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.