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Journalist, Author, Columnist. My Twitter handle: @seemagoswami

Sunday, March 10, 2024

New Year goals

Here's my wish list for 2024

This is the last column I will write in 2023. But rather than look back on the year that has gone by and reflect on what has past I thought I would look ahead to 2024 — not to speculate on what it would bring but to make a few resolutions about how I would make the best of it. 


So, here goes!


  • Read more; scroll less. What with the world going to hell in a hand basket, my habit of doomscrolling went from worse to worst this last year. I spent countless hours refreshing newspaper sites and trawling through Twitter (or X, as we are supposed to call it now) to follow these events. As a result I ended up better informed than ever before but more depressed than I had thought possible. So, on the grounds that this obsession with bad news can’t be good for me, I have decided that I am going to ration the time I spend keeping up with current affairs. And I am going to go offline for major chunks of time and read, read, read. That seems to be the only way of keeping my equilibrium in a world that appears to have gone mad. 
  • Read wider; read better. As regular readers of this column will know, I am a creature of habit when it comes to books. I invariably go back to authors I am familiar with, sometimes for their new books or even to read an old favourite. But as the realisation dawns that I now have more yesterdays than tomorrows it comes with a renewed urgency to discover new writers and try and explore new genres. So in 2024 I am going to eschew my go-to psychological thrillers, murder mysteries and spy novels and try and develop a taste for something else. It could be historical novels, it could be literary opuses that I have missed out on, or something else entirely, but expand my horizons I must. And that also means discovering new authors — some of whom I haven’t even heard of as yet. I will let you know how the experiment goes by the end of next year. 
  • Less shopping; more recycling. Like most people my age, I have ended up accumulating far too much stuff. If I were to never buy a pair of jeans, a sari, shoes or a handbag ever again, my current stock should see me through to the end of my years. So no matter how tempting the new collection looks in the shops I am going to walk resolutely away - and rewear all that lies unused in my closet. And all that stuff that I have been hoarding away in the hope that one day I will fit into it again? Well, I am going to steel myself and give it away to someone who can get use out of it. 
  • Get strong; get flexible. Ever since my diabetes diagnosis a few years ago, I have become so obsessed with my daily walks that all other forms of exercise have fallen by the wayside. This year, though, I am determined to regain my flexibility and muscular strength with a combination of resistance training and Pilates. Wish me luck even as I wish you all a Happy New Year! 

It's a Big Day!

Or Burra Din, as Christmas is dubbed in Calcutta - and it's magical! 

 

Growing up in Calcutta, Christmas was always a magical time of the year for me. It wasn’t just that I went to a convent school or that I had Christian friends who would celebrate this day as a religious festival. It was also because Christmas – or Burra Din, as we called it in Cal – had been transformed into a secular holiday by the denizens of the city, who treated it as a special occasion to be marked by fireworks, street lights, neighbourhood parties and community picnics, in which everyone would wear silly hats, eat, drink and make very merry indeed. 

 

Strangely enough, there was never any tradition of Christmas presents – or, at least, not in my family. And even though there were plenty of men dressed as Santa Claus roaming around the shops in New Market, we children were never encouraged to write to Santa with a wish list of all we wanted. In fact, all we ever got for Christmas was a cake from the famous Nahoum shop (and very delicious it was too). But we did get taken to Park Street, when it was all lit up for the festival, and were treated to a slap-up meal in one of the posh restaurants on the street – a highlight of my year!

 

Perhaps it is all those childhood memories that ensure that I start feeling all festive and celebratory as Christmas comes near. I still draw the line at presents because it seems like a needless commercialization of yet another religious festival. I don’t get in a Christmas tree, mostly because I have no room for one. And no, I don’t attend midnight mass either these days though I have done so in the past and been moved to tears by the power of the choral music. 

 

But I do have some Christmas rituals of my own that I use to mark this time of the year. To recreate the Park Street of my childhood, I string up some fairy lights all around my living room and decorate the dining table with sprigs of holly and mistletoe. I am not much of a baker but I am blessed with friends who send over plum cakes around this time so breakfast usually turns into a calorific feast which I keep telling myself is not sinful because, you know, Christmas!

