For the First Time...

...I’ve felt bad for people living in Bombay. Okay, maybe I feel bad for them (and myself) each time I’m stuck in a horrendous traffic jam in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, but today I felt sorry for them. An emotion I’d never thought I would feel.

I say them because I don’t live here anymore. Technically. Yes, I may spend quite a lot of time in this city and Bombay will always be home, but I’ve experienced life outside of potholes and traffic jams and muggy weather that makes you want to kill yourself every other day. And I grudgingly accept that it feels good. Sure, I miss the comforts of having everything at your doorstep, and I definitely miss the food. But I’m beginning to realise these are luxuries one can live without.

But I get ahead of myself here. What inspired such feelings was wanting to assuage the building guilt (of living on mithai for the last 2 weeks) by heading out for a walk. But as soon as I’d decided on resuming my evening ritual, I was faced with the problem of where to go. The beach was too wet and littered with plastic from the sea, the roads near home too full of open manholes, crazy traffic and crateresque (yes, it’s a word) potholes. Not to speak of the million and one construction sites that have left a permanent haze of concrete dust in the air. That left a joggers park with a round walking track of some 200 metres as my only option.

So the grandmom (forcibly taken for some exercise) and I get to the park and I realise that (a) all of the senior citizen population of the area were there and (b) most of the under 40 were there too. Walking the track was like walking on Churchgate station at 5.30 pm, dodging people right left and centre in an attempt to get ahead. Of course, most of the elderly were sitting on chairs provided in the park, content to take in some greenery and fresh air and gossip for an hour or two with friends. Some of them were brave enough to venture out for a walk, making their way around the track slowly and steadily. Then there were those who were obviously there on medical advice. There was also the category of walkers who seemed to have lost their way, standing out in their jeans and fancy kurtis. Which left the serious walkers, children and maids with babies in prams.

And this is when I felt sorry for people living in Bombay. And myself. I missed the luxury of stepping out of my house and having all the space in the world to go for a walk. I missed the fresh air, the absence of traffic, the long winding lanes I could go down without worrying about potholes and open drains. I felt sorry for the people in the park then, who had to search for a patch of green and some place to walk without worrying about getting hit by a speeding car. I felt bad for the children who couldn’t run around carefree and untroubled, restricted by the rules of the park and limited to a pair of swings. And I felt some relief that I wasn’t living in Bombay anymore.

Because I can’t imagine being bound by concrete and traffic anymore.

Being Multicultural

Growing up in Bombay, you take so many things for granted. Especially the food. And the people.

Only when i left Bombay did i realise how homogenous it is, how so many different cultures co-exist seamlessly. I never appreciated the fact that growing up in Bombay gave me an exposure to so many languages, foods and people. When i see the stereotypes that people not from Bombay live with, i have this urge to shake them and tell to not believe in what TV portrays. No, not all gujjus talk like that, just like not all their meals consist of thepla and dhokla. And no, parsis are not foreigners. And i may be marwari, but i dont go around calling people bhai sa and bhabhi sa. There is more to everyone and everything than tv and movies show. And Bombay allows you to be a part of that - of that tolerance and welcoming attitude (i'm not talking of politically driven agendas here, but of the common man in the local train).

So used to this multicultural living i am, that i find myself surprised when people don't know what dhaansak is or don't know how to make poha. It's also very surprising that the first thing people do on meeting/hearing about someone is to categorize them as belonging to a certain community and then acting on stereotypical assumptions. In Bombay, this difference in cultural background is just another opportunity to try new foods and celebrate yet another festival. Yes, the stereotypes exist, but just as a round of jokes. So christmas is about my friend's mum's whiskey cake and yummy marzipan sweets while Eid is about going to Mohd.Ali road and trying out everything (something i can't wait to do, now that i'm a meat eater). And come Navroze, all i can think of is caramel custard. My maharashtrian friends are good for yummy prawn curry and the gujjus keep me happy with enough junk food to last me a lifetime. Also, some of the most generous people i've known are sindhis and marwaris. And no, the sindhis dont walk around with a stash of papad in their pockets. 

