New Year goals

Here's my wish list for 2024

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

So, here goes!

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

It's a Big Day!

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

So, on that note, Merry Christmas to all! 

Is life a beach?

Or is it a hill to climb?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's on the menu?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

more chivalrous age. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

stairs can feed and flourish. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

for her oblivious and ungrateful family. 

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

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

On airplane mode

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

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

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

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

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

Art vs reality

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

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

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

       As they don't say, the pen is mightier than the crown -- at least in the universe

       of the Crown.

Reduce, reuse, rewind

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

It's that time of year again...

There are some annual rituals that leave me with a feeling of despair

There are some annual rituals that I look forward to eagerly every year. And I am not just talking about birthdays and anniversaries though those are very special too in their own way. 

No, what I am referring to here are things that bring me joy and announce the arrival and departure of seasons — and eventually the year. There is the flowering of the tesu tree that is the harbinger of Holi; the blooming of the Amaltas that heralds the beginning of summer; and the blossoming of the fragrant Saptaparni as the nights turn cold. There is the arrival of mangoes in the market as the weather heats up and the profusion of oranges to show that winter is coming. 

These are just some of the annual rituals that I enjoy. But then, there are plenty of others that bring nothing but anxiety and angst - and a leavening of anger. Here are just some of them. 

• Winter pollution in Delhi: Without fail, as October bleeds into November, the air quality in the capital takes on an apocalyptic quality. A dense smog descends on Delhi and the air is so thick that it seems more suited to cutting through with a knife than breathing. The moment the AQI begins rising so do the complaints about farm fires in Punjab and Haryana. Those in power in these states blame vehicular and construction activity. The blame game continues until a shower or two improves air quality. And then, everyone moves on to the next news story — until next November when this cycle is repeated. It’s both mad and maddening that nobody finds any solutions in the interim — but that’s where we are.

• Diwali crackers: Every year the media, schools, colleges, and environmental institutions run endless campaigns in the run-up to Diwali, imploring people not to burst crackers to celebrate the festival because of (see above) air pollution. And every year, without fail, Diwali is marked by explosions all across the night sky because clearly we are incapable of putting out pulmonary health before “having a bit of fun, yaar!” In recent years, there has been a new addition to this ritual. Now objecting to crackers is seen as anti-Hindu (no, I don’t get it either) though I am pretty sure that Bhagwan Ram never set off an Anar in his life.

• Monsoon flooding in Mumbai: This is the annual ritual that brings with it another annual ritual — the celebration of the “Spirit of Mumbai”. TV screens are awash with scenes of flooded streets and then cut away to people — drenched to the skin — hanging out of local trains or walking in waist-deep water to get to work. I think we are meant to admire their dedication to work. But all I can think about as I watch is how messed up it is that we can never get our drains desilted and our infrastructure sorted before the rains come. Year after year we see the same visuals and nothing ever changes - no, not even my temper. 

First impressions

How to charm your way into a woman's good graces on a first date

Whenever you ask young women what are the top five qualities they are looking for in a man, a good sense of humour always makes the cut. But it now turns out that some, if not many, of these ladies are (gasp!) lying when they say that they are turned on by funny men. A recent study (conducted among speed-dating groups) has concluded that women are not more (or less) attracted to men who make them laugh on the first date. 

 

Now I can’t vouch for the accuracy of this study, so I did the next best thing. I conducted an entirely unscientific study of my own among the young females of my acquaintance, asking them how best a man could impress them on a first date. And here – for the benefit of my young male readers – is what they said.

 

·       Appearances are not everything but at least try to look as if you made an effort. Nobody is asking for manicure-pedicure levels of personal grooming but taking a shower and washing your hair before you set out for a date is always a good idea. (And no, asphyxiating your date with copious quantities of some strong musky fragrance will not get you brownie points.) It helps if your shoes are polished, your shirt is ironed and your jeans are not. 

·        Pay attention to your date. That doesn’t just mean listening to her stories and nodding along at the right moments, or even asking the right questions. Be receptive to non-verbal cues as well. If she shows discomfort when the conversation veers towards a particular topic, for instance, be sensitive enough to steer it in a different situation.

·       Too much information is as off-putting as too little. Nobody needs to know about your exciting sex life as a teenager the first time they meet you (or perhaps ever?). Nor do they have much interest in your power struggles at work with your boss or in interminable stories about your sibling rivalry with your sister.

