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.

 

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. 

Blossom and bloom

Flowers are not just for decoration – they can help you time travel as well

 

My first home in Delhi, when I moved here nearly three decades ago, was a barsati in Defence Colony. And the first plant I bought for my terrace garden was a pot of flowering nargis (narcissus). A member of the daffodil family, this elegant white and yellow flower blooms for the briefest of periods in the late winter/early spring. But for all its small size, it packs a powerful punch when it comes to its heady, yet delicate perfume.

 

This winter, when I began looking for flowering plants for the teeny-tiny balcony I now have, my thoughts inevitably turned to nargis. And thus began a fruitless trawl through all the nurseries in and around me, searching in vain for a pot of this amazing plant. When I drew a blank everywhere, I decided to do the next best thing. I popped into the neighbourhood florist and bought a huge bunch of the flowers instead. At home, I arranged them in bowls and vases, and scattered them throughout the house, so that everywhere I went, I was accompanied by the sweet smell of nargis and a heady whiff of nostalgia. 

 

It's strange how I associate flowers with certain stages of my life. Easter lilies always remind me of my childhood home in Calcutta, where my grandfather would plant his bulbs every year, watch their progress anxiously, and heave a sigh of relief when they finally flowered. Then, after the season was over, the precious bulbs would be stored away carefully for the next year. Whenever I see lilies now, they trigger the memory of those annual rituals of my grandfather.

 

Another flower that I always associate with my childhood in Calcutta is the shiuli. This blooms just once a year and the white flowers barely last a couple of days on the tree, falling down to create a lovely, aromatic canopy on the ground. But their smell wafts across the entire house and reminds us that Pujo is coming, and that the Devi will soon be among us. Now that I live in Delhi, Pujo doesn’t have quite the same resonance, but the sweet perfume of shiuli is still my favourite thing about this time of the year.

 

Assam gave me my first experience of night-flowering trees, at the tea garden owned by my aunt. Walking through the garden one night, my 8-year-old self was assailed by a smell I was hard-pressed to describe to myself, but which I loved nonetheless. It was the smell of raat ki rani, I was told by my cousin. Also called night-blooming jasmine, this bush bordered the house and the garden and perfumed the air around it every night. Even today, when I smell that distinctive scent, it is that tea planter’s bungalow that I am transported to.

 

I fell in love with orchids on my first trip to Bangkok. What they lacked by way of perfume, they more than made up with their infinite variety of colours and patterns. Whereas other people stocked up on clothes, bags, shoes and perfumes when they visited the city, I came back home laden with orchids of every stripe. They lasted for nearly a month in vases if they were well looked after, and in my mind, made the holiday last for just a little longer. 

 

More recently, it is the perfume of the flowering alstonia (saptaparani) tree outside my balcony that has become the smell of the Delhi winter. I have recreated my Assam evenings by planting raat ki rani in pots on my balcony. And ever so often, I drop by the florist to pick up some orchids to create a little corner of Bangkok in my living room, or a bunch of lilies to keep the memory of my grandfather alive.

 

As I write this, the heady smell of nargis fills my senses. And I can’t help but feel that flowers really do have the power to take us back to other worlds we inhabited not so long ago. And as time travel goes, you simply can’t beat this mode of transport. You really should try it some time. 

 

Missing in action

As our world shrinks to travel destinations within a few hours drive, here are some of the places I can’t wait to revisit

 

I guess it was bound to happen. After a few months of driving out to nearby resorts for mini-breaks – because flights are still a no-no in my Covid-paranoid household – we are rapidly running out of holiday destinations. We have done Jaipur, staying in not one but two of my favourite hotels. We have ventured out to Alwar, a place we had never explored before, and loved it. And of course, we have done the tried and tested Agra vacation, right under the shadow of the Taj Mahal. 

 

But now that we have exhausted the possibilities within a few hours drive from Delhi, my thoughts are inexorably turning to destinations that I can’t travel to for the foreseeable future. And the more I think about them, the more I miss them with an almost visceral twist of the gut.

 

First up on the list is London. I first discovered it in my 20s, and since then have been going there at least twice a year. As a consequence, such is my familiarity with the city that it almost seems like a second home. And yet, no matter how often I visit, London never gets old. Whether I am tramping through St James Park or trudging through Hampstead Heath; whether I am traipsing the aisles of Waitrose or Marks and Spencer; whether I am marveling at the paintings on display at the National Gallery or the Tate Modern; London never ceases to amaze and astonish with its cornucopia of delights.

 

If London is like a second home, then Bangkok is like the alternate universe in which I would like to live forever. Over the last couple of decades I have seen the city transform from a somewhat sleepy, sometimes seedy, destination into a sleek, skyscraper-strewn, shimmering capital, which attracts people from all over the world, with its world-class shopping, its amazing food (whether you eat on the streets or in Michelin-star restaurants), and its friendly people who never seem to stop smiling. Small wonder then that I can’t wait to go back.

 

As the winter fog descends on Delhi and the sun goes AWOL, my mind’s eye conjures up the white sands of Maldivian beaches, the azure-blue waters, and the clear turquoise skies of that island paradise, as I fantasize about sitting by the sea and sipping on a cocktail as I enjoy the tropical weather. I am even happy to let the humidity and sea breeze do its worst with my hair, so long as I can soak up the heat and let the warm water of the lagoon wash over me. 

