Turning the tables

When the first world seems like the third - and vice versa

 I still remember the exact moment the thought occurred to me. I had just landed in Dubai, gone through immigration in a jiffy, walked to the baggage belt to see my bags already serenely coasting along on the conveyer belt, walked outside to get a car to take me to my hotel — and that’s when I had opened my phone to scroll through Twitter. And there it was: an endless stream of tweets about how people who had landed in Heathrow the same time that my plane had touched down in Dubai, were going to be stuck in the airport for hours on end because the e-gates had failed. 

That’s when the thought popped into my head. The tables have truly turned, I marvelled. The First World has turned into the Third World — and vice versa. 

The signs had been there for a long time. The first time I planned a trip to London post-pandemic, I was inundated with slightly intimidating advice by friends who lived in the city. One told me how her son had been held at knifepoint and divested of his laptop, watch and wallet in the heart of Belgravia. Another recounted how her husband had had his phone snatched out of his hand by a gang on Bond Street. 

The stories were endless but the advice was always the same. Please leave all your valuables behind in India. Do not wear any jewellery — not even the fake kind (because, honestly, who can tell the difference?). Don’t flaunt an expensive watch. Do not carry a designer bag. Dress down as much as possible. And if, despite all these precautions, you are still the victim of a mugging, for God’s sake, don’t fight back. Just hand over your valuables and be grateful you have been spared your life. 

Honestly, it sounded like the kind of advice that we were given when we were headed to the lawless streets of Lagos or the souks of Egypt. But here we were, in a situation when going to London was being treated like a trip into a zone of anarchy. 

So, frightened out of my wits, I complied with all the advice. I left every expensive item I owned back at home, carried a crossbody bag that I wore underneath my jacket and kept my mobile firmly in my pocket. I came back home unscathed but a friend wasn’t quite so lucky. Sitting outside a popular pub, enjoying a pint, she felt a tug at her side and turned around to see her bag disappear, stolen by two men whizzing past on a mobike. 

Contrast this to my trip to Dubai. Everywhere I went, I found people dressed to the nines, wearing flashy jewellery, expensive watches, designer handbags, without a care in the world. There were groups of women out and about till late into the night, partying without worrying about how they would get home, secure in the knowledge that they were in a safe city. 

I enjoyed every moment of it. But back in my mind was the thought that I should make the most of it while I could. My next trip is to Naples and I am sure I am going to be peppered with the same kind of advice I got when I was headed to London. 

Truly, the First World has turned into the Third World. And vice versa. 

Smell the roses

 The lessons that gardening teaches you 

The first time I became invested in plants was when I moved into my first home in Delhi. It was a tiny barsati in Defence Colony but it had a huge terrace which was crying out to be filled with beautiful blooms. So, during my first Delhi winter, I planted every colourful annual I could find in the local nursery and waited for them to bloom in spring. And bloom they certainly did, turning my terrace into a riot of colour that gave me much joy as I sat there every morning sipping my first cup of coffee. 

 

Since then, no matter where I moved, and however small my balcony or patch of green, I became obsessed with plants: potting them in colourful containers, making sure they had enough sun/shade, feeding them with fertilizer, and rotating them with the seasons. I have never ever had a garden of my own, but even small-scale gardening of the kind I do in my current Delhi apartment has taught me some important life lessons. 

 

First off, it has taught me patience. You can plant a seed and water it religiously, but it will only grow in its own time, it will bloom when it is ready, and it will wilt when its time is up. You can do your best by your plants, but you must work on their time scale not on yours. Nurture is all very well, but Nature is the master – and don’t you ever forget it.

 

Having a garden – or some plants on a balcony – makes you realize that beauty is transient. Nothing lasts forever. Flowers will bloom for a while and then die. Leaves will fall off your frangipani every year, leaving you bereft. But then, new leaves will sprout and your tree will grow fractionally taller and wider, and begin to bloom once again. There is nothing quite like plants to teach you about the cycle of life and how everything that lives in the present moment will perish sooner or later. But something as – or more – beautiful will take its place. And your mourning will soon give way to joy.

 

Plants also teach you about seasonality, a concept that we have forgotten in a world in which every vegetable and fruit is available around the year. But plant some strawberries in your pots and you can be sure that they will only give fruit during October-November or April-May. My shiuli bush (called Parijat in the north) always blooms around the time of Durga Puja, reminding me of my Calcutta days when its arrival heralded the return of the Devi to her ancestral home. 

 

They say that the ultimate unselfish act is to plant a tree under whose shade you can never hope to sit. Unfortunately, that privilege has never been granted to me, but I have nothing but admiration for those people of my age and older who plant little saplings in their garden, knowing that they will only bear fruits when their grandchildren are grown and they are gone forever from this world.

