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Oh London!

2020-03-28T00:07:00.000+05:30

London for me is a giant emotion.
Historical. Modern. Happy. Sad. Rich. Poor. Bright. Dark.
And now, it is under siege. By Covid 19. Boris Johnson has been infected, too. The virus doesn't respect position, I think as I feel the urge to revisit my photographs and re-live October 2019 one more time.

Landing on a cold, cold afternoon is not easy. Even less easy was finding our way to the level where our Uber would arrive (all parking levels at Heathrow look the same).

Much back and forthing later, we managed. As each Uber approached, my excitement grew. We were about to meet our daughter, son-in-law and our four legged, one tailed, furry confident, curious little grandson – Ovi. I like to call him Ovis-Padovis and love how he greets us, every single time. Does a little dance, jumps a bit. Licks a little. That tiny tail wags up a little storm.

The reason we were in London during the biting-cold-almost-impossible weather was because:

· Our younger daughter was about to receive her Master’s from Trinity College Dublin

· I did not want to spend another Diwali without the rest of the family

Driving out of Heathrow, a feeling of forlorn-ness overcame me. A shiver went down my spine. Was it the cold? The rocketing numbers galloping uncontrolled on the Uber meter? Fatigue? hunger? I couldn’t shake it off. So, I let it be and looked out the window.

London enchanted with her colours of Fall. Golden brown, bright yellow, crunchy when dry and squishy when wet… Those Autumn leaves were a sight to behold as they cast a golden glow over the city.

History cannot hide

Suddenly, the driver’s GPS announced, “your destination has arrived.” Into the slight drizzle our four bags, a large carboard carton loaded with Indian goodies and us were deposited. I looked in front of me, liking the place we were to stay instantly. Only one problem: our Airbnb was on the 3^rd floor, and this lovely apartment building had no lift.

Our saviour(s) Mihika and Ovi arrived. And our hostess hoisted the heaviest bag. Ovi motivated... much tugging, dragging and lifting later, the rest of the bags reached the third floor. That house was simply beautiful. It had this warm vibe, therapeutic colours, and comfortable furniture. I loved the terrace and how in the mornings, sunlight streamed through as we ate breakfast and drank our morning tea. The best part is that our hostess had left some fruit, bread, tea, milk and a properly stocked kitchen for us.

The living room

Cuteness

The road below

“All of it is for you,” she said. “And we love dogs.”

I liked her instantly. And Ovi wagged his tail.

That sad feeling? Maybe at some level I knew I would not be travelling for a long time to come.

Normally, by early March, we would’ve firmed up travel plans. Bookings would be made for end June and our countdown would have begun. For 2020 I had my heart set on Banff, Calgary and Jasper in Canada… Instead, the whole world is caged, waiting for Covid 19 to leave us in peace.

Hubster’s InterContinental Birthday Extravaganza!

2019-12-30T16:56:00.000+05:30

Hubster missed being a Christmas baby by just a couple of days. Still, by virtue of the date, he has some qualities that I think Jesus must’ve had: gentleness and the ability to put his point across without hurting anybody.

‘I’m a very simple person,’ he tells me almost on a daily basis, in case I forget.

But, this was his birthday. And I wanted the simple man in my life to feel good.

Did not take me long to figure it out.

Christmas Brunch

We began celebrations on December 25, 2019 with a grand brunch at Park Hyatt Chennai. Loads of fun and food in great company. Complete with a clown and magician. For a moment there, I felt like a child. Almost clapping in glee as the young magician picked out my colour (red) and number (7).

Vilasa's sprawling living room

Same room, different view

Dining and living area

Reflections

For the big event, I’d booked a suite by the bay at the InterContinental Mahabalipuram. I would’ve kept it a surprise, but, Hubster had to be told: he had to drive us there. Immediately, his antenna went up.

‘Don’t be so extravagant,’ he chided.

‘It’s your birthday. Please, don’t argue,’ I said. ‘I’m only telling you is because you’ll have to pack, drive us there and I’ve booked it for two nights.’

Our girls were delighted he was being spoilt. I was delighted in their delight.

Cake cutting at Gossip

Festive Christmas Tree!

On our way, we stopped at Gossip Fusion Bistro and Dessert Bar on ECR: a must have meal every time we go to Mahabalipuram. Hubster cut his first cake there.

We both loved the InterContinental Vilasa suite. It even had a plunge pool. I was probably more excited than he was. Loved every nuance of the room, and the personalized welcome platter Intercontinental had thoughtfully created.

Welcome platter

Hubster’s smile spoke volumes. He was a bit embarrassed; I could tell. There was more to come….

An hour later, before the sun set, I insisted we go to the beach.

‘To get the evening light in our pictures,’ I said.

The famous cake!

KoKoMMo

Secretly, I smiled. A surprise waited: another cake. With a special message: one I spent ten days agonizing over. Changing many times. This was that moment. This was the cake! It was way beyond my imagination. Or his. It showed his passion for travel, so sweetly, so succinctly. The message on it read:

Happy Birthday, Hubster. Here’s to happiness forever. You’re amazing.

Lame to spend ten days over. My excuse: how much can you say on a cake?

Hubster was born during Tamil Nadu’s auspicious Margazhi, a month when traditional music and culture are celebrated in a big way. In keeping grand resurgence of culture, Intercontinental have a percussion troupe from Kerala playing in the middle of their beautiful lotus pond every evening.

Lotus pond

A little bit of music (put your speakers on)

I simply couldn't get enough - obviously

The setting could not have been more romantic. The two-member troupe is fabulous. Lilting music, old songs… Each of us sat lost in our memories, humming along.

Another surprise I did not know of. We were led to KoKoMMo. And there, on the beach, under the stars, stood a table for two. A fabulous bespoke Mediterranean meal was presented to us.

Hubster’s birthday lasted the two days of our InterContinental Mahabalipuram stay. Every meal appealed to my senses. We ate Rajasthani, South Indian, Contemporary Chinese, Coastal Mediterranean…

The whole team, starting from GM Anand Nair, Arohi Tambe, Executive Chef Lawrence, Tenzin, Sanket Shinde and everybody else went out of their way to make us feel special. I think they should offer this as a package to those who want to make their special people feel loved.

Sometimes, mere words are not enough. And this is one of those times.

Watson, Cabaret and Shopping

2019-05-09T17:19:00.000+05:30

Boys will be boys. Even if they are grown men. That’s elementary, dear Watson. I thought, giggling to myself in the back seat of the car, as Adil (Hubster's school buddy) drove us to Watson Bay. I half listened as they went on about… guy stuff.

By now, my throat congestion was well on its way to making life rather uncomfortable. But, Watson Bay took care of all that. As we walked, climbed and looked, I saw layers of jagged edges, yellow weathered sandstone and wondered how it got that way. To me it looked like giant burnt and battered Bebincas stacked up together, uneven yet even, letting salty waves and the wind have their way. Not that the sandstone cliffs had any choice.

My eyes fell on boards pinned on to the fence along the edge of the walkway warning people to stay away from the edge. Infamously, this place is known for suicides... Winds are strong. Cliffs are steep. A selfie could go very wrong, I was thinking, with no intention of taking one.

The boys chattered along, unaware of the depressing thoughts that were going through my congestion clogged brain.

We arrived at a crowded beach restaurant. I think it’s called Beach Club. Luck was on our side. We found a table. In the sun. But, nobody complained. A table is a table. It had stools we could sit on and a view of the blue, blue sea. Beer and sea food consumed, I insisted on shopping.

I wandered through Myers, Zara and Uniqlo. Nothing I liked.

“You should always shop only in India,” Hubster and his wonderful logic. I saw the point, because all the clothes I liked were made in India. Why would someone in her sane mind pick up something by paying in dollars? Still, I managed to pick up two cotton tops for the cruise and later Chennai.

“You will have to iron them. They’re cotton.” The logical human intoned.

“I know. But I will wear them crushed, if needed.”

Towards evening, the square in the middle of two shopping malls comes alive with art, music, performances

Suddenly, he wanted to find out if they gave irons on the ship. Calls were made. Nobody seemed to know. Hubster persisted. He was lost without his well pressed T-shirts. After many calls, he got through. Only to find out that they did not provide those precious pieces of laundry equipment. He was told if he wanted his clothes pressed, he would have to pay a small fortune.

The hunt began for a travelling iron. An entire half day was spent in cabs going from store to store looking for one. Looks like all the shops in Sydney had everything else one needed to travel, except irons. Which was just as well, because, we later found out that irons were a safety hazard, therefore not permitted on the ship.

By now we were getting late for Blanc De Blanc Encore – named after a champagne, made of chardonnay grapes. We had booked our very expensive seats at the stately architectural wonder, Sydney’s Opera House.

Hurriedly, we strode to the venue, and found ourselves in our seats way before the cabaret started. What a show it was. Raunchy, classy, un-self-consciously hilarious, filled with stunts, timing, laughter, skill it was gripping from the word go. I found myself doubling up with mirth.

Equally entertaining were the drunk girls sitting at a table right in front. The more they drank, the raunchier they got, trying to grab the performers every single time they traipsed by. Finally, they had to be escorted out, table and wine notwithstanding.

Before the Blanc De Blanc Encore began, it was selfie time

In the theater, before the show began at Sydney Opera House

Ordinary Day, Extraordinary Experiences

2019-05-02T17:56:00.000+05:30

Early mornings make me cranky. Even worse is the heat. I mean, why would anybody in their right mind want to go to Australia when the weather in Chennai is perfectly comfortable? Well, we went. The reason was… Hubster. He thought it was a good idea to go because of the New Zealand cruise. Not any ordinary cruise, but on Ovation of the Seas. I, in any case, am game for some travel.

Outside the hotel, trying to smile

As usual, he hustled me along till we were hanging around on the pavement, waiting for the bus that would pick us up and take us to the Blue Mountains. I really did not know what else was in store, and I must tell you, temperatures were rising rapidly on that day in Sydney. A smallish bus came along, with a sweet girl driving it. Turns out, it was the feeder bus that would take us to a bigger bus that would drive a larger crowd of us to the Blue Mountains.
In the big bus our Driver Guide was a charming man called Henry, who knows his stuff like nobody else, and expresses himself with confidence. He welcomed us to the hottest day of the year. Temperatures were supposed to soar into the 40’s. Hubster and I exchanged looks. Mine say, ‘this is all your fault.’ He simply shrugged. It was bright and sunny outside. I was very happy we bought a wide brimmed floppy hat for me, and 'Australia' cap for him.

