The tipping point

To tip or not to tip: that is the question. And often, there is no good answer

 

I have to confess that the recent brouhaha about the service charge that restaurants tag on to their bills (and whether consumers are bound to pay it) left me rather unmoved. And that’s because it’s an entirely different minefield that occupies my mind when I eat out: tipping. 

 

As a concept, it is simple enough. If you have eaten a meal and enjoyed it, then you leave a little something to thank the service staff. But how much do you leave – and how do you leave it? It’s a tricky business because the answer varies widely from country to country. In some places, ten per cent is a perfectly acceptable tip. In others, anything less than twenty per cent is a virtual insult. In some places, you can add the amount on to your bill and pay by credit card. In others, it is expected that you tip in cash only. In some places, you are not expected to tip if a service charge is added. In others, the waiters will chase you outside into the street if you don’t top up the service charge with a little extra.

 

As I said, it’s a veritable minefield. And no matter what choice I make, it invariably turns out to be the wrong one (at least, judging by the look on my server’s face!).

 

What’s worse is that it’s not just restaurants that leave you struggling to make sense of this business. The entire hospitality sector joins in to make your life miserable. Checking into a hotel abroad and need help with your bags? How much should you tip the staff member who carries it up? It sounds like a simple question but it can be challenging if you haven’t quite worked out the exchange rate. And what if you don’t have any small notes in the local currency, having just arrived in the country? Do you apologize for the fact that you aren’t sufficiently organized or just brazen it out with effusive ‘thank yous’ while the staffer hangs around ostentatiously looking for a tip?

 

It can be even more complicated in Indian hotels, when you are escorted up to your room by assorted staff members, all of them in uniform. All you can do is take a guess as to which one of them you are expected to tip. And the chances are that he or she will leap back with indignation from your proffered hand and say with great dignity, “Oh no, ma’am, I am the manager!” leaving you all red and flustered.

 

Some hotels make it easy for guests by mentioning clearly that they have a no-tipping policy. And that if you want to leave a little something for the staff then you can put it in envelope and leave it at reception, where it will be put in the general pot for everyone to share. But most hotels don’t follow that eminently sensible policy. So, you are left wondering if you need to tip every time you order something from room service; whether you need to give the woman making your bed and cleaning your loo a little extra something (or will you end up offending her?); and if a tip is mandated for the doorman who snaps forward to open your car door for you. And what about the spa operator? Does she get a tip as well? And how do you do that when you have left your wallet safely locked in your room?

 

I don’t know about you, but questions like these run constantly through my head when I am staying at a hotel. So, what should be a restful vacation turns into a stressful exercise in second guessing.

 

It doesn’t end even when you leave the confines of your hotel. Does your taxi driver expect to be tipped? Well, that depends on which country you are in. Is a 10 per cent tip enough for the hairstylist who gave you that very expensive haircut? Or does his tight smile mean he was expecting something around 20 per cent? And what about the porter you hired to help with your bags at the airport? You’ve paid his fee but he’s hanging around, looking like he expects a little more for his trouble.

 

Honestly, it’s quite enough to make you reach your own tipping point!

Raindrops keep falling

The monsoon is finally here – and I couldn’t be happier. 

 

There is no better feeling than when, after sweltering through ground-breaking heat for months, you wake up to the sound of a thundershower and hear raindrops beating against your window in an incessant rhythm that sings its way into your very soul. The sweet sound of the season’s first rain, heralding the start of the monsoon, is the best kind of morning alarm, and not surprisingly it had me tumbling out of bed and running to the balcony so that I could witness it first-hand.

 

The monsoon is always something that I look forward to (don’t come at me with talk of clogged roads; I simply refuse to let mundane concerns ruin the romance of the rains) but this year it came as a particular relief. Temperatures had been touching the mid to high forties with a distressing regularity and leaving home had become akin to stepping into a hot oven which wouldn’t just bake you but burn you to a crisp. So, the ten-degree drop in temperature that the rains brought was particularly welcome. 

 

As I stood on my balcony, inhaling the magical smell of petrichor (the scent the dry earth emits when rain hits it for the first time) and luxuriating in the feel of raindrops dropping on my head, I found myself transported to monsoons past and all the fun times I had had during them.

 

My earliest memories of childhood revolve around the monsoon. I remember my mother stripping me down to my frilly white underwear and letting me loose on my verandah as the rain came pouring down. She would clog the drains that led off it with pieces of cloth so that the water accumulated until it was up to shins. The giddy excitement I felt as I skidding around in the few inches of water, screaming in delight, lives on in my head so many decades later. As does my searing disappointment when she finally decided that I had had enough and dragged me away to dry me off. Left to myself, I would have wallowed in my private ‘swimming pool’ forever.