 

Turkey is not to my taste but you still need a slap-up Christmas lunch. In my house, we go for bangers and mash or lamb and roasted potatoes, with some pasta and risotto for vegetarians, followed up with – what else? – another helping of Christmas cake. Silly hats are optional but everyone must bring a good appetite and memories of Christmases past, which we share around the table along with a few good glugs of champagne or wine. 

 

My stories inevitably hark back to Calcutta and growing up in the city in which Christmas was literally the Big Day (Burra Din). I remember family picnics in Botanical Gardens, where I, along with my childhood friend Kavita, would dance in public with the gay abandon that only children can summon up. And I promise myself that next Christmas I will find my way back there to relive those days one more time.


So, on that note, Merry Christmas to all! 


Is life a beach?

Or is it a hill to climb?

So are you a beach person or a mountains person? Are you the kind of person that loves splashing in the waves and then drying off on warm white sands? Or are one of those who loves snuggling down under layers of covers next to a roaring fire, with a glass of brandy and a good book in hand, while the snow turns the landscape white outside your window? 


Which one am I, you ask? Well, to tell you the truth, I can’t quite make up my mind. There are times when I feel that I was made to lie lazily on the beach, sipping a cocktail under an umbrella, watching the immutable rise and fall of the waves. But then, the sea breeze makes my hair grow all crinkly, the sun makes me all sweaty and red and the sand gets absolutely everywhere, and I feel that I might be better off in the mountains. 


And I love the mountains! There is something magical about driving uphill on meandering roads and finding yourself looking down on a beautiful vista that changes subtly ever so often. The air is crisp and cold, the weather is bracing rather than blistering, and hot chocolate never tastes better than when you’re sipping it by the light of a bonfire. But then, the cold settles into my bones, the sun goes missing in the mist, and I feel as if I will never feel warm again — and I find myself longing for the beach. 


Is this just me — perverse to a fault — or is this longing for what we do not have an essential part of the human condition? 


There must be a reason why we all head for the cold of the mountains when the temperatures begin to climb in the plains. And why we plan our escape to the sea the moment winter comes calling. We want to enjoy the cold when it’s hot and revel in the heat when it’s cold. 


I am writing this column in Goa, where I am taking a little break from a Delhi winter that is inflicting record levels of pollution on us, and I have to say that the beach life looks perfect to me right now. The shrimp is fresh, the air is salty, and the sand feels soft and satiny beneath my bare feet. The beach is not exactly empty but there are stretches where you can enjoy a little bit of solitude. What’s not to like?


If I had headed to the mountains instead, what would I have encountered in this season? Traffic jams on hill roads because too many other people had the same idea as me, overcrowded hill stations heaving with tourists, crumbling infrastructure — and the guilty feeling that I was despoiling the environment with my very presence. Even the best hot chocolate in the world couldn’t possibly compensate in that scenario. 


So, maybe on balance, I might be better off as a beach person, after all.  Glad we got that cleared up well in time for the New Year!


What's on the menu?

The best books are the ones that put some thought into food

The books that got me hooked on reading were the ones by Enid Blyton, more 

specifically the Mallory Towers series, set in an idyllic boarding house where 

Darrell Rivers and her band of intrepid friends had the most marvellous 

adventures. But what I loved most about these books were the scenes that

 described food: the midnight feasts that the girls sneaked off to, the ginger 

beer (ginger beer? What was that about?) they guzzled on days out with their 

parents. Some of the food items they consumed were little more than words to 

me — but they were words that transported me to a world far away from mine, 

introducing me to tastes that I could only conjure up in my imagination. 


Ever since those halcyon days of early childhood I have been captivated by 

books that took food seriously (and by that I don’t mean food books — those

 are a different species entirely). As a teenager, even as I was enraptured by 

the love stories at the heart of Georgette Heyer’s Regency romances, my taste 

buds would come alive when she began describing what was served at the 

endless balls, routs and masquerades that the heroines attended. I still have 

no idea what ratafia tastes like but the name itself conjures up a different, 

more chivalrous age. 


It’s the same story when I plunge into Elizabeth Jane Howard’s Cazalet 

Chronicles, as I do ever so often. Set after the First World War, it describes a 

milieu that is defined by meal times: the nursery teas served to the children; 

the elaborate three or even four course meals the adults settle down to, the 

ritual consumption of sherry and port. All of this with the aid of a devoted staff 

that cuts and chops, boils and roasts, bakes and grills so that those above 

stairs can feed and flourish. 