Today, i'm as comfortable singing Christmas carols as i am humming garba songs. I enjoy roadside anda bhurji as much as i do fancy poached eggs at a popular brunch outlet. I'm perfectly at ease travelling in a local train or bus as i am driving somewhere in a fancy car. Everyday is a learning opportunity, new people, new foods, new cuss words.

And so Bombay may be crowded, polluted, noisy and generally unlivable to an outsider. But for me, it's the best thing that could have happened. 

For Now

I'm in the process of typing out a really long blog post of what i now call the worst day ever since i got married (please to note there have been worst days before i got married but now they're all blurry and in sepia in the recesses of my brain and i can't be bothered to dig them out just to go into denial once more).

Anyhoo. My point here is that this is just a for-the-record kind of post. I'm in Bombay. And it's raining. Which, after dust storms is such a pleasure. Even though everything is mucky and wet and i'm carrying only really flat footwear.

I've been here two and a half days and already i feel like i never left (until i see the next empty ground near my house where a skyscraper has sprouted). I've gotten stuck in traffic (after zooming across the sea-link), had to wait for an autorickshaw for a long time, spent a seriously fun evening with girlfriends (and baby. Sigh), eaten gujju-style sambhar, bought crazy expensive fruits, discussed the merits of going to Amar Juice C at 1 am, gone shopping in Irla, cursed all the drivers in this city and then some, gotten stranded due to an autorickshaw strike, sat cosy indoors while it poured outside, bemoaned the lack of pakodas at home (everyone is on a diet owing to an upcoming wedding in the family - post coming later) and generally enjoyed being back in my room staring up at the very familiar ceiling.

And while i do plan to get some actual work done while i'm here (apart from the food and friends ie), for now i'm just enjoying the smells, sights and sounds of *meri mitti mera desh* Maybe tomorrow i'll start complaining?

Bombay and Birthdays

I don’t really need a reason to miss Bombay (as will be apparent to anyone who reads this space and/or hears me talk for extended periods of time) But sometimes I just happen to find myself in a situation, that absolutely makes me wish I could dissaparate (Harry Potter style), to the traffic jammed roads, super-crowded local trains, neighbourhood bhel and sandwich chappie and of course the shiny shopping malls.

I didn’t realise how much I relied on those gross symbols of consumerism and brand names till I didn’t have access to them anymore. Seriously. All I wanted to buy yesterday was a nice birthday gift for a friend’s one year old daughter. And did I find anything? No. Ok, so maybe I am a little neurotic when it comes to giving birthday gifts – it has to be perfect and special in at least one small way for the person. I can spend hours deciding what to buy, even though I hate shopping as a rule. So imagine my frustration, when I couldn’t find one remotely decent gift for a baby in this whole town (and just when I had started appreciating it a little).

And then I missed Bombay like crazy. I mean, if I was there, I would have had a tough time deciding what to give the baby from a wide range of ‘oh this is so cute’ stuff. And here, I had the option of ugly tee shirt vs ugly dress vs ugly toy. Shudder.

So finally I had to resort to the artsy-craftsy soul in me and make something at home – a challenge by itself given the limited resources available (this makes me miss Hobby Ideas and my favourite stationery shops in Bombay. Sniff).

Anyhoo, cutting a long story short, I gave the kiddo (well, actually her parents) a gorgeous photo album made of hand made paper (which I had picked up on a whim some months back somewhere) and painted a birthday greeting inside. Maybe someday, when the little one is older, and appreciates memories and birthdays more than she does today, she’ll want to sit with this album and go through the pictures of her first birthday. I know I would.

Cooking up Memories

I’m a true blue Bombayite. Street food runs through my veins. I’ve grown up on the golas at Juhu beach and the cornerwala sandwich bhaiyya’s veg sandwiches (with a slice of buttered bread and chaat masala with boiled potato on the side). And if there is one thing I miss about the city where I’ve grown up, it’s the food. In the one year that I’ve been away from Bombay, most of my home-sick moments have revolved around acute cravings for some or the other kind of food (mainly street food, with the random Mainland China and Basillico thrown in).