 

Perhaps it was this that triggered my love of the monsoon. But, for as long as my memory goes back, I have adored this time of the year. The magic of the horizon as it turns grey, then black; the majestic sound of thunder; the lightning flashes that electrify the sky; the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops; the freshly-washed look of the trees after a shower; I love it all.

 

And then, there are the food memories. Monsoon in our household always meant hot steaming bowls of khichdi with oodles of desi ghee floating on top, paired with a mustard oil-enhanced alu chokha for lunch. Tea would be accompanied by assorted pakoras, sprinkled with a generous dusting of chaat masala. And sometimes, as a special treat, we would get spicy shingaras (no, there are nothing like north Indian samosas) with syrupy sweet crisp jilipis (no, nothing like the north Indian jalebis) hot from the kadhai of the local mishti dokan. 

 

So, I guess it’s no surprise that my first instinct when it rains is to deep fry. Unfortunately, pakoras are not my forte so I end up making Mumbai-style kanda bhajiya which my husband loves. If I am feeling lazy then I just take out a packet of frozen alu tikkis from the freezer and shallow fry them, slathering them with green chutney or maybe even ketchup. The masala tea of my childhood has been replaced by a steaming hot cappuccino, courtesy my new-fangled coffee machine. The only childhood monsoon staple that has survived into my adulthood is the khichdi, which I rustle up the moment the sky threatens rain. 

 

Alas, it’s no longer possible to strip down to my underwear and wallow in my self-made ‘swimming pool’ as I did as a child (mustn’t frighten the neighbours!). But I do the next best thing. I leave my umbrella behind and head out to the neighbourhood park for a walk, revelling in the feel of raindrops enveloping me in their misty beauty. I walk until I am soaked to the skin. 

 

There’s no mom any more to summon me back and dry me off. So, with great reluctance, I force myself to turn back home – until the next shower beckons.

 

Hot favourites

Here’s a list of cracking good reads to get you through the summer

 

Ever since I was a child, I looked forward to summer holidays because they meant I could spend long, uninterrupted days reading all my favourite authors. Even now that I am all grown up and cannot take entire weeks off for the summer, I still stock up on books to read late into the sultry, sticky nights of the hot months. 

 

Just in case you are inclined to do the same, here’s a handy list of the books that have been keeping me entertained of late. I do hope you enjoy them too!

 

A Line To Kill by Anthony Horowitz

 

Setting a murder mystery on an island on which the characters remain trapped is an old trope made most famous by Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. But Anthony Horowitz breathes fresh life into this format with this book, in which he casts himself as the dim Watson-like figure to the Sherlock figure played by ex-detective inspector Daniel Hawthorne. The two men are invited to a literary festival hosted on the tiny island of Alderney and with a certain inevitability, a body is discovered. Nobody can get on or off the island, and it is up to Hawthorne and Horowitz to unmask the killer. As locked room mysteries go, this one is rather fun.

 

The Love Of My Life by Rosie Walsh

 

What if you wake up one morning and realise that you are married to a stranger? That the woman you love, the mother of your daughter, is not the person you believe she is? Is there any coming back from the discovery? Can any marriage survive such knowledge? This book by Rosie Walsh examines these questions through the love story of Leo and Emma, as they bring up their daughter Ruby and a dog, somewhat improbably named John Keats. Leo, an obituary writer, is assigned to write a stock obit of his wife, as she battles cancer. His research sheds light on secrets that Emma has never shared with him – and their lives begin to unravel from that point on. Nothing is as it seems in this book; and the big reveal – when it comes – will leave you gobsmacked.

 

Anna The Biography by Amy Odell

No journalist has ever had more power in the world of fashion than Anna Wintour, who made her name as editor of Vogue – though she now runs pretty much all of the editorial at the Conde Nast publishing company. Unusually for a fashion journalist, she is now a household name in America and more of a celebrity than many of the people Vogue writes about. She is also as feared as she is admired with tags like Nuclear Wintour being applied to her (the film, The Devil Wears Prada, was famously based on her). This broadly sympathetic biography tries to work out what makes her tick. And though it doesn’t have all the answers it is an enjoyable read as it captures what life can be like for a woman who rises to the top of her profession.

