33 steps between there and here

I'm 33 today. I decided to follow my intuition and birthday gift myself the balance of the vote in favour of what I would like to do. So here are all 33 bits about me me and me.

1. If I needed only one word to describe myself while growing up I would definitely not use the word lucky. I have crap luck, especially of the lottery winning kind, so clearly that person is not me. I have never ever won anything. Not drawing competitions, not tambola, not even scrabble. Now I don’t waste my time or money trying.

2. I believe that in our family luck can only belong to one person. In our family it belongs to my brother. Passed on genetically from my mum who is also fantastically lucky but less so than the Nik. He is going to hit some sort of jackpot and then I’ll have to wrangle half of him. Strangely, this makes me happy and not even an iota envious. I think my word my might be lazy.

3. I never ever cried in front of anyone all through my teens. I reserved any tears (very very rare) for the bathroom. But it was in my teens that I came to accept that I was much more sensitive than I came across.

4. I cry more often and more openly now. Mainly it’s a reaction to a sentimental movie (like Dumbo, which has made me cry many a time since I was 8 years old) or homesickness on festivals. I would say I average about twice a year.

5. As a teenager I used to get bugged by small yet seemingly significant things. Then I made up a process to deal with everything. First I learnt to quickly disguise it. Then I’d forget about it. And then suddenly it didn’t matter anymore. Water off a ducks back is my universal rule.

6. As time went on I got better, quicker, sharper at it. To the point where if it did not concern V or my family members with some level of gravity, I could go through the process in about 25 seconds. This method has so far stood me in good stead.

7. I don’t make friends easily. I would say that 90% of people I know are acquaintances. But once you are a friend you will never ever doubt my loyalty. I have learnt to sieve the important from the unimportant. Very very quickly.

8. I think my own best character trait is loyalty. I strive for it to be kindness.

9. It therefore takes a lot to rile me. But if you rile me once too often you’ll find yourself being cut out from my existence in every way. There is no forgiveness. And there is no forgetting.

10. When I was a kid I wanted to be a different thing every week. Burning choices were librarian, art historian and archeologist. I’m not sure where all these choices went.

11. But for one entire teen summer month I was a librarian, seeing off mine and my co-conspirators books to various neighbourhood homes with love and hoping they’d come back in good condition. I think we made Rs.120 in total, between 4 of us. And most of the books did come back safe and sound. But it left me with a fear of ever lending books. So don't ask.

12. I hold a degree that people look at suspiciously. Like, “Loser, you didn’t get into anything else did you?”. Actually I did get into one very prestigious college. I chose not to go for two reasons, one of which (I am ashamed to say) was the tidings of an astrologer I call Elsie brown cow. The other is too foolish to ever mention.

13. It is not something I regret though. I don’t care what people think of my degree because it was such fun to get and I made some amazing enduring friendships there. It also means that I am a fairly good cook. Both V and I have waistlines to prove this.

14. My favorite color has always been purple. Any shade of it - from the palest lavender to the brightest neon purple.

15. As a child I implored my mother to wear this one particular chiffon sari a lot – bright purple and pink with silver work – for weddings, dinner parties etc. She only caved in to the request some of the times. It was a gift from my grandfather for Diwali one year (if memory serves me right) and my mother looked gorgeous in it. I, on the other hand, owned a pair of lavender coloured jeans that I wore till they could be worn no more. Did not look nearly as gorgeous but I was like an addict.

16. I have always lived in awe of my mother. She is not only one of the most beautiful woman I know (beaten in that only by my utterly gorgeous and graceful nani) but most certainly the most vivacious and positive person. She can meet anyone and be their friend in no time - from the dhobi to my colleagues, from the subji walla to my school friends, from the driver to random neighbours. It’s a gift.

17. She can take anything and make it better. She always tried to inculcate the optimistic viewpoint of the world. If you do good, you will get good, believe in the goodness of people etc. As a teen I was not having any of it and was a fairly surly pessimist just to test her every nerve. She has the patience of a saint, of this there is no doubt.

18. I think I aim everyday to be a little more like my mother - a bit more positive and lot more hopeful. Somewhere along the line my viewpoint changed. I think it was in my mid-twenties. But I can’t be sure. I now think I am a realist/ pragmatist. My glass has gone from half empty to half full between my teens and this adult me. I like the adult me a lot more.

19. In primary school, I wore glasses with a very low power. But I was so vain that for a Sanskrit recitation exam at age 6 I refused to wear them. I remember memorising that passage and the shlokas like my life depended on it.

20. I went for squint correction exercises to Dr. Wadhwa 3 days a week after school. With my mum, in an auto, dragging along a tiny Nik. I remember the journeys and the exercises so clearly that I could be 7 again, not 33.

21. I’m meant to wear some very low power specs even now to read, watch TV and work on the computer. I never do. In fact I think I threw away my only pair for no reason other than vanity. This is strange because I don’t think I am a vain person. I think with specs I have just always had some mental block. I plan to rectify this while I am 33.

22. As squabbling siblings in an 80’s childhood, with a 7 year gap between us, the Nik and I fought like the average Indian household. All trivial. A lot of petty “you touched my side of the desk” type nonsense. From what I remember my dad took my side and my mother took the Niks - almost always. I saw this as unfair then. I now see the logic. My parents were always on the same side and since someone had to take each of our sides to understand/reason/cajole I guess this was the way to even out the adult influence between us. Divide and rule.

23. In the end we turned out A-ok. Adoring siblings. He calls me fatty and I call him mote. It works. My parents are proud I think.

24. I like to think I genetically inherited my father’s wanderlust. Nobody but I listens patiently to his “When I was in London on a foggy day in 1970....” type stories. I love each and every one of them. I hope to chronicle some of the best ones either in my blog or a notebook in the next year. He is well traveled, well read and wise and I hope I can grow old with the same grace, intelligence and minimal regrets as he has.

25. Both my parents smoke - my mum cigarettes and my dad cigarettes plus a pipe. Growing up I hated this because none of my friends had cigarette smoking mothers and pipe smoking fathers. Beside the repercussions for their health I no longer care because it clearly makes them happy.

26. Growing up the Nik and I had only one rule. We wouldn’t buy matches or cigarettes from the corner shop, central market or anywhere. In fact we wouldn’t even fetch their cigarettes or lighters from the next room. It’s a rule we both follow to this day. My parents have learnt to live with it.

27. To my mind the only positive to my parents smoking habits were that Nik and I never smoked or were even ever tempted to try. This makes us sound like boring teenage nerds. We’ve never cared really. It’s a fact that makes me strangely proud.

28. My father and mother had a love marriage – he a malayali and she a UP kayastha – in a time when these cross-country alliances were frowned upon. One of my favourite bits about their love story is how my mother used to say she would never marry a dark man who wore glasses. She married a dark man with glasses. Lesson it left me with: never say never.

29. From my mother’s side I got the softness of my palms (exactly like my nana’s – never done a day’s work is how they are regularly described). From my father’s I got the trademark curly hair (anybody who knows anything about India can tell in a nano second that I am at least part Malayali). The hands are getting less soft what with age, the hair is ever spring and frizzy. Oh well.

30. I think I can count all my regrets on one hand. The top 2 are: I regret I never learnt Malayalam. And that I never learnt an instrument. I think I would have liked to learn the guitar and play like my father could. Speaking Malayalam would have made me feel like less of a fraud.

31. I like to think of myself not as half malayali and half UP-ite but as a wonderful lucky cocktail. I think I have convincing ancestry.

32. My favourite bit of ‘Friends’ is the one where Pheobe talks about how lobsters mate for life. V and I are lobsters. I cannot imagine my life without him. He makes all other things in my life pale in comparison. He is top of my short list of non-negotiables.

33. I think I am leading the most interesting life I could lead. I’m not sure I would change much with either a magic wand or a winning lottery ticket. If I had one word to describe it, it just might be lucky.

This is as much as you’ll get out of me at one time. Ever. So soak it in.

The long or short of it

In order to commemorate my birthday I am planning to share more of myself on this blog. It won’t last, just for the next week or so, while I celebrate the advent of another year of joyous/ grumpy life. I want to mark 33 with something a bit more specific rather than yet more flowery-ness about growing old(er) and accepting it, (often less than) gracefully. Been there, done that. Now that I’m creeping firmly towards the mid 30’s I need to be clearer about what this decade is going be all about and what steps I need to take to make 33 outstanding. It's a process. Have no doubt that a long and boring post will follow in about a month.

But at this time I have in my draft folder something that I wrote in one sitting yesterday evening that I wanted to publish on my birthday. It’s a long diatribe of things about me – a list of random stuff about me that most of you virtual readers do not know. But more importantly the first 33 things that came to me when I decided to make a list. It goes on forever, and I mean forever, each point verbose and elaborate. I know no other way. I am trying to decide if I should post the entire lot together or in 3 parts of 11 each over the week.

My initial inclination is together, in one long marathon post. Even though I can guarantee that most people will lose the will to live in about 1 minute. On the other hand I am tempted to declare the whole of next week as my birthday week. Apart from a yet un-taken picture of one of my many beautiful birthday gifts and this post I have nothing to write. Therefore, breaking it into 3 bits of 11 points each will give me something to do and you something new to read at least 4 out of 7 days. And you complain I never blog?!

Do I care what the virtual world thinks? Yes. Vaguely. So vote now.

