India bit 9: The fabric of life

It’s my last full day in Delhi and on holiday. Tonight our house will come alive with the laughter and voices of our friends and family, as everyone comes together to celebrate my mother and the Nik’s birthdays (which are on the same day next week but Part 1 is being celebrated in advance, kindly, to accommodate our trip).

This morning we run errands for the evening and generally buzz around the house, tidying and setting things up. V arrives at mid-day, his week with his family complete. We all sit around chatting and eating stuffed parathas (mooli and aloo) for lunch, catching up with his news and the Tiwari samosas (or singhara's as the Kolkattans refer to them). Then the preparations for this evenings’ shindig begin in earnest. The table is set and flowers arranged. The ice arrives, alcohol is ensconsed and the glasses laid out. The cook arrives to begin kebab and kitchen duty. My mother collects the bulk of the food, an impressive array of snacks and 3 different cakes to sweeten the evening. Everyone has a bit of a rest and then gets ready to part-ey.

At about 6pm our first guests arrive - my college roommate and her daughter. She has to leave for a dinner engagement but we have an uninterrupted time to be able to chat and that is precious. Almost as soon as she leaves a trickle of guests begin to arrive. And then like a waterfall it never stops. 55 people traipse through our house this Saturday night, my parent’s friends, my friends, V’s friends, the Nik’s friends, uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews. Everyone snacks heartily; chargrilled mushrooms, feta stuffed olives, spinach and corn tartlets, bocconcini (mozzarella), pita chips & hummous, arrancini (stuffed rice balls), 4 types of kebabs with pudina chutney and a host of things I can no longer recall are downed with drinks. The giant blueberry cheesecake and platter of chocolate mousse squares vanish without trace, leaving us a with missing persons forlorn-ness and only one big chunk of deep chocolate cake to put away.

The house positively glows with the warmth that only friendship, laughter and tealights can induce. We talk without pause, smile till our jaws ache, eat till there is no more room in our weary stomachs. It’s late by the time everyone has said their last goodbyes and the house is efficiently tidied by many hands. We stay awake as long as our weary eyes and minds allow, unpacking gifts, re-packing suitcases and talking till tomorrow comes.

Early on Sunday morning V and I do one final round of packing, making sure we haven't left things behind. After a quick family breakfast at our local Sagar we set-off for the airport. Long goodbyes later we are on our way through New Delhi’s airport, headed home to cold London. I sleep contentedly on the flight, dreaming of my time in India and pleased as punch that I will see our families again this summer.

The End.

India bit 8: Talking, eating, shopping for the planet

My beloved aunt and uncle have arrived from Chennai early this morning, braving two nights on the train just to come and hang around with us and celebrate my mother and the Nik’s forthcoming birthdays. I am the recipient of many a goodie thanks to 40in2006, whom I saw in December. My mother is the recipient of goodies made by her delightful daughters, my beloved nieces (a knitted scarf and two handkerchiefs: one glitter painted, the second embroidered). Despite my haul of serious loot I am jealous – can I count on a scarf for my 40th D??

We spend the morning just relaxing and chatting at home, all of us talking nineteen to the dozen, the speciality of our race. Then we decide to check out one of the new Malls built in our vicinity and its food court. There are only a few shops open as yet – recession or delays nobody knows. Notably I go and have a stare at the windows of Tantra and admire the slogan-y T-shirts. I remember them from years ago when they retailed in limited designs and sizes at Shoppers Stop and their smart witty slogans seemed so much funnier to my less corrupt brain. Their much worn ‘over-educated, under employed’ T-shirt is still my gym/ sleep favourite.

For lunch we are sitting under fake palm trees and on outdoor furniture in the covered atrium. It is bright and light and for a weekday, very full. Clearly people have all the time and money to spend on food on a weekday. Everybody chose something different and the Nik (being the youngest and most pliant) ran around organising both food and drinks while we continued talking. I had a divine plate of chole bhature from the Haldirams stall – something that I have said I would have on every trip and not managed in at least the last four. North Indian chole bhature is so different from the equivalent in the south. This bhatura is oval shaped and its thick doughy walls hold in the air beautifully, much like an inflated rugby ball. The chole is dark and tangy, its thick gravy coating each chickpea. I’m not sure why I am describing the whole chole bhature incident, just that I was so delighted with this simple meal that I cannot help but want to write what it was that made me smile so broadly.

Then we split up into groups – the boys went wandering in the adjacent mall while the girls drove off to Fab India. I bought a few pieces from their new jewelry line and some household accessories (yet more stuff I DO NOT NEED) to carry back with me. A short trip home to deposit the bags of shopping, leave my aunt to entertain a guest and to collect the Nik. Now it’s the turn of some serious shopping – my childhood haunt Fact and Fiction and the basement Om Bookshop in Vasant Vihar are my temples. I buy 23 books to add to the 5 I bought from Khan Market’s Bahri. It’s a good thing I have an empty suitcase and have not done very much by way of actual bulky shopping.

We spend the evening at home, ordering in kebabs, butter chicken, roomali’s and naans’s and some delightful malai kofta’s (for me and only me!) and talking our way through them. And then we play rounds of cards at the dining table, which I am thankful had no money attached as I lost very very badly.

I try and do some cursory packing before bedtime. All my books fit beautifully. I cannot believe that my week is almost at its end. I haven’t had such a peaceful, relaxed, good time in too long. I must have done something right for it all to have gone so right.

Food Courts: Every Mall in the NCR it would seem

Chole: chickpeas cooked in a tangy tamarind based sauce

Bhature: Companion deep fried bread to mop up the chole. Deep fried refined flower (the tastiest heart attack on a plate)

Malai kofta: soft paneer and vegetable balls, deep fried and immersed in a smooth silky tomato cream gravy flavoured with cashew nuts

India bit 7: How to spend money

My cousin Mandy is on time this morning for our day together. We will be joined by cousin Ro later. Enroute to Saket Ro calls to cancel due to emergency shaadi shopping for someone. I will miss her but I know that Mandy and I will have a fabulous time – we always do. We are at Select City Mall (again!), but a different set of shops beckon. I buy armloads of stuff I don’t need but definitely want (I know, it’s a curse), all vetted and devil’s advocated by Mandy who has good taste, a clear sense of value for money and an eye for a bargain to boot.

We are soon laden with (my) bags by lunchtime and we decide that our marathon spending deserves to be crowned with food. We dither between the food court and the range of restaurants available and decide on an Italian place to eat. The interior is huge and roomy and full of gold foil, mirrors, crystal baroque. Besides us the only other people are a table to 20 Japanese women (on their version of a kitty party no doubt). M and I share a spaghetti bolognaise, a mushroom & pepperoni pizza and yet more gossip. The service is a tad over-attentive with a different waiter interupting to ask if we need anything else, is everything fine, about 30 times in the short hour. But the food is fresh and tasty and these two hungry shoppers devour it in no time. We have talked without pause all morning, catching up on stories and gossip.

It is late afternoon by the time I am home for a food induced siesta. I really miss living in Delhi when I go back on vacation and meet Mandy. We used to hang out a lot (and by that I mean A LOT) when I lived at home and she lived close by. Her daughter T is just the most delightful of nieces one can have and I miss that she isn’t in Delhi anymore for me to spoil.