Changing the itinerary a bit, because of the heat, Henry decided we would go to the Featherdale Wildlife Park - https://www.featherdale.com.au/ - first, given that temperatures would keep rising as the day progressed, and the animals would become sluggish.

Sulphur-crested Cockatoo that actually says 'Hello!' as often as you say it to him.

I really love those Koalas. Cute, furry little Marsupials, they only feed on certain varieties of eucalyptus leaves, and sleep a lot. Quite like the kangaroo whose babies mature outside their bodies, the koala babies too are born rather immaturely. To know more, go to: https://www.savethekoala.com/about-koalas/interesting-facts

Koala trying to get some rest

Our photograph with Cooper the Koala

We stood in line to get this picture taken. I was so happy to touch cute, soft furred Cooper. Unconcerned, he was all concentration on the leaves he was eating.

That's a baby wallaby

I love how they look after their furry, feathered and four legged beings at the Featherdale Wildlife Park. Keeping them as close to their natural habitat, feeding them in time, letting them rest and ensuring their safety. All the animals, birds and reptiles need to do is live happily ever after.

Adding cheer and colour to a hot, bright day... the Crimson Rosella

Bright, sweltering, hot days look like this around Sydney

Our next stop was not so happy. We were in Leura, which was as hot as ever, and being dropped off being dropped off to get our pre-booked lunch and wander around a bit, should we so desire. I looked at my Chicken Salad. It looked good. I mean, golden chicken breast, veggies bursting with freshness, what could be better, right? Added to that I was hungry. One bite later, my chewing process stopped. I did not know whether to spit out the food or simply add a pinch of salt to what was in my mouth. First off, chicken breast is not my most favourite part of the bird. Secondly, when it is not seasoned, without even the slightest amount of salt added to it before being grilled, is not my idea of taste. I soldiered on, sawing and chewing till the hunger abated, all the while looking longingly at the quickly diminishing veg roll hubby had opted for.

We got a bonus dessert. It was a brown slab wrapped in cling film. It could've been a brownie. Not worth the calories. Or the money.

Some food looks better than it tastes! In Leura

The corner restaurant that served the above salad

Lunch and a brief walk later, we were relieved to get into the cool bus and head to Secnic World (https://www.scenicworld.com.au/) . We rode on the Skyway, walked on the boardwalk called Jurassic Rainforest and had glimpses of how coal was mined in the past. At the end of the boardwalk, we came upon the Railway – a short ride on the steepest incline railway in the world, we were told. Hubster loved it. Despite the heat and sweat, we did it twice, so we could sit in the front of the carriage and actually feel adrenaline rush through our veins. It was fun. We felt like children discovering different layers of experiences all over again.

Finally, a Cableway took us to where we were to meet with Henry and our AAT Kings bus.

Scenic World Jurassic Rain Forest boardwalk

When horses moved humans

Sweltering heat notwithstanding

As we went to get a closer look at the looming Three Sisters, we heard the story surrounding the mighty rock formations.

Apparently, the three sisters, named 'Meehni', 'Wimlah' and 'Gunnedoo' belonged to the Katoomba tribe. All three fell in love with three brothers from a rival Napean tribe. Obviously, they could not marry and live happily ever after. War happened. To protect the three sisters, the witch doctor turned them into rock formations using his magic. Only he knew how to bring them back to life. But, he died in the war. And the three sisters stand testimony to his magic. I did not ask what happened to the brothers, though. They must’ve killed themselves or died in the war, as they were, after all, mere mortals.

The three sisters from a distance

Up close and scary: the three sisters

Beach Hopping

2019-04-06T17:20:00.000+05:30

Humans all over. In the water, riding waves, swimming... It's vacation time! Australians love the outdoors :)

Bondi Beach was the plan. But first: Opal Cards for use on public transport. Bus 333 would take us there, with plenty of stops in between, so we could soak in Sydney like locals.
Boarding from the starting point has two advantages: you choose your seat and you get a window.
Talking to Australians is easy. They are helpful and forthcoming with their local tips. On the long bus drive to Bondi Beach, I happily chatted with an Australian lady, with Hubster chipping in. Without exchanging names, we found out that her sister was married to an Indian from Bombay. When we arrived, she walked us to a restaurant called Sonoma (we'd never have found it on our own), where the food is fresh and reasonable.
As we waited for our orders, Hubster, suddenly began rummaging his pockets…
'Amta! I cannot find my Opal Card!' rummage. Search. Pat.
'Go look for it, Sunny. You may have dropped it somewhere. I'll wait here for our food.'
Mine was veggie focaccia with sun-dried tomatoes and aubergines. His was a quiche. To drink, he wanted hot chocolate and I needed a coffee kick. I waited and waited for a good 15 minutes. His hot chocolate arrived along with my food and coffee. Flies (the ones in Australia are huge!) decided his drink was for them... But I denied them the pleasure and quickly covered it up to keep it safe and warm as I slowly bit through my Focaccia.
Hubster returned.
'Someone must be enjoying using it,' he was dejected.

My sandwich, my coffee and his hot chocolate...

‘Good you're eating,' he noticed, quite the unhappy man. Not only was his Opal Card missing, his wife was sitting and eating happily while he was frantic in the hot sun. His quiche, on the other hand, was nowhere in sight. 'I'm hungry too.'
'It was either me or the flies,' I said, maybe sounding a little defensive.
'Where's my quiche?'
'Inside. Waiting for you to arrive. Too many flies here. I covered your hot chocolate to protect it,' that was me, sounding a bit defensive.

Hubster with Tom and the bag with Sonoma goodies

As we were leaving, the outlet manager, Tom, who was told of our sad plight, gave us a big package containing a large almond croissant, a cinnamon roll and a Danish pastry.
Hubster checked his pockets one last time before we went off to get him a new Opal Card.
His face lit up. The card was in a small pocket he did not know his shorts had…
Big relief. Now we were free to roam Bondi armed with our large Sonoma doggy bag adding to our other luggage.
Bondi was hot. Bright. Sunny. But, the beach was packed even though it was Thursday. Reason: vacation time in Australia.

I really had to try very hard to capture this Australian White Ibis on my camera

Manly Beach was next. This time we took the fast ferry and walked to the beach. En-route, I had a look at a few shops and saw all, literally all the clothes are made in India. Lucknowi embroidery, kalamkari, and block prints.
Unlike Bondi, Manly had people jogging along a track. Ate off some of Tom’s lovely croissant as we watched people enjoy games of volleyball at the various nets lining the beach.

Volley ball on Manly Beach

Too cool, our Mr. Hemingway

Alcohol on display!

Ashyana Restaurant's stairway

Caught the happy hour with literally 4 minutes to spare at a quaint pub called Hemingway. Books lined shelves inside, inviting me to tarry, but the ocean outside looked lovely. Outside won.
Hubster wanted Indian food. Nothing new. Although he always makes it seem like I want it too. Well. His strategies work every time.
Since I couldn't come up with a better idea, and his radar had already zeroed in on Indian food, I found myself at Ashyana Restaurant. Up one set of sticky stairs into a typical foreign Indian restaurant. Tattered saree drapes flapped from the ceiling, a Taj Mahal print, dirty toilet and smiling Indian waitresses in tshirts completed the picture. Whatever I touched was sticky.
Papads and chutney came to the table, brought by a charming young girl who was all genuine smiles. We ordered the typical, usual Dal and Paneer Butter Masala (which she told us she likes), with two whole wheat rotis.
On my way to the toilet, I spotted a pony tailed Indian Chef who looked like he could be the owner of the place, and he looked busy. The food took some time to arrive and was fresh. And it was delicious. Rotis included. They were large and had ajwain in them to aid digestion. All my misgivings melted. I chatted with the girl on our way out and found her grandfather opened the place in 1984. It hasn't seen a face-lift since: their regular clients are quite happy to eat in surroundings that have oil clinging to every surface. Well… I rest my case.
Took the slow ferry to Sydney. Turned out to be the best decision of the day. As I sat there, drifting into the sunset, I smiled the smile of complete bliss. The smile that sent shivers of absolute complete joy coursing through my being, filling every molecule with a sense of fulfillment. In that moment, I felt surrender.
Hubster was busy recording the beauty of Sydney on camera. He felt it too, settling in his seat next to me, he smiled. He knew.

The Sydney Bridge

Sydney lights twinkling on

A sight that still takes my breath away: the Sydney Opera House

Bucket List

2019-02-03T19:13:00.000+05:30

Sydney: in search of bread
Here we are. A dream come true for me. Somehow, when dreams become real, they pale in comparison to my imagination. Don't want to sound like a spoilt sport or something, but I really loved Singapore in comparison. At least, it seemed so on our drive from the airport.
Almost as soon as we got out of the airport, I got myself a SIM and headed to the Intercontinental by Uber. Arrived with tired eyes refusing to stay open. Luckily we didn't have to wait for our room, at all.
Room: good. Great view of the botanical gardens and a corner of the Opera House.

As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what Sydney held for us…
Waking up refreshed, we walked to Circular Quay, tried some local beer and sweet potato fries. Had to save my food and beverage from the bold seagulls who don't give stealing food a second thought. Or knocking beer glasses down to get a few beakfuls.

Got our tickets for a cabaret called Blanc de Blanc Encore at the famous Oprera House: that beautiful lotus shaped edifice I cannot get enough of...