 

The Widow by K.L. Slater

 

Life for Kate and Michael is near idyllic as they bring up their young daughter, Tansy, is a scenic village in the English countryside. But the peace and tranquility they revel in is shattered when a young Polish single mother suddenly goes missing and suspicion begins to fall on Michael. Kate tries hard not to believe the worst of her husband, even as the evidence against him mounts. But when he is killed – run over by a truck as he leaves the police station after an interrogation; begging the question whether it was an accident or a suicide – Kate devotes her attention to safeguarding his memory for her young daughter, no matter what it takes.

 

The Palace Papers by Tina Brown

 

I picked up this book wondering what new information Tina Brown could possibly have about the British royal family, a topic she has already mined for all it has. As it turns out, she has a lot of fresh dirt to dish, from plumbing the depths of Camilla’s mind to examining what made Harry and Meghan bolt across the Atlantic. All of this information is dished up in a chatty, gossipy style that Brown has made her own from her Tatler and Vanity Fair days, making this a cracking good read.

 

Family ties

The Duke and Duchess of Sussex rush back into the embrace of the royal family at the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee celebrations

 

Families, eh? Love them or hate them; there is just no way you can leave them. That’s the thought that struck me as I watched the Platinum Jubilee celebrations to mark Queen Elizabeth’s 70 years on the throne.

 

Unless you have been living under a rock over the past few years, you will be familiar with Prince Harry, his wife, Meghan, and their long and winding whine-athon with Oprah Winfrey. The Duke and Duchess of Sussex – as they were styled after their wedding – gave up their royal duties and departed the green fields of England for the sunny climes of California, where they announced they would make their own way in the world. But wait, not before slagging off the royal family from which they had consciously uncoupled.

 

So, while Meghan, already upset that no one had asked her if she was ‘okay’, announced dolefully that the royal institution – which she referred to, rather sinisterly as ‘the firm’ – had ignored her mental health issues and failed to provide her with support when she felt suicidal while pregnant, Harry angrily revealed that his father, Prince Charles, had cut him off financially once he announced he was leaving for America. Meghan confided that her sister-in-law, Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge, had made her cry. Harry said living in the royal family felt like being part of a circus (with him being the performing animal, obviously).

 

Meghan upped the ante even further, saying that an unnamed royal had speculated about the color of her unborn child when she was pregnant. Harry clarified, later in the same interview, that this had happened at the beginning of their relationship, but by then, the damage had been done: the royal family had been painted with a racist brush, and the reputational damage was complete.

 

So, what do you think happened when this racist, unfeeling, even cruel, family celebrated the 70^th anniversary of their matriarch’s enthronement? Why, of course, Harry and Meghan wanted to be a part of the festivities! They would, they announced grandly, be ‘honoured’ to attend.

 

And so, they dutifully turned up for the Jubilee celebrations, even though they were pointedly not invited to make the obligatory balcony appearance with the Queen (that was just for working royals, we were told). Harry wore a slightly hangdog expression during the proceedings, perhaps reflecting on all that he had left behind, though he managed to muster the occasional smile. Meghan, drawing on her experiences as a cable show actress, had a huge grin pasted on throughout, accessorized with even huger hats.  

 

The events were carefully choreographed to keep the warring brothers, Princes William and Harry, apart. And the public didn’t get to see Meghan and Catherine interact either at the Trooping the Colour or at St Paul’s Cathedral. But the family dynamics behind closed doors would have been fascinating.

 

Did the two sisters-in-law grin through gritted teeth and kiss each other on the cheek? How did Prince Charles react to the daughter-in-law who had smeared his family as racist? What was the reunion between Harry and his stepmother, Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall, like, given that rumour had it that he planned to slag her off in his forthcoming autobiography? And did the two brothers manage to mend their relationship, or at least begin to make amends?

 

I guess we shall never know – unless, of course, the Sussexes decide to sit down for another heart-to-heart with Oprah Winfrey. Or if they decide to reveal their innermost thoughts in the reality show – oops, sorry, docu-series – they are currently shooting for Netflix. Or if Harry includes his Platinum Jubilee adventures in his book, which is due out later this year.

 

But, judging by the look of things, Harry and Meghan seem to have decided that love them or hate them, you just can’t leave your family. At the end of the day, you need that sprinkling of royal stardust to keep shining in the celebrity firmament back in California. 

 

Does that hold out much hope for Meghan’s estranged father, Thomas Markle, currently recovering from a stroke that has left him unable to speak? Will he finally get a visit – or at the very least, a call – from his daughter, who hasn’t seen him since her wedding four years ago? You’ll simply have to watch this space.

