The book's the thing

The story behind my first novel – a thriller set in the world of Indian politics

You know how the joke goes. Everybody has a book inside them – and in most cases that is where it should stay.

Well, it’s too late for me now. My book is already out, rolling hot off the presses, and available on Amazon and at all good bookshops near you. As for whether it was better inside me or out in the world, well, there’s only one way to decide that question. Buy a copy and make up your own mind!

Sorry for that bit of shameless self-promotion but perhaps you can indulge me just this once. I am still giddy with delight, having unpacked the box containing the first hardback copies of my novel, Race Course Road (Aleph Book Company). Since you ask, it’s a thriller set in the world of Indian politics and deals with the aftermath of a Prime Minister’s assassination. Most of the action centers around Lutyens’ Delhi and the Prime Minister’s residence on Race Course Road – hence the title. (Yes, yes, I know, it’s now called Lok Kalyan Marg; but you have to admit that doesn’t have the same ring when it comes to book titles.)

So, here I am, with a silly grin that refuses to move off my face, and a mind that refuses to think of (let alone write about) anything other than my book. Did I mention it was called Race Course Road?

Over the last week or so, ever since the book went on sale and I began the never-ending process of trying to flog it, I have been asked the same questions both in real life and on social media by those who have picked up a copy. 

The first one inevitably is: why did I decide to write a thriller set in the world of Indian politics? 

That one’s easy. As all those advice manuals keep telling you, ‘write what you know’. And, for better or for worse, this was what I knew. I first started writing about Indian politics way back in the late 80s and early 90s, when India was going through a political churn like no other, with one unstable coalition taking over from the other. 

Despite the fact that I was straight out of college, with no real experience of either journalism or politics, I found myself thrown into the deep end, being sent off to interview Prime Ministers (VP Singh and Chandra Shekhar) on their first day in South Block, resulting in page-one bylines that I cherish to this day. I followed such stalwarts as Madhavrao Scindia on the campaign trail, driving with him in a rickety Ambassador car through dusty villages and sleepy small towns, feasting on the stories he regaled me with. And I interviewed everyone from Atal Behari Vajpayee to Kamal Nath to Uma Bharati, as I climbed up the ranks at work.

As luck would have it, I developed a certain familiarity with the Race Course Road complex over the years as well, visiting it both in a professional and personal capacity. The workings of the place fascinated me: the security set-up that ensured that no guest was ever left unaccompanied; the many different channels of entry in place for people with different levels of clearance (a ‘green-channel entry’, for instance, meant that no record was ever kept of your visit); the air of inviolable privacy it exuded. 

It was this fascination, in part, that led me to base most of my book in RCR (and to name it Race Course Road). It seemed a bit odd to me that most Indians have no idea how RCR is actually laid out, even though so many Prime Ministers have lived and worked there. Unlike the White House, that conducts tours so that ordinary citizens can walk through the seat of government in America, the RCR complex is out of bounds for most of us. 

Very few people even realize that 7 Race Course Road, the official address of the Indian Prime Minister, is not where he actually lives; it’s the office complex where his secretariat is stationed, where meetings are conducted, where the Cabinet sometimes meets, and where foreign dignitaries come to call on him. Over the years, Prime Ministers have lived in either Number 3 or Number 5 Race Course Road, while Number 9 has been taken over by the SPG, and Number 1 by a helipad. 

But while the book is set squarely in the real world, none of the characters in it are based on real life people – to answer the second most frequently asked question. Yes, I know that’s not going to deter those who are determined to find parallels with real life but for what it’s worth, here’s my disclaimer: all the characters are figments of my imagination, and have no existence outside of my own mind. 

And as for that perennial query: how does one keep going at writing a book when the end doesn’t appear in sight? Well, the answer is pretty simple. Take things one day at a time. Make sure you get at least 500 words down every day. Write even if the words are not coming (you can always edit – or even delete – the day after). Read good books to get inspired. Read bad books to feel better about your own writing. And write, write, write, until the damn thing is done!

