Working lunch

Is a restaurant ever justified in telling people to get off their laptops?

Ever since I began to earn enough money to pay for restaurant meals, I have enjoyed the experience of going out to eat with myself. In the pre-smartphone era, I would take a book along, try and bag a window table, and graze for a couple of hours while entertaining myself with a spot of people-watching interspersed with reading (with some sneaky eavesdropping on neighbouring tables providing some food for thought!). When I stopped working in an office, and got a bit stir-crazy writing in the solitude of my study, I would often head out with my laptop to do a bit of writing while grabbing a sandwich and coffee. And more recently, it is my smartphone that keeps me occupied, whether it is answering emails, scrolling social media, or just reading a book on my Kindle app.

 

I have done this sort of thing for decades, all over the world, in restaurants both expensive and cheap, fancy and fuss-free, and I have never been made to feel that I was making a nuisance of myself, by working on a laptop, an Ipad, or even my phone. So, it came as a bit of surprise to read on X that a restaurant in Delhi had told a female single diner not to work on her laptop as she waited for her meal. This being X, there were heated opinions on both sides of the debate, with some saying that restaurants had the right to ban laptops and others – like me – saying that such prohibitions should be stated upfront and not sprung on guests after they have ordered. 

 

Of course, restaurants have the right to lay down rules about what guests are allowed (or not allowed) to do. Equally, guests have the right to vote with their feet and not go back to restaurants that make them feel unwelcome. But the more I thought about it, the more the laptop ban made no sense. The argument goes that if you allow people to work on laptops then the ambience of the restaurant changes and it becomes like a co-working place. But given how technology works these days, you can do the same kind of work on an Ipad and a smartphone, so why just discriminate against laptop users? And if you are committed to not letting your restaurant turn into a co-working place, then are you going to police your guests’ smartphone usage and make sure that they are not actually doing any work while they wait for their entrée to be served? 

 

And what would be allowed and disallowed? Is it verboten to answer emails but responding to a Whatsapp message is fine? Is scrolling through Instagram allowed but working on a presentation forbidden? A book is ok but Facebook marketplace is not?

 

Frankly, this makes zero sense. And if you ask me, rather than police the use of laptops at the table, restaurants would be better off ensuring that people use their devices with due consideration to others. I have lost count of the number of times I have sat at a restaurant while people at the next table watched video shorts or listened to music clips without the benefit of headphones. Instead of banishing laptops, how about we prohibit noise pollution like this? 

 

Now, that’s a ban I could get on board with. 

 

'Tis the season

Every city has a time when it shines brightest -- and that's the best time to visit

Cities have their good and bad days just as they have their good and bad seasons. And the best way to get the most of your visits is to choose a time when their good days and good seasons coalesce to make for a fabulous experience. 

For instance, you can’t go wrong visiting Calcutta — as I still refer to it, having grown up there — during Durga Puja. There is a particular magic in the air during the Puja season and you can’t help being infected by it. The entire city is shimmering with lights; walking through the streets is to be left awestruck by the inventiveness of the decorations; and the pandals are often works of art in themselves. The idols of the Goddess are stunning and innovative, leaving even nonbelievers in a state of bliss. And that’s before they’ve tasted the bhog. 

Similarly, Goa can cast a spell on the best of us during the monsoons. There is something enchanting about the landscape dominated by varying shades of green, with the foliage wiped clean by the incessant rain. The sea is grey and stormy and this is probably not the best time to swim. But just sitting on the beach and watching the swell of waves can be mesmerising in itself. 

Every city presents its best face during spring but no one does it better than Delhi. This is the season of flowers in the national capital and every roundabout and street is lined with colourful blooms. The weather is just right to visit its many monuments and parks. The worst of the winter pollution has gone but the evenings and mornings are still cool and pleasing. Take a walk in Old Delhi; feast on a picnic in Sunder Nursery; or simply eat some chaat on the streets; you simply can’t go wrong. 

I have my own reasons to pick particular times to visit certain cities. I like to time my visits to Amritsar either around Baisakhi or Diwali because this is the time when the Golden Temple is decked up like a bride, its gold facade lit by thousands of glittering lights. Yes, you spend more time in queues to visit the Darbar Saheb but the view is totally worth the wait. 