 

Feeling hot, hot, hot

And yet there is no getting out of the kitchen…

 

You know how the saying goes. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. There is just one problem with following that piece of advice, as temperatures hover around the mid to high forties in India. We can’t stand the heat; we would love to get out of the kitchen; but we can’t do that because we have a family to feed. 

 

No matter how scorching the day, you still have to rustle up three meals a day for yourself and those in your household. And there is a limit to how much – and how often – you can order in. So, how do you cope?

 

Well, here are some pointers, based entirely on my own experience of keeping everyone fed during the blistering summers of Delhi.

 

1)    Keep actual cooking to a minimum. Instead, rely on fresh vegetables, fruits and herbs that you can turn into scrumptious salads. Not only will this reduce the amount of time you spend by the range, these meals will be both cooling and nutritious for the whole family.

 

2)    I know, I know, getting a salad prepped is no joke. You have to chop and peel endlessly and that can be a sweaty business. But who said that you have to do all this in a hot and humid kitchen? Spread some old newspapers on your dining table, and set up your chopping board in air-conditioned comfort. You can, in fact, do all your food prep here; even if you are making a full meal.

 

 

3)    This is the time when you should get your oven to do all the heavy lifting. Chop up all the vegetables you need, arrange them on a baking tray, throw in some sausages (if you are a meat-eater) or chunks of halloumi cheese (if you are vegetarian), sprinkle with oil, bung them in the oven, set the time to 45 minutes (or an hour) and sit back and relax while your dinner is cooked. This is my go-to dish when it’s simply too hot to slave away on the stove. And it’s delicious, to boot. You can come up with your own variations.

 

4)    The other kitchen aid that I rely upon completely at this time of year is my Insta Pot. This is the best way to cook meat curries, stews, or even dals and subzis. Most days I don’t even bother to fry the onions, garlic, ginger and tomato with the masalas. Instead, I put all the ingredients in, press the button that says ‘Slow Cook’ and then let the Insta Pot work its magic over a couple of hours while I have a shower and then sit back with a nice cooling drink and a good book.

 

5)    Life is too short (not to mention, too hot) to make rotis on summer evenings. When I was young, I remember my mother sending off our dough to the neighbourhood tandoor, and getting hot crisp tandoori rotis back in a matter of minutes. But those days are long gone now. And I can’t really justify ordering in rotis and parathas. So, I compromise by ordering in some interesting breads that I can toast, butter generously, and eat with my subzis and dals. 

 

6)    This is the time to make one-pot meals that require minimal stirring and watching. So, ditch the stir fries and bhuna ghoshts; instead make a khichri with vegetables. Forget about the risottos that need constant attention; restrict yourself to pastas that can be put together in a jiffy.

 

7)    Batch cooking is what will save you endless botheration in the kitchen. If you are making a pasta sauce, make three times the quantity you need, and freeze the extra two portions to use later in the month. Fry up enormous amounts of ginger-garlic paste and keep it in the fridge to use for the rest of the week. Whatever you are cooking – whether it is dal or a Thai curry – you can’t go wrong by making a few extra portions and freezing them to use on a day when cooking seems like too much of a palaver.

 

8)    The best part of summer, of course, is that the heat is the perfect excuse to stuff yourself full of ice-cream. And, thank God, that requires no cooking at all (though you might want to slice a mango to eat alongside!).

 

The heat is on

But it’s for us to search for the pleasures of summer, to make the season a joy rather than a pain

 

May is usually the cruellest month in Delhi, as the mercury soars past the 40 degree Celsius mark, and a dry heat makes life seem unlivable. But thanks to an unprecedented heat wave (climate change, anyone?) we experienced peak Delhi summer in April itself this year. As I write this, I don’t know what fresh horrors May and June will bring – will we finally breach the 50 degree mark? – but I thought this was a good time to suggest some remedies to get through this scorcher of a summer.

 

Well, the first thing that suggests itself is to get away from the heat of the plains and head to the mountains. Thankfully, there are quite a few destinations in Uttarakhand and Himachal Pradesh that are within driving distance of the capital. If you are willing to travel further then Kashmir is a good option as well, as are the hills in the north-east of India. But, for my money, the best hillside resort experience is to be had in the south, where the mountain towns are better preserved, the food is delicious, and the crowds not quite so overwhelming.

 

But if your work or your children’s school doesn’t allow you to plan your great escape just yet, don’t worry. There are plenty of ways to survive the heat in the city before you can finally get away for your summer vacation.

