Un"Reel" Village...

India lives in it's villages. But not the villaegs romaticised in Indian films. Where the beautiful village belles go in a row balancing pitchers on their heads while the hero (often urbane and handsome) drives by singing and then falls for the prettiest one in the village, romances her through lush verdant fields. You get the picture.

The reality is (most of us are aware of this) very different. Harsh. Squalid and to a large extent, terribly deprived. Despite the harshness, the hardship, life in villages (rural areas) have moved on. There have been changes over the years. How much? I found out....on my trip to Ranthambore. The Sarisar lake was on our itiniary.

As we neared the lake, our cantors turned onto a narrow rut on a high ridge and got stuck. On one side was a low stone wall about one foot high beyond which the land sloped steeply to the lake. The other side was a sheer drop to large fields. The road was cracked at the edges and often the wheels had to pass over large gaps and finally, the cantors could move no further. All of us got down and decided to walk it on foot to the lake and back.

But what lake? It was more an enormous swamp of green vegetation and mud. And what little water was left, was being pumped out by atleast three or four small generators on the banks. To the fields on the other side of the ridge to the fields. We were aghast to see that so much water had been drained out.

We waited and took in the local scenery, while the drivers figured out how to get the cantors reversed.

Stretched on the other side of the ridge were magnificent fields. A wild (to my untutored eyes) tangle of all sorts of vegetation. Huge fields of mustard plants the fields demarcated by the direction in which the stalks had bent in the wind. Such a variety of green, yellows and browns in such a haphazard tangle. And the locals. What bright clothes, what lovely colours. Where was their village? Somewhere beyond both the lake and the fields I guess. There were the village belles in brightly coloured clothes, the goats with bells a tinkle at their throat, the fields in myriad colours. But that's where the similarity to filmi villages ended.

A solitary woman in a bright blue emrboidered ghaghra (skirt) stood by the ridge with a thick stick in her hand. Down below, were a bunch of goats grazing. And just a few minutes later, I found to my surprise, that the old woman was no longer besides me on the ridge. She had (god knows how), climbed down the steep slope (with no ruts, no visible foothold) and was herding her goats.

A little later, we passed by two young women in bright oranges and red which is so characteristic of rajasthan hunched on the edge, trying to push down a few really long (and I imagine heavy) PVC pipes down the slope.

While I recovered from my surprise of the old woman and the goat, the two women had not only got themselves and the pipes down the slope, they had gone a long way off, laid the pipes down at a distance from each other and then the two set about attaching the ends of each. Very soon, they had covered quite a distance.

Two men, (their husbands?) joined them. Eventually, they would connect upto the lake side and get waters for their fields? All in a hard days work for them?

Why wasn't I aghast at the draining of the lake and the obvious ecological damage? Well, at that moment, seeing the hard work those couple were putting in, seemed to me, justified it all. Did they have any other source of water? Possibly not. So do they sit back and watch their crops die? Could have. But they decided not to. Real life this.

Back to "reel life", village life continues....idyllic & wonderful.

Just another day...

I live in such a nice and quiet residential neighbourhood. Joggers, walkers, people pushing babies in prams, walking dogs; houses in neat rows; the occasional pretty park. And yet, people have been warning me about not venturing out alone in the dark. How silly. I thought. Of course I have been taking the usual precautions. Or so I thought.

Last weekend, A was away. So I asked M, a new kid in my team to spend the weekend with me. I do find it unnerving to be on my own in the rather large apartment block that I live. The newspapers are so full of stories of robberies and murders etc.

So, M arrived. And we had a nice and lazy weekend. And then we decided to catch a movie and if we couldn't get tickets, we could always go shopping in the malls. It is sale season. Around 4.30, sunday afternoon, we took a rickshaw, talking nineteen to dozen, and had just crossed a rather large and busy intersection when suddenly, a guy on scooter swooped out of nowhere, grabbed M's bag and zoomed off. Before I could react to what was happening, M first fell off the rickshaw and then was dragged along the road, her hand firmly gripping the bag, even as she fell. A little way ahead, the guy on the scooter let go of the bag and sped away, but not before he turned to take a look at us. His face was covered by a handkerchief. And there we were. M, on the road, terribly bruised and cut. I on the rickshaw, screaming my head off. Soon quite a crowd gathered around us, helped her up. No one had taken down the number of the scooter. There hadn’t been enough time for that. It happened in a trice. In fact, now that I think about it, the rickshaw driver hadn't even stopped or slowed down.

One chap approached us and asked us what had happened and could he help. I asked if there was a doctor around. He returned with his car and took us to a doctor. M was very badly bruised and scratched. But no broken bones. She was shaking badly. That was the shock, said the doctor.

I had been warned before by so many. Including a few rickshaw drivers. But it was something that happened to others. Too unreal to happen to me. And yet it did. I have become so nervous after this. I am walking everywhere I can, on foot, sans bag. Carrying money in my pockets, ever so often stopping to look behind me and if I see a cycle or a bike, I go right off the road and onto the sides. (Am sure people must be thinking I am mad). But what else is there to be done? If something like this happens in broad daylight, in a busy, crowded place, are we safe anywhere? Or do I just shrug and carry on? I will I guess, after a while. But for now, I am too terrified, and very upset. I had after all called the chirpy M over for a weekend. And it had been her bad luck to be sitting on the road side. I was on the curb side. She however (as the young so often are, was more worried about her broken nails and shoes! She even asked the doctor if she could carry on to the movies!!

Perhaps, this is one more sign that I am growing older (and perhaps sadly wiser and less intrepid), but it will be sometime before I can hop onto a rickshaw. But life carries on. We were not the first, nor the last. Life carries on. Just another sign of the times. Speeding cars, pollution, new viruses, power shortage, daylight robberies on scooters.....

Been there, done that!

...And bought the T-shirt, too.
(I really don’t know how to write short posts. Forgive me).

Ranthambore, Kanha, Corbett, Sunderbans... So popular with tourists wanting to get a glimpse of the Tiger in the wild. And atleast two of these have been on the list of places I wanted to / might have / could have visited. So, when A & I found ourselves at Ranthambor, we were mightily thrilled. Without quite knowing why. Why? Because. Tigers in the wild. Endangered. People do these safaris etc.

We left the hotel at early on a cantor. I was a bit disappointed to find that early meant 7am and not the crack of dawn (somehow, more appropriate with jungles and tigers). It was COLD in the open cantor and though I was warmly dressed, my attention was focused on wrapping the blanket (supplied by the hotel) around me. As we left the hotel and the little township and entered the fort, I was wondering, am I on the right side of the cantor? Should I sit by the side? No, that would mean more dust. The huge gate built in the stone ramparts of the fort took us, into a different world.

Steep hillside, shallow drain, blonde brush (what else is that spiky blonde coloured vegetation), plants with leaves, already rust. What colour will they be in the merciless summer?? And oh my god, the Banyan trees. Gnarled and entwined, enormous and not content to just reach an enormous length, they spread their gnarled, entangled white branches on either side and often across the road as well.

The driver cum guide pointed out a wood owl sitting concealed between the bare branches of a tree, looking like another pieces of stump. A vibrant blue bird flitted past. Kingfisher? Peacocks shone blue and green among the dirty green and brown brambly foliage. The driver leant out of the cantor and looked at something. Pugmarks. Clear ones. A loud cacophony erupted from the cantor. Tigers. But they are going the other way. People stood up. Children shouted. Cameras came out. The mood changed when the driver suddenly braked. He stood up and angrily told us to be quiet. If we made such a ruckus then he couldn't hear the "call" Monkeys, birds and deer gave a distinct call if a tiger was near. We sobered and sat down meekly. The driver went in deeper and perhaps from experience, turned this way and that way, left certain tracks and chose others. Occasionally a forest guard would pass by and confer with the driver. This "area" belonged to a tigress and her two cubs. "Shush". What? What? The driver had heard a call. A call? What call? The cantor was making quite a racket. We looked around anxiously this way and that. Minutes passed by. The driver moved on. He did try his best. He took us up and down, past water bodies and right up to the swampy land in front of a lake where the cubs are hidden while their mummy went looking for food. Then we heard it. A langur gave a distinct and shrill call. A herd of deer ran past. Others in the water stood stock still, ears perked up. The driver made a curious "Hmmmm Hmmm" sound.

Perhaps the elusive tigress would come out strolling lazily. Or we'd come across it lazing with her cubs. More pugmarks were sighted. Seeing our cantor, other hopefuls would stop by and we'd all wait together. But in vain. Till the very end, I was convinced that we'd see one. Perhaps, it would be me, who'd spot it and then I (hero of the moment) would say in a silent sharp hiss, "eyes right....there it is." No such luck. We returned three hours later, covered with dust sans a tiger sighting.

That very afternoon, most of us, agreed to take another try. Perhaps afternoon was a better time. "I have a feeling we will see it", said one tiger enthusiast. Right. And so we set out. Three dusty hours later, we returned without having a glimpse of any tiger. Also, we found out, that the pugmarks we had seen in the morning and later in the afternoon were three days old. Oops. And Ranthambore was 400 sq kilometers and the tiger population was 16 and not 26. The odds of our seeing one were minimal. We felt deflated. "Its not easy to see tigers". "We shouldn't expect them to come out just for us". "People have worked in the forests for 10-12 years and have never seen one", we consoled ourselves. We still had one more day to go. A trip to the Fort and the temple was on the cards. There was also the Dastkaar centre where we simply had to go shop.

Next morning, 4 of us, 3 ladies and a couple, set out in a low jeep towards Dastakar. We had barely left the dusty tracks leading from the hotel to the main road, when some one passed by and said, a tiger had come out of the sanctuary and would be there for quite some time. "Forget dastkaar. Take us there, now, we said". And we went, our (at least mine) heart a-thump. As we neared the gates of the fort, we met more and more locals and guards who smiled and either pointed or nodded to say, yes there it is.

