Heels or flats

Dressing down – rather than up – is the new power move

 

Remember the time – it wasn’t so long ago, really – when we were told by the arbiters of fashion that power dressing was never complete without vertiginous heels which would make us stand tall and proud as we navigated our work lives. Heels, we were assured, wouldn’t just improve our posture; they would embellish our status as power players as well, no matter which field we were competing in. They wouldn’t just add inches to our heights; they would burnish our images as polished professionals. 

 

Well, what do you know? They lied. 

 

Look around you. Wearing heels is no longer the power move that it used to be. If anything, it indicates that you are insecure enough to still play by the rules (no matter how outdated; or how uncomfortable). Wearing flats, on the other hand, is a signal that you are confident enough to negotiate the world on your own terms. That you stand tall on your own professional achievements rather than a pair of stilettoes. You are enough as you are.

 

This was brought home to me most strongly when I recently attended a conference organized by a news organization. As I sat quietly on a table tucked away at the back, indulging in my favourite sport of people watching, I made an interesting discovery. It was the women a few rungs down the food chain who were wearing the power suits and the frankly ridiculous heels, teetering from one networking opportunity to another. The women who were already power players in their own right were sitting comfortable in their flats and crumpled cotton outfits, holding court at their tables.

 

That’s when it struck me: the real power move is dressing down, rather than dressing up. It’s only when you are successful enough to not give a damn about what the world thinks of you can you afford to dress exactly as you please, comfortable flats et al.

 

It’s always been like this in the world of successful men. Think Steve Jobs in his uniform of high-waisted jeans and turtle-neck T-shirt. Think Marc Zuckerberg in his nerdy round-neck T-shirts. Think Boris Johnson in his crumpled suits and hair that never seems to have seen a comb in its unkempt life. 

 

But now, thank the Lord, it is finding its way into the world of women as well. It is the likes of Melania and Ivanka Trump who still deck themselves out in 6-inch heels while true power players like Kamala Harris rock a pair of sneakers as they hit the campaign trail. Lesser stars may abide by the asinine rule of the Cannes Film Festival and slip on the heels when they hit the red carpet. But it’s only a mega-star like Julia Roberts who can make a statement by kicking her heels off and walking barefoot on the tapis rouge.

 

Let’s look closer home. The most powerful woman in the east of India does not bother with heels. It’s flip-flops all the way for West Bengal chief minister, Mamata Banerjee, as the runs the state in her simple cotton saris and nondescript bun. 

 

In fact, dressing down is the new power move in politics. Finance minister Nirmala Sitharaman’s sari choices are always inspired when she attends Parliament but she doesn’t have time for hair dye, rocking her grey hair instead. Priyanka Gandhi doesn’t muck around with lipstick or eyeliner, choosing to go completely make-up free.  

 

Perhaps it’s time we took our cues from these women as we set style rules for ourselves. It is silly and regressive to squeeze our feet into instruments of torture of our own volition. You wouldn’t catch any man doing that. So, why do we strap on shoes that hobble us as we walk through the day, and leave our feet throbbing with pain when we finally take them off. 

 

We don’t need to play this game any longer. So, when it comes to heels, just say a flat no. Your feet will thank you for it (as will your back and knees).

 

eom

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.

 

Seeing red (not pink)

Here’s why International Women’s Day annoys me so much

 

Every year, when International Women’s Day begins to near, my inbox fills up with pink-hued spam, offering me everything from discounts at the neighbourhood spa to a special deal on mammograms at the local medical center. To say that I find this spam annoying would be the understatement of the century. But that is nothing compared to the annoyance I feel when Women’s Day greetings start flooding my Whatsapp and inundating my Twitter timeline.

 

I don’t intend to embarrass anyone in particular by singling out their greeting, because all of them are, frankly, just as irritating. The general theme is how women are such good wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, friends. How women selflessly put themselves out for the people in their life no matter what the cost. How a woman’s work is never done (and honestly, how do they do it?!) How the men in their lives cannot imagine how they would manage without them. And how women must be celebrated for these sacrificing, self-effacing qualities, which allow their men to pass through life without the slightest inconvenience.

 

By the end of the day, I am usually in a towering rage, having read hundreds of such saccharine messages. And with every new one that pops up on my phone, I wonder anew: why is it so impossible for people to see women as individuals, with fully-realized lives and ambitions of their own? Why must a woman still be seen through the prism of a man – to whom she is a daughter, a wife, a sister, a mother, or even a friend or colleague? Why must her achievements be listed in the context of how she makes other people’s lives better? 