·       There is a fine balance between trying to get to know your date better and asking invasive questions about her personal life. There will be plenty of time and opportunities later – if all goes well – to ask her when she lost her virginity, or why she broke up with her last boyfriend, or…well, you get the drift. At your first meeting, just ask her about her work, her interests, how she spends her free time. 

·       Don’t diss your ex-wife, ex-partner, or ex-girlfriend. You might think this will endear you to her potential successor, but trust me, it will not. All she will be thinking is that this is how you would be speaking about her if you were to get together and then split up later. Bitter, resentful and hateful is never a good look. 

·       And yes – with due apologies to the study I quoted earlier – do bring your sense of humour along. That doesn’t mean that you need to memorize some good jokes that you can drop into the conversation at regular intervals (that can get really annoying really fast!). All you need to do is laugh at the absurdities of life with your date – and perhaps you will be laughing all the way to the second date if not right up the aisle!

 

The spirit of Pujo

It's alive and well; and prospering outside the confines of Calcutta as well

Growing up in Calcutta meant that Pujo was a very special time — even for a true-blue Punjabi family like mine. Yes, my mother sowed a pot with khetri (wheat germ) and we had special pujas every evening in the Navratras and performed Kanjak puja on Ashtami like all devout Punjabis. But we also celebrated the Bengali-style Pujo with equal fervour. As a child I particularly enjoyed getting four sets of new clothes to go pandal-hopping on Shashti, Saptami, Ashtami and Nabami, eating the bhog at different pujos to get a true measure of the culinary delights on offer. 

And then, fate decreed that I had to leave Calcutta and come live and work in Delhi. For many years after I moved, I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate Pujo the same way as I did in Cal. Yes, I knew that there was a sizeable Bengali community in Delhi which celebrated the festival with zest and fervour. But somehow I couldn’t see myself joining the festivities I always associated with Kolkata in a small corner of Delhi that is always Bengal (Chittaranjan Park, of course). So I would content myself with ruminating on Pujas past and promising myself that next year — for sure! — I would go back to Cal for the festival. 

It took me several years to come to the realisation that that was not going to happen. So I did the next best thing. I began attending the Pujos in my immediate neighbourhood in Delhi. These were smaller, more intimate affairs, with many familiar faces, and a genuine sense of community. And I felt that familiar Pujo spirit return to refresh my mind and soul. I soon grew emboldened enough to venture further and attend the larger, more famous Pujos in the capital. And before I knew it, this became an annual ritual. 

This year was different, though. The day the festivities began I was due to travel to Jaipur to attend an event — and who in Rajasthan would be celebrating the Pujos? 

Well, it turned out that a lot of people would be doing just that! As I discovered, there are many as 15 Pujo pandals in Jaipur (reminding me of that old joke: What do you get when three Bengalis get together? Two Pujo Committees!) even though the Bengali community in the city is far from large. 

So it was that on Mahasaptami I managed to recreate my Calcutta memories. I put on a new outfit and headed out with my husband to visit Jaipur’s oldest Durga Pujo pandal in Bani Park. And strangely enough, it was this Pujo that most closely mirrored the Pujos I remembered from my childhood. The pandal was small and compact, the Durga idol was beautiful and serene but not overstylised, the bhog was a simple khichri and tarkari, and the place was overrun by the same kind of Bengali aunties and uncles who used to spoil me when I was a kid. 

Perhaps that explains why, as I stood there, saying a silent prayer to the Goddess, I felt myself retreat to a child-like state of wonder. Or maybe it was just the Devi blessing me with a few moments of grace. 

I would like to think that it was a little bit of both. 

Add to cart?

I'd rather not! Give me a brick and mortar store over online shopping any time

 

So, I finally bit the bullet. After resisting for years on end, I succumbed to the lure of buying clothes online – but only because the website of one of my go-to stores had much better merchandise available than that on offer at its physical stores. So, I clamped down on my doubts and went click, click, click, and then waited with bated breath for delivery.

 

And how did it go, you ask? 

 

Well, it wasn’t entirely an unmixed blessing. I tried on all the dresses that I had ordered, but even though they were ostensibly the same size, they all fitted differently. Some were perfect for my size, some were loose, and some others were tight – go figure! Some looked exactly as advertised on the site; others were nothing like the images that I had clicked on. Some of the fabrics were soft and smooth while some others were rough and harsh.

 

Let’s just say I had a 50 per cent success rate, with just half the outfits being keepers. The others had to be returned, but no matter how hard I tried to do so online, I could not crack the system. Eventually, I conceded defeat and carried the rejects to the brick-and-mortar store to return them and ask for store credit.