The road narrowed with a wall of boulders on one side. A low stonewall about three feet high was on the other beyond which was a tangle of briers and brambles. A little way ahead, the driver stopped at a spot, indistinguishable from any other on that stretch and said, "look carefully, it should be here."

And then we saw a yellow haze. We had to stand up to watch it. Yes, there she was. She raised her enormous head and gave us a lazy yellow look and then lay back again. Then it struck me. My glee at being one of the first to see a tiger was replaced by a chilly terror. OH MY GOD. There she is. An enormous tiger. 7 feet away. With only a low wall between us. And our jeep was so low, so open. We have seen it. Done. Our tiger. In raw flesh and blood. Orange and black striped. Can we leave now please?

Others were however reacting entirely differently. They were busy trying to part the brambles to get a closer look, a photo. Soon, a cantor full of tourists came. Then another car and yet another. The drivers of the various cars began shouting at each other. "Move your car. Let my tourists get a view". "No, you move yours". STOP I screamed, mentally . What if the tiger got irritated?

And then came a huge car with three people and a dog. The lady got down. All the drivers immediately screamed at them. Get back into the car and take that dog away. NOW. This is where I thought, the end was nigh! The tiger must have got a whiff of the dog and if not, would have certainly smelled my fear. Can we leave? Even if we wanted to, we couldn't because the narrow road was jammed anyways. Somehow, a thousand hours later (or so it seemed, to me), we left and were soon out of the fort. We telephoned our hotel to tell the others to get into a cantor and come here quick. Locals said that the tiger would be there for a few hours.

Sure enough, it was still there later on in the afternoon, when we were going to the fort. By now, all of us and perhaps the entire tourist population of Ranthambore had by now seen it, and yet, they were not quite done. Again we stopped. Again people stood up, took photos. The driver (a different one this time) gave a running commentary. "Now she will look (and the tiger raised her head and looked), now she will stand (and sure enough it did). Oh my god. Will the others never get enough of looking / taking photos of it?? The driver overdid himself. A young chap passed by on his motorbike. An old woman and a young girl were on the pillion. Our driver stopped them and said, "Bhaiya, Mataji, get up on the cantor and get a good view of the TIGER." Had I not been so scared, I would have given the driver a good, solid smack. Shouldn't we leave? Although tigers haven't in the recent past attacked any tourist, what’s to say they wont? They are wild and dangerous aren’t they?

Later on, the driver said he had left hurriedly (bah) because Madam-ji (that's me) was feeling mightily frightened. And the driver-hero definitely wasn't, I thought. If I hadn't stopped him, he would have, I guess, jumped into the briers and patted the tigress on the head?

So why did I go? I hadn't till then thought much about seeing or wanting to see a tiger in the wild? What would I get out of it? Why did I want to see it? A photo? A story to tell others, "I saw a tiger, I saw a tiger, na-na-na-na"? I have a few friends who are die-hard tiger enthusiast and have been parts of tiger count surveys (or whatever is the exact term). Not so for me. Honestly, I went because. Because. Nothing more.

But now, I can firmly say, that having been there, done that (seen a tiger in the wild), and whatsmore, having bought a Ranthambor Tiger T-shirt, I don’t want to ever do it again. I really don’t.

PS- All we got of the tiger was a hazy yellow stripe behind the brambles. And none of us (thankgod) had the guts to go any closer to get a clearer picture. I guess the Tigeress had the last laugh!

Rape Capital Delhi

An article in a national daily reports that Delhi crime statistics for 2005 have only strengthened the dubious tag Delhi has had to live with for many years -- India's rape capital. There was (the paper reports) an almost 20% spurt in rape cases as compared to 2004. Every day, along with the usual report on Iraq, India's cricketing woes, and bollywood news is the obligatory para or two on another rape case.

Young girl abducted, minor raped, maid raped and most of these are cases of the women being hauled into cars and gang raped while the car roams around the city roads and then the bruised and battered woman is dumped by the road.

And yet, this past week, the top story in media is Brinda Karat's obssession with Swami Ram Dev and his purported usage of animal parts and human parts in the ayurvedic medicines that his organisation / ashram has been dispensing. I am neither for or against Ram Dev and his medications. If he is using human bones, it must be investigated. But what a collosal waste and shame that people in power, especially women, have remained mum or paid mere lip service to this horrific issue. Can we dismiss it by saying, its the responsibility of the Delhi authorities? Shouldn't women, and specially those in power do something about it?

I remember, back in France, in my french class, where the prof encouraged debates which often tended to be political. My classmates often would have scanty knowlede of India and I once proudly pointed out that despite being backward compared to the west and France, we had women in powerful positions including prime minister, chief ministers. Sonia Gandhi, Sheila Dixit, Jaya Jaitley, Jayalalitha, Mamamta Bannerjee, Brinda Karat, Rabri Devi and the scores of others women - celebritiy and film star MLAs & other party functionaries.

I no longer think its something to be proud of. What if women got thier 33% reservation for women in Parliament and State Legislatures. I donot think it will make lives of women any more better or safer than it is today. There will be more discussions on non-issues (not the domain of women alone) with more women now in a position of power, in a position to be heard of, with access to media.

Arm yourself with pepper sprays, learn some form of physical defence, avoid travelling alone, use cars...whatever. Donot expect any help from any of your powerful sister politicos.

Curiouser & curiouser

Monkey menace is a big problem in Delhi and the surrounding areas. Hordes of monkey pick up a spot / area, not to live in, but to visit, frolic, destroy everything in sight and occasionally attack a passer by and vanish en masse, just as suddenly as they appear. I had a taste of it first hand last year, (Local Fauna).

Recently, as I came out of the Ministry of Health & Family Welfare, I found the compound swarming with monkeys. Small, tiny, medium and big. Hopping, jumping, walking, sitting, monkeys everywhere. These are seriously city smart monkeys and not to be trifled with. A guard, who saw me run back inside, very kindly, escorted me right to the main gates and I was thankful for his presence.

The monkeys are not to blame. More and more houses, shops, malls, offices are coming up, depriving them of their natural habitat. They are being forced to survive in a hostile overcrowded city, and have become, really aggressive.

This morning, as I was entering the ministry premises, a man cycled past me inside the compound, at a leisurely place and behind him on the bicycle, sat a Langur. It was chained to the cycle and it sat there serenely, its long tail, hanging down and in fact was trailing on the path. There were no monkeys in sight.

This was not a mere chance occurrence. Believe it or not, this is a tried and successfully tested solution to the monkey menace. It is painless and brings instant but temporary relief. The presence of a solitary langur is enough to cause the most aggressive horde disappear in a jiffy. I don’t know what the logic behind the monkey's aversion to langur, but it seems to work. The resident welfare association of many a housing estate have hired the services of men with langurs. Usually, these are street side performers who earn a living from little acts involving monkeys or langurs. All the chap has to do is to walk about the menaced area with his pet / captive langur on a leash, or cycle past and hey presto, the monkeys disappear! Curiouser & curiouser, as Alice would have said.

La Belle Meunière

New recipe up at The Timid Cook!

Boys will be boys???

One day, last week, my maid turned up pretty late and though I was irritated, I didn't show it. She is after all, very sweet oldish lady. And her reason for being late, astonishing as it sounds, is produced nearly verbatim (as much as I could make out from her thick Haryanvi accent) below:

That morning, she went up straight to the 12th floor (instead of the 11th floor) and rang the bell. Most of the apartments are identical including the doorbell. A tall young chap opened the door, let her in and went back to reading the newspaper. My maid took him to be my brother in law (whom she had briefly met). As is her usual practice, she went to the kitchen and started washing the dishes wondering why she couldn’t see Mai-dm (that is what she calls me). Having done the dishes and still not seeing me, she started sweeping the floors. The young man continued reading the papers. This is when she asked the man if they had re-arranged the furniture. They probably had recently and he replied in affirmative. And then she asked, where is Mai-dm.

“Mai-dm?? There is no Madam here,” the man said.

“HOI? She went away and didn't even tell me”?? said my Maid

“What madam? We have been living here for months and there has never been a madam here”.

“HOI??? What floor is this”?

“12th”.

“HOOOOOOiiiiii, I had to go to the 11th”.

At which point she left and turned up at ours. And I presume the young man continued reading his papers.

Poor thing, she went on for quite sometime about what a dirty pile of dishes she had done and how dirty their room was!!

My maid is, like I said, very sweet if slightly batty (in a nice way) and so one can quite forgive her for turning up one floor above and doing the dishes. But the chap????? What was he doing / thinking?

There are 3 or 4 of them living in the apartment above ours. I have never seen them, but I often hear them in loud conversation at odd hours of the night. I have tolerated their weird urges to shove furniture around after 12am. And of course the dribbling of what sounds like a basketball, I have forgiven.

Boys will after all be boys. Even after 5 years of marriage, A shows frequent signs of slipping into I-am-living-in-a-dormitory-behaviour. So I wasn't too bothered by the antics of the boys (young men) living right above us. Till this maid incident.

It’s been around 4 months that we have shifted into our brand new appartment and already, there is extensive seepage in the ceilings of two of our bathrooms, just above the shower. We had duly informed the landlord and the housing society. They had in turn taken up or said they would take it up with the occupants above and see to it. And yet, the seepage grows daily. Last week, when we called up the housing society we were told that they had not once, but twice, visited the people above, repaired that seepage and told them to not pour water over it for a few days. They could have you know, there is a spare and third bathroom. But no, they either don't care or forget and wash the cement and away. Hmmmmpf.

I am sure they don't do it on purpose. It's just one of those things. They forget. I thought that I'd go and talk to them about it, kindly explaining the reason and asking for their cooperation. But after this maid, we are stuck with this seepage problem, for a looooooooong time.

