When the shiuli flowers...

It's time to celebrate the Goddess once again

 

A few months ago, I paid a visit to my favourite nursery in Delhi to pick up some plants for my balcony. Walking through the rows of spring blooms, I came across a plant that looked very familiar indeed. “Yeh shiuli hai, na?” I asked the gardener who was assisting me. “Nahin madam,” he said, shaking his head. “Isko parijaat kehte hain.” I was unconvinced by this explanation. So, I took a picture and uploaded it into an app that helps identify plants. And what do you know? Both of us were right. This plant is called parijaat in north India; but in east India (where I grew up) it is called shiuli. 

 

As a child growing up in Calcutta, I was always told that the shiuli plant was very auspicious because its flowering – which happens only once a year – heralds the beginning of the Pujo season. Every October, without fail, the white and orange blooms of the shiuli tree burst forth, reminding us that the Goddess Durga is on her way and will soon be among us. These teeny-tiny flowers fall from the shiuli tree every night, carpeting the floor and exuding a heavenly fragrance that I have always associated with Pujo festivities.

 

So, even though the parijaat/shiuli available in the nursery were just small potted plants, I decided to take a couple home with me. In a couple of years, I thought to myself, they would grow strong and high and maybe, in time, they would start to flower and remind me of those heady pre-Pujo evenings I remembered from my days in Cal. So, I transplanted them into roomy pots and resigned myself to a long wait.

 

Well, guess what? Just a few months down the line, as October began to rear its head, these small little bushes that I had been watering faithfully began to throw up little buds on their branches. And in a week or so, my plants were redolent with the shiuli blossoms, exuding their trademark perfume and putting me in the right Pujo spirit. Sure, the flowers were tinier than I remembered from the tree in Calcutta, and they wilted far sooner, but for a little baby plant, my shiuli was doing very well in its role as a harbinger of the Goddess.  

 

But while this gladdened my heart, injecting it with a dose of rose-tinted nostalgia for the Durga Pujos past that I had celebrated in the city of my birth, it also left me a little bit sad. And that’s because this year, Pujo will not have the same resonance in Calcutta. By all accounts, everyone is still shattered by the R.G. Kar rape case, and the Pujo spirit has been diluted with both anger and sadness.

 

And while I know that it will be hard to enjoy the festivities quite as we did in the years gone by, the flowering of the shiuli reminded me that the Goddess will keep her appointment with us this Pujo as well. Now, it is up to us to give her the kind of welcome she deserves and to pray that her avenging spirit does right by the young doctor who has, so far, been failed by the system.

 

'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. 

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. 

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! 

The spirit of Pujo

It's alive and well; and prospering outside the confines of Calcutta as well

Growing up in Calcutta meant that Pujo was a very special time — even for a true-blue Punjabi family like mine. Yes, my mother sowed a pot with khetri (wheat germ) and we had special pujas every evening in the Navratras and performed Kanjak puja on Ashtami like all devout Punjabis. But we also celebrated the Bengali-style Pujo with equal fervour. As a child I particularly enjoyed getting four sets of new clothes to go pandal-hopping on Shashti, Saptami, Ashtami and Nabami, eating the bhog at different pujos to get a true measure of the culinary delights on offer. 

And then, fate decreed that I had to leave Calcutta and come live and work in Delhi. For many years after I moved, I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate Pujo the same way as I did in Cal. Yes, I knew that there was a sizeable Bengali community in Delhi which celebrated the festival with zest and fervour. But somehow I couldn’t see myself joining the festivities I always associated with Kolkata in a small corner of Delhi that is always Bengal (Chittaranjan Park, of course). So I would content myself with ruminating on Pujas past and promising myself that next year — for sure! — I would go back to Cal for the festival. 

It took me several years to come to the realisation that that was not going to happen. So I did the next best thing. I began attending the Pujos in my immediate neighbourhood in Delhi. These were smaller, more intimate affairs, with many familiar faces, and a genuine sense of community. And I felt that familiar Pujo spirit return to refresh my mind and soul. I soon grew emboldened enough to venture further and attend the larger, more famous Pujos in the capital. And before I knew it, this became an annual ritual. 

This year was different, though. The day the festivities began I was due to travel to Jaipur to attend an event — and who in Rajasthan would be celebrating the Pujos? 

