Larking about

Is all very well; but don’t cry foul on the owls among us

 

Among all the tedious people in the world, the most tedious are the ones who keep banging on and on about the benefits of waking up at the crack of dawn to get an early start to the day. You know the ones I mean, don’t you? They are the ones who regale you with stories about how they wake up at 4 am, meditate and do yoga for an hour, then head out for a walk, and come back and hydrate with some warm water infused with lemon and honey. They are the ones telling you how much they enjoy the quiet of early mornings when the rest of the household is asleep, and that that is the time they get most of their work done. They are the ones droning on about how breakfast meetings are the best. And so on.

 

While I am very happy for these ‘Morning People’, I wish they could get their heads around the fact that some of us are owls to their larks, and are very happy with this state of affairs. We like staying up late, while the rest of the world has gone to sleep, and do our best work at the witching hour. We enjoy lolling in bed (especially in winter), rolling out of it just in time to make it to work. And we like exercising in the evening; it helps us destress after a hard day at the office.

 

But the evangelicalism of the ‘Morning People’ is such that they can’t really leave well alone. Instead, they will try and guilt you into becoming more like them. They will produce studies that say that people who exercise in the morning live longer. To which the only counter is to quote statistics that have it that most heart attacks occur in the early morning; and that, as a measure of abundant caution, it’s best to stay in bed at this time and not put undue strain on the old ticker. 

 

To be honest, it’s only now, well into middle age, that I have summoned up the courage to tell ‘Morning People’ to jog on when they offer me their sage advice. In my younger, more foolish days, I did try to become one of them, forcing myself out of bed at an unearthly hour to go for a jog around the block. Not only did that not leave me feeling refreshed, it left me wrecked for the rest of the day. It’s only when I realized that these early starts were actively stopping me from functioning on full capacity, did I make my peace with being a night owl, who needs to wake up late to make the most of the day (and night).  

 

The truth of the matter is that all of us have our own circadian rhythms, which, research indicates, are connected to our genes. Some of us are programmed to sleep early and wake up early. Others find it hard to wake up early and have much more energy later in the day. Body clocks shift during our lifetime as well. For instance, teenagers benefit from sleeping in late because our body clocks shift during adolescence.

 

So, it’s all very well to lark about if you want to; just don’t cry foul on us owls.

The author as rock star

It only ever happens at the Jaipur Literary Festival

A literary festival is where authors come to feel like stars. But when they want to feel like rock stars, they come to the JLF. And if you have ever attended the Jaipur Literary Festival (JLF) you will know why. This is where you will find authors of every ilk (historians, scientists, economists) encompassing every genre (spy thrillers, literary novels, biographies, autobiographies) from all over the globe coming together in the Pink City to paint it (entirely metaphorically) red. 

Last year, I attended as an author-speaker to talk about my novel, Madam Prime Minister, and moderated a few sessions. This year, I was there with my Spectator hat on. And so, for the benefit of those of you who weren’t in attendance, here are some of my impressions. 

• When you are at the JLF, it is hard to feel pessimistic about the future of reading. The place is crawling with young people (some of them still in their school uniforms) who don’t just love books; they live and breathe them. They crowd the bookshop, looking for titles and authors they admire and for those that they have yet to discover. They line up with patient good humour to get their books signed at the end of every session. And they have intelligent conversations about books with everyone who is willing to engage. 

• Actually, truth be told, at the JLF, it is easy to feel optimistic about the future in general. This is a place where the right wing and the liberal wing can debate in a civilised manner; where there is space for every opinion across the political spectrum, so long as it is expressed with respect and decorum. And where disagreements are treated not as mortal threats but as an inevitable part of life, to be both embraced and examined. The JLF proves that civility can and does exist in political debate - even if it is missing in our TV studios. 

• There are all kinds of literary stars  in attendance at the JLF. And then, there is Shashi Tharoor. It would be no exaggeration to say that Shashi is the Shah Rukh Khan of the literary world. And nowhere is this more obvious than here, where Tharoor is surrounded by a ring of over-muscled bouncers wherever he goes, such is the hysteria of the selfie-seekers who hound him. His sessions are always standing room only. And woe betide the author who is unfortunate enough to have a session scheduled the same time as Tharoor. He or she will have to sit in a half-empty hall, while the audiences surges to listen to Shashi. (I should know; last year, I was one of these unfortunate authors!)

• Books are the main attraction here, for sure. But people-watching comes a close second. There is such a cross-section of humanity here that you can be entertained for hours just watching the crowds. There are the grey-haired worthies, who always sit in the front rows and clamour to ask questions at the end of every session. There are the young girls who have turned out in their Sunday best, teetering along on heels that were not made for walking on lawns. There are the journalists, scurrying after ‘celebrities’, trying to coax a ‘quote’ out of them for their papers and digital outlets. And then, there are the authors themselves, trying gamely to navigate the kind of attention they hardly ever get in the real world. It’s as good as watching a show. 

• And then, there are the parties: held in one impossibly glamorous Jaipur location after another every night, culminating in the Writers Ball, which ends the Festival. There is music; there is dance; and so much fun is had by all. And then, it’s time to pack away those glittering outfits, until it’s time to play at being rock stars again the following year. 