Shameful plugging!

Well here goes : Finally, my food blog The Timid Cook

This is sort of a thankyou to R for her constant support and guidance about all things culinary. Also, I have so many food tales. Some about my experiments, others about R's cooking and yet others.

You may or maynot like my posts or even read them. But I can (thankgod for blogs) write and pretend that its a great blog. Can't I????

Survival of the fittest

Add one more to the list of things that couples do when they find themselves wide awake in the "wee small hours of the morning": Go on a murderous rampage.

A woke up around 5am to go to the loo. I woke up instantly being a light sleeper; Actually more than that, being terrified of being by myself in the dark. I asked him to switch on
the lights. Which he did. Which is when we realised that hovering over us was a swarm of mosquitoes. And for a frozen moment, we stared at each other - them (the hovering mosquitoes, frozen in mid-hover and I, frozen in my supine position, A, with his hand still on the light switch. The moment passed. And as if on cue, my arms started itching from a million bites.

Both sides were galvanised into action. A
tackled the ones above, swatting at them with a face towel and I, with newspapers (I am a sudoku fiend and must, must do one last one in the newspaper before lights out), my slippers (they are very effective) and even my pillows (yukh...will have to change the pillow cases).

We are on the 11th floor. Its pretty windy up here. How in the world can these tiny things fly so high. Or do they take the elevator? Or perhaps a single intrepid pair did. The Eve and Adam of this clan. Then they settled in nicely and rapidly multiplied and took over.

We won the first round. Within 10 minutes or so, their numbers dwindled to a scant 2 or 3. This small victory more than made up for the red splotches on the creamy walls and floors (not to mention, perhaps the underside of the pillows...eeks...I didn't dare look).

But the survivors were a tough lot. When we bent to the floor, they zoomed up to the ceiling and when we stood up, they sank to the floor. Clever little fiends. Whoever thought of intelligence in mosquitoes? That is not in the scheme of things. They are born, they breed, bite (cause malaria -- only the female anopheles mosquito, dengue -- these only bite in the mornings...yes its true...) and then they die. That's it. But here were 3 mosquitoers doing guerilla warfare.

We'd switch off the lights and quieten down and within seconds, there'd be the irritating nnnnnnnnnnnn in our ears. We'd switch on the light (taking turns) and find them, innocently sitting on the highest and farthest wall. And so on it went. A tie.

They might have outwitted us and pooh-poohed away our brute strength, but the war is not over yet...

"Remember to buy a spray or mosquito coil tomorrow," I said to A, as we decided to call it quits for the night (or pre-sunrise) and lay down and quickly pulled the covers over our heads. Survival of the fittest, afterall....

A million Rajithas

There was this horrendous story on a news channel on 23rd November: Ill treatment of a domestic help by her employers. This domestic help was a girl, Rajitha, not more than 10. Thin emaciated, with burn marks all over her body ... her arms, legs, back, and a fresh wound on her stomach, earned that very day. Her fault: She was a little late in warming the milk for the employer's baby.

Her screams had been fortuitously heard by a child activist who happened to be passing by. She got suspicious, so heart wrenching, so agonized, the screams were. After hours of knocking on the door and ringing the bell, did they and the world get to see Rajita and her plight. The look on her face on being taken out of the employer's grasp was not of relief. She still looked very unsure, frightened. She simply couldnot trust anybody. And with good reason. Seeing the burn marks on her body, this must not have been the first time she must have screamed. And yet, the neighbours had been mute onlookers for the 6 months that she had been in Hyderabad.

Here too, in Gurgaon, I have seen many families with several little children as domestic help. Once at a local restaurant, while a family gorged themselves at a table, a little boy of maybe 7 or 8, difficult to guess since their growth is stunted due to chronic malnutrition, waiting (not even seated), next to the table, patiently. Occasional, he would walk the couple's crying baby in his tiny, not yet adult arms. The couple went on calmly consuming great quantities of food.

Yet another day, I met a couple in our very building, coming up the elevator with their tot and her minder ... another little girl, barely 7. This 7 year old girl, was well dressed and looked well fed, but she was so adult like, so responsibly, gently preventing her guard, the baby from clutching onto the various buttons in the elevator. No time for her ofcourse, to indulge in simple childish pleasures.

The only good thing to come out of this sordid incident, is possibly highlight the plight of thousands, maybe millions
of children in so many houses in India. Domestic labour. Hyderabad alone, according to the news report has 47,000 children working as domestic laborers. God knows how many there are, through out the country.

There are laws to put an end to such things and maybe, India will get its act together to make sure, legislation is in place to end domestic labour and their ill treatment.

But what is frightening is, this is human behavior. Of educated, well off people. Those who without any qualms whatsoever, in cold blood torture helpless, innocent children; And those, who are mute, unhearing spectators. Can we change human behaviour with a few laws? It can be suppressed but not eliminated. Despite the threat of the death penalty, rape happens. God knows how many Rajithas there are, crying, with no one to hear them cry.

Viva Roma!

Got this one from Joe

And how true. Outside India and Calutta, Rome would be my first choice. I fell in love with Rome the minute I landed there. A thought that was because Rome is a bit noisy and chaotic. Anyhow, here it is, although why would anyone be interested in knowing which city I belong to...(blogger vanity)!

You Belong in Rome

You're a big city girl with a small town heart Which is why you're attracted to the romance of Rome Strolling down picture perfect streets, cappuccino in hand And gorgeous Italian men - could life get any better?

What City Do You Belong In?

Cloud End

(Longish post ... this...bewarned)!


Atlast a break. Even if it was only for 5 days, after an entire year.

Our destination: Cloud End. And please those of you who have read "Eats, shoots and Leaves" or haven't, it is Cloud End and not Cloud's End or Clouds' End.

Shatabdi Express to Dehradun. Then a 1&1/2 hour upward trek by taxi to Mussorie (Plain dwellers, do not eat anything before that uphill completely cicurlar trip to Mussorrie. There wasn't a single straight or flat stretch in that one and a half hour journey). And still upwards, through a dirt track snaking between the hills and a sheer drop.

The houses thinned out as did the cacophony of Mussorie and finally, viola, at the very top of the tallest of the hills, sat a green and white, glass and wood bungalow, gently snoozing in the warm evening sun: Cloud End.

The only other guest was away most of the time. I forgot to take books or even playing cards. Our camera jammed so I could take only 5 or so pictures. No magazines. No television. Just the two of us, at Cloud End.

Vacations can be very tiring. So many things to do and to see. But fate had it planned otherwise. A proper break. So there I was, at 8000 m above sea level, 5 days of enforced solitude.

After the slightly panicky feeling of "god-what-will-i-do?", I rediscovered so many things that I had forgotten in the smoke filled mad rush of city life...

We stayed in the log cabins about two levels lower than the bungalow. My day would start early. Around 6, when it was still dark. I would put on multiple sweaters, cap, gloves and socks and come and sit at the chair and table just outside the log cabin, a few feet away from a sheer drop to the valley below...

...Listening to the sound of silence. It took some getting used to. Every sound seemed magnified several times over. A bird chirp here, a shrill note there, the buzzing of flies, the strange brrr of tiny crickets rubbing there wings behind their backs, the rustling of leaves. I would be sitting out there and turning and twisting in my chair at every rustle, every call, every chirp!

...inhaling the fresh fresh air.

...Rising early and waiting for the sun to rise and the mist to lift and reveal the magnificent snow capped Himalayas, which would, just as quickly, disappear from view.

Plants grew in wild tangled profusion. Red and brown flowers dotted the place. Suddenly, I would catch sight of a strange purple blossom. Dainty daisies (forgive me for my scant knowledge of plants) would nod gently from a precarious perch.

There were hills all around. The trees giving them a dark greenish look. The highest hill was bang opposite as the crow flies but an arduous 3 hour uphill trek as the man walks. I counted about 14 hills.

Ah the simple pleasures of drying my hair in the sun; basking in the sun. But how fast it moved. I had to constantly shift my chair in the small gravelly path to follow the sun! Till the warm rays from the west were overpowered by the creeping chill from the east as the sun slowly sank behind the hills and disappeared.

A flock of pale green parrots, and not the usual dark green(parrot green) ones, descended on a bare tree, each on one branch...and just as suddenly, at some silent signal, flew off. 2 long birds with a curling tail (or is it called plume) twice the size of their body, hopped, jumped and cavorted. A solitary crow, oddly out of place, cawing away with great gusto.

A hairy, hairy goat with curved horns and bell at it throat, nimbly jumping about, mocking our pathetic panting gasping progress on the slightest of inclines.

Dinner in that long low dining hall on Major Swetenham’s original dinner table, beneath the huge tiger skin forever fixed in a glassy glare.

The house had most of the original furniture. The polish dulled over the years, which somehow added to the overall atmosphere as did the low voltage electricity. It was as if the place was lit with lanterns, as was when Major Swetenham moved in with his lovely garwali wife!

It seemed a bit too real and I refused to sleep with the lights off. I lit the candles supplied by the staff and it cast a cheery glow all night long! Who knows what these log cabins were used as during Major Swetenham's days? Stables, A thought. He said he got a distinct horsy whiff (from over a 150 years ago??). Maybe nursery? So far away from the main bungalow? The family history did mention one of the 5 boys fell down a "khud" and died at the age of 11 (yes the khud was there). That scared me most.

When I first arrived at Cloud End, time hung heavily, Minutes hanging on lovingly.

Back now, to the daily grind, of never ending work, deadlines, schedules, it seems like that for those few days, I was transported to a different dimension, where time hung heavily, minutes ticking past sluggishly, when time stood almost still...