1. If you think I should put the whole list up at once (even if it means you will read it and never ever venture here again) – leave me a random comment which uses the number ‘33’ in it.

2. If you think 3 parts would be gentler on your eyeballs and sensibilities, leave me a random comment which uses ‘3 by 11’ in it.

The more random and unconnected the comment is to the question in hand, the more weight your vote carries.

Voting closes midnight (UK time) on Monday night/ Tuesday morning. I shall awaken on Tuesday, 33 years old and ready to post.

I might not heed the vote. But then again I just might.

Gymania

The funniness of gym town is enough to keep me going to the gym, lack of inch/weight loss notwithstanding.

At a certain time in the morning it’s only the usual suspects who rock up to the gym. It’s too early/ cold/ hot/ cuddly for the rest of the unfit world. So by the time we were crossing the year and a half mark of gym adventures each morning I pretty much knew what to expect from each shiny new day. I’d do the cross-trainer or stationary cycle, V would do either of those or the treadmill for 30 minutes. Then we’d do weights. Or not. Then we’d stretch. Or not. All dependent on how long it took us to get out of bed that particular morning. And what time's train we need to catch to get in to work on time.

The bank of people working out on the cardio machines is pretty standard. So when there is a new uncle ski-ing on the cross trainer, jamming to the beat on his i-pod, I can’t help but make note. This uncle is new and very, very amusing. He wears only Lotto Apparel, T-shirt, shorts, shoes, socks and headband. He has an elaborate warm up routine. Right in front of the remaining 5 machines, our eyeballs protected only by the mini-tv screens in front of each. Lotto uncle does a small routine which includes, among many others, 15 jumping jacks and loads of arm twirling, like batons. Why he cannot do this routine on the matted floor space just below, or in the big gymnasium is beyond me. 10 minutes later, all warmed up, he climbs on the cross trainer and ski’s like his life and the life of a lot of invisible people tied with rope behind him depends on it. For 4 entire minutes. I kid you not. Then he gets off and does a whole cool down routine. From behind my curtain of sweat this looks like a slugs workout, slow and short and inactive. I feel drunkenly powerful at my own achievements.

The weights floor is Testosterone Central. If you are not a loudly grunting man you could feel wildly out of place. Or discriminated against. But I am not intimidated, just tired. From out-cross-training Lotto uncle by 41 minutes. I attempt some light weights. The heavily muscled strutting men are doing ‘sets’ on various machines. I stay out of the way but not far enough to avoid being the recipient of some scornful gazes towards the lightness of the weights. I ignore them and continue proudly on.

It’s my last exercise and I need 2 kg weights for each hand so I move to the racks where these are neatly arranged. Right in front a huge (6ft something) muscled man is beginning some serious looking weightlifting while lunging. He too has free weights, but as he holds them sideways I cannot see how heavy they are. They don’t look much bulkier than the ones I have. I retreat to a corner where I exercise as I watch him lift and lunge, doing a full set, accompanied by these loud exertion grunts. Set done he throws the weights to the matted floor. Then he grunts once. Loudly, for the kingdom loud. And clearly unnecessary now that said weights have been discarded. Every single person on the floor looks in his direction, startled and judgemental all at once. He turns to go without putting his weights back on the rack. Since I’m putting mine back I walk past his discarded weights to the racks. I can see the sides of his weights now. They are only 4 kgs each. I lift one in each hand and deposit them back on the rack, pleased with the symmetry I have reinstated. It takes not much more effort than the weights I had myself. For that giant grunting man.

Then as I go down the stairs I see him chatting in the foyer with an attractive young women dressed in designer gym gear who is fluttering her eyelashes at his every loud word. Turns out that the louder you grunt at the gym, the more eyeballs you can attract. Or rather certain eyeballs you attract. Unlike some you may or may not be grunting because you are actually doing a serious workout. That, apparently, is well beside the point.

Down, not Out

It’s official. I am the first person to fail gym. And it’s taken me nearly 2 years to come round to this. V & I, we joined in early August 2006, shortly after starting our new life in our new home and after a few funnies we got into the routine. Of packing our bags the night before, waking up pre-dawn, egging the slumber-er (usually me) to get up and go. And by that I mean go quite religiously – we charted it and we’ve been at least 3-4 times a week over this period of time. There were holidays and off days where we just rolled back into the warmth of a duvet but mostly we got up and legged it.

It is in a vaguely disheartening mood that I write this post. And that is because it is slightly disheartening to keep trying and yet LOSE NOTHING. OK, no, I am lying. I lost some weight in the first year. Not enough for anyone but me and the man who appreciates my love handles to notice. Certainly not enough to merit tossing out my tired old wardrobe to get a snazzy new one. So besides having the strongest heart and oft amazing stamina I have nothing to show for it. The hilarious people in the gym make going a bit easier but there is only so much laughing at specimens in an exercise zoo that I can manage that early in the morning. I was never fixated on the actual kilos but aimed to at least become more toned or shapely. I have lost nothing, not an ounce in the second year, not a love handle a.ka. michelin tyre. There is not a bit of more toned me to be found anywhere. I might as well have stayed home and saved some money, sweat and breath.

If you met me for the very first time today you could easily assume I was clinically obese, never ever exercised and ate double BigMac’s with a bucket of diet coke each night. Nothing could be further from the truth (ie. I am clinically obese but I do exercise and never ever go near a BigMac). We eat sensibly, mostly. I cook fresh food at home 5 times a week. All our eating out is socially or to alleviate boredom (often one and the same thing) or because we are dying to let out the foodsters within or just because we can. I think the problem lies mostly in exercising and then thinking it’s OK to eat anything and in any quantity. Although the quantities I can manage have gone down as I have aged they are a clear stumbling block if I am to ever get to a healthy weight/ shape.

But I am nothing if not determined. With a little help from an unexpected quarter I am now in my 4th week of changing my lifestyle, exercise and diet patterns. So far so good, even though not an ounce has yet been shed. I am surprised sometimes by my own tenacity and willpower.

As I turn the corner and see 33 written on the wall (still over a week down the road) I still have to rely on something I taught myself as a youngster: A healthy self is far preferable to a beautiful self. And that, for me, will never ever change. That is official.

Sounds like

It was a free Friday night. A colleague suggested an eatery in Soho for us to try out. After much time to-ing and fro-ing on the email all day – where? Why? What’s to eat? Really? What time? Who else? Should we save some money by going home to leftovers? ha ha at that last one - finally I agreed.

We met at windswept Piccadilly Circus, where we always do, between always-on-sale-Lilywhites and the statue with the steps of tourists. We elbowed our way through the teeming crowds and into the beating heart of Soho. It’s been a while since we did this. The buzz emanating from large crowds hopped up on alcohol and out to enjoy an evening of camaraderie is divine. It makes your heart beat a little quicker as you walk in the middle of the street, holding hands so you don’t get separated or lost, dodging only the odd cycle rickshaws and pedestrians trying to find their ideal evening.

The suggested café was packed to the gills. In fact beyond the gills with tables and people practically sitting on each others laps on the very cramped pavement side seating. In a wonderful case of reverse bias it was a Gay & Lesbian night only and since we are neither we had to leave. There was no chance of finding anything remotely comfortable or edible in the jam-packedness in any case. It looked prettier, shinier and quieter on the internet, as most pictures tend to do. I had clearly lost my youngness eager-to-use-elbows on the overheated tube. So vowing to return another time we continued down the street looking for somewhere slightly less full to rest our feet and fill our tummies.

We decided on Bincho (not the most promising of names – yes we too kept thinking of and giggling aloud at THAT other word it sounds suspiciously like) which merely stated Yakitori under its name, on a random whim. Anything Japanese is appealing to this foodster and as he always always indulges me (even when he doesn’t have the deep love of all food oriental that I do) V and I went in. We got a table at the wooden grill counter behind which skewers of meat, fish and vegetables were gently sizzling. The menu suggested that we order skewers of different kinds, seasoned and grilled and then slathered with generic yakitori sauce – called Yakitori for anything to do with chicken parts and Kushiyaki for any skewered stuff besides. We ordered a wide selection – sea bream, salmon, tuna, squid, tiger prawns, shitake mushrooms and spring onion. We skipped the rice in favour of multiple portions of skewered foods. The gym gods would be so proud.

And as we ate that rare meal with just each other (read: no TV) for company we talked - about life, work and our plans for the next few months, holidays we intend to take, people we need to meet, activities that will keep us busy and happy till at least Christmas. At which point we may have to go out for dinner again (just kidding!). It was rare to not be watching sports while chucking food down our throats at top speed – an every week day occurrence unless we were eating with company. Bincho’s service was attentive if a beat slow – the young Japanese ladies grasp on Endlish made for some awkward moments of repeating.things.slowly. The décor was calm and sparse, with great big Japanese characters adoring the light walls and empty giant Japanese beer bottles lining a few focal point shelves and lots of wood furniture and . It was a lovely evening, lingering and watching the sun set late on a London people’s landscape, eating perfectly cooked fresh ingredients with this delightful tang of sweet and salty yakitori sauce, each served on different individual Japanese ceramic plates. I don’t know if I’d go back in a hurry seeing as it was about £25 per head and there are hundreds of places in Soho and the wider London area for us to try out. But it was a good evening and I shouldn’t knock it.