Well, it turned out that a lot of people would be doing just that! As I discovered, there are many as 15 Pujo pandals in Jaipur (reminding me of that old joke: What do you get when three Bengalis get together? Two Pujo Committees!) even though the Bengali community in the city is far from large. 

So it was that on Mahasaptami I managed to recreate my Calcutta memories. I put on a new outfit and headed out with my husband to visit Jaipur’s oldest Durga Pujo pandal in Bani Park. And strangely enough, it was this Pujo that most closely mirrored the Pujos I remembered from my childhood. The pandal was small and compact, the Durga idol was beautiful and serene but not overstylised, the bhog was a simple khichri and tarkari, and the place was overrun by the same kind of Bengali aunties and uncles who used to spoil me when I was a kid. 

Perhaps that explains why, as I stood there, saying a silent prayer to the Goddess, I felt myself retreat to a child-like state of wonder. Or maybe it was just the Devi blessing me with a few moments of grace. 

I would like to think that it was a little bit of both. 

Winter is coming

And I could not be more delighted…

 

Growing up in Calcutta, I was always overcome with excitement when the shiuli tree near my house started flowering. That was the first sign that Pujo was coming, and that four days of festivities were in my immediate future. These days I live in Delhi, and there is no shiuli tree to remind me of the arrival of Pujo. But all is not lost. There is an enormous Saptaparni (also known as Alstonia, or even Devil’s tree) tree overhanging my balcony, whose flowering heralds the beginning of winter in Delhi.

 

Last night, as I returned home late after dinner, I was stopped in my tracks by a heady scent that told me that, yes, winter was just around the corner. Notwithstanding the late hour, I stepped out on my balcony, and settled down on my wicker chair, just breathing in the sweet perfume of the flowers. For me, that is the scent of the Delhi winter, the season that I long for all year round. 

 

Yes, I know, Delhi winters are not what they used to be. There is the ever-present specter of pollution, as the farmers in neighbouring Punjab set fire to the stubble in their fields in what has become a depressing annual ritual. The Diwali crackers – set off by idiots who clearly have a death wish – only add to the horrific miasma hanging over the city. Combine this with vehicular pollution and the cold weather which makes all the pollutants sink to the bottom of the atmosphere, and you have a perfect poisonous cocktail that can take years off a person’s life.

 

I know all that. And God knows, I suffer with everyone else, perhaps even more so because of my chronic asthma that is triggered in this season. But, but, but…on the rare occasions when the skies finally clear and the haze fades to expose a clear blue sky, there is nothing quite so beautiful as a crisp winter day in Delhi. 

 

So, what’s the best way to make the most of days like these – especially given how rare they have become?

 

Well, for me it all begins with a winter special breakfast. Crisp aloo parathas, smeared liberally with homemade white butter, washed down with cups of milky tea, all served on the corner of the balcony that gets the morning sun. It’s hard to get any work done after that, because, food coma. But honestly, it’s well worth taking the morning off to indulge every once in a while.

 

Other winter staples make an appearance at lunch and dinner: aloo-methi subzi, sarson ka saag, makki ki roti, bathua raita, and so much more. This is the season to indulge your taste buds, and to pile on an extra layer of fat to deal with the cold winds of winter. 

 

Talking of layers, this is also the season to air all your winter staples that have been skulking in the back of your wardrobe all year. It’s time to wear those super-soft luxurious cashmere sweaters, drape those butter-smooth pashmina shawls, and pull them all together with tailored coats that give a polished edge to your look. 

 

Once you are all layered up, and have pulled on a pair of comfy boots, it’s time to head out to enjoy the great outdoors. It could just be a stroll through Khan Market, stopping for a cappuccino and a macaroon along the way. It could be a guided tour through such historical sites as Humayun’s Tomb or the Red Fort. Or it could simply be a walk in the park, enjoying the crisp breeze blowing your face, and feasting your eyes on the seasonal blooms that brighten up the greenery at this time of year.

 

Wherever you head and whatever you do, remember to make the most of perfect winter days. These days they are few and far between. Before you know it, the temperatures will begin to rise again, and the sizzling summer will be upon us. And it will be a long wait before the Saptaparni flowers again.

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.

 

Bright lights, big city

All great cities have one thing in common – a character of their own

Over the last few months, a series of events have taken me back to a place that I last visited in my childhood. As a young girl, I spent many holidays in the city that Le Corbusier built, at my aunt’s house, roughhousing with my cousins, taking scooter rides down the perfectly-perpendicular streets, shopping in the quiet neighbourhood markets, making the obligatory visits to the Rock Garden and Sukhna Lake.