A spot of history about Cloud End: A Major Swetenham out on a picnic was enchanted by a melodious voice and ran after it and startled a garwali lass. He fell in love with her and her voice and asked for her hand in marriage, which her father gave along with 2000 acres of virgin forests as dowry. It was here the Major built Cloud End in 1838 and lived with his wife Rose and five children. The last of the Swetenhams left India in the 1930's.

Untitled

The building was very ugly to begin with. And Solid. And yet, some one decided it needed a face-lift. Scaffolding all around. Huge lengths of green thick cloth, hung haphazardly. Sheets of corrugated tins placed all around the building to create a safe area – apparently to ensure that no visitor would be injured by falling shards of cement and debris. But this made it impossible to walk down the narrow path in front of the building. Visitors now have to hop onto the green (mostly mud) stretch to make it to the entrance which hey presto, has vanished. A sign, on a piece of card board, no doubt torn from a carton, the writing faded in the hot sun gives direction to the new entrance…the best treasure hunter would be at a loss to decipher. The construction goes on and on. No sign of any change even after weeks. The busy throng of people pours in and out of the building. Workers are up and down the scaffolding. In dusty clothes and yellow hard hats, (very incongruous with their clothes - no overalls) perched uneasily on their heads… The green canvas, the yellow hard hat, the corrugated sheets…all appear to be there, not for safety but to ensure the fulfilling of some international safety standards.

I look up and find, a young woman. Up on the scaffolding. Maybe on the 5th floor. In a saree. Yellow hardhat on head. (I am wearing a saree as well). She looks down at me and her eyes follow me as I pass below. I am shocked to see her up there (no stereotyping this…but u would be, had you seen her). God knows what goes through her mind when she sees me. Perhaps angry at why am I down there and she above? Why is she in her dusty saree, me in my fine one? Why does she have a hard hat and me cradling my smart file of papers? Why is she up on the scaffolding and I am on terra ferma?

Or perhaps she is just curious.

I find the new entrance to the building. Amid debris, little dunes of sand and cement, the betel-juice-stained walls. The ugly metal detector, the lazy guard. And as I gingerly step on the wobbly concrete flooring, I see a little kid seated on the bare earth. Can’t be more than two, powdered by dust, all alone, looking up at the world as it passes by. Welcome to the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare, Government of India.

....Perhaps, the woman up there was just curious. I'd like to think that. But the truth would be, she was too busy trying to do what she had to, look forward to the next break, when she could come and pick up the little tot floors below, waiting for her, patiently (already aware that he had no other choice, no luxury of temper tantrums that other fortunate tots can afford to throw). Both aware of their roles, unawares that right inside, the enormous and complicated machinery inside the ministry toiled amid files and meetings and projects and plans working for health and welfare of families of more than a billion people.

Bitter Moon?!

Last week at a salon I was wallowing in the luxury of a 'deluxe' pedicure, when the pedicurist whispered that they had a Karva Chauth special.

[I get very irritated by this hard selling of their packages. Go for a head massage and they will say "Ma'am you feet NEEDs a pedicure. Go for a haircut, they will say ma'am you are going bald and need an ultra-ozone-olive oil-steam-hair-scalp treatment. So on and so forth].

I snapped (a trifle harshly), "I am a BONG. We donot have karva chauth. We never fast and never have to. Thank God. They poor pedicurist crumbled into hurt silence (but thankfully continued with the pedicure with as much care as before).

On my way to office yesterday, I saw makeshift mehendi stalls dotting the roadside. And office WAS different yesterday. It WAS full of beautifully dressed women. In sarees, mehendi on their hands, all a-tinkle with bangles and earrings. All joyously observing Karva Chauth. Which in effect meant they were fasting for the long life of their husbands, and dressed in their best. And so happy about it. Not even a drop of water. Till moon rise. When they will (here there is a variation. Some do and some don't), look at the moon through a sieve and then at their husband. And break their fast.

I remember, from way back, when I was in school, one morning, the ferocious Mrs. G, our hindi teacher, swished into class in a dark violet silk saree with silver zari border, large earrings, 2 pinks spots of rouge on her cheeks. Zapped, we burst into "happy birthday to you..." and sang it with great gusto, if not tune. She beamed at us through it all and then said it wasn't her birthday. Oh. Happy Anniversary. No, not even that. Then?????

She coyly (very coyly) announced it was for Karva Chauth! The first I had ever heard (well maybe I had heard it before) but came to know that it meant something special. But then being a bong, it was not in the Bengali scheme of things where any thing special meant food, food and more food.

I had always found KC rituals a bit strange. What is this fasting for husbands,who were hale and hearty anyhow? And then what is this looking at the moon through a sieve etc. This probably stemmed from the numerous hindi movies where there was (and continues to be), along with the mandatory Cut to Switzerland for a song, a karva chauth scene.

Quite unintentionally, I was well dressed yesterday with (I sometimes get that right), matching accessory. I was asked quite a few times if I was fasting. I repeated the entire thing about being a Bengali and not having to fast except on one's wedding day, when the groom and the bride and the person giving the bride away fast till the wedding is over.

But that changed on seeing my colleagues obvious pleasure at it all. Some even said that their husbands too were fasting (to give moral support to their wives)! Couple of years back, on another KC, back in Calcutta, I was standing on the landing in the evening when Mrs K and her short, podgy Mr. K came down the stairs from the terrace (after the sieve and moon thingie), Mrs K smiling coyly and Mr. K looking sheepish when I smiled at them. They were so sweet - that podgy pair!!

No, it doesn't inspire me to keep a KC. But generally, not be dismissive of it. I didn't think it correct to mention that not only was I not fasting, I had infact, the previous night, cooked 2 kilos of meat ahead of a small gathering of friends, on the following day.

6.8 on the Richter Scale

It was a particularly harrowing week. A massive presentation to a Client – 3 campaigns, 14 scripts in Hindi with translation in English (for our Canadian client), reviews and re-reviews, copiers failing at the last minute, frayed tempers, another attack of low blood pressure etc.

Was really looking forward to the weekend to vegetate. And not only because Durga Puja was just around the corner. My first pujas in Delhi.

A and I were just getting into the proper mood Saturday morning. Newspapers strewn all around, morning tea, TV blaring out full volume…none of the frenetic weekend-get-house-in-shape plans.

Suddenly, I felt the floor beneath me sway alarmingly. God, I must be blacking out, I thought. I looked up at A and before I could say a word, he said, yes the floor, infact the apartment was swaying. Earthquake?? I ran barefoot to the door and opened it. Through the banging covers of the meter boxes, I saw our neighbour run out with his three-month baby in his arms, his wife behind him.

RUN, I shouted to A. We joined other residents streaming onto the alarmingly swaying staircase. God will these stairs never end? (We are on the 11th floor). Low Blood pressure and weakness forgotten, I ran for my life and picked up so much speed that I left A atleast three flights behind me. Normally he being much bigger than me outpaces me easily even at his most relaxed pace.

Finally, thank dear god, we reached the ground floor and found a huge crowd from all the 8 buildings out in the open. Along with the sheer relief of having made it, I found that I was dressed in a faded, worn out horrible nightie, which last night I had worn inside out. Everyone seemed to be dressed for a Sunday brunch. I hid behind a pillar (all fear of the pillar descending on my head forgotten) and hissed at A, “Give me your T-shirt. NOW”. I hastily put on his T-shirt, A poor thing was left bare chested in his boxer short which he wore with great aplomb. I lurked behind parked cars till everyone felt it was safe to get back.

Back we found the papers flapping in the fan, the cups of tea where we left them, cold and the TV blaring surrealistically some Hindi-remix with gyrating nymphets. As if to confirm what we had just felt, we switched on the news to find it was 7.5 on the Richter scale.

The panic just wouldn’t go away. What about the aftershocks? Was it just my low BP or panic or both which made me think that everything was shaking?

Why did we take an apartment so high up? Why? I asked A.
Put on some descent clothes and give me back my T-shirt, was A’s curt response.

We left after couple of hours to my in-laws’. Their bungalow seemed infinitely safer.

Now, I can sit back and think (not without a sense of rising panic), about Saturday morning. And how in those crucial moments, all I thought of was me, me, me. I was impatient with other slow runners on the stairs and horrors, I raced ahead of A. And even after making it safely, what I wore seemed more important. Some one (I don’t know who) said that it’s the hour which reveals the man / or woman. Revealed quite a bit about me - selfish, self centred and idiotic and terribly relieved that till next time (Gurgaon is a seismologically active area), despite that half an hour of terror, it was just an interesting tale to tell and re-tell; The embarrassment of being seen in horrible nightclothes, the mission-impossible feel of racing down the stairs.

Just a few weeks ago, my boss was talking about impossible choices. If one was faced with a situation where one had to save one’s spouse or child, what would one do and then live with it? We had a heated conversation, with the women all saying, the child, obviously. It was easy to say such things when our future seemed secure. Faced with ones mortality, I found that the over-riding thought was me, me and me. As reports keep coming in, of children buried under the debris of their schools, villages wiped out, homeless and helpless people waiting for relief, days after the quake, in freezing temperatures, I realize how lucky we’ve been. Gurgaon is one of the three seismologically dangerous spots in India. It could have easily been us. Dear God.

Blog Day 2005 Bash

I have been so busy (bad excuse) that I have been posting less and less. And luckily I managed to check Rezwan's blog and learnt about Blog Day 31st August 2005.

In one long moment on August 31st, bloggers from all over the world will post a recommendation of 5 new Blogs, Preferably, Blogs different from their own culture, point of view and attitude. On this day, blog surfers will find themselves leaping and discovering new, unknown Blogs, celebrating the discovery of new people and new bloggers.

And this made perfect sense to me since I have not really made any sort of effort to go beyond the few blogs I know and like.

Here are my 5 blog tags:

Aref Adib Pictorial blog (mostly) with really cool posts on look-alikes by a Iranian in the UK.

Entelechy Indian blog, by Radhika Nair residing in the UK -- well written, intelligent, thoughtful. A Must Read.

