahen likwa lijiye. (Sir has said that you can write whatever name you want). But aapka purana surname Jones sirf aapke naye surname Smith ke pehle hee aa sakta hai (But Jones can only appear before Smith and not as a given name). Ok?’.

OK. Anything. Goodbye. I correct the form:
Given name(s): Patricia
Surname: Jones Smith

I must pay £18 only says Mr. Kumar’s scribble at the top of my form, much to the consternation of Ms. Pinky who sits between consular and passport windows with her little cash box. She would like me to be charged an additional £18 for getting both additional booklet AND additional name. But Mr. Kumar is so sick of me that his fake smile has fallen into a grimace and he yells at her to just do as he has written so that I can go. Much to the delight of the waiting, utterly bored crowd they have a small round of petty yelling. My exact change does not help matters as she can’t scream at my smiling face. A small cheer from the crowd - victory for the common woman they always approve off.

One week later I am back to pick up the additional booklet, dark blue and all mine. I am now Patricia Jones Smith. Small details like did I google the Prince and was my passport issued correctly must wait. FAQ to follow.

Citizenship of India - I think I passed the test. And for all its quirks I love being Indian.

Interlude

This blog is clearly not burning. Not a single comment has been left on it since I wrote last week and I thought that it was the deplorable writing catching up with me. But my friend has written to let me know that there is a problem with the comments section (and kindly added that i's not the writing!). I had tried responding to comments left on the post before last but blogger made me type them out about 4 times before actually accepting them. I thought it was just my computer but clearly it’s a more deep seated problem and after an hour of hunting down the correct page this morning I have written to the elusive blogger help asking for help. If you have a mo please will you try leave a comment and if it does not work e-mail me at 30in2005@coolgoose.com if you have the energy?

I’m having trouble writing the fourth part of the passport saga. It was such a long and complicated process and so fraught with tension and anxiety that all these years later it still lives in my head much like some worm (whose name escapes me) that you cut off and it's head/ tail and it grows back. (am I making up the worm thing with my overactive imagnation and too much Discover/ Nat geo?). It's been hard to write even bit by bit, and I think that in re-telling it in a rush I would be doing the tale-end of it a disservice by not thinking it through enough. I don’t want to exaggerate the grand finale but I do want to reflect what a house of horrors the process was. I also need to come up with an alternate set of names to clearly explain events. No energy suddenly….. Patience is the name of this game.

In other news, this weekend was brilliant. Friday afternoon set the tone for things to come. Friends who were to come for lunch on Saturday cancelled (once again bad planning and inconsiderate-ness played a big part and I would not have known they were not turning up if I had not called to ask about food allergies) and so the weekend stretched languorously ahead. Went to Macondo after lunch and bought some divine blocks of brownies to share in a nearly empty office. No one in London makes a warm brownie quite like Macondo in Hoxton Square. It’s a small arts café that sells the art off the walls and divine organic treats savoury meals. It’s a tiny space with overstuffed sofa’s and dim lighting and an ever-changing menu. Well worth the trek if you live in London.

After an excellent spinning/ indoor cycle class on Saturday morning in which I was nothing less than an ace among the Alps, I decided I did not want to go home. So V gamely agreed to a movie at the Dome. The Dome was overrun by some kind of scouts convention and there were kids and adults in scouts uniform EVERYWHERE. We bought movie tickets and killed time and the hunger in our bellies with a simple burger lunch at Jimmy Monaco’s before the movie. Jimmy Monaco’s was average. I had an Alaskan cod burger which was nothing but a deep fried fillet of cod between a bun and V decimated a veggie burger. Neither had us raving but it was good wholesome food and did what it said on the menu. Then we sat with about 20 people in a 776 seater screen at the Vue in the Dome and watched American Gangster. It was a bit like a private screening there were that few people. I have to say I loved it. Both theatre being huge & empty and the movie. And even the ever fussy V approved, commenting only that “it got slow in the middle”. It did not. Don’t listen to him. Go and watch it.

