Tables Turned

Ever since I can remember, there's one sobriquet that has stuck to me; perhaps, not unjustifiably. And that is the ‘Springer of surprises’. I think right from those nascent days when half-baked wisdom dawned in some nebulous part of the brain, I loved surprising people. To me, life was defined in the number of surprises I could spring. On family, friends, dear ones et al...and as I grew older and tried to analyse the psychology, I arrived at the conclusion that this instinct unerringly stemmed from one single fact: I loved spreading happiness in my own little way. So whether it was getting Mummy's long-awaited Agatha Christie book finally issued from the Club library or buying the old Pankaj Mullick LP record Papa spoke so longingly of, to picking up my siblings' favourite games/clothes/books (pocket and  opportunity permitting; live as we did in a quaint, out-of-this-world place, where proper shopping complexes were unheard-of) or even after age and maturity had set in (and I had the good fortune of living in the same city where my parents settled down after retirement)- to not mentioning any sibling's travel plans and organising a surreptitious pick-up from the station/airport without telling the parents because that was the ultimate treat for them. And savouring the wonderful moment when their eyes would light up and their faces glow with sheer joy, on suddenly seeing a loved offspring in front of them: a completely unannounced, unplanned arrival. Once the excitement died down, Mummy would go into a tizzy wondering how she could rustle up a good meal at such short notice but this confusion would be short lived. Once she went into the kitchen to check what provisions were available, she would be suitably surprised to see that a good meal had been arranged and the old retainer was busy giving it the finishing touches. (Dessert included. And most of the time it would be a particular favourite of the visiting individual)

In short, Life trundled along pretty much full of surprises, most of them engineered by me (Most of my friends, when scribbling their tearful farewell messages in tomes euphemistically called ‘autograph’ books, made a reference to this penchant of mine. Some even went so far as to suggest that they would remember me only for being such a sucker for surprises!) By and by, though, many who came in contact with me acquired this habit, as they too saw it as a harmless way of ensuring good cheer and joy all around.

The only problem that folks close to me encountered was that-though I was the original lover of surprises- it was tough to surprise me. Always thinking ahead of different possibilities, I would get suspicious if I saw anyone lingering uncharacteristically over a job or taking longer than required over a task and promptly ferret out what was cooking. Over the years, another familiar tag stuck to me (largely self-generated I confess!): I couldn't be surprised-I would manage to sniff out every feeble attempt made by any hapless soul attempting to do this.

Till last Sunday, when every tall claim made by me, every smug assumption was shattered into a thousand smithereens (though very pleasantly for me). My son, home for the winter break, had been insisting that we go for this ‘wonderful tweed exhibition’ that he had visited the previous day and been extremely impressed by. Now, having invited my siblings and their families for dinner that evening, I was in no mood to go gallivanting off to some vague embassy fete, half way across the NCR, but Saagar is seldom as emphatic as he was that day. I kept hoping that the habitual late riser that he is, his enthusiasm would cool once he realised he had woken up too late to go out and return by early afternoon (my stern stipulation) but such hopes were dashed when he was up at the crack of dawn (read 10 am) reiterating the programme mooted the day before. This time I tried alternate strategy, pointing out that Srishti's exams were on and she shouldn't waste time, especially as she was bound to do that at dinner that evening and suggesting that she should refrain from accompanying us. This would, I hoped, weaken his resolve, as leaving poor li’l sis all alone on a Sunday would melt a heart of stone. But it didn't work: the lady in question declared, with touching confidence, that oh she had studied everything for the exam the night before and the young man endorsed the fact that he saw no problem in her accompanying us. The spouse, of course, was all game because visions of a smart tweed jacket floated before his eyes and nothing galvanizes him into action quite as fast as shopping for winter-wear in general and tweed in particular!

When it was quite clear that the programme could not be sabotaged (there were three formidable adversaries) I capitulated with good grace. Giving a hundred and one instructions to the maid to make preparations for the evening party (some headway had already been made the day before, careful planner that I am) I got ready, only to be mildly reproached by daughter dear, who felt my outfit was too casual for a formal fete (an oxymoron if ever there was one!) Adhering to her suggestion, I changed into something that seemed passable, to be told by sonny boy, half an hour later, that even diplomats were expected at these places so perhaps the chirpy red West side T shirt I had cheerfully donned wasn't quite appropriate. Wisely accepting that the kids were now grown up and knew a thing or two about social graces, I changed into a formal shirt-though, pitifully, the colour was not in tandem with the trousers. As this was getting to be more and more like a military exercise-we had to return home by 2.30 pm, thanks to someone having said that he would be visiting us at that appointed time-I kept urging the kids to hurry up and leave so that we would be back in good time. In my heart of hearts, I knew there was a better reason for the hurry to return-I wanted my afternoon rest before gearing up for a busy evening-with its share of some marathon cooking.