Spare Us...

Harry’s Magical Misery Tour shows no signs of ending

So, here we are again. Prince Harry is telling us all about his life, how awful it is to be born a royal, how everyone has been vile to him and his wife, how he had to run to California to save himself and his family. Only this time, it’s not on Oprah. Or on Netflix. This time, it is in a book, a memoir called Spare (because — sad background music here — he is the spare to Prince William’s heir). 

Well, I’ve just finished the book — which is a cracking good read; full marks to ghostwriter J R Moehringer, who has translated Harry’s stream of consciousness into a tight narrative — and here are some thoughts. 

• Harry and Irony are complete strangers to one another. Here he is discussing his exit plan with his father: “I really hope and trust that we will be able to have further conversations without this getting into the public domain and becoming a circus.” And then, Harry proceeds to detail private conversations with his grandmother, his father and his brother, without the slightest awareness of the fact that he is, in fact, the ringmaster of this particular circus. 

The same Harry, who is livid that the Daily Mail published the letter Meghan wrote to her estranged father, reveals the full texts of the messages exchanged between his wife and sister-in-law as they discussed the fact that Princess Charlotte’s bridesmaid dress needed reworking. Meghan sued the Mail for publishing her letter and won; presumably Harry is sanguine about releasing these texts because he knows the future Queen of the United Kingdom won’t sue him. 

• Harry is clearly a glutton for punishment. After telling us what utter hell life in the royal institution was, he then insists that he never wanted out completely. He wanted to spend part of the year abroad making money while making flying visits back home to fulfil his royal duties. He is incandescent with rage when he is told that he can be either in or out — there is no royal half-way house. Even now, after he has written an entire book about how his life was utter misery in the royal goldfish bowl, he says he would quite like to work for the Commonwealth (which his Netflix show described as Empire 2.0). Does he not realise that would mean working with the same courtiers he despises so much that he can’t even call them by their names (dubbing them the Bee, the Fly, and the Wasp instead)?

• In Harry’s mind, his grandmother is a prisoner of her senior staff, who all seem to have it in for Harry. The Queen’s dresser, Angela Kelly, gives him the runaround when it comes to Meghan’s tiara (for the wedding). Her private secretary, Edward Young, scuppers a private meeting between Harry and the Queen. When Harry calls up to ask why the meeting was cancelled, she says something came up that she wasn’t aware of. Harry writes: “Her voice was strange. Can I pop in tomorrow then, Granny? Um. Well. I’m busy all week. At least, she added, that was what the Bee told her … Is he in the room with you, Granny? No answer.” The Queen as Hostage: now we really have heard it all. 

• Harry genuinely seems to believe that the monarchy has some sort of mysterious control of the tabloid press. When his father says “You must understand, darling boy, the Institution can’t just tell the media what to do!” Harry is disbelieving. “I yelped with laughter,” he writes. “It was like Pa saying he couldn’t just tell his valet what to do.” So the media is like Charles’ personal servant, and follows his every command? Wonder why Charles didn’t just order them not to carry transcripts of his famous ‘Tampongate’ conversation with Camilla, in that case. 

• Harry is genuinely besotted with his wife.  He fell deeply in love with Meghan. He believed that his family would fall in love with her too. When they failed to do so, a normal person may have made his peace with it and moved on. Harry simply cannot. That is the essential tragedy that lies at the heart of this story. The royals can’t bring themselves to love Meghan like he does. And he can’t bring himself to forgive them for failing to do so. 

Love rules

Don’t be misled by the headlines: it’s love, not hate, that rules the world

Watching television news, reading the daily headlines or just scrolling through social media, it is easy to believe that hate is the emotion that colours our world now. There are talking heads screaming abuse through tiny windows on the TV screen. The headlines are all about hate crimes perpetrated across the length and breadth of the country. And social media is crawling with trolls whose default position is to spew abuse at and about everyone. 

So yes, it is easy to come to the conclusion that hate rules the world. 

But you only have to step into the real world to realise that you’ve got this all wrong. Hate may be what we encounter in the media but in the world we live in we are surrounded by love wherever we go.

 

Nowhere do you see this love manifested more plainly than when you visit a hospital. The waiting area is teeming with families, some old some young, but all tearful and sick with worry as they wait for news of a loved one. Grief, they say, is the price we pay for love. You only have to spend an hour in a hospital visiting lounge to know the truth of that. It is love that turns these folks grey with worry; it is love that puts a smile on their faces when they get good news; and it is love that makes them spend the night on an uncomfortable chair because they simply cannot bear to be apart from their loved one lying in the hospital bed a few doors away. 

Airports are the other place where I am often overwhelmed by the love on display. It’s the harried parents of a toddler who put aside their frustration to coo at their child, trying hard to keep him/her entertained as they struggle through the security queue. It’s the middle-aged man greeting his wheelchair-bound mother at arrivals, touching her feet before he enfolds her in an embrace so tight it feels as if he will never let go. It’s the large family group come to see off a newly-married couple, peering through the plate glass windows of the airport to wave one last time at their daughter as she heads off to make a life abroad, smiling through their tears so that she is not too sad about leaving everything familiar behind. 