Tonight 5 of us are at Ai in the adjacent Mall in Saket (I should have just stayed there!) for a Japanese inspired dinner – the parents, the Nik, P and I. We are seated on the terrace enjoying the cool of a Delhi Spring evening/ night. The indoor and outdoor bits of the restaurant are full and buzzing and we do a bit of celebrity spotting. Among other things, we order sesame tenderloin, spring rolls, pork belly, chicken teriyaki, prawn tempura, a vegetable stir-fry and an egg & seaweed fried rice. Despite asking for 3 of these dishes to be served at the same time as my dad and I are sharing our main course they all come separately. So we sit around while each dish cools and then freezes, waiting for the next piece of the puzzle to appear. The server forgot to order the rice and both our main dishes are ice cold by the time we re-remind her and the steaming hot rice finally appears.

It was a shame really, the shoddy service, because the food is fresh and delicately flavoured (each ingredient really does bursts forth on the palate separately – this shocked me as I have become used to things melding as Indian food does into one giant burst of flavour) and without any pretension (as most highly priced restaurants are want to be). I’m a huge fan of Japanese food anyway (a taste acquired at Delhi's Tamura many years ago and honed by my experiences with this cuisine in London's many wonderful Japanese places) and this rice is divine to say the least. I also like the idea of a not too exhaustive overbearing intimidating menu, and in this case the fusion and traditional sit together well, tempting and pushing the Indian taste buds well into territories not often explored. In short I would say the food in Ai is spectacular but its service, on this night, did it the biggest disservice possible. I wonder if I will be tempted back?

Spaghetti Kitchen: Select City Mall, Saket, New Delhi – 110017. Tel: 42658430
Ai: MGF metropolitan Mall, 2nd Floor, Saket, New Delhi – 110017. Tel: 40654567

India bit 6: Getting my teeth into things

The ‘accessing services’ part of my holiday begins in earnest today. I’ve given things for dry cleaning and things to be altered to the tailor, almost as soon as I arrived. But today it’s the turn my teeth to feel the love.

I come from a family of people with teeth problems and being paranoid about that being me someday (and of course an intense fear of pain that a dentist can cause) I have taken dental hygiene to a whole new level of careful. I’ve had the same dentist since I was 17, introduced by my cousin Mandy. He (desntist) and his wife ran their practice from a few rooms in a ground floor apartment in our south of the south boondocks. Of course with all the expensive dental care that people need they progressed quite quickly to a swanky purpose fitted clinic in Vasant Vihar. My annual check-up and teeth cleaning now pays in part for the Mercedes Benz parked at the entrance. But at under £10 each time (and this I do convert because the exact same things would cost me £40 at the hands of an inept student here) I am comforted because he has been examining my teeth, knows the history of the gap between two teeth on the left and has my dental records since the beginning of time immemorial.

From a dude with a few families as patients he has become so busy and important now that he now has an assistant. He still came in, looked at my records, exchanged pleasantries, examined my teeth and gums, pronounced them healthy and in need of nothing more than a clean and handed me over to the assistant. She is new but when I closed my eyes and she began to clean them I knew he had chosen wisely – she has the same light touch that he did. I firmly believe you need magic hands to be a good dentist. My teeth have a few decades of care left in them, thank goodness. Teeth cleaned and polished to sparkling it was time to get on with the having fun (read getting on with culinary examination a.k.a hogging) part of the day.

I’m in Khan Market, haunt of my school days. In those days Chona’s was the only provider of any sort of fast food in KM – soggy over priced pizza’s that surmounted to eating in a five star for cash strapped teens. Today Best Friend in Whole Wide World (One) has joined me for a wander. We visit SilverLine and I don’t buy anything – I miss going to the Bengali market one and sitting on the carpeted first floor of somebody’s house and looking at silver. This is too sterile and twangy women packed and I don’t think I can bear another ‘Gauri’ conversation. Then we traverse the market and climb up to Anokhi where a white and blue kurta (self-fulfilling purchase/ prophecy for a much wanted summer) is duly bought. Then a childhood haunt of my parents and place of mighty pilgrimage in visited – Bahri Sons Bookstore, an institution in itself. Five books are duly purchased. A visit to Good Earth turns out to be futile as the matching spoons for my previously purchased kansa dishes actually cost as much as the dishes. This I cannot abide.

We buy cookies and brownies from Mrs. Kaur’s, discuss how all these new eating places have opened up and head for the terrace of Big Chill. A delicious light and cold tomato-garlic bruschetta and milkshake/ iced tea are shared amidst our unending conversation. We head off in different directions – her to run errands and me for lunch with my mum. Lunch is delicious as usual and the conversation is very mum and daughter. I’m off for an afternoon nap.

By early evening the Nik is home and rested and raring to go. First the two of us sneak off for a plate of aloo tikki’s at our local thela wala. He is delighted to see the Nik (his most regular customer) and puts his chaat together without even asking. I ask for a plate of aloo tikki with everything on top. And cannot describe how delicious it was – served on a small disposable leaf place with a wooden spoon stuck into two stuffed aloo tikki’s with the works (chutneys and dahi) piled on top. This is my Delhi and what all my senses longed for before I got here.

As if all this endless eating is not enough we are now headed to Nanking for dinner. It started out as our local for Chinese food when it opened years ago but has progressed with time and the burgeoning economy (and money to spend) to being a very popular multi-leveled joint that attracts the expat Chinese population and the well heeled of Delhi. It’s food is divine and even though I think I have no place I eat a bit of everything – shredded lamb, hunan potatoes, chilli chicken, sweet and sour vegetables, hakka noodles and vegetable fried rice. And yes, I know none of this is really Chinese, but it is Indian Chinese at it’s very best and is by far the winner in a toss–up of cuisines if I were doing the choosing.

I have no memory of how we got home, only of sleeping a contented sleep, filled to the brim, yet again, on food and people I love. This is what trips to my home turf are made of.

Big Chill: Two spots in Khan Market, New Delhi - I was at the A 68 (not that the numbers mean much)
Mrs. Kaur’s Cookies: Khan Market, New Delhi
Chaat: Street snack food. Everywhere in Delhi
Nanking: Vasant Kunj, New Delhi - 110070

India bit 5: Girls - friends and family

It’s Tuesday and I am relaxing at home this morning. My Best Friend in the Whole Wide World (One) is coming for lunch and an afternoon with me. We’ve been friends since we were teenagers and although we only see each other about once a year we are on the phone and email a lot. And even when our busy lives do not allow for us to be in touch due to time differences or schedules it makes no difference whatsoever. We always start every conversation right from where we left off and in minutes it’s as if we had always been in just the same place/ space. We’ve holiday-ed together numerous times, had countless sleepovers at each other’s homes and read all the Judy Blume’s and Erma Bombeck’s ever written (and laughed at the exact same bits) sitting in the sun. Our families know each other. Heck, our extended families know each other. We are each other’s history.

She has a new haircut. So do I. My father still thinks she looks like a school kid. She does. I wish I did. The three of us settle down to a lunch of baingan bharta, aloo, simlamirch pyaaz tamatar and parathas. Then dad sits in the doorway, soaking in the afternoon sun and dozing. We sit at the table and get all caught up in reminiscing, planning, gossiping. At 4pm we leave for Select City Walk in Saket where another of my Best Friends in the Whole Wide World (Two) is escaping work early to meet us. The 3 of us went to school together and even though our lives could not be more different today we have a bond that dates back and when we meet it’s as if we are once again school girls in divided skirts and rust pullovers. (One is in filmmaking, Two is in publishing & printing and I am in the Not for Profit sector).

