The tastes of childhood

They persist even when you are all grown up...

They say that your tastebuds are formed in childhood. That it is the tastes you were weaned on that are the ones that remain your favourites no matter how old you get. 

That is certainly true in my case. I only started eating meat in my mid-twenties when I met my now-husband. And while I enjoy a kakori kebab and a mutton biryani as much as the next person, given a choice I will still choose a vegetarian dish when I eat out. That’s the taste I grew up with; and that’s the taste I go back to every time, despite the occasional experiment with a prawn balchao or a pork sausage. 

More specifically my taste buds were formed in Calcutta (as it was called then) and those are the tastes I still hanker for. Give me a bag of jhaal muri or a helping of puchchkas and I get absolutely delirious with joy. I love a ghee-soaked khichdi along with some aloo posto. And whenever I am craving comfort those are the dishes I fall back on. (The choco-bars of my early years have now become Magnum classics — but they remain the taste of childhood to me.)

But thinking about it the other day, I realised that it’s not just your taste buds that are formed in your childhood. Some habits are also hard wired into you from the time when you were growing up. And these formative experiences form the basis of your adult life, even though you might be unaware of it on a conscious level. 

Take my love of gardens and parks, which I have written about often in this column. It can’t be a coincidence that I spent my childhood making regular visits to the Botanical Gardens in Calcutta. Almost every other weekend would be spent picnicking on the grounds in the shade of the giant banyan tree with family and friends. I am pretty sure it is those childhood memories that are imprinted on my mind which make me such a regular at Sunder Nursery or Lodi Garden or — for that matter — in any park in a city I happen to visit. There is nothing I love more than losing myself amidst the foliage, marvelling at the trees and revelling in bird song. 

My reading tastes are also a holdover from my growing years. Whenever I am looking for a comfort read I head straight for my childhood favourites like Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer or Jane Austen. Murder mysteries — and by extension, spy thrillers — are my go-to reads even now. And I love period dramas set in the English countryside, preferring them over more contemporaneous stories. So yes, my favourite kind of book is a murder mystery set in an English stately home. And of course, my favourite series are those like Downton Abbey which faithfully recreate that period. 

And then, there is my habit of reading myself to sleep. No matter how tired I may be, no matter how long the day has been, it never truly ends for me until I have spent half an hour reading under the covers. My inner child still needs that bedtime ritual to fall asleep. 

It's a Big Day!

Or Burra Din, as Christmas is dubbed in Calcutta - and it's magical! 

 

Growing up in Calcutta, Christmas was always a magical time of the year for me. It wasn’t just that I went to a convent school or that I had Christian friends who would celebrate this day as a religious festival. It was also because Christmas – or Burra Din, as we called it in Cal – had been transformed into a secular holiday by the denizens of the city, who treated it as a special occasion to be marked by fireworks, street lights, neighbourhood parties and community picnics, in which everyone would wear silly hats, eat, drink and make very merry indeed. 

 

Strangely enough, there was never any tradition of Christmas presents – or, at least, not in my family. And even though there were plenty of men dressed as Santa Claus roaming around the shops in New Market, we children were never encouraged to write to Santa with a wish list of all we wanted. In fact, all we ever got for Christmas was a cake from the famous Nahoum shop (and very delicious it was too). But we did get taken to Park Street, when it was all lit up for the festival, and were treated to a slap-up meal in one of the posh restaurants on the street – a highlight of my year!

 

Perhaps it is all those childhood memories that ensure that I start feeling all festive and celebratory as Christmas comes near. I still draw the line at presents because it seems like a needless commercialization of yet another religious festival. I don’t get in a Christmas tree, mostly because I have no room for one. And no, I don’t attend midnight mass either these days though I have done so in the past and been moved to tears by the power of the choral music. 

 

But I do have some Christmas rituals of my own that I use to mark this time of the year. To recreate the Park Street of my childhood, I string up some fairy lights all around my living room and decorate the dining table with sprigs of holly and mistletoe. I am not much of a baker but I am blessed with friends who send over plum cakes around this time so breakfast usually turns into a calorific feast which I keep telling myself is not sinful because, you know, Christmas!