Walking through a park you can’t help but be gratified by the many manifestations of love on display. There is the most obvious, of course. The young lovers who try and hide away in little nooks and corners — on a secluded bench here, behind a sprawling tree there — so that they cuddle each other in what passes for privacy in their lives. But then, there are the others. The groups of middle-aged women hanging out with their girlfriends, laughing and giggling their cares away. The grandparents who are slightly unsteady on their feet being led around by loving grandchildren who reduce their pace to flank them in a protective pincer movement. The school parties who have been brought out for a special treat and are giddy with delight as they walk around arm in arm with their best friends. 

Even doing something as mundane as shopping in a mall will showcase love in so many different ways. You will see it in the young man who diffidently enters a luxury store to buy his girlfriend a pair of designer sunglasses with the money he has probably saved over months. You will see it in the mom who has brought her teenage daughter bra-shopping for the first time ever. You will see it in the elderly couple who spend ages dithering over what to buy their kids, whose grown-up lives are now beyond their comprehension. 

The truth is that love is everywhere you look. It is love which rules our world. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  

The Harry and Meghan Show

It’s the royal soap opera; and none of us can turn away…

 

The key thing about understanding the dynamic between Harry and Meghan, still styled as the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, despite flouncing out of the royal family many years ago, is that they are coming at the fame game from opposite ends of the spectrum. Prince Harry, the second son of Princess Diana, has spent his entire adult life trying to lower his profile, dodging the media, and hiding from the paparazzi. Meghan Markle, C-list actress from a cable show (which is as far from Hollywood as you can get), on the other hand, has spent her entire life trying to raise her profile by getting the media interested in her. And by marrying Prince Harry, she has certainly got more than she bargained for. 

 

But as you watch Harry and Meghan, the Netflix show on the pair’s life, you realize that instead of Harry elevating Meghan to the A-list, she has succeeded in dragging him down to the C-list. Consider this for a moment. Can you imagine any other A-list couple – think the Obamas or the Clooneys, on whom the Markles clearly model themselves – agreeing to let TV cameras into their lives to this extent? Can you see them revealing the early text messages they exchanged, intimate photos of their dating days, pictures and videos of their children? Do you really think any A-lister would offer up their life for public delectation as Harry and Meghan have? I think not. The Duke and Duchess of Netflix, on the other hand, have no problem whatsoever in invading their own privacy in spades – all the while complaining about the media intrusion into their lives. 

 

As the series unravels you can tell that Meghan is in her element; she is finally playing the lead in a show, rather than a supporting part as she had done throughout her career. And it is the role of a lifetime – more so because it is her lifetime that is being examined, burnished and then presented to what she hopes is an adoring public. It is Harry who has been reduced to playing the supporting role, nodding along to her more outrageous claims, and looking angry and helpless in equal measure as she dissolves into tears. But whatever the truth of all their claims of ill-treatment by the royal family, one thing is without doubt: this is Meghan’s world; Harry just merely lives (and whines) in it.

 

That said, it is easy to feel sorry for the artist formally known as Prince. In some ways, he is still the 12-year-old trapped in the trauma of losing his mother in a tragic accident and then being made to walk behind her coffin in front of weeping crowds. So, it is entirely understandable that he constantly compares Meghan to his mother and insists that they are essentially the same person. You don’t need to be a psychiatrist to understand why he wants to turn his wife into his mother – this way, he can finally save her. (Certainly, Harry himself is Diana incarnate in this ‘docu-series’: hurt; seeking revenge; throwing grenades into the heart of the royal family; attacking his brother; accusing his father of untruths; and the royal family of racism, or what he kindly refers to as ‘unconscious bias’.)

 

Sadly, for Harry, there are some ways in which Meghan is exactly like his mother. No, not like the Sainted Diana of Fond Memory, who has now taken over the public imagination, but the media-savvy, manipulative, vindictive Diana who has been conveniently airbrushed from history after her death. This was the Diana who was not speaking to her mother, Francis Shand-Kydd, when she died, having frozen her out and returned her letters unopened (Thomas Markle, anyone?). This was the Diana who would leak stories to favoured news outlets and sneak in her favourite journalists into Kensington Palace by hiding them in the trunk of her car. 

 

It was not privacy that either Diana or Meghan aspired to. It was control of the narrative. And that is something that Meghan and her husband have certainly achieved in his six-part series. The Duke once compared life in the royal family to being ‘a cross between the Truman show and a zoo’. Well, he’s now gone and made his own Truman show, starring in it along with his entire family.

 

I hope the money was worth it.

Remember when...

This phrase crops up again and again in conversation as I enter my anecdotage

 

It is with a certain sense of incredulity that I have to report that I’ve reached the RW stage of my life, when the phrase ‘Remember When’ crops up so often in conversation that I have no option but to capitalize it. I guess this is only to be expected when you have lived so long that you have more yesterdays than tomorrows, and looking back into the past appeals more than gazing into the future.  