 

The one thing that can get you through the summer is a nice pool, that you can dip into for a refreshing swim. If you are a member of a club or have friends who are, then you are probably sorted. But if that option is not available to you, there are plenty of public pools across the city that you can sign up for at minimal cost. If you are feeling flush, or are in the mood to treat yourself, you can always check into a five-star hotel for a stayaction, and spend all of it in the pool, taking the occasional break to have a cooling drink on the poolside loungers.

 

Ah, drink reminds me. This is the best season to indulge your sherbet habit. During my growing up years, summers meant long icy drinks of Rooh Afza or Khus, the beautiful rose and emerald tones of the sherbets cooling the eyes as well as the throat. Now that I am diabetic, I can no longer indulge in those ultra-sugary drinks. But I make up with cooling draughts of watermelon juice with loads of crushed ice and a sprinkling of kala namak to give it an edge. 

 

The one thing that makes summer bearable is its fruitful bounty. There is the mango, of course, that comes in hundreds of varieties – my own favourite is the hamam, which I usually eat standing over the sink because, what can I say, it’s a messy business. But if I had to choose between mangoes and litchis, there would be no contest at all; litchis would win hands down. There is something so luscious and sensuous about peeling a litchi and popping its quivering flesh in your mouth, and feeling its juices exploding on your tongue. No mango comes anywhere close. 

 

If the spring comes with its plethora of flowers to make life a riot of colours, summer depends on the trees to make an aesthetic statement. The first stirrings come with the flowering red of the tesu, which blooms around Holi, heralding the heat that is around the corner. Next, the gulmohur gets in on the act, its flaming crimson mirroring the fiery rays of the summer sun. And then, in a final climactic act, comes the highlight of my summer: the flowering laburnum, its yellow blossoms shimmering in the sunlight, and transforming the landscape where it stands. It is so stunning a sight that I long for it all year; even though I know that it will bring an unbearable heat with it.

 

The point is that every season brings some joys with it. Yes, even the summer, with its scorching temperatures and dry loo that saps us of all our energy. The trick is to look past the discomforts and delve for the pleasures – and then revel in them for as long as we can.

The long and winding road

This summer, rediscover the romance of the road trip

 

It was the lockdown that first made me appreciate the romance of road trips. When flights shut down, my husband and I fell back on taking little mini-breaks to destinations that were within easy driving distance of Delhi. So, we ventured forth to Agra, Alwar, Jaipur and sundry other destinations in Rajasthan. Once flights began operating, we went a little further, taking flights to Chandigarh and Dehradun and then driving up to various mountain resorts to escape from the heat of the plains.

 

But once the skies opened up, it was back to doing the Delhi-Mumbai, Delhi-Kolkata or even Delhi-Bangalore routes. So, it was a bit of a revelation when we set off again on a road trip last month, driving from our home in Delhi to attend the Jaipur Literary Festival. In the intervening time I had quite forgotten how amazing it is to travel by road rather than plane. But this trip brought it all back.

 

So, what is so wonderful about road trips? Well, here in no particular order of importance, are just some elements that make it an absolute pleasure.

 

·       Packing is a breeze when you are just piling things in the boot of your car. There is no worrying about staying within the luggage limits set by the airline. You can pack your liquids anywhere you like. Can’t decide between two pairs of shoes or two handbags? Bung them all in. You can make up your mind when you get dressed at your destination. What’s not to like?

 

·       The part I hate most about air travel is going through security. First you queue for half an hour in close proximity with people who think masks are chin guards. Then it’s time to take off your jacket; remove your shoes and belt; take your laptop out of the case; put your phones in the tray. And even after all that, your bag will still be put through the X-ray once again because you neglected to take out your house keys or your spectacles. Well, you don’t have to worry about any of that if you are heading out on the road in your car; and that alone makes it worth it.

 

·       Best of all is the flexibility that road trips allow. You can set out at any time you like. If you are a morning person you can get up at the crack of dawn and power through to your destination before traffic hits its peak. If you are a late riser, you can have nice leisurely breakfast and then set out with a packed lunch that you can eat on the road. Or alternatively, you can plan your journey such that you hit your favourite dhaba at a time when you’re feeling the most peckish. You can drive through in one concerted spurt if you so wish. Or you can take frequent breaks to stretch your legs, enjoy a particularly scenic spot, or use the facilities at a motel or restaurant along the way. 

 

·       If you are travelling with your spouse or family, this is probably the biggest chunk of uninterrupted time you will get together. Use it to have meaningful conversations that you have postponed because of lack of time. Or spend it playing silly games like I Spy with your children. Or put together a playlist for your trip and sing along as your favourite music powers you on. Or simply use this time to decompress from the stresses of your everyday life by gazing idly out of the window. This is your time to use as you see fit.