And today I finally did something I’d thought I’d never do. I decided to give into my food craving. How? By making the food myself. Yes. I know. Sounds undoable right? But I didn’t even think of attempting to match Bombay street food standards. All I wanted to do was calm down the craving monster in me, so that I didn’t spend the next 3 days whining and complaining (about this at least).

So I made Pav Bhaaji.

And while I made it, I thought of the super-heavy super-hot tava on which the street style bhaaji is and how it was impossible to stand too close to it. As I put in the pav bhaaji masala and the correct smells wafted up to me (yay), I was reminded of the sounds and smells from Khau galli, as we went to Fashion Street from college - the sizzle and splash of water on a hot tava, the rise of steam covering everything, and the smell of butter melting mingled with that particular aroma that only Bombay street-side bhaaji has. Then there was the pav. The butter soaked, hot, melts-in-your-mouth bread, which was a treat just by itself, making you want to overeat to the point of explosion. Sigh.

Somehow, even with all the flashbacks to a happier time, when I sat with friends by the side of the road licking pav bhaaji off our fingers, I managed to finish cooking. And surprisingly, I managed a decent enough job. Of course, the bhaaji could have used some of the red food colouring used in Bombay and the pav some more (lots more) butter. But it worked. My craving was appeased and I had the pleasure of licking some bhaaji off my fingers today.

Depressing at Best

After hearing so much about Gurgaon malls and the whole “mall culture”, I have to say I’m super-depressed right now.

The Fellow and I decided to go mall-hopping since we were in the vicinity and had the time (though not necessarily the inclination on my part). And my instinct proved right. As always. Not only are the malls quite lame in terms of the shops they hold, they’re terribly designed, and are a complete waste of space and all kinds of important resources. And to complete the sorry sight is the near absence of people and bored security guards. The only things that are moving in these malls are the escalators.

My analysis and judgment of the gaon malls is purely based on my extensive experience with those in Bombay. And even without my natural and all too justified bias towards my city, Bombay malls are so much swankier, shinier, happier and generally welcoming (most of them at least). And even when people are not actively shopping in them, they give a sense of activity and the food courts are always full. Here, the food courts were a sad sight, with maybe half a dozen people looking lost and wondering what they were doing there. And I don’t blame them. The food outlets were nothing to write home about. Quite the contrary actually.

And the worst bit is that most of the shops in the malls (and I mean all the malls here) are closed on Tuesdays. It’s a mall for crying out loud. You can’t have 10 malls in a 2 kilometre radius and then pull the shutters down one day a week! Who does that? What kind of a place is this? Sheesh!

I never really liked Delhi. And now my disdain extends towards its suburbs also. Tsk. Tsk.

Is it Indifference or is it Me?

(Day 108 of 112)

Warning: Long Post

Being from Bombay, I’m not as used to being eve-teased as, say a girl from Delhi. However, I have had my share of road-side romeos, jerks, and pervs. The first time I was teased, I was in school, and too mortified to tell anyone about it. By the time I got to college, I had become immune (at a certain level at least), like most women do. And then came the awareness that I could do something about it. I could fight back and make sure the guy paid, at least in humiliation if not jail time. And I’m proud to say that my friends and I did do something about it. We did try and bring to task guys who thought they could get away with whispered comments and distressingly wel placed gropes. I think a friend even broke a finger. At another time she even threw a glass of water in a chap’s face at a restaurant.

Today, I did my share for Women’s rights. Asking a chap to move his car from the middle of the lane, where he was parked so that he could chat with someone, resulted in him following me for about a kilometre. The fact that the whole time, his hand was on the horn and his bumper almost touching mine, did nothing to lower my stress levels. In fact, I don’t think I’ve been this scared in a long, long time. There was so much going on in my head that I’m surprised (and proud) that I managed to keep my cool and stay on the road. I’m also proud that I didn’t succumb to the madness in me and get out of the car with the Fellow’s baseball bat!