That is, in my mind, the best kind of legacy to leave behind: a plant that will survive for generations, a living reminder that you once existed and had love in your heart, not just for your family but for all of creation.

 

Insta vacations

 Going on holiday now means creating content for your social media feeds

We are quickly approaching that time of year when my Instagram feed gets overwhelmed by posts and stories about other people’s holidays. There they are on the beach, sunning themselves while sipping on a cocktail. There they are in the mountains, enjoying a cup of hot chocolate by a roaring fire. There they are trekking up a hill; skiing down a slope; taking cooking lessons; trying their hands at fishing, abseiling, skydiving, and more. The images come thick and fast and by the time I have scrolled through them all, I can’t help but feel a bit exhausted by this sensory overload.

 

Of course, I am guilty of the same sort of stuff when I head off on vacation. Rare is the breakfast that doesn’t get photographed; no sunset ever goes unrecorded; and I tend to overdo the selfies with my husband whenever we find ourselves in a beautiful location. But last week as I began to pack as we headed out on a trip, I couldn’t help but marvel at how Instagram has changed how we holiday (and by we, I mean all of us).

 

There was a time when we were bombarded with advice on how we should travel light. Pack a pair of jeans, some T-shirts, a dress for the evening, one pair of sandals, and some scarves to tart everything up and you’re good to go. That advice seems almost laughable now that Insta demands that we wear a different fabulous outfit every day (and night) so that we can chronicle our fashion choices. And it’s not just clothes. You also must have the perfect accessories: funky shoes and belts; statement necklaces; quirky hats; stylish sunglasses (and yes, you must have more than one of each!) so that you can show off the variety of looks that you can pull off.

 

Then, there is the choice of destination, which is increasingly dictated by where other people are vacationing on Instagram. During the pandemic, Maldives became a popular destination because every ‘travel influencer’ (read Bollywood starlet) was posing in a bikini frolicking in an infinity pool or lounging on a sandbank on one of its many islands. Since then, Croatia has become a popular draw, as have such smaller Italian cities as Siena and Bergamo. And once you are there at these Insta-friendly destinations, it has become de rigueur to pose at certain popular locations so that you can recreate the pictures that your mates posted a few weeks earlier. 

 

There was a time when heading out on vacation meant creating memories that would last you a lifetime. Now, going on holiday means creating photo-opportunities that will live on in your social media forever (and garner the maximum number of likes). The days when your holiday pix were just inflicted on immediate family and close friends are over. Now you can broadcast them to the whole world, looking for validation from strangers on the Internet. 

 

Is that necessarily A Bad Thing, I hear you say. Well, if you ask me, this Insta-obsession is fast taking the spontaneity and fun out of our holidays and making them yet another chore as we try and increase our social media clout rather than focus on just having a good time. And I, for one, am going to try and wean myself off.

Summer reading

 What to read over your summer break

 

It’s that time of year again. The heat is on, the holidays are looming, and it’s time to decide what you want to read as you laze on a beach, by the poolside, or up on a mountain. Here are just some suggestions to get you started. 

 

Big Swiss by Jen Beagin

 

What if you meet a stranger in a dog park one day and realize that you know her deepest, darkest secrets? That’s what happens to ‘Greta’ when she bumps into the woman she has christened ‘Big Swiss’ in her mind. Greta, an audio transcriptionist for a sex therapist, introduces herself to Big Swiss and a complicated – and not entirely honest – relationship between the two women develops which will change both their lives

 

Strange Sally Diamond by Liz Nugent

 

Sally Diamond can’t figure out what she did wrong. Her father had told her that when he died she should put him out with the bins. So, that’s what Sally did, incinerating his dead body along with the household waste. So, why is everyone so angry with her, and why have the police been involved. This dark, twisted, and yes, strange story will keep you up all night as it delves into Sally’s past, where nothing is as it seems.

 

Dirty Laundry by Disha Bose

 

Mom murders, suspense in suburbia, domestic drama; they may seem like tired old tropes. But in the hands of Disha Bose, they come alive in her debut novel set in Ireland. Ciara Dunphy is the momfluencer with a picture-perfect curated life, who seems to have it all: a loving husband, amazing children and a beautiful home. But it all comes crashing down when she is found murdered in her home. As Mishti Guha, Ciara’s best friend, and her fellow mom, Lauren Doyle, get dragged into the mystery surrounding her death, the only way to clear their names is to air, you guessed it, the dirty laundry.