Saket is in many ways coming home. It’s where I spent my formative school years right until at 17 we moved even further South into the wilderness. I know its markets, different blocks and secret roads and galli's, intimately. I have random memories of it, much like film flashback. There were no malls. The ground where 3 of these gigantic malls have now been built was once a barren stretch of land, the road by its side leading towards Chiragh Dilli. So much has changed in Saket. The colonies have high walls around them and spiky gates to hold out intruders as if under siege. There is a giant hospital, the Metro is being built and even the Malaviya Nagar potters look swankier and better lit than before. I still miss it.

Select City Mall is gigantic by any standards and even on a Tuesday afternoon teeming with people. We sit on a Barista sofa where we share cold coffees, cheesecake and news. We also wonder and sdiscuss who all these other coffee-ing people are - bored housewives? flush college students?or just random friends escaping work? Then we wander around and attack the Pratap Sale with a vengeance. While two of us sit on its austere bench the third tries on a pile of (not austerely priced) clothes and we provide the running commentary/ approval/ disapproval. All shopped out (or at least One is) we head for Press Enclave, a stalwart Saket development, where Two has lived since childhood, a place I have visited more times than I can count. Her delightful 4 year old is home and proceeds to beat all 3 of us at a Thomas the Tank Engine memory game that involves remembering whats on each downturned squares and picking out pairs. Age is not kind to us, although we have more accepting humour on our side. After hours of talking I am off to a family dinner, a warm fuzzy feeling cloaking me.

My mama is hosting dinner for a huge bunch of his cousins and their children i.e. my cousins. My mum is one of seemingly hundreds of cousins and as they are all close so am I with many of mine. Everyone arrives at Indian Stretchable Time and soon the room is resounding with chatter and reminiscing as 20 people talk at the same time. Dinner is delicious and we are sated on words and the joy of bonding with family. The girls make a plan for a day of wandering over the next few days. I have laughed till my too full stomach hurts.

Too many dahi bhallas later I am rolling home to sleep. Tuesday was fabulous.

baingan bharta: Smoked/ roasted and mashed aubergine, cooked in the most delightful way.

aloo: In this case, dry roasted and with some hari ka masala

simlamirch pyaaz tamatar: Capsicum/Peppers, onions and tomato's combined and cooked like a stir fry

parathas: Whole wheat flat bread pan-fried in oil

Mama: mother's brother (in this case first cousin)

Dahi bhallas: round urad dal dumplings covered with thick yogurt and drizzled with mint and tamarind chutney's, corriander, cumin powder and chilli powder

India bit 4: Caanaat Place chalen?

Both mum and the Nik have gone to work so essentially dad and I are left to our own devices. It’s a lovely sunny winter’s day and there is no way we can ignore the rays. So we decide a trip to Connaught Place (or Caanaat Place as our dear driver refers to it) to eat some divine chicken patties from Wengers is the order of the day. Also a bit of Bank work for my grandmother, a dip into Bhagwandas for some leather products and possibly a trip on the Metro. All washed down with cold coffee from Keventer’s.

CP holds so many of my growing up memories that if I did tears I would get all teary eyed just at the thought of being there. I don’t get teary eyed, except in my head, where I am recording all these sights and changes to remember when I on the other side of the planet. And Wengers, well that is like a family tradition my father had from his childhood that has been passed along like a precious legend of prowess.

We drive through Shanti Path, the gardens on either side a blooming testament to spring and hardwork of mali’s. And past the various metro construction diversions that will make Delhi more accessible for those without personal transport. We are at Wengers but as it is still so early we do not yet have the stomach to eat very much. We pack chicken patties, shammi kebabs and paneer rolls (my personal favourite, much to the disappointment of my carnivorous father who thinks paneer is nothing but flavoured cardboard). And then stroll over the road to the Bank, where they excelled at being inefficient and rude all at once.

Then a stroll through the inner circle, past the pillars and hawkers selling bric-a-brac (everything from mirror-worked cushions to sunglasses), enjoying the sunshine till we reached Bhagwandas - another of his childhood haunts that my father passed on to us. It’s a shop that sells all things leather and on a summer day its cool interiors and high ceilings with their shady tube lights used to be the most inviting thing. Somehow even on this winter’s day it did the reverse trick, being warm and inviting. I bought a passport holder (finally, after a lifetime of envelopes) and dad bought a replacement spectacle case. We walked a bit more, enjoying the shafts of sunlight that heated up the corridors and abandoned the idea of a trip on the Metro in favour of the sun. Next time?

Then we drove back towards South Delhi for an impromptu early lunch and coffee with my mum at Olive Beach. We sat in the white gravel courtyard, on cane chairs and shared a perfectly baked thin-crust pizza before devouring a hot centered chocolate fondant with vanilla ice cream. Washed down with a decaf cold coffee (an item as rare as finding gold nuggets in your garden, in India – a story that needs a post of its own), bathed in sunlight and the company of my parents, this was a perfect Delhi day

All our Wengers goodies were duly eaten at tea time once everyone was home. And they tasted as gorgeous as they looked. Paneer roll included.

Went and hung out with the Nik and his friends at our local branch of Café Cofee Day. Then we rejoined our parents and the Nik’s P and headed to Vasant Vihar with very intention of going to Punjabi by Nature. The plan was waylaid by Nik who insisted we try Paatra in the Vasant Continental and as he eats out a lot (and was the designated driver) we gave in. Valet parking and two security checks later we are seated in the very neutral environs of Paatra listening to some live ghazal-type music – neither is anything to write home about. The food however was excellent – kebabs and butter chicken and kali daal (these are a few of my favourite things) but there is no roomali roti (the pinnacle of all roti’s in my experience). I am full and happy by the time we leave. And yet I threaten the Nik with a lawsuit unless a PbN standard roomali roti is produced in the next few days.

As the night is still young and everyone is still full of beans (and decidely young) we decide that dessert should be had at Olive, whose fine chocolate Fondant is beckoning. After two in the same day and the endless, relentless eating I have no place in my stomach or heart by the time the evening is finally night. I could not be much happier. Or more content.

Wenger’s (open 10.30am to 7.30pm daily): A-16 Connaught Place, New Delhi – 110001. Tel: 23324594
Olive Beach: 9 Sardar Patel Marg, Diplomatic Enclave, Chanakya Puri, New Delhi – 110021. Tel: 46040404
Paatra: Jaypee Vasant Continental Hotel, Vasant Vihar, New Delhi - 110057. Tel: 2614 8800

India bit 3.5: Now, why I love flying less

Two hours and the world’s worst pav bhaji passed by really quickly. We should have been landing but all I could see were the white fluffy stuff called clouds. I had run out of things to read having finished the last chapter of my book and thumbed through Kingfisher’s in-flight magazine and safety card.

They announce that we have flown over Delhi because we haven’t yet been given landing permission (a 10 minute delay in taking-off just throws it all out of whack apparently. I feel cheated. My husband is not an engineer – how can I possibly find out if this is the truth?). The physical map on my screen shows that we are heading towards Karnal. Great.

We change our minds just before Karnal (thank goodness – I don’t know anyone there – do they have an airport or was the captain contemplating a daring descent onto mustard fields?) and head back to Delhi. We land somewhat smoothly, now 45 minutes late. As if the torture of delay in the air is not enough, we are now taxiing for about 20 minutes. It would seem we did after all land in Karnal and are driving to Delhi! (damn the new runway, eons away from all civilization).