After all, at Bincho we had found ours. The ideal evening that is.

Bincho: 16 Old Compton Street, London W10 4TL. Tel: 0207 207 9111

No escape

Most people are idiots. It is possible that the sooner I realise this the happier I will be. Or just less discontent. I want sooner. Now. It will be my nirvana against random, unnecessary stress in an otherwise super life.

I do realise this though: even a lovely warm bright sunny day is no cure for idiocy.

PS: You are free to leave me comments asking me what happened. I may or may not reply to comments. Or any email.

Mornin'

The bright sun and gentle breeze has made for a wonderful start to the week. It’s put me in such a good place that beside work, which goes by at a snails pace on good weather’s days, I can’t be bothered to do much beside lean towards the sun. Like yesterday, after work, I did some dinner prep and then lay on the day bed (bathed in the sun) and watched mindless TV (in the shade). For hours. Till V came home and hunger pangs overtook, all at once. Then we had a lovely easy baked dinner of aloo patties and paneer stuffed capsicum, both doused in Masala chilli sauce (yay, Maggie), on our lovely spider-free balcony furniture. Sipped on chilled sparkling water and apple juice. All in the evening sun.

This is what summer is made of.

Tomorrow @ Moro

I’m long overdue posting a few restaurant reviews. Laziness, loss of interest, delays in public transport, blah blah blah

The title of the post is an inside joke. You had to be there to get it. It was funny. Needless to say I will not be in Moro tomorrow. Although I sorely wish I could be.

There were (meant to be) 6. For dinner at the famed Moro. To celebrate the temporary return of a friend into our midst. V bowed out as he was already holidaying in India. I was leaving the next night and this was the perfect excuse not to cook for one on my last night in town. I should have been home, choking on a takeaway, tidying up and packing my suitcase in neat layers. But I threw caution to the wind and decided that dinner with friends was a far better idea and that 20 minutes of chucking stuff in a suitcase would just have to do. One set of baggage handlers and cargo hold later it would all in a jumble no matter how neat the layers to start with. (note to self: must do away with digressing AND neat packing fetish)

And then there were 5. And an empty suitcase. And an utterly untidy house. And un-watered plants. But OH SUCH a WISE decision. It was only a Monday but it had been a long Monday, full of meetings and work. A day bent over my desk, thinking of dinner at lunch time. As the work day came to an end and I ambled around Angel in anticipation and in waiting, I hear that one of the 5 diners has had to bow out at the very last minute. She is clearly working far harder than the rest of us. I meet up with two of the other diners and we have plenty of time before our booking beckons us to the table, to sit and gossip in a nearby Café Nero.

And then there were 4. Moro in Exmouth Market, North London. If the reviews were to be believed, this is the holy grail of Spanish food influenced by Middle Eastern cuisine. We met the final member of the dinner party and went in on time for our booked two hour slot. We were promptly seated under a skylight near the kitchen counter, where for once it would be the aroma of some amazing food seeping into our clothes instead of MSG laden Chinese as the door hits your chair each time it opens. A group of four intrepid eaters - one man, who graciously did not pull out when his partner did, and braved being the only man stuck with a gaggle of three women. I now know its mainly in part because of his deep love of Moro food and not our sparkling company!

What can I say about Moro that would do it justice? The menu changes every week and the selection of things for each course is defined by what is seasonal and what strikes the chefs fancy. We saw one of the Sam's at work, pointed out by the only regular at Moro among us. We dipped sour dough bread in olive oil while waiting for our starters and listened to the story of how sour dough is almost human and needs feeding and was even taken on camping trips while one of the girls was but a mere child. Of course the two desi’s not ready to be outdone quickly likened it to the culture for dahi/ yogurt (which its really nothing at all like!). We ate starters, trying each others choices as well. All fresh and wholesome and pretty on the plate but the only one worth mentioning in my book was the cauliflower soup (not my choice sadly) which was divine. Lamb tagine on couscous, mackerel and 2 plates of lemon sole were the choices for our main meal. I won’t go into detail (because my aging memory is failing me!) but what I remember perfectly well was how pleasing a plate of food each one was. Outstanding quality of each ingredient, spiced and salted perfectly, complimentary to its accompaniments and cooked to perfection - each morsel was a perfect delight. While eating non-stop we regaled each other with stories of what life had been like before we met (like the sour dough story), how life was now, just little anecdotes on the humdrum of life, each adding up to the picture of us as individuals and friends.

We were stuffed to the gills, on food, wine and talk. And yet when it came to ordering desert I just could not say no to the Yoghurt cake with Gaziantep pistachios. I had heard so much about this and even tried the home made version (not in my own home of course) that it made sense to resign myself to rolling home. There was to be NO sharing. But of course I wanted to try the rosewater ice cream (disappointing) and was so full that I had to beg (not very hard) other people to finish mine. The yoghurt cake was topped with pistachios and lovely pomegranate seeds. It was utterly moorish and the lemon sabayon made it light and rich all at once. The sour and sweet flavours and smells of the pistachios and pomegranates all mingled perfectly - my taste buds were clearly enjoying the party. Overall I preferred the home made version both for texture and taste but this came a very close second. I could barely lift my hand to sign my credit card slip seeing how sated I was.

And then there were 3. The man, eager to rejoin his partner and find the shortest route home went off in a different direction. Us 3 girls set off for Angel Station and soon found ourselves too full to walk even the last 500 meters. We used the blustering wind as our excuse and took a bus to the station.

And then there was 1. We parted at the tube station, each heading off in a different direction to make full use of our travel cards and get ourselves safely home, out of the blustery wind. Nearly an hour and a train change later I was home, having had to painfully walk the last few minutes home, digesting one of the finest meals of the year so far. No V in our empty home. Just me. With my suitcase yet to pack and my plants yet to water and a plane soon to catch. Full up on food and friendship – two of the most sumptuous things in life.

Needless to say I will not be in Moro tomorrow. I wish I could be. But not long after I promise I will. This time with V. And friends. And I hope I will be using my inside joke again.

You need to book:
Moro: 34 -36 Exmouth Market, London EC1R 4QE. Ph: 020 7833 8336

This walking life

You know that look on my fathers face when he opened the door and saw me standing there? The jaw dropping, quick heart beating, eye popping out of socket one. It’s a priceless look, the one where for a few nano seconds a person loses and gains comprehension of what this is and feels this surge of bottomless joy, all mixed up. Stirred not shaken. Well, in the 2.5 days I spent with my folks in saadi Dilli I gave him one more such shock. I told him I was going to do a 10Km charity walk. Believe me when I say that it wasn’t the charity bit that bagged the look, it was the 10 KILOMETERS.

You have no idea, mainly because my alter-blog-ego is so fit (!), how much and with what vehemence I DISLIKE WALKING. For a long time while I was growing up my dad-the-early-morning-walker tried to interest me in the benefits of the morning walk – fresh air, sunrise, health, blah blah blah. I tried it in spits and with many a spat. I always fought it and while my father grumbled that it was my mother’s genes to blame for this inability to rise early and run around the colony, I remember silently thanking my mum for the genes that allowed me to sleep on guilt-free till she woke up to lead the way. He tried and tried and tried again but after every few weeks of enthusiastic morning walks around the colony (every six months or so) I invariably gave in to my old ways and warm razai, much to his disappointment.

Even in adulthood and then a London existence I fought the urge to adopt walking as the way forward. I talked the talk where environmental issues are concerned but where walking to save the planet is concerned I didn't walk the talk. For work and study in India I always got someone to drop or pick me up; threw silent internal tantrums at having to walk even to the end of the road to get a bus or an auto if the occasion so warranted. In London I grew to embrace walking after a long and pointless battle with myself and this city. It was not easy and was completely a case of mind over ALL this matter. I readily admit that I taught myself to enjoy walking the bits to and in stations, office, malls, museums, supermarkets, restaurants - all under duress. I learnt to focus on the end destination and what joy buying milk or eating at somewhere fine would bring me instead of on the journey to get there. Deep down though, in the inner inner bit I hate exposing, I would have to admit that I still strongly dislike walking, even from A to B, however close or far they may be. I don’t mind waking up at 5.30 to go to the gym for a rigourous workout but I hate that 3 minute walk TO the gym. So yes, make no mistake about it, I have always been, and still am, a slug.

So at the end of April when my colleagues mentioned forming a team to attempt Cruisaid ‘s 10km Walk for Life my first instinct was to pretend I was busy. When that didn’t work it was to remind them how much I hate walking – something that amuses their strong British legs no end. Well, that didn’t work. So after thinking about how this would help me prove my working out had had some effect on stamina if not svelte-ness, I went home one day signed on and committed to raising a significant amount of money towards a few causes. I ignored the fact that I was going to have to WALK to uphold my end of the bargain. Instead I attacked the fundraising target with fervour and continued to ignore the training for it, stodgily continuing on my steady gym routine. I wrote to everyone I knew asking them to sponsor me to walk. Some of them were so stunned that I, the World Slug Champion, was attempting to walk anywhere of my own free will, that they emptied out their pockets in support of my causes. (thank you, thank you - you know who you are). Others sent their good vibes. (again, thank you). Yet others ignored me, thinking it spam. After all there was no way that I would readily subject myself to walking. How wrong I proved them. And myself.

