Remember when...

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Comfort reading

Trust me, it’s the best way of keeping calm and carrying on in the midst of a lockdown

Whenever I am going through a period of stress – and it will surprise precisely no one that this lockdown period has been a unique stressor – I always seek succor in my comfort reads. 

You know what I mean, right? Comfort reads are those books that transport me to better worlds, minutely imagined parallel universes, where all problems have resolutions, and every loose end can be niftily tied at the end of the narrative. These are books I have re-read so often that I know some of the dialogue by heart and yet the punchlines leave me chuckling each time. And these are the books that I have been turning to, to keep my spirits up, during this enforced stay-at-home period.

I am happy to report that they have done the trick quite nicely. I usually spend about an hour or so with them in the late afternoon after I have done my writing for the day and need to decompress. And I turn to them last thing at night, when I read myself to sleep. And they soothe and calm me much more than actual meditation ever does.

So, on the off chance that you may benefit from this remedy too, here’s my list of go-to books and authors. I hope they bring you the same comfort they do to me.

• I have always been a fan of Margaret Atwood, but it had been a long time since I read her seminal work, The Handmaid’s Tale. But after bingeing on the three seasons of the TV show on Amazon Prime, I had this irresistible urge to go back and re-read the book the series was based on. And I am ever so glad that I did. The sparse prose, the easy cadences, and the effortless grace of Atwood’s writing left me in awe yet again. To read this book is to see the author at the height of her powers. And marvel once more at the imagination from which the dystopian world of Gilead sprung, fully-formed and full of horror.

• The other TV series that sent me scurrying back to the book it was based on was Little Fires Everywhere on Hotstar. I had read Celeste Ng’s bestseller when it was first published but given that my memory is like a sieve these days, going back to it was like reading a new book. So, I could appreciate afresh the universe that Ng had created, with two intertwined families at the centre of the narrative, which spooled in a direction that was entirely unexpected. The show has deviated at many seminal points from the book, so even if you have seen the series, the book will still provide you with many surprises.

• I had mentioned in my last column that I intended to explore the entire oeuvre of Elizabeth George, to chart the progress of Inspector Lynley and Barbara Havers’ careers as they went about solving murders across the decades. I have since begun reading A Great Deliverance, the very first Inspector Lynley mystery, which came out way back in 1988, and I am astonished to see just how much the characters have evolved since then. In this book, for instance, Lynley is portrayed as a dashing ladies man, who has slept with most of the women in his department, and Lady Helen Clyde is described as his ‘longest-running mistress’. As someone who rejoiced at their wedding and (spoiler alert coming up!) and cried tears at Helen’s passing, this throwback was startling to say the least.

• As regular readers will know, whenever I need cheering up, my go-to author is Georgette Heyer. Her Regency romances have been a staple of my comfort reading list ever since my teenage years – and that hasn’t changed even though I am now well into my middle age. This time round, I first sought refuge in Venetia, in which the heroine of the title falls prey to the charms of a well-practiced rake, only to win his heart – and his hand – in the end. And then, I dived right into The Grand Sophy, in which the redoubtable heroine re-arranges the lives of all those around her, much to their consternation and my delight. 

• Now that I am cooking more than ever, given that there is no other way to put food on the table, I keep dipping into food books to find inspiration (not recipe books, I am afraid, because I like to make things up as I go along, rather than follow in well-trodden paths). Some of the books that have provided food for thought in this period are Salt Fat Acid Heat by Samin Nosrat (she has a show by the same name on Netflix, which you could check out), Pasta Pane Vino by Matt Goulding, and closer home, The Flavour of Spice by my old friend Marryam H. Reshii. I like to think that the information I have gleaned from these worthy tomes has made me a better cook – the botched experiments, needless to say, are entirely of my own making.

If you too want to read yourself out of a lockdown-induced depression, then I can’t recommend comfort reading enough. Start with some of the books I have recommended, or find your own. But do read for a couple of hours every day – and no peeking at your phone while you do it. Believe me, it will make a world of difference to your day.

Past perfect

There comes a time in life when looking back is as much of a joy as looking forward

The older I grow the more I find that nostalgia is the governing emotion of my life. This was brought home to me even more strongly last week when I went back to Jaipur’s Rambagh Palace for a brief visit. The moment I walked through the sofa-lined verandah that runs in front of what used to be the Jaipur royal state room (and is now rather prosaicly, a restaurant), I was transported back to my first visit to this iconic property.