Five minute bus to terminal building and then a fifteen minute wait till our luggage appears on the conveyor belt. A group of dudes are crowding around the conveyor belt, sort of evenly spread out along the belt yelling at each other, ‘Yeh Sudhirji ka hai?' (Is this Sudhir ji’s luggage?); Nahi yaar, yeh Sudhirji ka hai' (no my friend, this is Sudhirji’s). No sign of said Sudhir-ji who is clearly too lazy to come and point out his own baggage. Once his two trolleys (and here I was worried about my measly two pieces!) of mismatched baggage are trundled away and the evil henchmen disappear behind it, us mere mortals can finally gain access to our own mismatched luggage.

At last, hours later (Ok, an hour later), I am out in the warm shining Delhi sunshine, in the embrace of my family and headed to a meal of kofta curry and rice cooked by my mother’s hand.

I’m loving flying less. But I’m definitely loving Delhi more.

India bit 3: Why I love flying in that big steel bird

Its 48 hours since we arrived in India. And time for V and I to part ways for the rest of our social outing (see this is why I cannot in good conscience call this a vacation – a vacation is something I drink through a straw while gazing at the blue sea holding said V’s hand). I’m on the Kingfisher flight to Delhi and the women at the check-in counter does not even blink when my two suitcases register 32 kilograms on the weighing scale. I exhale as I collect my boarding pass, luggage stubs and composure and head to the gate.

I board the very red interiors of the plane along with a plane-full of folk who don’t look too happy to be travelling. The general air is of great boredom as if this is a chore that they have to undertake, not just a ride in a giant physics defying metal bird. I, on the other hand, am smiling like an idiot. I like air travel and in two short hours I will be home, under the watchful eye and joyous care of parents and the Nik who make me (even at this ripe old age) feel like a child who needs everything provided for them from food and shopping trips that my heart desires to advice, chatter and gossip that are good for the soul.

My seat is by the window and with no passenger in the middle I have only to contend with the pretty young thing seated in the aisle. The first sign of trouble I know is when she sits down and shows no indication of removing her OTT large sunglasses, even in the darkness of the flight. Then iPod extracted by many ringed fingers, her Gucci handbag is plonked in the seat between us. The IPod is switched on, headphones plugged into her ears and some jarring beat threatening my eardrums even at this distance is causing some sort of swaying/ convulsing movement to her neck. I wonder if I should be alarmed or amused. An airhostess walks by and stops at our row. PYT, removes one earphone thingie and while her music escapes towards me unbidden, one arched eyebrow rises questioningly above her sunglasses in the direction of the airhostess.

Airhostess: Madam, please could you put your bad under the seat in front of you. Or would you like me to place it in the overhead locker for you, just while we take off?
PYT: I’ll put it in front of me thanks. (and proceeds to shove Gucci under the seat in front of her)
Airhostess: Madam, you will have to switch the IPod off till we take off and the Captain announces that it is safe to use electronic items.
PYT (in her most nasal and high-pitched tone coming right out): But why? My husband told me it is OK, and he is an engineer you know!!!!
Airhostess: Be that as it may Madam, the rules are the rules.
PYT: But reeeeaaaaally, he is an engineer, he knows about these things. Nothing will happen to your plane.
Airhostess: Madam, I am afraid I don’t make the rules. Please switch it off immediately or I shall have to confiscate it and ask security to come on board.

And that was the end of whine-y’s IPod listening till we took off. Finally we take off. PYT/ Whine-y puts her Ipod back on, decided to dispense with her sunglasses saying ‘Ouch’ for dramatic effect as she whipped them off her head with the ring laden fingers. Just watching her antic made the two hours go by in a flash.

I love taking flights. Mainly because people are idiots, captured to amuse me.

India bit 2: Mumbai Malls and endless eating

Why do I ever bother making plans when I’m visiting India? The thing about plans on our bharat darshan is that they rarely fit all the other humans that have been factored in and since Indian stretchable time is Oh So fluid, any and all plans can and are changed till unrecognizable from the originals. You would think I’d have absorbed this lesson from seven years worth of visits but no, you would be wrong. Very wrong.

Saturday dawned bright and early but thanks to jetlag and a late Friday night of chatting I was away with the fairies till a nephew and his father came to stand at the end of my bed and stare in the half darkness till I awoke. That is the power of intense stares – a power that knows no bounds. Next thing it was back to circus-ville with a house of 10 adults and 2 children trying to make and intersect their plans, amidst breakfast and baths. As everyone and their brother had something important to do (ie, sleep, visit other people, etc) I decided to tag onto the most commercial plan of all - lunch and a wander through the mega Oberoi Mall in Goregaon. So 4 of us (mil, eldest sil, R and I) packed ourselves into one of the cars and demanded the driver brave Bombay’s much improved traffic to the Mall. Once in the shining swanky monolith we deposited R in the play area and then wandered in and out of stores, every single one of them packed to the rafters with things and on some sort of change of season (read recession) sale. I didn’t do an iota of shopping as I just felt uninspired (too early in my trip to take in all the bling and make a coherent decision) and couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of buying something and then carting it to my next destination before heading back to London. I browsed around Crossword with longing but held myself back (for now). Thankfully window shopping can be just as soul fulfilling (I find) and giving advice as my mil and sil bought stuff was rewarding in itself.

We then adjourned to the wonderful ‘in malls only’ vegetarian chain restaurant ‘Rajdhani’ and devoured a Gujarati/ Marwari thali. I cannot describe how tasty and fresh it was: two types of dal, karhi, aloo suji, aubergine, green beans, two types of rice, tiny football phulka’s, puran poli, some sort of vadas, dahi bhallas, pickles, chutneys and papad, all washed down with chaas and followed by 3 choices of sweets. The restaurant was next to but not part of the large and loud foodcourt and the decor was simple and business like with a manager coming around and directing servers to serve out whatever dish they were carrying as you finished/ needed it. Managed to roll back to Bandra and yet find place for some delicious cold coffee and chat in the Barsita on Linking Road. Wandered in and out of Mango and Zara and Nike and then headed for a much-needed haircut. Home by dusk and another evening of houseful-ness, hockey/ cricket/ ball throwing and then book reading with the niece and nephew, obligatory family photograph to mark the milestones of the years since we have all been together (3, I think) and a dinner of delicious kebabs and roti's to wash down all that talk, till the wee hours of the morning and sleep beckoned.

Sometimes you don’t need the best laid plans, just the ability to go with the flow of spontaneously made-up ones.

Khandani Rajdhani: In Malls everywhere. Goregaon Mall, 2nd floor, next to the food court.

India bit 1: A new mumbai

Just back from our annual 9 day vacation/ marathon trip to India. I don't check/ respond to the internet at all when I am on holiday - call it laziness or just the need to switch off from this virtual life. Therefore this and the next 8 or 9 posts are all written in retrospect, bits (best and not) of this trip.

Landed in Mumbai on schedule in the middle of the day but our plane taxi-ed for about 20 minutes and stopped itself at about the last possible gate it could. A 20 minute trudge through the airport to immigration and luggage, which was chaotic to say the least with people cutting in the line regularly, asking for, 'adjust karne do ji'. I couldn't stop smiling.

The road between the airport and Bandra is 4 clean lanes now and the surface as smooth as can be. We whizzed through in no time, me enjoying the sun streaming through the closed windows as V enjoyed the blast of car airconditioning. Past the teetering media circus balanced on the wall of Lilavati hospital hoping for a glance of Thakrey. And finally the large airy home of V's eldest brother and his wife.

I picked up our niece R from school that afternoon, driving there with my m-i-l. While we chatted all the way there catching up on our news and plans, it was not possible to get a word in sideways once 6 year old R got in the car for the journey home. Endless monologue on her friends, a poem about a cobbler and rhetoric questions from the babe, amongst other chatter and opinions about her fascinating life. Oh to be 6 again!