 

So, given that my first attempt wasn’t quite a hundred per cent success, would I do it again? To tell you the truth, I am conflicted on this one. I cannot lie, there is something truly addictive about being able to buy something by just clicking on an icon on your phone. There is a dopamine rush that comes from that sense of having an entire world of possibilities literally at your fingertips.

 

And yet, the process lacks the element of instant gratification. After paying your dues, you have to wait for a couple of days for your merchandise to arrive. And this is quite unlike the thrill of paying for something in a shop and walking right out with it.

 

Then, there is the whole thing about touch and feel. Shopping for clothes is essentially a tactile act. You run your hands over the contents of shelves, you riffle through racks, you rub a fabric between your fingers, you slip on a dress in the changing room to see how it falls – and feels – on your body.

 

You can’t do any of this when you are shopping for clothes online. Instead, you have to rely on images in which the outfits are shown on willowy bodies that bear no resemblance to your own. You have to imagine how they will work on your less than perfect frame – and then hope to God that you got it right.

 

Perhaps that was why I reverted back to type on my last trip abroad. I went to the physical store of the same brand I had ordered online from in India. And then, I went totally old school. I picked up a collection of clothes, tried them on, rejected some, kept some, and then kept repeating the process till I had all I was looking for.

 

And you know what? It felt great! So, I guess you have my answer. Online shopping for clothes? Yes, at a crunch. But proper shops are where it’s at, as far as I am concerned.

 

Heel, girls!

Why do TV shows feature women in impossibly high heels when flats are all the rage in real life?

As I binged on the first three episodes of the new season of The Morning Show, I was struck by one thing. Every woman on the show was depicted in sky-high stilettos. Now I can understand on-air anchors (Jennifer Aniston and Reese Witherspoon) being portrayed wearing vertiginous heels but I have been around in enough TV studios to know that production staff — who are on their feet all day — tend to wear flats, or even sneakers, to get through their day. So, this struck a rather jarring note, to say the least, in a show that purported to show the real world of morning television. 

And after that, I could not stop noticing the incongruous use of stilettos in other shows as well. The new season of The Split — a British legal show set in a firm of family lawyers — had Nicola Walker wearing 5 inch heels as she teetered around her office, attended depositions, went to court, and then to dinner with her family. No woman could survive a day like that in those heels in real life. In fact, if you took a walk around the Inns of Court in London, you would be hard pressed to find a single female lawyer in heels like these. They know better than to wreck their knees and backs by balancing precariously on heels all day. 

Nearer home, there were the ladies of Four More Shots Please. Dressed in the height of fashion, they vamped it up for their poster wearing — yes, you’re right! — slinky stilettos. And yet, if you were to look at the demographic they represent, you will find that in real life they are more likely to be rocking Converse sneakers, ballet flats or even funky wedges. Stilettos are seen as being as stale as last week’s bread by this generation. 

In fact, one of the reasons why the new reboot of Sex and The City, called And Just Like That, was considered out of tune with the times was because Sarah Jessica Parker and her co-stars seemed to live in their stilettos as they traipsed through the streets of New York City. How very 1990s, they critics scoffed, surely the ladies should have embraced the Zeitgeist’s new-found love for flats by now? The fact that they were stuck in the fashion mores of the decade in which they came of age, aged them much more than the wrinkles they had Botoxed away. 

The truth of the matter is that stilettos have had their day. A small minority of women may still favour them — think Melania and Ivanka Trump — but for the most part, women have tired of their charms. These days Hollywood stars take pride in wearing comfortable footwear on the red carpet. Julia Roberts even famously went barefoot on the tapis rouge at the Cannes Film Festival, on protest at some women being denied entry in flats the previous year. 

It’s safe to say that Cannes won’t be repeating that mistake any time soon. And nor will female stars feel obliged to slip on a pair of stilettos to meet some unspoken standard of grooming. So why TV shows feel obliged to keep up the pretence of stilettos being integral to female glamour is, frankly, beyond me. 

It's a party; it's my birthday!

Celebrate your special day no matter how old you get; it's a chance to share new experiences with those you love

 

You would think that, being embedded deep in the bowels of middle age, I would have lost interest in celebrating my birthday (what with it bringing intimations of my mortality ever closer every year). And you would be quite wrong to do so.