 

Turkey is not to my taste but you still need a slap-up Christmas lunch. In my house, we go for bangers and mash or lamb and roasted potatoes, with some pasta and risotto for vegetarians, followed up with – what else? – another helping of Christmas cake. Silly hats are optional but everyone must bring a good appetite and memories of Christmases past, which we share around the table along with a few good glugs of champagne or wine. 

 

My stories inevitably hark back to Calcutta and growing up in the city in which Christmas was literally the Big Day (Burra Din). I remember family picnics in Botanical Gardens, where I, along with my childhood friend Kavita, would dance in public with the gay abandon that only children can summon up. And I promise myself that next Christmas I will find my way back there to relive those days one more time.

So, on that note, Merry Christmas to all! 

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?

Remains of the day

Coming back to the city of my birth is always a trip down memory lane

 

The best trips down memory lane, as far as I am concerned, are the ones that involve travelling back to my birth city: Kolkata. Or, as it was called during my growing-up years, Calcutta. Or, more familiarly still, the single-syllable Cal. 

 

To me, Kolkata will forever be Cal, no matter what the official name of the city is. And it is the Cal of my memories I return to every time I make a trip to this most beloved of cities. This time, I was visiting after three years, and I was there for the best of reasons: to do a session on my new book, Madam Prime Minister, at the Kolkata Literary Meet. The venue of the festival was Victoria Memorial, and there couldn’t be a more effective trigger for my nostalgia. 

 

As I arrived to attend the first day and watch my husband promote his own book, I found myself transported back to my childhood the moment I laid eyes on that iconic dome. The sunny days I had spent in the museum’s cool confines as a schoolkid, being led around the exhibits by my mother who wanted to improve my mind. The treat after this torture was being allowed to feast on daal vadas and chutney and guzzle Thums Up livened up with copious quantities of masala. My teenage years were misspent on the lawns of this magnificent memorial, when a bunch of us would bunk college and wander aimlessly through the lawns, giggling helplessly every time we came across a courting couple making out in some shady corner (what can I say? We were young and foolish!). 

 

Just sitting in the shadow of Victoria Memorial, lit up in all its glory, was enough to bring all these memories rushing back. And suddenly, I was no longer a middle-aged woman here to promote my second novel. I was a teenager once again, with my entire life in front of me, and the taste of phuchkas in my mouth. 

 

I mean that quite literally as well as metaphorically, because no trip to Cal is complete without a phuchka stop. To me, this is the taste of Calcutta itself: the crisp puri filled with a savoury potato and channa mixture, topped with the green-tinged khatta pani (with none of the saunth nonsense that Delhi golgappas are tainted with). This is what my food dreams are made of; and they can only be fulfilled at the phuckha stops I remember from my growing-up years.

 

In my college days, my favourite phuchka stop was opposite Lighthouse Cinema. My other regular haunt used to be what we called Theatre Road (Shakespeare Sarani, to give it its proper name), which had some of the best chaat on offer. The best shingharas and jilepis (jalebi to you) were found at the mishti dokaan near my house, which sadly no longer exists. And on every trip back to Cal, I try to find a shop that can replicate that taste, and though some come close, none of them can compete with the memory in my head. 

 

It's not just food memories alone that need to be indulged, though. There are also the haunts of my childhood – no matter how altered they may be many decades later – that need to be revisited. A walk down Park Street is obligatory, with quick pit stops at the Oxford Bookstore and a detour down the lane to gaze on the frontage of Loreto House, where I spent so many happy years. I invariably take a drive down the Strand, to gaze on the Hooghly and the cantilevered glory of Howrah Bridge.

 

This time round, my schedule was too tight to fight in the mandatory visit to Botanical Gardens, where I used to frolic as a child among the sprawling expanse of the great Banyan Tree, now sadly barricaded and off limits to visitors. But, as I take a flight out of the city, I console myself with the thought that there is always a next time. 