The most evocative food writing, though, comes from one of my favorite 

writers: Donna Leon. The hero of her detective series set in Venice, 

Commissario Guido Brunetti, takes his food very seriously indeed. He stops by

 for a brioche and a coffee at one of his favoured shops on his way to work. 

He takes a little break for some tramezzini and a small glass of wine (this is 

Italy after all!) half way through the day if he is not traipsing back home for a 

nice hot lunch. And dinner is the highlight of the day, featuring antipasto, 

pasta, a meat course and dessert followed by a glass of Calvados, sipped 

meditatively while sitting on his terrace with his wife Paola and looking 

on to the splendid views of Venice laid out before him. 


At the moment I am reading the new Jilly Cooper novel, Tackle. And even

 though the angelic Taggie, wife of reformed cad Rupert Campbell Black, is 

now a shadow of her former self, being treated for cancer, I find myself 

thinking back fondly to the many meals this gifted cook used to conjure up 

for her oblivious and ungrateful family. 


I know they say that the best books provide food for thought. But I find that

 books that put some thought into food are the best of them all. 


Sunday, February 18, 2024

On airplane mode

Here's how to cope if you're headed on another long-haul flight

Last week I notched up another first. I took a long-haul flight that did not serve alcohol on board. Did I hear you ask: what is the big deal? After all, we take domestic flights all the time that are alcohol-free. But this was significant for me because my ritual on all overnight international flights is to get on board, have a couple of glasses of champagne and a sedative (yes, I am a nervous flier) and knock myself out for several hours. 


But this time, on Saudia Airlines, that was not a possibility. And I won’t lie to you: that made me a tad nervous (well, even more nervous than usual!). As it turned out, though, I needn’t have worried. There must have been something soporific about the date smoothie (delicious, by the way) that I had the moment I boarded because within an hour I was out like a light. And I woke up feeling far more refreshed than I have ever felt on a long flight. So all those ‘experts’ who keep banging on about how one must never drink on planes (it has a dehydrating effect, alcohol hits you stronger in the air, etc., etc.) may have been right all along! Who knew?


Well, for what it’s worth, here is some far from expert advice from me when it comes to negotiating long-haul overnight flights (with or without the benefit of a drink). 


  • Avoid looking at screens as much as you can. Switch off your inflight entertainment screen the moment you get airborne. Keep your phone, iPad and kindle off (if you absolutely must read then keep the brightness as low as it would possibly go). Instead load an audio book or a play on your device and listen to it on your earphones. Even some relaxing music will do. This will put you to sleep far more effectively than watching an action movie or the latest OTT series. 
  • Airlines meals are notorious for being no-taste zones. So rather than go to bed feeling dissatisfied pack a few treats in your handbag. I’m not suggesting you go full Indian tourist by packing theplas/parathas with achar. No, I mean tiny little taste bombs like a Snickers bar or a chocolate digestive or even a small packet of Haldiram’s bhujiya or spice mix. It will give your taste buds a much needed jolt and you will go to sleep much more sated. 
  • Airplanes can get really chilly at night. And those thin airline blankets don’t really do the trick. I know that fashion magazines suggest that we travel with our own blankets but honestly, who has the space for it. Much better to slip in a cashmere sweater or muffler in your handbag along with a pair of cashmere or woollen socks. These will keep you warm and toasty as you listen to your audio book and drift off towards the land of Nod. Sweet dreams and safe travels, all! 

Art vs reality

Watching the latest series of The Crown seems like an exercise in voyeurism

So the final season of The Crown (or rather, the first four episodes) dropped on Netflix. And there was a certain predictability to the way I dropped everything else and settled down on my couch to binge watch it. And now, after that marathon viewing session, here are some of my thoughts. 