 

Romantic Comedy by Curtis Sittenfeld

 

Sally Milz is a sketch writer for a weekly live comedy show (think Saturday Night Live), in her late 30s, divorced, and disillusioned with love. When her colleague, Danny Horst, starts dating a famous and hot actress who is way out of his league, she writes a sketch about how this would never happen with an average looking woman and a hot, famous male star. But then, that week’s show host, Noah Brewster – an ageing pop icon – arrives on set, sparks fly and Sally begins to wonder if she is finally starring in her own romantic comedy.

 

Close to Death by Anthony Horowitz

 

This is the fifth book in the Hawthorne-Horowitz series and unlike the others often lapses into third-person narrative. But that doesn’t impede the flow of the story which begins, as always, with a murder. This victim this time is an unlikeable character called Giles Kenworthy, who ends up dead with a crossbow bolt in his neck. Every single neighbour in Riverview Close – where he recently moved – has a motive to want him dead. And it is up to Horowitz to convince Hawthorne to share the name of the killer with him.

 

New beginnings

There is a sense of loss when you move home; but there is also a feeling of renewal

 It is often said that moving house is as traumatic as a death in the family. And while I certainly wouldn’t go so far as to put these two things on par, there are certainly some similarities. There is a sense of finality, of things ending, when both these events occur. There is sorrow, a sense of loss, a feeling of dislocation; it’s almost as if you lose your bearings in the world.

 

But as surely as day follows night, you find your bearings in your new surroundings. There is the sense of a new beginning as you lay down to sleep in your new bedroom and wake up to make breakfast in your new kitchen. And before you know it, this house that seemed so alien when you first moved in, becomes – by some mysterious process of alchemy – a space you call home.

 

There is, however, an added torment to this process when you are downsizing. It could be that the family home is now too big for the two of you now that the kids have moved out. It could be that you are no longer physically up to the task of looking after a large bungalow and garden. But whatever the reason for moving to a smaller space, the problems this creates remain the same. 

 

So, how does one cope? Well, it’s not easy but with a little bit of ingenuity it can be done. Here are some tips, based on my own experiences and that of family and friends. 

 

·       Don’t try to recreate the new home as a miniature version of your old one; treat the house as a new space that you are approaching with a fresh point of view. That means no replicating the drawing or dining room layout from your old house because furniture groupings that work in larger areas make smaller rooms look incredibly cramped and crowded. So, start afresh when you are setting up the house and try for a completely different look.

·       Ditch any furniture that is too big and bulky and invest in pieces that are custom-made – or, at the very least, size-appropriate – for your new home. 

·       The best way to optimize space when working with smaller square footage is to make sure that you have plenty of built-in storage. So, look for box beds, coffee tables with drawers underneath, small cabinets that fit into nooks and corners, and lots of shelving to put your things away tidily. Clutter is all very well when you have large rooms that can absorb it. But smaller spaces call for a minimalist vibe.

·       This may be the right time to unleash your inner Marie Kondo. Chucking stuff out is easiest to do when you are moving house. But you need to be pretty dispassionate when you are moving to a smaller home. Only take the stuff that truly matters. And remember, even things that have sentimental value – but will overwhelm your new space – may not necessarily make the cut.

·       Treat the move not as the end of something, but as the beginning of something new. Celebrate that with a significant new purchase: a painting, a vase, a piece of sculpture. It doesn’t have to be expensive but it should be special – because your new home deserves nothing less.

 

Get off that treadmill!

And go for a walk in the park - you are on holiday!

 Does anyone in their right mind spend time on a treadmill while on holiday at one of the best hotels in the world? That thought popped into my mind as I walked past the gym at the Four Seasons in Koh Samui (and yes, before you ask, that’s exactly where the forthcoming season of  White Lotus was shot). Why would you waste your time pounding away indoors — no matter how great the view — when you could just as easily be walking on the beach or hiking up the verdant hills that dot the resort? Surely combining aerobic activity with some sightseeing is the way to go while on holiday? 

Well, that’s how I feel anyway. Nothing would induce me to work out indoors when I could be totting up my 10,000 steps a day by doing something interesting outside. One of my top five things to do while on holiday is to take a turn around neighbourhood parks to get a sense of local life (my favourites so far are St James’ Park in London; Il Retiro in Madrid; Central Park in New York; and Lumpini in Bangkok). I try and walk around new cities as much as I can. On inclement days, traipsing around a museum makes the most sense (the National Portrait Gallery in London is a particular haunt of mine), especially when they have a snug little cafe attached to it. And if you are in the middle of the countryside, there is nothing quite as invigorating as a hike uphill to see some interesting vistas. 