We left at 11.45 am and despite Srishti's repeated urging that he should drive slowly, Saagar kept the speed at a consistent 60 k mph. Once in a way, either the spouse or I would also remind him to go slow and he would release the accelerator but the general drift is that we made good speed. The Chanakyapuri area was where we had to go-he said he knew the place in his mind's eye though he didn't know the exact address. Well that didn't matter, reaching the place was all that was important and he enlightened us that he would manage to do that. En route, other than reminding him to go slower and inquiring every now and then how far away we were from destination point, Srishti pretty much kept her counsel, till suddenly, as Saagar slowed down and almost stopped at the gate of a place called Sikkim House, she piped in vehemently, “This is not the place!” Now you could have knocked me down with a feather; perhaps that statement needs a bit of explanation. The young lady in question is one who has no clue about directions and whose only claim to road sense is, perhaps, knowing the way from home to college and back. This, if nothing else before or subsequently, should have made me smell a rat, but I was completely oblivious to all the tell-tale signs that had been presenting themselves from the start of day. How or why on earth did Srishti have a say in the matter? What idea could she possibly have of where we were going? I did say as much and she commented that brother dear had described the place in great detail to her (why on earth, I didn't think) The long and the short of it was that though a trifle annoyed, Saagar honoured her outburst and didn't stop the car. In the process he took another wrong turn (earlier he had taken a U turn where it was not allowed) and we were speeding away on a track, untrodden heretofore. A lively argument ensued, each passing the buck and blaming the other for our pitiable state. I couldn't figure out how the lad, who had been there just a day before and who’s pretty clued-on about roads, could be so befuddled now but decided to go with the flow. On the second recci, we crossed the same building again and this time, with growing confidence, Saagar suddenly declared that that was the place. Well, this didn't seem like an embassy, I demurred but his stout rejoinder was,’ This is where I had parked my car yesterday”, and confidently turned into the gate of the deserted-looking building, which bore no signs of hosting a fete of any kind, let alone one as impressive as the type organised at embassies.

Trying my best to locate a fair of any kind now, I looked around and, to my immense surprise, perceived a human figure standing on the slope that led into the bhawan. Now, one sees human figures all the time, in all places, but what aroused my keen interest at that particular moment was because it happened to be that of my one and only sister and seeing her suddenly in the middle of nowhere-if you know what I mean-filled me with pleasurable surprise. I jumped out of the car even before he had finished parking it and expressed sentiments like fancy meeting her there or words to that general effect. She explained that she was there to meet a colleague and was now about to proceed to Vigyan bhawan to see her minister. Good, I said, that we had caught her in the nick of time, or another extra reconnoiter on Delhi roads and we would’ve missed her. Yes, she agreed, ostensibly heading towards a waiting white ambassador. Just then, I espied a sleek white Honda City driving into the humble gate and finding an uncanny resemblance, turned to my sister and said sotto voce “Omigod! The driver looks so much like Manoj!”(Our brother) She grinned inanely and before she could say anything, I noticed the man seated in the passenger seat of the car and almost did a double take: for it was my elder brother, from Bombay! What was happening? What was all this? By now, Manoj had stepped out of the car, family in tow, and had uttered the magic words “Happy Birthday!” 

The penny finally dropped! These chappies had got me to this place, on the flimsiest of pretexts, to celebrate my birthday which had been 4 days before. They had deliberately driven around killing time and Srishti’s desperate intervention had been made to delay our arrival (privy as she was to superior information coming every minute on her cell phone) and Saagar, smartly having caught on that she was trying to create perfect timing for the rendezvous, had chosen to take us on a prolonged drive. Once we made our way into the hall, we were met by my brother-in-law, who was absolutely sure that the surprise must have been revealed hours earlier. He was more than surprised to learn that I hadn’t guessed a thing right till the very last moment and even then, thought that it was a family lunch. But more pleasant surprises were to follow, as in two’s and three’s, many of my/the spouse’s dear cousins and their families began trickling in at regular intervals, resulting in more squeals of amazement and joyous laughter. Just when I would think the gathering was complete, in would walk another couple/family-oh the feeling was too rapturous to be put into words! The whole scene was reminiscent of the ‘aaj zamin pe utare itne sitare hain…’ if I may be allowed to be a little audacious in my comparison, as more and more folks sauntered in.

My cup of joy was brimming. Manoj singled me out and informed me how the kids had done the entire planning. He had tried suggesting that the party should be organised in his new home, but they had been adamant. No, the treat was on them, thanks a lot, but they would host it. So they had chosen a third place (had been ably assisted at every juncture by their Mausi) and, he went on to add with pride, they had saved for months to foot the bill. They had not taken their dad into confidence knowing his congenital inability to keep secrets and, confessed my brother a little sheepishly, he too hadn’t been calling me since a week earlier as he hadn’t trusted himself to not give away the closely guarded strategy. I felt a lump in my throat as I thought of all the meticulous planning the children must have done, the counting of funds, the lowered voices on phone, the extraction of phone numbers from my cell phone, the issuing of invitations (later I was told that the plan had been swung into motion weeks before and an excel sheet had been duly created to track progress) and all the time the sword of discovery-by their gimlet-eyed mom-looming over their heads. These kids, whom I was always reprimanding for being too laidback or lacking in organization, had pulled the rug from right under my feet. They had organised a terrific do, the kind I could never have imagined-a first for them-and done it in style-on slickly oiled wheels. Most importantly, they had made all these efforts to ensure a memorable day, a day of perfect bliss for their mother.