How to Learn Swedish in 1000 difficult lessons An American in Sweden.

Philobiblon Aussie Journalist in the UK...to be read particularly for her Femme Fatale Friday posts where she lists new blogs or new posts, by women.

Michael Chu's Cooking for engineers - great recipes, great layout, need I say more? Go check it out, particularly when you are feeling hungry.

Notes to myself

I am trying to make the most of living in this nice house, while it lasts, after ignoring what I had for 7 months.

So, I am sitting on the verandah. Both of them. Front and back. Reading, cutting my toe nails, staring at the trees and the enjoying the nice pattern that the white cows dotting the field, make. And frequently stopping my sitting-on-the-verandah-and-enjoying-life to feel very pleased about sitting-on-the-verandah-and-enjoying-life. And also, wondering (frequently too) why didn’t I ever do this more often.

Cant concentrate on the serials on the TV. I just lie on the bed and take in the big spacious bedroom size. Thank god I didn't trim the curtains into a smaller size to fit nicely over the air conditioner that's just under the window. (God knows how I tried to but just couldnt find the time). The new appartment has big glass windows and the long curtains will be useful. All I have to do, is to take out the plastic clothes pin that I used to shorten the curtains! Hehe!!

I decided to do some packing yesterday (Sunday) and while at it, kept sighing over the size and number of built in wardrobes.

Am bathing in a different bathroom each day, (having stuck so far to the one with the master bedroom). And why not? The one in the guest bedroom is so nice and big. Sigh! Where are those little prints that I thought I’d have, a potted plant or two. In the bathroom, did you say? Yes I did. So what. Its my bathroom isnt it? So what if I havent managed to and so what if the three plants that I own have never flowered. But they are not dead. The only seem to grow vertically.

We had surprise and very welcome showers suddenly, yesterday afternoon. So we did an impromtu and very silly drenching in the rain…And infact, both of us went upstairs to the terrace. It was so silly, so pointless and so very fun. I did a little hop and a jig and caught people staring at me (three storeyed house is not really so high) and the roof was slippery. So I just …well…got drenched. First time the two of us have been up there. 4th or 5th time for me … oh to hang clothes to dry, to check on the TV antenna and once for a early morning walk. A goes up there whenever there is water shortage (to check on the tank) and once well to find a dead bird floating around in the water tank.

I make mental notes to buy a roll of film to take photos of this place.

But…moving into a new house, new place etc is in many a new beginning, start of something new. Life will continue very much as it is now unless I stop whining and start doing some serious time management, but till then, I can always postpone everything I have been meaning to do and havent been able to, till I move into my new place. As if, overnight, I will become this efficient person wonderfully balancing home and hearth. Silly isnt it? But well that never stops me from making more notes, in that crowded space that is this head of mine, on how things will be…..


(PS – I spent a huge amount of time making timetables during my school days, that always excited me and took up most of time, than the actual studying which I found rather irritating and getting in the way of dreaming up wonderful schedules where everything was so fine. Old habits, die hard. Even today, planning about balancing home and hearth, right down to minutest detail is so much more fun than actually doing it)!

Moving…again!

(Be warned...this is full of general purpose whinning).

Its time to move again. Our landlord has, very apologetically, served us notice. You have been gentle tenants but I’ve got a great job offer and I am returning. I do hope they don’t notice the ugly gaps in the plaster that we, the gentle tenants will be leaving behind. A handyman had clumsily hammered gaping holes to affix nails for the mosquito nets.

That means another 3 weeks at the most. Sigh!

Am I sighing because it was too short a stay at a place, though rented, felt like home? Or am I sighing because I couldn’t make into a ‘home’?

By a ‘home’, I mean a home like our moms had. Everything ship shape, everything in place, neat and tidy. Not a speck of dust, spotless floors, refrigerators and cupboards filled with nourishing food, clothes laundered, ironed and folded away in drawers and wardrobes, green verandah where I sit in the morning coolness, sipping my first cup of tea.

Instead, there is a pile of unwashed clothes in the laundry basket (plastic one, because in 6 months, I couldn’t manage to buy myself a wicker one I so wanted). And the clothes keep piling since it was only today that I managed to find myself a good dry cleaner. God knows when I will actually be able to give those clothes to the cleaners.

I sit in my drawing room (and not a drawing cum dining mind you), a large room and stare at the pleasant effect of the glass windows framed in dark wood, yellow drapes and the assorted paintings on the creamy walls. And then I look at the divan where Rabindranath Tagore sadly looks at me, framed but not yet hung since I haven’t managed to find time to drill holes, (the neighbourhood handyman would mean more cracked plaster).

Alongside Rabindranath lies two of my paintings of rural France. I had copied them out of a Babar book and painted them, in my idyllic days back in France. Having brought them back with me, I framed them and shyly showed them to a friend who said, “looks like done by a 5 year old”. Ouch! It was a near perfect copy of the one done by a famous illustrator.

The brown cushions on the armchairs are all creased, as we, A and I have sat in all the chairs at one time or the other and yet have never plumped them up properly.

The shoes lie in a heap on the floor of the scarcely used 3rd bedroom. I have, often made a mental note of arranging them neatly in the empty chest in that room. Argh! My mind is saturated with all the mental notes I have been making.

Piles of old newspapers lie all over the round dining table, yes the one with the cracked but never replaced glass top. Anyhow, the papers at least cover up the crack rather nicely!

My verandah is brown as ever. Except the flourishing wild green growth of a plant I didn’t buy nor plant, underneath the white bouganvillea which stubbornly remains brown and bare.

And yet all around are me, are beautifully kept houses. Through the open windows, I can see marvellous arrangements of knick-knacks (knick-knacks? Wow. It took me two months to buy three drapes and one more month to put them up)!! Who are these Mary Poppinesque characters with perfect, spotless houses and domestic wheels churning with clock work precision?

Its dinner time. And I am hungry and tired, having spent the day looking at houses. I realise that there is no rice. Forgot to make rotis. There is some bread. I know there is. But spoilt in this humid heat. OK. We can buy some. And yes, get me some milk, I tell A. Atleast I can have some cereals for breakfast tomorrow….a pleasant break from constantly missing mine since there is usually nothing to eat in the mornings.

I wanted to put up the rattan screens (‘chik’ to those who know), a wicker lamp would have been a nice touch. A white, glass topped wrought iron table amid foliage and me amid all that. Pipe dreams. Ah well! Minimalistic is so stylish, I console myself.

I sigh because of the evenings I didn’t spend on the verandahs, of the walks I didn’t take in the rose strewn little park opposite, the meals I didn’t cook in the smart kitchen, for the laundry I didn’t keep in the wicker basket I never bought, for the spare bedroom I never converted into a workspace for making papier mache objects which I never made, for the alter I never bought for my gods who sit patiently atop a cabinet left behind by the landlords.

Just as well. Had I done all that….I would have been too well settled and would have been loathe to leave, wouldn’t I? And having said that, I stumble among the empty water bottles lying next to the bed, lie on my bed, lumpy because of books and pens I left behind when I rushed off to work this morning, angrily pummel my naked pillow (the pillow cases have been washed and are still hanging on the clothes line) and say goodnight!

Eyes Wide Open…or trying to

We had pitched for a mammoth ministry project last year and although we had been on the verge of getting it for the last 4 months or so the contract’s arrival getting postponed at the last minute, circulating one ministry department to another. Even before we signed the contract, we were called for an all day session with the various state departments, us being the ‘chosen’ agency!

A small team of us went to a review meet of this ambitious project (considering its scope and pan India coverage). This was our first meeting of this kind, in presence of the state representatives, 1 from each state. This exposure would be good for us since our work would take off from here. We had a small presentation scheduled at the end of the day. And our team was looking forward to the various questions regarding the project, media and our role.

The meeting was held in a large plush auditorium of a prominent chamber of commerce. After the inaugural address by the Joint secretary, a rather efficient, businesslike lady, the day was spent in a review of the progress of each of the state on a number of issues concerning the project. But as it turned out, it was a forum for airing their concerns and less of progress.

I sat back enjoying it all. Unity in diversity – the much touted line about India was in full display. How wonderful it was. Everyone working together for this ambitious project – the target audience of which would be the entire Indian populace! But very soon it degenerated into an unintentional comedy.

The distinguished panel of IAS officers, the joint secretary, World Bank representative and other senior officials had to fend of ridiculous queries. Often we found them, cynosure of all eyes up on the dais, trying to suppress a giggle!

Esteemed Panel (EP): “Have you received the instruments?”
State Representative (SR) 1: “We have received cartons. We do not know what is in them. How can we sign the receipt?”
EP: “Well open them. Or simply write that you have received cartons”.

SR2: I have received 8 fax machines and I need only 6.
SR 3: Sir our instruments are being sent to the godown and not to us. We want them delivered to our doorstep.
SR 4: Ours is a new state.

EP: How many people have you recruited?
SR 4: None. Ours is a new state

And then there was this lonely lady from Rajasthan who sat in an empty row all by herself. Her progress report was the worst. After a long session of saying no to every question asked, she nearly broke down saying she was the only person in her department and couldn’t cope with the work load and do everything by herself!

And so on...


Lulled The air-conditioned comfort of the auditorium, the participants lolled into various states of relaxation – the blinkers, the nodders, the glazed eyed ones, and the lean back into the chair and fast asleep ones! They roused themselves quite fast enough during the 2 tea breaks – and the sumptuous lunch.

Post lunch, most people were in the state of advance coma when an announcement regarding the reimbursement of travel vouchers brought a sudden flurry of activity. State representatives rushed out with indecent haste to have their claims settled. Finally it was our turn to present. We waited for the questions. But none came. There was pin drop silence. Not a single question was forthcoming, despite the panelists prompting the participants.