 

The epiphany first struck when I was at dinner with old friends on a recent trip to London. We were eating at a lovely restaurant where the food was amazing but instead of concentrating on that, we were merrily going down memory lane and discussing legendary meals that we had had in the past. Remember when we went to that amazing Japanese restaurant in Delhi…remember when we ate at that barbeque joint in Seoul…remember when we had that astonishing biryani…remember when…

 

Remember When. That’s the phrase that punctuates all my conversations these days. Visiting my sister involves a whole series of Remember Whens. We may start off discussing what we did last week but before we know it, we are deep into Remember When mode. Remember when we went on that picnic to Botanical Gardens and I split hot tea on my white trousers…remember when we took a road trip to Agra from Calcutta and were stuck on the highway for two days…remember when I cried myself silly because I had slept through the bidaai at her wedding and couldn’t believe no one had woken me up…remember when…

 

It's much the same story with my girlfriends as well – at least, with those who go back a few decades. The slightest thing will set us off as we sit down to lunch or dinner, and we will soon be neck deep in nostalgia. Remember when we took a trip to the mountains to celebrate the New Year as a new millennium dawned…remember when we danced all night long to celebrate a milestone birthday and I broke the heel of my brand-new stiletto…remember when we ended up having 38 cocktails between us as we tried to perfect our version of a margherita…remember when…

 

But never is this phrase more used than with my husband. At home, cooking dinner for ourselves, talk will inevitably turn to when we first experimented with chilli con carne in the kitchen, or made our first version of carbonara. A walk around Lodi Garden will become an occasion to remember when we shot author pictures for my first book cover here. A trip to Khan Market’s middle lane will remind us of many lovely winter evenings spent eating kebabs at a now-defunct shop. Even sitting on the couch at home, watching Netflix, has the potential to become a RW moment, when an old movie that we watched long ago pops up.

 

Similarly, travels around the world have become an endless series of RW moments. A visit to Bangkok will evoke many memories of our initial visits to the city when we lived in a hotel whose sprawling lawns have since been converted into a bustling mall. Walking in St James’ Park in London and gazing at the bulk of Buckingham Palace in the distance will remind us of the time we fell asleep on a park bench after a boozy lunch in our misspent youth. Strolling through the streets of Venice on a sunny day will bring us back to the first time we visited La Serenissima in the dead of winter. No matter where in the world we go, our conversation will be peppered with ‘Remember When’.

 

I guess I just have to accept that while I haven’t entered my dotage quite yet, I am now solidly in the middle of my anecdotage. And reminiscing about days past brings me as much pleasure as the original events did. After all, what better way to stave off old age than by reliving your youth every which way you can?

Turn the pages

The funny thing about books is that there is one for every mood, every season - and every locale

It has become a ritual of sorts. Before I set off on holiday, I gather all my book recommendations (from friends, newspapers and magazines, or even from social media), make a short list and then download around five or six books on my Kindle in the hope that they will see me through my vacation. 

This time I was heading to the Maldives and needed something that I define loosely as beach reading. In my case, that usually means a cracking murder mystery, with a plethora of suspects, a couple of twists that I don’t see coming, and a killer (sometimes literally) denouement. 

So it was that I settled down on my sun lounger and clicked on a book cover that read The First Day of Spring. It had been highly recommended by two of my favourite authors, Clare Mackintosh and Paula Hawkins, and I was all set to be hooked. A couple of chapters down, though, I began to get a queasy feeling. This was not the comforting murder mystery that I was looking for. This was a horrific story about an eight year old girl who kills a two year old baby boy. As the sun grew warmer on my back, the story in front of me got darker and darker. And even though I could tell this was a good book, it was a bad book to read on the beach. So, I clicked it shut (telling myself I would finish it back home in Delhi) and opened the tried and tested Anthony Horowitz. This one, A Twist Of The Knife, was a story about murder as well but in the Agatha Christie genre in which nothing particularly gruesome happens and the plot is resolved to everyone’s satisfaction after a few twists and turns. 

See, that’s the thing about books. There is one for every mood, for every season and every locale — and indeed for every holiday. 

The last time I visited Venice, for instance, I set myself the task of re-reading every Donna Leon I possessed before I set out. Her murder mysteries are set in Venice and I had the greatest time following her detective, Commissario Guido Brunetti, as he sets out from his home to go shopping in the Rialto, eats tramezzini in small cafes along the way, interrogates suspects in Castello and Dorso Duro and pays a visit to his aristocratic in-laws in their palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal. I pored over the maps of Venice included in the books until I could find my way in the city as easily as Brunetti himself. 

It all paid off once I arrived in Venice. I knew my way around like a local, knew which touristy areas to avoid and where I could find the best food and drink. And all because I took the time to read an author who lives and breathes Venice. 

I had similarly immersed myself in Peter Mayle’s Provence series of books (start with A Year In Provence and work your way up) before heading out there for a vacation. Even though his books are written from the perspective of a man who has moved into a new place and is trying to make himself at home there, there was enough in the books to give me a flavour of the region and to get me in the mood to sample some tapenade and pastis.