 

Speaking of lagoons, how could I possibly forget the most stunning of them all? Venice! I was fortunate enough to first discover it in the depths of winter, when the tourist hordes were missing in action. I spent days wandering the near-empty calles (streets), bundled up in my overcoat and woolen cap, marveling at the architectural marvels that lay around every corner. Since then, I have been back several times, and each time La Serenissima has shown me a different facet of her undeniable beauty. I guess the streets are empty again – now because of Covid – but this time I can walk them only in my imagination.

 

Thinking of Venice leads me inexorably to other destinations in Italy, in all of which I have left behind pieces of my heart. Rome, whose magnificent monuments are a testament to the talent and ingenuity of mankind. Siena, with its cobbled streets and medieval structures that take you right back in time. San Gimignano and its dreaming spires. The shimmering waves that lap the beaches of Liguria. The stunning vistas you can feast your eyes on from the Amalfi coast. I could go on, if it wasn’t for the small matter of the lump in my throat. 

 

I don’t know when the world will have healed enough for us to venture out and explore it anew. But I do know that when that day dawns, I, for one, am going to be spoilt for choice. And I hope that you are just as lucky.

Taking a break?

Travel the world if you want to; but don’t knock the humble ‘family holiday’

Chances are that you are reading this either while planning a holiday, enjoying a break, or recovering from the rigours of a family vacation. Yes, this is the holiday season, when everyone who can afford it gets away from the heat as fast as they possibly can.

And these days we are all spoilt for choice, aren’t we? We can hit the beaches of Goa or Koh Samui, depending on our budget. We can enjoy the mountain air in Manali, Shimla or even Switzerland, if our money stretches that far. We can trek in Nepal; go shopping in Dubai; watch plays in London; golf in Scotland; sample the best of Renaissance art in Italy; indulge in a bit of wine-tasting in France or the Napa Valley; gorge – or gag, it depends entirely on you – on authentic Chinese fare in Shanghai or Beijing.

As far as holidays are concerned, the sky (and of course, our bank balance) is the limit. And even then, there’s nothing we enjoy more than pushing the limits. A week spent river-rafting in the wilds of the South American jungle? Bring it on. A fortnight in the icy wilderness of Greenland getting in touch with our inner Innuit? Why ever not? Walking up the slopes of active volcanoes in New Zealand? Count us in.

These days, everyone wants to push the envelope when it comes to holidays. It’s no longer enough to go tiger-watching in Ranthambore, Pench or Bandhavgarh. You have to go on a safari in Africa or better still, watch from the sidelines when the annual migration of wildebeest takes place in Kenya. Chilling out on the beaches of Kovalam is now passé. These days you must head out to Croatia, the new jewel of the Mediterranean. And Nainital and Darjeeling are now spoilt beyond belief; if you want to enjoy the mountains then Ladakh is where it’s at.

It sounds great doesn’t it? After all, who would pass up the opportunity to see the world in all its glory, sample the delights – both culinary and cultural – it has to offer, and explore every nook and cranny of our beautiful planet. If we live in a global village, then I guess it behoves us to get acquainted with all its secret gardens. And great fun it is too.

And yet, even as I scour the internet looking for the best deals on hotels and airline fares, there is a tiny little part of me that misses the good old days when holidays were more about family time and less about seeing the world. When we spent our vacations bonding with assorted uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews and a veritable army of cousins rather than discovering the delights of gelato or the finer points of bull-fighting. When taking a break didn’t necessarily involve breaking the bank.

Growing up, I spent all my school vacations visiting various members of our extended – and, to be honest, fairly extensive – family. The summers were invariably spent at my aunt’s tea garden in Assam. And the holiday started from the time we boarded the train from Sealdah station, me armed with a stack of Amar Chitra Kathas and my mother with a lot of patience. Snack-time came with every station we stopped at, with deep-fried samosas and pakoras being scoffed down with hot, milky tea drunk from terracotta bhands (yes, I know, it sounds a bit vulgar, but it just means a tea-cup).

The high point of the journey was the ferry transfer across the Brahmaputra, which put all those geography lessons in perspective. And then, there was the rickety jeep-ride to the tea garden itself, with us indefatigable kids singing loudly and I fear quite tunelessly in the back while the adults struggled to stay upright on those long and winding roads.

And then followed a few weeks of absolute bliss, when you never needed to do anything you didn’t want to. There were no mandatory early mornings to catch the sunrise on the beach; no traipsing around museums feigning interest in the Dutch masters and dinosaur models; no endless shopping trips for our moms to drag us on. Instead, my assorted cousins and I ran quite wild: going on long exploratory walks on the tea slopes; examining the wild life in the area (mostly frogs and leeches, if you must know); starting our own Enid Blyton-style Five Find-Outers gang; making friends with the kids in the local village; and generally, having a blast.

In the winters, we headed north to visit more uncles and aunts. It helped, of course, that my uncles were in the army and hence could host us in a different city every three years or so. Thus it was that we sampled the delights of Southern temples, splashed around on the rocky beaches of Visakhapatnam, explored a yet-unspoilt Bhutan, visited endless forts and palaces in Rajasthan and made ourselves at home in army messes all around the country. All of this, leavened with lots of inter-generation bonding, and much re-telling of old family lore.

Even today, when I have traversed every continent in my travels, it is those family holidays that evoke the most heart-felt memories. And it is the family bonds forged on those vacations that provide me with the most emotional sustenance.

So, in case you haven’t booked that mini-break in Bangkok just yet, you might want to examine the possibility of a family vacation. Your kids may balk at it now; but they may well thank you for it in the years to come.