I now think Sydney is beautiful.
As usual, Hubster doesn't like to eat breakfast at hotels. 'We don't do it justice,' he says.
So the quest began to find bread, cheese and chocolate milk for him. For me, banana, healthy sesame crackers and cheese. Not as easy as it sounds! First, we went to an EzyMart that his hawk eyes spotted. Too small. No bread. The counter guy directed us to a bigger place. 'only 4 minutes away’. By the time we got there, it was 40 minutes (no problem, we got our stars for step achievement). But... the bread was too big.
Now what? Walk some more, that's what. Google did not really help. We were two lost people roaming Sydney Streets looking for bread. A really nice young lady (a writer, naturally) told us to go to Woolworth, as our bread was no ordinary bread, what we wanted was a small bread loaf that would last us 3, no sorry, 5 days at one slice a day.
Well Woolworths was closed. In fact, Google told us it would remain open till 8 p.m. we landed there at 7:56 pm and to our abject horror it was closed.
In the meanwhile hunger pangs struck. We still did not have breakfast sorted. But we spotted a convenience store with every imaginable color in the spectrum being used to package food. Red. Blue. Yellow. Orange. Green. Black. Brown. No bread still. Managed to pick up bananas, cheese, chocolate milk and crackers.
On to the next hunt. This one was for Mr. Wong, aa Chinese restaurant. One of the few places open till later in Sydney.
Google knew, but we were hopeless at following those directions. Help was needed. We got plenty of it from friendly Australians, who stopped and directed. One kind lady actually walked with us to the end of the lane where Mr Wong resided.
Saw the restaurant, smelt the food. But Mr. Wong looked closed with happy diners inside. Only one problem: we were on the street looking at them from the outside.
'Is this like Hotel California, where nobody can ever leave…?' Brain growled into action.
The place looked good, judging from all the laughter we could hear.
'Let's see if there's another entrance ahead,' I said, and not waiting for any response, strode 25 meters up and saw I was right. The place was packed. We waited 20 minutes for the table, ate, drank and left… Without any bread 😂

Spa-ing along

2017-05-20T03:14:00.000+05:30

Spa-ing is always on my agenda. As important as food, travel, shopping... I do like it very much, and would willingly try any sort of massage in any part of the world, including my dearest hometown: Chennai.

Going to Spa Amrtam by Escenza at the Crowne Plaza Adyar Park was part of my massage and food agenda. I was set to focus my mind on my body and soul.

Walking past Crowne Plaza’s Connexions, I entered the corridor leading to a whole world of soothing luxury where people spoke in hushed whispers…

Serene Spa Amrtam at Crowne Plaza Chennai

Spa Amrtam took my breath away. In layers. Right from the entrance, it is pure white with splashes of color. I felt a deep sense of calm quieten my senses. Marble lotuses held deep red water lilies. My voice became barely audible.

“This is the stuff dreams are made of. In the movies. This is a movie set.” Brain decided.

I wasn’t about to argue because I agreed and I had important decisions to make.

In front of me, was the spa menu with a list of different massages.

"The Escenza Signature Experience," Matrika Dave, PR and Marketing Manager, chose for me. It included a scrub and oil massage. I could choose any combination I liked. Brain wasn’t helping.

I wanted to feel energized at the end of it all, but the energy oil (I think it was sage) got rejected by my nose.

I let Matrika decide. "The Sandalwood and Jasmine Scrub, followed by a Jasmine Oil massage," she said.

Ayo from Mizoram led me to my room. A foot cleansing session was done using water that had gone tepid.

Before getting my feet cleaned

The very comfortable massage bed

“All your fault. You shouldn’t have gone to the restroom…,” Brain admonished, deciding to keep me engaged in some unfriendly banter. "Imagine. All masseuse spend their lives trying to get the dead skin off bodies so people like you can glow.”

“Ma’am, have you lost weight recently?” Ayo asked. I’m over the moon.

“Yes,” I smile with my eyes closed. This girl is sweet, I thought, as she rubbed the fragrant scrub into my legs.

“How does she know?” Brain investigated.

“Your skin has gone little loose,” Ayo said as if she could hear Brain.

Ouch. That pin piercing my balloon of short-lived joy hurt.

“Ha ha,” Brain laughed. “You need to do strength training. If you don’t, you’ll soon be flopping all over the place like that Silly Putty you played with as a child. And, when you sit somewhere, you will have to remember to gather up all your skin so you don’t leave any behind…” Brain was going uncontrollably ballistic.

“Shut up,” I clenched my teeth just as Ayo finished her hour long ministrations and sent me off for my shower.

When I returned a new girl, Diana was waiting for me. She was there to knead, pat, massage, and stroke my muscles into relaxation the Swedish way.

“This is a deep tissue massage,” she said, using upward and sideways strokes that are shorter, stronger and slower than the long, swift full body strokes of Ayurveda.

“Your skin is so soft and smooth.”

“Don’t believe Diana. Ayo was right.” Brain’s voice was losing its bite. Jasmine scented bliss slowly seeped in through my pores as Diana’s soft, smooth hands firmly coaxed the knots out of my muscles.

I felt good. Relaxed. Comfortable and slipped into an easy slumber, waking up only to turn around or move an arm.

My massage was over too soon. I felt languid. Like Silly Putty with its skin intact. My senses were alert yet relaxed. My face was dressed with a happy smile.

And the world waited.

The boat ride on Naini Lake

2017-04-13T17:33:00.000+05:30

Sailing along

Naini Lake

That cold bit through my woolens as I sat in my balcony overlooking the lake in Nainital. Clenching my teeth together was all I could do to keep them from chattering.

Being from Chennai did not help.

For those who don’t know, our city in the South of India has summer all year round. And not of the gentle, happy kind. Temperatures soar into the 40s with high humidity. Most months have us sweat it out even as we sit in a chair doing nothing. And when it rains in December, it either brings floods or cyclones, still we have water problems. Sigh.

Why was I thinking these depressing thoughts as I sat in the balcony of Classic on The Mall?

A few seconds of introspection is all it took for the reason to hit me on my head.

It was the water.

I was awed by Naini Lake and its still, green water. So peaceful, so pliant, so giving.

'This water is sacred,' I said to myself, bowing down to it.

'What are you doing?' a voice behind me asked, jolting my senses into attention.

Chandan and his boat

'This water is sacred,' I repeated my thoughts to the husband. 'At least to our boatman, Chandan.'

He took us on a ride over Naini’s waters, rowing and talking effortlessly, I remembered most of our conversation.

I, as usual, began asking my questions.

Pointing to three solitary structures that held my curiosity on the other side of the lake from where we were staying, I asked about them.

‘They are temples. The middle one belongs to Pashan Devi. She is the goddess of the lake. The road that leads to her temple is Thandi Sadak,’ or cold road. Named thus because the road is always cold. Colder than the rest of Nainital.

‘For me, this water pure purity,’ Chandan said, gently rowing through the still green and deep lake. ‘This is where I earn my daily roti from. We, boat people, worship this lake.’

‘It has many fish.’

‘Nobody knows how deep the lake actually is.’He added an afterthought.

'Maybe you get your fish from the lake? It is something to do when business is dull,' I asked, logically.

‘Oh no! Never. We worship the lake. It provides the whole of Nainital with water. Many people fish here, but we would never do that. For us the lake and everything it holds is sacred.’

I looked at him with renewed respect.

His strong arms rowed effortlessly. My questions continued.

‘How many rides do you make every day?’

‘Madam ji, during the season, I do up to 10 or 12. There is line of people waiting. But these are off season times, so I get two or three.’

Doing the math, I figured, including our ride, he would have made less than Rs. 500 on that Saturday. And he had 3 children and a wife. That would be at least 5 mouths to feed and a boat to maintain.

‘Let’s pay him a bit more,’ I whispered to the generous husband.

‘Of course. That was on my mind too.’

As we got off Chandan’s boat, we were happy to see another family was heading in his direction.

Making it to Malaysia

2017-01-23T23:00:00.002+05:30

There’s something liberating about traveling and exploring new tastes, places, cultures and simply wandering around the streets of another country and trying not to get lost.

Confession time: I’m pretty pathetic with maps and directions. If you tell me to go right, I WILL go left. Naturally, not intentionally. My brain's logic: follow your heart. It is on the left, right?

Well, anyway, so Malaysia happened. Kuala Lumpur happened. We made it, even though the flight was seven whole hours late. At one point I found myself keeping my fingers crossed and praying that our flight would not get cancelled like the one that was cancelled in front of our very eyes. It was going to Malaysia.

Our flight took off. Seven hours late. Still, there’s always something good in something bad. By the time we landed, it was night and too late for a traffic jam. Our cab flew on those flat, well maintained roads. And, an hour later, we arrived at the Grand Hyatt.

‘How strange this is,’ I thought when we walked into the lonely ground floor lobby and were ushered into the lift instead of being checked in. The lift whisked us off to the 39^th floor before another thought could tickle my brain. And then I had to exercise all my self-control to keep my jaw from dropping.

It was almost like the Grand Hyatt wanted to show us her best view. Looming large and graceful, right in front of my very eyes, joined at the hip were the Petronas Twin Towers. Bright, breath-taking and identical.

Quick, let's click before we see our room! The lobby at Grand Hyatt, Kuala Lumpur

Check-in was a breeze. Our room was lovely, although the view did not have those twin towers for me to gaze at before going to sleep.

A quick 'selfie' before dinner :)

All set to try the local food, we were directed by the concierge to walk to Jalan Bukit Bintang instead of taking a cab. Good advice. The whole road was alive, even at midnight. Traffic was thick. Energy levels were high. Restaurants literally beckoned us in. All we wanted was food. Any food.

Chalo London 6

2016-09-12T00:50:00.001+05:30

Drops of humanity

Messages flew back and forth. Phone calls were made to decide about where to go and what to do. However, we never really thought of food.

Then those hunger pangs struck.
'Where will we eat lunch?' Everybody wanted to know as we stood.
'We are lost somewhere lonely. Without any food.' The brain announced in my head.
'Actually, we are at Canary Wharf on the way to Greenwich.' I said to it, the firmness resonating in my head, as loudly as that growl from my stomach.

Posing at Canary Wharf

'I'd love a burger,' Hubby said. 'And chips,' he added as an afterthought.
Some googling later, we found a purely burger place – Byron. So, off we went on a Byron hunt, Mihika leading the way. It was somewhere on a higher floor of a mall.Secretly, I did not crave a burger. A nice salad would do the trick for me.
Luck was on my side. Byron served that too. I had a lovely fresh salad - healthy quinoa with tangy sun-dried tomatoes, greens and vitamin-e rich avocado.

My quinoa salad

Arrived via 'surface' to Greenwich, which is way underground. And the escalators were out of order. Yes, it happens even in UK.