Yesterday we had a lively, chatty, laughing afternoon with friends in a diametrically opposite part of London. Smooth albeit long journey, more than worth it for both company and delicious food. Came back and was flipping channels and saw the ‘just in’ on NDTV say that Delhi felt tremors. Checked all the newswire websites and V stood in front of the TV till someone appeared on the news ages later to say that the tremors were strong but no damage to life and limb had occurred. I had not wanted to wake everyone in my parent’s house up and so didn’t call till first thing this morning when my mum confirmed that the house and everyone in it was still standing.

Have a good week peeps.

Macondo: 8 & 9 Hoxton Square, London N1
Jimmy Monaco’s: Unit 22, The O2 Dome, North Greenwich, London

The Passport: Teesra kaun?

We are waiting like bulls at the entrance of a run for the red cloth to signal the start of the race. The door opens and out come two paunchy men, the red cloth waved. They approach the counter with knowing trepidation and on cue the Indian crowd surge forward to the glass. Shoving and adrenalin rush forward till they are effectively one mass stuck to the glass pane.

Guy One is short-ish, with a paunch that his mother would approve of. He takes the chair on the left (as I face the counter). Guy Two is a bit taller, with a mustache and a paunch his mother too would be proud of. He gets the chair on the right. The chair in the middle is empty. The counter is like desks propped up on something (as if the height will give it a measure of seriousness; more likely to protect them from the insane with boredom crowd) and the chairs behind it are a bit like breakfast bar chairs.

It quickly become clear that Guy One is for consular services such as affidavit stamping and that Guy two is in charge of the Passport issues. I don’t remember how this became clear. I definitely remember that there were NO SIGNS. I suspect it was a fact-turned-to-rumour by those squashed up against the glass at the front, passed on hurriedly among the impatient, over-friendly crowd. I remained seated and tried unsuccessfully to tune out big industrialist blabber mouth next to me. I gave up. Literally. After a further 20 minutes more of his life history I stood up, murmered some excuse about checking out the delay and joined the heaving masses.

While stuck in the mass of humanity around the deformed desks I got to chatting with a young couple who had come down from the some far flung Scottish island. Both doctors, they were in town for the week enjoying shows and sightseeing while trying to get some work permit related papers notarized by the High Commission. Whom they had called and checked with before making the long and expensive trip. They had been the day before and typically been told that it could only be done by relevant persons in India. Before tearing all their hair out and killing someone they called India and of course said relevant persons had laughed and told them they had to get it done in London. So they were back to try and work their magic pill of sweet-talking and outright threats.

Selective hearing skills well developed in childhood suddenly hear "Token number 118, token number 118, TOKEN NUMBER 118". That’s me and my blue paper token. So in a dazzling, gazelle like manner I shove my way through the great wall of India and suddenly there I am, at the glass pane, looking at Guy Two, whose mouth is not moving. That is when I realize that it’s Guy One that is bellowing Token 118 at the top of his lungs. So I sidle past the people around me to his window, present my token gently on the counter and say, “I am here for my passport extra booklet, sir”. Good manners, my mother said, will get you everywhere.

Guy One looks up, looks down, “wrong window. Token number 119, token number 119, TOK..”.

“Sir, this is my token but I am here to get a passport and no one asked me when giving out the token what I was here for.

“..EN NO 119. Sorry madam, about this I cannot do anything. You need a pink token”

I thump my large and very heavy file of unnecessary documents on the counter. It makes a loud NOISE. LOUD enough for him to look up and see a red-faced angry me. “I am not moving and you are not seeing token 119 till I have my work done. I have been waiting just like every other person here and I am NOT leaving till you sort this out. For hours I have been waiting, for hours.”

Dead silence. Even the endless cackle of the densely packed Indian crowd around me is silent, if only for a moment. Pause of expectation in the air.

“Ok madam, not to worry Mr. Kumar here will look at your papers next. He is my friend, no, Mr. Kumar?”. Fake jovial laughter and leaning over to pat Guy Two (who clearly is Mr. Kumar) and, “Mr. Kumar, please see this now. That L has given tokens out like this like that again, no, please, hunh?”

Mr. Kumar, peers over his glasses and with a benevolent smile says, “Ok, not to worry, I will do. After this one, ok? You will have to take mine later ok?”