 

Then, there is the endless romanticizing of the hard, unrelenting, thankless work that all women do every single day. Getting the kids ready for school, looking after ageing parents and in-laws, cooking dinner after a hard day at the office, keeping the home in order, women are expected to do it all. No matter how ‘enlightened’ the husband, it is the wife who ends up picking up the slack at home. None of this is fun, and none of it is particularly fulfilling. And yet, we are fed the myth that women – those caring creatures – find a deep and abiding pleasure in it all. 

 

I don’t know about you, but I think it is time that we put this particular lie to rest. 

 

So, how would I like to see International Women’s Day celebrated, you ask. 

 

Well, for starters, I would like companies, who invest so much on pink-hued advertising at this time of year, to put their money where their mouth is. Instead of releasing cutesy pictures of their women workforce, I would like them to ensure that every woman on their rolls is paid the same amount of money for the same kind of work as a man does. The gender pay gap in companies is anything from 25 to 30 per cent, which means that women end up making 75 rupees to every 100 rupees that their male counterparts make. As long as that disparity is not addressed, it is meaningless to post pictures of smiling young women lining up for a promotional ad. In fact, it is highly hypocritical, if not downright insulting. 

 

That is a long-term goal, of course, which calls for systemic change. And I am willing to wait a couple of years, even five, for that.

 

But more immediately, it should be possible to change the messaging around International Women’s Day. Instead of hailing women as devoted mothers, great wives, dedicated mothers, or obedient sisters and daughters, let's address women as individuals in their own right. Admire them for their resilience in making their way in a man’s world. Praise them for carving out careers for themselves and for their professional excellence. Celebrate them for living their best lives. And whatever you do, don’t reduce them to their relationships with the men in their life. 

 

It's not asking for a lot. And you have another year to work towards it.

 

The book's the thing

Here are a few titles to take you through to summer

 

There is something so thrilling about a bookshop, isn’t it? There are all those authors waiting to be discovered, all those titles ready to be devoured, and a hundred different worlds that you can lose yourself in. For me, the high point of any trip to a great city is a leisurely trawl through all the book stores it has to offer. And last fortnight, that city was Singapore and the bookstore, Kinokuniya, one of my all-time favourites.

 

The first thing I discovered on the shelves was the latest Elizabeth George, titled Something To Hide, which came out last month, but whose release I seemed to have missed. I snatched it up and eagerly read the synopsis of the plot, happy to discover that this was another Inspector Lynley mystery. This was the perfect read for the flight back to Delhi, I thought. 

 

There was only one problem. This was an absolute doorstopper of a book and lugging it on to a flight seemed a bit of a challenge. So, with utmost reluctance, I put the physical book back and later downloaded it on my Kindle – with due apologies to all good bookstores anywhere.

 

But, I consoled myself later, it was the book that was important, not the form in which I read it. And if it’s reading that matters to you as well, here are some suggestions from among the books I have enjoyed over the past few months. Read them in any format that works for you – satisfaction guaranteed.

 

Something To Hide by Elizabeth George

 

This is vintage Elizabeth George, a murder mystery that is about so much more than murder or mystery. The theme that George tackles this time is the harrowing subject of female genital mutilation (FGM) that is ostensibly outlawed but practiced on the quiet by some among the Nigerian and Somali community in London. The murder victim, a police officer, has been ‘cut’ as well as a child though this fact only surfaces after her death. And the investigation into her death reveals so much more than just the identity of her killer.

 

Silverview by John Le Carre

 

Published after its author’s death, this has been touted as the last ‘completed’ masterpiece from Le Carre’s pen. This has all his usual hallmarks: there is a Smiley-type character (complete with unfaithful wife) who has been tasked with ferreting out secrets from an old retired MI6 hand. And there is a young investment banker turned bookshop owner who finds himself caught between these two spymasters. This is a splendid read in the Le Carre tradition but the somewhat abrupt end makes me wonder if the manuscript was ever, in fact, ‘completed’.

 

Apples Never Fall by Liane Moriarty

 

When Joy Delaney, a 60-something mother of four, goes missing, suspicion alights on her husband, Stan. It doesn’t help that Stan looks as if he’s been in a fight, though he insists it was only with a hedge. But as her disappearance lengthens, the children start to questions his protestations of innocence, and old family fractures come to the fore. Domestic drama has always been Moriarty’s strength but this book also works as a study of the everyday violence that women face.