I was a young rookie reporter, barely out of college, and had been assigned to cover the General Elections by following the erstwhile royals on the campaign trail. We (I was accompanied by the magazine’s photographer) were in Jaipur to cover the former Maharaja, Captain Bhawani Singh’s, campaign and stopped by at the Rambagh for a quick coffee. 

Imagine our excitement when we saw, in the verandah where I now stood some three decades later, Rajmata Gayatri Devi, resplendent in chiffon and pearls, talking to a friend. We immediately sidled up to her, waited respectfully for her conversation to end, and then asked if we could speak to her.

Much to our surprise, she ignored us completely, refusing to even acknowledge the question. Both of us were crestfallen but couldn’t quite understand why we had been snubbed so comprehensively. It was only later when we shared the story with the hotel manager did we realize what we, in our naivete, had done wrong. Instead of addressing her as ‘Rajmata Saheb’ as was customary, we had referred to her as ‘Mrs Singh’ (on the grounds that she was stepmother to ‘Captain Singh’; what can I say, we were young and callow). Of course, such lese-majeste had to be punished. 

Later, as I gazed at a beautiful portrait of Gayatri Devi in her younger days that was hung in pride of place in my room, I was transported back to my youth as well. Suddenly, all those memories of driving through dry, dusty Rajasthan in a clapped-out Ambassador with no air-conditioning as we tried to keep up with the likes of the Maharaja of Jaipur and Maharana of Udaipur came flooding back. I remembered going days without drinking water because I knew that there would be no decent loos on our route. I remembered the dodgy hotel rooms we stayed in, a far cry from my salubrious surroundings of today. But mostly, I remembered the energy and enthusiasm of my younger self, and the self-belief that I would give anything to possess today in my advancing years.

I had much the same experience when I visited Kolkata a few years ago – though, I have to confess that it will always be Calcutta to me. This is the city where I was born and raised, where I went to school and college, and got my first job. No surprises then that every street sparked a memory, every building evoked emotions, and even a walk in a park triggered a strong dose of nostalgia.

But it was a visit to my old college that really transported me back in time. I was walking through Park Street with my husband, marveling at how many things had changed while others remained just the same, when I came to the turn that led to my old alma mater, Loreto House. On a sudden impulse I walked to that familiar green gate and asked the doorman if, as an old student, I could have a little walkthrough. He agreed, and we walked into that driveway that I had traversed every day to go to class. 

We walked into reception and then into the hall in which we had held assembly on special occasions, where I sat for so many exams. I walked on to the stage on which I had participated in innumerable debates and plays – one of them written and performed by my English Honours class. It was on this stage where, at the end of my college career, I had been awarded the gold medal for most outstanding student of the year. And – pardon the boastfulness – did I mention that my name was immortalized in shiny gold paint on a board outside, along with all the other winners? 

But while places have their own role in jogging my memory, it is meeting people that brings on the strongest bouts of nostalgia. Meeting my childhood best friend in Cal, and remembering the first day we went to school, clutching nervously on to each other, as we navigated this new, mysterious world. Running into an old teacher, who didn’t just remember my name and face, but also an essay I wrote for her, which I have long forgotten. Going to the restaurant that was the haunt of us newspaper types as we worked late into the night and being greeted by the same waiter.

The memories come rushing back thick and fast no matter where I am or what I am doing. A visit to my sister results in us taking out old photo albums and reminiscing about our younger years. Meeting old colleagues means another trip down memory lane. And stumbling upon an old article of mine among the few clippings I have preserved transports me to an entirely different time and place.

My conversations these days are peppered with “Do you remember when” or “Remember that time”. I guess that is a good indication that I am finally at a place in my life when looking back is as pleasurable – sometimes even more so – than looking forward. Or, more bluntly, I am just getting old!

Back where I once belonged...

Nostalgia tastes rather sweet on a trip back to my old home town

Nearly three years ago now, I wrote a column on how folks like me who can't go back home -- because that home is now long since gone -- are destined to re-create it in their imagination, populate it with their memories and make it the stuff of their dreams. I had confessed my dread of revisiting past haunts for fear that they would have changed beyond recognition; my terror of subjecting my memories to the harsh test of an ever-changing reality.