Not OK. Idiots. I am seething. I could have been one of the first few at that counter if only I had been given the correct token. I am still waiting.

Believe it or not there is more.

The Passport: Doosra

So I’m STILL at the Indian High Commission, on a freezing cold morning, here to get the document that defines my patriotic feeling within its blue covers.

I want to step back and talk about the building itself. India House sits snugly in the half moon roundabout at the centre of Aldwych, right next to the BBC’s Bush House. It is an imposing building in many ways, its oversized proportions and faded grey façade hiding some nice detail that you would not notice unless you were looking. But make no mistake - this is very much prime central London real estate. My nana worked here for a few years in the 1950’s and in some strange way that makes me feel a little nostalgic. Every time I pass it I think of him and how his life in London must have been and how different mine is in comparison. And it makes me miss him and all the wonderful grandfatherly things he did to enrich my childhood.

So standing there this crystal clear morning I am thinking about him and how bleeding cold it is. I’ve been here since 7.15 or so. After the inane conversation about Jawaharalal Nehru being Gand-I, I have gone back to my book.

At about 9am the main door opens and the line of visa-seekers enters in an orderly fashion, collecting tokens as they file in. The Indians are left to languish in the cold for a further half hour. We get to 9.30am and the closed windows in front of which we are lined up finally open. We are rushed forward by a bouncer like characters and no questions asked, randomly handed out blue or pink numbered tokens by two people sitting on the arm side of the windows. Token and documents in hand it’s the usual push through the doors, an impatience that marks our Indian-ness as we stumble down the stairs trying to be FIRST. I have a blue token.

Downstairs it somehow reminds me of being in Nirula’s¹ sans the food. A hall lined with rows of chairs, nearly all taken by the visa-seeking firangs, and token numbers flashing on boards to beckon people to the correct neatly glassed in counter. The desi brigade has descended into this orderly world and within seconds is swarming past the lines of shocked firangs to the desk-turned-counter in the corner, ugly and long enough to comfortably seat 2 people behind it, protected from these masses with only a flimsy glass panel in front of it. Two hand written signs, one over each window, proclaim ‘Consular services’ and ‘Passports’. Of course no one is manning either window, the 3 chairs behind the counter waiting patiently for the babu’s to finish breakfast. There are only about 4 chairs in the general seating left for any of us to sit on and in the mad scramble of having been left behind the collected herd at the windows I find myself in fortunate possession of one of these.

I often think I am chosen for strange encounters. I find myself seated between a young lady Indian doctor (come to get an extension booklet) and a hulking man who informs me he is from the Jodhpur royal family (there to get a passport for his wife). Young lady doctor and I are about the same age. We get talking and she tells me how she is completing her specialization at the Royal Free in Hampstead and how she misses India. I concur and we swap stories about where we are from, where we grew up, what we miss most. Hulk is determined to talk to us so he begins a long dissertation on how he has come down from near Manchester where is a big man in construction and how he has played polo with Prince Charles and how he has produced a Indian English film and how he has a pad in Belgravia where he stayed last night and how it is really useful to keep the apartment with a butler for whenever he is down in London. We try to ignore him and continue our conversation but he insists on showing us the 4 passport sized pictures of his wife and asking us if we don’t think she is the most beautiful woman we have ever seen. Then he tells us how she is a Princess and how they had an arranged marriage and she came to be a housewife after a lifetime of being waited upon and how beautiful a son she has produced as an heir to his empire and how wonderful and in love a couple they are. I’ll admit she is quite lovely. But this early in the morning I feel a bit ill and suffocated from all this information being stuffed down my throat. Mental note to self to Google him to see if any of it is true.

The visa lot are fast diminishing, a process helped by the efficient looking people at the nice formal counters. The lit up numbers are charging ahead in swift succession, giving the impression of efficiency and decorum and neat-as-a-pin machinery. It’s well past 10am but there is no sign of anyone coming near the counter for Indian people. The lone security guard manning the door behind the counter keeps telling us to maintain order and be seated (on what? the floor?) as “sahib is just coming”. The desi crew is now sweltering in the overheated space and bunched up-ness of having to stand next to each other, working themselves into a frenzy of high pitched voices and some abuse towards the incompetence of the system.