That was one of the happiest days of my life, rendered unforgettable by the almost magical quality it had and made immeasurably special by the thoughtfulness, the caring and the deep abiding love that went into the execution of the event.

My kiddos Bestest!!

(TW)

Hearty Hat trick

It was one of those weekends that have a special quality. Of course, any week-end when sonny is home from the hostel has enough reason to be that-but this one was more special. Saturday was an enjoyable day, and we managed to cover a lot of important ground (read visit the locker, enroll into a wayside library – both long pending tasks) and what’s more, watched the latest Bond movie with relish (without being an aficionado of either Bond or English flicks, in that order) But most important of all, one did some meaningful shopping. And yet, the good part was that one didn’t feel rushed or end up with a sense of fatigue or the feeling of having spent a hectic day.

The shopping, among other things, included purchasing the all-important formal shoes for the young man on the verge of facing placement interviews. This innocuous and rather mundane, as some of you might want to put it, exercise was fraught with its fair share of animated discussion (mandatory in our home before anything of import can happen) As soon as we were at the shoe-display section of Lifestyle, controversy reared its head and a lively debate ensued. While I insisted that he needed a pair of shoes with laces, the youngster was adamant that the stylish designs with Velcro and what-have you-thingummies would do as well for the formal category. Hasty parleys were made, as we connected with our respective generations (the spouse, the brother and yours truly voted unanimously for shoes with laces while his young pals rooted for the non-lace variety.) As always, hoary age triumphed over impetuous youth and the time-tested word experience, uttered sotto voce, did the trick. We emerged from an adjacent shop a few minutes later, a pair of smart, Red Tape black formal shoes, with laces, swinging in hand.


But the best was yet to come: the shopping spree having taken up quite a lot of time, had lent a palpable edge to one’s appetite. So we made our way to the all-time favourite joint: KFC. (A visit to KFC is always accompanied by a host of fond memories. Our first visit to its vaunted precincts, in the summer of 2001, had been a particularly memorable one, greenhorns that we were, untried to the ways of the KFC world. We had been completely bowled over by the crisply succulent (oxymoron??) chicken portions, which, we later discovered, were signature KFC. The over all ambience, the terrific victuals and the generosity of our patron-who had treated us a to a wonderful meal-all come rushing back each time I visit one of its branches) Once we made ourselves comfortable, the orders were placed and soon the kids returned with trays loaded with goodies. While I had settled for the boringly predictable KFC fare (aforementioned) they had been more imaginative and had gone for a burger, each, as well. (Of course, the unspoken family rule-that the one who doesn’t order a particular item is still offered a bite so s/he gets a taste of what s/he’s missed-was implemented. Never one to say ‘no’ to such offers, I promptly took a bite of the wholesome burger and then focused my undivided attention on gobbling the crunchy, crispy chicken pieces. The gourmet delight this delicacy offers is almost unparalleled but you later realize that in these days of specialization-where even English is taught for specific purposes (the fast getting-popular genre of ESP, for the uninitiated) almost every type of cuisine has evolved its own unique taste and flavour.

As the following day was to prove. Now, Sundays normally mean a relaxed sort of day for us: waking up late, languorously savouring the rays of bright sunshine peeping through the lacy curtains before setting foot on the cold floor and moving to the warm confines of the drawing room, with its promise of piping hot tea and the newspaper. The day generally unfolds itself unhurriedly and we allow ourselves to go with the flow, not hastening for any of the usual activities. Lunch means a non-vegetarian main dish and some veggies accompanied by the usual chapatti-rice-dal combo and then comes the much-looked- forward-to afternoon siesta.

But this Sunday was different as the young lad was about to launch into the exciting adventure of belling the CAT. Careful planning had gone into play and 8 a.m saw me and mine making our way to an almost unknown part of the city: the wild west Delhi region. Luckily, the one and a half hour drive we had resigned ourselves to, ended up being of just an hour’s duration, thanks to the Sunday factor. I shall gloss over the happenings of the next three hours-mine being too boring to merit mention, the youngster’s too mind-boggling (for poor ole me to absorb) and unknown a territory for me to try and talk about it.

As the ladddie was to leg it back to college right away, the next question on the agenda was, predictably and practically enough, food. And therefore it transpired that for the second consecutive day, we were in a restaurant ordering food at lunch time. Connoisseur that he is, it was a delicious meal-complete with golden toasted garlic bread dripping butter and done to a turn, great cheesy spaghetti in thick sauce, with a tantalizing flavour and topped by a delightful combination pizza: a perfect blend of the homely chicken supreme with the exotice Hawaiian pineapple-topping. Hunger being the best sauce-we needed no second invitation and attacked the food with gusto the moment it appeared on the table. Post the luncheon, I dropped the young man at the railway station and made my way home.