The director then brought the proceedings to an end, but before that he had to halt the mass exodus. He spoke to the gathering in slow, clear manner, enunciating each syllable, repeating each point several times, much like a teacher does to a naughty, fidgety, kindergarten class. Maybe, the director shouldn’t speak to them as if they were slow learners, I thought, as he gave slow clear instructions for a report, repeating each point several times.

“Any questions”? He asked.
“When will you send us the format”?
“What format”?
“For the report you want”.
“But, I just told you the format”.

And again he repeated it while we sat fuming. Can’t believe we spent an entire day listening to the woes of fax machines and post creations and who would pay for toner cartridges etc.

I found myself extremely drowsy, somnolent, terribly fatigued and above all, overpowered by a sense of apathy. I just wanted to sleep. Didn’t feel like work at all. And couldn’t care less. Much like workers at a government office!

I tried avoiding the glances of my colleagues from the direct marketing and media sections. They had wasted an entire working day to listen to the fax and PC woes. I was busy counting my blessings that I hadn’t insisted upon the presence of the creative teams as well. Had they come along, I am sure they would have mutinied at the idea of them working for this project when the contract finally arrived, 8 months after we pitched for the project and 4 months after we had been told we had got it!

Book Tagging

I am trying to get back into my 4 books per week schedule but with little success. Its been more like 1 book in 2 weeks. Blame it on work and home pressures. If it sounds like I did little but read earlier, that’s not true. I ran a home (everything and on my home and no domestic help). And any one who thinks running a home is no great shakes – well Try it. And for those who run their homes smoothly and brilliantly…well don’t tell me. I will forever hate them (yes pure envy).

Total books I own: Too many to count. But alas they are back in Kolkata. Here I have around 20 or so.

Last book I bought : Eragon (Inheritance, Book 1) -- by Christopher Paolini

Last book I read : Eragon. Am reading The White Mughals and Kriya Yoga (a little bit of each…no wonder am making bad progress).

Books that mean a lot to me: 1. The Diary of Anne Frank (although it was too traumatic for me to re-read it). It was given to me on my 13th birthday and that got me started on my own journals – a habit which I still maintain to this day after so many years and 22 diaries.

2. Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carrol– Amazing.

3. Jane Eyre for Mr. Rochester and Pride and Prejudice for Darcy..but ofcourse.

4. The Century after Beatrice by Amin Malouf – One of the things I am grateful to France, for ever. I wouldn’t have heard about him or the book ever, and that would have been my loss, entirely.

5. My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk

6. The entire Terry Pratchett discworld series

And I am sure there are others, which can’t think of now and will remember as soon as I post this.


I have to, I believe tag five people and have them (don’t know if they will) do this on their blogs (but here goes):

Rezwan – This should be interesting
Parth
Sougata
Ashwin
Runa

That makes it 6....more the merrier??

The unedited version

At last it happened. My first shoot. No I have not turned actor / director over night. It was my first shoot as an account supervisor. And I was the only one from the servicing team. This was the best way to learn the ropes, according to the boss man.

The shoot was in Mumbai. The minute I stepped into the balmy airs of Mumbai, I felt a rush of happiness. People say that friends make all the difference. If you have great friends, even a dull as ditch water place can become heaven. But I don’t really know anyone there and yet, I have always loved Mumbai. 2nd to Kolkata ofcourse. I am sure people might disagree with me and say, right, what do you know about Mumbai. I don’t. My trips are hurried affairs and I stay at nice places and usually do a spot of shopping, a bit of partying before leaving. Predictably I don’t have go through the usual problems of a congested metropolis and all the associated problems.

There were a few ‘problems’ though:-Problem # 1. There was no car to pick us up at the airport although we had asked for one. Our prosaic client, travelling with us, shooed us into a cab and off we went. Problem # 2 On arriving at the hotel, we found that their computer system had broken down and they had no records of our reservation on mail. So we had to wait endlessly. Problem # 3 – The car that we had booked for the day had in the meantime, come to the hotel and missed us (we were stuck in a traffic jam) and gone. So I blew my top and wonderfully. And immediately subsided and felt very sheepish, almost apologetic when seeing the hapless staff of a hotel famous for its inefficiency. It’s easier to rant at someone who is not so polite. Here, in contrast, all of them were shuffling and cringing, which made me feel really bad. So subsequently, I apologised (yes), to the first person I had screamed at – a trainee. God why do I do these things?

After we had checked in, our client, an elderly, but really smart lady told us to go and eat at “Mahesh Lunch House” famous for its sea food. Infact she even gave us directions. So we did. And how. We had rawas fish tandoori, manglorean prawn curry and crabs on a bed of garlic. And even bravely used the pincers (I think that’s what they are) to crack the shell. A messy affair but worth the trouble. We could barely walk when we were done.

We then went all the way across the city and beyond to the check out the studio. The shoot was scheduled for the next day. I sat in the front while our client and my colleague, at the back of the hired car. After a while, the whole car reeked of garlic. I looked everywhere to find the source. And then the client too smelt it. Egad. It must be my bag. Some garlic had fallen onto the bag. I quietly put it down on the floor. And the smell went away. But then my cell rang. And I had to pick up the bag to take the call and viola! There it was again – the strong odour of garlic. And so it went till we reached the studio. But not before I gave a lengthy explanation to the client about our lunch and the garlic and my bag. Thankgod, the client was rather sweet about it. Much later, back in our hotel, my colleague told me, it was her burping which was responsible. And somehow, each time I picked up my bag, she let a burp slip out. And she had a hard time controlling her laughter at my lengthy explanation.

The studio was marvellous. From outside it looked like an ugly warehouse with a gate which anyone can miss as we did. As soon as we entered, we had to go through a huge arched gate with CENTRAL JAIL written on it, complete with a huge iron door with a wicket gate. A must prop for countless Hindi film where either the villain or the hero and sometimes both come out of, and ask the havaldar for a ‘bidi’. The central jail led to a school, an ornate period house, a village chowk, a petrol pump, a temple, and a row of shops and more, all within!! This studio was at the end of a long straight road which came to an abrupt end at a river. Later on, the director told me that it belonged to Haji Mastaan and he had conducted his notorious smuggling operations right from here. I immediately had visions of men in ugly polyester suits with flapping collars (height of chic in the early 70’s) flashing torches at each other at the dead of night and saying “Sona aa gaya, Boss.” (The gold has arrived, Boss). Quite the ‘visionary’, me.

There was some shoot going on. Some elderly men were lounging around – they were playing the roles of village elders. One of them even had a bit role in our ad as the head master!

Next morning, the studio was a hub of activity. Very chaotic, at first glance. But as the day progressed, the team marvellously created classrooms, village scenes and an entire live market scene with complete shops and vegetable vendors including goats and chicken. The goats were, later on not used and some one took them away. The chickens however were covered by a wicker basket and kept up a lively squawking. Loads of children in school dress and village characters lounged around. Very colourful. Things magically appeared. When I said that we needed crystal salt for the shoot and not the refined one, hey presto! 2 bags appeared within minutes. Our client pointed out mistakes in the Tamil sign board of the school. Painter, some one yelled. A chap appeared with a pot of paint and brush and made the changes immediately. I pointed out that we needed a pregnant lady. “Pregnant lady needed”, yelled the director and ohe of ladies was rushed to the make up room and re-appeared looking pregnant. “She needs to look more pregnant”, I said. “No problem. One more cushion,” yelled the director.

There was one person from the production unit, dedicated to serving us. Apparently it the norm. But I was very uncomfortable. I had to just stand up and he’d come and shift my chair to wherever I went. He followed us with stand fans and gave us umpteem cups of tea and coffee and nimbu pani and any thing else we wanted including cajoling us to partake in the lavish breakfast and lunch spread. At one point, the chickens under the wicker baskets got really agitated, when some one discovered that one of them had laid an egg. Our faithful attendant immediately took it out and later served it boiled to our creative director.

The main actor, a character actor from Bollywood had his own attendants too. But he was a very nice, genial chap who was doing this ad for us for a nominal fee, this being a small budget, social service TV ad. Best of all, he had no airs and graces. After every shot, he would sit in own special chair that his attendant would set up, wherever he was. He had his lunch with us but on his own special crockery and he had his own air conditioned room, which he very graciously invited us into, in between shots. Infact, after he had done his scenes and had changed and was leaving, we remembered that we needed some close-ups. He immediately obliged.

But for the rest of the cast, the children, the shopkeepers, the villagers, things were different. They were ready and made up when we arrived in the morning even though their shots were scheduled later in the day. They had to find their own place to sit. And ate their lunch together after we had finished ours.

My job was to make sure that all the desired elements were in place. The right type mix of communities, young married couple (our target group), smart but non-urban children, pregnant lady etc. I also had an impromptu role as a singer. The spot was being shot simultaneously in Hindi and Tamil. There was a Tamil language expert on the set and he was trying to fit the Tamil lyrics in the meter and I had to sing the Hindi lines to him over and over again. Then he read out the Tamil lyrics and I wrote them in Hindi and sang it back to him to fine tune it!! I was quite thrilled with my linguistic skills. But that joy was short-lived when I saw the lead actor in action. He hadn’t seen the tamil lyrics till the very last minute. The Tamil expert read out couple of lines to him, he memorised it on the spot and acted it out and it was canned. And then he moved onto the next line. He took less time than me and had little problem with it!! I was impressed.

The director watching the proceedings from a monitor and gave his directions seated far away. I however, preferred to be at the scene watching everyone. Unfortunately, I was targeted by crows and had to rush off, not once, but twice to wash my hand and my head (ugh) in between shots. Our faithful attendant told me that it was good luck (to have a crow crap on you). Naturally, this kept me preoccupied. So when the boss SMS-ed to ask how the shoot was progressing, I wrote back “OK”. He later called to ask what did “OK” mean? Either I didn’t like what I saw or I didn’t understand what was happening. Oops.