 

·       But more than anything else, a road trip spells ‘Adventure’. The possibilities are endless when you set out on the road. You can discover a brilliant new ‘Maggi stop’ as you wind your way up the hills. You can stop by a small stall on the roadside and stumble upon the best achar you have ever tasted. You can suddenly come upon a valley of flowers that looks like Monet painted it on a good day. You can find yourself in the midst of mustard fields that demand that you run through them a la Dilwale Dulhaniye Le Jayenge. When you are on the road, life is yours for the taking. Just seize the moment.

 

Heels or flats

Dressing down – rather than up – is the new power move

 

Remember the time – it wasn’t so long ago, really – when we were told by the arbiters of fashion that power dressing was never complete without vertiginous heels which would make us stand tall and proud as we navigated our work lives. Heels, we were assured, wouldn’t just improve our posture; they would embellish our status as power players as well, no matter which field we were competing in. They wouldn’t just add inches to our heights; they would burnish our images as polished professionals. 

 

Well, what do you know? They lied. 

 

Look around you. Wearing heels is no longer the power move that it used to be. If anything, it indicates that you are insecure enough to still play by the rules (no matter how outdated; or how uncomfortable). Wearing flats, on the other hand, is a signal that you are confident enough to negotiate the world on your own terms. That you stand tall on your own professional achievements rather than a pair of stilettoes. You are enough as you are.

 

This was brought home to me most strongly when I recently attended a conference organized by a news organization. As I sat quietly on a table tucked away at the back, indulging in my favourite sport of people watching, I made an interesting discovery. It was the women a few rungs down the food chain who were wearing the power suits and the frankly ridiculous heels, teetering from one networking opportunity to another. The women who were already power players in their own right were sitting comfortable in their flats and crumpled cotton outfits, holding court at their tables.

 

That’s when it struck me: the real power move is dressing down, rather than dressing up. It’s only when you are successful enough to not give a damn about what the world thinks of you can you afford to dress exactly as you please, comfortable flats et al.

 

It’s always been like this in the world of successful men. Think Steve Jobs in his uniform of high-waisted jeans and turtle-neck T-shirt. Think Marc Zuckerberg in his nerdy round-neck T-shirts. Think Boris Johnson in his crumpled suits and hair that never seems to have seen a comb in its unkempt life. 

 

But now, thank the Lord, it is finding its way into the world of women as well. It is the likes of Melania and Ivanka Trump who still deck themselves out in 6-inch heels while true power players like Kamala Harris rock a pair of sneakers as they hit the campaign trail. Lesser stars may abide by the asinine rule of the Cannes Film Festival and slip on the heels when they hit the red carpet. But it’s only a mega-star like Julia Roberts who can make a statement by kicking her heels off and walking barefoot on the tapis rouge.

 

Let’s look closer home. The most powerful woman in the east of India does not bother with heels. It’s flip-flops all the way for West Bengal chief minister, Mamata Banerjee, as the runs the state in her simple cotton saris and nondescript bun. 

 

In fact, dressing down is the new power move in politics. Finance minister Nirmala Sitharaman’s sari choices are always inspired when she attends Parliament but she doesn’t have time for hair dye, rocking her grey hair instead. Priyanka Gandhi doesn’t muck around with lipstick or eyeliner, choosing to go completely make-up free.  

 

Perhaps it’s time we took our cues from these women as we set style rules for ourselves. It is silly and regressive to squeeze our feet into instruments of torture of our own volition. You wouldn’t catch any man doing that. So, why do we strap on shoes that hobble us as we walk through the day, and leave our feet throbbing with pain when we finally take them off. 

 

We don’t need to play this game any longer. So, when it comes to heels, just say a flat no. Your feet will thank you for it (as will your back and knees).

 

eom

Remains of the day

Coming back to the city of my birth is always a trip down memory lane

 

The best trips down memory lane, as far as I am concerned, are the ones that involve travelling back to my birth city: Kolkata. Or, as it was called during my growing-up years, Calcutta. Or, more familiarly still, the single-syllable Cal. 

 

To me, Kolkata will forever be Cal, no matter what the official name of the city is. And it is the Cal of my memories I return to every time I make a trip to this most beloved of cities. This time, I was visiting after three years, and I was there for the best of reasons: to do a session on my new book, Madam Prime Minister, at the Kolkata Literary Meet. The venue of the festival was Victoria Memorial, and there couldn’t be a more effective trigger for my nostalgia. 