 

Because when it comes to Cal, it’s always au revoir, never adieu.

 

Season in the sun

Winter is the best time to enjoy the great outdoors in our country

 

From the time I was a child, winter has always been my favourite time of year. Growing up in Calcutta (as it was then), I was used to sweltering all through the summer, the monsoon, and even the autumn. But the moment winter announced itself in chilly mornings and cool evenings, my period of suffering was over. Now, it was possible to be out and about, enjoying the sights and sounds of the city, without being reduced to a puddle of sweat at the end of the day.

 

The Calcutta winter barely lasted two months, but boy, did we make those 60 days count! There would be boat rides down the Hooghly, ice-cream on the Strand, picnics in Botanical Gardens, visits to the zoo, and the obligatory round of Victoria Memorial and its surrounds. There would be barbeques hosted by friends, terrace parties where the entire family congregated, and more.

 

The best part of the Calcutta winter was, of course, Christmas – or Burra Din, as we called it in those parts. Park Street would be lit up like a new bride, there would be a queue for Christmas cake outside Nahoums, and very unlikely looking Santas would parade through New Market. Memories of that time of year resurface every December even though I moved out of the city of my birth nearly three decades ago.

 

My love affair with the winter season persisted though, even if it was now conducted amidst the tree-lined avenues of Delhi. In fact, in some ways, winter was even more magical a time in Delhi than it had been in Calcutta. For one thing, it got properly cold – the kind of cold that required radiators at home and overcoats and boots outside. There was something magical about getting kitted out in three warm layers and heading out to have the wind whip some colour on to your cheeks and turn your nose into a freezing icicle. And it was even more special to come home and warm yourself up with a nice cup of hot chocolate as you huddled by the heater.

 

Not that it’s just about Calcutta and Delhi. Winter is the best time to enjoy the outdoors no matter where you live in India. Take a walk along Marine Drive in Mumbai to watch the sun set in the Arabian sea and enjoy the cool sea breeze. Head out to the mountains of Gulmarg in Kashmir for a spot of skiing. Frolic in the waters of the sea whether you are in Chennai or Goa. Soak up the balmy sunshine in the parks of Bangalore. Visit monuments in your near-vicinity: the Sun Temple in Konark; Humayun’s Tomb in Delhi; the Taj Mahal; the Charminar in Hyderabad. This is the one time of the year you can do all this without breaking into a sweat.

 

As for me, I have got my winter plans all sorted. The mornings will be spent in the sun-dappled corner of my living room, drinking coffee and reading the newspapers. Lunch will be al fresco: it could be a sandwich on a park bench or a three-course meal in the outdoor area of a restaurant or even a kathi roll eaten on my balcony. Afternoons will be spent walking in Sundar Nursery, counting down to the sunset, which is always spectacular in that setting. Evenings will be spent on the terrace, nursing a glass of red wine. And I will end the day on my balcony, taking in the divine scent of the Saptaparani tree that perfumes the entire neighbourhood at this time of year.

 

How will you be spending your winter days? Picnicking with family and friends at Lodi Gardens? Sitting around a bonfire in your backyard while kebabs sizzle on your outdoor grill? Taking in the crisp mountain air on your annual trip to the hills? Or letting the winter sun lull you into a nap on a beach somewhere along the coastline of India?

 

Whatever you choose to do, remember to make the most of this season. There is no better time to enjoy the great outdoors in our great country.

 

'Tis the season to be jolly...

Christmas means presents; and this is what I would like to find under my tree this year

I know, I know, being a Hindu and all that, Christmas should not mean that much to me. But what can I say? It does. It always has.

Not in any religious sense, of course, even though I went to convent school where I was educated by Catholic nuns. But as a time of celebration, a time for family and friends to come together, a time to show generosity to one another, a time to embrace the world, the day makes perfect sense to me.