At home, more people, a deliciously simple lunch of karhi, aloo and rice, an afternoon nap and the arrival of our Singapore nephew from his jaunt through Mumbai. An evening of the 3 brothers and their 3 wives, the boys parents and the niece and nephew - endless cacophony and loads of kebabs to see us through. This is the good life.

Life is drama?

Not really, but I find that sometimes a melodramatic moment can put things into perspective. Of course there are people who live their whole lives moving from drama to drama. They exaggerate and their eyes go all wide and saucer like and even the smallest hiccup in life turns into an impending explosion of Mt. Vesuvius all over their pretty lives.

I am quick to add that while thinking about this while lounging on the daybed soaking in some Saturday sun I immediately dismissed myself as one of ‘these dramatic people’. I have moments but they pass – boredom and laziness more than noble thoughts about important world issues. What got me thinking about the ‘dramatic people’ was a reconnection with a school mate on that evil evil Facebook. To be fair I call almost all 9million and 22 people reconnections/ acquaintances because apart from the fact that we haven’t talked in 20 years is the fact that even 20 years ago we weren’t really friends. FB is shallow at best and irritatingly overfamiliar at worst. I’m stuck like in a muddy combination of yummy rasmalai (which I like) and quick sand (which I'm sure I won't).

But coming back to ‘dramatic people’ this particular school mate of mine belonged to a different section and we only ever had chance encounters as part of birthday parties for common friends or shared assemblies for the entire class. And although her features remain fuzzy in my head what I do remember was her everyday dramatic moment. She would stand in the corridor with her two friends from my section while we all filed in to class after morning assembly and at the top of her voice narrate that day’s drama filled incident. Sometimes it was the driver being SO LATE, on another the cook running AWAY WITH the MAID. Sometimes it was her BROTHER having dropped his milk ALL OVER her homework. Or her DAD being out of town (to SINGAPORE no less!) on work for a WEEK Oh my god! None of these things on their own or collectively even, were particularly dramatic but her narration and the expressions and gestures made everything seem like a crisis, one that needed IMMEDIATE and URGENT attention, else how was she going to SUBMIT her homework yaar! And then her two friends would come back to my class, clucking loudly at the problem in hand and try and hash out a possible solution before the commencement of class (She and her mum and brother can go and STAY with her nani nah, otherwise they will all be so BORED at home etc). Immediately after class they would dash back into the corridor with their advice and sympathy.

Often other classmates would chip in their two paisa of advice and there would be more serious advice to combat the problem (tell her brother to drink his milk standing up in the kitchen. Or, why is her homework on the dining table, doesn’t she have a desk? etc). And by the start of the next class the advice would all be filtered and summarized for her to take into account while solving that days dramatic moment. I never really participated in these, not because I didn’t have a vivid imagination and plenty to say, more because I was too amused by the ordinariness of the problem and tongue tied by the flying advice to add in my two-bits to the marching words.

We lost touch after school, no surprises there and if ever (once) I reminisced with friends about her, her features were all fuzzy and un-defined but this dramatic flair was as sharp as a ruler. When she FB’d me for ‘friendship’ I took one look at the name and picture and was momentarily confused as to who it was. But her introductory note, full of caps and HOW ARE YOU? OMG, it’s been SOOOOO LONG; my life has been so FULL yaar and I’ve been upto …..(and then a 20 year update full of ‘OMG’s’ and ‘can YOU BELIEVE it’)….gave it away in an INSTANT. Anyway, turns out we are now ‘friends’ on FB. But really her dramatic life and my clearly mundane one have nothing in common. And with all the invitations to groups! and events! and notes! and etc! from her I am liking Facebook less and less. I'll put up with it, but it's certainly not the love of my technological life.

The Chores of Life

If there were a competition for being undemanding (household wide) V would take the Olympic Gold medal by a fair few miles and without a whisker of a doubt. In our household division of labour is such that he will do everything that is asked of him, including but not limited to – laundry (incl. wash and iron his own office shirts if need be), maintain all accounts/ financial gobbled-gook, be the gardener and provider of takeway/ delivery service food and organize all gadget things.

I, on the other hand, have only one task besides supervising our very slow cleaner once a week and that is the task of making sure we have sometimes healthy and always tasty food to eat. It’s a good thing given the situation that I actively love food and that V can scrape together toast or order in pizza on days when I don’t. To say I love food is a bit of an understatement. For me it’s not just looking at an array of photogenically arranged plates of the stuff and pouring though my collection of cookbooks, but the act of preparing, cooking and eating it all with relish. No chore is this in my mind.

One of my slightly OCD things is the planning of meals for a week ahead. On Friday’s or Saturdays I will make up a menu plan (in my head) for the coming week which will include dinners for the two of us from Monday to Friday. The menu plan basically leads to a quick check for existing ingredients in fridge/ freezer/ cupboards – all of which are stocked with a monthly home delivery run, at which time a vague menu is usually swirling around in my head. And then each week comes the quick grocery update list, usually not more than one canvas bag of groceries from our nearest Tesco/ Waitrose, enough to complement our existing groceries and come up with a week of meals.

Friday dinner is always an iffy one with last minute plans to eat out either by ourselves or with friends, rendering any forward planning useless. But Monday to Thursday is usually sacrosanct and followed to the T. While sometimes there are aberrations due to exhaustion or alternate office commitments and often there are just leftovers, this is rare. Not many people do but I enjoy the quiet of coming home early from work, turning on the TV for some background noise or putting on some music while I spin around the kitchen organising our dinner. People call me weird. I call me hungry.

Our weekends are usually made up of multiple meals outside (restaurants, people’ houses) and one home cooked meal which could be as complex as multi-layered slow-cooked Lasagna or as simple as a packet of Maggie noodles doused in ketchup, masala chili and Tabasco. I spend all week thinking of and researching where we could/ will go in this city of a million restaurants. And this week, after a week of: 1. bhindi, kaali dal, aloo with rotis 2. Mushroom fettuccini with garlic bread 3. Mostly home-made pizza and 4. Baked potatoes with salad, I’m ready for the weekend….bring it on!

There is such a fine line between enjoying something and finding it an unappetizing chore. I have read time and again on blogs and in books, of people who can’t/ won’t cook because for them it is a waste of good evening time and space or they don’t enjoy it or someone else is happy to do it for them or they can afford to both physically and financially eat out all the time. Sadly we have neither the stomach nor money nor energy for that lifestyle. And gladly one of us is happy to cook. And luckily both of us are always always happy to eat.

Before the snow

Well, the snow came and Britain behaved like it was flying tarantula's, a never before seen insect. This is the WEATHER people - you've had it for a gazillion years AND its all you ever talk about. Anyway, it snowed, nothin melted, we ooh-ed and aah-ed at the marvel of a blanket of white-ness, everything closed, everyone complained about something (travel was top of most lists) and then it was all happy happy because no transport meant you could stay at home and stick your nose in a book.

Last week was a heady mix of irritation and enjoyment. Came home on Thursday evening to water cascading 7 floors down from a burst mains pipe on our floor. Our corridor carpet was floating and all our neighbours were shoveling water into the stairwell. We joined the party, mops in hand and bonded while swapping stories of what water damage had infilterated each of our flats. We got lucky, with minimal damage. Others hoever had ankle deep living areas and water pouring in through ceiling lights. Needless to say the lift was declared unsafe and yet another round of walking up stairs began. Thank god we got fit with the gym - now we don't even get vaguely breathless.