Yesterday dawned cloudy and very unlike the 1st of June, a bit chilly. Although who is to say what the weather should be like anymore in these weird global warming/ cooling days? I’d had two solid hours at the machines at the gym in the previous week and was quite confident that I’d manage the 10 km walk without falling flat on my face. Spoke to the folks while I waited at the station and my dad wished me luck in that still disbelieving tone; like "No way Jose is my child going to be WALKING 10kms. My same I-hate-walking-child? Never!". If it weren’t me standing outside City Hall in my trainers and gym gear on a Sunday morning, dad, even I wouldn’t have believed it!

Met the team and enthusiastically registered, collected our wristbands and did a very tiring warm up with a very enthusiastic trainer. Then we walked: in waves, breaking into smaller groups, finding our own pace, catching-up with and then losing team members, marveling at the buildings/ the river, staying hydrated, looking for signs to mark the kilometers as they passed us by. And surprisingly it was no tough thing – my alter-blog-ego and self seemed to merge seamlessly into one. I really enjoyed every minute of it. Two hours and 15 minutes later, through the history laden centre of London, on a long and arduous route – along London’s pavements and cobbled streets, through traffic lights and throngs of tourists – we did the fake-outstretched-arms-running-through-a-ribbon to pass the finish line. To be given a banana and a box of juice and entertained by a very good George Michael impersonator, while we sat by Tower Bridge and revelled in our feat. Went home with aches and pains that only time will heal, but a sense of accomplishment not only for fundraising that much but for my own walking without falling ability that had me smile my way into a dreamless sleep last night.

So yeah dad, apparently I DO like walking and I CAN do it. I even have a cheesy medal to prove it.

Saadi Dilli: My Delhi

razai: Quilt

Just because

V’s taking of abandoned March holiday plan is devised: 3rd week of April

His tickets booked to see 3 cities in 10 days: End of April

Delight of my parents when they hear their one and only son-in-law was stopping by to have lunch with them: Untold

The surreptitious plan for me to go surprise my father for his birthday: 15 minutes/ 3rd of May

Rubbish at keeping it a secret from my house guest, it lasted: 2 days

Ticket purchase on internet; route, dates, timings, credit card details: 30 minutes

Call to Nik - the - brother to let him know: 2 minutes

Whoops of joy from my mother when she found out I was coming: 2 minutes

Still clueless dad: All the time

Filling in leave form and updating work calendar: 10 minutes

V takes off on bharat darshan: 15th May

V has lunch of kofta curry and best aloo subji in the world with my parents and brother: 16th May noon to 5 pm

V leaves for Kolkata to see his parents, eat, sleep, eat, sleep some more, feign heatstroke re the dentist yet go watch IPL in Eden gardens: 16th May evening onwards

I spend boring Saturday at home and rack up huge phone bill: 17th May

Time spent throwing 5 shirts, 2 trousers, a pair of shoes and all accumulated gifts in suitcase: 20 minutes

Time spent planning what to eat so as to finish all fresh ingredients in fridge: 15 minutes

Actual food eaten at home for 5 days that V is not around: Frozen chicken dumplings from Japan Centre

Weekend perks up with dinner in the burbs: 18th May

Boring day at work, thankfully forgotten with a best ever dinner @ Moro: 19th May

Can barely work as I have to leave for the airport this evening: 20th May

Cab to station: 2 minutes; £3.20 cash

Tube journey: 1 hr 10 mins; £1.80 over my travelcard

Wait in airport, including using cash machine, drinking American sized coke, reading Slam by Nick Hornby on uncomfortable seats, using hygiene suspect restrooms, wandering through duty free, buying mascara for mum, whisky for dad and chocolates for all of India: 2 hours

Walk to arse end of airport where plane is parked (along with my luck): 25 minutes

Name of Plane: Bubbles, airborne on 16th July 2006

Number of people on flight: Less than 100

Boarding time: 10 minutes & no kids in sight

Joy of finding myself sole occupant of row of 4 seats: Unbridled

Pain of finding chatty man who needs his own story told: Immense

Air miles between London and Delhi: 4164

Time to watch movies, eat, wander aisles, marvel at technological possibility of metal heavy plane soaring through clouds: 8 hours 10 minutes

Smile on mum’s face when I breeze through immigration, baggage and customs in 15 minutes: Ear to ear

Slow coach snailing home through pouring rain and traffic jam, a journey which normally only takes 15 minutes: 2 hours

Knowledge that Nik has not tidied up his/ our room AT ALL lest dad become suspicious: Hilarious

Look on my father face when he opened the door and realized it was me: Priceless

On friendship: the first

I’ve almost always taken my friendships too seriously. That has been my downfall in the past. This ‘too serious’ outlook is something that has given me, in slightly unbalanced parts, deep and meaningful friendships and heartache. Okay, greatly unbalanced, with the friendships far outweighing any dismissals.

I want to remember some of the good, deep, enduring kinds of friendships I (often we, although V will rarely admit it) have and I figure this is like my diary and when I come back in Oh 10 years, I’ll know this is what the 32 year old me thought and felt. So here is the first of many. These are the ones borne of nothing-in-common-but-everything-in-common. From way back in the day - my mid-20’s, which are seriously behind me now – when we were nothing but a gaggle of people joined together by strange strings. Even now when I think back I find it amazing that we became friends. It was a time of young love and newly grown-upness. A group of boys, of which V was one, shared a flat and lived off the omlettes cooked by a bird called Emu. Their assorted friends with girl/ boy friends practically lived there. Before we could say the words “road trip” we were on it, the journey of a lifetime, sharing food, copious amounts of alcohol and talking till all the words ran out. Girlfriends and their siblings, friends from college, school, work - everyone was accepted into the group. Except the upstairs neighbours.

We spent so much time doing nothing (but together) that my mother often yelled at me for using her house like a hotel, for laundry and the odd breakfast. We were young and indefatigable. We roamed the streets of Delhi in auto’s and shiny new cars (one of which we practically watched get stolen from outside the patio doors), ate our body weights in momo’s at Dilli Haat and drove through blinding fog to watch movies in far flung cinema halls. We played card games, took ridiculous photographs, hosted massive parties, drank like fish, kept Domino’s Pizza’s in business, spent every penny of what we earned before we actually earned it. We traveled for engagements’ or just down the Delhi-Jaipur highway for a bite to eat. We endured power cuts, empty wallets and the 4 beating seasons that Delhi has on offer. For 2 whole years our weekday evenings and weekends were, well, ‘busy’.

And then in the flash of an eye everyone was gone, scattered around the globe, all grown up and taking those career building block, studying ‘a bit more’, getting married, building families, forging new ties. For the longest time we stayed in touch only sporadically, some with some and others with others. The odd phone call, the rarity of e-mail, the short lunch when in town – bits, but nowhere near the whole. And then, as if like settling dust from all the life changes, suddenly it was back to yesteryears. Three odd years ago one called saying he’d be in town and could he spend the weekend with us. We jumped at the chance and spent our days and evenings reminiscing about Bengali fish curries and movie nights. I was told I’d ‘mellowed’ but that V was ‘just the same’. Suddenly we were all on the phone more, e-mail more. One minute V was having lunch with ‘the student’ on a different continent. Another, the kid-turned-grown-up was in London town on work. then it was lunch in a swanky Bombay high rise, sipping beer on a hot summer’s day and watching the race course teem with people and horses. And there were not one but two adorable little boys to play with. Then some of them came to stay for a few weeks. Then we were in Gurgi-yon gurgling over baby buddy boy. Then it was a wander through a warm Christmas market on a cold German day with Student and Grown-up. And most recently, while I toiled in Bolivia, V enjoyed a weekend in Paris, walking to the Eiffel Tower with four and a half holidaymakers.

It is back to back then, as if no interruptions have occurred. I don’t even remember the years we weren’t friends. It’s almost as if we were friends but such good friends that what was a few years of exploring/ trawling the world for other friends before coming back?

I can’t explain it, this odd break but not in our friendships. We recently had the ‘student’ stay with us - for two whole weeks. It’s really hard to explain how we know her. It’s a long and complicated connection, one that we laugh over as a joke too often. We never tire of reciting the chronology of something that happened over 10 years ago now, repeating random/ movie dialogues that made us roll with laughter, pulling faces or rolling our eyes at some incident remembered.

I often thought that those were the best days of our lives - the most carefree, the most personality forming. But I’ve come to realise that really it’s not them, it’s these ones, NOW. Which mean more than ever because even though we’ve all changed (some unrecognizably, what with going bald, becoming fat etc.) we are basically the same people and even 11 years on we can still laugh at the same ridiculous things and talk about the deep and meaningful, often in the same breath. Our personalities as influenced by these friendships today as by them then. We remain a gaggle of friends and when I look back at this post I want to remember this warm, fuzzy feeling. Of back then and of right now.

Some ties are so tight, they bind us free. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

La Paz & surrounds - in pictures

As many as I could fit in...

....enjoy!