As for my blue token and I, we remain calm in this sea of madness. How much longer?

Nana: Maternal grandfather
Firang: Foreigner

¹Nirula’s (if memory stands the test of time) is the first fast food joint I remember from my childhood in Delhi. A Delhi institution in its day, it was (and is) famous for its Hot Chocolate Fudge (commonly called an HCF), a sundae par none. I recall that at the time it was a revolutionary idea: you had to go and order your food at a till from menu’s displayed above the food counters, pay up and sit at your table to wait for your number to appear on an electronic board. No waiters, no printed paper menu’s and a board full of fun things such as ‘cheeseburgers’, ‘double cheeseburgers’, ‘triple cheeseburgers’ and 31 flavours of ice cream. So popular was Nirula’s that you always went in a group, most people grabbed a table, one person went to the till to order while the others protected their seat. Yet more groups came and watched you eat while looming over your heads trying to make you feel guilty for taking SO LONG to eat. I loved it all, the pressure of saving a seat, eating quickly or not, the ‘cool’ food, the semi-afordable prices and especially that HCF.

The Passport: One of Many

This story is so long and draining that I will write it in installments. You will see why.

It’s just past the 3 year anniversary of THE DAY I APPLIED FOR MY PASSPORT at the INDIAN EMBASSY. A day I cannot talk about with making my tone convey CAPITAL LETTERS. A day that I commemorate every year but making V listen to the story AGAIN.

Why am I here?: My passport pages are all full. After nearly 3 years of being married and having my father and father-in-law ask me numerous times when I am officially changing my name on my passport I have given in. They know that on everything else (bank account, rental agreements, supermarket loyalty cards) I am using V’s surname as my own since the day I got here. But clearly a passport is an overriding document, the thing I must not leave home without in case of a fire. So I am going to gently hit two birds with one stone: get a new booklet AND alter my identity.

Method of madness: Form downloaded from flimsy website and filled with great concentration. Re-done it many times over because I
a) keep filling it in the wrong colour ink and making mistakes that could only be guided by sublminal responses, and
b) cannot decide on the name change, the sheer loss of wiping out my dad’s name and a lifetime identity weighs heavily. V does not care except for uniformity which his Virgo-an mind processes best. So I play with various permutations/ combinations and settle on my original surname becoming my middle name. Of course the form has no space for a middle name so finally tag it onto my first name and change the surname to V’s surname. This is not how I have it anywhere else (bank account, rental agreements, supermarket loyalty cards) and V is not happy by the asymmetry but it’s my name and I can’t let go. It’s a girl thing.

How to be sure?: Phone call made to Indian embassy to double confirm ‘documentation’ that I need. I don’t need an appointment, “just be there early as there is a line”. New passports are issued in 48 hours. Hoorah, unexpected efficiency

What do I need: The list seems endless; our marriage certificate, my passport and V’s passport (for identity, visa etc), proof of current address, letter of employment, salary slips, form and pictures. And multiple photocopies of the lot. Leaving only my kitchen sink in its place, armed with every document we own, in triplicate, I am at the starting line.

First thing a.m.: I don’t need V to accompany me. I’m a grown up, I can find it, do this on my own. It’s a cold Tuesday morning, I can see the air as I exhale. 7am is not an attractive time. Yet with 2 hours to go before we are even allowed inside, the queue is forming. I am about 12th in my line, stood behind Indians all here for consular services. It starts at a closed window and snakes its way through the courtyard, up the few stairs, and around the building. I am on the stairs, reading a book, blowing on my hands to warm them, unaware that an ipod will some day make all this waiting less tedious. A parallel line is forming which seems to start at a closed door, guarded by bouncer looking man suited and arms crossed, talking into a headset. It’s the foreigners in line to apply for visa’s to go see my India.

Mix the cold weather and ignorance for a strange cocktail: Our parallel lines are as different as the colours of our skin. My line is all very brown Indians, a bit haphazard, zig-zaggy, lovely, smiley and chatty. A bit over curious but nothing I don’t expect or cannot deftly deal with. The firang line is shades of magnolia, orderly, proper, prim despite gently showing their hippy-ness with the odd splash of colour against a mainly black-brown uniform of winter wear.