Saturday and Sunday spent at two different eateries, consuming different cuisine is fairly passé as most of us would think. But for a repeat performance to happen on a prosaic Monday was more than what I could’ve imagined. As it transpired, two colleagues and I had to go for a presentation to one of the many engineering cum management colleges that dot the periphery of the Ghaziabad-Meerut-Hapur belt. Now, this was a little more than a typical presentation as it was followed by a three-hour pilot session before a live audience of seventy management aspirants. What with their animated questions on the one hand and the more discerning queries of the management on the other, the session became longer than the stipulated time. So by the time we left, it was well past lunch time and being several miles away from the office cafeteria (which provides us with nice, hot lunch) we had no choice but to opt for eating somewhere. Being the only ‘local’ amongst the trio, I recommended one of my favourite joints in Noida-Asia Kitchen (also because it was, very conveniently, en route.) On the menu was Chinese -the best Chinese you can hope to get this side of the Yamuna. Superb hakka noodles, very fine and evenly stir-fried, garlic chicken with just enough gravy to add a tangible flavour and a bowl of fine quality rice-fried the Chinese way-to add to the combination. We did full justice to the meal-though we could still not finish the generous portions served and left the place an hour later, considerably sated. As always, the place had lived up to its reputation and I sure was relieved, having recommended it in no uncertain terms.

Three scrumptiously delicious, yet utterly diverse, meals in as many days-a record (hat trick??) of sorts! But a record one wouldn’t want to repeat, given the fact that a) one is perpetually trying to wage a losing battle against weight .and b) because at the end of the day, some niggling corner of the palate starts yearning for the homely daal-chaval in two days flat!!

But once in a way, one doesn’t mind such pleasantly and gastronomically enriching interludes.

Dawn of a new era?

April, T.S.Eliot had said, was the ‘cruelest month’-well September 2008 would easily wrest the title, having been an uncharacteristically brutal one. It brought several questions to mind about the proud slogan India shining as, time and again, we were forced to stop in this business called living and wonder whether those were hollow, meaningless words.

" Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed….. "

The lines by another poet (a Nobel laureate like Eliot) W.B.Yeats, penned almost a century ago, seemed to come true prophetically last month, in a potently dark and menacing manner. Grisly tales of bloodbaths filled the newspapers, of senseless killings, where people were victimized because of their faith. The CEO of a reputed company was lynched on the office premises and no one could save him. There were terrifying bomb blasts- tearing through the fragile human illusion of security-spun erroneously by man- that snuffed out the lives of the young and the innocent. And tragically, and in the ultimate travesty of justice, the futile sacrifice of those who uphold law and justice at the risk of their lives- the fearless inspector, M.C .Sharma and the very young Santosh didn’t have to die, but they did: on different days at different locations but due to the same reason. Felled brutally at the hands of the cruelest creature created by God: man.
" The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity………………" wrote on the prescient poet-foretelling the ironic supercession of innocence by malevolent, negative forces. Today, we don’t know where to look for guidance, for direction. We’re moving like headless chicken in a coop: rendered timid and impotent by our immediate surroundings-where no one knows what the next moment has in store. Even the young and innocent are not spared in this meaningless mass slaughter. Intolerance and violence have made insidious entries into our blood stream; we’re just not ready to give way. At the smallest of pretexts, guns are pulled out, lives lost. The newspapers recently carried a report how a shop-keeper was shot dead as a customer’s mobile didn’t reflect the hundred rupee recharge that had been made! And such bizarre stories are the rule, not the exception. On an average, the third page has similar, gory tales (only-and sadly enough- they are facts) every single day, making one wonder, afresh, whether the legendary wisdom and non-violence of the orient has been smothered in the crass materialism of the rest of the world. Where every dream of the great architects of the nation has been shattered, every cherished hope of the noble poets turned to dust:

Today the mind is always full of fear and the head often hangs with shame at what’s happening in the world around us. Thoughts of reason, wisdom and knowledge couldn’t be further from the mind when apprehension and uncertainty rule the roost. We avert our eyes if we see someone in distress and are afraid to stop by and help an accident victim-it could be staged, s/he could be faking it for dire criminal motives…….basic humanity and decency seem to be dying a slow death…….

But there’s hope yet-all is not lost, as the closing lines of the same poem suggest (hinting of better things to come) lifting the mind out of its pall of gloom as we feel that things cannot get any worse. They’ve reached the nadir, so now, they can only get uplifted. Some convoluted logic tells us that man cannot sink any lower, so he can only get better. Surely, some thing good is at hand and matters will improve-slowly but steadily?! Human values will be rescued from the oblivion they have disappeared into and the human spirit will triumph yet again.
It will be resuscitated and we’ll emerge out of this dark tunnel of despair, into bright, glorious sunlight. Surely?

Two sides of the coin

Monday-a long day of training, that too at two disparate- and very distant from each other-venues.