Face Off

Grooming routines seem to be getting more extreme by the day; how does yours match up?

I am always intrigued by the grooming habits of the female characters on our TV shows and movies. They wake up with lashings of mascara in place and perfectly plumped-up lips, with a sheen that owes nothing to nature. Even when they are pottering around in the house, their lipstick is perfectly applied, their cheekbones are impeccably contoured and their hair is all swishy and shiny.

Every single time I sit down to watch one of these shows – Modern Family, Divorce, Life in Pieces, This Is Us, McMafia, to give you just a random sampling – I wonder if any woman in real life ever resorts to such extreme grooming within the confines of her own house, on a trip to the supermarket or pharmacy, or even while dropping off the kids at the school gates.

Well, if such women do exist, we clearly move in entirely different social circles. Most of my friends think that running a brush through their hair is a pretty big ask if they are not stepping out of the front door. A dash of lipstick and a slick of kajal is all it takes to make them ready to face the world. Mascara and eyeliner are only pulled out for big life events like an anniversary or birthday celebration. And only wedding parties merit full-on foundation and blush-on (yes, they still call it that).

My own grooming routine tends to vary depending on the kind of the day I am having. There are some things that I just do on auto-pilot, like slathering on sunblock after my shower. It doesn’t matter if I am going to spend the entire day writing at my desk. The sunblock still goes on, even though my face will never see the sun in the course of the day. Ditto, with my kohl pencil. It doesn’t matter that nobody other than me is going to see it; I still slash a thin line on my upper eyelids. Why do I bother, you ask? Well, it’s because my face looks naked to my own eye without it.

If I am headed out of the house, then a dab of concealer to hide my dark circles is mandatory. There have been occasions when I have forgotten to do so before leaving the house and been shocked at suddenly catching sight of myself in a mirror. So, I can only imagine what a fright I look to others on these occasions. That’s when those sunglasses come in handy, no matter what time of day it may be.

How much of an effort I make also depends on whom I am meeting. If I am having lunch or dinner with my low-maintenance girlfriends, then I don’t bother glamming up. I am quite happy to go along with their uniform of jeans and a shirt with just a dash of red lipstick to liven things up. But if I am meeting some of my more glamorous mates, then without even realizing it, I end up focusing a bit more on my own appearance, falling in line behind them with a professional blow-dry, a light dusting of powder over the tinted moisturizer, though I draw the line at mascara during the day.

Similarly, if I am meeting my husband’s male friends at dinner, I don’t really bother to dress up. But if any of the wives are also putting in an appearance, then I try a little harder. And that’s only because they do, and it seems faintly insulting to not make a similar effort when I meet them. So, that’s when I bestir myself to wear a nice sari, stick on a matching bindi, and even eschew my usual flats for a pair of heels.

Of late, however, I have noticed that there has been a significant uptick in grooming standards in the different worlds I inhabit. Women turn up for early morning flights with a full face of make-up, perfect manicures and pedicures and hair blow-dried to perfection. Wine dinners are awash with ladies who have had their maquillage applied by professionals, complete with false eyelashes and hair extensions. And weddings have gone mental, with everyone and her aunt going full-on Kim Kardashian with extreme contouring, glow-in-the-dark make-up, fake hair, fake lashes, and fake just about everything else.

I am not sure what exactly is going on here. Are we reverting to the 1950s when extreme grooming was expected of all women, both within and outside the house? Is the Stepford Wives model of dressing up being revived, incongruously enough, by younger women in the 21st century? Or else how do you explain the pains young women take these days over extreme depilation, with every stray hair on the body being attacked with every weapon at their disposal? Their obsession with exfoliation and moisturization, the twin pillars on which their beauty regime is built? Their insistence on a full face of make-up before they step out to face the world?