Trailing behind the rest of the family, who seemed to take the steep stairs two at a time, I tried keeping up. No success. Gave up, resorting to waddling and wheezing slowly up what felt like 10 floors. Reaching the top, my eyes opened a little wider. I fell in love with Greenwich. It has that quality of quaintness mixed with grandeur.

The Cutty Sark

Right after I caught my breath, I saw a majestic old ship docked on the Thames. It was the Curry Stark. That name rang a bell. Google told me it was the fastest ship alive during its time, and carried tea from China to England. Very close to it, is the Greenwich Foot Tunnel, that goes right under the river, from one side to the next. I believe the temperature in the tunnel is much lower than it is on the ground above.

No time to tarry and no inclination to climb up or down any more stairs.

Heading past the grand Royal Naval College, we followed the crowds, to the park. But first, we stopped to gape at the Queen’s summer residence. It is that stately yet dazzling. So much space for one person. If I were her, I’d move from one suite to the next when I wanted a change, instead of traveling all the way, keeping track of all the things I need to carry and bring back. What a life. Sigh.

Holding those thoughts without voicing them, I walked some more through the sprawling park.

‘You must bring Ovie here,’ I said to Mihika. ‘He'll love the lawns and trees. I can just see him running around with the wind flattening his cute little asymmetrical ears.’

‘I will, ma. Let’s go. We have that hill to climb if you want to see the Greenwich Mean Time line.’

The line where the eastern and western hemispheres meet.

Groan. Some more climbing. ‘You’ll love it up there,’ Mihika promised.

The line, us and a little boy with his phone

She was right. But I felt slightly let down by the line. Nothing grand. Just one thick strip of white on the wall.

Behind the palace, London's tall buildings guard history

The view took my breath away. London stood, tall buildings and history, dominated by the palace in front... I could sit here for ever.

I could actually see grey clouds, heavy with rain, approaching. Torrents tumbled their strength over the palace, the lawn, weakening to a drizzle as it came towards me.

Time to leave. Those stairs to the train were easier to climb down.

Changing trains at Canary Wharf station, I could not help but draw a similarity between the rain clouds and dense human clouds heavy with people. As I stood in line, waiting, I watched them board the trains that would take them home. Drops of humanity... just like me.

Chalo London 5

2016-08-31T02:37:00.000+05:30

Browsing around Borough Market

We were almost in time. Till Neeti discovered she had forgotten her travel card. At home. And had to go back.

My excitement about going to Borough Market grew. Sitting at the station, I browsed their website. That place involved all kinds of food. Ethnic, modern, traditional, twisted, you name it. I was told by the daughter, who had it all planned that this was no ordinary market. It was historical. So historical that it celebrated its 1000^th birthday in 2014. Imagine. Of course I loved the place already. That’s the thing about me. I am so totally intrigued by food, history, travel, people.

Like Neeti says, ‘Mama is interested in anything and everything.’ I don’t know if it is a compliment, but that statement is right. I really am.

So, the website says, the market could actually be older, but the oldest record is from 1014, calling Southwark ‘a great market town’.

Of course, it has had a tumultuous history, replete with threats of closure, trials and fires, demolitions and closures, wholesaling and swift decline, this market stood the test of time. What an interesting 1,000 years it must have been.

My girls arrived. It was time…

that train could not go fast enough for me. My excitement grew with every turn of its wheels. This was the market that has withstood time, gravity and trial by fire.

We'd reached. Just like many other people walking through it's arched entrance.

If I could, I would have stood a while to simply look at the two words - Borough Market - carved on its archway. Hunger pangs reminded me we were there for lunch. I wanted seafood. Daughter knew the exact place to get it: Applebees Fish Café's wrap. The line was long, and the fish, fragrant. I opt for the fish + prawn, mixed wrap. Turns out to be pretty fantastic, with succulent pieces of fish, large prawns, shredded lettuce and a lovely sweetish sticky sauce.

That's me trying to capture Applebee's sign

Waiting for my cider

Catching up with the local drink, Cider, I was not impressed. One glass proved to be quite enough. Instead, I really liked the fresh mango and orange juice. It had life, taste and texture.

Time to get the husband some food. Spotted an Indian Vegetarian place that served his favourite – Aloo Tikki with channa. Again, not so great, but would pass the muster. That stall was selling out real fast, I noticed, as I stood in line for some Moong Dal Dosa stuffed with aloo and channa (the same stuff that made hubby’s tikkis).

Outside, the Thames made waves in the rain, sounding like the ocean to me. I’ve never heard a river make so much noise. Quickly, abandoning the replica of Sir Francis Drake’s shop as the rain picked up, we wandered along the river, hoping it would stop. Nope. No chance. We had to seek shelter outside Shakespeare’s lonely Globe theatre and wait. Nobody from the family seemed interested in going inside, just to walk on the same land as Shakespeare did. I let my thought be just a thought, as I walked in the opposite direction towards the London Bridge station and Oxford Circus to shop.

Chalo London 4

2016-08-18T16:14:00.002+05:30

Wembley Walkathon

Planning a late start is just not a plan. Because it simply gets later: exactly what happened to us. Blame it on the single bathroom in London apartments. At least my phone wifi was working, and I was happy to play Candy Crush Soda as I waited. Then, horror of horrors, it started raining. Again. I now know why the London weather is always discussed. Safe topic, also I guess. The weather is never going to take out a gun and shoot you if you call it horrible, unpredictable or whatever it is that the weather can be.

Our trek began. First uphill to the Finchley Underground and from Wembley to… Wembley.

I was quite happy to be walking so much and strengthening my legs in the cool weather, despite London's weepy skies. In fact, I was also quite pleased to be climbing the three floors to our Airbnb apartment, steep stairs and all.

Was quite hungry by the time we reached Pret A Manger – a chain of organic food outlets. My mission to eat healthy in London was rewarded by an Avocado and Toasted Pine Nut Wrap, the hubby ate a Veggie Toastie. The girls went non-veg with their bacon and chicken roll.

I was actually pleased with my wrap. I love pine nuts. And avocado is good for the skin, with its overload of vitamin E. Topping it up, was a lovely hot coffee. Without sugar. I think sugar tends to adulterate the taste of good coffee.

Lunch done, walkathon continued. This time we were headed to the outlet mall. Unlike the outlet malls in the US, this one left me, a sworn shopaholic, cold. Imagine. Maybe I was having a bad shopping day... All I got was a pair of jeggings from M&S. I could’ve easily picked them up in Chennai.

Rain again. Hubby and I waited while our girls were busy looking for something, anything that would catch their fancy. They too couldn’t find significant shopping. I guess it was one of those days.

Walkathon continued into the very Indian part of London.

The daughter who now resides in London is a very fast walker. Followed by the one who lives in Chennai. Close at their heels was hubby. I huffed and puffed a few paces behind. The typical Bharatiya Nari ;)

Wembley Indian Store made me feel right at home. The people managing the store spoke Tamil, were Tamil or Malayali. We found every ingredient we needed to make our Indian food, and most of the stuff was made in India. Aashirvaad Atta included. I even found some methi to make methi aloo paratha and bhindi for Mihika’s favourite Bhindi Aloo.

Couldn’t help remembering how she would say ‘Bheeni Aloo’ every time I asked her what to make for dinner… Sigh. Those were the baby days. They went too soon. Before I could savour them and hug them close.

As a treat for all that walking, Mihika decided we would go to Kailash Parbat and gorge on chaat. Hubby was overjoyed to be eating his Ragada Pattice. Neeti wasn’t very pleased with the Vada Pav we shared. Nor was I. In fact, I found it quite awful. Oily, lumpy, lacked any taste. Mihika’s Sev Papdi Chaat was just about average. So was the Masala Chai: too thick and milky for me. High expectations? Maybe. Especially when it is Indian food.

Train ride ended too soon. Before my legs were ready, the long walk to Mihika’s home began with a pit stop at a cosmetic store. Funda: some shopping had to be done. And it was.

Dinner was Mihika's delicious mushroom, broccoli and rocket salad.

Hubby and I burned some more calories as we walked to our Airbnb and climbed those three floors.

Chalo London 3

2016-07-31T02:21:00.001+05:30

Life has a way of winding itself around the present... the past holds misty memories and future holds mystery.

In that 'real' present, that quickly became the past, we shopped for Mihika’s first potted plant, choosing a pretty yellow one she could look out at as she sat in her living room.

Finding the exact spot, I placed it in the backyard,making sure it would get watered during the rains, and sunlight on sunny days. I think I even sang to it whenever I remembered. In my mind, though. Nobody really thinks I have a good singing voice... I hoped the plant would hear and stay happy when we left.

Tomorrow held promise of being a busy day.

Our first stop: Wales to see Ovie – Mihika’s puppy. Such a naughty delight. Full of life, he has a one track mind. When he sees food, nothing else matters. Niranjan had packed a few treats for our visit. Our Ovie, his ears perked, attention focused, leaped at the food the moment he sniffed it. He went all out, trying to snatch the food from his sibling’s and mother’s mouths. When she did not give her morsels to him, he tried getting her to feed him. Her response: one nice hard lady-like kick, which our little animal deserved. He knew he could not get his way. Instead, he went off to one side of the living room and peed.

Mihika and adorable Ovie

‘Attention seeking little brat,’ my mind thought, but my heart went, ‘Awww. The poor baby. At least he did not pee on any of us.’

Lil, Ovie's mother is a little lady with perfect manners. Here she is waiting for her treat, patient yet eager.

Visit done, we piled into the car, settling in for a long to Bath. As we entered the UNESCO World Heritage site, I saw why. The efforts the city has made to retain its history. A past in the present, I thought as I remembered the historical Gorgette Heyer romances I devoured during my teens. Bath featured in those books. I was actually walking on the same soil of the stormy and oh so romantic Bath Tangle.

Then I wonder how England wasn’t affected by German bombings during WW II… unlike Germany, where landmarks had to be restored. I particularly remembered standing outside the Dresden Church of Our Lady, that was bombed relentlessly for two full days and nights by the Allies, shuddering at the thought.

These wanderings in my brain took me away from food discussions, till my stomach let out a distinct growl that demanded food on no uncertain terms. I followed the others, entering something that looked like an ancient tunnel like structure, that was residence to an Italian restaurant called Prezzo. Its arched roof, and no pillars held my fancy. Would the grey walls have tales to tell?