When I am on holiday, there is just a small set of activities that are acceptable to me. I don’t, for instance, mind joining a cooking class if it means getting an insight into the cuisine of the host country. This doesn’t always work of course. I once signed up for an afternoon’s class on Sri Lankan cuisine — only to be taught how to make (wait for this!) a dal. But it does work on occasion — and that makes it worth the effort of slaving over a hot stove in the middle of your break. I also love the idea of a food walk, led by a knowledgeable local, which gives you the opportunity to savour the flavours of that region.

But, not to worry, it’s not just about the food (though that is a huge part of it!). I am not averse to doing a bit of yoga in the open air as long as guided meditation is not part of the deal (sitting around with eyes closed, trying to still my mind, is not my idea of holiday fun!). And I can while away entire afternoons by the hotel poolside, kidding myself that I am exercising, even as I waddle lazily from one side of the pool to the other. 

I guess everyone has their acceptable level of activity while on holiday. Some may prefer to spend the entire day lazing in the sun, reading a book while sipping on a cocktail. Some others may find satisfaction in heading for a hike in the evening, armed with bottle of water. 

And then there are those who insist on beginning their day with a six-mile long walk on the treadmill in the hotel gym. It is this group that leaves me mystified. But then, they would be equally baffled by the likes of me!

The Bank of Mum and Dad

What do we owe our children - and for how long?

 A couple of weeks ago I read an article in a British newspaper, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. It was written – anonymously (I wonder why?) – by a young person who was very concerned about the fact that their inheritance was being squandered by their parents who were ‘blowing up’ their savings on expensive holidays, new cars, luxury purchases, etc. At the rate at which these ‘boomers’ were going through their money, their resentful child complained, there would be nothing left to inherit by the time they passed. 

 

I read to the end feeling horrified at the entitlement dripping through every line. It was mind-boggling to see that an adult (the writer admitted to being in their 30s) still felt that their parents owed them a living – and believed that these retired folk should forgo all the luxuries they had worked so hard for all their lives just so that they could leave a nice little nest egg for their progeny.

 

But once my shock had subsided, I realized that this is exactly what people of my parents’ generation had done in India, without even thinking about it. They may have spent all their lives in salaried slavery, but they put aside every penny for their children’s higher education, weddings, or even a deposit for a car or an apartment. The social contract they grew up with entailed that everything they did was geared towards the comfort and advancement of their kids. Their own needs came last – if at all.

 

I suspect, however, that things have changed with my generation. This is the generation where, for the most part, both husband and wife worked outside the home, and had a substantial disposable income that they used to access the luxuries of life. These are the people who have had successful careers of their own; who both work and play hard; and who think that they deserve the fruits of their labour. They love their children and do their best by them – but the kids are by no means the be-all and end-all of their existence.

 

So, this generation of grandmoms are not going to be available around the clock – and indeed around the year – to babysit their grandkids whenever the parents need a break. They may spoil and indulge their grandchildren; they may enjoy spending time with them; but it will always be on their own terms. If their kids need childminding during the summer break, they are going to have to look elsewhere – Grandma and Grandpa will be too busy sunning themselves in the Maldives or hiking in Europe.

Similarly, the grandpas of today are more likely to be spending their disposable income in buying the car of their dreams (which they could never afford in their youth), paying astronomical sums of money to join clubs where they can play golf (or just hang out), and treating themselves to the latest electronic gadgets in the market.

 

So, the Bank of Mum and Dad may be closed for business for the kids coming of age now – who are going to have to learn to stand on their own two feet. And on balance, that’s probably not such a bad thing. Nothing concentrates the mind more than the knowledge that you have to make it on your own.

 

Let's mind our own business

Why do we feel entitled to other people's medical information?

 It was with a curious mix of emotions that I watched the video sent out by Catherine, The Princess of Wales, to announce to the world that she had cancer. There was shock to hear that someone so young and fit had been diagnosed with the disease. There was sorrow that a mother with three small children would have to deal with the depredations that cancer wreaks. And yes, there was shame that a woman had been bullied on a global scale into disclosing a condition that she would have preferred to keep private.

 

And make no mistake. Catherine was pushed into revealing her medical details by a world that had gone stark raving mad speculating about what was wrong with her, where she was, and why wouldn’t she reveal herself to the public. For once, the British media (including the much-derided tabloids) were more discreet, but across the pond, conspiracy theories were the order of the day. Social media is always a cesspit and it didn’t disappoint this time either. But when a late-night talk show host like Stephen Colbert starts clambering aboard the conspiracy wagon, you have to admit that there is something seriously wrong with our world. (The only voice of sanity in this entire mess was Jimmy Kimmel, who asked why we couldn’t leave the Princess alone to recover from what was clearly major abdominal surgery.)