And finally, when the shoot was nearly over and the crew were packing up, one of the lead characters, a pretty lady came up to me, looking very different sans make up, in jeans and a shirt (she played a young small town mother in the ad). She said she had recently come to Mumbai and was looking to make a career in movies. And moonlighting in commercials. Then she pulled her chair up closer to mine and said she wanted to play a police woman or a doctor – character roles in movies and definitely not a heroine, because that would involve making a lot of compromises (not being well connected in the film industry) and could I put in a word for her among directors I knew. I knew none. But she said it with so much hope that I found myself saying, I certainly would and if I were to shoot another ad film, I would certainly get in touch with her. She stood up and in a very touching gesture, bowed with hands folded in a namaste and thanked me and left.

I was very tired and could barely talk on my way back to the hotel. But I was happy. Everything had gone off well. The classroom shot, the community shots – in the market place and at the village chowk, the children playing, and whole lot of others and in two versions – Hindi and Tamil, all in one day including the sets (I had seen a bare studio just 24 hours earlier). The fairly large amount of footage would now be edited to fit into a 40 second spot to be aired on aired on TV. It will, I am sure be a great spot, but obviously, I will always cherish, the unedited version, the one I saw being shot!

Get cool quick schemes

I am running out of words to describe how hot it is. Outdoors, my skin feels like its being broiled. And when I return home, no matter how early or late, as soon as I enter, I can feel the heat weigh down on me. I have little recourse but to switch on the air conditioner for longer than I intend to. Am dreading the electricity bill.

This was a long weekend, with Monday a holiday for Budh Purnima. And for the first time, I was not really looking forward to it. Office with its central air-conditioning seemed such a better alternative!

We decided to see a movie on Sunday so that we could spend the afternoon – the hottest part of the day away from our hot apartment. And so we did, even though it meant dragging oneself off after a heavy Sunday lunch at 4pm to go to the nearest cinema hall, some 15 minutes away. We returned home at 9.30 after spending a pleasant evening watching a movie and a sumptuous meal. The enitre area was very dark. But we weren’t really worried. We have a big inverter and till date, there never has been an all night power cut.

I decided to check on my plants –a nightly routine, when I saw my neigbour sitting on her terrace fanning herself with a hand fan. She told me that the power had been coming and going since 4pm, a good 6 hours or so. There seems to be some grid failure. And as a result, her inverters too were running low on charge. I rushed indoors to tell A and we decided to switch off the fans and sit out in the verandah, which we did till, the mosquitoes drove us indoors. Inside the heat was too stifling. We opened every single window and door in the hope of cajoling in some of the coolness outside but the bed was really warm. Little of the coolness came in. Instead the mosquitoes did, and in hordes. The power came on and we ran to shut every door and window and switch on the AC. And just as we are about to retire in relief, the power went off. Again we opened the doors and the windows and so on and so forth.

A decided on an old Delhi trick – sprinkling the mattresses with water and laying down on it. Even the lazy swishing of the fan made the room much cooler. I had never heard of a thing like this and was understandably very reluctant. A lay down on his side of the bed, oohing and aahing about how wonderful it was and that sort of convinced me to try the same. That gave us some relief. We both kept mugs of water next to the bed and kept sprinkling more water on to the bed.

We have been trying all sorts of get cool quick schemes including drinking gallons of liquid and nimbu pani and eating light lunches, filling up buckets, before the water in the overhead tank gets too hot), keeping the shades drawn etc. And now I am nice and cool, having hit upon the ultimate cool idea….have sneaked off to office, citing work!

Meanwhile, the bunch of people working on the transformer thingy (bang opposite our house) has swelled in numbers. They have been at it since early morning and yet, no sign of power. And I have a guest coming to visit me this evening…

Perseverance Pays

Its that time of the year again. When the birds decide to rear a family. I guess they decide on it and then build a nest and then try for a family and then lay eggs, hatch them and rear their little ones. And their success rate must be 100%, no infertility. None has been reported. So far. How else does one explain the self confident tearing hurry and the tremendous nest making activity. Their birdly body clock ticking away loudly inside their tiny bodies.

Back in Kolkata, a group of crows would every year, select a ledge inside our verandah to build their nest despite all sorts of intervention from us – mainly me, (my parents being of the more tolerant variety), and once their babies hatched, they flew away till next year and so they continue, to this day.

Not many Crows around here in Gurgaon. Instead, there are pigeons who make quite a racket, flapping their wings against our bathroom door and throwing up ghostly shadows against the frosted windowpanes. But they keep their family rearing activities out of sight. Not so with the Mynas. One tiny but extremely tenacious pair has decided to use the funnel of our chimney (not the ones which go above a fireplace, but one of those new fangled things that goes over a cooking range) which sticks out of a hole cut into the kitchen window. I was startled by the clanking noises inside the funnel and found out that they had decided to build a nest in it. And being the vicious animal that humans are (should not generalise like this; perhaps its only me), switched on the chimney so that it immediately expelled the pathetic little twigs that they had put in. The minute I switched it off, the birds were back. So back and forth it continued in the morning as I was getting ready to leave for work. I left instructions to have the mouth of the funnel boarded up with some netting. The tiny little birds fought valiantly and pecked our maid Kusum on the arm, and she immediately feigned extreme injury and refused to do any cleaning that day. This morning, they were back again.

Robert Bruce said that if at first you don’t succeed, try and try again. True. The birds haven’t heard of Robert Bruce but they are trying and trying. I can of course be really bad and switch the chimney on after they have built the entire nest. But I wont. Can’t help but admire their tenacity. Soon, a baby myna or mynas will fill the chimney and kitchen with their tiny cheeps.

Perseverance obviously pays.

Madam you have killed them!

'Madame, aapney to inhey maar hi dala'. Madam you have killed them. Aghast, the mali told me. Mortified, I listened. My little garden dead before it could bloom?

I had been meaning to button hole the mali into getting me a small garden started on the balcony. The thing was, I could never manage to catch hold of him, although he came to our house daily to tend to the garden downstairs. One fine, rather hot day, he turned up to accompany me to the nearby nursery. R was visiting me then. The two of us hopped on to a rickshaw while the mali followed on a bicycle.

At the nursery, I asked for plants which would be easy to maintain. I was shown three which according to the nursery chap, didn’t need much watering. Just plenty of sun light. We hoisted them onto the rickshaw and came home. A and I dragged the plants three flights up. The mali told me that he would come later and replace the pots with bigger ones and more fresh soil. Fine. In the meanwhile, I checked them regularly and ocassionally watered them. The red bougainevilla sort of crumpled. Too much water I thought. And stopped watering it altogether. The white one grew vertically. Three long upright twigs with three white blossoms at each end. The third one some tincopanna or something like that…would be all droopy and curly each evening and would miraculously revive when I watered it. The red one never recovered. And yet, the dried buds remained firmly affixed to the stems. I would however check them each night, before going to bed. I would talk to them (saw that on a TV sitcom), tenderly stroke them, mentally sending "grow and blossom" messages. One large balcony, three small ugly pots, three plants in various stages of death and decay. Never mind that. There were really precious to me.

I asked my neighbour (the president of the local kitchen garden owner’s association) as to why my plants were dying. Add manure. Really? Easier said than done. Where and how. How come the road to my office is full of hale and hearty bougenvillaes – no one ever waters them and they are under strong strong sunlight. And manure? Not many cows around either.

And that is when the mali came up to check on my plants. “Apney to maar hi dala”.
- But I was told they don’t need water.
- That’s only after the leaves have grown. Once the flowers appear, water them every alternate day. Not before that. Ek balti paani pilaya. Literally, they drank a bucket full of water. He left strict instructions to water them thrice a day. And sure enough, the tincoma grew and how. The white bougainevilla sprouted baby leaves. The red one resisted. As if withdrawn in an injured silent protest. But I still have hopes for it. It has now three new leaves. No sign of flowers yet. The dried up buds still clinging on fast like little blood clots.

The mali has since then repotted them, added fertilizers. He said that maybe I should get more plants. And he could accompany me to the nursery.
- How about today?
- No, am busy. But maybe next weekend?
- No I will be busy. Ok, how about the weekend after that?
- Madame, why don’t you tell me which plants you like, he said pointing to our neighbours gardens.
- Eeps…but don’t I have to ask their permission?
- Well, I AM the garderner out here. And I do all the trimmings and repotting. So its really in my hands.
- Really?

Well, now I have a good mind to take a leisurely walk among the wonderful houses all around with even more wonderful garden, note down the house numbers and make a note of the plants I want. How about that?!

When we lived in the middle east, plants were rather expensive. She would always be on the lookout for plants...a rare sight in the desert and if she ever saw a nice specimen, would think out loud of getting down from the car for a wee bit and grabbing hold of it, to take home. She never did. Back then, R and I would immediately shoot down any such idea of ma's...what if the owner ... some irate sheikh would find out and run after us? I am doing much of the same aren't I? No irate sheikhs out here though...


This morning, I found, to my delight, a small greenish-reddish blob on the tincoma (I am sure I have the name wrong)....it wont be late now, that my balcony will be a bright splash of colours!

Fatehpur Sikri

Took R to Agra this weekend. Enroute we stopped at Fatehpur Sikri(My second visit).

Royal Quarters
On my first visit to Fatehpur Sikri, I had learnt all about the Diwane-e-aam and Diwan-e-khas where Akbar met his courtiers and general public respectively; the dais in the middle of a small pool from where Tansen sang, I imagine, to a rapt Akbar; the X-marked blocks where people stood and moved when Akbar played “pacheesi” from a balcony above.