Which explains why I have stayed away from the stomping grounds of my childhood and youth, choosing to remember them they way they were, rather than come to terms with how they are now. Until last month, that is...

That's when I went back to Calcutta, or Cal as it is always affectionately abbreviated by those who love the city (sorry, but I am only going to call it Kolkata when I speak Bangla), after nearly a decade of staying resolutely away.

But the moment I landed at Netaji Subhas Chandra Airport, it felt as if I had never been away. There was the same air of nonchalant chaos, the same good-natured jostling, and the noise of a hundred-odd people bellowing into their phones to call their drivers ("Kothai achho? Ato deri lagche kano?").

Our own driver, sent by the literary festival that was hosting us, took his time coming. When he finally pulled up, he gave our luggage a disgusted look and muttered, "Baba, koto bhari bag!"  The two young people who were there to receive us went a bit red in the face, and helped with the luggage, while he continued to grumble discontentedly. Oh, the joys of being back in Cal!

Only it wasn't the Cal I knew and loved that whizzed past my rolled-up window. Instead of the sleepy road bordered by little huts and corner shops, there was a busy, bustling highway, flanked on both sides by glittering high rises that housed everything from malls to cinemas to hotels to up-market residences. If I didn't know better, I could have sworn I was in Gurgaon; there was even signage for DLF, for crying out loud.

Talking about loud, our extremely disagreeable driver was venting his frustration about being stuck at a red light by honking incessantly. "What is the point of using the horn?" I wondered aloud, "It won't make the lights change, will it?" His response was immediate and pithy. He rolled down his window and spat vigorously through it. Ah, that famous Bengali temper. How I had missed it!

It was sheer serendipity that our hotel was just a quick stroll away from my old college. So, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to walk down to revisit it between sessions. A million memories ran through my head as I made my way down Middleton Row and saw the familiar green gate of Loreto College before me.

I made my way down the curved driveway, entered through the side gate and went up to the first floor library that had been my sanctuary for three years. It looked a bit smaller than I remembered it, and my favourite desk which I had stockpiled with books, now had an ugly computer sitting on it, but the smell of books was just as intoxicating.

A few deep breaths later, I walked down the staircase and got the biggest surprise ever. There on a big black board were the names of all the gold medal winners over the years. And half-way down the list was mine: glittering in gold letters. My husband, who was even more excited than I was, insisting on taking many pictures, even as groups of bemused college students walked past us.

By then, I was quite sold on this nostalgia thing. So, we walked across the lawn and through the back gate to get to Jyoti Vihar, the venue of many a cheap and tasty lunch during my college days. The idlis, vadas and dosas were just as excellent as I remembered and even passed the test of the foodie husband.

All went swimmingly until we asked for paper napkins. No, said our smiling waiter, they did not provide any. We pointed to the next table, which had paper napkins. Ah, he said, they had brought in their own. Then, clearly taking pity on us, he walked across to the cashier's desk, tore off a bit of newspaper and presented it to us with a flourish. The gesture just about summed up the spirit of Cal for me.

The next day was devoted to revisiting familiar ground. The Bata store on Chowringhee where I had bought my school shoes at the beginning of every new academic year was still stationed to do duty by the next generation of students. The National Museum looked better than ever with a fresh lick of whitewash. And then there was the timeless beauty of Victoria Memorial, soaring majestically at the fringes of the Maidan.

Post-dinner, we decided that a spot of live music was in order. So, off we went to Someplace Else, to sit and wait for the band to show up. Finally a group of middle-aged hipster-types turned up and began playing blues standards from the 50s (circa Muddy Waters). A couple of youngsters in the front asked for a Beatles number. "Sorry," said the band leader, sounding anything but repentant. "We are stuck in a time warp here."

Which is, in the nicest possible way, also a good way to describe Calcutta itself. And long may it stay that way.

That Madeleine moment

We all have food memories that take us effortlessly back to the past

I don’t know about you, but I rather relish the prospect of room service breakfast at a posh hotel. There is something so glamorous about being served on a starched, white table-cloth with a red rose standing stiffly to attention on the side, while a gloved waiter pours you a nice cup of coffee. And what could be more decadent than having someone squeeze a glass of fresh orange juice and cook a nice French toast for you (note to self: must get out more!) first thing in the morning?