9 a.m and the madness had begun. Innumerable mails to plod through as the server had been down for two consecutive days and then two meetings one after another. Checking the agenda and getting the facts and supporting documents in place…..all in all, a more than busy day. Sharp twelve and off to the aforesaid locations (sadly, not the exotic locales that the word ‘location’ normally conjures up). In a dilapidated cab that had seen better days, where the almost non-existent air conditioning left little to the imagination: the humid heat of the sultry August afternoon literally got under one’s skin! A long drive- sans music-as the cab didn’t have a music system and ninety, torturous minutes later, surfacing from the circuitous route at a God-forsaken place called Pitampura. Off again, two and a half hours of interactive, fun-filled training later, to destination point two near D.U for a repeat performance. Take 2 and finally free (phew!).

6.30 pm. Winding my weary way home. But not before stopping on the way to pick up five kinds of fruits and other stuff for a fast and pooja to be done the following day. Not to forget the stop-by at the taciturn tailor’s, to pick up clothes for the selfsame occasion.

9 p.m. Finally, reaching home, thanks to the erratic traffic of this great city.

Tuesday 7 a.m. The day began pretty much as usual; except that there was no customary water and lemon tea by my side as I sat reading the newspaper. For it was one of the two days in a year when I fast-and a fast meant without food or water for 24 hours. Though it isn’t half as difficult as it sounds, if one could keep quiet and not tax one’s vocal chords unnecessarily. A luxury, unfortunately, denied to those in my calling! But if one manages to tweak one’s schedule for a day, the need for drinking water can be managed.

The first thing I did on reaching office was to remove the inviting bottle of water that is thoughtfully placed on each work station every morning. A personalized bottle with our initials, a gesture deeply appreciated on other days. But today, it was best out of sight (though not out of mind for sure!) The demo for a client needed to be finalized and the next few hours were spent busily pursuing that objective. Checking the presentation for errors, if any and duly rectifying them when spotted was what I focused on. The next few hours were well spent in the dry-run, the only challenge being averting my gaze completely each time laden trays of tea/coffee and assorted biscuits passed under my nose.

Two fruitful hours of animated discussion and one emerged from the hallowed precincts of the conference room suitably enlightened about the future of training in general and soft skills in particular.

6 p.m. The rest of the day went past and I somehow managed to edge out of a last-minute meeting and get into the car to head home and perform the pooja before sundown. Another en route halt ensured that readymade gujhiyas (sweets that were painstakingly prepared for Teej by chirpy housewives, amidst a lot of bonhomie and banter, in the good ole yesteryears) were bought and I was finally home at 6.30 with just enough time to dash upstairs, bathe and change into a new saree ensemble, which had been specially readied for the occasion. All preparations were hastily made and the pooja performed in the fast-forward mode but without skipping any sequential step.

7 p.m and it was over and I rose from my seat feeling satisfied at a deed well done, a day well spent.

TV and music saw me through the rest of the evening, till it was thankfully slumber time and I called it a day, a little earlier than usual.

The next morning brought in its wake an early shower, donning the same saree ensemble-bindi, bangles, jewelry et al-a customary short pooja, a token donation and the touching of mom-in-law’s feet to seek blessings and the ceremony was complete. Next came the long-awaited moment- descending on the dining table and gorging on the lavish spread: hot puris, spicy aloo chana sabzi, gujhias, halwa and a steaming cup of tea: a veritable feast after a literal fast.

D-day: Wednesday. The client proto we had been agonising over had to be presented at a formal meeting with them.

8.45 a.m ; I was ready in my grey business suit (string of pearls and matching ear-tops complementing the get-up) hair swept back with a neat clasp, laptop firmly placed on the left shoulder, the black folder with the hand-outs in hand. The metamorphosis was complete as I descended the stairs towards the waiting car………………...

The case of a split personality? No, the arrival of the new-age corporate Indian woman!!

Musings of a meaty kind

Bloggiversary??………mmm…..a new term. Well, here goes:

Such a hardcore non-vegetarian born of a pure vegetarian mother!! This was the oft-heard exclamation when people discovered the carnivore in me. I grew up on liberal doses of well-meant advice on how non-vegetarian food wasn’t good, how we should exercise restraint in its consumption, for fear of obesity, high cholesterol and what-have-you but the die-hard fan of these exotic goodies that I was, I remained undaunted.
If anything, the love for this genre of food increased over the years

My college friends, with a wicked glint in their eyes, were often heard wishing that it would serve me right if I got married into a purist family, where even onion-garlic was taboo, as that would really teach me a lesson! I would vainly-and perhaps a little immaturely- quip that I would never say ‘aye’ to such a proposal, so there was no question of such an eventuality.

Well, life was kind and I got married into a family which metaphorically and literally ‘lived to eat’ and where the favourite topic of conversation, once a meal was over, was what would be prepared for the next one. Ad infinitum. Existence seemed to revolve around what the next nutrient would be. (This absorbing pastime exists to date.)As non-vegetarian delights featured high on the list, I was introduced to a wide variety of foodstuff, hitherto unknown to the palate.