The three palaces of his three wives - – the muslim wife Roqaiya, the christian Mariam (her rooms where in the form of a cross) and the largest of them all – Jodha Bai’s mother of his only child Jehangir. Infact the last was a complex in itself – with a temple, summer and winter palace, courtyard etc. The palaces of the other two were really large rooms in comparison. Felt a bit sad for the childless (and perhaps) sidelined 1st two wives. Then there was the pillared and wall less “panch mahal”, where the wives did their own thing on each floor. Visions of the three wives ‘doing their own thing’ and studiously ignoring the other, popped up and had me giggling. Perhaps they were all rather friendly.

The mighty Jalaluddin Akbar, with his visions of religious harmony and who after Ashoka was the only other Emperor to rule over a such a vast empire, the guide told us, was a very short, rotund and fellow. Despite his undenieable greateness, the thought of him sprinting in between the three palaces has me in splits! Or were the wives summoned?

The guide informed us that the now bare walls were once bejewelled and gilted, gouged out by some one or other in India’s chequered past. It was difficult to imagine the dusty bare floors were once covered with persian carpets and cushions on which lolled (even more difficult to imagine, given the stifling heat) resplendent royals in heavy brocades and silks, heavily jewelled. How was it back then? Courtiers and guards, villagers and royalty, servants and mastersand amid all that, the mighty Akbar.

As our guide rattled out the history and geography of it, it all seemed so idyllic. School rooms for children, a maternity block, a khwab mahal or dream palace, a meena bazar where the royals shopped. The architecture was a pleasing melange of persian, muslim, christian and hindu motifs. Domes and lotuses, jain carvings and crosses all co-existing in splendid harmony for over 400 years.

Here and there, one could see some vibrant shade of blue of some wall painting that somehow survived. The other survivors were the aqua marine blue tiles on top of Jodha Bai’s summer palace. It looked strangely out of place. Everything else was red sandstone and bare walls. And then suddenly some blue.

And yet, today, the place was so desolate, so forlorn, so abandoned.

The guide was very informed but he was very keen to show us around and then move on to the next group and so we were really rushed and in a short while, found ourselves at the exit. The only thing I took back from the place was the terrible terrible emptiness and silence. Not even the hordes of tourists and eager guides could fill that.

The Prayer area (for the lack of a better word)
The other side was the prayer area. The entrance was through the smaller gate (quite big actually) – the one used by the royalty to get inside the enclosed courtyard which housed the mosque and the dargah of Salim Chisti. The mighty Buland Darwaza – the highest gate way in Asia which was used by the public during his time. Not so any more. Everyone uses the smaller entrance.

Childless Akbar had been to Ajmer and the guide told us that he had even been to Vaishno Devi (don’t know the authenticity of that one) but in vain. And then he dreamt of a sage, a ‘baba’ who lived atop a hill in Sikri village. He came and met him and was blessed by him and soon, Jehangir was born. Salim chisti’s descendents – the 16th generation, still live inside.

We went out to the other side to take a look at the Buland Darwaza. The granite was really hot and we had blisters but I had to take a look at it and that meant braving outside to get a full view of the highest gateway in Asia. The throngs of tourists and hawkers and the heat and dust and the centuries of grime some how made it less grander…a pity since it was and still is the a magnificent piece of architecture.

The huge doors were studded with horse shoes of people who prayed for the recovery of their sick horses and the outsize ones stuck by Lord Curzon. On both my visits, the guides pointed them out underlining the fact that no horse has hooves that size!

Pathetic little urchins, dressed in rags, ran among the chattering tourists, trying to sell their wares. One even ran after me, insisting in English, “I’ll wiat for you”. As I walked in between the tombs of the chisti family, another kid, a little girl in a torn frock, bare feet on the hot granite block, shaved head dotted with scabs tried to sell me something else. What a sad decline in the mighty grandeur of Akbar’s empire.

Like the last time, the guide stopped at a seller of chadars and flowers…there were others dotting the courtyard each guide had obviously a pact with each one.

I was a bit irritated at his insistence of buying the most expensive chadar to drape over the mazar of Chisti. House of god is free to all, after all. Isn’t that how its supposed to be?

‘Chadar nei dena to rumal hi de do sister’. (Buy an handkerchief if you don’t want buy a shawl). Aur dhaga bandho (and tie the threads) – baba never fails. And when your wish is fulfilled, come and open it or feed two needy people or fakirs. ‘But my wish hasn’t been fulfilled’, I asked him.

Never mind, baba bula hi lega (Baba will call you back).

Perhaps he did. R had mentioned going to Mathura and the Taj instead of Fatehpur Sikri and the Taj. It was me who decided in favour of FPS!

Perhaps, Baba ne bulaa hi liya. (Baba really did call me back).

Grass is always greener on the other side?

Seems so. Its been ages and ages since I have blogged. Forget blogging, its been ages since I have had the time to even think of blogging. Each night I somehow manage to crawl upstairs and collapse on my bed and spend a night plagued by nightmares of things I haven’t done or that needs to be done.

I wanted a home of my own, where I am free to do as I please. I wanted neighbours I could speak to. Above all, I wanted to be home, in India. I have all of those. Its been three months since I have moved in to a lovely place. All balconies and large airy rooms, a huge terrace to enjoy evenings with friends. How often had I dreamt of my proper drawing room, balconies overflowing with greenery. And yet, my house is still not ‘done’. M-I-l has helped by doing up things in my absence. R who is visiting us, has redone it a bit more…but still its so bare. My balconies lie empty. I managed to get three potted plants and haven’t yet figured out the watering schedule and so they are wilting.

Got a cook and daily help, after a few failed attempts. This one is the third one. I haven’t been able to instruct her properly and so she generally has a ball in my absence. Sunday is the only day we meet and that too if we are staying in!

I had it all planned out ….I would get up in early (I was, till recently, an early bird), sit in my lovely verandah and enjoy my morning cuppa and catch up on the news. I somehow manage to crawl out just an hour before I have to leave for office. Tea is a hurried affair. The morning paper arrives indifferently and the paper man chucks it expertly from three flights below all rolled up tight with a rubber band. Anyone sitting on the verandah risks being hit on the head with a loud thwack!

So, all the while, governments are falling and new ones being made, Tsunamis hitting and all sorts of casting couch scandals breaking, I carry on unawares in the bewildering world of proposals and pitches and review meetings and briefs.

The glass top on our new lovely dining table cracked from side to side. Already. Mosquitos (which were absent) in Jan, when we had moved in, are back with a vengeance. We have managed to get a hammer, nails, mosquito nets….but don’t know when we will be able to string them up!

Neighbours are very nice and friendly. But I have to repeatedly turn down their requests for tea and coffee since I am always meeting them on my way to work. My neigbour downstairs, I have exactly thrice, twice when I was locked out returning very late at night and had to wake them up to remove the padlock on the gate. I did get a chance to meet them at holi. But then it was a very brief civilised sort of a polite meet.

We haven't decided on a car yet. In our brief conversations late at night or in the mornings, before I leave for work, we swap notes. How about this one? No, no not fuel efficient. OK. How about that one? Too expensive. And so on and so forth. Cash or finance? AC or non AC? To have or not? Upshot of all this is, that on good Friday, a holiday, I had to come to office for work while A left for his parents and I found out that there were no cabs available. All drivers had gone on leave on the long holi weekend. So, we, A and I spent our first holi in India, apart.

My days in France seems so idyllic in comparison. I had all the time in the world to cook, paint, blog, walk about, watch movies, do yoga, visit places, museums, parks..

After what seems an eternity, I can leave early for home this evening. Or so I thought. Our electricity got cut off this morning due to some mix up. The landlord had paid the earlier bill and although our electicity has been restored, we need to show the recipt by tomorrow morning. And that bill will be faxed to me (at my office) late tonight. So…I am stuck in office anyhow.

The trouble with chapatis....

A long time back, I was invited for lunch at a school mate’s home for lunch. It was my first average UP lunch. Average in the same routine, normal, daily, 'rozmarra'. Simple tasty vegetarian food with chapatis served hot off the 'tawa'. Soft and hot. Her mother served us one by one. I just loved the idea. But that was not how it was at home. Us bengalis are rice eaters. Ofcourse now a days, many of them, us included have switched to the more healthy rotis for dinner, but alas our cook made them in advance and kept them in a casserole.

Things were different at my in-laws. They are long time residents of Delhi. Proverbial 'dilli wallas'. M-i-l made dinner in advance but rotis came hot off the 'tawa' during dinner. After I got married, it was my turn to make the rotis. I did state that I could make rotis. Very grandly at that. They even turn round when I roll them out. Is what I said. That proved to be my undoing. First of all I couldn’t roll them out quickly enough while one was on the tawa. I had to roll them all out in advance and then roast them. What took m-i-l 5 minutes, took me well over an hour to do.

But that lasted only during my brief visits to India.

When I returned for good last May, things really got serious. Every night was an ordeal, for me and for the rest of the family. I routinely turned out tough as leather, half burnt, half raw rotis. A and f-i-l bravely ate them but m-i-l was rather more vocal about it. Especially since she had a bad tooth. There I was every evening, sweat running over my forehead and into my eyes, in the terrible delhi heat, rolling out one horrible chapati after the other. My m-i-l was quite at her wits end how to teach me to do it. But after a while, even she gave up. It did seem that I was spoiling each and every roti on purpose and finding new ways to do it. The dough would stick to the rolling board, sometimes it would fall onto the floor. When I finished, there was atta all over the place. The tawa was burnt to cinders. And I was sweaty and hot and bothered and the family were chewing leather!

And then we shifted to our own place in Gurgaon, just A and me, believe it or not, the very first night, my rotis turned up light and fluffed up perfectly. And the sad part was there was no one to see them. I had to call A to witness this minor miracle. But obviously its not the same thing as his nonchalantly saying ‘Yes, yes, great’! Not content with that, my parathas turned out well too.

M-i-l understandably finds it hard to believe…