Anywhoo. With the Fellow encouraging me, I went to the nearest police station and filed an FIR. At first even the policemen there were incredulous at registering a complaint about eve-teasing/harassment/rash driving. I finally had to tell them I was a fauji-wife and drop some names for them to take me seriously. That done, I finally told the uncles and aunts what happened.

And their reaction? Why are you picking fights for no reason? You will go away and then he’ll come after your aunt (who was in the car with me). Why are you making such a big deal about this? There is no point in taking on such men. So on and so forth. Note that all this was accompanied by expressions that clearly said I was crazy and had all these new fangled notions which were stupid.

I don’t know what to think anymore. I’ve grown up thinking that there is no way in hell any woman should stand abuse (of any kind, and at the hands of anyone). And here there are people telling me I should have let the guy get away with what he did. It may not seem much as compared to a lot of other eve-teasing incidents. But for the couple of minutes his car was following us, I know that I was shit-scared, with my heart threatening to explode with stress. As for my aunt, she was so petrified that she didn’t even think of taking the number of the car down (which I did, even while trying to drive calmly) or even say anything beyond “is he following us?” over and over again.

Like the Fellow said (when I was in some kind of minor PTS and was having doubts about my actions), we have the benefit of education, awareness and fortunately, the right contacts. If we don’t take any action, who will? If we let fellows like these get away, we are simply encouraging them. If we don’t make them take responsibility for their behaviour, they’re just getting reinforced and will do this to some other girl tomorrow. The Indian Penal Code has provisions for eve-teasing. Yet no one really bothers. Yes, I know, our judicial system isn’t the best there is, especially about such cases. But as a responsible citizen, isn’t it our duty to at least report it to the police? How can you complain that the authorities don’t take any action to ensure safety for women, if you yourself are complacent about it and don’t step up?

How can you, as a woman, forget what you owe to yourself? How can you continue living with the panic, the increased heart rate, the dread of what might be coming next, the fear? How can you forget that you’re a human being too and don’t deserve to be followed like an animal and harassed in broad daylight?

How can you be so indifferent?

A Nomadic Existence

(Day 46 of 112)

My Bombay holiday has reached its end and starting tomorrow evening I’m going to be in a new city, and 3 days after that, in yet another city. I’m officially a nomad. And since I packed up my house before I left and put everything under dust covers, I don’t even have the pleasure of returning ‘home’ and hiding in my bedroom with my favourite TV show, book and the laptop.

By the time the Fellow finishes his course, I would have lived this nomadic existence for about a 100 days (the first 10 days or so after he left, I did manage to hide in my bedroom). And after he finishes it, a holiday is planned (for him to recuperate after 4 months of physical and mental torture). This effectively means that I’m going to be living out of a suitcase for another 4 months. Sigh. I never appreciated wardrobes and hangars and my very own shoe rack as much as I do now.

The Beach, Dancing and Good Food

(Day 45 of 112)

Three reasons why I know I absolutely love Bombay.

I was at a brunch party earlier in the day today. The venue, right at the edge of the beach, was suitably designed to include the water and sand in its aesthetics, making the guests stand for a moment and enjoy the rushing waves hitting the sand and the cool awesome breeze whipping around (not something they would do otherwise seeing as the rat race is on 24x7). I loved being there, so close to the beach, watching the patterns the waves made on the sand and the way children jumped and wrestled around in the water.

Then there was the music and dancing. It was such a pleasure listening to good music on the dance floor. Dancing is just so so so much better if the music is right. And the music was right today. The only thing better than the music, was my friend, who by virtue of being a professional dancer, was a treat to watch on the dance floor. The way he moved (and then caught your hand and made you move too) was, well, fun! *big grin* I miss dancing that makes me smile.

So there was the beach, and there was the dancing. What made the afternoon perfect was the food (and the happy company of course). I miss the good food I get in Bombay. It’s just one of those pleasures that can’t be described fully. Or can it? There is just something in a well made risotto or a lovely aromatic Thai curry which makes me smile. Add to that some awesome blueberry/lemon cheesecake and I’m smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Aggghh. It’s 2 days before I finish my Bombay holiday and I’m already missing it. The beach, dancing and good food are just the beginning of why I love this mad city so much. There is more to come.