There is a reason why all those make-up tutorials on YouTube knock up so many hits. Extreme grooming is at an extreme high these days. So, maybe I shouldn’t be scoffing at all those actresses in the TV shows I watch. Maybe these ladies were just ahead of the curve, and now everyone else is busy playing catch-up.

Just say no

For a man to hear a ‘no’, a woman has to actually say it

No means no. That cannot be said often enough. No means no. 

But if you mean ‘no’ then it follows that you also have to say ‘no’. If you want someone to hear your ‘no’, then you need to say it out aloud. Non-verbal cues do not cut it. Nor do verbal cues. Nor does less than ‘enthusiastic’ participation. 

That’s because all of the above relies on someone else to receive a message that you have not actually articulated. It requires your sexual partners to intuitively pick up on a discomfort that you have not voiced. It enjoins them to be mind readers (trigger alert, all you ‘woke’ millennials!) even when they may not know you well enough to be able to read your mind.

And that is putting a lot of responsibility for your safety and well-being on the shoulders of someone else. 

Yes, I know, this is where a lot of you will pause reading to shoot off tweets asking me to stop ‘victim blaming’. To tell me that I am putting the onus on women not to get raped or sexually assaulted or abused instead of putting the men who rape, assault or abuse them on notice.

But no, I am not blaming the victim. Mostly because I don’t see women as disenfranchised victims with no agency of their own. I don’t see them as passive participants who have no control over what happens to them. And any movement, feminist or otherwise, that seeks to turn women into hapless creatures who cannot stand up for themselves, who cannot speak for themselves, does not have my support. 

As you can probably tell by now, this column was triggered (there’s that word again!) by the Aziz Ansari case. (No, I’m not going into that whole controversy; I’m sure you’re fully up to speed by now.) So, what I am writing about today applies only to urban, educated, emancipated, sexually-active women with jobs and lives of their own – like the woman, dubbed ‘Grace’ to grant her anonymity, who sought Ansari out and went on a date from hell with him.

I am on the side of the generational divide that does not believe Ansari’s awful sex moves amounted to sexual assault or even sexual abuse. And I have difficulty understanding my millennial friends who insist that ‘Grace’ was coerced by Ansari. Her own account of the evening, in my reading, suggests otherwise.

But what is clear to me is that in this age of Tinder, when casual hook-ups with people you barely know are the rule rather than the exception, women need to be empowered to navigate this sexual minefield instead of being infantilized and told that they bear no responsibility for their own actions.

It goes without saying that consent is essential in every such encounter and that it is the responsibility of men to ensure that they secure it before initiating any kind of sexual contact. (And yes, ‘enthusiastic’ consent is the very best.) But I balk at the thought of casting women as helpless creatures who cannot even say ‘no’ when they mean it.

Sex, like much else in human life, is about communicating your desires, your needs, and yes, your reservations. But if we want men to listen then we must also empower women to speak up so that they can be heard. Women need to be active participants with a voice in the proceedings, not passive objects to whom things happen without their having any control over it.

I have lost count of the number of women who have told me over the past week that women don’t say no because they are afraid of the consequences. As in, they may meet with violence or even death if they say no. And yes, that is true in some cases. 

But here’s where those ‘verbal’ and ‘non-verbal cues’ come in handy. It’s not just incumbent on men to pick up on these cues. It’s imperative that women read them as well. If you feel you’re not being listened to during your date, being rushed into things at a pace you are not comfortable with, then maybe you should say ‘no’ sooner rather than later. Split the bill, call a cab and get the hell out of there.

Most adult women have a well-honed instinct for sniffing out the bad boys from the good. Trust those instincts. They will stand you in good stead. And if that voice in your head is telling you this is not going to end well, then end it right then. 

Of course there will be times when men you thought were honourable and ‘safe’ will surprise you. When a ‘friend’ you have known for years will suddenly turn into a monster. We’ve all been there. It’s truly awful and hard to negotiate, especially when your ‘no’ is heard but not acknowledged. But to conflate sexual assault or even sexual abuse with bad or awkward sex does a disservice to both men and women.