 

The truth is that no matter how old I get – and I really don’t want to dwell on that! – I still get ridiculously excited when my birthday starts looming on the horizon. Months in advance I start pestering my husband to make special plans. I usually have a destination in mind (suitably exotic; preferably Italian) but the rest is up to him. The brief is: Surprise Me! (To his credit, he always does.) And no sooner have I boarded the plane back home than I begin thinking of how I could possibly top this the following year. 

 

I know, I know, at my age I should know better. Each birthday is now actually a marker that brings me closer to the end of my days. But honestly, in all the excitement of exploring Angkor Wat or climbing up Mount Etna or exploring the beaches of Barcelona, I quite forget to count my years. All I know is that I feel ridiculously alive on this day of all others – and what could be more worthy of celebration than that?

 

Partly, of course, this is a reaction to my childhood. I grew up in a spartan household in which birthdays weren’t really treated as particularly special. As a child I don’t remember ever having a birthday party or even cutting a cake. Instead, I would be hauled out of bed and sent off to bathe first thing in the morning so that I could celebrate my birthday in the only way my parents and grandparents approved of. And that consisted of sitting down in the puja room with a thali full of grains, pulses, fruits, vegetables, mithai and a little cash, saying a little prayer and then sending off the goodies to the nearby temple.

 

In school, too, there was a very austere atmosphere in place thanks to the nuns who ran things. So, all you were allowed to do on your birthday was to get a bag of sweets which you could then distribute to the rest of your class just before recess (just two sweets, mind you, any more would have been regarded as most sinful!). Maybe the other kids in my class went home to birthday cakes and balloons but, alas, I was never invited to be part of proceedings.

 

Which is, perhaps, why I am always astonished by the lengths parents of today go to celebrate their kids’ birthdays. They hire party venues, get the clowns in, maybe even a DJ, there are endless snacks and the return gifts are more amazing than anything I ever scored at my own birthday as a child.

 

Not that it’s gifts that interest me on this day. Thankfully, I am past that stage when I would salivate over a particular handbag and drop copious hints that it would make a great present. Now, it’s new and amazing experiences that I crave for, and the gift of being able to share them with the man I love.

 

And, of course, it helps if we do this in a scenic corner of the world. It is my birthday, after all!

Find your own tribe

The families we choose are often proof that blood is not thicker...

 

How do you define a family? Is it just people linked by DNA and marriage? Is it restricted to mom/dad, kids, and maybe two sets of grandparents? Does it encompass the extended clan, no matter how far removed? Can it ever include those who are not related to you by blood but by laughter and tears instead?

 

The older I grow the more I realise that there is no one way to make a family of your own. Yes, the first ties that bind are those that connect us to our parents, grandparents and siblings. As we reach adulthood and make our own families, it is that pattern that we seek to replicate, creating little nuclear structures of our own, peopled by our own flesh and blood. And while that is a perfectly viable way to create a family, it is by no means the only one.

 

My childhood was marked by the fact that I never quite understood where my family ended and the rest of the world began. Those were the days when neighbours would drop in unannounced at each other’s houses; when you ended up eating lunch or dinner in whichever home you found yourself in at the time; and if you fell down and hurt yourself it didn’t matter whose mom picked you up and dusted you off. This was communal living at a time when I did not even understand what the word meant. But it showed me that family bonds can be forged with people who have no familial relationship with you. 

 

Those early experiences have inevitably coloured the rest of my life. When I moved to Delhi three decades ago, I was warned that this was a city which didn’t do family feeling. And I believed that for a bit and kept myself to myself. But then, fed up of being constricted in this manner, I dropped in at my landlord’s place to give his mom some halwa and puri on Kanjak day. That was all it took for the dam to burst open. After that, he simply could not do enough for me. If he was going to pay his electricity bill, he would offer to pay mine at the same time. If the fuse went out he would send someone to fix it. And before I knew it, I had a family of sorts I could rely on. 

 

The same was true of work colleagues. We started off as acquaintances, then graduated to friendship as we bonded over looming deadlines and missing copy. And then, one day down the line, we realized that we had become family to one another in a process so imperceptible that we didn’t even clock when the change happened.

 

So, my advice to all of you this Sunday morning is this: don’t be afraid to go out and seek out a family of your own. Introduce your toddler to the granny who lives in the ground floor flat two doors down. You will be surprised by how soon the two of them become fast friends; and how quickly you are subsumed into that relationship.

 

And if your child can help you expand your family circle at his or her tender age, then what excuse do you have for staying within your own silo?

 

Yes, that’s right. None!