One Knot and Two Friends

(25th July, Day 44 of 112)

Yesterday was one of the more interesting Saturdays I’ve had in a long time. To begin with, a wardrobe dysfunction had me testing my will power and more. Then there was a train ride which I enjoyed more I than imagined I would (the heat and people stepping on my feet included). I missed the local train when I left Bombay you see.

Anywho, a cab ride followed taking us to a familiar place through totally unfamiliar roads (much to our delight). This city just has to be loved I tell you. On reaching our happy place (read: favouritest shopping area) we prioritised. We went in search of a shop to repair my wardrobe dysfunction. And when we found the one shop which would supply us with what we needed, we left the old man behind the counter totally bemused (and a little more cheerful I think. We spread joy. Yay).

Having given my will power a break, and then satisfied our hunger pangs (ah!), we went hunting. Starting from one end of the shopping mile (to do the whole thing systematically you know), we went all the way to the end. And back. And then we did the same thing again. Three times. On the way we stopped and checked out earrings, bags, tee shirts, pants, more earrings and even some watches. Oh and there was the footwear shopping which was almost half of our shopping trip. So there was me with my kolhapuri chappals and indecisiveness about what to get (finally buying both pairs I liked. Eh. I’m not going to be in Bombay for several months now, so might as well indulge right?). And then there was the friend who spent a good amount of time figuring out what sized floaters were right for her- much to the exasperation of the sales-guy and the other friend and me. Finally, and after checking other shoe stores as well, we went back to the first store, flirted with the sales guy and made a purchase.

There was only one thing left to make this day complete – a mad dash to the station and rushing to get to a train to take us across town in time to catch a movie scheduled to begin in about an hour. Sounds impossible? Nah. This is Bombay baby! All is possible if only you’re prepared to get into a super-crowded local train and get out while it’s running.

Ah the joys of this city.

Ps: When I say wardrobe dysfunction, I mean dysfunction. Please to note and not confuse with malfunction. That’s best left to fashion shows and anorexic models.

Different Chinese

(Day 40 of 112)

I love Chinese food. Give it to me night and day and I’m happy. Of course this also means that I’m very choosy about where I eat Chinese food and prefer going only to my favourite restaurants.

And then there are days like today where I’m in the mood for something more local. Like Indian Chinese. This is our take on the neighbours’ food. We took their rice, noodles and soya and made it completely our own.

So we have our desi Manchurian and even more desi Paneer chilli which make awesome combinations with fried rice (which is re-ally fried) and haka noodles (with peas and beetroot sliced very fine). Not for Indian Chinese are Chinese greens and tofu and shitake mushrooms. No siree. We’re happy with our paneer and cauliflower and lots of garlic. And the soya of course.

But for all it’s deviation from the authentic, Indian Chinese is here to stay. No fancy restaurants and chopsticks are going to make Indian Chinese obsolete. Too many people love it. And for people like me, it has nostalgic value, making it the kind of food I crave when I’m missing friends and am in need of food for the soul. Much like the local pizza (complete with large amounts of tomato ketchup and grated Amul cheese) found wherever you get Indian Chinese.

The nostalgia and in your face non-chinese flavours are what make Indian Chinese the best. Ok maybe not as good as a masala sandwich or dahi-puri but definitely as much fun.

Girls Day Out

(Day 38 of 112)

Today was one of those days that involved all things girly (and some things not so girly). We (my friends and I) started the day with the new Harry Potter movie (my views on that deserve an exclusive post so not much on that here). To put it concisely, we were bored enough to start making after-movie plans while the simple task of hiding a book became a romantic outing on screen.

Anywho, after the movie we decided to go meet another friend (who was smart enough not to have joined us). Our point of rendezvous was Bandra, selected for its shops, all of which are having their annual monsoon sale, making it perfect for a girls day out!