 

As I arrived to attend the first day and watch my husband promote his own book, I found myself transported back to my childhood the moment I laid eyes on that iconic dome. The sunny days I had spent in the museum’s cool confines as a schoolkid, being led around the exhibits by my mother who wanted to improve my mind. The treat after this torture was being allowed to feast on daal vadas and chutney and guzzle Thums Up livened up with copious quantities of masala. My teenage years were misspent on the lawns of this magnificent memorial, when a bunch of us would bunk college and wander aimlessly through the lawns, giggling helplessly every time we came across a courting couple making out in some shady corner (what can I say? We were young and foolish!). 

 

Just sitting in the shadow of Victoria Memorial, lit up in all its glory, was enough to bring all these memories rushing back. And suddenly, I was no longer a middle-aged woman here to promote my second novel. I was a teenager once again, with my entire life in front of me, and the taste of phuchkas in my mouth. 

 

I mean that quite literally as well as metaphorically, because no trip to Cal is complete without a phuchka stop. To me, this is the taste of Calcutta itself: the crisp puri filled with a savoury potato and channa mixture, topped with the green-tinged khatta pani (with none of the saunth nonsense that Delhi golgappas are tainted with). This is what my food dreams are made of; and they can only be fulfilled at the phuckha stops I remember from my growing-up years.

 

In my college days, my favourite phuchka stop was opposite Lighthouse Cinema. My other regular haunt used to be what we called Theatre Road (Shakespeare Sarani, to give it its proper name), which had some of the best chaat on offer. The best shingharas and jilepis (jalebi to you) were found at the mishti dokaan near my house, which sadly no longer exists. And on every trip back to Cal, I try to find a shop that can replicate that taste, and though some come close, none of them can compete with the memory in my head. 

 

It's not just food memories alone that need to be indulged, though. There are also the haunts of my childhood – no matter how altered they may be many decades later – that need to be revisited. A walk down Park Street is obligatory, with quick pit stops at the Oxford Bookstore and a detour down the lane to gaze on the frontage of Loreto House, where I spent so many happy years. I invariably take a drive down the Strand, to gaze on the Hooghly and the cantilevered glory of Howrah Bridge.

 

This time round, my schedule was too tight to fight in the mandatory visit to Botanical Gardens, where I used to frolic as a child among the sprawling expanse of the great Banyan Tree, now sadly barricaded and off limits to visitors. But, as I take a flight out of the city, I console myself with the thought that there is always a next time. 

 

Because when it comes to Cal, it’s always au revoir, never adieu.

 

Seeing red (not pink)

Here’s why International Women’s Day annoys me so much

 

Every year, when International Women’s Day begins to near, my inbox fills up with pink-hued spam, offering me everything from discounts at the neighbourhood spa to a special deal on mammograms at the local medical center. To say that I find this spam annoying would be the understatement of the century. But that is nothing compared to the annoyance I feel when Women’s Day greetings start flooding my Whatsapp and inundating my Twitter timeline.

 

I don’t intend to embarrass anyone in particular by singling out their greeting, because all of them are, frankly, just as irritating. The general theme is how women are such good wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, friends. How women selflessly put themselves out for the people in their life no matter what the cost. How a woman’s work is never done (and honestly, how do they do it?!) How the men in their lives cannot imagine how they would manage without them. And how women must be celebrated for these sacrificing, self-effacing qualities, which allow their men to pass through life without the slightest inconvenience.

 

By the end of the day, I am usually in a towering rage, having read hundreds of such saccharine messages. And with every new one that pops up on my phone, I wonder anew: why is it so impossible for people to see women as individuals, with fully-realized lives and ambitions of their own? Why must a woman still be seen through the prism of a man – to whom she is a daughter, a wife, a sister, a mother, or even a friend or colleague? Why must her achievements be listed in the context of how she makes other people’s lives better? 

 

Then, there is the endless romanticizing of the hard, unrelenting, thankless work that all women do every single day. Getting the kids ready for school, looking after ageing parents and in-laws, cooking dinner after a hard day at the office, keeping the home in order, women are expected to do it all. No matter how ‘enlightened’ the husband, it is the wife who ends up picking up the slack at home. None of this is fun, and none of it is particularly fulfilling. And yet, we are fed the myth that women – those caring creatures – find a deep and abiding pleasure in it all. 

 

I don’t know about you, but I think it is time that we put this particular lie to rest. 

 

So, how would I like to see International Women’s Day celebrated, you ask. 