Adjusting into such an environment was a chicken (sorry!) cakewalk. The mornings dawned bright and sunny, with wholesome mughlai paranthas dripping pure ghee, luncheon menu evolved luxuriously-as the mid-day sun matured and reached its zenith-and succulent, mouth-watering, kebabs or simmering stews made their appearance on the table. And the evening snack-more often than not-brought in its wake ‘simple’ fare like French toast or egg-rolls. In short, life was a variety of victuals and no non-vegetarian aficionado could’ve asked for more. (It’s another matter altogether that an ardent weight-watcher like me ended up gaining ten kilos in the short span of a month-a feat in itself. But, I reasoned naively, it was small price to pay for the gastronomic delights I savoured day after day.)


However, like every story worth its name, there was a flip side to this rosy picture. A greenhorn in the realm of cooking, I had begun making tentative, tremulous forays into this fascinating world, only to be ticked off that that was not my cup of tea. I couldn’t ever hope to attain the heights of expertise that were required for churning out such exquisite cuisine. No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough. There was always a flaw that was unceremoniously pointed out: an unerring comment on what was wanting, rather than encouragement for what could’ve been dubbed a good attempt. Being steeped in the rich tradition of flavours and aromas, tastes and colours, the spouse and his family were pastmasters at passing judgement on food: self-acclaimed food-critics-nonpareil!.

The years turned into decades and a lot of things changed but what remained constant as the Northern star was the preoccupation with food and the fault-finding exercise that inevitably followed. Gradually, my sensitivities hardened and I would no longer be upset at “well meant” remarks that invariably informed me how the recipe-so painstakingly prepared by me-would’ve been so much better if it had a little more of this ingredient or a tad less of that or had been stir-fried for two more minutes………. all this with an aura of smug superiority clearly suggesting that only a privileged few were privy to such fine sensibilities! I developed an in-built defense mechanism and learnt to filter out such “constructive” criticism with élan.

Till the other day, all my disappointments-accumulated over years of negative feedback- were amply vindicated. No, it wasn’t as if I staged a culinary coup of sorts, completely winning over the self-appointed critics or that they suddenly turned appreciative of my prowess. It was something completely unexpected, dramatically different. But it was still a great victory-a record no less than India’s first individual gold at the Olympics- seen from my viewpoint.

On Friday, all of us converged at the dinner table, pretty much as usual, after the customary queries on what was for dinner and whatever it was could be vastly improved upon etc etc. But, as it turned out, the actual meal was met with approval as the cover of the steaming hot, main dish was lifted and an appetizing aroma wafted through the air. The sight of peas and mincemeat was welcomed enthusiastically and the better half and mom-in-law attacked the food with gusto worthy of a nobler cause. My daughter, who rarely condescends to make an appearance at the dinner table (and whose appetite magically changes in direct proportion to what’s there on it) was roped in for the event. She joined the merry twosome, relishing her favourite keema mutter as much as the others. I ate alongside, observing three generations of the clan heartily gulping morsel after morsel. In between the selfsame mouthfuls, I was reminded how I should’ve taken tips from m-i-l for a better version and how possibly, the next time, it could be improved, with help from the same, hallowed quarters. These suggestions, though, didn’t affect the quantities being consumed and any casual observer could’ve been forgiven for thinking that they were enjoying the preparation, as the quantum of intake was a definite index. The entire serving bowl was polished off in a jiffy and was empty in no time!

It was only the next morning that I decided to enlighten the ‘discerning’ twosome that what had been eaten with such unconcealed relish, such uninhibited glee was the humble nutrela (from the Soya clan)-peas curry and bore not the remotest connection to the exalted, pedigreed mutton/mince family. Connoisseurs indeed!!

Did I hear someone say one who laughs last laughs loudest??

21magical guidelines for this sojourn called Life

For Saagar, my son, as he turns 21 on July 21

1. Live life to the fullest
2. Be fearless but don’t exhibit false bravado or resort to foolhardiness.
3. Look people straight in the eye when you know you’re right.
4. Always lend a helping hand but don’t be taken for granted.
5. Remember the dignity of labour and learn to be as self-sufficient as possible: don’t assign menial tasks to others.
6. Love music, song and dance and recognize them as the ultimate expressions of joy.
7. Build a few, self-disciplinary rules, stick to them and know the value of Time.
8. Be sincere; never voice views/feelings you don’t mean and honour every commitment you make-big or small.
9. Respect not just your elders but also your peers and those younger/socially inferior to you; and be civil to strangers too.
10. Be truthful and honest in all your dealings and have the courage to side with the minority if that’s what is right..
11. Despite spiraling crime graphs and scams of all kinds, have faith in the intrinsic goodness of man.
12. Cut your coat according to the cloth-and practise saving a small percentage of your income every month.
13. Keep in touch with friends-they’re the mainstay of life.
14. Do not get into monetary transactions with friends/relatives (what are banks for??).
15. Learn to commune with Nature: let the gentle breeze ruffle your hair, walk through woods, dance in the rain, drink in the beauty of the setting sun………..
16. Make sure you do some charity- silently, anonymously.
17. Have compassion for fellow human beings especially the poor, the old, the very young, the disabled and the unhappy.
18. Preempt the needs of your parents- especially as they grow older-and remember these needs are more emotional than material.
19. Rejoice with dear ones in their good times, but more importantly, be there for them in their distress.
20. Be proud of your lineage, uphold family values and always be proud to be Indian.
21. Celebrate life-even a small success deserves to be made an occasion of.