Eating La Paz

From top left to right, as the eye goes (and the same pattern repeated on each line):
Line 1:
a. Saltena (the n is meant to have a little line above it , making it a 'saalt-enya') - the one at the back - a pastry baked with a pork filling (in this case, it comes in numerous types). Eating of which is an art; it needs to be shaken before eating to allow the liquid to dissipate evenly and held like a glass and eaten from the top end. The one in front is a chicken empanada. Flatter and the mixture inside very much like a chicken patty - dry. This is street food, and something that we snacked on all the time. Cost is less than US$1. For both.
b. Seafood soup: spicy and Peruvian in origin. The eater was enthralled.
c. Calamari with spicy rice: crispy Calamari (and lots of it) with a pile of risotto like spiced rice - which seemed to have everything but the kitchen sink chucked in for flavour.
Line 2:
a. Massive Lobster on the same 'everything' rice.
b. Cerviche - marinated raw fish in lemon and herbs - utterly delightful, fresh ingredients - this was king fish, wholesome and tasty.
c. Smoked Trout - which is the beloved fish of this landlocked country coming as it does from one of the big lakes. Served with capers, boiled eggs, chopped onions and a lemon slice. Quite addictive.
Line 3:
a. Scallops: Flash baked with a sauce. Once again the recipient loved the dish and shucked them down in minutes!
b. Humita: Cornbread steamed in the leaf next to it. With a centre of local cheese. I liked the cheese but didn't care much for the bread itself. Also street food, incredibly cheap.
c. Tenderloin in pepper sauce: Decidedly non-Bolivian except for the fact that they love meat and potatoes. At a very fancy restaurant, topped with the very best pepper sauce I have ever tasted, the tenderloin was cooked to perfection and melted in the mouth.

The food was excellent, both in quality and quantity and value for money. I ate trout in various forms one of the best being stuffed into baked cannelloni with spinach and mushrooms. They eat a fantastic condiment called Yahua (pronounced Ya-khoo-aa) which is some serious chillies, blended with tomato and a local parsley like herb on a stone mortar and pestle type instrument. It's on the table when you sit down and they eat it with bread and butter or just dolloped onto whatever they are eating. We also ate at a local 'chicharron' place - which serves pork that is deep fried in special herbs and served with large corn kernels and lots of Yahua. I didn't much care for it but everyone around me wiped their plates clean!

The only food I really missed was rice which is replaced by potatoes as the base for everything in Bolivia. Being the place where potatoes originated they take their potatoes seriously and eat 4 or 5 different types (of many hundreds I believe) depending on what the meal is. I didn't take to their potato's either as they use them in a completely different way to what I am used to. But I tried everything - different textures, tastes, spices, methods of cooking. What I really missed was rice and Indian grub. Something I have been studiously making up for since I got back and over the jet-lag.

Grey is back

I'm back. After two long weeks away from everything familiar, desperately lonely without my boy. It was a super trip except for the constant 24x7 headache and copious nosebleeds, thanks to the killer altitude. And except for the fact that my boy was one million miles away.

Bolivia is a fabulous country, its people warm and kind, its food just up my street, its winter weather cool and inviting. I met some fantastically inspiring people and bought back some trinkets to remind me of this opportunity of a lifetime. Especially after the hideous 24 hour journey to come home. It's taken multiple hot baths and hours of deep sleep to untangle my limbs and pull the exhaustion from my bones. But I'm finally here. In good old grey London. At work. Reminiscing about my adventure and sheer luck at having had a chance to visit life at 3500m above sea level.

Pictures are coming soon.

Cinco

Although I studied Spanish for a year at some point in life it has almost all escaped me and I am dependent on my wonderful interpreter S to get me through days of meetings. The people are, without exception, friendly and patient. I'll try every few days for the next week to put down 5 new things (at a time) I learn about this magical place and its people, culture, food. Here go today's 5:

1. La Paz sits near the bottom of a cauldron of jagged slopes that are the Altiplano. The city is at 3500m above sea but the airport is in El Alto which at 500m higher, precariously perched on the rim of the Altiplano, is the highest International Airport in the world. Driving distance between the airport and the La Paz is only about 10km but the descent of 500m makes all the difference in how you breathe.

2. The airport is very basic and small but spotlessly clean. It's one conveyor belt delivered our suitcases and its two immigration officials smiled broadly while stamping our passports, no questions asked. Apparently flights need double the runway distance to land or take off from and specially re-inforced tires due to the altitude.

3. Everybody, and I mean everybody, from concierge to shopkeeper, will greet you with a broad smile and a Hola, Buenos dias, buenas tardes, bunas noches, hasta luego - depending on the time of day. When you meet someone and are introduced you will be kissed on one cheek by them. Invariably this is on the right cheek. And they will come round to kiss you goodbye as well. So when our day starts we have a good 15minutes of meet and greet and then the same in the evening to say goodbye. I have learnt to budget this into my busy run run run days. Its a skill.

4. The air is very thin. I cannot emphasise this enough. The first few days we drank coca tea to help with the nausea and headaches, supplemented by brufin as I am allergic to the ingredients in the prescribed altitude sickness meds. I'm not having any problems breathing although all breathing felt a little strained the first few days. I've had only two nosebleeds so far and have given up trying to use the small treadmill which I only managed for 30 minutes before I could breathe no more. The gods of the gym will understand.

5. The view is fantastic. Everywhere you look you see the plains of the Altiplano rising up, jutting into the Andes behind it. El Alto is a new-ish city built into the higher reaches of the Altiplano, which make the sides of the cauldron in which La Paz is the floor, look alternately scraggy and heavily covered with houses. At night it just looks like a wall of lights, each illuminated house a little twinkle in the blanket. I also absolutely have to mention the Illimani which is the highest peak in Andes that is visible from La Paz. The highest overall peak of the Andes is in Peru I am told. The Illimani is impressive to the say the least. Its snow covered peak rises magnificantly behind the Altiplano and my eye is drawn to it each time I am outside. More than one Bolivian has told me it is the symbol of La Paz. I can see why. I got a great view from the flight as we were landed but it was too early in the morning and I was too groggy to do anything but marvel open jawed at the scenery below. I promise you a picture.

I am more than a little in love with La Paz. I hope someday V and I will come here together. Buenos dias!

Hola from La Paz

I'm beyond exhaustion. I have been trying to get myself to sleep after the two seemingly endless flights (8hr20 to Miami and 6hr20 to La Paz) and 6 hour transit to get here. No luck whatsoever and so after doing my accounts I am blogging and watching the new season of Grey's Anatomy. The sheer height has meant that the air is thinner and I feel like I've been doing deep breathing exercises since I got here. Some herbal tea and a light lunch of soup seems to have helped. Wonder how I'll manage once I am out of the comfort zone of this place and in the real world, at work? How long does the body take to acclimitise? Answers that seem minor in comparison to the deeper life affirming questions that the fantastic view of the mountains from every room of our apartment beg us to ask.

More than 24 hours since I left the comfort of my home in London here I am in La Paz, Bolivia, on weeks of exciting work and play. The first view of the amazing Altoplano was as we landed and the sun was rising a gleaming deep orange hue around us. The whisps of clouds and the sheer expanse just took my breath away. I'm hoping I can take and post loads of pictures once I am back. But don't count on it as I haven't even downloaded my fab (?) pictures from India as yet. Will try and post my observations of life in La Paz and the surrounds as and when time and the internet connection permit. Till then suffer my horrid broken spanish accent - Buenos Noches! (pronounced Boo-e-nos No-chez). G'nite people....

Walks Into The Room, Feels Like She Owns It

I’m not going to argue with this. Although I said at dinner in Chinatown on this very wet and windy Friday night that I would. But I’ve decided not to, because having had a whole weekend to think about it I really and truly believe that people's point of views are in the context of their lives and that sitting where I sit I don’t know where they are coming from and how their mind works. And that one shoe does not ever fit all. If it did we’d all have these bright pink sketchers and where would that get us, hunh?

Instead I’m going to encourage my gorgeous friend to rethink her position by telling my own story of weightloss yo-yo-ing. It was not until the summer that I turned 13 that my hormones and the rice I had suddenly began eating met, started dating and in that first flash of love decided to live together in my midriff. I spent all of my teen years watching my weight increase, the togetherness of the rice and hormones multiply over and over till they were all bred out like a pair of rabbits by the time I hit my twenties. It seemed like forever love, that no matter how hard I rebelled against was here to stay. All those years I was never really concerned about the weight because I could still walk, jump rope, enjoy games of volleyball, baseball and badminton, swim like a fish, dance like crazy. My parents often cautioned against the weight gain sighting medical reasons but all those attempts were half hearted compared to how much they told me how beautiful my face was and how being a good, kind, honest person far outweighed how I looked. And I know that because they believed what they said when they said it, that I too grew up in that knowledge, secure I was loved no matter what I weighed.

It was mainly because I managed everything my classmates managed that I never really ever found my weight a stumbling block enough to tackle with a punch in the tum. Although I was always conscious of my weight being greater than other people’s I usually chose to focus my attention on things that brought my interests to the fore, like reading, painting, writing, listening to music – all things that fuelled my holier than thou teen image. It was also incredibly easy to eat copious amounts of food that my mother slaved over: lasagna, kofta curry, shepards pie, goulash and fresh soups just a smattering of a diverse range adorning our dinner table nightly.

In my twenties I was all curves, the politer term for rolls of fat. I still rarely thought of myself as fat even though the scales and visual inspection of old photographs would confirm that I was. I felt the curves gave me weight (not only literally) in my pursuits and had not in any way hampered the life I sought for myself. I took what I had and worked with it instead of letting it work against me. It was not a small molehill, this keeping up my spirits while everyone around me dieted and primped themselves into model-like thin-ness. But I made peace with my weight quite young and enjoyed the liberating feeling not having to watch every morsel I put in my mouth. I had managed to make and keep friends over the years, each of whom saw beyond the fuller figure and loved me for who I was. I tried to lose a few kilos to look lovely at my wedding but that was all I lost, very few kilos. And in my wedding pictures, that day stored on film forever more, there is no svelte me, but there is certainly a happy me.