On Friday night we hosted dinner for 25 of my colleagues (some with partners) and they all gamely trudged up the 7 floors for butter chicken, sukhe aloo, chole and paneer makhni with safron pulao and white rice. Preceded by 6 dips and doritos, pitta, vegetables and papad. Followed by an apple tart and chocolate cake (celebrations of two of their birthdays). We had a super time, enjoying the warmth of the house (candles and alcohol) and camaraderie away from work, laughing and chatting way into the night. It was 3.30am by the time everyone finally left. We tidied up and called it a night.

On Saturday, in anticipation of being snowed in we went to meet friends in Central London and watch 'Revolutionary Road' with them. I haven't read the book but I can tell you that the breadth of thoughts that Kate's character was thinking didnt translate as well as the depth of her depair. It was wierd that just last week I had been thinking about the stagnation of life, the humdrum that we get sucked into and leaps of faith we are often so terrified to take. Of course her life and feelings were magnified a million times over and the solutions were not ones I'd ever contemplate. In summary I can safely say it was not a movie I enjoyed at all. My advice: Don't Do It.

Then we attempted to find a Tapas restaurant. After two failed attempts (one was closed during the day when I called and the other doesnt take bookings {or rather does but hasn't changed the information on its website}) we decided to go to ChaCha Moon. V and I had been before with an escaping friend, but our friends hadn't. We had been in summer when it was new and after a mile long wait in line we sat at the canteen like tables and slurped up. As a promotion every single Singaporean dish on its menu was priced at £3.50. V's duck and noodle dish was too salty but the rest of us enjoyed it very much.

This time we had no wait - we were there early in the evening. By the time our food arrived the line of waiting patrons was a mile long. The prices now vary from between £3.50 to £5.50. We ordered a mix of sides and mains and thoroughly enjoyed picking at a selection of different flavours and textures, accompanied by chilli sauce and chopsticks. The spring onion pancake, chicken dumplings and cucumber & carrot salad were super. Someone else really enjoyed the seafood udon noodles, declaring them the 'best ever', although I suspect that hunger from all that walking was the key reason. We'd have eaten anything hot at that point to stave off the withering cold. But really ChaCha Moon was super, Singaporean food YAY, good value for money and different from the usual Oriental fare on offer. Alan Yau is something of a genius. I will go back as often as I can, methinks.

Now the snow is all gone and life is all back to normal. I'm planning my next very busy weekend.

ChaCha Moon: 15-21 Ganton Street, London W1F 9BN. Tel: 020 7297 9800 (no reservations)

White. Not Christmas.

After a day and evening of watching the snowflakes dance around from the warmth of our living room (lots of ooh-ing and aah-ing from me) we've woken up to huge snow drifts covering the balcony...

The heaviest snowfall in 18 years has hit London. In February, missing Christmas by over a month. As expected there are no buses. Runways and airports are shut. The bus network has been suspended as have been most tube lines. London is so unprepared to deal with the bitterly cold weather that is routine to American cities and continental Europe. Thank god for insulation and heating and the promise of hot tea from my stove all day.

It's a day of working from home for me, a trudge to work for V and another day of living in the bathtub for our plants. If you live in London or the South East enjoy the white. It might be another few decades before we see it again.

Leaps of faith

Be warned: Long. Boring. Rambling. Personal opinion.

In the 30something household we were having a random conversation about how our personalities develop as we age. The crux of the discussion was an argument/ agreement about how with age we become more entrenched in our habits and more risk averse with our lives, loves and jobs. There are sterling examples of this amongst our friends and family and even in our own lives. And I love reminiscing.

When it came time to go to college we both traversed parts of the country, encouraged by our parents to follow our dreams, alongside others like ourselves, determined to find what our calling was. We lived in different cities to start with, did college even further apart and yet managed to work out and at our relationship with phone calls and long hand letters. And college, no matter how tough or easy it was we took on challenges to make new friends, learn new lessons and take risks like never before. For many it was the first time out of home, without the boundaries of parental guidance or the comforts of warm kitchens and soothing words, and the first of many life opportunities to draw our own boundaries and find the path for our feet to carry us along. College was tough for some, easy for others – multiple lessons, demands of continuous deadlines, hostel living (and food), friendships and cliques – they all required a modicum of planning and enthusiasm and it was a precarious balancing act to do well and have fun. I soon found that financial circumstances largely varied and I, like most, learnt to budget and live within my means with imagination and without complaint.

We leaped into jobs that required travel and long hours. We took buses and autos and ate chaat and momo’s at road side stalls with abandon. We stayed out late, went to parties, threw parties, cooked and drank, played cards and board games, watched movies and plays, travelled to unknown countries on work, lived without mobile phones or Facebook, took road trips and holidays, celebrated birthdays, hung out at people’s houses and campuses, spent our money before we were paid and generally were game for a lot. In an ever changing programme we were always ready for something new.

V sought the opportunity to move abroad, to a non- English speaking country, learnt the language and turned back into a non-vegetarian for lack of cooking skills. Then he plunged us head first into yet another country, into yet more studies, which for V meant a student loan and for me a tiny budget to manage on. We lived in a tiny studio apartment (where we had guests from India come and kip on the floor/ sofa), used school facilities, made new friends, reignited old friendships with people from India who lived here now and over time learnt to love ( or at least live with)the people, place and its dreaded weather.

We found jobs, made yet more friends at work and most importantly piled our stuff into a van and moved home to a place more convenient for work. We hosted lunches, teas and dinner parties, Diwali and New Year’s celebrations, houseguests and family for prolonged periods, embracing people new to London within our friends circles and mindspace. We travelled on holiday to far flung places and across the earth making more our friends and family than many did of us. We thoroughly enjoy life, making the most of weekends, catching up with people and pursuing our own interests.

But the larger questions in life have crept up on us and it would seem that in a small way being risk averse and habituated into the week/weekend routine is on our plates as well as many others. We were talking about how dreary and cold this winter has been and how we should up sticks and move to warmer climes. But then we started talking practicalities it turned out (in a nutshell – much wider, longer discussion) we can’t think beyond our house with its mortgage, bookshelf and recently constructed laundry cupboard. Or our somewhat safe jobs in this recession market and our wide (if often random) social life in London.

To make ourselves feel better we then moved over to the lets-accuse-other-people-of-their-risk-averseness game. This was much more fun. Like the couple we met at someone’s house recently where the man commuted 2 hours across London EACH WAY EACH DAY so that when his daughter is 5 (she is 2 years old now) can go to a ‘good school’ in their chosen area. Besides weekends he never sees his daughter awake. Or like the guy who got given a car by his in-laws so their daughter could ride around in comfort, but the furthest he would take it was the local supermarket or the petrol station. He won’t drive at night or if the roads are too crowded because ‘you never know how other drivers are, yaar’. Or like the couple that moved to the countryside for ‘fresh air’ and want to commune with the greenery but have NEVER been for a walk in it. Instead they come into central London each weekend or mope around at home marathon watching movies and complaining about the cold damp air.

It’s funny that of all the conversations with friends and family it’s these 3 incidents/ things that came to mind first when we tried to veer away from our own shortcomings. Of course then we felt bad semi-smirking at other people for their risk averseness. For all we know there are bigger and mightier influences - reasons that guide these people to behave as they do, to commute endlessly, not to drive ever and to live in the countryside but not enjoy it - that they don’t feel like sharing. Their life view may not be as simple as ours. Having children and other weighing down responsibilities may make their choices harder than ours. Or maybe they crave sameness and routine and its us that’s weird in wanting (no, in my case, craving) something new and unknown. But this is not about them. Or us in comparison to them. It's about us. And what we want from our lives. Pure and simple.

