Under the Same Sky

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You broke the ocean in half to be here. 
Only to meet nothing that wants you.
– immigrant
salt. nayyirah waheed

We are stepping out of the movie theatre after watching Captain America. As I hand over my 3D glasses, I catch snatches of Arabic. Three young men, in Adidas tracks + baggy tees are standing there talking to the staff. All that my biased ears can hear is the start of an argument. 

I am instantly transported to 16th Street, Bur Dubai. Mom and I walking back from Ms Feriyal’s, my Arabic tuition teacher’s and the taunts of “Aye Hindi!” from tall, oh-so-tall and obese young Arabs following us all the way till we reach home. Don’t show fear, I tell myself. Look down, don’t look into their eyes to confront, walk calmly but not too quick. And that’s how I walk out of the theatre.

It’s past midnight. Now there’s just 5 of us in the narrow corridor between the exit from the cinema and the mall entrance. I hear one of the 3 Arab guys asking the other to hurry. “If I’m late, my mother will kill me.”

And just like that we are all the same: young, stupid and afraid of the wrath of waiting mothers.

Shoes and Other Hurts

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Go forth on high heels, come back on

foot. Post-lunch trauma. The tragedy that

strikes black stilletos and my twisted feet

shall only be spoken about in hushed

tones. Deference to the departed.

The slinky black stilletos now lie

wrapped in a neon pink plastic bag in the

trash can, their next-to-last resting place,

on Robertson Boulevard and Melrose

Avenue. Right outside Cecconi’s.

This tragedy which was followed by dinner at

Louie involved the consumption of

generous servings of mussels and clams,

whilst further drowning in the charms of

Mint Juleps and Sparkling wine. The

mourning spilled over into the morning,

where I helped myself to

pizza with Italian Sausage from Terroni’s

and gulped down mouthfuls of French

Vanilla flavored coffee from the

neighborhood CBTL.

May the shoes rest in peace.

They had seen better days. 

Memoirs of a Mad Cook →

Memoirs of a Mad Cook

There’s no point kidding myself any longer,
I just can’t get the knack of it ; I suspect
there’s a secret society which meets 
in dark cafeterias to pass on the art
from one member to another.
Besides,
It’s so personal preparing food for someone’s 
insides, what can I possibly know
about someone’s insides, how can I presume 
to invade your blood?
I’ll try, God knows I’ll try
but if anyone watches me I’ll scream
because maybe I’m handling a tomato wrong,
how can I know if I’m handling a tomato wrong?

something is eating away at me
with splendid teeth

Wistfully I stand in my difficult kitchen
and imagine the fantastic salads and soufflés
that will never be.
Everyone seems to grow thin with me
and their eyes grow black as hunters’ eyes
and search my face for sustenance.
All my friends are dying of hunger,
there is some basic dish I cannot offer,
and you my love are almost as lean
as the splendid wolf I must keep always
at my door.

by Gwendolyn MacEwen
from The Armies of the Moon
Toronto: Macmillan, 1972

Via loeufnoir.

Story of my life, our household.
He cooks, I eat.
I grow wider, he grows leaner.
I eat his food, I don’t eat his food.

Everything it seems I likes a little bit stronger

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My weekends have gotten even more precious ever since I started working with Janaagraha a year ago. We work on 2 Saturdays in a month and 3, if it’s that dastardly month with 5 weekends packed in. Where these 5 weekends would once be a cause for celebration, it’s now the most stressful part of my life. Distressing even. Or at least enough to send me into paroxysms of anxiety (when do I do my grocery shopping, laundry, meet Dee for dinner) making lists of all the things I’m missing out on(mostly sleep and lazy brunches and too much mimosa) till it finally all comes to a head.

The long weekend had finally kicked in. It started with the most lofty of ambitions: a drive to Koramangala to dig into pillowy idlis at Kamath, some baking - perhaps an apple downside upside down cake, a movie, a quick detour to the Department of Horticulture to pick up some dirt, gardening, beer with friends. A little loving, a little exploring, a little excitement, a little adventure, a perfect weekend plan.

On Saturday, I bolted awake at 4.30 am - I had an interview with BBC Radio at 5.30 am. The alarm hadn’t gone off (In my head, I played out an entire “what if my body hadn’t bolted itself awake?” scenario), the cabbie hadn’t called, I didn’t have the cabbie’s number. After much hand-wringing, waking up cab companies at 5 am and other such unkindly acts at unearthly hours I made my way to the Hyatt on M G Road.

The sun hadn’t come up, Bangalore was lovely, dark and a few potholes deep. Kate and Mark at the BBC were kind to offer me a couple of coffees and let me by myself - talking politics, potholes and portmanteau words (Bollywood, Tollywood, Kollywood!)

Later in the afternoon, seven of us sat crouched around a long wooden table at a smoky pub and talked about work, mutual friends, our lives that were and what we wanted our lives to be. We drank mugs of Apple Ale, and then another, and then another.

This was a different time with pitch perfect timing, we didn’t have somewhere else to go or anyone else to be. A raucous afternoon, a subdued evening - Our voices hoarse with laughter and chatter, our minds emptied. This is what tumblers of good ale, plates of simple delicious food and a heart full of warm friendships brings.