Yes, there are many men out there in the dating pool who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Who will push, push, push, until you’re well into sexual assault territory. And it is often difficult to see them coming until you’re right there in bed with them.

But there are plenty of good guys too, who are primed to look for your consent. Sadly, very few of them are actual mind readers. Which is why it’s imperative to remember that for a man to hear a ‘no’, a woman has to actually say it. 

Happy New Year!

Instead of New Year resolutions, here's my to-do list for 2018

I decided a few years ago that I wasn't going to bother with New Year resolutions any longer. And I find that the decision has served me well. No longer do I psych myself to achieve goals that I inevitably give up on a few months into the year. And nor do I feel that crushing sense of failure when I can't live up to my own expectations. 

So that resolution stands: no more resolutions for the new year. 

This January, however, I have decided that I will mark the advent of 2018 by compiling a to-do list of all that I hope to achieve - or at least work towards - this year. It is a suitably idiosyncratic and wildly varying list, so it may not make the best sense for all of you. But for me, this is just the ticket to make sure that 2018 trumps 2017 by a good margin. 

So, here goes, in no particular order of importance: 

* A couple of bereavements over the last two years have taught me an important lesson: it is never a good idea to leave your stuff behind for other people to deal with. So, with that in mind, I have resolved that this is going to be the year of giving away. Books that I am never going to re-read. Clothes that haven't seen the light of day in 12 months. Costume jewellery that is now too young for me (shoes and bags, ditto). DVDs, knick-knacks, mementos from trips long-forgotten. It all goes. By the time next January rolls around, I hope to have decluttered completely. 

* Of course, all of the above would be useless if I kept on buying more stuff to take the place of what I have given away. So the next item on my to-do list is to buy less. No more shoe-shopping orgies in which I notch up a dozen shoes without even realizing what I am doing. No buying another winter coat when the ones I have in my closet barely get any wear. No more buying physical books unless they're the kind I will want to read again and again (for the rest, the Kindle is a good enough home). And for every single item I buy, I have to get rid of one thing I already possess. That should put a dose of discipline into the proceedings.  

* Talking of books, this is the year when I read more and tweet less (and spend less time on Internet generally). Even those who finish a book a day can only read around 25,000-odd books in their entire lifetime (give or take 70 years). And with every birthday, the number of books that I can realistically read before I depart for the great library in the sky gets less and less. So, it's time to hunker down and devour all the books I always meant to read - but never got around to starting. 

* The year 2017 will always be special to me because I finished my first novel, Race Course Road, in its closing months (it will be released in February this year). And I am hoping I can make 2018 count as well by going back to the manuscript I abandoned half-way to work on this book and getting that across the finish line as well. 

* For the past couple of years, I have been keeping my sugar levels under control by taking long walks when the weather and pollution permits or by joylessly toiling away on my cross-trainer with one eye trained on the television. But that was only until I discovered that I could notch up many more calories burnt and achieve a much higher heart rate if I slipping my earphones in and danced the hour away instead. So, that is going to be my fitness motto for this year: walk less, dance more. (And have much more fun in the process!)

* But while cardio is great for the body, I also intend to nourish my mind. And that's where yoga comes in. No, not the kind in which you push yourself into all kinds of contortions in overheated rooms in the hope of losing weight. But the kind that teaches you to breathe right, shows you how to relax your racing brain, helps your stress levels with the right meditation techniques and allows you to become more in tune with your body and mind. You know the kind that our forefathers used to practice, where you listen to your body and let it lead you instead of trying to beat it into submission. Yes, that's the kind of yoga I am going to immerse myself in this year.

* And then, with a bit of luck, I will be in the right frame of mind to embark on my final - and hopefully, most rewarding - adventure of the year. My own personal rediscovery of Hinduism and the philosophical constructs at the heart of my faith. Given the virulent strands of Hindutva that engulf our public life these days, I think it is more important that ever to do a refresher course in all that Hinduism actually stands for. Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam. The world is one family. That seems like a good place to start. 