It’s after I came to London, more than 6 years ago now, that the weight really began to pile on. A combination of various things led to bigger heavier meals that no amount of walking to the tube was enough to suppress or undo. For the first time ever I felt unattractive and like a lump of lard. Slower and uneasy with my body – something that took me completely by surprise. My years of being in a good mental place were gone in what felt like an instant. It was with a heavy heart, and the realization that it would be tougher to lose it and get fitter now that I was in my 30’s, that I began to cloak myself in darker looser clothes. It took all V’s motivational power to get me to the gym but it was always with the idea of getting fit again. I joined knowing full well that I would never be thin but knowing that at my weight being unhealthy was a deadly downward spiral. I spent the first few months working on my stamina and then as I began to lose the weight I began to obsess. There were a few months in between last year where I was fretting about the actual kilos I lost on a daily basis, weighing myself to the point to obsession, eating ridiculously to change my weight by grams before my next self-imposed weigh in. A few months into this unhealthy obsession I just stopped. Like an a-ha moment, one morning as I climbed the locker room scales it hit me: it’s not the weight I wanted to lose, gram by slow gram. It’s the feeling I wanted to gain, of good health and robust-ness. Of feeling beautiful no matter what I weighed. My efforts at the gym in the past year and a half have not resulted in any major weight loss. I nearly weigh what I did when I got married but I am a hundredfold healthier. I can do the elliptical machine for 45 minutes, swim 45 laps, do an hour and half long indoor cycle class. Each without dropping dead in a faint. Or having a heart attack.

I won’t lie – I am thrilled that I did manage to lose some small iota of weight. I am more thrilled that I managed to stay motivated enough to see it through. I am thrilled that I have changed my life to be more conscious of what I eat and how much exercise I get. I am more thrilled that I have found will power that nobody imagined I had. But most of all I am thrilled that my body image is connected not only to what I weigh but to what I think of myself. I no longer cloak myself in black. I wear more make-up, bother with my hair, stand-up taller, walk with a confidence not built on how much I weigh but how I feel about myself as a person in this world. I know that even at this weight (which is by the way still much more than a normal person my height ways) I am a happy person and that being thinner would not make me happier. It would make me healthier but not happier.

And I guess what I am trying to say is this. No matter how hard you try and motivate yourself to lose that last 13 kilos, it’s not the 13 kilos you are trying to lose. It’s the perfect image of yourself that you are trying to seek. Unless you make peace with how you look for yourself no matter what the weight, it’ll be something else about yourself that you’ll want to change once those 13 kilos are off. If its inspiration you feel you need, the power to stay on the path then yes I do hope that your readers keep you motivated. But I hope you don’t obsess about every ounce on the scales. I hope you see what we all see. That beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder and that really, the most important beholder is you.

My every instinct

Arrived in Kolkata on Friday night, a flight delay made unecessarily irritating by an airlines lack of organisation or compassion. It was a past 9 pm drive home on empty roads, emptier than normal because of a Good Friday/ Holi holiday. Saturday was the same. Excellent chinese lunch at Bar-b-Que on Park Street and our car was one of a very few on the street. It was such a pleasant drive, even in 30+ degree weather, few people and empty roads, a rarity in Kolkata. It was a good day of chatting and bonding and catching up. The holiday ended too soon and I, stuffed with homemade dal-baadaam halwa, rasagulla's from Chitteranjan and kaju barfi from Gangaur was not in any way, shape or form ready to get on that plane and come home.

The flight home took everything out of me. Like every long flight I can remember its as if some god of aviation is watching down over me and saying' Aaaah putz on the radar'. Before Bloody Airlines (BA) could get it's act messed up there was the inefficient Kolkata pairport to contend with. Checked-in with surprising ease, my 25 kg suitcase trundled along the conveyor belt to its secret hold. That ease was the false security that should have tipped me off. Because then it was a half hour wait in line before the one Immigration official comes to his desk and begins the laborious process of checking 300+ people's passport/ visa details. Then it's another forty minute wait till Security gets its act together and begins to let us through. Unecessary waits, in lines of irate and sleepy passengers, between things, where there seems to be no good reason to make people wait other than the fact that it's so much more part of your job to TEXT AND USE YOUR MOBILE WHILE A PLANE LOAD OF PEOPLE HANG ABOUT IN A LINE. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLEEDING NIGHT. IDIOTS. Finally, we are sitting in the lounge, reading, listening to ipods, munching on biscuits (mainly the myriad Bengali's in the room, all of whom seem to bring out a packet of bis-coot from knapsack on the dot at 3.30am) and trying to stay awake at this unearthly hour.

Bloody Airline tries to board us in an orderly row number fashion. But at 4.30am we are having none of it. Oversized hand baggage stuffed into overhead lockers, we are settling down to slumber as we take off and they are soon pushing a breakfast of chicken sausage or vegetarian (nobody knows what) on us. It's just gone 5am, it's pitch dark and I cannot belive anyone wants to eat. Yet they do. I don't, so I slip off my shoes and step into sleep.

Ony to be woken about 10 minutes later with loud wailing. A small child 4 rows ahead of me has taken it upon himself to entertain us all by crying. Loudly. For 3 straight hours. I kid you not. 3 hours later his lungs give in and he whimpers into sobbing silence. The sigh of relief in this airborne prison is audible. Every passenger shifts slightly preparing for another try at the sleeping-in-uncomfortable-positions game. We needn't have bothered. In 5 minutes flat a child 6 rows behind has begun his protest. Again with wails loud enough to shatter eardrums. For nearly 3 hours. After this it all became a blur. Another kid a bit further back picked up on the crying and joined in the part-EY. Original kid didn't want to be left out and awoke from his slumber to lend his powerful voice. So for the entire remainder of the trip it was a chorus that my ears are still ringing from. With no break whatsoever. LOUD and I mean LOUD crying from 3 small children is the way to travel 11odd hours. NOT.

Bloody Airlines tried to tempt us with some soggy cold sanwich and then with a hot meal of dry rice and smelly curry. The sound on my personal entertainment unit did not work and they had no seat/ advice or help to give me so in desperation to get away from the noise I wore the headphones and watched Chak De by reading the subtitles.

Landed in a small snow flake dance show. Very very very glad to see my boy V at the barriers. Hushed conversation in the car on the way home gave my ears some recovery time.

Don't get me wrong, I love kids, more specifically other people's kids, who can be returned with poopy diapers and crocodile tears. But what with the incessent wailing and slightly older kids 5 hour running around the aisles parties that made this 10+ hour flight seem like 100+ hours I think I have confirmed that when push comes to shove I lack the deep down maternal instinct. All I could could think was how much I wanted to get up and smack those kids and their parents. Thank god for the restraint that a seat belt provides.

Name-dropping Delhi

We all do it here in Delhi. The minute the cop at the traffic lights stops someone they are on their mobile phones, using connections, dropping names - anything to get out of this and any other minor tight spot. Sometimes its vanity, it sounds nice, like at a party - to see who knows who and how important it can make one sound. I have plenty to tell but this is not the time. Instead here is a funny titbit.

This is Tuesday morning. Nobody seems to be at work. They are either in their cars stopping traffic or in Khan Market spending their magic money. SilverLine is new to Khan Market. The original was the floor of someone's house near Bengali market where I have spent more of my youth than I care to admit or even really remember rifling through bags of lovely jewels. This is a far more sophisticated dive, drawers and showcases, all matched by higher prices. I am enticed by this chain of hollow silver beads and can't decide how many I should buy.

Two women are looking at the same drawer as me now. Silver rings of every shape and design.

Woman 1: This is nice nah?! (She has 2 rings on, one a hideous monstrosity, the other a delicate band)

Woman 2: I can't find anything yaar! (High pitched wail to accompany impatient tapping of her very high heels)

W1 adds 3 more rings to the same hand and admiringly says: What do you think if I get all of these? How nice it looks no if I wear all of these at once? (She can barely lift her hand with the weight of all that silver and stone). Gauri wears it like this.

W2: Your friend Gauri? From your colony? Akshat ki mom?

W1: Not that one yaar. My other friend Gauri, Gauri Khan, Shahrukh ki wife.

I bought a big ring with 4 turquoise stones in it. My mother thinks this is a passing phase in my new found taste for big bulky rings and that by the time I reach London I will be over it and never wear it again. It covers half my hand and weighs my finger down as I type this. I think I love it. I hope Gauri approves.

Flyover Delhi

It's 7pm. After two days of traversing busy, dusty roads I am convinced that most delhi-ites have no real regard for their life my life. The traffic has terrified me all day, every day. Overtaking from everyside, leaving not nearly an inch on any side of our car at all times. It's all I can do to not sit in the centre of the back seat with my eyes shut and hands drawn into tight fists, listening to something calming on my ipod. Instead I am taking the high road (literally) and am sitting by the windows, eyes wide open, enjoying every minute of being here, even in the madness of the traffic.