I often wonder which books I would recommend to people who were visiting India for the first time and wanted to get familiar with it before they arrived on shores. Well, here’s a short list, if it helps. Those visiting Mumbai can’t go wrong with Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City, which gives an accurate flavour of that megapolis. If you are trying Delhi for the first time then William Dalrymple’s City of Djinns is a good place to start. And if you are heading to Jaipur then get a sense of the history of the place with John Zubrzycki’s The House of Jaipur.

But wherever you are headed, remember to pack some books that are just right for that place. Trust me, it will make your holiday even better. 

Travels from my TV

Visiting locales made familiar by TV shows can be a thrilling experience

 

Rarely have I waited so impatiently for a TV series to drop than I did for the second season of White Lotus (Disney Hotstar). Not because I had loved the first season – though I did – but because season two was shot in a location in which I had celebrated my birthday barely a month ago. The Four Seasons San Domenico Palace in Taormina Sicily was where the action was this season and I could hardly wait to see those familiar sights on my TV screen.

 

And there they were: the mesmerizing view of Mount Etna, standing majestically in the distance; the formal gardens of the hotel laid out in symmetrical harmony; the dazzling blue of the infinity swimming pool which merged seamlessly into the shimmering waters of the Ionian Sea. There was a special thrill in seeing all the places that I had made mine not so long ago transformed into the set of a TV show.

 

It was also a strange feeling because until now, I had experienced this process only in reverse. This was the first time I was seeing a location I was familiar with brought to life on the screen. Until now, I had always got my first glimpse of beautiful locales on TV shows and movies and then gone on to see them in real life. 

 

My first experience of this phenomenon was in Udaipur nearly three decades ago when I visited the Lake Palace hotel for the first time – except for me, it was less a hotel than the set of the movie, Octopussy, where it had served as the lair of the eponymous Bond villain. There was a special thrill to wandering the terraces and courtyards and recognizing them from scenes in the movie, following in the footsteps of James Bond (or Roger Moore) himself. The high point of my visit was taking a turn in the lake in the Gangaur boat, though sadly, it didn’t come with the bevy of beauties featured in the movie.

 

More recently, I found myself retracing the movements of Game of Thrones characters on a trip to Spain. I hadn’t actively set out to visit GOT locales but as it turned out my destination, Seville, was bang in the middle of Thrones territory. Right beside my hotel was the Royal Alcazar, which had featured in the series. So, how could I possibly resist a visit to the fictional water gardens of Sunspear, the ancestral home of the Prince of Dorne? 

 

Once I had taken that bait, there was no stopping me. Next up was the Osuna bullring, which serves the fighting pit in Meereen. Then it was time for an excursion to the ruins of Italica just outside Seville, a giant amphitheater which was the location of the Dragonpit in the series. And my final stop was in neighbouring Cordoba, whose Roman bridge did duty as the Long Bridge of Volantis in the TV series.

 

My appetite thus whetted I was ready to visit some historical locations made famous in popular entertainment on a trip to London as well. Having failed to persuade my husband to accompany me, I set off on a solo trip to the Tower of London, the place where Anne Boleyn was famously beheaded on the green. Next on my list was Hampton Court, where Queen Elizabeth I – daughter of the unfortunate Anne – spent so much of her youth. 

 

It was the Netflix series, Versailles, that sent me on a tour of the real-life palace, to be dazzled by the hall of mirrors and captivated by the beauty of its formal gardens. And now that I am re-watching The Crown, in anticipation of the new season dropping, I am suddenly seized by the desire to travel to Balmoral Castle, which rumor has that King Charles will soon turn into a memorial to his mother. 

 

But until that happens, I plan to pencil in a visit to Westminster Abbey, the scene of both the coronation and the funeral of Queen Elizabeth II and where the new King will be crowned next summer. I can’t wait to shout ‘I was there’ as I watch the coronation on television!

Winter is coming

And I could not be more delighted…

 

Growing up in Calcutta, I was always overcome with excitement when the shiuli tree near my house started flowering. That was the first sign that Pujo was coming, and that four days of festivities were in my immediate future. These days I live in Delhi, and there is no shiuli tree to remind me of the arrival of Pujo. But all is not lost. There is an enormous Saptaparni (also known as Alstonia, or even Devil’s tree) tree overhanging my balcony, whose flowering heralds the beginning of winter in Delhi.

 

Last night, as I returned home late after dinner, I was stopped in my tracks by a heady scent that told me that, yes, winter was just around the corner. Notwithstanding the late hour, I stepped out on my balcony, and settled down on my wicker chair, just breathing in the sweet perfume of the flowers. For me, that is the scent of the Delhi winter, the season that I long for all year round. 

 

Yes, I know, Delhi winters are not what they used to be. There is the ever-present specter of pollution, as the farmers in neighbouring Punjab set fire to the stubble in their fields in what has become a depressing annual ritual. The Diwali crackers – set off by idiots who clearly have a death wish – only add to the horrific miasma hanging over the city. Combine this with vehicular pollution and the cold weather which makes all the pollutants sink to the bottom of the atmosphere, and you have a perfect poisonous cocktail that can take years off a person’s life.