  • The more recent the events covered by The Crown, the more uncomfortable the watch. Now that we are into the period in which Princess Diana died tragically, watching the show feels like an exercise in voyeurism. We see her talking with her young sons, William and Harry, on the phone, all three oblivious to the fact that this will be their last conversation. We look on as Prince Charles wakes up his ‘darling boys’ to break it to them that their mother has died. Mercifully, the scene is sans any audible dialogue but just seeing the expressions of devastation on William and Harry’s faces makes you feel as if you are intruding on a family tragedy. (Spoiler alert: that is exactly what all of us watching are, in fact, doing.)
  • Elizabeth Debicki looks uncannily like Diana and is decked out in an identical wardrobe to depict the Princess’ last days on earth. But for all her cocking her head sideways and looking up shyly in a manner that is supposed to mimic the Princess, she fails singularly in projecting the charisma and star quality that made Diana such a supernova on the world stage. She plays Diana as a victim — perhaps with the benefit of hindsight — when in reality Diana was emerging, post-divorce, as a significant force in her own right. Diana’s strength and power as she took on the royal family are missing in this portrayal which is keen to emphasise her sadness and essential loneliness. 
  • You never feel more regretful of the rift that has formed between William and Harry than when you watch the bond between the brothers as they negotiate boyhood together within the protocol-bound confines of the royal family. They laugh and josh with their parents as a team. They both seem suspicious of the sudden closeness blooming between their mother and Dodi Fayed. And when tragedy strikes William is the protective brother who tries to shield Harry from the world and the knowledge that things will never be the same again for either of them. What a shame that brotherly bond could not endure into adulthood. 
  • And finally, why does Peter Morgan, the creator of The Crown, hate the late Queen Elizabeth so much? Whatever else you might think of her — and by all accounts, she was not a great mother — she was an adored grandmother in her later years, with all her grand kids testifying to how much she loved them. And yet, even as Diana lies dead and her sons are inconsolable, we don’t get as much as a glimpse of the Queen comforting them — even though both William and Harry credited her with getting them through that awful time. But I guess a remote and unfeeling Queen is what worked best in Morgan’s script, so that’s what we are saddled with here.
       As they don't say, the pen is mightier than the crown -- at least in the universe
       of the Crown.

Reduce, reuse, rewind

It's time to go back to a simpler age, when waste was frowned upon, and everything was eco-friendly

One of my favourite things to do when I am travelling abroad is to go grocery shopping in the local markets and supermarkets. Nothing tells you as much about a place as finding out what the locals like to eat, drink and buy (and as a bonus, you get to sample the wares once you get back home). 

 

Of late, however, I noticed that I got disapproving looks when I asked for a plastic bag to pack my purchases in. Nearly everyone else was carrying a cloth or jute tote bag to take their stuff away and here I was, asking for more plastic to pollute the planet. I longed to explain that I have my eco-friendly totes tucked away safely at home (where I use them all the time) but I am on holiday, for God’s sake, so cut me a break. But instead of doing that I have now taken to packing a little thela in my suitcase for all such exigencies.

 

And every time I do so, I am reminded of my childhood, when going out shopping for fruits and vegetables meant taking your own jhola along. In our household, we used a big circular wicket basket which I would hang jauntily from my left arm as I left the house (once it was full, it was up to my mom to carry it back home). I guess in those days we had no option but to be environmentally conscious when we did our weekly shop. Plastic was a long way away from taking over the world, and all receptacles for shopping were ecofriendly and reusable (and boy, did we get some use out of that wicker basket!).

 

Thinking back to those halcyon days, I can’t help but marvel at how little waste we generated. Cold drinks and milk were delivered in glass bottles which would be sent back to the vendor after use. The fruit and vegetable peelings were kept aside to be fed to the friendly neighbourhood cow, who would wander by every afternoon to try her luck at our doorstep. If an iron stopped working you fixed it rather than go out and buy a new one. And there was no online shopping which meant there were no thick cardboard boxes to dispose of every week. 

 

Even our carbon emissions were minimal in those days. Air travel was a special treat unless you were super rich; everyone else used trains to get around both for work and play. Most families considered themselves lucky if they had one car, and even that was rarely in daily use. Air-conditioning was far from being the norm; most of us managed with fans, though if you lived in Delhi or Rajasthan you indulged yourself with a desert cooler during the summer. Our fruit and vegetables were grown locally; there was no tradition of bingeing on kiwis flown in from New Zealand or asparagus sourced from Peru. And you certainly did not eat anything that was not in season.

 

The more I think about it, the more I long to return to those simpler times, when we were kinder to ourselves and less of a burden on the planet. It will probably never happen – but a girl can dream, right?