Chiffonesque

I have always considered smoky, smoldering eyes to be very sexy in women. I would have loved to have eyes that hinted at labyrinths of mystery lurking in a finely cultivated mind. Instead what I have are orbs that give the impression of a forager who has just spotted tasty bison meat. Suffice to say, I do not have sexy eyes. One day I tried, though. J and I were supposed to go to Fire and Ice. To achieve the said fetching look, I brought to my aid little pots, swabs, and wands. I applied a ‘charcoal’ eyeshadow and ‘ash’ base to my lids (it’s Maybelline, see, so it can’t be ‘grey’. It’s ‘charcoal’ or ‘ash’.) Then I coated my eyelashes to volumize or voluminize my lashes. (I have a problem spelling the word, so I leave it to the reader’s imagination on how I managed the process.) At the end of it, I thought I looked nice. My eyes looked capable of giving the ‘come hither’ look. Some of the signature gluttony was masked by the mascara. All done, I waited outside for J to turn up. In the m

This is a moment I would like to file away for times when I get fed up with my job. Or office. Or Noida. Or Delhi. Or life. The office lunch, today, was excellent. ‘ Kiss the cook’ type of excellence in dish after dish. There is a common notion that food in office canteens is bad. Our caterer, in a definite sweep, has thrashed this idea to smithereens. He served kheema that tasted like it was cooked for a nawab . (Not Saif per se, but I don’t know what he eats, so maybe him too.) It was stewed, flavored, and cooked with tender peas to meticulous perfection. It was flavored, not spicy. It melted in the mouth without the aid of extra lard. And this wasn’t the kheema at ‘ Bukhara’ or ‘ Kareem’s’ or ‘ Jashn’ . This was kheema served for office lunch and had for free. And before I hailed this as piece de resistance, out came the dessert. A fabulously composed bowl of Shahi Tukra . When such fantastic things happen on ordinary days, it takes a force of will to be a pessimist. And my ne

The company I work for has several training departments. One department imparts language training and usually has the glossiest posters dedicated to it. I proofread the last one that was printed. This morning, a colleague was peering into the poster with a question mark dangling in a thought bubble above his head. He’s a graphic artist - our most whimsical one. “What happened?”, I asked. “What’s happening in Poland?”, he asked. Umm...Frankly, I didn’t know they had news there. Am not really the globally aware sorts. “Why?, I asked cautiously. “Poland is getting famous and all...everybody wants to go to Poland.” Wasn’t it China that was building the pass to the Everest? Or now was there a pass to Poland instead? I mean... “Why?” Further caution. “ Arre ...all the firangs in London want to be in Poland.” If my colleague was getting such deep insights into international affairs from a language poster, it meant trouble. “Who told you?” I got defiant now. “See here”, he pointed. Written in

It’s midnight in office and some-one is playing the title track of ‘Jhoom Barabar Jhoom’ . I am sitting with a graphic artist overseeing the design of a page we had to design a week back but had completely forgotten about it. He goes to Windows Explorer and does something so nifty that I immediately decide to share this with the world. He needs to copy all the files in a folder except for two. These two files are not arranged in a sequential order. So, ordinarily, I would press the Ctrl key and select the files I wanted or copy all the files and then delete the unwanted files. But this is what my colleague does: he selects the two files that he doesn’t want to copy, goes to the Edit menu, and selects the ‘ Invert Selection’ function. Now, all the files except for the ones that don’t have to be copied are selected. So, first we select and then we ‘ invert’ the selection. Sorry if I sound plebian but man, that is clever!

A friend who is shifting back to Bombay (from Delhi) gave me a bottle of balsamic vinegar. The last few days, I have been seasoning my soups, rice, steamed pulses, and cutlet stuffing with it. And it’s been tasty. Today, I experimented with cherries, vinegar, and bread. I chopped up thick slices of brown bread in cubes and toasted them. Then I cut up the cherries after removing the pips and put the bits in a bowl. (A second after that to lick the sweet tartness from the fingers. I think it adds to the taste.) I drizzled no more than a tablespoon of the balsamic vinegar on the cherries and mixed them. I let this stand for maybe a minute or so. Later, I smeared some on a bite-sized toast and had it. The taste was pretty unexpected, but pleasant. In fact, the balsamic vinegar that I used was slightly sweet and mild to begin with, so it didn’t really jar with the fruity taste and texture of the cherries. The crisp bread soaked in the cherry juice and the vinegar, so any kind of sharpness w

Sometimes, I don’t like women. They irritate me. I think they are double-faced and hypocritical at worst, and mindlessly confused at best. Most times they don’t know what they want - from themselves, the world, life in general, etc.; So obviously, they don’t know what they want from men they are involved with. Given that, they have an awful lot to complain about. (If you don’t know what you want, how do you know you are not getting it?) First of all, there is a very strong truth to the idea that you teach people how to treat you. So, if a man doesn’t respect a woman, she must step back and think: ‘What have I done that made it acceptable for him to treat me that way?’ But no. Why should there be any kind of intelligent introspection? It’s just easier to call men dogs, liars, cheats, bastards, scums, etc. I mean, who gets involved with married men and not expect complications? Forget about moral rectitude and all that, but just the brainlessness of it. The man is lawfully wedded to som