Page-turners

As the year comes to a close, here's a list of the best books I read in 2017

Yes, it's that time of year again. When newspapers and magazines begin doing their year-end round-ups. The political highlights of the year. The top ten people of the year. The twenty best places to eat at. The highest-rated holiday destinations. And so on and so forth.

So, in that same spirit of year-end nostalgia, I present to you my own list: the top five books I have read through the year. Needless to say, this is an entirely subjective list, far from comprehensive, and does not include many superb books that came out in 2017. But it is stuff that I read and loved -- and I hope you will read and love too. 

* Little Fires Everywhere: This is Celeste Ng's second novel and it is even more assured than her first, Everything I Never Told You. Set in American suburbia, the story starts with a fire that burns down the home of Richardson family. But the fire is not at the heart of the book, family is. Or rather, families. There are the Richardsons with their picture-perfect house, home to four teenagers. There is peripatetic single mother Mia Warren and her 15-year-old daughter Mia who have a mystery at the centre of their lives. And then, there is a third plot line that involves a custody battle for a baby whose birth mother returns to claim her. It's takes a rare talent to sew all these multiple strands together without losing control of the plot. But Ng is that rare talent, so you are in safe hands.

* Ties: I have to confess that I downloaded this book by Domenico Starnone for ulterior motives. No, not because it has been translated from the Italian by Jhumpa Lahiri (who has also written a foreword). But because Starnone is married to Anita Raja who was recently 'outed' as Elena Ferrante, one of my favorite writers and there had been some speculation that the Neapolitan Novels I so loved were actually the work of Starnone. Well, having read Ties, I have my doubts about that theory. But that said, this book stands up on its own merits, sketching out the life of an ageing couple, with all the indignities of growing old, juxtaposed brilliantly with flashbacks of their young selves. 

* A Legacy of Spies: All the pre-release publicity revolved around how John Le Carre was bringing back George Smiley in this book. But frankly, that was a bit of a red herring. Smiley is referenced constantly through the book but remains offstage, emerging for a cameo at the very end. But that doesn't make this spy thriller (in the loosest sense of the term) any less enjoyable. You have to be a Le Carre aficionado to truly appreciate how the back story is woven in. But even if you are coming to Le Carre for the first time ever, you will be caught up in the sheer skill with which he swings from past to present. Speaking for myself, I was a bit disappointed with the end, but you can read and make up your own mind.

* What Happened: The title doesn't have a question mark at the end but I always hear one as I imagine Hillary Clinton saying in plaintive tones, What the (expletive deleted) Happened? Maybe that's because the author's voice comes through so strongly and clearly as she dissects all that went wrong in her 2016 presidential bid. Many critics have scoffed at the fact that Clinton blames everyone but herself for her electoral loss in this book. But that wasn't how I read it. To me, the book portrayed a woman, who had nothing more to lose, coming clean on how the mistakes she and her campaign made changed the course of American history even as she acknowledged the damage misogyny and sexism had done to her cause. In another decade or so, this will be essential reading for all students of politics. 

* House Of Spies: If you haven't read The Black Widow by Daniel Silva, then drop everything you are doing and read it now. Because Silva's latest, House of Spies, takes off from where The Black Widow left off. The central character is, as always, the legendary Israeli spy, Gabriel Allon, now ensconced at the head of his country's secret service. But even the demands of that job can't keep the intrepid Allon off the field, as he tries to track down and destroy the lynchpin of ISIS, a shadowy character who goes by the name of Saladin. After a momentary dip, when his novels became a tad formulaic, Silva is on top form again, weaving suspenseful stories that will have you up till the early hours of the morning, telling yourself, "Okay, just one more chapter!" Remember, you have been warned. 

Eat, drink and be marry!