Which is why, ever since I was a child, I have always embraced Christmas. It helped that the city I grew up in, Calcutta, lit up like a bride in the run-up to Christmas, and it was hard not to be infected with the spirit of the festival. And even though we never had a tree at home or even a tradition of Christmas presents, we still marked the day in our own way.

Sometimes it was a friends-and-family picnic in Botanical Gardens. At other times, it was a visit to the zoo. And sometimes it was just a lunch with friends at their home. But no matter where we celebrated, the day always involved lots of food, fun and festivity. And yes, since you ask, we did wear red Santa hats to get into the spirit.

Perhaps that explains why, even decades later, I take a particular delight in the advent of Christmas. It helps that my Christian friends are kind enough to invite me to their parties. And that mince pies, rum cake and eggnog go down a treat this time of the year.

This time around, for some reason, I suddenly felt the need to have a Christmas tree of my own. And once it was installed, sparkling away in a corner of the living room, I began imagining what presents I could put under it for members of my family. And that, inevitably, led to thoughts of what I would like for Christmas.

Well, since you ask, this is what I would like under my glittering fir tree this Christmas.

·       A time machine: That way I could travel back in time and undo all the horrific stuff that happened this year. First stop would be Syria, where countless children have been murdered in their beds by bombs that rain down every day in Aleppo. Next would be the UK, where the Brexit vote seems to have sparked off a fresh wave of racism. And then, there would be the USA, which lost its collective mind and elected Donald Trump (the putative Groper-in-Chief) as its President. (Though perhaps we shouldn’t be too harsh on those Americans; Hillary Clinton is ahead by nearly 3 million popular votes as I write this.)

·       A load of empathy: So that I could share it with all those who seem to squandered their own stash, judging by their complete indifference to the plight of those less fortunate. Never has this lack been more striking than after the government’s demonetization announcement. It doesn’t matter how in-your-face the suffering of poorer people is; it makes no difference how many people die queuing up for hours to withdraw a few thousand rupees; it is of no consequence how many jobs have been swallowed up by the monster of demonetization. No, it’s just a minor inconvenience. And in any case, aren’t these people used to queuing up for stuff? What’s the harm if they do so for their own money? As I said, empathy. Loads of it, so that there’s enough to go around.

·       An Internet connection that actually works: And by that, I mean a connection that runs at the speed at which it is actually supposed to, instead of slowing down inexplicably every time I am trying to watch a Netflix show late at night. A connection that doesn’t disappear when I am in the middle of downloading a movie, so that I have to start all over again when it reappears – only to see it disappear yet again before the download is complete. And yes, for a 4G connection that isn’t actually a 3G connection in disguise.

·       A brand-new metabolic system: Am afraid the one I have currently has sadly been run to the ground. In fact, there are some days when it is barely functional. So much so that I seem to gain 10 pounds just by driving past a bakery. As to what happens when I actually ate the chocolate croissant; well, let’s not go there. So I could really use a brand-new system, or even a system reboot, to kick-start my way to good health (and minimal cholesterol).  

·       A new liver: This one is showing signs of wear and tear after a lifetime of eating and drinking a bit too well. Actually, if I am asking for body parts, here are a few more that could do with a replacement: my dodgy back, which has never been the same since I took a spill down the stairs more than a decade ago; my wonky knees that twitch every time I climb up a flight of steps; and of course, my neck, which no amount of anti-ageing moisturizer can restore to creaseless glory.

I’m not greedy or unreasonable, so I am not holding out for all of these gifts this year. But even two out of five would be marvelous. I do hope Santa is listening…

Shooting star

The story of Rekha continues to fascinate us; but the woman herself remains a mystery

I first encountered the glamorous world of Hindi cinema when I was around eight years old. It happened thus. We had set off on a picnic with family and friends to the Botanical Gardens in Howrah. As we headed for our usual spot under the overarching banyan tree, we saw a flurry of excitement just off to the right. There was a small crowd gathered, held behind a roped-off area by a posse of policemen.