Overall I felt better because all our settled habits had to do with the bigger, mightier influences in life. Not that we made any strides in breaking free from those, but still. It wasn’t small risks that we seemed afraid to take, it’s all seemingly bigger picture steps. It was vaguely comforting to know though that with the smaller things it’s not often fear that stops us but sheer laziness or lack of the resources to back it up – and we soon get our act together and try consciously to overcome things. Like knowing we need to make changes to the house to make it more comfortable and add value before we sell and move to another part of town, for one reason or another. Or learning to drive and getting a car. Or learning a new language. Or something.

Our bigger picture however is still entrenched in the old tired habits and the inability to shake off what a big risk upping sticks and changing everything would mean. Some of it is inertia but mainly its fear. Of the unknown. And while sometimes there is nothing like a bit of stability, after 7 years in London I feel we are both ready for a change, of scene, of weather, of jobs (maybe even careers), of cities and even possibly life priorities. It’s not to say we should go live in a beach shack on some coastline (because really that would kill me, city girl, with boredom) – but to take chances, experience and learn about a new culture, meet new people and possibly feel the alive-ness that we lost with our youth. We are too young still to be mired in the stability of never moving, learning or doing anything new, of taking each other and our comfortable lives for granted, of never delving into the unknown because well, it’s unknown. I think we need to take a leap of faith. I pray that in the next few years we find the strength to take it.

Dimsum in Soho

In case nobody yet got it from this blog, I love food. And eating out in the vast smorgasbord of London Restaurants is one of my top reasons for living and loving it.

This weekend we went to Yauatcha in Soho for a (most) belated Anniversary lunch of dimsum and tea. Yauatcha was opened by famed restaurateur Alan Yau of Buasaba, Wagamama, Hakkasan and ChaCha Moon fame. We’d been to every single one in the tantalizing food line-up, in fact Wagamama and Busaba feature frequently, but Hakkasan was only for my birthday last year and somehow despite continually saying we’d be going soon, Yauatcha had completely fallen off the list.

When I first called Yauatcha a few years ago the economy was in full b(l)oom and people were spending their money like free water. All we ever managed was a rude person on the other side barking instructions about a 2 hour slot (and not a moment longer) in two weeks time to begin precisely at 2.14 pm (or something equally convoluted). I didn’t warm to the idea of shoveling the food down my throat in record time – tea and dimsum after all are to be savoured at leisure. Also, the rudeness was uninspiring and Yauatcha was off our menu.

Now that the water tap is running dry everyone is vying for a slice of our thinning wallets. At 11am the lady who answered was polite and said that a table for 2pm would be no problem, infact where would we like to sit? Booked we made our way across the dysfunctional London Tube into a less crowded than usual Soho. We were seated almost immediately, on comfortable seats made utterly uncomfortable by a table base which allowed no room for ones feet. V drank a pot of Taipei Green tea (I stole some – it was delicate and light) and I had a kiwi and lime iced tea (which was delicious although the tatse of tea was masked by the other flavours). We started off the meal with a soup each, V had crab and caviar soup (he thought the smell overpowered the taste), I had hot and sour chicken (possibly the best one I have had in a long long time). Then we shared venison puffs (delicious, lived up to its reputation – my favourite), salt and pepper squid (V’s favourite, too much batter for me - I am more partial to Busaba’s Thai calamari), Pandan chicken with a lime dip (again Busaba does a better version of this) and duck spring rolls (filled with perfectly seasoned duck and served with a delicious plum sauce.

We were full but in greed decided to order one more dish. V ordered steamed a seabass and mooli dimsum and then not wanting to be left out I ordered a spring onion pancake. The pancakes were really stuffed puffs, with spring onion and bacon, very tasty but not pancake like at all. Big mistake, as we were both full. Eyes bigger than stomachs. Greed is a vice etc etc etc.

We staggered out into the bright world a few hours later, stuffed to the gills on good food, chat and endless sniggering at our neighbouring table which had an American woman, her chatterbox stiff-upper lip English architect husband, his sister and their father. The father insisted to the American woman that he was paying for the meal and not broking any negotiation on the matter since he was in town only for a week etc etc. His loud mouthed son then proceeded to order about 20 dishes and multiple drinks and then talked continuously, not letting anyone give their opinion or get a word in sideways. He kept saying things like, “...and this is made from Taro and chicken, and isn’t it tasty?”, to which someone would say “ye...” and he would immediately interject with “which is why I ordered it. It’s the best thing on the menu, I had it when….blah blah blah”. Everyone looked bored enough to shoot themselves including his father and partner. Then he went on to talk about how people who have been vegetarian for years (his partner, the American woman) could not digest meat even if they wanted to, blah blah blah. And then ordered 6 extra things for her to try out because “being vegetarian means she eats fish, but doesn’t want anything gloopy, too obviously fishy(?!)”. And then began to expound on about air conditioning duct design, at which point I too was ready to shoot myself. Thankfully we were done and could leave.

The meal was not cheap by any means but the determinedly underlit setting, fish tanks and enormous wine coolers lent themselves well to the idea of a ‘fancy meal’. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I think V did too. The ingredients were fresh, well prepared, beautifully presented and very tasty. If a special occasion arose I would go back. Or with the wide variety of untapped London restaurants, will I?

I so owe my blog a post on Hakkasan. Next week?

Yauatcha: 15 Broadwick Street, London W1F 0DL. Tel: 020 7494 8888

Crushing weight myths - 1

Why are we conditioned to thinking that thinner is hotter when in actual fact most men like women with a bit of curve that a 40kg flat chested women can never have? Is there much point in wearing revealing clothes if all you are revealing is skin, bones and an empty starving stomach?

A wild debate that reverberated in my college days was about inside beauty vs outside beauty. And although everyone had an opinion and most (for reasons of looking like balanced, kind human beings, probably) chose inner above outer, one of my friends said he could never be with a fat woman. That for him beauty was all about extreme skinny-ness i.e. how paper model thin could you be. He confessed/ reiterated that it was all to do with media throwing thinness as the quality for women to behold at him. I disagreed because most successful actresses, be it in Bollywood or Hollywood, were curvaceous rather than anorexic – the difference is not slight. And that while it was not wrong to look after your weight and be healthy there were far more important character building things in the world than thinness. We agreed to disagree. Of course times change attitudes and the woman he fell in love with had love handles much like the rest of womankind. It was her smile, her kindness and spark that were the star attractions. He broke free of the preconceptions he grew up with, not an easy task for anyone I imagine.

A while ago I met another college acquaintance at a reunion of sorts and he was terribly excited about his forthcoming wedding. Not being very tall or well built himself he was thrilled that the bride his parents had found for him was also not very tall and quite thin to boot. How thin was the mystery that was solved when we first saw this bird like creature he had married. As skinny as a teenager, not more that 38kgs, she picked at her food lest she put on weight and looked at us (a gaggle of hAlthy girls) with shock while we gorged on kebabs and laughed into our drinks reminiscing about the horrid hostel food that forced us into become connoisseurs of Maggie. She looked unhappy and out of place and no matter what we talked about she always tried to bring health into the conversation, and how being thin was best for the body, and how salad and water were king. We never bonded.