 

Now that Catherine has come forward to announce her condition, I hope all those who were using her as fodder for their social media clout are feeling ashamed of themselves (though I suspect shame is not an emotion they are familiar with). And it wasn’t just Internet trolls who were mocking her for having a Brazilian butt lift. Even normal people – some of whom I even regarded as friends – went down the rabbit hole to speculate that she was a victim of domestic violence or even that she had been killed and the royal family were complicit in some kind of cover-up.

 

I know. It’s batshit crazy. But it seems to be par for the course these days when it comes to ‘celebrity coverage’ in the media. And even if we didn’t indulge ourselves this time round, all of us are guilty to some extent. All of us have participated in this kind of prurience at one time or another, losing sight of the fact that, at the end of the day, there is a human being at the centre of the story.

 

So, what is it that makes us feel that we are entitled to the bodies of others – and to every last bit of information about their bodies? Why must we know what kind of surgery Catherine had? Why is it necessary that she tell us what sort of cancer she was diagnosed with and at what stage? Why must she do her hair and make-up and appear on video to reassure us that she is getting treated, getting stronger, and getting support from her husband? 

 

Why can’t we leave well alone, when it comes to celebrities? Why are we so invested in their lives that we feel that they must share every detail with us? Are our lives really so empty that we needs must fill them with those of others? It really doesn’t bear thinking about.

You're worth it!

Why it is worth investing in the small luxuries of life

 Luxury is such a loaded word, isn’t it? To some it evokes images of lavish suites in exclusive hotels; to others it means expensive ingredients served up in eight-course meals in three-star restaurants. To some it means designer bags and jewellery; to others it is exemplified in private-plane travel. 

 

Everyone has a different definition of luxury. For me, the greatest luxury in the world is that of time – that is, time to oneself, that you can spend on self-care without feeling guilty about not fulfilling one responsibility or the other. But, of course, there are a thousand other luxuries as well that go towards making life worth living. The test, of course, is which one of these could I absolutely not live without.

 

I spent some time thinking about this and came to the conclusion that it’s not the big stuff that I would sweat; it would be the small, even negligible, things that I simply could not bear to give up. Here are just some of them, in no particular order of importance.

 

·       My morning cuppa. This has to be perfect if my day is to start off on the right foot. And the only way it does is with my particular blend of Fresh Brew capsules (made from Indian coffee beans). The moment that beautiful aroma fills the kitchen, all feels right with the world. I am now so addicted to this that I even travel with a sleeve of capsules so that I never have to go without that particular caffeine buzz.

·       Rice, rice, baby! Ever since my diabetes diagnosis, I don’t eat rice very often – and then, only in small quantities. But there is no compromise on the rice in question. It has to be Kamini rice (very close to Gobindobhog rice – but even better!) that I buy in bulk whenever I visit Kolkata. In my view, this is the king of rice and works well with almost any style of cooking and cuisine. Or you could just add a pinch of salt, slather with ghee and enjoy on its own.

·       Fresh flowers. I don’t have a garden and my balcony is too small to grow too many, so the way I cope is by making a weekly visit to the neighbourhood flower shop to buy the blooms that are in season. My favourite is the nargis, but that has a tragically short season, so I often have to make do with tuberose, roses or lilies instead. But so long as they are colourful and plentiful and all around me, I am happy. 

·       News and entertainment. As a news junkie, I probably spend way more than I should subscribing (online) to foreign newspapers and magazines. Add to that the subscription costs to all kinds of OTT platforms and the bills sort of add up. But no matter how much all this amounts to, I can’t bear the thought of giving even one of my subscriptions up. I guess this is my version of FOMO!

·       Vanity. I don’t really care too much about make-up, but skincare is an entirely different matter. My husband is always shocked by how much I am prepared to pay for a night cream. And no matter what, I have to get my hair coloured professionally. As the adage goes, I am worth it!

 

Weekend rituals

How to distinguish your weekends from the work week

My weekdays always end with a walk in the park. But I never ever venture out for a stroll in my regular haunts over the weekend because of how crowded they get at this time. This is the time that families, groups of friends, and giddy lovers get to spend time outdoors, enjoying a slap-up picnic in the great outdoors or just searching out cozy corners to have a bit of a cuddle. So, not only are the parks overcrowded, so are the parking lots and I can’t help but feel (I know, it’s terribly selfish of me, but there you go) that my world has been taken over by outsiders.

 

So, over the years, I have developed a weekend ritual of my own. Saturdays are working days (also the day on which I file this column) so I don’t do anything special. But Sundays have a rhythm of their own. It all begins with a late breakfast, nothing too elaborate, but something that involves a bit of cooking (instead of lathering on butter on a piece of toast). Then it’s time for a long shower and shampoo, followed up with some serious moisturizing. The grooming session ends with some quality time with my beloved Dyson airwrap to get my hair just so. 