It was a fun time, but we had to make our fun ourselves. Chandigarh contented itself with being its usual quiet, well-behaved, matronly self, allowing us the space to indulge our high-energy selves but offering next to no encouragement to any boisterous behavior.

But that sleepy, laidback Chandigarh now lives only in my childhood memories. The Chandigarh of today, as I discovered recently, has thrown off that slumber and reticence and emerged as a sleek, sophisticated city that offers everything from trendy restaurants to shopping malls to swanky five-star hotels that would do any metropolis proud. And, more to the point, the once-silent city has found its voice. It still has the quiet, tree-lined streets with the most polite traffic I have encountered in India. But now, it also speaks of prosperity, energy, and a certain can-do spirit at every turn.

The best parallel I can think of is former Test cricketer-turned-TV performer, and now Punjab minister, Navjot Singh Sidhu, who – by all accounts – was a nice quiet chap who barely spoke two words during his cricketing days, but is now impossible to shut up. (Though, to be fair, Chandigarh is a tad more restrained.)

As I drove down its impeccably-clean roads, I started to think about how all great cities have a personality of their own – which may or may not change over the years – an identity that belongs to them alone and which makes it impossible to mistake them for another.

I grew up in Calcutta, feasting on its faded glory of crumbling colonial buildings, run-down infrastructure, over-crowded streets and dilapidated markets. But for all its decrepitude, there was a certain grandeur to the Calcutta of my childhood and youth: the vast expanse of the Maidan, the looming visage of Victoria Memorial, the shabby but beautiful Strand where we went for boat rides down the Hooghly, with the magnificent Howrah Bridge providing the most spectacular of backdrops.

Just like Chandigarh, the Calcutta of my childhood no longer exists. Now, when I go back to the city, I am overwhelmed by the new construction, the bustling malls, the endless network of flyovers (not to mention the one-way system that I have yet to master). Even the colonial structures I grew up with no longer look the same, now that they have been blue-washed by Mamata Banerjee’s government.

But strangely enough, the spirit of the city survives. Once I look past the gleaming skyscrapers and the sprawling hypermarkets, I can see that Calcutta (sorry folks, it is always going to be Calcutta to me; Kolkata is for when I speak Bangla) is still the same City of Joy, one of those rare places where a live culture can survive outside of a bowl of mishti doi.

Most people who move from Calcutta to Delhi seem to spend their days bemoaning their loss. They miss the easy charm of Cal; they hate the hard-headed, cold-eyed indifference of Delhi. Well, I am an exception to that rule.

From the moment I moved to my tiny little barsati in Defence Colony, I fell in love with the city. I loved its changing moods through the seasons: the flowering roundabouts heralding spring; the blooming laburnum announcing the arrival of summer; the parks bursting with green as the monsoon hit; the trees shedding their leaves in preparation of winter.

I also loved the fact that Delhi allowed me to be. This was the big tent I had been looking for all my life. This was where I could be whatever I wanted to be. If I wanted to immerse myself in theatre, art and culture, there were enough museums, galleries and artistic hubs to do so. If history and antiquity was my thing, then I could spend every weekend exploring historical monuments dating back to medieval and Moghul times. If I just wanted to let my lungs expand in some green spaces, then they too were available to me.

The space granted to me in Delhi was not just literal but metaphorical as well. And it allowed me to grow in ways that I could not even have imagined when I first moved here.

Yes, I know what all you folks in Bombay (oops, sorry, Mumbai; though like Calcutta, this will always be Bombay to me) are thinking right about now. Delhi? Really? You love Delhi? But surely, you know that Mumbai is much better? This is the city of dreams, the city of endless possibilities, the city that never sleeps, the city that, oh well, never mind!

Well, you know what, guys? It is possible to love both. I can enjoy the beautiful, tree-lined boulevards of Delhi just as much as I cherish the sea views along Marine Drive. I can embrace the Staid Dowager that is Delhi just as fondly as I hug the Brash Bruiser that is Mumbai.

Because while cities have personalities of their own, identities that are theirs alone, people like us have the luxury of embracing them all and making them our own. And why settle for less, when so much more is on offer?

'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…

Back where I once belonged...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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