That’s much the same reason why I like to visit London during Christmas and New Year. Yes, the days are short and it is dark by 4 pm but the Christmas lights shine all the brighter for that and there is a feeling of festivity in the air that is truly infectious. And there is no better feeling than sitting by a roaring fireplace with a glass of mulled wine and a mince pie while a shimmering Christmas tree looms in front of you. 

Winter is also the season when my thoughts turn to Venice. The first visit I ever made to La Serenissima was in December and I fell in love with the city as I walked the near-empty streets completely free of tourists. Ever since then I have chosen to visit Venice during the off-season to enjoy the city when it is not heaving with the hordes that invade it in summer. I can’t recommend this enough (having suffered the crowds during one ill-judged summer visit) especially since hotels cost far less at this time. 

Not all men?

 That is true; but believe me, it is Every Single Woman

There are no words to describe the horror that every woman felt when the facts of the rape and murder of a young woman doctor at RG Kar Medical College and Hospital in Kolkata came to light. Sadly, though, there were enough men who found it within themselves to shout “Not All Men” on social media when they were confronted with women expressing shock, sadness and, indeed, anger, at this horrific incident. 

 

Of course, they are right to the extent that not every man is a rapist. But it is equally true that every single woman – and believe me, it is Every Single Woman – has faced sexual molestation of one kind or another at some stage in her life. In fact, to be a woman in India is to live with the constant fear that one day the rape story in the newspaper could be about you. And every woman who reads about any such incident has the same thought in her head: There, but for the Grace of God, go I…

 

No man can possibly understand what it means to live as a woman in this country. For starters, you have to live in a state of constant vigilance, never letting down your guard just in case some threat was to present itself. Men walk down deserted streets without giving it a second thought; women would never venture into the shadows for fear of what they would find. Men can hail a cab to go back home late at night and nod off without a care in the world; women will take a picture of the number plate and share it with friends, map the route, and stay alert just in case things went awry. No man I know has ever considered pepper spray on his person or clutched a bunch of keys in his hand as an improvised weapon; every woman I know has done both at one point or another.

 

What’s worse is that it’s not just stranger danger that a woman has to guard against. She doesn’t just have to worry about the man pressing himself against her on public transport but also about the boss who makes lewd remarks about her figure. It’s not just the man at the street corner who shouts vulgarities at her who is the problem; it’s also the lecherous uncle who has been feeling her up since she was a child. Not only does she have to guard against all these predators she also has to constantly police herself so that she doesn’t “provoke men” or give them “the wrong idea”. And that’s harder than it sounds because anything from a loud laugh to a sleeveless blouse or a short skirt can set these men off – because, don’t you know, she was “asking for it”.

 

It's an exhausting way to live and that, quite frankly, is what every woman is: completely and utterly exhausted. Exhausted trying to find a safe space where she can simply exist without worrying about where the next attack might potentially be coming from. Exhausted because there seems to be no end in sight to the constant threat of sexual violence. And exhausted by the physical, mental and emotional toll this constant hypervigilance takes on her.

 

“Not All Men,” you say? Probably. But it is “Every Single Woman”.

Death becomes her (and him)

 Death is the ultimate whitewash; making saints of ordinary men and women

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones. So William Shakespeare wrote about Julius Caeser, putting his words in Mark Antony’s mouth. But I can’t help but think that Shakespeare got it wrong this one time. The truth is that death is the ultimate whitewash, cleansing the deceased of all their sins and leaving behind a saintly figure that often bears no resemblance to the person they actually were while alive. 

The revisionism starts soon after death. All eulogies by family members and friends focus on the many virtues of the recently departed, some real but many imagined. Even the worst parent is recast a doting presence by bereaved children. The surviving spouse of the most fractious relationship will have you believe that their’s was the love story of the century. And so on. 

That’s not entirely surprising given that we are constantly being exhorted not to speak ill of the dead. If you have nothing nice to say, we are told if we are even mildly critical, then it’s better to say nothing at all. If you must speak then make sure that you are devotional rather than derogatory in tone. 

In time, this message becomes so internalised in us that we are programmed to look at the dead through rose-tinted glasses. The mother with whom the daughters had a difficult relationship riven with arguments and fights morphs into a maternal figure who was nothing but sweetness and light. The father who never had time for his kids while alive is celebrated as a benevolent patriarch who led by example. The spouse who was controlling or emotionally distant is portrayed as the ideal partner who could do no wrong. 