Though I usually go for the more sinful options when it comes to hotel breakfasts – bring on the pancakes, the waffles and the parathas – last Sunday I decided to go for the (relatively) healthy option and ordered akuri. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, this is basically Indian-style scrambled eggs seasoned with lots of onion, ginger, tomato, and green chillies, and liberally garnished with coriander. It is usually served with toast but on this occasion the chef sent it with a Bombay-style pau (the kind that makes up one half of pao bhaji).

I stuffed a generous dollop of the eggs between two halves of the pao and popped a generous mouthful in. As the buttery eggs coated my tongue and the ginger and chilli hit the back of my throat, I was instantly transported back in time. With just one bite, I was taken back to my days as a callow, young sub-editor on her first job, who kept herself fortified for the long nights of page-making with a double-roti and omelette sandwich in the ABP canteen in Calcutta.  

And even though the akuri was perfect – just on the right side of runny, creamy and unctuous, at that moment I would have killed for the sandwich of my misbegotten youth, oily junk food though it might have been.

Now, I don’t want to get all Proust – remember his Madeleine? He certainly did – on you on a Sunday morning, but it is strange isn’t it, how some kinds of food suddenly evoke a memory so strong that you find yourself going back in time? Which bring on such a craving that you can’t think of anything other than their taste, their smell, and how you can best replicate them?

Like most people, my food memories are rooted in my childhood. I still remember the taste of those tiny, pink berries that I would tear off the tree in the back garden, having slipped away to investigate the vegetation as my mother undertook her afternoon siesta. If I close my eyes and think back, I can still taste the shingara (that’s samosa to all you non-Calcuttans) and jalebi that used to be my holiday breakfast as a child. The coconut-jaggery prasad that used to be served on Janmashtami has assumed near mythic status in my mind. And nothing tasted quite as good as the churmur chaat that we used to eat during the break in school, with the chaatwallah slipping it under the school-gate like the contraband it was (having been outlawed by the nuns, like everything else that made life worth living).

As you can tell, most of my food nostalgia is Calcutta-related: the puchchkas in front of New Market; the jhaal-muri outside Loreto College; the dosas of Jyoti Vihar; the junk Chinese served up in Chung-Wah, the official canteen of all ABP employees back in the day; the biryani of Shiraz; the rolls of Nizam.  

As they say, you can take the girl out of Calcutta; but you can’t take the taste of Calcutta out of the girl. (And please don’t send me irate letters about how it is now Kolkata; it will always be Cal to me.)

But even if you discount my food memories of Calcutta, there is still a vast swathe of things that I feel nostalgic about.  The home-made idlis that a former colleague would bring to work (paired with the most divine gunpowder and green chutney); the chilli con carne I once had in a Washington restaurant;  the pad Thai served up at a roadside stall in Bangkok.

There is certain pattern to food nostalgia. Britons living abroad often long for a taste of Marmite as a reminder of home. Americans express a craving for steak or the barbeque sauce of their childhood. Italians long for sun-dried tomatoes and a good olive oil. And the French turn up their noses at any cheese that doesn’t stink like the ones they grew up on.

Ask any random sampling of Indians living abroad what they are most nostalgic about and the phrase ‘dal-chawal’ will drip off most tongues. And I can totally relate because when I come back to India after a vacation abroad, the first thing I want to eat is dal-chawl with a nice spicy pickle and lots of roasted papad and lashings of raw onion.

Within India, food nostalgia can be rather region-centric. Rare is the Punjabi who isn’t nostalgic about the kadhi-chawal or rajma-chawal or aloo-vadi that his mother or grandmother made. Bengalis tend to wax eloquent about their fish curries or shukto. Gujaratis bang on about the fluffy dhoklas and the perfect theplas that their Maharajs turned out in their ancestral homes.

As for me, I still fantasize about the double-roti omelette, the shingara-jalebi, and the puchchkas of my youth. And I often wonder if they would taste just as great in real life as they do in my dreams. Or whether remembrance has given them a flavour that they never possessed in reality.