 

I know all that. And God knows, I suffer with everyone else, perhaps even more so because of my chronic asthma that is triggered in this season. But, but, but…on the rare occasions when the skies finally clear and the haze fades to expose a clear blue sky, there is nothing quite so beautiful as a crisp winter day in Delhi. 

 

So, what’s the best way to make the most of days like these – especially given how rare they have become?

 

Well, for me it all begins with a winter special breakfast. Crisp aloo parathas, smeared liberally with homemade white butter, washed down with cups of milky tea, all served on the corner of the balcony that gets the morning sun. It’s hard to get any work done after that, because, food coma. But honestly, it’s well worth taking the morning off to indulge every once in a while.

 

Other winter staples make an appearance at lunch and dinner: aloo-methi subzi, sarson ka saag, makki ki roti, bathua raita, and so much more. This is the season to indulge your taste buds, and to pile on an extra layer of fat to deal with the cold winds of winter. 

 

Talking of layers, this is also the season to air all your winter staples that have been skulking in the back of your wardrobe all year. It’s time to wear those super-soft luxurious cashmere sweaters, drape those butter-smooth pashmina shawls, and pull them all together with tailored coats that give a polished edge to your look. 

 

Once you are all layered up, and have pulled on a pair of comfy boots, it’s time to head out to enjoy the great outdoors. It could just be a stroll through Khan Market, stopping for a cappuccino and a macaroon along the way. It could be a guided tour through such historical sites as Humayun’s Tomb or the Red Fort. Or it could simply be a walk in the park, enjoying the crisp breeze blowing your face, and feasting your eyes on the seasonal blooms that brighten up the greenery at this time of year.

 

Wherever you head and whatever you do, remember to make the most of perfect winter days. These days they are few and far between. Before you know it, the temperatures will begin to rise again, and the sizzling summer will be upon us. And it will be a long wait before the Saptaparni flowers again.

Taste of heaven

Every festival in the Indian calendar comes with its own food memories

 

After nearly a decade, I completely missed all the festivities around Navratri/Pujo, having flown off abroad to celebrate my birthday. But even though my European trip was amazing, I still experienced a pang as my social media lit up with posts about Pujo pandals and Ashtami celebrations. Even as the blue of the Ionian Sea merged into the cloudless azure of the sky to create a mesmerizing scene, I found myself longing to be back home, so that I could take part in the festivities revolving around the Goddess. 

 

Strangely enough, though, all my memories and associations with Durga Pujo and Navratri were centered on food. I remembered with a wistful pang the channa, puri and halwa combination that my mother used to cook on every Ashtami morning, as we celebrated Kanjak day. This entailed calling in all the young girls of the neighbourhood and treating them like incarnations of the Goddess, washing their feet, doing their aarti, and then feeding them copious quantities of prasad. Only after this ritual was over, were the rest of us allowed to feed on the feast tantalizingly out of reach until then.

 

The taste of that channa-puri and halwa will live in my memory forever. The kala channa, cooked with no garlic or onion, but only dry spices, had a nice tangy edge to it thanks to the addition of amchur. The puris were soft, fluffy and perfectly puffy. And the halwa was heady with the aromas of desi ghee and caramelized sugar. Each bite – of puri, channa and halwa combined – was just the right combination of sweet and savoury. Nothing in my life, I suspect, will ever taste so good.

 

Growing up in Calcutta, I was blessed to get a double dose of festivities during this time. During the Navratras, as the entire family fasted, my mother had developed a whole range of recipes involving kattu ka atta. She would make stuffed puris with it, use it as a batter to make pakoras of boiled potatoes, and so much more. We would gorge on these delights and then head out to the local Pujo pandals to get our fill of the bhog that was served up every evening. It was simple fare: gobindobhog khichuri, some chorchori, and if we were lucky, some begun bhaja, all of it followed with mishit doi. But I have never since had a gourmet meal that could quite duplicate those earthy but clean flavours. 

 

I guess it says something about my gluttony that other festivals also conjure up similar food memories. In my mind, Janamashtami is synonymous with the caramelized grated coconut cake that my mother used to spend days making, and which was ceremonially cut at midnight to celebrate the birth of Baby Krishna. The crunchy coconut shards, the sweet rush of sugar, leavened by the crushed nuts that decorated the top, all of it came together to give us a taste of heaven (surely, as the good Lord Krishna intended). Similarly, Holi was associated with gujiyas, the deep-fried stuffed puffs, going down a treat after the exertions of dousing the entire neighbourhood with gulaal. 

 

In the run-up to Diwali, our kitchen would be perfumed with the scent of mathis and shakarparas, which would be made in industrial quantities, to be distributed among friends and family. And on the day of Diwali itself, motichoor laddoos were on the menu, comprising tiny sugar bombs that would create an explosion of delight as you bit into them. The Punjabi harvest festival of Lohri, which signals the end of winter, came with till laddoos, gajaks, and my all-time favourite, peanut chikkis.

 

Christmas in Calcutta (as it was then) was never complete without a Nahoums cake, all the more precious because you often had to queue up for hours to get it. Eid was heralded by the mountains of biryani (and seviyaan) that our Muslim friends would send us. It is a testament to their goodness that they would take time out to make a vegetarian version out of respect for my parents’ dietary requirements.