I suppose at one level this makes sense. When somebody you love dies you want to focus on their best selves — and the only way to do that is to wish away all their jagged edges. So you endow them with a persona that you wish they had had in real life. You lavish them with virtues they never had. You create memories that you wish existed. And in time you come to believe that your revisionism is, in fact, the truth. 

But the truth is that we do a disservice to those no longer among us when we ignore their full selves in favour of just celebrating their best bits. It takes courage to look at the life and legacy of the deceased in a way in which we acknowledge their flaws, their human failings, their failures. The truest expression of love is to admit that someone you loved was flawed — but was worthy of love, anyway. 

Selective memory can sometimes be a way of protecting ourselves from hurt. And what could hurt more than the thought that your mom didn’t truly love you, that your dad was indifferent to your success, or even that your husband/wife regretted marrying you. But it is only when we admit these possibilities and learn to go beyond them to arrive at a purer love that we can truly honour the dead. 

Home is where the heart is

And for me, it will always be India... 

Whenever people ask me which is my favourite city in the world, I don’t even have to pause and think. No, the answer is always on the tip of my tongue. It’s London all the way. I love the city for its magnificent monuments, its beautiful parks, its fun pubs and the glorious countryside a short car ride away. And yet if anyone were to ask me to move to London and live there full-time, I wouldn’t take a second to say, “No, thank you.”

 

And no, that’s no reflection on London. I am happy to spend weeks there on holiday and have done so for many years. But the very idea of moving to a foreign country – whether it is England, or Thailand, or even my eternal love, Italy – to live there forever leaves me cold. 

 

I know what you’re thinking. I am one of those spoilt upper middle-class ladies who is so used to other people cooking and cleaning for her that the very idea of looking after myself in a city where domestic help is hard to come by makes a shiver go up my spine. And yes, I agree that when it comes to domestic help, people of my age and class have it extremely easy in India. But it’s not the cooking and loading the dishwasher that gives me pause – in fact, I quite enjoy fending for myself when I am abroad – but the feeling that I would never flourish far away from my natural habitat, in a country that I cannot really call my own, no matter how long I live there or how hard I try to assimilate.  

 

Nor do I think that this is a function of age, and that I am now too middle-aged and set in my ways to countenance such a change. Even when I was in my early twenties and had several opportunities to move abroad and start a new life, I always declined the opportunity. The thought of being a legal alien in another country just didn’t appeal no matter how good the pay packet that came with it. To me, it was far more important to live in a place where everyone else looked like me, where I could speak, read and write the local language, and where my family and friends were just a phone call away.

 

The comfort of familiarity is what always anchored me in place. And that feeling has only got stronger with time. The very idea of living in a place where nobody else speaks my language leaves me cold. And even though globalization has created a world in which you can get Indian food anywhere in the universe, you simply can’t replicate the taste of home anywhere abroad no matter how hard you try. 

 

Which is why, while I love to travel the world, sampling the delights that it has to offer, I am never as happy as when I am coming back home to my own country, my own home, and my own kitchen. The first meal I eat when I arrive back is always a khichdi with copious quantities of ghee, with some alu choka and mango pickle. 

 

That’s the taste of home to me; and home can never be anywhere else but India.

 

Moving house

It's supposed to be a traumatic experience -- but I must confess I rather enjoyed it

I’ve had to move house many different times in my life. And while those who say that moving home is as traumatic as experiencing the loss of a loved one may have a point, I must admit that I rather enjoyed the process of uprooting myself and setting up again in an entirely different locale.

 

There is nothing quite like a house move to clarify your priorities for you. For me, whenever I have moved into a new space, the first thing I have done is set up the kitchen. I get all my appliances – coffee-maker, oven, microwave, electric kettle, fridge, etc. – up and running well before I move in. That’s because when I wake up for the first time in a new house, the one thing that makes it feel like home is a cup of coffee made exactly how I like it. And if I can’t cook myself a meal in a house, then it fails the ‘home-test’ as far as I am concerned.