I was again transported to another world. Disconnected with what was happening around me, losing myself in what would’ve been.

Then, I saw the flames rising in the wood fire oven, with fresh pizza fragrances sending my stomach into a demanding tizzy.

Jumbo Prawns, Goat Cheese Pizza, Vegetarian Pasta and Salmon Pasta arrived in large portions. I loved it all, except for the Jumbo Prawns that needed a little more zing, A dash of chilli infused olive oil did the trick.

That huge Pizza was huge, rustic and had that fresh milky flavour from the goat cheese and the veggies were fresh, making it feel more nutritious to me.

We all decided to skip dessert and walk all the way to the Roman Baths - a tourist attraction.

Chalo London 2

2016-07-19T17:22:00.001+05:30

Location decided, duration settled, tickets booked, it was time to book our stays. For that, we needed to know if we would go to Europe for a few days.

Neeti refused. Hubby and I were wondering… Going into Europe would mean one more visa. Was it worth the trouble for just a few days?

‘Let’s go to Edinburgh,’ I said. Because I love Scotland and Walker’s Shortbread. I also love the Scottish Tartan checks, and the Edinburgh castle with its cemetery for soldier's dogs.

Hubby agreed. We booked our hotel.

Son-in-law, Niranjan, in the meanwhile managed to squeeze a few days from his busy schedule, so all of us could go to the Lake District. Again, my idea, although nobody will agree.

‘We went there in 2008,’ I reminded everybody. Nobody seemed to remember.

That’s what happens when you go on a conducted tour and rush through a packed day, in a bus that takes your luggage along. Then, bone tired, hungry and with no memory of all that you saw, unless you look at your camera or write notes, you get herded to a dinner, which could be channas for the fifth day in a row, then you flop in the hotel bed, to dream of your free breakfast the next morning.

So, anyway, this time everybody agreed. Niranjan was put in charge of Project Lake District. Dates were quickly finalized and by the middle of February we were almost all set. Airbnb homes booked.

FYI, Airbnb, unlike what the name suggests does not include air tickets, not does it include breakfast. What you do get is a completely equipped clean home, lots more space than a hotel room, even if it means you have to climb three stories of steps in a building without a lift: good exercise. And the natural light we got in our London Airbnb apartment was amazing. We booked it because we wanted to stay close to Mihika’s home. This place is just a seven minute walk away.

At our Airbnb... The only time I wore this hat

At our Airbnb... trying to get some work done

I loved the week we spent there.

Chalo London

2016-07-17T16:40:00.000+05:30

Watching the guards change...

The very mention of travel plans has me planning in my head. Even before the plan fructifies. I'm like that. Food and travel are my two true loves. My imagination spins out of control long before the actual trip.

As was the case of our London sojourn.

For me, the whole thing became live in my head when our daughter moved there after her wedding in 2014.

‘You go all over the world, but you never come to London,’ she complained.

‘You need to settle in,’ I said. ‘Get to know your husband, get used to the city and stuff, so you can show us around like a local when we come... You know, take us to places no tourist guide would...’

2015 ended. I had just returned from a long trip to the USA and Mexico.

'Ma, Pa, when will you come here?' She demanded.

‘2016. When is the best time to come?’ Hubby asked. ‘June?’

'Okay,' Mihika said.

'Done.' Hubby said.

A promise needs a plan. And he threw himself into the details. Every evening, after his chai and walk, he’d sit at his laptop, looking for the perfect deal. He even made a pic of the London Tower Bridge the display photo on our family what’s app group.

The fun had begun. We argued. He complained that I never help.

'You don't even care which airline we take.'

‘What’s the point? You never listen. Besides, I’m not as good as you at finding deals... Okay, let's fly British Airways.'

To fly not to fly BA became the big question. For two days. Over dinner.

Day 3:

‘I just saw an ad someone forwarded about how they look after their passengers. Their ad is called British Airways: Fuelled by Love. It moved me to tears.’ I said.

‘Maybe they’ve changed, but a while ago BA had a very bad reputation,’ hubby said. ‘However, if we travel BA, we go to London directly.’

‘They must be good now. Let’s book,’ I said, swayed completely by the ad.

‘You are a marketer’s delight,’ the husband smiled, but gave in without a fight.

‘Let’s go for a month,’ I said, pushing my luck.

‘Amta, remember it is expensive to stay in London. Rs. 100 per Sterling Pound.’

‘I cannot take so much time off from work,’ Neeti said. ‘Even three weeks is pushing it.’

‘Okay, 20 days,’ I said.

Bargaining ended. Flights booked.

Not much of a photograph, but this was taken some years ago. We did all the tourist things, including click pictures like this from the London Eye.

Another time, another day...

2016-07-10T01:39:00.001+05:30

Fortifying myself with food before heading to shop

Every time I return from a holiday, I have this urge to re-visit others. Even if it is to sigh over the pictures that evoke memories.
This was the last bit of our idyllic holiday. I wanted the sun to never set. I wanted the clock turned back. I wanted this to be the beginning instead of the end. I wanted to remain on Swiss soil forever. Even bought a hoodie that said Swiss, much against the husband's advice.
'You look like those boss sona pakda gaya types,' he said, not even trying to soften the blow of his disapproval. I bought the hoodie, nevertheless.
In Zurich, I was on a mission. We had bought only four outfits for our girls, while my mind said at least six were needed. Chocolates! Cheeses! Wine!

The shops are that way...

Walking with a purpose, we headed straight to the shopping area. First it was garment shopping. That done, we headed for the food. The cheeses had me totally confused. I could try them all, but did I want to? One of them tasted like ‘rat’ as hubby put it, very nauseatingly, even though he had never tasted rat... but, who’s to question?

Deciding to go with Gruyere cheese, from the famous Gruyere area – especially since we did not visit the place – I picked one mild and one slightly sharp variety. We were getting late for our sightseeing – hubby’s idea – so we simply threw chocolates into our cart. And gingerly placed a couple of Swiss wine bottles – one for my dear friend, the lady who kindly knitted me a beanie and scarf. The other one for me.
Of course suitcase had to be bought. It is a ritual we MUST adhere to on every trip. So the next time we travel, we will refer to it as the 'Zurich suitcase'.
Trundling suitcase along with all its goods we rushed to the room and were ready for our 2 pm city tour in the red road train. It looked quaint in the pics and hubby’s excitement rubbed off.

Running behind trams was becoming easier, I found. Leaping into one just before it left, we reached the appointed depot only to find no red road train. Instead the whole bunch of us was bundled into a bus. But not before I asked the counter lady why was I being deprived of the red road train.
She looked strictly at me and said, ‘come back tomorrow. I will cancel your ticket.’
Hubby, ‘that will not be necessary. We will go today.’ His look, directed at me, said, ‘QUIET!’
‘OK. I’ll go get us some coffee from Starbucks. I’m hungry.’ Since no lunch had as yet reached my rumbling stomach.
Our guide, a live one, was called Raol. He was tall, elderly and had a limp. But he was there at short notice, and was the only one available, as he confessed. Raol talked a lot because he knew a lot. Initially, I was bored. You know, that rambling, male monotone gets monotonous. Even took a brief nap till hubby nudged me awake. Right there, in front of my eyes I saw the walls behind which hid the world’s secrets. And History. And immense quantities of wealth.

We drove past Albert Einstein’s university and I was wide awake.

The bus stopped at the edge of the lake. It was time to take a short walk. My eyes almost popped out as in the distance, we saw a nudist camp. My very first.
‘Close your mouth,’ hubby instructed. ‘It’s not that shocking.’

Amazement done, we got down to clicking pics. Met up with a newlywed Indian couple. They clicked our photographs and we shot a few of theirs.
Our next stop was a cathedral.

Again my jaw almost dropped. No there was no nudist colony anywhere around, but a guy doing tight rope walking across the river. Without a net. Imagine. If he would’ve fallen, it would mean death. For sure. We stood there, a group of people, in pin drop silence and broke into a relieved applause when he reached his destination – another cathedral on the other side of the river.

That tiny figure up in the sky is the tight-rope walker.

Something about Switzerland wanted me to stay there forever. There is romance in the air. There’s beauty all around. We were on a cruise boat. Coasting along for the last time on Lake Zurich. Thankfully it was a bright and beautiful day. Everybody seemed to be on a holiday. Sunning themselves, swimming, speed boating, sailing, drinking, living the good life.

Hubby and I sat on the upper deck, drinking our beer and eating potato chips – indulging in hubby’s fetish – he tries potato chips all over the world. In different cities. On ships, in a plane. At that point it seemed like a lovely way to celebrate our last day in Zurich. Relaxing, as our boat sliced through glassy waters, we looked around, absorbing every sight. I was so intent on trying to remember that I forgot a lot. Till I look at the photographs again.

Gliding over Lake Zurich

Our cruise ended. It was like the Gods were waiting for us to get off before letting the skies open up. What started out to be a sunny, fun day, ended up being a rain drenched fun day. Still, I had to complete my shopping. Little odd ends remained like my Victorinox Swiss Army knife. I wanted the one with a pen drive. The hunt began.
‘16 GB is good enough,’ I said, expecting an argument from hubby, who’d earlier recommended we go with 8 GB.
‘Ok,’ he said, giving me side-ward glances to see the effects of a fight that did not happen.
Controlling my disappointment, I did not push my luck with unreasonable demands. Like a 32 GB pen drive on my Swiss Army Knife.
Got it after rushing around from one shop to the next. Luckily for me (and hubby) we found it in shop no. 2, and was quite thrilled with my personal purchases of the Swiss Army Knife, olives and Laderach chocolates.

Fresh chocolate being made right in front of our eyes. Laderach Chocolaiter Suisse.

Large, fat globules of rain pelted down. Ominously. If they could, they would melt us off the face of this earth. Hubby strode ahead, sandwiches under his coat, silken hair flopping in layers, shedding raindrops, while I clutched my bags of shopping and hobbled hopelessly behind, trying to keep up. He must get a certain amount of glee to be blessed longer legs and a lithe frame. Back in our cosy room, we polished off the sandwiches, drank off our wine, and as if by magic the rain stopped. We were out again. Like a shot. Wandering around in the night could not have been better, more romantic.
I felt like a queen. Mistress of all I surveyed. Till I could walk no more.
That night I slept like a baby, dreaming of the fondue I never had. And for that I will come back, I promised me in my dreams.