Everyone seems to have a car, if not multiple cars. Such a change from when we first moved to this colony in a different decade and our family was one of the few ones with a car. The colony chowki-dar used to come on his nightly rounds with a stick and whistle, the two familiar sounds guaranteed in their loudness to show who was boss and assure even it's littlest residents that all was well and that he was guarding us and our property. He'd blow his whistle and tap the stick standing by our car a few extra times. Maybe he was only letting his friends, the thieves, know exactly where we had parked? Our car never got stolen so I guess he wasn't - it's just fun to re-live childhood conspiracy theories. Now life in this middle class colony is all gated and secured far more fastidiously. And the choice of car is mind boggling, even for a thief, with each family owning mutliple cars, each trying to outdo their neighbour with fancier bigger better. The sidewalks to my childhood bus stops are all covered in cars now and little kids seemingly get dropped to their school bus or even school in their cars. How the world has changed.

Delhi is covered in flyovers. They are everywhere. Like a well spread concrete maze. Almost all completed on time and changing the landscape of the city. And it's not just simple up-down flyovers but complicated clover leaf like permutations where each arm leads to a different place. Large multi-lane flyovers that have eased the journey out of congestion and into rash-ness. Cars flying across the hot tarmac, defying gravity, ignoring the signs, mileage limits and generally being lawless. Yet today I sat in gridlock at the top of a flyovers, proving that even these giants will not hold this surging economy in line.

I'm tired from the fullness of the day and the battles on the road. I need a shower to deal with the dust. But I think a plate of aloo tikki (with everything on it) will rejuvenate me a lot quicker.

Chowki-dar: Watch-man/ guard

Aloo tikki: Indian yummy snack made of potatoes and covered a in variety of sauces/ yogurt

Delhi the first

For once it was a relatively uneventful flight. The only points of drama were whether V's flight back from NYC would land on time and make the connection to our holiday flight smooth. It all went to plan thankfully. On the flight the only points of friction were the cardboard masquerading as food and the fact that they ran out of disembarkation cards after row 2. Which is understandable considering they clearly had no idea how many seats they (evil airline) have on the plane and what with ticket prices being so low they (still even airline) really don't care.

Sleep and some tired entertainment 8pointsomehours later we are on the ground at Delhi's International Airport. There is some serious refurbishment going on, masked only by flimsy tarpaulin that yells what a wonderful new airport it is going to be. The luggage takes an aeon to arrive, mine first and nearly 40 minutes and a hall full of irritable later V's.

Outside, there are my wonderful parents, arms open and smiles mixed with tears of joy. All the knee squashing, inedible food and irritable service is so worth it. I'm here.

Super Saturday

One of the many gifts that London gives its natives and visitors are its numerous markets. This past Saturday I and two friends took shelter from the grey and brimming skies at Borough market. We chakkar-ed around the market once, the reconnaissance allowing us to prioritise what to eat and what to buy before committing ourselves to quickly.

The market has changed ever so slightly in the past few years going from downright farmer-like to upmarket tourist attraction in small increments. It remains an impressive market by any standards with fresh produce, meat, eggs and mountains of baked goods sitting proudly under the railway arches, oft alongside fresh eels, divine coffee, wheels of cheese and beers of the world. All food groups are available and the fair-trade, organic, paper & cloth bag toting public mill around amidst the picture snapping tourists.

We shared bratwurst in a bun from the German Deli, replete with sauerkraut and mustard and then a haddock fillet with chips from the takeaway Fish! counter. Armed with a pod of strawberries and some wholesome brownies I tagged myself into their plan and traversed the city to spend an afternoon with yet more friends. All impromptu muscling in – into which I was warmly welcomed. I suspect the brownies had something to do with it.

V joined in the festivities rather late in the day, after a Saturday at work. But just in time for a bit of that scrumptuous brownie and some ice cream. Out dinner plans changed and so we stuck around and after some debate we all decided to go to the famed Khan’s of Bayswater. This is a place V and I have talked about in awe-hushed tones ever since our first days in the UK, having been assured of its greatness by many an Indian friend in that first year of home-missing-ness. Somehow we never quite made it there having once abandoned a journey there for something else.

Khan’s is large and its light blue cloud infused walls and ceiling are propped up with fake palm tree columns. This delightful interior is spacious and bright and cheerful. We were seated quickly amidst the chattering crowds and with guidance from the regulars ordered quickly and magnanimously. It's Pakistani food in origin but the food crosses over into Indian a lot. Things of note on our table included a melt-in-the-mouth paneer kofta, a creamy butter chicken, well done keema matter and naans. The sheekh kebab (overcooked), aloo paratha (without aloo) and channa (judged against my own) left something to be desired but over all it was a super meal that completely lived up to our expectations.

Then V and I legged it to the home of other friends and ended up sitting and chatting and laughing till about 1.30am before heading home. The news and Law & Order to unwind and then a few pages of my book before blessed sleep. It was a super day. Nothing besides a few hours at Borough market was planned. Just goes to show that a day unplanned is often best.

And that brownies are one true gift.

Chakkar: to go around
Paneer kofta, butter chicken, keem matter, naans, sheekh kebab, aloo paratha, channa: All Indian dishes. Loosely: fried cottage cheese balls in gravy, chicken in tomato and cream sauce, mince meat and peas, bread baked in a tandoor, skewers of spiced mince, Indian bread stuffed with potatoes and chickpeas.

Borough market: 8 Southwark Street, London SE1 1TL (London Bridge tube station)
Khan’s: 13-15 Westbourne Grove, Bayswater, London W2 4UA

Friday funnies

On the train this morning, for no very good reason, I was thinking about the advent of the world wide web and how that irrevocably changed our lives in how we communicate. So much so that when I, a child of the 70’s, went to work in my first office in the 90’s, there was no such thing as e-mail available to me. It was a while before it arrived and even more time before the speed of it became important in the workplace. Before, there was always time for coffee and samosas between sending faxes or typing out letters or making expensive calls to other offices. After, its been a rollercoster go go Go, faster, Faster, NOW.

But this post is not to whinge/ jump for joy about the advent of technology. It’s to relate a memory that made me smile this morning. It’s not my memory, it’s V’s, but the carriage from one person to another has only made it funnier.

The year was 1997 or 1998. E-mail had been around a couple of years. Everyone was an expert on everything to do with the Internet. All everyone talked about was the booming IT industry. Vuruld-vyd-vehb and its children were everywhere.

At work, a very young V and his equally young colleague are discussing how with their few years of work experience they could very easily get internet jobs.

Eavesdropping colleague immediately butts in: Does Internet have an office in Delhi?

Middle Age Mexican Wave

First, lets get the laughter out of the way. I may not look or sound it but in my youth (as it were) I was greatly taken by the Boy Bands - from the more respected Bee Gees to the more frivolous Wham, Aha, New Kids on the Block, Boyz II Men, Boyzone, Take That - you name it and I listened to it. I didn't do groupie things like tattoo their names on my butt but I did get the odd poster to adorn my walls and I always listened to their music - on tapes, the radio, TV, CD's. I didn't join fan clubs and I mostly couldn't name every member or any of their details but if I heard a tune I could probably tell you the name of the band and possibly sing along with it, stumbling on no more than a few words.

As I grew older I was exposed to a greater range of tunes and genres of music than ever before, introduced to by friends, family and the movies. At the surface I liked to think that my ear became more discerning and my time more precious and therefore my devotion to boy bands matured into something more meaningful and age appropriate.

Clearly deep down I am still a ditzy teenager/ twenty something chick. Equally clearly my devotion has not waned in the very least. V-boy bought us tickets to watch Westlife perform live at the O2 arena last night, Saturday evening. It's his belated anniversary gift to me and even though he is not a fan AT ALL he came with me (and carried his FT just in case) and was as enthusiastic as I was excited - and that is a LOT. To think that all I got him were New York subway coin cufflinks.

I won't bore you with details as I guess this might be the time to say goodbye to those of you who feel we can no longer be friends because *gasp* "she likes boybands". Just to say that the arena was packed to the gills and that unlike popular lore about boy bands that states "they are appealing to young pubescent girls for emphasizing marketing and packaging over quality of music" it was full of middle aged women and men like ourselves swaying to every cutesy number one that Westlife have produced in this past 10 years. The O2 is undoubtedly a fantastic venue - neat, clean, well organised and arranged - a wonderful use of the white elephant that has hung around the Labour party's neck since the turn of the millenium. The sound sytem and acoustics were excellent, drowning out the cacofony of 25,000 tuneless fans in favour of one marvellous male vocal group. I had a stellar time; enjoyed the live band, the singing/ dancing extra's, the stage-lights-effects, the choreographed nature of boyband-ed-ness. I swayed and jumped with the crowds, clapped my hands raw, danced and sang till my feet ached and my voice turned hoarse. Our stand of middled age aunties and uncles mexican waved with as much enthusiasm as our flailing bodies and old knees allowed. I had an absolute ball. There is nothing quite like live performances and the enthusiasm that a crowd of fans brings.

I think it is OK to like Beethovan and the Beetles and Roxette and Ravi Shanker and boy bands galore and not be betraying anybody. I must admit that over the years and with many genres of music/ bands/ singers I've often joined the band wagon of acceptable/ esoteric/grown-up/ serious music more to be accepted into discussions/ friend circles than because I really liked something. Trance music and heavy metal being two case in points. Well no more. I am determined to stop being pretentious about my taste in music and will never again think of BOY BAND as two dirty words.