 

Setting up the bedroom comes a distant second for me. I will happily camp out on a mattress on the floor for weeks on end, so long as I can roast some vegetables in the oven, or even just heat up last night’s leftovers in the microwave. And as for the living room, I take my time putting it right because sometimes I need a space to speak to me before I make any permanent design choices.

 

I realize that I am probably in the minority here. Most people would make sure that they could sleep in comfort in their bed (with their stuff piled on the bedside table) before they moved in. They would happily live off takeaway meals so long as their bedroom was set up to their specifications. But what can I say? That would be a deal breaker for me. As far as I am concerned, the kitchen is the heart of every home – and if it’s not functional, well then, neither is the home.

 

In the end, it all comes down to priorities. Some of my friends maintain that the first thing you should do when you move into a house is fix the in-house entertainment system. Make sure you have a wi-fi-connection that is strong enough to stream Netflix or Amazon Prime, get your TV hooked up and connected to the surround sound system. Then, once you’ve done your unpacking for the day, you can order in some food and chill in front of the television. That, they say, is the best way to make yourself feel at home in a new space.

 

I guess, when it comes to the crunch, it is a case of each to his or her own. But I think it gives us an insight into our own personalities to examine when we truly start to feel at home in a new house. Some people prioritize getting a good night’s sleep; others may want the public areas of the house (where they would entertain guests) to come together at first; some would be lost if they didn’t get their daily streaming fix every night; and then there are those like me, who only feel at home if they can rustle up a meal for themselves and their loved ones in their own kitchen.

 

Which of these categories do you fall into?

 

Serial killers

If Bridgerton can make it to Netflix, why not the Regency Romances of Georgette Heyer?

Regency Romances have always been my preferred comfort reads. But it wasn’t until Bridgerton premiered on Netflix that I first heard of the woman who wrote the books that the series was based on. Delighted to stumble upon an undiscovered author of this period, I hastened to download my first ever Julia Quinn and settled down to devour her in one gulp. 

 

Well, imagine my disappointment when I found the book very heavy going indeed. At this point, perhaps, I should mention that when it comes to Regency Romances, my benchmark is the late, great Georgette Heyer. Her plots are ingenious, her characters are captivating, her dialogue positively sparkles, and she brings the historical milieu alive with the lightest of touches. Julia Quinn, not to put too fine a point on it, achieved none of the above – well, in my opinion, at least.

 

But as I forced myself to read until the very end, I couldn’t help but wonder why this series of books had found a visual home on Netflix while nobody seemed to have the slightest interest in making a series out of the splendid novels that Georgette Heyer wrote in her lifetime. What I wouldn’t give to watch a series that featured the most feisty of Heyer’s heroines, feminists of their time, who found a way to flourish in the male-dominated world of Regency England? 

 

Can you imagine The Grand Sophy on the small screen? With Jacko the monkey perched on her shoulder, a tiny but lethal pistol tucked away in her reticule, her riding habit clinging to her statuesque form as she cantered through Hyde Park? Or the lovely Venetia, languishing in the countryside with only her disabled brother for company, where she meets – and subsequently, tames – the tempestuous Lord Damerel? Or the infamous Lady Barbara Childe, the scandalous widow who sets all of Brussels talking with her wild ways as the countdown to the battle of Waterloo begins?

 

I could go on, because every book of Heyer’s could provide great material for a TV series; but for some mysterious reason, she just doesn’t make the cut. 

 

The same is true of another great favourite of mine: Daniel Silva and his series of spy novels featuring the Israeli assassin, Gabriel Allon. But though, over the years, we have heard the odd muttering about how a TV series or movie is in the making, nothing has appeared on our screens as yet. And now, with the Israel-Gaza conflict dominating headlines and dividing world opinion, I guess we will have to wait for calmer times until someone is going to risk bring Allon to life on the small screen. 

 

Until that happens, I would be quite content to see Donna Leon’s Commissario Brunetti series, set in beauteous Venice, brought to a small screen near us (there is a German production that has done that, but I’d rather hold out for an Italian or English version). Or, at the very least, I would like to see S.J. Bennett’s series of books in which Queen Elizabeth (yes, the very same!) moonlights as a detective in her spare time translated to TV. 

It would be like The Crown and Christie coming together to create magic, and who wouldn’t pay good money to see that?