 

Is it any wonder then that every festival, as far as I am concerned, is a veritable repository of food memories. And that I can never get enough of those tastes of festivity.

 

God Save The Queen

The story of the British royal family is a soap opera to beat all soap operas

 

I found out about Queen Elizabeth II ‘s passing when I landed in Sydney after a 12-hour non-stop flight from Delhi. Switching on my phone, I saw that The Queen was trending on Twitter and clicked on the hashtag with some trepidation. And saw, to my immense sadness, that she had died, two days after she had shaken hands with her outgoing Prime Minister, Boris Johnson and welcomed the new one, Liz Truss. Queen Elizabeth had promised many decades ago that her life, be it long or short, would be dedicated to the service of the nation. And, true to her word, she served her people and her kingdom till her very last breath.

 

What a woman! What a life! And what a funeral…

 

Even though I was attending an event in Sydney, I found myself sneaking away ever so often to watch the proceedings as the United Kingdom, over which she had reigned for 70 years, came together to say goodbye to her. In fact, so long and protracted were the proceedings that the last leg – the funeral service at Westminster Abbey and the committal service at Windsor Castle – took place after I had arrived back at my home in Delhi. 

 

As I watched that tiny, lead-lined coffin being lowered into the vault at St George’s Chapel, I found myself thinking about the remarkable arc of the Queen’s life. And then, on a sudden impulse, I found myself tuning into the first season of The Crown on Netflix, to watch the fictional depiction of how she first came to the throne.

 

That’s the thing about the British royal family, you see. Yes, they are real flesh and blood people with real lives that they live in the real world. But they are also the best soap opera that has ever been put on for the delectation of the watching world, a sort of royal The Bold And The Beautiful that takes in everything from adulterous spouses, tragic princesses, traumatic deaths, problem children, and every other daytime TV trope.

 

Watching the first ever episode of The Crown ever aired, I began to wonder how the show might depict the events of the past few years, and which elements of the royal story would get picked up for a fictional re-telling.

 

I mean, how could you resist the dramatic possibilities of Megxit? The beautiful biracial American divorcee sweeps the dashing but dim ginger Prince off his feet – and then sweeps him off to America, because it is impossible for them to ‘thrive’ in the royal fold. Cue, a heart-to-heart with the Queen of Hearts of the American people, with accusations of racism and cold neglect flying around, with the added frisson of figuring out which Duchess made the other Duchess cry. Admit it, it would be compelling viewing, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to resist. 

 

Then, there is the Pervy Prince Plot, starring Andrew, whose association with Jeffrey Epstein and Virginia Guiffre (who, it must be said, he denies knowing but paid many millions of pounds to) led to his exile from royal life. Imagine the dramatic possibilities of fleshing out the scene as Andrew goes cap in hand to the Queen to ask for a handout to pay off the woman he allegedly had underage sex with. (“And what do you need the money for, darling boy?”)

 

If this gets to be rather heavy going – not to mention, downright icky – you could introduce a comedic sub-plot, starring King Charles and his legion of leaky pens. Every time the new King is asked to sign a visitor’s book or a new piece of legislation, he would be handed a pen that would then explode in his hands, staining his stubby little fingers. The King would then, in turn, explode with rage and frustration. Enter: the only woman who can calm his righteous anger, his wife, Camilla, now miraculously transformed from Wicked Mistress to Stately Queen Consort. (Now that’s a backstory worth exploring!).

 

And I haven’t even got to the melodrama surrounding the Queen’s funeral yet. Would Harry be allowed to wear his military uniform? Would Meghan and Catherine exchange as much as a smile – or a word – in public? Would the warring brothers, William and Harry, reconcile at this sad time?

 

It’s a soap opera to beat all soap operas – especially since it is hard to tell fact apart from fiction.

 

Breaking bread

Dinner party etiquette can get tricky – especially in the post-Covid era

 

With Covid restrictions becoming a thing of the past (mask? What mask?), dinner party season is truly upon us. And after avoiding socializing in large groups for two years, I have begun accepting a few invitations that involve dining with a larger number of people than I am used to. 

 

With every such event, though, I come back feeling just a tiny bit discomfited. It’s not just that I suspect I may have contracted Covid (though that is a constant worry) but that I fear that I have lost the art of dinner-partying during the many months of Corona-imposed solitude.

 

Here are just some of the questions that keep popping up in my brain:

 

·       How does one decode the timings on invitation cards? It sounds simple but it is anything but. I have arrived on time for a 7.30 pm invitation to find that the host himself has yet to reach the venue. Having learnt my lesson, I arrived an hour later at the next party I was invited to, and was crushed to discover that I was the only one holding up the dinner seating. So, what’s the magic formula to decipher which party will begin on time and which will take hours to get going? If there is one, I have yet to crack it.

 

·       Is it still okay to plead pandemic-related paranoia and refuse to shake hands with people when you are introduced to them? I have to confess that I still do that on occasion though my husband frowns upon my ‘germophobia’ and thinks that I risk coming off as rude. So now I have hit upon a compromise. I carry a small bottle of hand sanitizer with me and use it liberally in between introductions. Some of my friends maintain that this borders on bad manners. They believe that I should, ideally, excuse myself and perform my hand-sanitising routine in the privacy of the bathroom. I am not quite sure where I land on that.