It's about 4am now and I am still so buzzed with the evening that I am sitting here and posting this while V watches India vs. Aus cricket. It's the very least I can do after I tortured him with my ear drum shattering singing.

Aliens do go to school

Where pictures meet words.

This is Tirana's vast central square. On one side is a horseshoe-shaped ensemble of government buildings in yellow and red built by Mussolini in the 30s when Italy lorded it over its little neighbour. As you exit the horseshoe and come into the main square the Central Bank of Albania is next and sits squarely behind a little garden, its brown facade an odd contrast to its colourful neighbours. Next is the massive National History Museum adorned with an enormous mosaic of Alanian liberators throughout the centuries.

Then there is the National Opera House, which was quite confusing because its where the big exhibition of Mother Teresa depicted by various artists was being held. Between these is a wide road leading off into the suburbs with the big electricity poll from a Soviet era standing firm in the middle of it. Then is the little Et'Hem Mosque, delicate and petite in structure as compared to the solidity of the other Square buildings. It is one of the only religious buildings to have survived the 1967 cultural revolution. In the centre of the square is an equestrian statue of Albania's greatest hero, Gjergj Kastrioti, colloquially called Skanderberg and after whom the square is named. It's huge and my pictures and words can't adequately describe it. But hey, a girl can try.

Next. This is a random set of pictures from the trip. Poster of Mother Teresa. Cable car on lush green hills. Famous Canal. View of the burbs. Chillies and bananas at market. Pink scooty for sale. And two random signs. One of which I think Tommy would take offence to!

So did you figure out where aliens go to school?

Bees. Busy As.

This year in an effort to be healthier I made a more conscious decision to make and eat dinner at home during the week and take lunch in with me as many times as I possibly can. To dine out only at the weekends, thereby cutting out those pesky calories and credit card debt in one fell swoop. This is in stark departure from last year where everyday, by lunchtime I ate every calorie lost in the morning gym workout. And then went out for dinner to top it all up. January, and most of February, went swimmingly and we ate out less, made more thoughtful choices about where and what to eat when we did.

This week it all caught up with me. The endless chasing of things to keep me entertained at the weekends and an unusually high workload has left me feeling a little stretched. So on Thursday evening, with me bored of home cooking and V wanting to give me a break (especially from my whinge-ing about it) we decided to break our rule and go out for dinner. I had just finished a nice long swim and could have eaten a horse. Instead we chose Sri Nam which has a reputation as a fancy-schmancy Thai eatery in the busy Canary Wharf district. The ground floor of the restaurant is the main space for a quick meal at lunchtime but at night it’s a bar. On a Thursday evening it was like any other jam packed city pub, full of suits talking at the top of their voices and drinking away the stresses and bonuses of their jobs with colleagues. The seated bit is up wide concrete steps and we got a table for 2 quite quickly. We’ve been before and the décor was the same, nice linen, dim lighting, fresh orchids and comfortable chairs, if a little too closely packed together. Nice but not memorable. This time the food was disappointing to say the very least. Fish and chicken that didn’t taste very fresh or flavourful and service that was in enough of a hurry to make us feel intrusive and in their way. Wallets lighter, un-sated palates and 35 minutes later we made way for the line of people eagerly waiting on the stairs for a table. Sri Nam did not in any way live up to its reputation or even our last experience. I think my home cooking might have been worth more, grumbling and all.

On Friday we enjoyed dinner overlooking the Greenwich skyline, at the home of new-ish friends. While being entertained by their 2 year old toddler we ate a fine homecooked meal and chatted with the hosts and their guests, 2 couples and one singleton, none of whom we had met before. By the end of the evening it was duly established that any name mentioned was somebody known by somebody else in the group. Apparently it’s a small world if you went to similar B schools. It was way past midnight before we left.

Saturday started with a much needed late start. A swim followed by quick lunch followed by a 1 year olds birthday party all afternoon. And as 1 year olds birthday parties tend to be, it was full of little kids – about 12 babies and toddlers, each accompanied by a full set of parents. V, I and two other couples were the helpers as it turned out. It was fun and I cuddled loads of little ones, sweet and plump and oh so lovable. Inspite of the drooling. At around 5pm I rushed home to spend the next few hours with a very pregnant friend. Baked and plied her with rich chocolate cake and caught up on all the gossip while V watched six nations rugby and dozed in front of the TV. Then her hubby arrived and demolished another quarter of the cake. Then they left and our pre-planned-going-to-dinner friends arrived and with them we charged to Il Bordello in Wapping.

Il Bordello had superlative reviews everywhere on the net and bonafide Italians in our friend’s office had strongly recommended it. It took us two weekends to get a booking and in the end it didn’t really live up to its reputation. It’s the ground floor of a revamped dock warehouse, not quite by the water but definitely imbued with the feeling that the cobbled streets that led to it served an important purpose. The décor is simple and quite uninspired, some stone walls adjacent to copper plated panels, tables covered with plastic table cloths and packed too close for comfort. The menu was extensive, serving the usual array of pasta’s, pizza’s and large meat meals, nothing unique or different than on many an Italian restaurant in London. The potions were huge – even the salads we ordered to start with seemed to be half a field of greens per plate. My tuna and bean salad turned out to be a plate of lettuce with canned tuna and canned beans turned over onto it - tasteless and clearly not Italian. I then ordered what I consider the benchmark in Italian cuisine, Spaghetti Bolognaise and V what he considers his benchmark, a Pizza. Mine was big enough to feed 3 people and was tasty if a bit drowned in tomatoes. V left half his pizza so that was that. A minestrone soup and a dish of seafood linguine ordered by two of the others were pronounced as ‘quite good’ but on the whole we felt let down in the face of all that hype.

Then deciding we were still young at heart (a sign of old age when you keep saying this) we hoofed it to trendy Hoxton Square. It was buzzing with the young and restless and we were clearly out of our depths. So instead of standing in any of the endless queues at 1am we enjoyed a few rounds at the Reliance. Easy music and a slightly older than teenage crowd meant we fitted in a bit better. Caught a cab home at about 2.30 and then crime show TV for me till India-Australia cricket for V took over.

Forced to wake up mid-morning on Sunday to cook a meal for friends with a baby. Spent all afternoon entertaining them, plying them with butter chicken and aloo gobhi and left over cake and strong Caribbean coffee. By the time they left it was tea-time. I was too tired to sleep or concentrate on very much, even TV. So a few hours of pottering around the house, packing lunch’s, sorting out the kitchen and making some calls to India and I was ready for bed. At 7pm.

Saying it was a busy week followed by a busier weekend would be something of an understatement. I’m snoozing now.

Sri Nam: North Colonnade, Cabot Square, Canary Wharf, E14. Ph: 020 7715 9515
Il Bordello: 75 – 81 Wapping High Street, London E1Y 2WG. Ph: 020 7481 9950

Social Buterflies

Friday evening was fun. Very fun. Almost nobody last minute ditched. Almost everyone showed up on time. Other than the fact that they operate a no booking policy and despite getting our name on the list at 6.30 we didn’t get the table at Wahaca till 8.15, everything went smoothly. I don’t think anybody found a connection like I was hoping but most people mixed and mingled and made an effort. Of course some of this was my fault as I got Boston and Chicago mixed up in my head (I thought two people had lived in Boston at the same time but clearly my memory is lacking). But everybody made an effort and that, in my book, is what counts. You could see that some of them could be friends even without me having introduced them and I felt quite excited by my judgement of people. We ate as if at someone’s wedding, ordering plate after platter of what they loosely term ‘streetfood’ – tacos, quesadillas, tostadas, taquitos. The 3 people that once lived in the US called the food average in comparison to the Mexican available in the US but better than most by London standards. Of course the newbie/ trainee Londoners took some umbrage to this but only some. And none that got in the way of everyone stuffing their faces.

After Wahaca we hooked up with yet more friends at the NFT and sat there till they began dimming the lights urging us to leave. Was so high on all that laughter and the fact that when asked what my favourite flower was V answered tulip without any hesitation, that after I got home I watched Law and Order/ CSI till about 3am to unwind. Saturday and Sunday were whirlwind days. Saturday had, among other things, a long & speedy swim, a 30th birthday party to attend, a long and yet more stuffing dinner at Busaba with friends and some quiet time basking in the sun on long London bus journeys. Sunday was about waking up late, coffee and the papers in café Nero with V, finishing my book by the sunny windows inside the house and then dinner with a friend at Saravana Bhavan to cap it all off.

It was busy (but good busy) and I never once during the entire weekend felt drained of all my energy as shopping trips or social obligation meetings can often induce. In fact so buoyed was I with a feeling of goodness towards the world that I got conned into joining one of the social networking sites AGAIN. So now I not only have 5 email id’s, 1 blog, 3 instant messaging services, 2 home delivery grocers and about 5 internet shopping sites I frequent, I also have a page on a site which demands I play games, write notes on virtual walls, find friends from the back of my beyond, send and receive e-mail and generally be sociable. All these permutations combinations of user names and passwords are enough to make me one grumpy girl. Because really, I am not the social butterfly I seem. I am more caterpillar turning into chrysalis.

Wahaca: 66 Chandos Place, Covent Garden, London WC2N 4HG, T: +44 (0) 207 240 1883