How could we possibly resist? We veered off from our normal route to check out what was happening. "Shooting cholche," explained one excited man, while everybody around shouted "Omeet da, Omeet da!"

The 'Omeet da' in question was none other than Amitabh Bachchan. There he sat on the top of a tiny hillock, a white towel arranged around his neck, checking out his reflection in the mirror held up by one of his assistants.

But my eyes swept past him to zero in on another figure: a statuesque sari-clad lady standing in the shade of a tree, her eyes fixed -- like the rest of us -- on Amitabh Bachchan. Even as a child, I could sense the intensity of that gaze, even though I couldn't really make sense of it. Who was that woman, I asked my sister. That was the heroine of the movie. Her name was Rekha.

I hadn't yet been exposed to the pleasures of Stardust or Cine Blitz, so I had no idea about the rumors swirling around the lead actors of Do Anjaane (the shooting of this movie was apparently when their affair started). But as we persuaded them to pose for a picture with us, and the two of them stood together in the middle of our little huddle, it was Rekha I couldn't take my eyes off.

She was simply the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on in my short, uneventful life. Her hair pulled tightly back from her face, her heavily-kohled eyes sparkling like two jewels, her bow-shaped lips a perfect study in red, she was a vision for the ages. But why, I wondered from my vantage point of somewhere around her knees, were her hands five shades darker than her face?

We soon wandered off to have our little picnic, but the image of Rekha stayed with me. The next time I raided my mother's make-up bag, I used her red lipstick to curve a bow-string around my mouth as well. Needless to say, that did not make me look like Rekha.

But our paths were to cross nearly two decades later. By then I was a journalist, working with Sunday magazine, and Rekha was one of the brightest stars of her generation. So, you can imagine the consternation when she married an unknown Delhi businessman called Mukesh Aggarwal, who then committed suicide seven months later, hanging himself from a fan using Rekha's dupatta.

As stories go, this couldn't get any bigger. And I was put on it to provide the Delhi input.

My first interview was with Mukesh's therapist and friend, Akash Bajaj, who lived in a tony colony in Delhi. It took some persuading to get her to talk but she finally relented. As I was ushered into her dimly-lit drawing room and laid eyes on her beautiful but drawn face, grief etched deep into every perfect feature, I realized in a flash that while Rekha may well have been the wife, I was now face-to-face face with the virtual widow.

Bajaj's pain was impossible to fathom; her dignity almost unbearable to watch. And as she spoke, her voice straining under her sorrow and bewilderment ("All I want to ask is why?") the idea of Rekha that I had carried in my head began to take an altogether uglier shape.

Of course, everyone knew even then that Mukesh Aggarwal had been a chronic depressive. And that it was nobody's fault that he had decided to end his life. But in moments of anger and anguish, it is only natural to lash out at somebody. And Mukesh's family and friends lashed out at Rekha, the woman who had 'bewitched' him and then cruelly abandoned him to his fate.

It was after that episode that Rekha turned into the recluse she is today. Walled up behind the gates of her bungalow, her only link to the world appears to be her long-time secretary, Farzana, who, bizarrely, always dresses like Amitabh Bachchan (circa 1980s) whenever she escorts the actress to public events. Even the new biography of Rekha published by Juggernaut is based on interviews with people who know her. Rekha herself remained incommunicado during the entire process.

Speaking for myself, I only saw Rekha in the flesh once after that childhood encounter. We were both leaving an awards function in Mumbai, waiting for our cars to arrive. Not wanting to stare goggle-eyed like everyone else on the porch, I just risked a sidelong glance. Her kohl-rimmed eyes still shone like jewels but her skin was stretched tight as a drum, so much so that those bow-shaped red lips could no longer relax naturally into a smile. Rekha was now the caricature of the woman she had once been, with her rictus grin, her immobile forehead, and paper-thin skin.

Only one thing hadn't changed. Her hands were still five shades darker than her face.