The Big Fat Punjab Experience 7

2016-04-20T17:29:00.000+05:30

Memories: saved for ever

Someone said, ‘leave the best for the last.’ And I’m hoping this is true as I begin to write my last piece about the Punjab trip.

Why has it taken me so long? A lot has happened.

Excuse no. 1: I was busy with getting my speech right for the Chennai Times Food and Nightlife Awards, when my book, the Times Food and Nightlife Guide was released, more than a month ago, but, hey, an excuse is an excuse.

Excuse no. 2: we were getting our bathrooms renovated. We still are. Three done, one more to go. Ours. I’m dreading that one.

Excuse no. 3: A bad tummy ache that became worse. Had to be operated for it, and that left me out of action for over a month.

Now, as I sit down to write this, I delve into the Punjab Grill files of my brain and find many reasons to smile right through.

Time for our last evening together. As a gang. As a family. We had grown that close because of the proximity and the bonding we all shared. Alone yet together.

Minoti, Rohit Aggarwal and I

Draped in our shawls, we took a few pics before strolling to the bus and our seats. Phones with favorite music came out and we sang along to what we knew.

A mess with lyrics and tunes, I still sang, laughing to myself at the memory of a time when my children were small, I would sing at the top of my voice – all wrong. Mihika, my very 'correct' older child, once tried correcting me. Neeti, who for some reason enjoyed my hamming, piped up, ‘Mihika, this is Mama's remix, okay?’

Nobody corrected me today.

We’d reached Bagrian Fort long after the assigned 4 pm. It was, I think 7.30 pm.

Bhai Jujhar Singh, his gracious wife, Mai Roop Kaur Bagrian and their family of two sons, one daughter-in-law and grandson, waited for us. Tea was ready.

Bagrian Fort

Entrance to the Reception area

Suddenly, Bagrian Fort became abuzz with curious visitors, listening in rapt attention to Bhai Jujhar Singh talk about his family's contributions to Sikh history. From what I remember, his ancestors were actually from Jaisalmer, Rajasthan. The first Langar ever, was served at Bagrian Fort, more than 300 years ago, by Rup Chand. That tradition continues even today. More than 150 people are served Dal and Roti every single day, made in this ultra clean kitchen that looks like we could eat off its floor.

Each brick, each utensil will have a story to tell. Definitely stories of bravery and adventure from the mouths of the injured who were housed here; looked after till they became well again.

Visiting the Gurdwara, where the village worships, I was enthralled by the fact that they have really old books and other artifacts in their possession.

That fascination got pushed to the background as I climbed the narrow stairway into the living quarters of the family. All 20 of us trooped through their home, which was originally the Ladies Section, merrily clicking pictures against a fireplace, and admiring the neatness in the bedrooms.

Odette and I at teh fireplace

Sankalp Vishnu strikes a pose (for once, its not a selfie)

Kitchens where food for the family is cooked, were across a terrace. I did not think it fit to walk in and check it out, although I was tempted. Enough invasion of privacy had occurred already. But I did ask about their household help situation, given what we face in the cities. Let’s just say the elegant and generous Bagrian family are far more fortunate than I am.

Bhai Jujhar Singh and Mai Roop Kaur Bagrian

Bhai Jujhar Singh's son Angad and his wife

Visiting the formal section of the property, I have a closer encounter with history in the form of photographs and paintings and sigh in wonder. I was walking the ground where history lives.

The stage was set

Javed Irshad Rehmat (first left) lost in his Qwwali

Outside, the garden is decked out with tents and the stage was set. Heaters did their best to keep the cold away, while Malerkotla’s famous Javed Isrhad Rehmat warmed our hearts with his beautiful Qwwali. He sang odes to the moon, to love, hate, and every other emotion in between.

I could not eat any dinner thanks to an over-stuffing at lunch, but everybody else was enjoying the delicacies dished out by Chef Gurpreet Singh Gehdu. who with his team had pulled out all the stops.

I could see platters filled with Mutton Boti, Sarsonwali Machchi, Prawn De Pakode, Tandoori Gobhi, Pudina Paneer Tikka and their ilk floating past me, letting me breathe in the aromas. I was tempted, and my hand reached out to grab a bite as Deepak Bhatia tried to coax me.

But that brain kicked in and said, ‘Don’t you hear the message your stomach is sending out? Enough, already.’ My tummy growled its agreement.

A little dancing later, Odette and I took a car to back to Sohian Kothi. I hoped for some sleep before setting out for Delhi the next morning.

Morning came too soon. I remembered something about leaving at 8.30 am sharp. Abrupt, merciless cold slapped me awake. My quilt twisted away and warmth was a mere memory. It was still only 7.30 am. Slowly, everybody surfaced, mumbled good mornings, and headed straight for some detox beetroot-carrot juice and egg toasts.

Each of us received a copy of a book called The Slim Punjabi, along with pickle jars from Barni, a Kiran Dhillon brand before we climbed into the bus by around 9-ish.

It was still not time to say goodbye. Minoti wanted to know our three best memories. Nobody stuck to the limit. Raul, who was last, complained loud and clear, how he had nothing to say. We'd voiced all his thoughts. Still, when his turn came, he managed to talk for a full 10 minutes.

By lunch I was hungry again, and managed to down my Burger King’s Whopper Burger in one sitting.

Back in Delhi, the dash for the airport began. The airport LiteBite staff were on standby and took over the moment we entered, VIP treatment began. Tea, coffee, sandwiches, more food. The first two, Minoti and Sameer left. Raul and I remained. We chatted for a bit, till he was gone too.

As I waited for my flight, I clung on to the memories. re-living them in my mind.

I’m sure a passer-by glancing at me would have seen a happy woman with lots of new friends.
*I need to thank Sourish Bhattacharya for sharing his immense knowledge so generously.

The Big Fat Punjab Experience - 6

2016-02-21T16:36:00.000+05:30

Opposites Attract

‘This girl can trip over a speck of dust,’ my mother would say to whoever cared to listen when I was little.

Nothing's changed, except the age. Even today, walking on uneven, lumpy land is challenging for me. Any dreams I had of farming, are not coming true in this life.

So, anyway, potato picking was done without a mishap. I was quite happy to see the SUV, complete with driver and Sourish close enough for us to proceed to the village Mela.

Our SUV turned around. The tractor, loaded with our laughing, waving, happy buddies went the other way. I thought our chauffeur was taking us via a shortcut and carried on chatting away with willing listener, Sourish.

Next thing we knew, we were back at Sohain Kothi. All on our own.

‘We want to go to the village,’ I told the chauffeur, refusing to get out of the vehicle.

‘But I don’t know the way…’

‘Hain? Call Kiran Dhillon right away. Do you want to go to the village, Sourish?’ Sourish nodded. ‘Yes, Yes,’ he said, happy to be able to get a word in somewhere.

‘See? He also wants to go.’ I said.

‘Madamji is not answering her phone, and I don’t know the way,’ chauffeur said, trying to look contrite.

‘Try again.’

‘They are on the way back,’ chauffeur said, after we were out of the SUV, seated on the lawn. ‘And their tractor has packed up.’ He could not hide his big grin.

Oh well. We lost out. I did feel angry with myself for trying to iron ALL my garments with a non-heating iron AND pack my bag, used clothes at the bottom, etc...

Double damn.

'It's all your fault,' the brain said, not even trying to hide it's glee.

We proceed towards where lunch was being served.

Dining under the blue sky

What an exhilarating, liberating sight awaited my vision. Right there, in the open fields, with nothing between the fields and the clouds, waited a pristine white table laid out with bright brass crockery. Sugar cane stalks nodded their approval. Speechless, I was only able to grin mine before grabbing my seat at the table.

‘Can you even digest any more food?’ That was the brain asking the stomach.

Stomach growled. Brain went quiet.

‘Just a little bit, ok?’ I said to the taste-buds before they exploded with anger.

I eyed the blackened rock of atta that was arriving at our table, dressed in a white napkin. Chef Gurpreet Singh held it reverently, before piercing it open in front of our very eyes. From within, a steamy aroma rose, surrounding my senses, sending them stumbling into my memory, raking it to identify the medley of smells.

From left: a drooling me, the chicken and Chef Gurpreet Singh

‘This is Kot Kapure Da Attewala Kukkad,’ Chef GS by way of introduction, as he served me with two large pieces of the most tender, moist pinkish-brownish chicken. ‘It is Punjab’s best kept secret.’ It tasted as good as it looked. And then some, making me wonder who thought up this delicacy.

Of course we had to have Saag. And we did. Two varieties of it. One, touched up with city thickness, and the other, pure and deliciously rural. The Punjab Grill team wanted to show us the difference on one plate. No prizes for guessing my favourite. I dipped into it with butter drenched Makki Di Roti, guilt free and delighted.

Makhane Di Kheer

Nothing else mattered. Till that Makhane Di Kheer came along on Chef Gurpreet’s arm. The look of absolute glee on his face said it all.

‘Try this,’ he said, scooping some light bubbly lotus puffs roasted in pure ghee and lovingly immersed in sweetened saffron milk into a serving ladle. I did. And I decided my next life would be in the Punjab De Khet, eating Attewala Kukad, Sarson Da Saag, Makki Di Roti and Makhane Di Kheer.

The Big Fat Punjab Experience - 5

2016-02-10T22:31:00.002+05:30

Was That a Love Song?

Quietly, the cold morning sun managed to light up the sky...

It was morning. I was awake with my eyes shut.

‘Those loud voices… why are they singing?’ Brain wanted to know. ‘I’m frying.’ It complained.

Some cooking was happening right outside my room and in my head.

Dragging my eyes open, I looked at my phone. 8.30! Wow. Grabbing my hoodie, I rushed out. Nobody was in sight. Chai wala had forgotten to bring my tea. He was nowhere in sight.

But the weather was awesome. Crisp, fresh and pure, the air had this ‘deep breathing’ effect on me. I grinned to myself. Loved the look of a calm green lawn and the whisper from the leaves.

Was it a love song?