 

Well, for starters, I would like companies, who invest so much on pink-hued advertising at this time of year, to put their money where their mouth is. Instead of releasing cutesy pictures of their women workforce, I would like them to ensure that every woman on their rolls is paid the same amount of money for the same kind of work as a man does. The gender pay gap in companies is anything from 25 to 30 per cent, which means that women end up making 75 rupees to every 100 rupees that their male counterparts make. As long as that disparity is not addressed, it is meaningless to post pictures of smiling young women lining up for a promotional ad. In fact, it is highly hypocritical, if not downright insulting. 

 

That is a long-term goal, of course, which calls for systemic change. And I am willing to wait a couple of years, even five, for that.

 

But more immediately, it should be possible to change the messaging around International Women’s Day. Instead of hailing women as devoted mothers, great wives, dedicated mothers, or obedient sisters and daughters, let's address women as individuals in their own right. Admire them for their resilience in making their way in a man’s world. Praise them for carving out careers for themselves and for their professional excellence. Celebrate them for living their best lives. And whatever you do, don’t reduce them to their relationships with the men in their life. 

 

It's not asking for a lot. And you have another year to work towards it.

 

The book's the thing

Here are a few titles to take you through to summer

 

There is something so thrilling about a bookshop, isn’t it? There are all those authors waiting to be discovered, all those titles ready to be devoured, and a hundred different worlds that you can lose yourself in. For me, the high point of any trip to a great city is a leisurely trawl through all the book stores it has to offer. And last fortnight, that city was Singapore and the bookstore, Kinokuniya, one of my all-time favourites.

 

The first thing I discovered on the shelves was the latest Elizabeth George, titled Something To Hide, which came out last month, but whose release I seemed to have missed. I snatched it up and eagerly read the synopsis of the plot, happy to discover that this was another Inspector Lynley mystery. This was the perfect read for the flight back to Delhi, I thought. 

 

There was only one problem. This was an absolute doorstopper of a book and lugging it on to a flight seemed a bit of a challenge. So, with utmost reluctance, I put the physical book back and later downloaded it on my Kindle – with due apologies to all good bookstores anywhere.

 

But, I consoled myself later, it was the book that was important, not the form in which I read it. And if it’s reading that matters to you as well, here are some suggestions from among the books I have enjoyed over the past few months. Read them in any format that works for you – satisfaction guaranteed.

 

Something To Hide by Elizabeth George

 

This is vintage Elizabeth George, a murder mystery that is about so much more than murder or mystery. The theme that George tackles this time is the harrowing subject of female genital mutilation (FGM) that is ostensibly outlawed but practiced on the quiet by some among the Nigerian and Somali community in London. The murder victim, a police officer, has been ‘cut’ as well as a child though this fact only surfaces after her death. And the investigation into her death reveals so much more than just the identity of her killer.

 

Silverview by John Le Carre

 

Published after its author’s death, this has been touted as the last ‘completed’ masterpiece from Le Carre’s pen. This has all his usual hallmarks: there is a Smiley-type character (complete with unfaithful wife) who has been tasked with ferreting out secrets from an old retired MI6 hand. And there is a young investment banker turned bookshop owner who finds himself caught between these two spymasters. This is a splendid read in the Le Carre tradition but the somewhat abrupt end makes me wonder if the manuscript was ever, in fact, ‘completed’.

 

Apples Never Fall by Liane Moriarty

 

When Joy Delaney, a 60-something mother of four, goes missing, suspicion alights on her husband, Stan. It doesn’t help that Stan looks as if he’s been in a fight, though he insists it was only with a hedge. But as her disappearance lengthens, the children start to questions his protestations of innocence, and old family fractures come to the fore. Domestic drama has always been Moriarty’s strength but this book also works as a study of the everyday violence that women face.

 

The Christie Affair by Nina de Gramont

 

It is the one mystery that Agatha Christie never solved. And that’s because she lived it. In December 1926, the mystery writer packed a small attache case and drove away from her home. Her car was later discovered in a ditch, leading to speculation that she may have killed herself, heartbroken because her husband, Archie, had announced that he wanted a divorce to marry his mistress. Christie was discovered living in a hotel a week later but she never spoke – or wrote – about this period in her life. So, this is the next best thing: a speculative take on what might have happened.

 

Both Of You by Adele Parks

 

Two women, who seem to have nothing in common, disappear in the same week. Both their husbands claim to be distraught, and insist that they know nothing of why their wives have gone missing. So, what went wrong? Did the women leave on their own? Were they taken by someone? When the investigation throws up a link between the two women, the story takes an unexpected turn with a twist you won’t see coming.