With love and blessings from
Mamma

The writer's dilemma........and after.

The urge for self expression is something so strong; one can’t suppress it for long. And yet, the banal activities of this business called living sometimes keep us away from that which we love doing the most. In my case, it’s writing.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve given vent to my feelings, lent wings to my imagination or simply killed hours of sheer ennui, by indulging in my favourite pastime: writing. Years of maintaining diaries-albeit with sporadic, sometimes juvenile ramblings, further cemented this habit and the weekly essays assigned with relentless regularity by the dedicated English nuns at school-though perceived as hateful in those days- helped polish one’s abilities.

Came college and these forays into the world of writing became few and far between. There was ample opportunity for verbal expression though-debates, dramatics, quizzes-and one was gainfully employed in trying to make a mark as a wannabe Demosthenes. My one year tenure as College Premier provided further exposure in public speaking, in the form of inter-college activities. But all my adventures (and misadventures) were limited to the world of spoken skills and quizzing and we harboured the delusion that we were good at both. Till our awful debacle at IIT Kanpur’s Spring Fest firmly disillusioned us and put any such crazy notions firmly in place. With deep chagrin-we realized that we stood nowhere in the firmament of Quizzing, ignominiously eliminated as we were in the very first round at that prestigious festival!

A chance to hone my writing skills presented itself when I became the editor of the college magazine. I made the first, formal foray into the magical world of weaving a rich tapestry with the beauty of words. Rediscovering my love for the pen was sheer joy which trebled manifold when, one fine day, an article, sent half-heartedly to The Statesman, found a place in the coveted Now & Again column on the paper’s edit page. That sure was a red letter day! I could scarce put my feet on the ground- sheer exultation made me feel light headed! And this occasion got more than its fair share of recognition. It was put up on the college notice board and Sister Aquinas insisted on reading it out-in her distinct nasal twang- to a bunch of hapless students of the English honours batch, who had no option but to simulate expressions of profound appreciation.

That let loose a spate of half-baked ideas expressed in corny write-ups. All diligently dispatched to different dailies but none seeing the light of day. (The number of rejection slips and ‘regretting’ editors’ “compliments” of course kept piling up in inverse proportion.) Till, about five years down the line, the second in the series of articles, finally got published. And then another, and another and another………..my penchant for self-expression had finally found a gratifying outlet. I became a recognized name in my city back home-when seldom was an article sent by me rejected by the HT, my favourite newspaper even then.

We were barely into the new millennium when our historic move to the nation’s capital happened. There were a lot of major- and some minor upheavals- but all said and done, the consensus was that there were positives all around. Folks couldn’t stop congratulating us on our timely move; it was decidedly a change for the better from every conceivable point of view.
Except that my pen was stilled, the budding writer was lost in the milling crowds of this huge metro……

But all is not lost. A new era has dawned with this phenomenon called cyber space where I’ve found my own little corner, my niche, so to say.

Thank you, Technology and thank you, you Blogging world, which has let me into its fold, reviving the creative instinct and rescuing the writer in me.
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Full Circle

Each time I let my thoughts take a jaunt down Memory Lane, I feel warmed to the core of my being as memories of some lovely times suffuse me. Chief among these are the numerous trips that I made with my two little kids and the spirit of adventure that invariably characterized most of these sojourns.

My mind goes back to that first journey we made together-me and mine; only six and five years respectively but scintillating company even in those childhood years. The destination was Calcutta.. er Kolkata (but it will always remain Calcutta to me) and the entire plan had been swung into action with great planning. Having spent a considerable part of our growing up years in Calcutta, it was a city always dear to my family. With my brother having pretty much settled there-his having been married a few months before had added to the list of reasons (‘getting to know sis-in-law’ being one of them)-there were too many factors for wanting to go there. My parents were also there with him those days, plus the little ones-who had been brought up on liberal doses of ‘life at Cal’, needed to see things firsthand. And last but not least was the ultimate attraction: the Rajdhani Express had only just started plying between our home town and Bengal’s capital and it was one big challenge to travel by this oh-so prestigious train.

But the way to happiness was fraught with hurdles; the main one being-how did one balance one’s precarious budget? Those were the days when luxury trains were few and far between, when traveling by them was a far-off (literally, as they didn’t venture anywhere even remotely near where we lived) dream, especially keeping in mind one’s pocket. The event would burn a sizeable hole in one’s modest income and redressing the balance would need a great deal of financial wizardry. Yet, despite these constraints, one’s never-say-die spirits were always on the look out for some scope. And a golden opportunity presented itself when one fine day I found a little ad peeping from an insignificant corner of the newspaper. It was inviting applications from wannabe academics for a Post Doctoral Research programme in the land of ultimate opportunities: the United States. Having, through one of those inexplicable quirks of Fate, written a doctoral thesis (may my guide be blessed for all the inspiration he provided or this would never have happened) I realized that I was eligible to apply for the same.