We began small – with the hundreds of shops/stalls/cart on the road selling everything imaginable, right from jewellery and clothes to lingerie and bags. Once we’d had our fill of laughing at the weird stuff on display we went in for a quick lunch – which lasted about 2 hours and was full of gossip, sharing, advice and discussions on late-night south Indian tv channels.

Fed and watered, we emerged onto the roads again, this time laughing ourselves silly looking at the clothes that were draped on mannequins (we were very discreet and not at all mean I promise you.) We also went into several branded shops and alternately loved/hated their clothes and/or prices. And although I don’t like shopping too much, doing it with friends and spending more time in discussing and analysing the clothes rather than trying them out made it so much more fun I tell you!

And so this girl’s day out started with a movie and caramel popcorn and ended with shopping bags full of clothes, footwear and new bags. Oh and loads of gossip and laughter.

Of Sisterly Love (and Disgust)

(Day 37 of 112)

It’s Raksha Bandhan in another fortnight. Usually mum would buy all the rakhis and post/send them with people to the cousins living in other cities as well as have them ready for the few cousins I do have in Bombay. All we (my sister and i) had to do was get up and ready in time on that day, look pretty (duh!) and collect the moolah from our unfortunately outnumbered brothers.

But this year all this changes. I’m married now. This means that the rakhis that I tie (or are tied for me by a stand-in) have to be sent in by me. This involves (a) finding out where one gets rakhis. (b) figuring out which of those places you’ve heard of before and have a good chance of locating on your own. (c) calculating which is the closest to your house and thus can be reached easily. (d) actually going there to buy the rakhis.

All the above steps done, I finally got down to buying the rakhis today. And 10 mins later I wanted to shoot someone. Rows and rows and tables full of rakhis and not one, not one I repeat was the kind you would want to spend any amount of money on. All the rakhis, apart from being highly overpriced, were the kind that could probably be seen from a mile away. No they weren’t big in size – they were shiny. In the gaudy kind of way. Not content with sticking ugly coloured stones on sarees and other female apparel, now they start doing it to rakhis too! And so the choice was getting a rakhi with multicoloured stones strung together with a horribly clashing coloured thread or getting a rakhi with those false diamond like thingies sandwiched between something that resembled gold coloured plastic triangles, all held together by some wool like thread - the kind that itches and leaves a stain on your wrist.

Are you effing kidding me? A100 bucks for an ugly piece of plastic on an uglier piece of thread? And don’t even get me started on the rakhis which have religious iconography on them or cartoons! I mean who wants Shin Chan on a rakhi? Don’t tell me. I know the answer is bratty little boys. I was being rhetorical.

And then to make more money out of gullible (and desperate sisters) they use marketing strategies which are or should be part of B-school curriculum. What they do is hang rakhis on a piece of string across the shop and sell them for Rs. 10. The same rakhis they also put in tiny plastic boxes (or ugly paper boxes with plastic windows) and sell them for Rs. 30. WTF! And it’s not even like the rakhi is anything but multicoloured thread twisted together and dipped in glitter. Sheesh!

So for the record, I’m officially disgusted. I have now come to the conclusion that all rakhis from this point onwards shall be homemade. Just like they used to be when we were in school and had to make rakhis for art and craft. It’s back to basics time now. Sisterly love is not going to be bought in a shop anymore. It shall all be homemade and stuck with liberal doses of fevicol!

Ps: After an hours search I did manage to find some rakhis I could buy without cringing and since I had to send them with someone going out of town this very evening, I had no choice but to buy them. Oh the agony and pain. But for next year it’s homemade rakhis definitely!

Eyes Closed

(Day 35 of 112)

One thing I’ve realised after traversing the roads in Bombay after a long time has been that while the traffic has gotten worse and the roads an even bigger disgrace than they were, one thing that has not changed is the attitude of the people.