How to survive the endless round of parties to celebrate everything  from weddings to Christmas to the New Year Yes, it’s that time of the year again. The time when, between weddings, Christmas and the looming year-end, life turns into one big party. Which sounds all nice and lovely when the party season has just about kicked off, and there is a certain novelty value to getting all blinged up and heading out for an evening of drinks, dance and (a very late) dinner. But after about a fortnight or so (or a week, in my case) this whole festive whirl thing begins to pall. And the very thought of dressing up yet again, putting on a full face of make-up, and slipping on those high heels for another evening of negotiating mad traffic, loud music and indifferent food strikes terror in your heart. Well, at least, it does in mine. So, if you are anything like me, here’s a ready primer for getting through this season and surviving to party yet another year. •       First off, eat before you leave the house. And I don’t just mean a quick snack to take the edge off your hunger. I mean a proper meal that will keep you going till around midnight when your hosts will deign to serve dinner. That way you won’t be tempted to stretch a hand out for all those deep-fried monstrosities being served up as canapés to accompany the drinks. (I have a friend who actually downs a whole glass of Isabgol so that her stomach is so full that she can’t eat one unhealthy morsel when she’s out. But frankly, I wouldn’t go so far.) Then, when dinner is finally on the table, you can tuck in with a clean conscience. •       Pace yourself when it comes to drinks. It is tempting to keep knocking them back as you struggle to make yourself heard above the thumping beats provided by the DJ. But do try and resist. You don’t want just as thumping a hangover the next day. If you’re drinking wine, have a glass of water for every glass of wine you down. If you’re drinking spirits make sure to dilute them with lots of ice and mixers. And if you don’t want to drink at all but don’t know to repel all those “Arre yaar, have one whiskey, na!” there’s a simple way to do it. Get a glass of water, add lots of ice and lemon and claim that you’re drinking vodka. Nobody will care enough to take a sniff of your drink to confirm. •       Have a buddy system going with your friends, in which each of you pledges to rescue the one who has been pinned down by a party bore for more than ten minutes. It helps if you have worked out a few ‘Help Me!’ gestures in advance instead of just looking around wildly for rescue. If you don’t have anyone you can depend on (because they are all getting steadily sloshed in the corner) fall back on the tried-and-tested ‘startled look, smile and wave’ technique. This involves taking a quick look beyond your torturer’s shoulder, widening your eyes in surprise, smiling delightedly, waving wildly to someone in the distance, and excusing yourself with, “Sorry, but I must say hi…” Scamper off quickly before the bore follows you across the room. •       At wedding receptions you couldn’t do worse than adopt a technique that I have perfected over the years. Get there early so that enough people can register your presence. Grab a drink if you must. And then queue up to greet the newly-wedded couple as they stand on stage. Once you get there, hand over the envelope/present, pose for a picture (thereby leaving photographic proof of your attendance), bounce off the stage, do one whirl of the party greeting everyone you know and head straight on home. On a good day, you can be in and out of the reception in 20 minutes flat. •       If small talk isn’t your thing and the prospect of making inane conversation with social acquaintances strikes you as a mind-numbing waste of time, well then, treat parties as your own personal workout session. Hit the dance floor as soon as you can, and then stay there all night long, jiving away until it is time for dinner. (Wear your fitbit if you want to know just how many steps you have notched up and how many calories you have burned; you can then go to bed in a self-congratulatory haze.) •       And that brings me to the most important survival trick of all: comfortable shoes. That doesn’t mean you need to wear flats. It just means that you should steer clear of those vertiginous stilettoes (which have a way of sinking into the wet ground at every outdoor event, pegging you in place in the most embarrassing of ways). Instead, opt for platforms or wedges or even a block heel that wont make your feet ache by the end of the evening. If it makes you feel any better, remember your shoes are not visible beneath that sari or lengha anyway. And even if they were, in that crush nobody would even notice. So dance the night away; and survive another day in the mad scramble that is the annual party season.