Not one to think too much beyond the immediate, I did so with alacrity, but was surprised into minor shock a few days later, when an impressive envelope bearing the embossed address of the American Center at Calcutta arrived. Would I, its contents enquired in no uncertain terms, please present myself for an interview on the said date at the appointed time, at the stated address? The first class train fare to and fro would be reimbursed…. Oh wouldn’t I??! Why else had I shot that random arrow in the dark if not for this glorious moment? Of course, I had never really believed that they would buy all the hogwash about ‘my academic aspirations and plans for the future’ but apparently they had. So now that the plan had worked, there was no way I would let it slip through my fingers.

Excitement was palpable in the air, the kiddos started cheering and clapping their hands in glee to express their solidarity. But all was not hunky dory and clouds loomed on the horizon as another obstacle reared its head. The spouse looked doubtful and expressed the opinion that I was getting too carried away and traveling alone with two, small children wasn’t such a smart idea after all. I won round one by using invincible logic. I said that he shouldn’t operate from the mindset where going to Calcutta had meant an overnight journey-this super fast train would take us there in 7 hours flat. It didn’t even entail travel by night, so where were all those risks he was talking about? Besides, our children were smart, responsible citizens of the world and would rise to any contingency admirably, I went on, with touching maternal confidence. And the final master stroke, to which even he could not demur, it was so prestigious to be called for interview to a Post Doctoral Research programme, had the verdict swinging in our favour.
We heaved collective sighs of relief as no further objections were raised.

Plans for the trip got under way amidst buoyant spirits. Suitcases were retrieved from under the beds (their age old resting place) dusted and the children had a field day selecting their favourite outfits (A common practice was that clothes were segregated into two categories: daily wear and party wear and such occasions naturally necessitated the use of the latter, much to their rapture) and giving them to me to pack. With a sense of relief I realized that I wouldn’t have to pack loads of food-the unappetizing and cold puri-sookhi sabzi and sandwiches, not to forget the water jug that was invariably lugged and mostly leaked through the journeys, creating singular bad blood between us and our co-passengers. These thoughts, added to the fact that we could dispense with cumbersome blankets, contributed significantly to the collective joie de vivre.

D-day dawned and my young companions and I were duly escorted to the railway station. The fact that it was an unearthly hour-4 a.m or thereabouts (we had reached the station well in advance not taking any chances) and still early March did cause us our share of literal shivers, but cuddling the kiddos close, we managed to survive. The train, when it finally chugged leisurely into the sleepy station, was more welcome than anything we could remember..

The cushy interiors, the plush seats, the soft music and the over all ambience left them speechless. Though not for long, ‘cos no sooner had the train left than began the incessant flow of queries, only the very young are adept at asking. Chief among them were when would we reach? This particular one started coming within five minutes of having started-and it soon became a refrain; coming from one kid or the other with unnerving frequency. The arrival of bottles of water distracted them and there was a brief respite. Only temporarily, though, as my son, always one with an enquiring mind (bless him!) wanted to know why the bottles had been given and I made the mistake of telling him that breakfast would soon follow. Now it was the turn of the little lady to demand-in a shrill piping voice which I was sure could be heard right through the compartment- why it hadn’t arrived till then!! Somehow, I managed to placate her and told her it was on its way and luckily, we didn’t have to wait for long. There was golden silence for a while as trying to maneuver the bread and omelet with knives and forks kept them gainfully employed. It was another matter that in his effort to slice a piece with his fork, young Saagar got too enthusiastic and it bounced right off his plate and fell neatly in the middle of the aisle, causing me considerable embarrassment, but that was the only faux pas. On the whole, they did me proud and the rest of the meal and the juice were consumed with élan.

But once done, it was back to the question hour-oh they would’ve put our parliamentarians to shame with their questioning skills!-would we also be served lunch on the train? This one came from Srishti and the hopeful-would it be non-veg from her enterprising brother. A firm 'No' to both queries put paid to all their hopes and there was a lull for some time Then a passing station caught their fancy and I was flooded with a barrage of fresh queries: its topography, population, modes of travel, schools and what-have-you: all of which I fielded bravely.

So much for childlike inquisitiveness and enthusiasm! And my role in assuaging their curiosity and answering their questions to the best of my knowledge and patience. Today, the wheel has come full circle and I do most of the asking when we travel together and my children graciously enlighten me on myriad different subjects.

That journey to Calcutta was memorable, it being a first in many fields; and also because it had materailised after so many impediments. We enjoyed it to the hilt and felt like royalty, travel as we did by the Rajdhani Express. Years and many family trips later- when planning and financing have been simplified to the click of a mouse and the punching of a credit card, I’ve realized that though we may have traversed huge distances, flown to exotic locales and touched international shores, the sheer novelty and exhilaration of the first 'luxury-train journey' with the kids is nonpareil!!!

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