Walking into my reverie, Aparna returned from her walk. It was her daughter Diya's 14th birthday, and this dedicated mother was with us instead.

Minoti surfaced.

From left: Aparna, me, Minoti and swagger man

Suddenly, the three of us spotted our hero. Red shoes, red shirt, black jacket, sunglasses, epic paunch... It was all there. What a look. What a confident swagger. We beat Rohit Aggarwal to getting a picture with him, and quickly sent it on our whats app group: proof and for all to see.

Minoti and Sankalp trying to straighten tree early in the morning, that too before breakfast. Imagine their strength after some good food ;)

Aromas of breakfast wafted past my hungry nostrils. I followed my nose, and saw the prettiest sight waiting. Round tables, draped in white, kinow orange juice... Ah the Punjabi breakfast. So complete. So decadent. Paranthas with white butter, being churned right there, in front of our very eyes. Fresh got a new meaning. And those paranthas were hot, and the white dollops of butter melted through and through. I did not even look at the egg-and-toast section.

‘Did you even know there were cereals and milk?’ Brain wanted to know. ‘You were busy discussing gay animals.’

Yes. We were. And that was a hilarious, serious discussion.

Odette was convinced her dog (or cat… or wait, was it her cobra?) was gay because he was totally disinterested in the opposite sex. And Raul had a friend whose dog was a certified homosexual. Sourish was content to listen and laugh. Mr. Selfie Sankalp was up to his little adventures.

‘Don’t you want to sort out your room and iron your garments?’ Brain asked. Excusing myself, I went off to do the needful.

‘Needful’ took longer than expected. I had a new iron that refused to heat. Hopeless attempt later, I decided to shower. Galat decision.

Everybody else was ready for the tractor ride, and left without me.

Sourish kindly stayed back and waited with the SUV powered up. Not as fancy as the tractor, but fun nevertheless. Our Speedy Gonzales of a driver caught up with the tractor wallas, just as Sonal was lifting a haystack on her head, from a very amused and delayed haystack lady, whose companions had walked away, giggling, way ahead of her.

The tractor wallas :)

Rohit Aggarwal drives the tractor

Sonal and her haystack

This place was breath-taking. Green, yellow and sunny sky combined with the delicious fragrance of earth.

I simply had to leap into the Sarson ke Khet, and get a few pics taken.

Minoti and Swati doing Dilwale

Minoti and Swati did their Dilwale thing, girl to girl, amidst cheers and laughter, as their tried not to trample on the poor unsuspecting mustard plants.

‘These are the potatoes that Lays are made of,’ Deepak Bhatia announced.

‘The red ones are sugar free.’ Off I went to get my share. The Punjab Grill team had planned it to perfection. I even got a pretty basket to carry all my harvest in.

The Pure Punjabi team. From Left: Deepak Bhatia, Chef, Rohit Aggarwal, Kiran Dhillon, Chef GS, Puneet Nagpal

Harvesting potatoes

The Big Fat Punjabi Experience - 4

2016-02-04T15:42:00.000+05:30

A lot has already been written about this Punjab Grill in Punjab food adventure. Still, I forge ahead with my version. Which, I like to think, is different :)

Bundled Up and Beautiful

Darkness fell. Literally. Just. Like. That.

Or maybe I missed a grand sunset. I was busy trying to drape my Phulkari Dupatta in the best way possible.

Emerging from my room, I saw each of my friends wearing a similar hand embroidered beauties, different in colour and design. I hugged my treasure closer.

Posing before leaving. From left: me, girl with long hair and sweet smile, Odette, Priyadarshini Nandy, Arpana, Swati.

Of course, we posed for pics, grandly delaying our departure to Bagrian Haveli. Under normal circumstances, we would have been an organizer’s nightmare, but today, everybody was simply going with the flow. Nobody got really flustered when we got lost, yet again, in the dark, eerie village streets, where the only light was from our headlights and no human was in sight.

Our very talented driver, who knew how to get us in, did not know how he would turn the big bus around and get us out. We were in some sort of chakravyuh.

Still nobody panicked. Inside, we were busy cracking jokes, feeling happy in each other’s company, listening to somebody else's favorite music.

‘I can see the lights,’ a bright spark said.

‘I can see them too. But how to get there?’ came prompt question-to-question from the depths of the bus.

Pilot vehicle had to be summoned. It took all the direction-giver’s skills to see in the dark and get the bus on the right track.

Sitting in the front seat, I was witness to it all. My voice was non existent. Darkness does that to me.

Back on the highway, and on the right track, I could see House of Bagrian. It was a sight to behold. All gold and inviting, it had a fire waiting to flame up, and the place was done up to the nines. Kiran Dhillon, our bright spark organizer, had a surprise for us girls: Matha Tikkas.

With Matha Tikkas. From left: Odette, me, Sankalp, Swati and Arpana

Let the dancing begin!

Joining in

Food on live coals!

Live Bhangra and Gidda, performances got us all in the mood to join in. I, for one, tired my best, but could not get the shoulders to move with Punjab’s rhythm, so decided to do the Garba instead. And had a blast.

Every morsel of food was well thought up. I loved the density of the Tandoori Bataer and the flavours packed in there. Such a tiny bird, the quail, with its delicately brittle bones and strong personality went well with my red wine.

Next on my list were the Machchi De Pakode. Soft, flaky white meat coated in batter using a combination of gram four and corn flour, fried to a golden crisp. I loved dipping it into the green chutney that held undertones of garlic and is so typically Punjabi.

Soft as the voice of an angel, smooth and deftly coated with the perfect amount of spice, Paneer Da Soola was a vegetarian’s dream come true.

Between those starters, wine and dinner, I managed to swing on the flower bedecked jhoola hanging from a tree and pose for pictures with the rest of the gang (don't know where those pictures went...) No thoughts of taking any notes even entered my head. Although, in all honesty, I did carry my notebook and pens in my oversize bag - something I do every time I step outside the house. At home, the book is always by my bedside.

All that dancing made me hungry, so I headed for the buffet with Odette. I piled my plate with Lachcha Palak Paneer, whose aroma called out to my senses, and the softness of the paneer stayed in my memory. Next to it, I added Malerkotle De Aloo because the potatoes were fresh from the fields next door, and had that local personality.

Another notable personality on that table was the Methi Pyaaz Pulao. This was a first for me, and I was glad I had it.

Needless to say, the entire meal was something I’ve never eaten before. Coming straight from the farms, it had that succulent freshness no words can describe. Wish I had a larger appetite and could eat more than I did.

But for now, some more dancing had to be done with the gang: Rohit Aggarwal, Deepak Bhatia, Chef GS (yes, he joined in for a bit too. Nobody in Punjab can resist dancing!) Puneet, Monica, Minoti, Kiran, Raul Dias (for a bit), Priyadarshini Nandi (who decided to join us after a long phone conversation, who with, I don't know...) Sankalp (who is an expert at drinking, dancing, and taking selfies at the same time), Swati, Arpana, Sameer Malkani (who shook a leg, literally for a few moments, and then disappeared into his private world), Sourish Bhattacharyya (who danced for a teeny bit and then sat and smiled as we all did our thing) ...
'Are you dancing for digestion?' The brain asked.
'Fat chance.' It said. Answering its own question.

The Big Fat Punjabi Experience - 3

2016-01-23T23:58:00.001+05:30

Highway Breakfast, Kothi Lunch

Jhilmil Dhaba was on the agenda. The Punjab Grill booklet said so. It also said we would arrive in Sohain by 1 pm.

'Forget about when we reach. For now, I'd love those butter drenched paranthas,' the brain was not good at multi-tasking.

Soon enough we found ourselves in Jhilmil's Private Dining Room. Almost as soon as we parked our backsides on benches at the long table, an assortment of beverages and paranthas began arriving: Aloo Pyaz, Gobi, Paneer, Muli, accompanied by yogurt, neatly wrapped lumps of white butter, and, much to my horror, little plastic packs of commercially manufactured achar.

Breakfast. Offending achar at the far right hand corner

The cool Punjab Grill gang posing outside the bus

'You said authentic. What's all this synthetic packed stuff? Where's my Gobi Shalgam?’ the brain wanted to know. 'You don't even eat it on airplanes.'

'Well, I will eat it now. And you zip up.' I had to be stern with that rebellious thing in my head.

The paranthas were good. If I ignored the fact that the dough was too thick and overshadowed the stuffing.
'Once a critic, always a critic,' the brain sneered as I dipped into the achar and discarded the bite immediately.

Lassi: nice and thick, just sweet enough to mute the tartness of the curds. Tea: strong. Loaded with enough personality to wake up the sleepy.

As our bus edged away from Jhilmil. Suddenly, we realized one of us was missing. Turned out to be Sankalp from Hyderabad, who wanted to take a little walk in the fields before we reached our destination.

‘He may have actually gone to check out the semen bank.’ Someone suggested. Guffaws followed. The little ice that remained melted away.

‘Did you know Diana Hayden froze her eggs to have a baby at 42?’ We were warming up.

‘Smart woman. Nobody needs a man to have kids.’ Priyadarshini, chirpy editor, food critic and writer from Bangalore piped up.

‘Even Lance Armstrong froze his sperm,’ I said, remembering research I had done on him.

‘Actually, even gay people can do it,’ Raul Dias, Bombay based editor, writer and food critic said.

‘Can gay people become un-gay?’ I asked. ‘What if they meet really nice people from the opposite sex?’

‘Duh! Haven't you heard of people swinging both ways?’ that was the smart brain in my head.

‘Gay people can never become un-gay,’ was the consensus. ‘It is a genetic, natural orientation.'

‘I cannot smell,’ said Swati as the conversation tilted towards genetic conditions that people are born with. Uncontrollable conditions like Turrets Syndrome.

‘You have never smelled a rose?’ I asked, fascinated.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I have Congenital Anosima.’ She looked normal enough. Still, smells don’t make a difference to her. She does not know a bad odour from a good one. And she’s not missing it at all.

With that established, I lurched back to my seat and try to sleep. As soon as my eyes drifted shut, and that brain rested a bit, that loud horn on our bus blared, and I jolted awake. Our driver loved it and used it every few seconds.

‘It really is taking too long to reach,’ the brain complained.

