Chiffonesque

I am just back from a holiday. After a nourishing two days with parents, I returned to Pune. It was late and dark, and yet, somehow, I felt happy and free. There was no agitation about whether I would get an auto or whether I would meet a freak on my way home. There were simple merry plans of having dinner alone and walking back, if nothing was available. This sense of secure belonging was a memento from my trip, I think. Suddenly, I have this need to pay homage to all those who travel the world – who feel at home on so many, many parts of the earth. It’s great to look back to see how many steps you have taken, and understand that none of them have been on a ‘strange’ land.

Rickety seats, loud co-passengers, Manoj Kumar getting wet in the rain on T.V. Z and I look at each other and sigh. The bus trip to Mumbai will be very, very long. Then Z lightens up the mood. ' One day, Santa (of Santa/Banta notoriety) joins NASA. After six months, the agency changes its name to SATYANASA.' And with that - Happy Diwali, everyone!

C got a diya from her school and showed it to me. Pretty little clay lamp attached to a plate with red, sparkly, paint. For some reason, she didn’t trust me enough to hand it over for appreciative inspection. ‘ This is the not for you’ , she informed. ‘ Yours is in the Mumbai .’ (C is quite fond of the definite article.) Similar wariness of me handling diyas can be witnessed in my household, but I wasn’t about to let THAT get in the way. ‘ Why can’t I hold it? ’, I ask. ‘This is the not yours’ , she replied and hit me on the hand. ‘ Whose is it then?’ ‘The Big ban’ ‘What?’ ‘The BIG BAN!’, she yelled. ‘The Big Ban?’, I’m a little confused now. She’s making diyas for a clock in London? (Yes, I know it’s the Big B-E-N, thank you so much.) I pull her closer, to follow her mouth (constantly rounded in surprise, anticipation, partial scream, full-bodied yell, etc., etc.). ‘This diya is for…’ , I ask slowly, my eyes never leaving her lips. ‘ THE’ , she replies slowly. Okay, she thinks I’m ...

Usually, I talk to A really late into the night. That is the only time we get to talk to each other. (There are snatches during lunch time, but they don’t count because then, we don’t fight and we don’t make up.) After an hour of the routine arguments where he’ll keep saying, ‘What ARE you talking about?’ and not give me a chance to tell him what indeed I am talking about, we settle down and be very sweet to each other. We’re at this phase when both of us are blessed with bad memories, and I am quite grateful for that. I do know this is just a phase though. Otherwise, he never forgets and I never stop reminding – it’ll be fun to see where all this sharp memory will take us in the future. Coming back to the sugary conversations; I love the way he asks, ‘How was your day?’ I think the reason my heart tugs at this question is because it is innocuous enough, but it seems weighted with care. It’s only a day and it’s over when A asks me about it. But suddenly I find myself looking back at ...

I visited the V.T. area after a very, very long time. And with the spirit of the first-time discoverer of exquisite food, here’s what I liked. A) Sher-e-Punjab, near V.T. : Pudhina tandoori prawns. Twelve bites of culinary jewels. Sweet, tender, fresh prawns, marinated in pudhina and roasted on tandoor PER-FECT-LY. What is fabulous is the hint of tangy crust of slightly charred mint and the way the tongue-tickling sweetness of the prawns unfurls – slowly, steadily, completely…and twelve whole times. At 300 bucks a plate, it’s steep but very worth it. B) Liberty Chaat place: The Dahi-Batata-Puri. Given my humble preferences, this is my very favorite food and ultimate barometer of whether I love a place until death or barely acknowledge it until pyre-time arrives. And while Dahi Batata Puri in Mumbai outshines, in all curdy glory, whatever you get in Pune (where Dahi Batata Puri is not taken off the menu even if hawkers are out of dahi and out of batata ), the Liberty Chat offerin...

I wonder what a tired mind can write about. Okay, let’s see. Off the top of my head… I like programmers. I really do, even though I secretly shudder at the thought of spending money on my child’s education and finding out that he or she wants to be one of them. But my problem is that there are very, very few good programmers. The problem is further compounded by the fact that there are way too many competent ones. When I work with excellent programmers one time, they raise the bar so high that it impedes my interaction with other merely competent coding colleague. (And funnily, all of them have been men, so I shall use the masculine gender to refer to them in the rest of this post. It accurately reflects my experience, and not the workforce at large, so there won’t be an addendum of apology later.) So, what do I mean by a good programmer? There must be a perorational set of guidelines somewhere in the wireless universe, but here’s my list: 1. He is genuinely interested in solving probl...

Last evening, after ages , I sat in a giant wheel. It was a dilapidated contraption handled by a man, geriatric enough to be the wheezing machine’s impresario. At fifteen bucks a ticket, there was nothing old-worldly about the price. But well, what’s a little rip-off for nostalgia? My friend and I sat in a green bun-shaped dangling cart (there were orange, blue, and yellow ones as well). In the cart next to us sat a couple of guys, one of who seemed to be drunk on the joy of life, and the other one dehydrated from it. The happy one suggested that they sing boisterously (‘ Jhalak Dikhla Ja’ , no less) when the ride started in full swing. His nervous friend frantically asked the operator how long the ride would last. In true Pune fashion (the fashion in which a straight answer to a straight question is a faux pas ), the operator said he would get his fifteen rupees worth. Ah. Joy. A few minutes later, the ride started. Slowly it climbed up and then, suddenly, with a swoosh almost, it pic...

I was out with a friend last night, who does not believe in having unexpressed opinions. So, de rigeur , I disagree with him because he talks lesser that way. He’s one of those gentlemen who regales in preaching to the converted. In any case, sometimes in throes of exuberant verbosity, he tends to muddle up words. Last night, he did the same with the result that what he said was funny, but true. Made me twitter. He was telling me about how corrupt Customs officials are in India. (Because, you see, I have been living under a shiny rock in the Ganges all this while and do not know this.) And not only are they corrupt, they go to the extent of taking bribes. (I didn’t have the heart to break it to my friend that corrupt officials not taking bribes would be quite a let-down.) Corrupt officials are also unfair and pick on innocent-looking dopes. So, two of his friends were coming from somewhere with bottles of liquor. One looked crafty, the other looked stupid. The customs officials caught...

This isn't exactly a feminist tirade, but this is written by a woman, and it is written in annoyance. You raise your girls to be sweet, strong, and independent. (Wise parents teach their children to listen to opinions and discard or heed accordingly. The other ones just teach their kids to bullshit everything that everyone says. Still others bring up girls to be on guard and forget that spine so that everyone thinks well of them. I am not sure which is worse, but I detest people shoving their opinions down other people's throats in a show of liberation, so I'll lean towards the former. But only slightly.) As the gender construct of being a 'female' is pushed even further, you teach your daughter complicated activities – driving, perhaps, sending them off away from home, wearing a sari (those freaking pleats!), cooking and de-veining prawns for added advantage. At the end of that, you have a person who genuinely dislikes blending into anything, doesn't like bei...