I am taking a break from an utterly boring book. The guy in front of me feels it is our duty to bond as fellow Indians and so we are exchanging life stories, when this conversation makes us stop talking.

Brit lady One (BLO) to Brit aunty friend (BAF): So who do you think THAT is?
BAF: That, my dear, is Gand-I. He’s the non-violence chap. You know, the one they made that movie on.
BLO (nodding knowingly): Oh yes! How could I have not known (strange shrill laugh)

THAT is a bust of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru in the small courtyard where our two lines wait patiently. I am gob-smacked¹, a word I have only just learnt as a migrant. My friendly neighbour is more vocal than I. He breaks off our conversation, leans over and taps BAF on shoulder, “Excuse me madam, that is Jawaharlal Nehru, he is our first Prime Minister”. BAF looks like she has been stung by a bee, he eyes are wide open and she is shocked at being touched by this unknown man. Instantly gains composure, nods wisely in agreement and thanks him for correcting her. He turns back to resume our conversation.

Less than 4 seconds later this is what we hear, “I don’t think he knows dear, that is Gand-I. I have seen the movie you know. He WAS their Prime Minister.”

I feel: Cold, mainly. And a tad irritated. An appointment system could avoid all this waiting in the cold. And how about all foreigners need to identify statue in courtyard before visa’s are issued?

I should have come here in summer.

There is more.

Firang: foreigner

¹Gob smacked: is a British slang term. Combination of gob, mouth, and smacked. It means “utterly astonished, astounded. I use it all the time.

Remembering Anita

Sometimes I think I am the luckiest girl on earth.

If you had told me when I was a child that I would grow up to live in London and be part of something bigger than my own life I would have retorted with the 'when pigs fly' retort (which I was famous for chucking around, much like word confetti).

Last night I took part in a memorial service for Anita Roddick. It was a moving evening, attended by 2000 family, friends, business and development associates at the Central Hall Westminster. It was a wonderful celebration of her life, as an activist, a mother, a friend, a force for change. A short video snapshot of Anita at home and at many points in her activist career began proceedings. Various friends, associates and her two daughters spoke about her life, her courage, her laughter, her indomitable spirit, her 'Do Something. Do anything. Just do something' attitude. Each speaker, from Ken Wiwa to Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson to Robert King, Vandana Shiva to Kate Alan, spoke of her joy and endless enthusiasm, to a thunderous applause.

She always said that all her money was just a means to do what she wanted to do as an activist for the many causes she marched for, funded, backed with her name. That that was what she wanted to be defined as, above all, as an activist. That being an activist, being a voice for the voiceless, satnding up for the weak and frail, engaging in the human spirit, made her feel alive. If the plaudits were anything to go by Anita lived just the fullest life.

The evening ended with a walk along the South Bank to the National Theatre with music, dance, lit lanterns and tea lights. It was an evening of tears and laughter and the sheer volume of the applause showed how one woman made a difference to so many people. It was an evening of inspiration, a reminder that each one of us needs to be an activist in our own way, giving time or money to help someone less fortunate, someone less able. To live passionately for the causes we believe in.

The world is poorer for having lost Anita. The world is richer for having had her in it.

Seeds of fine dining

Now that it’s getting colder and darker ever earlier in the evening the only way to cheer this old chick is with good wholesome temperature and chili hot food. I have a restaurant review (of previously mentioned post - Monday) for all you London foodies to go and try out. For those not in London envy is not a good colour. For those in India, go eat a chicken kathi roll and then a plate of momo’s on my behalf please!

