Chiffonesque

Somewhere near East of Kailash is a really cool billboard. It has a big, bright sneaker with the line: ‘ Levis so low, that your ankles will show. ’ Advertisement for Levis footwear.

There is nothing new about me eating a lot. However, the last week has me a little worried. I think I go through a week’s provision at every meal, and this doesn’t count the amount I keep grazing off and on. The thing is, despite the enormous amount of consumption, I don’t feel uneasy. I, in this heat of nearly 40 degree C, can digest - an omlette of 4 eggs, 4 chapattis, 6 jalebis, 5 bowls of dal, 1 helping of salad, 1 plate of pani puri (6 suji puris), 3 bowls of vegetables, 1 glass of rum and coke, and 1 platter (not plate) of sheek kababs. And this is one day. And this has been happening for over a couple of weeks. Strangely, other than the niggling notion that I shouldn’t be eating so much considering my level of activity, I feel okay. I don’t feel stuffed; I don’t feel that ‘I can’t have another bite for the rest of the day’. As soon as it’s time for the next meal, there I am sitting in front of a heaped plate, waiting to finish it off. I have done mindless eating before. But usua

In an unprecedented burst of enthusiasm, I decided to cook last Friday. I realized many things about cooking and being adept/ inept in the kitchen. But those are stories for later. Now, I need to jot down the dish I prepared whilst floating from whim to whim. There were 3 medium-sized potatoes, cubed, and 1 onion, sliced. Prettily frothing in a steel vessel were 3 tablespoons of curd (I used the curd set at home - it’s slightly sweet with higher liquid content than the variety one gets from the market). Added to this were a pinch of sugar, two teaspoons of salt, little mirchi powder, jeera powder, amchur , smidgen of haldi (for some color.) All this was mixed nicely with a spoon. Blending is not required, unless one is using very thick curd. Then I marinated the potatoes in the curd. A tip here - it helps to poke the potato pieces with a fork so that it cooks faster and is completely flavorful. After one has sufficiently felt the liquidy coolness of coating potatoes by hand, cover

I had a thought That spilled out once On to rough, black paper; It sploshed and blotched In dim-bulb light From a skip to a caper It was a purple idea A pretty hue of grape Not to mention, it was fluid And not so sticky as a tape But even though it was watery And the black parchment it stained It stuck on sort of enduringly The way mud does after it’s rained I couldn’t make much of it With its tinges of blue and red I suppose one can’t make much of an idea Once it’s spilled out of one’s head Then came a time when the flurry Of purple rivulets didn’t stop And there was this purple puddle That the black paper was used to mop That was that of the puddle Nothing much to say That was that of the idea That the black paper was used to wipe away Sometimes I think the notions About wordsmiths is just hype All do they do is spill liquids And then just swab and wipe

I have a very irritating habit when it comes to books and clothes. First of all, I am a hoarder. Second of all, I get mighty interested in properties of others. A book that a friend is currently reading will pique my interest more than the one I just bought. Or I will covet a slightly faded shirt of a cousin even though I have a brand new one waiting to be worn. When I moved to Delhi, I brought along most of my unread or half-read novels from Mumbai. There’s ‘ Grimus’ and ‘ Midnight’s Children’ - my essential Rushdie components, Fitzgerald’s ‘Tender is the Night’ , Virginia Wolf’s ‘To the lighthouse’ , John Updike’s ‘ Poorhouse’ , Oscar Wilde’s collection (I must try and commit to memory ‘Ballad of the reading gaol’ - my favorite, favorite poem), Gladwell’s ‘ Blink’ , Clarissa Pinkola’s ‘ Women who run with the wolves’ , ‘ The Jane Austen book club’ by Karen Joy Fowler, ‘ Franny and Zooey’ by Salinger, a few volumes of poems by Tagore, Darlymple’s ‘ City of Djinns’ and ‘ Age of Ka

If you attract hostility in Delhi, you must be: 1. A person from Mumbai (Bombay people being those bloody regional chauvinists) 2. A pedestrian 3. A cop 4. Allergic to paneer 5. Not interested in potato 6. Not interested in Amitabh Bacchan 7. A rice-eater instead of a roti/ paratha/ kulcha/ naan/ laccheddar roti, paratha, kulcha, naan eater 7. Punjabi (as a concept, not a community. As in ‘ Yeh Punjabi wale harkat mat kar .’) 8. An occupied parking space and finally.... 9. The law

I am currently planning a swift getaway with husband. It is taking me every ounce of determination to not just pack up and leave for home now . This feeling to be out of here, to hurriedly pack a couple of shirts, a notebook, and a pen, to be the willing adbuctee of an open road ...this is such a precious tug. Here’s a wonderful poem that toasts the spirit of a wanderer: A Wanderer's Song A WIND'S in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels, I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels; I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the land, Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand. Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street, To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet; To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride, Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide. And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls, The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls, The songs at the capstan at the ho

One Saturday, A and I went to ‘Veda’ for dinner. It’s not listed in the Times Food Guide, a manuscript I thumb through routinely for gastronomical directions. But I had seen it on T.V. (‘Zoom’ to be precise), and it had looked really promising. All I knew was that it was owned by Rohit Bal and it was in Delhi. On moving here, I wondered if I had dreamed it up because no-one I met had heard of it. But one evening, as we searched for our car at Connaught Place, I saw the sign (and it aced my base - tsk! tsk! Poor joke!). ‘Veda’, it fluttered on a white, square piece of fabric - like the symbol of a sweet, discreet flag of invitation. Now, I really had my heart set on going there. But because it was in CP, A ’s notion of hell - what with limited parking space, we couldn’t make it any time soon. It took days of steady brainwashing and proper planetary alignment before we went. Visually, it seems soundlessly unobtrusive on the outside, but inside...it’s a symphony - complex, demanding, and

Mother-in-law: Have this sabzi . Iss mein soya hai . Son: Toh isse jagaa doon? Daughter-in-law : (chomp chomp)

My heart is full of sparkling wine. My world is full of river shine. I feel the tickle of bubbles on the tip of my nose. There’s a swell of hope, there’s a surge of joy. Outside my window I see it all - summer, winter, and the fall. Today doesn’t feel ordinary at all. There’s a glittery giggle in the wind, and there’s this shiny petal, a pretty pink. It feels like the upsweep of a swing, the merry tinkle of a holiday ring. I have a shirt with sloppy sleeves, I have a smile that doesn’t leave. I hear little phrases in a song, it promises to be such all day long. It feels like a kiss on the hand, it feels like water and shifting sand. It feels like a storm on the beach, it feels like the Orion’s within reach. I have some moon in my purse, I bobble in a balloon that will not burst. My eyelids are shut with Saturday nights, there’s my crazy fantasy on whizzing flights. There’s a beautiful, pretty, darling bird. And there’s me -- who was born on April third.