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Monday would have made Sunday proud. Maybe it was the puddles of rain from the previous night or the indecisive temperatures - one minute a chilly wind blowing and the next, shafts of piercing sunlight or the bacchanalian excesses of the days before. Or maybe we just needed a lazy quiet morning. There was no fervour for a holiday gained, no time for elaborate plans and escapes. We stayed put. In bed, draped on the couch.

We ordered in Chinese food. Kitschy, junk, takeaway in little paper boxes accompanied by sauces with no names. Chilli chicken, Schezwan noodles, Kung Pao Chicken. What’s a holiday without a drink? We resurrected leftover wine, a few days away from vinegar, as Sangria with a dash of star anise, shavings of orange rind, splashes of OJ, leftover watermelon cubes and diced apples.

Outside, the rain splashed, the autorickshaw stand stood framed in the sodium yellow of the streetlights, the train station buzzed with activity. Inside we licked the chilli sauce from our forks and sunk further into our torpor.

Papa

My grandpa is in the hospital. No, scratch that. Right now he’s freezing in the morgue. 

There are so many people in the house on a Monday morning. Someone’s muttering prayers, an aunt is crying in the corner. My grandma breaks down when she sees me and then asks “Have you had breakfast? Do you want tea or coffee?" 

His chair has been moved. To make place for everyone who will come to pay their last respects. His bed is now storage for everyone’s bags, baggage from faraway countries. His walking stick is nowhere to be seen - someone has probably already laid claim to it. A distant relative has brought meat puffs for us for breakfast and a neighbour has taken them away. He loved meat puffs from Vaz Bakery; the neighbour says "No meat for the mourning." 

I’m not mourning. I’m just missing him. 

I sit at the kitchen counter, just like I would when he made omelettes because I refused to eat fish. My grandma asks me "Why didn’t you come here on Saturday? He was asking for you!”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that mom didn’t tell me he was asking for me. She didn’t tell me he was on his deathbed. Another aunt tries her hand at fifteen seconds of fame at a funeral: “He was waiting for me to arrive. He raised his hand and blessed me.” Mom chips in, “I was feeding him water with a spoon till his last breath.”

There’s going to be no end to this. 

I wait in the living room. It’s noon. The body is here, someone announces.

The body? That’s my Papa they are talking about. 

The Ordinary Life

To write a post, I have to deem its subject wonderful or beautiful, puzzling or revelatory - it has to be pretty extraordinary. There is an unspoken need to weave a story, for it to be a serendipitous discovery, to be meaningful to my life, my living.

It’s difficult to write about the ordinary. Everyday life isn’t always wonderful or beautiful, it doesn’t puzzle me enough to keep me up at night thinking about existentialism, it isn’t revelatory about the purpose of life or I don’t make new discoveries about how to lead a life of purpose.  It’s ordinary: The daily chores, the everyday food, the daily rituals of breakfast, lunch and dinner, the conversations that move the days and nights along. 

Few minutes ago, I was caramelising onions for a chicken curry I’m rustling up for lunch. I crushed ice for a quick drink of rum and coke. I made a mental note of the pending work items on my To-Do List. In an almost meditative moment, I measured out the rice, washed it, added enough water, watched the rice settle, some grains did the dance of Brownian motion and thus I completed the weekend ritual of making rice. All simple nice things that make up my day but nothing to write about. And that’s OK.

Yesterday Anisha called from the neighbourhood Au Bon Pain. “Do you want something from here? I’ll come over if you make me some Cherry-Cinnamon tea.”

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I paused Newsroom and we sat down for a quick afternoon meal of sandwiches, cherry-cinnamon tea, chocolate and blueberry muffins. Anisha also brought along a small gift of honeyed peanuts. “I wasn’t sure if you were working today but I thought I’d check anyway.” I was happy that she chose to keep aside all modern misgivings of plans and calendars and turn up at my door. It was a spontaneous act of warmth and friendship - I preferred this to a more elaborate meal planned weeks in advance, weighed down by expectations and social niceties.

It takes time and extraordinary resolve to consciously step back and savour the moment. It’s almost a mantra I have to repeat to myself: Stop foraging for a story, ignore the urge to be constantly awed, appreciate the stories in the ordinary moments. Sometimes it’s just about allowing for the moment of spontaneity and giving yourself up to it, like the afternoon tea with Anisha. I could get used to it.

The subtext is always desire

“We spent the next two years courting each other with words—our own, but also those of any writer we thought might impress. We certainly weren’t the first to go this route. But like every romance, and every reading list, it felt like our own. The question “What are you reading?” became a convenient excuse to chat when we spotted each other online, to send links, to write long, complicated letters in which the subtext was always desire.”

- Love Stories, Phoebe Connelly

It’s still the only excuse to start a conversation “What are you reading?” “What are you watching?” and when separation/space/time bears heavy a quick email “ZOMG! I know you’ll love this” with the link attached. But the subtext is always desire, longing- For conversation, for glimpses into the each others lives and for holding out hope that someday we’ll back where we started.