I’m usually suspicious of anything that calls itself Indian food in London. From all my food travels in London I have found the standard operating practice for so-called Indian food is manifold:
1. If the signage reads ‘Indian and Bangladeshi cuisine’ it usually means there are Bangladeshi cooks and the menu will say ‘Ponir’ and serve everything coated in bilious red. Not to my taste.
2. If the signage says ‘Indian and Pakistani specialities’ it usually means Pakistani food but we aren’t sure anyone will come and eat it if we don’t use the word Indian. It can mean awesome kebabs like Tayyabs or merely mediocre fare. I'll more than manage.
3. If the signage reads ‘Indian’ it can mean we are Bangladeshi or Pakistani but we won’t tell you that, we’ll just sell what we think best under this generic label. This usually includes the British variants of Balti, a cuisine made up entirely by migrants feeding a population reeling from having given up the Raj. You’ll most likely find Korma, Jalfreizi, Madras and Vindaloo as the given categories, and be able to order any ingredient (chicken, various meats or vegetables) covered in the above mentioned sauces. The only difference in is the degree of hot moving steadily up from category to category and the odd addition of chunks of onions or coconut or yet more red food colouring. Served with ‘Poppadoms’ and ‘chutney’ (which my firangi friends think is a starter we serve at home). Who invented this stuff?

Whichever way the cookie crumbles I avoid Indian restaurants because I usually come away disappointed and literally with a bad taste in my mouth. Alternately we go to overpriced but genuine Indian restaurants run by Michelin stars and their wannabe’s and come away with huge bills for inordinately simple meals in tiny well styled portions. A better yet bitter taste.

So it was with some trepidation that I took the Central Line to Caraway on a cold Monday evening with two colleagues in tow, having been invited to dine there by an ex-colleague. The husband of the ex-colleague has a business interest in the restaurant and she was being kind and spreading the word simultaneously. I am always suspicious of free meals. Or of free anything for that matter. I’m cynical like that.

Cynicism gave way under the weight of a delicious meal. Caraway was heavenly. A large Indian carved wood door took us into a simple yet elegant interior. The staff was almost entirely imported from India and the menu was too long, mainly north Indian with some random things that did not fit thrown in for good measure. I was told that the menu was never ending because they were testing out what worked and what didn’t before honing it down to a more manageable list. Thankfully there was not a Balti or Vindaloo or Madras in sight.

We shared starters and main meal between 4 of us so that everyone could try everything. I’m not going to go over our entire meal, just point out the dishes that caught my fancy and that I would go back for. Among other starters we had dilli ki aloo tikki (which was not quite Delhi’s but really really really good nevertheless with some awesome channa served on the side of it) and some bhelpuri (which was fresh and with every chutney like it had just been made rather than out of a supermarket bottle). Among our main dishes the most mentionable were the dal (which was not gummy or chunky in consistency but instead perfectly piping hot and freshly tempered), galouti kebabs (not a patch on Lucknow’s but still soft melt-in-the-mouth and delicious) and baingan ka bharta (which I LOVE if it is made well and I have to say this was one of the best, again consistency and flavour won me over). The highlight however was the freshly made rumali roti’s - one of my all-time favourite’s which is unbelievably unavailable in London. Watched the chef throw it in the air and lay it delicately on its upturned cooking structure. Beauty in motion. The rumali itself was light and thin and oh-so tasty. I defy you to eat one and quibble.

There was way more food than I can readily describe without drooling all over my keyboard. I came away thrilled at having found a reasonable north Indian food place that is not pretending to be Indian but is instead really INDIAN. The quality and taste of the food was a big pro in my book – just the right level and temper of spices, no artificial red coloured everything, not overpowered by chillies and genuinely Indian recipes. Good sized quantities in little clay pots for a price not too high. I liked the ambience as it were, not cheap-ass plastic furniture and yet not ostentatious over-the-top chandeliers and overdone Indian-ness. The lighting could have done with a bit of boost but it was not dark or depressing in the least. I liked the glass partition between kitchen and restaurant floor – it usually means they can’t get away with mucking up and slipping on the housekeeping. Rumali throwing is also a good spectator sport.

There were some small cons that I thought could do with some work. Like too many salad leaves with my aloo ki tikki (who does that?) and some not so great paneer dishes. On balance however it is a little gem. And I am thrilled to have been introduced to it. As with any new place the test is in how long they can keep it up without slipping into quality. I’ll be back to find out.

Caraway Brasserie: 513-519 Cranbrook Road, Gants Hill, London IG2 6HA. Tel: 020 8518 4111

Strange. Boring. Venting.