 

The highlight of my Sunday is always lunch, the venue being agreed upon with my husband well in advance. It could be a pizza in the balmy sunshine of the courtyard at the Italian Cultural Centre; it could be a mysore masala dosa at Sagar Ratna; it could be a slap-up Chinese meal or an assortment of chaat. It doesn’t really matter what we eat as long as we don’t eat at home. Having lunch out has become a non-negotiable part of my Sunday routine.

 

A follow-up snooze is not mandatory, though it becomes inevitable if we have had a drink or two. But for the most part, Sunday afternoons are spent in my favourite armchair, reading a book, with a big pot of Chinese tea by my side. I don’t move from this spot until it’s time to make dinner. And Sunday dinner is always at home, more often than not a one-pot meal – a quick stir-fry, a basic risotto, or even a masala khichdi – because we are still so full from the enormous lunch.

 

I know that there are people who will be appalled by just how lazy my Sundays are. These are the kinds of people who wake up early to go play a round of golf, maybe put in a tennis lesson or two, or just hit the gym. Then, there are those who spend this day doing all the household chores that have accumulated through the week: clearing out the cupboards; dusting the bookshelves; doing laundry; and the like. But what can I say? I would rather put in extra hours during the week to finish all this stuff so that I have Sunday as a clear day in which I do nothing.

 

The Italians have a phrase for this. They call dolce far niente, loosely translated as the sweetness of doing nothing at all, or the pleasure inherent in pure laziness. And that one phrase sums up my Sundays – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Stay calm and carry on

Here's how I deal with stress...

 

One of the first questions that doctors ask you at a medical examination is whether you are suffering from stress. And given the pressures of modern life, rare is the person who does not answer with a resounding yes. When you do confess to feeling stressed, you are generally asked to do some light yoga or meditation, lighten your workload, develop a healthier lifestyle, and so on.

 

There’s nothing wrong with this advice, but the methods I have adopted over the last few years to deal with stress are quite different. Here, in no particular order of importance, are what they are. 

 

·       Stop fighting with strangers on the Internet. There was a time when I would respond angrily to nasty comments on social media and waste hours of my time trying to get the last world in these virtual altercations. But I am older and wiser now and no longer feed the trolls with the attention they so desperately crave. Instead of replying to rude people, I just block them and move on. My timeline is much cleaner for it, and my life far more peaceful.

·       Don’t discuss politics at family gatherings. Or in family Whatsapp groups, for that matter. No matter how sure you are of the righteousness of your position – whichever side of the political spectrum you happen to fall on – there is no way you are going to change hearts and minds through the sheer force of your arguments. Everyone’s political positions are more or less baked in; as are yours. So, there is no profit in discussing the politics of the day with the extended family. Instead, there is a world of pain if you go down that route. Far better to just talk about cricket, Netflix shows, and your last vacation. 

·       Spend time in nature. It doesn’t matter if you don’t feel energetic enough for a brisk walk in the park. Just grab a book, a couple of oranges or a bag of peanuts, and settle down on a park bench for an hour or so. Let the sun wash over you, allow the wind to blow away those thoughts clouding your mind, feast your eyes on the colourful blooms, marvel at the height of the trees, and give thanks for the miracle that is Nature. You need a daily break like this to restore balance in your life.

·       Ration your screen time. It’s not always possible during the day when you have work calls and the like. But once you’re done with dinner, put your phone away and be present in the real world. Talk to your spouse, your parents, your kids. Decompress by listening to music or reading a book. Watch your TV shows if you must, but switch them off an hour before your bedtime so that your mind has some time to quieten down.

·       Talk, talk, talk. If there is something in your life that is stressing you out, then don’t keep it bottled up inside you. Talk about it to your loved ones, whether they be friends or family. But before you do that, tell them whether you want to be heard, held, or helped. It’s astonishing how de-stressing it can be to have your needs met without any misunderstandings muddling the process.

The girl who ate the world

Visiting some cities is just as excuse to eat the food they are famous for 

I guess it’s a measure of how important food is in my life that I associate every city I have ever visited with a dish (or dishes) that I enjoyed there. And the first thing I do when I arrive at any destination is to make a beeline for a place that does the best version of that dish. 

So, if I am visiting Kolkata — or Cal, as I still call it, as I did when I grew up there — one of my first stops is a little lane near New Market where my favourite puchkawallah is stationed. After I have had my fill of those fire-filled taste bombs, I indulge myself with some churmur — that’s when they smash a few puris, mash them up with the aloo mixture and make a delicious new dish of the same parts. Next up, it’s the turn of the jhaalmuri guy who sells his stuff outside Loreto House, a staple of my school and college years. For dinner I order in the rolls from Nizam, reliving my days in the ABP office, when this used to be our office lunch (at least until the money ran out by the end of the month). This is the taste of Calcutta to me — and will remain so, no matter how many times they rename the city. 