We were lost in Punjab. The pilot car that was leading us went off somewhere. Roads were getting narrower and bumpier as we went deeper into the villages.

2.30 pm: our schedule was askew.

At around 3 pm, a pilot car arrived. We saw the driver emerge. First one red shoe with a rotund paunch above short legs, and then the face with really dark dark glasses. His tee matched his shoes and everybody in the bus wanted a picture with him. He deftly led us to our destination. The bus had to reverse its way on the narrow road leading to Sohain Kothi.

The performers

Waiting for us, was a group of people. The family that owned the place, Punjabi rural performers and a tall, stylish beauty whose long hair cascaded down her back. She is Kiran: a fashion entrepreneur.

All of it was surreal. Those performers, that kothi, food... and the very air we breathed.

Kiran, getting into the swing of things

As soon as we entered the compound, we got freshly crushed sugarcane juice and unsweetened Taudi Da Doodh – made pink in an earthen pot, and slow boiled all day.
'This is what farmers drink when they return from a hard day in the fields,' Chef Gurpreet Singh Ghedu told me. It was naturally delicious. I found it not too thick and easy to sip on while watching the traditional performers do their bit with practiced yet synchronized abandon.

Taudi Da Doodh

My room, on the ground floor of the 112 year old Sohain Kothi, was quaint and had delightful touches: colorful photographs from a family wedding, black and white, slightly age-faded ones of a bygone era. I loved its simplicity.

A wall in my room

On the bed, gift wrapped, was a fabulous Phulkari dupatta, and an pair of Jootis. Both hand crafted.

Lunch was laid out in the lawn. All the tables held wooden bowls on Phulkari runners with roasted peanuts, peanut and jaggery chikki, sesame rewaris.

Lunch, bubbling hot and fresh, waited for us. I loved the look of it all. But managed to pack in some amazing Hari Mirchi Da Kukkad – chicken with green chillies, Laal Lobiya – red black eyed beans, Panner Bhurji and that crisp Missi Roti. It was all so good, but what had the story that makes food special was the Cheeni Wale Paranthe. Chef Gurpreet Singh Ghedu brought it to our table with memories of his school days.

‘When I would return from school, hungry, my mother would make this for me.’ Needless to say, it was a delight to eat. Crisp, hot and loaded with the distinct fragrance of fresh ghee.

It was time for a little relaxation before we stepped out in our finery for a memorable evening.

The Big Fat Punjabi Experience: 2

2016-01-21T21:59:00.000+05:30

Packed and on my way, I felt totally in control as I Uber-ed it to the airport. All was well till I reached Delhi airport. Walking out, I saw my name on a board. The driver quickly took charge of my bag and we headed to the car.

‘Do you know where Prithiviraj Road is?’ I asked, just to make sure. ‘I have to be dropped there.’

‘I have clear instructions to take you to the hotel,’ he said, starting the car. ‘You can go wherever you like after that.’

Huh?

It was past 8 pm. I called Swati, who knew my plan.

‘Oh…’ was all she said. ‘You must be in the wrong car.’

What? With my luggage is in the booth. What was that man doing with my name on a board?

‘Conspiracy,’ the brain mumbled.

‘No, no. Your driver is on the way. Here's his number...’ Swati said.

‘Hummm…’

Five minutes later, the 'real' driver arrived and luggage got transferred along with self. En route, I noticed every car had an even number plate. My journey was smooth albeit foggy.

Alarm rang before I gave it permission to.

‘Go back to sleep. It’s still dark outside. And cold. That stupid alarm rang too soon.’ Brain tried to drag me back to bed.

Pulling my eyelids apart, I was dressed and ready at the appointed hour. The driver, though was not. He had gone someplace else. Took him a good 15 minutes to get to me.

‘I could’ve rested 15 minutes longer,’ Brain complained.

Rohit Aggarwal broke the ice. He is warm and says the right things straight from his heart. A born people’s person, I think, and as charming as ever.

Odette from Goa, Sankalp from Hyderabad and I met for the first time. It was like a family thing. We all knew each other by name, as Times Food Critics.

In the bus. Left to right: Sankalp (Hyderabad), Odette (Goa), Sameer (Mumbai) and Ameeta (Chennai)

For the first time, I met Sameer Malkani, an education specialist and the founder of Food Bloggers Association of India. Odette’s squeal of recognition was quite enough in the form of an introduction. Now, Sameer can remember faces but not names. A fact I found out at the tail end of our journey, as we were about to part ways at the airport.

Watching cartons being loaded into the bus was fascinating. The Punjab Grill gang had thought of everything, including hand sanitizers, wet wipes, soda, beer, snacks… and then some.

We were off.

A little into our journey, we were handed boxes with food. From The Artful Baker. What a treat it was. Especially the Almond Croissant. Loaded with butter, stuffed with almond cream and topped with almond flakes, it was irresistible decadence, enjoyed in reverent silence.

The Artful Baker's Almond Croissant

Suddenly, chatter began. Giggles turned into loud laughter. Collective imagination broke loose. We saw something that changed our lives for ever, and shattered the ice: a board, in the middle of nowhere, had ‘Semen Bank’ written across it. Bold and clear. At closer examination, we found it was for cattle.

Our journey had truly begun.

The Big Fat Punjabi Experience

2016-01-19T11:57:00.000+05:30

Before it began:

Back from a memorable trip into Punjab, I’m sitting here with a big smile on my face, energized beyond words, wondering where to begin...

The brain nudges me roughly.

‘Duh! Start at the beginning.’

An email from someone called Swati arrived, inviting me to experience Lohri in Punjab, Punjab Grill style.

‘Don’t bother responding. This is another one of those…’ Brain said, not defining what ‘those’ meant.

Then, a second email arrived, telling me about a date change.

‘Ok… So?’ the brain asked. ‘It’s a spam. Has anybody called you to invite you? Do you even know this Swati? No, na. Chill.’

Again, the brain won, and I went back to work. My heart dreamed of Punjab, a state I longed to visit.

Purely Punjabi mustard

Then the call came. And I got swayed. Before I knew it, tickets had arrived and I was packing my bags for Punjab.

Brain lost. Heart won.

Laughing Without an Accent: A Review

2016-01-12T17:02:00.000+05:30

A few minutes after the foot twisted on that treacherous step. Sitting with sympathetic family, foot in blue icepack, trying to smile.

I discovered a treasure trove on the lower shelf of my sister's family room in Southern California: a whole library of books, waiting to be read.

Turned out, it was just what I needed. My foot had it all planned. It twisted me out of action for a few weeks. Even the slightest hobble hurt like hell. Luckily, no broken bones.

All it loved was staying elevated, on a couple of cushions, while my mind concentrated on other things. Like books.

Foot and I had a pact: if I did not move it would not hurt.

So, anyway, the first book that caught my fancy in that little library under the table, was Laughing Without an Accent by Firoozeh Dumas.

It started off well. In that she managed to grab my interest with her life, her father and her family.

'Here is one author who writes from the heart,' I thought as I read tales of how they moved from one place to the next, and all about their lying / thieving household help, which is very similar to what I face in Chennai, India.

Laughing Without an Accent went well in the first half. I was laughing along with Dumas (trying to do it without an accent) and identifying with some parts of her childhood.

Then, somewhere in the middle, I found the book was over opinionated and random. There were times she forgot she had already told 'that' story a couple of chapters ago. I forgave her and re-read the same story, again, with a sense of deja vu. The book did not have that many pages, so I managed to overlook those lapses and read on. Under normal circumstance, I would have stopped reading and moved on. But the way things were, I had nothing to lose and lots of time to read every re-written incident.

Now that the book is read, I'm trying to rack my brains into remembering the parts that stayed with me:

The name. It was interesting
Firoozeh's father. She really loves him, values his opinion and is willing to let it show in her writing.
Her family values are very similar to mine.
I like that she had the guts to sell off her TV (and some other stuff) so that the children would spend more time nurturing their creativity.

I was disappointed, to put it bluntly, but would still read her book Funny in Farsi if I did come across it.

Would I buy it? Nope. I'd rather borrow it from my sister or get the library to send it to me.

Planning, Un-planning

2016-01-11T18:41:00.001+05:30

In San Francisco

Agreed, it all started with Sneha’s wedding. Agreed too, that I wanted to go.

Going all the way to America means we have to do something more than attend the wedding.

Even getting over jet lag takes some people over two weeks. Besides, America holds memories for us. Ones we really cherish. It is such a huge country, that every time we go there, we manage to do something different.

Somehow, America and I have a connect from another life. I love it. In fact, even as I write this, I long to be there again.

Maybe because, to me the country means my sister Bela and her family. They mean so much to me and make me feel completely at home.

Having said that, I hardly ever venture out alone - except for a walk around the neighborhood or being dropped and picked up from a shopping mall at an appointed time and pre-arranged location. Don’t want to be lost in America. What with being direction-ally dyslexic and map-challenged.

Now that we had booked our to and fro tickets, hubby and I had several arguments. We planned and un-planned many plans. As usual, it always ends with a cruise. We love floating in a big ship on an ocean, visiting places we would never dream of going to in a plane.

‘So, where should we go?’ hubby asked, laptop on lap.

I logged in, too. No plans that involved me were going to be made without my knowledge.

‘Let’s take a land trip,’ I suggested.

But nothing looked like it would work. We needed to travel from Washington DC to wherever we wanted to go.

All the cruises were either too early or too late. Banff, Jasper and a train journey in the Rockies was out of the question. The train trip hubby would have loved to go on was closed for the winter, starting October 2nd.

So, now what? Orlando and then the Caribbean by cruise?

‘I’m not inspired. How about we go to San Francisco, spend a few days there, fly down to San Diego, spend a few days there and take a cruise on the Mexican Rivera from there?’ That was me and my brainwave (they happen sometimes!)

Working on it, we found everything falling into place. Except that our plans were not that exclusive. Many conglomerates had the same plans. They were conducting seminars / conferences / workshops at the very same hotels we wanted to book rooms in. Rates, which were high, and getting higher by the day. Like an overdose of alcohol.

With our tickets booked, we had little choice but reserve rooms.

Hubby looked at me.

‘Next time, I'll never asked her.’ I heard him think as I tired my best to get the best deal we could, given our circumstances.