Nobody trusts anybody on the roads. They see an opening and 20 vehicles aim to get through it. It doesn’t matter that they are cutting lanes and making a bigger mess of the traffic. All that matters is that they get through to the other side before the old sod in the bigger car on their left. If only people trusted each other to follow road etiquette and believe that if they just show a minute’s worth of patience everyone will get through. But that’s too much to ask. If someone is sensible enough to stay in his place and not add to the already terrible jam, the moron in the gigantic car behind him will take it as a sign to rush forward and add his two bits to the big pile of mess.

And if this not enough, the use of brakes seems to have become illegal in this city. Or so I believe. After all no one uses them anymore. And so cars, buses, trucks and rickshaws all swerve and sway and literally scrape through by the skin of their teeth. But no one stops. That’s against their pride and religion apparently. And of course if they stop the result is generally an orchestra of honking from all sides. Then there is the unspeakable humiliation, of having that lady-driver on your right overtake you. Not done you see.

The only thing to do on the roads of Bombay now (and it seems like most drivers are already doing it) is to keep your eyes closed when travelling (but not when behind the wheel). I know I do (again, not behind the wheel). My heart and blood pressure cannot stand the stress of expecting the sound of metal against metal accompanied by a huge shouting match anymore. I must be getting old. Or careful.

Something Old, Something New

(12th July, Day 31 of 112)

I had my first game of poker today. From knowing only the spelling of this extremely popular card game to being able to hold my own quite well in the midst of experienced players, I’ve come pretty far in the last 5 hours or so. This makes me happy. I tried something new and I didn’t suck!

What made the whole poker experience more fun (and not as distressing or embarrassing as I thought it might be) was the fact that I was amongst old friends, some of whom I’ve known since we were 6 yrs old. And so the cards and chips were just so much friendlier with inside jokes, gossip that’s been doing the rounds since we were in school, new gossip that no one else who wasn’t in school with us would be bothered with, and just the knowledge that we’ve quite literally known each other forever and so losing – badly at that – at a poker game, wasn’t quite so terrible as it could have been.

And so something new and something old together made for one of the more fun and laughter filled evenings I’ve had in a long time. Cheers to that. And all the fake money I made!

Only Here

(10th July, Day 29 of 112)

I was out to dinner today with a friend and we chose to go to this relatively upscale Italian joint (which was on my places to eat at when in Bombay). After a good dinner and even better conversation (theological/scientific discussions) as we moved out, I found myself reaching into a bowl near the exit. The bowl was full of sugar coated saunf (fennel) a common enough sight in most Indian homes and used as a mouth refresher (mukhwaas) after meals.

This got me thinking about how India was probably the only place in the world where every restaurant you go to, no matter what kind (right from your udipis found in every bylane of Bombay to upscale five-star hotels), there will always be some version of saunf available at the end of the meal.

So in your udipis you will have saunf given with misri (crystallised sugar lumps) or even jaggery while in your neighbourhood five-star joint you will have a fancier version with sugar coated fennel and maybe peppermints.

Whatever the type maybe, the fact remains that it’s only here can you spend several thousands on a fancy meal at a hoity-toity eatery and still reach out for saunf at the end of it. And it’s only here that you will find the saunf ready and waiting for you.

Dry Feet

(Day 28 of 112)

Ever since the rains officially decided to hit Bombay, the same day as I landed here about 2 and a half weeks back, I have managed to not get wet and/or stuck in a traffic jam courtesy water logging. I have even avoided being a victim of mud stains and car splashes courtesy rude drivers.

In another time (when I was less cynical and more easily pleased), much time was spent walking in the rain (and no this is as non-romantic as it gets), enjoying watching other people scamper and flee the water as though it were acid. A lot of time was even spent travelling in the rain. Forced choice and all that since it was either leaking, overcrowded trains or overcrowded never moving from one spot on the road bus. But since we were seasoned travellers (experience making us wise beyond our ages you see) we always carried a Mumbai Monsoon Survivor Kit*, complete with food, phone charger, extra money, plastic bags and socks.

The plastic bags were used to put wet umbrellas in since we were considerate and didn’t want to drip water over people around us, and also to spread out on wet train seats so that we didn’t have to sit in a puddle, the money and the food were for survival and to bribe taxi drivers to take us through water logged areas, the phone charger just in case and the socks so that at least my feet could be dry.

