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. 

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.