 

·       While on the subject of introductions, I have to confess that I find it tedious beyond belief to respond to ‘And what do you do?’ questions from a roomful of strangers. I am often tempted to respond with, “I am a private detective” if only to liven up proceedings a bit. But where does one go from there? Are you then obliged to keep up the fiction forever more? Or should you fess up to the truth before the party is over. I know which option I prefer. But you may, of course, beg to differ.

 

·       If the person seated next to you is completely uncommunicative, then is it your duty to keep the conversation going, even in the face of monosyllabic responses? In my younger days, I must admit, I treated these scenarios as a challenge and tried my best to draw my taciturn dinner companions out. Now, I simply can’t be bothered. Life is too short to struggle to make small talk with someone you likely will never see again in your life. In such circumstances, silence is golden.

 

·       At what stage does it become plain bad manners to inflict your dietary requirements on your hosts. Everyone, for instance, is well-equipped to deal with vegetarians. But you have to make that extra effort for those who profess to be vegan. And don’t even get me started on vegans who are also gluten-free. Frankly, if you are so fussy about what you put in your gob, then simply stay home and eat your nut cutlet in peace. Or if you must come to dinner, then just bring your dinner along in a dabba. Problem solved. 

 

·        Is it ever acceptable to leave a sit-down dinner before dessert has been served? The grounds may vary from a) I don’t have a sweet tooth b) it’s way past my bedtime or c) I have a long drive home. I only ask because I see this happening again and again, as the dinner table starts wearing a deserted (I really wasn’t going for the pun; but whatever) look once the main course has been cleared. In my book, this qualifies as rank bad manners, and an insult to both the host and fellow guests. But what do I know? I sanitize my hands after shaking them with people!

 

Keep on walking

It’s the best thing for your health – both physical and mental

 

It’s something that our parents and grandparents knew intuitively. That it is a good idea to go for a little stroll after we eat lunch or dinner. To their way of thinking, this was the best way of helping the body digest the food, and in the bargain, keep your weight down.

 

Well, guess what? They were completely right on that one. According to a recent study (as published in the New York Times) taking a walk within 60 to 90 minutes of eating helps in keeping your sugar levels down. What’s more, the walk could be as short as five minutes for you to benefit. Just the act of walking is enough for your body to better metabolize the sugar produced after a meal. And the lower your sugar levels, the healthier you will be. 

 

That’s the thing about walks. They are excellent for your health – both physical and mental. And they involve minimal effort and very little (if any) expense. So, as a daily exercise, you could hardly do better.

 

As regular readers of this column will know, I am a sucker for walks in scenic gardens. Given that we spend most of our days in a concrete jungle, there is something so uplifting about spending an hour or so in a green oasis, just taking in the splendour of the trees and the beauty of flowering bushes. In Delhi, my favourite spots are Lodi Gardens and Sunder Nursery, where I can momentarily forget about the bustling traffic outside and just revel in the music of birdsong. 

 

This is not just the time when I can relax and switch off entirely – though I do that too sometimes. For me, this is the best time to think. If I am struggling to come up with a new idea for this column, I head out for a walk. If I am stumped by a particular plot point in the new spy novel I am working on, I put on my sneakers and go walking.

 

There is something about the act of getting my feet moving that gets the wheels of my brain turning over as well. With every step, as I mull over ideas in my head, my brain comes closer and closer to absolute clarity. And things that I had been jostling with all day suddenly become crystal clear to me. No surprises then, that some of my most successful writing happens just after a walk. In fact, most of the twists and turns of my last novel, Madam Prime Minister, clicked into place when I was walking.

 

Of late, my walks are where I teach myself a new skill. Having tried very hard to get into audio books and failed – sadly, my attention kept wandering until I, quite literally, lost the plot – I am now attempting to teach my brain to concentrate by listening to podcasts which are not quite so demanding in terms of plot and characterization. My mind still wanders, distracted by a beautiful butterfly or a dancing peacock, but I think I am getting good enough to attempt another audio book one of these days. 

 

Walks are also the best time for talks. During the Covid lockdown, my husband and I developed a daily ritual. Every evening we would set out for a walk in the park, and then find a nice shady bench to sit down and have a chat about something as mundane as to what to get for dinner or something as serious as our fears about life after Covid. As a way to combat those lockdown blues, it wasn’t too bad.

 

Now that the parks are full once again, walks have become my time to indulge in another of my favourite activities: people watching. Those lovers snuggling behind a bush, fondly thinking they are invisible to all passersby. The young mothers running behind their children as they run off into the undergrowth. Extended families sitting around elaborate picnic hampers. Giggly girls all dressed in their best flirting shyly with the boys who accompany them. Grandparents walking slowly with a cane in one hand while a grandchild clasps the other. There’s nothing quite like a walk in the park to give you a glimpse of humanity, in all its many manifestations. 

 

And your sugar levels will thank you for it as well. So, what’s stopping you?