My problem is not really with choice. Or thin people. People choose to be thin for a multitude of reasons – most of them noble and health conscious, yet many misguided and vain. Some people have health issues that prevent them from putting on weight. And yes beauty does lie in the beholder and love can be blind. People are free to choose what they think they like and can live with. And there is nothing wrong with being thin, healthy and well groomed. Similarly there is nothing wrong with being curvy, plump, healthy and well groomed. Nothing is mutually exclusive and no two people are identical in thought and looks. But be assured that your inner beauty ain’t going to shine through when all you can think about is how you look. There is definitely something wrong with being 40kgs because you have starved yourself to that weight.

My problem is with the idea that thin = hot, which is blatantly untrue. If you took 10 men and asked them to pick the hottest woman from a line up most would probably not pick the thinnest but the curviest, the one with the twinkling eyes or the sunniest smile. Hotness is a quality, a state of mind, a connection between the carrier of style, a way to hold yourself, a confidence and the eyes of a beholder. Thinness does not make hottest. Period. So stop thinking, saying or behaving as if it does because no matter whether you realise it or claim otherwise that is what you are perpetuating. Bad body image. That nobody, girl or boy, man or woman, should have to buy into believing is true.

Eating my words

I am. Eating my own words that is. I am back to blogging, though not with a bang. More like a pssst, have you heard? London is too interesting to stop talking about; my life on the other hand is not. My mind is too full of things, random sentances and phrases I want to spew to stop. Atleast this was my thought this morning. So I'm back. For now. Till I'm bored again.

Right. Before expounding to every bored and distinctly unbelieving reader out there on what my fabulous resolutions are for this year I think a short update on how last year’s resolutions went is in order. These were them:

1. Get a haircut, look more presentable, start wearing a bit more make-up. Take pride in how I look, whatever my shape. – Right, had a haircut early on in the year but barely wore my hair open even then. Bad-haircut-turned-good in early October has helped the cold from pinching off my ears. I wore/ wear make-up in fits and starts. Some days I will even glam up my jeans and jersey office outfit with a bit more than kajal. But old dog, new tricks has meant this has been more sporadic than anything.

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. – Got a lot more colour in wardrobe, although I still prefer black and dark colours most of the time. But experimented a lot and wore adventurous colours and jewelry a lot more this year than in the previous. Also bought two fabulous pairs of boots to round off the year.

3. Follow through with the cooking more & different, eating better & wiser resolution from my birthday. And stick to the gym. The ultimate Gluttons diet. – Did both these with a single minded-ness my maths teacher would have fainted at. Bought and got gifted cookbooks and continued to treat V as my guinea pig of world cuisine. Ate wiser definitely. And lost a shitload of weight I am Oh So Proud of!

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. – Finished books on first one at record speed. Didn’t buy a new bookshelf but did buy and receive a lot more books to add to the growing stacks by its side. Read a lot more, shunning ipod for many a train journey into work – wires getting tangled in peoples coat buttons on sardine tin trains is not fun. Found suitable place for the second AND third monolith but have not got around to buying them yet – procrastination is indeed my middle name.

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. – Am self-declared sloth queen. Slept well, deeply and wholly for the most part. Yes, that was me in Beijing claiming Gold. V though has become more restless with age – still a champion but not as deep sleeping as in his youth. I don’t in any way let that stop me.

I'm definitely more shallow, promised results of teh 2008 resolutions - but the insides joined in and in true competitive spirit have given shallowness a run for their money. I am now shallower and yet, way deeper!

This year my 6 top resolutions are very basic and more of the same shallow-ness. If history has taught me anything then enumerating them might help me stick to them more rigourously:

1. Learn to de-clutter. Break with genetic code. Post to follow.
2. Read read read. My house and bookshelf are ripe for this. I have the books, the means to get books and the resolve to get my bookshelfs come heaven or hell. Nothing like looking for the book that will inspire me to give up work, sit in the sun and write my own piece of nonsense.
3. Treat my friends and acquaintances better. Be ruthless about people taking advantage, expecting you to call, takers not givers – cut them out. Stop taking Facebook so seriously – it is not called Friendsbook – not even 20 people on would qualify as friends.
4. Host yet more convivial meals. Am keeping good with this one already – New year’s party something of a success (do you want to know?) and a big party of 30 scheduled for month end.
5. Slow down with the blogging. But try not to stop. Stop being obsessed by blogs. And by people who write them. Just because I like what they write does not mean I like them as people. I am sure this is true in the reverse as well. But be kinder in thought. Less harsh about other people's crap.
6. People watch. An art that London is ripe for and that in my busy life I have let go of. Basically, stop, smell the roses.

So, ready or not, new years resolutions here I come!

Expectations 09

So its 2009 already, and despite every intention of shutting ze blog down, here I am, glutton for punishment and stubborn assed as ever, writing crap even I don’t want to read anymore. My own expectations from this blog have changed tremendously since I began. I initially intended it to be my letter home. But secretly, like every writer out there, somewhere in those first few weeks of writing I fancied myself as the next published Author. I roller coastered with that idea for ages - giving up the thought, then re-invigorated by a random comment, then giving up again. etc etc etc. There was superlative stuff everywhere out there. And I’m way too lazy to boot – as missing pictures and empty promises to the web are testimony to.

It became, clearly, about writing for the sake of recording what I was doing with life in the run up to and in these speedily passing by thirties. And in some part keeping the folks and friends clued up with what was on in my life. The friends all lost the url and quickly moved to that evil evil Facebook. It would seem no one wants a constant update of friends they haven’t met in 10 years - I think I am the same as I just deleted this long rambling update email from a long not seen friend. Just a status bar on facebook is enough – where I went for dinner, what books I read are all too much information in this faster than you can blink life. Yada yada yada. I don’t blame them. I too have been coerced onto the evil side although the rarely updated status bar and other networking sites before it just don’t cut it for me.

In addition to real life friends from yore, I inherited a few blog people who would leave me encouraging remarks and the odd disagreement to chew on. Some of them even became real life acquaintances and A-class friends. I think I’ll more than live.

It was sometime last year I think I realized that I was no longer writing it for the benefit of my folks as they never seemed to have the time to read it consistently or could not find the url when they did have the time and access. They never once left me a comment unless under coercion or mentioned anything in our conversations in all this time, unless I initiated a ‘did you read what I wrote?’. I assumed many a time that my ramblings had gone too wide and too long. But like an addict I still could not stop.

I still cannot stop. Last year for the first time I was sorely tempted to just delete this blog and get a real life or an alternate really anonymous blog. But each time (twice) that I have come to do it I find I cannot bring myself to destroy what (I feel) I have lovingly nurtured all this time. Or to begin elsewhere – too tedious a job for the perennially lazy, no? It’s as if my brown thumb is turning a tentative green and I cannot possibly discard the sad sad nearly dead fungus laden plant. I think this blog is here to stay. Although, really, I’m not sure. Maybe a new properly anonymous blog which nobody who reads this knows about, will help me get out of this funk. After all many of my favourites no longer write, so why should I? Maybe its time to be a new avatar. Or maybe not. The jury is still out.

Happy new year peeps. See you when I see you. If I’m back that is.

When 55 words aren't enough

Every year she buys two dozen tulips. Back from work he pretends not to notice, even though they undeniably sit in the giant unused fish bowl. He talks about watching sport and catching up on a year of under slept overworked days. As they wake up on Christmas morning, he will turn to her and say, “They are lovely darling, but not as lovely as you”

Christmas tomorrow is 7 years since we stood under a tree, adorned with jasmine strings and hanging lamps, on a sunny Delhi winter morning and promised to be together for as long as this life would allow. Happy anniversary my love.