Similarly, Mumbai to me means vada pav. No, not the overgrown monstrosities that are served in restaurants and caffès. It’s only the real stuff that is sold on the streets will do it for me: soft buns cradling a perfect bite-sized potato patty smeared with green chutney and garlic and chilly, served up in yesterday’s newspaper, to be devoured in two or maximum three bites. If it’s the monsoons, then it is time for yet another Mumbai special: the kanda bhajiya. This is as far removed from the North Indian onion pakoda as a jalebi is from an amriti, being an altogether more delicate creation, crisp with just a hint of besan to hold it together, dashed with a tangy chutney to make it come alive. 

As for the city I live in now, well, to me Delhi brings with it associations of the best chaat ever. There is the deliciously deep-fried aloo tikki, served in a puddle of channa with a generous sprinkle of chopped onions on top; there is the sweet and savoury mix of dahi bhallas; and then there is the decadent pleasure of a plate of channa bhatura. 

Even when I travel abroad, each city brings with it its own food associations. In Venice, it is cicchetti, the open sandwich with interesting toppings, that has become synonymous with the city. In Naples, it is the pizza that the city made famous the world over. In Frankfurt, it is sausages and potato salad, the no-frills combination that all Germans swear by. In London, it is fish and chips, with a squeeze of vinegar, eaten hot off the stove, standing on a busy pavement. In Bangkok, it is a plate of krapow (minced pork with basil) served with jasmine rice, a fried egg, sliced cucumbers and a small bowl of nampla. 

Every city, to me at least, is a dish best served up hot or cold. And as for me, I am just the girl who ate the world. 

Spring has sprung

 Bringing with it new beginnings...

 

What does spring mean to you? I ask because it means so many different things to different people. For me, the first association that pops up is ‘spring cleaning’, as in getting the house spruced up after the months spent hibernating in winter. So, curtains are washed and hung up, lightweight durries are put in place of heavy-duty carpets, razais are packed away and cool dohars placed on the bed, radiators are put in storage while the ACs are serviced, and so on. 

 

In Calcutta, where I grew up, spring was always heralded by Basant Panchami, or what we called Saraswati Puja. That was a big occasion in my house, with a new idol of the Goddess of Learning being placed in the puja room. The kids in the house would be asked to place our school textbooks at the feet of Saraswati so that she could shower her blessings on them – and by extension, on us. I especially looked forward to this festival because that was one day we were expressly forbidden to study and I could spend the entire day reading my Enid Blytons instead. We would all dress up in yellow to celebrate the new season and gorge on the prasad my mother made. This was also the first day we were allowed to eat ber, because the belief was that you had to feed Ma Saraswati first before being allowed to eat the fruit yourself.

 

After I moved to Delhi, spring took on completely different associations. Now, the season became synonymous with the spring flowers that begin blooming all across the capital as the weather becomes warmer. The traffic roundabouts turn into a veritable riot of colours, the parks are ablaze with flowering trees like tesu and annuals like salvia, hollyhock, lilies, dahlias and the like, and there is never a better time to go for a drive or a walk. This year, the star of the spring season in Delhi has been the tulip, flowering in profusion everywhere from Chanakyapuri to Lodi Garden, and brightening the days of everyone who lays eyes on its beauty.

 

For me, the best part of this season is that I no longer have to layer up before I go for a walk. Instead of huddling under a thermal vest, a sweater and a jacket, I can make do with a light shawl, as I bask in the balmy spring sunshine. And as the days grow longer, it is possible to linger in the park for much longer; which is exactly what I do, buying myself a packet of popcorn and settling down on a bench to read my book, making the most of the residual coolness before the advent of summer scorches us all. 

 

More than anything else, spring is supposed to be the season of renewal. So, in that spirit, this is when my winter feet are exposed to the rigors of a pedicure after months spent encased in boots. Then, it’s time to shop for the cotton/linen kurtas and shirts in which I will spend the entire summer. And yes, this is also when my thoughts turn inevitably to my summer holiday – but that, as they say, is a story for another time.

 

The Big C

 When someone is diagnosed with cancer, lead with help not curiosity

 

No sooner had Buckingham Palace announced that King Charles had been diagnosed with a form of cancer than the speculation started. What kind of cancer was it? At what stage had it been discovered? What was the first line of treatment? Was it chemotherapy or radiation? Would he need surgery? Was he going to try some alternative therapies? What was the prognosis? How was he feeling? How was Queen Camilla coping?