It’s rare that these old bones have a week when social activity is everything. Mostly all activity is reserved for the weekends with the odd smattering of an evening with colleagues occurring during the week. A couple of weeks ago I had an incredibly busy week. One like I have not had in a while.

Saturday/ Sunday: Assorted engagements, almost all involving food, some involving music. By midnight on Sunday I already need a week to recover from the full-on days and late nights.
Monday: Dinner at new Indian restaurant with colleagues. Amazed at eating genuine Indian, especially my favourite rumali rotis. Roll home stuffed with Galouti kebab, too close to midnight.
Tuesday: Meet old school friend at Tapas bar. Our second meeting in 14 odd years but feel strangely connected. All warm and fuzzy reminiscing but runs well past bedtime.
Wednesday: Dinner at cosy Italian in Holborn with different colleagues. Chatty and stuffed and up too late. Again.
Thursday: Friends round for dinner. Shamefully poorly planned spread but genius conversation. Feel tired but strangely rejuvenated.
Friday: Dinner with friends stands cancelled. Gratefully collapse into bed at 8pm. Exhausted.

Busy but not utterly exciting.

I don’t know when this happened. This drip drip change from YOUNG, VIBRANT being into slow mo old auntie. We used to party/ socialise ALL THE TIME when we lived in India. Work all day and then play all evening. Go to movies, check out restaurants, go dancing, attend parties; with groups of friends or sometimes even on our own. We went out to get ice cream, eat momo’s at Dilli Haat, drive half way to Agra to eat in a dhaaba, eat chaat at Bengali market, attack hot chocolate fudges in Nirula’s, drive back in blinding fog from late night movies. All the things other contemporaries were doing. Whichever way you looked at it we were always busy. Doing something. Going somewhere. Getting scolded on a regular basis by my mum that her house was not a hotel/ launderette.

We don’t do that anymore. The wild skida-adling. Maybe it’s because we were in our twenties. Maybe it’s because we weren’t married. Maybe it’s because we’ve become so fat all we can think about is that next beer and pack of chips and sitting on a sofa. Maybe it’s because we’ve turned into vegetables. Maybe age has dulled our brains and all sensory enjoyment just flits past us. I don’t know but the age ship has definitely sailed.

I’ll be honest. Life is still fun. I love living and working in London. I love that I have found new and lovely friends. I love that we travel a lot. I love that we go out to eat when we want, where we want. I love that we bought a home. That we are always adding to it. But I am in a strange funk where I just constantly worry that I am aging before my time. That this is what I'll have forever more. This elderly-ness feeling. This settled feeling that is great but also dead boring and where all my staidness makes me feel 52 and not 32.

I can’t remember the last time I have felt young and vibrant and interesting. We go out a lot. A LOT. We spend weekends entertaining or being entertained. Or go out for meals to all manner of restaurants. But it’s all grown up stuff and unsurprisingly springs back to food. Every darn time. Dinner at my house darlings. Lunch by the Thames Dearest. Even the busy week above was all about the food. That vein of boring. Nobody ever calls anymore and says “want to go clubbing dudes”, “let’s go to a concert”, “let’s have a picnic in the park”, “’lets drive to Antibes”.

I admit I’m the main culprit of my inanely boring life. Forever throwing dinner parties, calling them soirees and pretending that I’m above it all and way too mature to be doing what the youngsters claim as their domain. I’ve gotten too comfortable with the sitting-on-a-sofa kind of entertainment, hooked to a schedule of Ugly Betty/ Brothers & Sisters/ Men in Trees/ Greys Anatomy. I should be the one taking the lead, booking us into concerts, having picnics, eating at exotic places, dragging V clubbing, organising parties, shying away from the easy sitting-on-a-sofa, cooking-for-an-army option. DOING and not just being. And I don’t mean ‘doing’ as in staggering home blind drunk at 4am, just more ‘feeling excited with life’ kind of stuff. Moving away from an undercurrent that isn’t singing “same ol’, same ol’” all the time.