We were at St.John’s church. Just A and I. If mist could be melodious, it was. The graves were somber, cold, and peaceful. Beyond that, there were large, tall trees that played with the fog the way long fingers work through yarn. A was tired, so he put his head on my lap and slept. I was inspired, so I wrote. I] There are solid cubes of rocks Parts of an unfinished wall Wonder what they’re there for To alleviate or to stall Passage of lazy time Or quivering lapses of history Or hush and give a logical end To sudden bursts of mystery. II] The scene here Is mechanized to be a poet’s pen The trees weave stories of ‘How’s’ The clouds sift through texts of ‘When’ But fodder for poetry Comes either to the imaginative Or to the brave Not too many Tread to find tumult In a quiet, historical grave. III] I keep writing verses As my husband is in slumber Amidst ancient memory And seemingly vintage lumber In the fashion of a Byron’s poem, His breaths leave a trail of nuances taken From pools of dr

Last few days have been scrumptious, even through the smothering heat. Tranquil jogs around the park at night. Cleansing tantrums and sobs through the afternoon. Yummy ice-cream squares and foot massages later. Gulps of paper back reads. Bad movies in perfectly chilled cinema halls - an experience that is all the more delightful when you are clad in breathing cotton shorts and singlet. An after-dinner outing with friends to India Gate - just soaking in a revelry that can only be described as summer madness. Lying down amidst scampering kids and looking up at stars that resemble distant surfers riding black waves. Making plans and weaving dreams during a lazy drive to Jor Bagh market. An indulgent head massage with fingers pressing my temples and those tense muscles at the nape of my neck. My hair, after the hair pack and a gentle rinse, looked and felt so nourished . Crazy little trips to Jaipur highway for tea at dawn. Each of these memories looked bundled prettily in red, thorny litc

It’s 10 p.m. on a Friday night and I’m still at work. Waiting for certain technical issues to be sorted out (issues - those teeny things that get a phoenix-like quality when you have to leave on time for a movie) and chit-chatting with a colleague. He mentions that mangoes are popular only because this world is male-dominated. So? (I asked) So, most men find mangoes similar to breasts, even in the manner they are sucked, therefore..... My question is: where does that put the bananas? On the pedestal as a monkey’s favorite food? Lot of thinking there to ‘peel’ through. P.S. - I do not know why I was having such a conversation in office. Maybe I am sick and I need an apple to keep the doctor away. Hmm...what’s up with that now?

I have been craving sweet, thick, soft, beautifully fermented jalebis for a long, long time. Since six nights now. One would think that the craving would be easier to satisfy in Delhi - a place renowned for food and desserts. But the thing is, I don’t like the jalebis made here. They are too thin and crisp. Probably, that’s why they are more treacly than sweet. I guess that makes these thin squiggles excellent accompaniments with hot milk. But, I don’t enjoy the snap and crunch of these thin, flat jalebis. They remind me of recalcitrant aunts - these wafer-type crackles. What I love are the soft, large ish , thick, fat jalebis of Mumbai. They are almost soaked to their core in chaachni and flavored discreetly with cardamom. Your teeth sink into the syrupy sponginess, past the golden syrupy crust. Then you reach a spot that is mellow and soft. Like the big, generous aunt who always gave you extra helping of ice-creams when you went to visit. You chew it with a little dribble down the c

If every raindrop carried The scent of a wine-red rose, It would drip with drunken poetry And sustain like structured prose. If every shaft of sunlight Lifted a rose’s scent It would trip over shards of sun And slip off moonlight bends And what about notes of music That unfurl with a petal’s groove? They’d dance with ephemeral bodies While silence stood by and approved Sometimes the benign redness Though gentle, does not hide, The story of how it got awashed In a whelming crimson tide. The history of the flower’s skin Recedes as it gets yellow; It got its scarlet lushness When I cried blood into the pillow.

The weekend began with an excellent buy for mom. We were at Dilli Haat and I was sorely tempted by a luscious, maroon bedspread embroidered with dull gold zari . It would really brighten up my parents’ room, given that it is lathered in beige and white, and has several panels of polished mirrors. Then, because my brother was here, we treated him to our Haat staple of fruit beer and momos . With his astute sense of stall observation (or observation of any kind related to food), he asked me why no-one ever sat at the Kashmiri stall. It was an interesting question, and in response I burped and ordered another fruit beer. Finally, as we exited through colorful huddles of hair-beading enthusiasts, I saw a pavement book-seller. The first thing I noticed was the enthusiastic way he slurped his mango. When I looked beyond the delectable victual, I noticed that he had ‘ How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life. ’ I remembered the plagiarism stir and also the fact that the author is a