This was very important. Nothing is more annoying (to me) than wet feet or even worse, wet socks. They (the socks) get all horribly squishy and make funny sounds when you walk. The feet feel cold and clammy and get prune-like wrinkles all over. And over the years I’ve realised that no matter how long I spend in the rain (voluntarily or just stuck there), no matter where I am once out of the rain (in the classroom or at home) and no matter how drenched I am, it can all be made ok if only I have dry feet.

So here’s to being smart and staying indoors this monsoon and of course, dry feet.

* - This is different from the Mumbai Monsoon Survivor Kit for people travelling in cars. That includes a heavy object like a hammer or dumbbell to break open the window in case of flooding and jamming of the power-lock systems. It also includes a torch to look for the hammer under your seats. But that’s another story.

Unicorns, Pixies and Blue Candy Floss

(8th July, Day 27 of 112)

Ok, so the first two are fantasy and according to me, blue candy floss is also right up there with unicorns and pixies and elves and magic wishing trees.

Candy floss. Fluffy, light, delicately spun sugar. No childhood is ever complete without at least one (or two) memories of enjoying this sticky treat and giggling with childish pleasure when it melted in the mouth.

For me candy floss belongs to childhood trips to Juhu beach where my sister and I insisted on getting our own stick of pink sugar before we went home. We knew it was unhealthy (pure sugar really) and we knew eating it all in a few minutes was guaranteed to make us feel sick. But we did it anyway. No trip to the beach was ever complete without it.

Today I experienced the simple joy that candy floss can be all over again. And this time it wasn’t at the beach but at a friend’s home. She has a small candy floss maker which is the source of much pleasure and happiness (and not only amongst her kid sister and her friends). So a bunch of us friends spent the evening making blue candy floss and grinning with contentment and surprise at the familiar taste and the sight of our bright blue tongues!

It was an evening filled with unbridled laughter, big grins, lots of blue coloured sugar, and of course childhood memories. An evening which reminds you of the simple joys of childhood and of spending time with friends. Much like the simple joy that unicorns and pixies bring.

Check

(7th July, Day 26 of 112)

I live in a city where the theatres don’t show English movies. They tried once. 2 people showed up. And so, what with all the bad Hindi movies that were released over the last 6 odd months and no English movies being screened, I hadn’t stepped into a theatre since I got married. Until today.

I now list watching an English movie in a theatre along with some 100 odd strangers as one those small pleasures in life. The kind you don’t appreciate until you can’t do it anymore (forced choice and all that). Even people stepping on my feet was more nostalgia inducing than annoying. And the caramel popcorn! Oh yeah! They just don’t seem to have the concept anywhere else.

And so, I got my ‘watch a movie in a theatre and eat caramel popcorn till you feel sick’ checked on the things to do when in Bombay list. Yay.

Wimp

(Day 20 of 112)

Earlier this evening I went to my aunt’s house for dinner. Now since it is the monsoon season and the roads are a big pile of sludge and rain water, I decided to take that handy three-wheeler we like to call rickshaws.

As I entered my aunt’s lane I started marvelling at how wonderful the newly repaired road was looking. Suddenly my reverie was interrupted (quite rudely and loudly I must add) by this street dog who apparently took a liking to the (a) rickshaw I was in, (b) the rickshaw driver or (c) me.

Now usually when a street dog decides to chase a passing car/vehicle, it will give up after a few metres and lie in wait for the next one. But the mongrel who decided to follow my mode of conveyance was not content with a few sharp barks registering protest at entering his territory. No siree. He followed us, barking loudly all the way, right till we stopped at the building gates. And then he came and stuck his head into the rickshaw, effectively stopping me from getting out.

Forgetting that I love dogs and am not scared of them, I took pride and stuffed it down my hand bag and called out to the building watchman (who thankfully has known me since I was a kid and can be quite protective) to call the dog away.

A minute later I was running into the building compound and trying to forget the look the dog gave me as I passed him on my 50mt dash – a look that said just one thing. Wimp.