I don’t know what I want or why I am writing this out. I'm thinking of it as cheap therapy where I am on a chaise longue, teasing out the answers I know but won't admit to without talking it out, reasoning with myself. Realising that I can’t explain this very well. For I am content with what I have and thank my lucky stars for what my life is. I feel blessed in more ways than most people can count. But I am strangely unhappy, exhausted and disappointed with what I have become. Like all my organisation, planning and grown-up-ness has come back to bite me in the behind. A discontent, an aged-ness, that I fear partying will not banish. I fear I’m looking for an excitement that even I, deep down, know doesn’t exist. Like an alternate perfect world, a utopia I'm missing out on. Like always feeling that everyone else’s life is better/ more exciting/ interesting; grass is always greener yada yada yada.

What I do know though, sadly, is this: if I got IT back, whatever the hell IT is, I’d probably kick its scrawny happy ass out of my house before settling into my sofa. There is no therapy for idiots.

Ain't no mountain high enough

Some people look at me and know my miniscule weight-loss has plateaued. The rude ones go as far as to say I haven't lost any or I've put some on or not saying anything at all (probably fearing my wrath for saying something wrong). I've cut that lot out of my address book.

My revised 6 month plan to lose some serious kilos is near its middle and I have been terrible at going to the gym. 60 weeks in to a very expensive gym membership and I am only managing 3 days a week in my best weeks. A far cry from the initial motivated self that dragged herself out of bed, well into week 40, atleast 4 to 5 days each week to hit some cardio machine or swim. Some weeks in the recent past I have woken up, given myself an entire lecture on why I should go NOW. Turned over and gone straight back to sleep, wiping away the list of reasons why with one fell swoop, "anyway it won't make a difference", slept 4 minutes past my bedtime/ too late last night", "it's too cold/ wet/ hot/ muggy", "life is too short". You get the drift.

To make up for the lull in gym participation, steeply falling levels of motivation and the sniggering scales I decided to take the plunge and try out a new class. It's taken a year of watching people attack this class through the glass walls of their studio for me to pluck up the courage and go and talk to the teacher. Am I too fat/ unfit? Will I manage? etc. Being assured I would be just fine and that if I kept at it and did it upto twice a week I could lose some serious kilos, I convinced myself two weeks ago that I would try it out.

Come Tuesday morning, attired in my finest non-branded garb, I presented myself at Studio A for an Indoor cycle class (I hear the round of applause). Instructions carefully given, cycle adjusted, loud thudding music booming and we were off. For 45 minutes of hill climbing. I mostly sat and cycled (more in shock on different levels: what am I doing HERE/ Man, these dudes are SO FIT/ Up, down, WHAAAAT, make up your mind lady/ Resistance - now which way do I turn damn knob/ Oooh can people see my continent-sized behind/ There goes my towel skidding along the floor/ Dropped water bottle cap makes LOUDER noise than boom box/ Boom box is giving me a headache/ I'm a fatty, get ME OUT OF HERE) as the rest of the super fit athletes stood and cycled up the Alps. I attempted going up just one 5 minute hill with resistance for better balance (technical terms only we cyclists get you know). I nearly died.

For the rest of the week I needed no excuse to not go to the gym. I couldn't feel most of of my legs, just the muscles that took on a new throbbing life of their own. Here was my perfect excuse to sleep away each morning.

This week however, glutton for punishment that I am, I went back. All those 40 minutes of Cardio in the gym nearly every morning, paid off and with my strong-as-a-horse-heart and big-as-an-elephant-body I managed an entire class at the pace of the oh-so-fit-class; up hills, down hills, along long treacherous roads etc. Came away soaked in sweat (which I hear is a good thing) and feeling virtuous like never before. Did not even care that I was in the back row and an entire gym population had been tortured by having to watch my elephantine backside lurch from side to side as I valiently climbed hills. I, 32 in 2007, had tried something new and managed to endure it and in some small measure *GASP* even enjoyed it. What is wrong with me?

The 45 minutes flew by faster than anything and the drill seargent yelling motivational things from up front certainly speeded things up. Especially "lets get those gluts in motion". Of course I haven't lost any weight (yet) but my muscles are having the time of their life. Born to be free and all that. Muscle weigh more than fat yada yada yada. Eventually something will have to give. I will go back.