 

The questions came fast and hard, even though no answers were forthcoming. But then, that’s how it is for lesser mortals as well. Anyone who announces a cancer diagnosis can expect to be inundated with these questions, in varying tones of curiosity and concern (which is, perhaps, why some people choose not to disclose their condition at all). Not only are questions like these intrusive and unhelpful, they also put an unnecessary strain on a patient who may be clinging on to his or her medical privacy because it is the last thing he or she has control over.

 

Sometimes these questions come from a place of love, but too often they are just a form of prying. And on occasion, they are also asked with a view to getting reassurance. Oh he had lung cancer, did he? Pity he smoked a million cigarettes! (I don’t, so I’m okay.) Both her mother and sister got breast cancer as well? Ah, it must run in the family. (Not in mine, thankfully!). And so on.

 

If you ever feel tempted to ask such questions, I have just two words of advice for you: please don’t. Nobody will think you unfeeling and unsympathetic if you don’t probe deeper into anyone’s medical diagnosis. They will give you as much information as they are comfortable with – and you must be content with that.

 

What you can do, if someone shares their cancer diagnosis, is to make yourself helpful. And no, it is not helpful to mutter cliches like, “If there is anything I can do, please do let me know.” They will know you don’t mean it; and no, they will never let you know. 

 

Instead, do something off your own bat that will make their life easier. Make a batch of meals they can bung into a freezer and heat up for the rest of the week. If you know their reading tastes, buy books that you think would appeal to them, something that can occupy them during sleepless nights. Offer to drive them to their chemotherapy sessions and keep them company while they are there. Take the children off their hands for a couple of days a week and allow them the space to heal. Listen with a sympathetic ear if they want to vent. 

 

And here’s what you don’t do. Don’t suggest some quack remedies that worked such wonders for your aunt. Don’t send them links of articles of experimental therapies at the cutting edge of science; they’ve already googled them. Don’t tell them that everything is going to be okay; you don’t know that. Don’t tell them the cancer stories of other people – even if it is one with a happy ending. Everyone’s cancer journey is different; respect that.   

 

Just be there for them in practical ways. That’s all you need to do; and it’s all they want.

 

If it's Jaipur it must be...

...The JLF - the festival that turned the Pink City into a literary Mecca

I have been attending the Jaipur Literary Festival (JLF) on and off for more than a decade. And I have to confess that I had begun to take the wealth of riches it brings to us a little bit for granted. But when the Rajasthan deputy chief minister (and Jaipur Princess) Diya Kumari inaugurated the festival this year and declared that JLF did more for Rajasthan tourism in five days than the state government could do in a year, I realised with a start how right she was. 

Jaipur has, of course, always been on the tourist map. But it took the JLF to turn it into a literary Mecca, which attracts writing stars from across the world. This year you had Peter Frankopan, Mary Beard, Bonnie Garmus among the stellar speakers. And there were a plethora of authors from all across India, who write in such languages as Assamese, Kannada, Malayalam, Punjabi, Urdu and so many others. And, of course, there was Shashi Tharoor…

But while books — both in prose and in verse — were the focus of attention, as indeed they should be at a literary festival, the JLF is always about so much more than books. There is the author’s lounge, of course, where you can buttonhole your favorite writer and gush away for as long as you can hold their attention. I have to admit that I have never ever done so, believing as I do that it is never a good idea to meet your heroes in real life — they can only ever be a disappointment! But the one thing that I do enjoy are the musical performances that start and end each day at the festival. Not only does this showcase the superb talent in the state (and indeed the country) it also gives foreign guests a taste of Indian culture that they may never get if they visit this country on their own. 

Then, there are the stalls showcasing the arts and crafts of the region. You have the best of Rajasthani textiles, beautiful designer wear, stunning jewellery, and so much more. Even if you are not one for shopping (and I am most certainly not) it is still fun browsing the wares to get a sense of just how talented the locals artists and craftspeople can be. 

But it’s the evenings when the JLF really begins to work its magic. There are elegant soirées in the most splendid locations, showcasing the best that the city has to offer. You could be sipping cocktails on the rooftop of a boutique hotel with the entire city laid out in front of your eyes. You might be watching folk singers and dancers perform against the wondrous backdrop of the Amer Fort. Or you could sample the lifestyle of the erstwhile Maharajas in the sylvan environs of Rambagh Palace. 

Every experience that the Pink City has to offer is yours for the taking — and how amazing that it should all start from the celebration of books, books and more books! 

As a lover of reading, nothing makes me happier than seeing literature open up the world for those willing to let it into their lives.