Winter is coming

But this time around, I’m not among those celebrating its arrival

Winter has always been my favourite time of year. The moment the temperatures begin to dip in the early morning and the darkness sets in early, my heart starts to soar. Winter is coming, I tell myself excitedly. Though not in a George RR Martin way, thank God!

This year, however, the start of winter has begun to feel a little apocalyptic. I came back from a short break to find Delhi engulfed in a smog so polluted that just breathing that air, I was reliably informed, was equivalent to smoking 50 cigarettes a day. For an asthmatic non-smoker like myself, that sounded like the kiss of death (quite literally).

So, suffice it to say, my reaction to the arrival of winter this time around had been a little bit different. Instead of celebrating the season by taking long walks in Lodhi Gardens, I have retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom with three air-purifiers going at the same time, anxiously checking the counters to see if the PM 2.5 count was going any lower.

The only time I ventured out was to attend the wedding of one of my close friend’s daughter. And after every single function, I staggered back wheezing to my room, puffing away at my Asthalin inhaler as if my life depended on it (spoiler alert: it really does).

The good bit about all this is that I caught up on my reading, devouring Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng and Ties by Domenico Starnone in double quick time (excellent books both, I could not recommend them more highly – but that’s the subject of an entirely different column). I also binge-watched the American TV series, This Is Us, weeping copiously all the way through (don’t let that put you off; it is a fabulous show). And I managed to get in a little exercise as well, working out on my cross-trainer to get my mandatory 30 active minutes every day.

So, compared to those who had to brave the streets and the dust and smoke of Delhi traffic, I didn’t do badly at all. And yet, through it all I was plagued by a vague sense of dissatisfaction, a nagging feeling of missing out on my favourite season of the year, as I sat barricaded in my room, breathing in the best air that money could buy.

My mind went back to winters past, to those halcyon days when Delhi was not a gas chamber, slowly but surely killing us all. I flashed back to my first years in the capital, when I lived in a barsati in Defence Colony, with tiny little rooms but a vast terrace that was transformed into party central the moment the cold set in. My friends and I would sit around a bonfire late into the night, drinking our poison of choice, eating whatever takeaway we had ordered in, talking, laughing, singing, and of course, in due course, dancing, the air crisp against our flushed faces. Good times.

Sunday afternoons were invariably spent in the homes of friends who were prosperous enough to have houses with gardens and backyards. The barbeque would be going, rustling up everything from kebabs to hot dogs, there would be pitchers of beer, sangria and margaritas at the ready (and mulled wine once the cold really set in), someone would be strumming on a guitar while the rest of us drifted along making desultory conversation, as we basked in the balmy sunlight. Soon the drinks would kick in and the lawn would be littered with people in varying degrees of wakefulness, until the soporific effect of the sun made most of us nod off. Siesta after fiesta, we used to call it.

Then, there were the weekend girly lunches my friends and I used to organize around this time of year at some open-air restaurant or the other. Though to be honest, these were less lunches and more gossip sessions, where a hundred reputations died a thousand deaths as we exchanged stories about the worlds of journalism, advertising and PR, which we all belonged to, our tongues suitably lubricated by lashings of Chardonnay. (Now that you mention it, I am beginning to see a pattern here…and yes, it involves alcohol!)

But my best memories are of spending lazy afternoons alone on my terrace, curled up on my wrought-iron sofa with a good book, with just a couple of oranges for company. No matter how carefully I peeled the oranges, a few drops of the juice always spilled on the book I was reading. And now, when I re-read one of them and see that tell-tale stain, it takes me back to that lovely sun-filled terrace where I spent so many happy hours breathing in that cold winter air.

It is these memories that keep me going now, as I huddle inside my air-purified room, fearing that venturing into the open will trigger yet another asthma attack. And with every puff of my inhaler I send up a prayer that one day soon, I will be able to relive these moments for real instead of just in my imagination.