 

The Christie Affair by Nina de Gramont

 

It is the one mystery that Agatha Christie never solved. And that’s because she lived it. In December 1926, the mystery writer packed a small attache case and drove away from her home. Her car was later discovered in a ditch, leading to speculation that she may have killed herself, heartbroken because her husband, Archie, had announced that he wanted a divorce to marry his mistress. Christie was discovered living in a hotel a week later but she never spoke – or wrote – about this period in her life. So, this is the next best thing: a speculative take on what might have happened.

 

Both Of You by Adele Parks

 

Two women, who seem to have nothing in common, disappear in the same week. Both their husbands claim to be distraught, and insist that they know nothing of why their wives have gone missing. So, what went wrong? Did the women leave on their own? Were they taken by someone? When the investigation throws up a link between the two women, the story takes an unexpected turn with a twist you won’t see coming.

 

Spring has sprung

But I can’t help bemoaning the passing of winter

 

I came back to my home in Delhi after a week-long vacation, only to find that the winter had done a disappearing act in my absence. Gone were those foggy, chilly mornings when you could see no further than your nose. Gone were the freezing nights when the only way you could get warm was by snuggling up to the heater. In its place was a mild mid-morning and evening chill that could be warded off by a mere shawl. And a sizzling afternoon sun that you could not sit out in for more than 30 minutes. 

 

You’d think that I would be thrilled by these signs that winter had bid us goodbye and that spring had sprung. And you would be quite wrong.

 

I know that, like most denizens of Delhi, I complain about the winter, about the grey skies, about the pollution that takes your breath away, and about how quickly darkness descends on us each day. And yet, when the days begin to lengthen, when the temperature shows an upward trend, I feel a pang in my heart as I bid winter farewell.

 

Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot to praise about spring, but today I am here to tell you what I will miss most about the winter. Here, in no particular order of importance, is a far from exhaustive list.

 

·       Snuggling under the covers every morning, prolonging the last few moments of slumber, safe in my razai. There is a special pleasure in lingering in a cozy bed, knowing that it is a citadel of comfort in a cold, cold world. In the depths of winter, I can spend up to an hour wavering between sleep and wakefulness, just luxuriating in the warmth of my bed. It’s a blissful feeling that can never be replicated once the weather begins to heat up.

 

·       Sunny afternoons spent on my balcony, reading a book as I peel the rind off an orange, separating the segments carefully so as to not tear the skin, and popping each one into my mouth and feeling that citrus explosion overwhelm my taste buds. I know, I know, you can eat an orange in the warmer months as well, but there is a special alchemy to devouring it as you bask in the balmy sunshine of winter. 

 

 

·       Winter evenings, to my mind, are best experienced with a mug of steaming hot chocolate in hand. You need full-fat milk for this, none of that skinny nonsense. You must stand by the stove, patiently stirring till the chocolate mix has dissolved completely, and the milk is bubbling gently. Then transfer to a mug, and let the fun begin. Start off with tiny sips, letting the chocolate coat your tongue, until the sweetness envelopes your senses. And before you know it, you will be gulping it down, and making another. Well, hurry up, because this is the authentic taste of winter, and you only have a month or two to savour it.

 

·       Lazy walks in the parks are best in this season. There are some who enjoy these first thing in the morning, as they witness misty, foggy mornings turn into sunny days. For my part, I love going in the late afternoon, when the dappled sunshine is strong enough to warm my bones but not harsh enough to burn my skin. And when my hour-long walk is over, I can simply sit on a bench and watch the sun set on another perfect winter day. 

 

·       Bonfires are the leitmotifs of Delhi winters. There is something special about sitting around a firepit, whether it is in a garden or a terrace, watching the flames light up the faces of your loved ones, as you nurse a glass of red wine or whiskey and wait for the kebabs to cook on the nearby grill. For me, those are the sights and scents of winter. And I shall miss them when they are gone.

 

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. 

 

Count your blessings

Lockdown couldn’t have come at a better time – and we have technology to thank for it

 

I remember India’s victory in the 1983 World Cup like it was yesterday. I didn’t actually watch the final in real time, hearing it unfold on the radio instead. But I still remember every over, every fall of wicket, and of course, Kapil Dev’s magnificence, so many decades down the line.

 

You can imagine my excitement then, when the movie based on those events, 83, was ready for release in the theatres. But before I could make any plans to see it, Omicron began spreading its tentacles all over the country. And, with great reluctance, I had to cancel my plans to see the movie that had captured one of the seminal events of my teenage years. 

 

I was gutted, of course. But I cheered up considerably when I discovered that I wasn’t going to miss out on it for too long. Eight weeks after its theatrical run, 83 would be released on a streaming service. And given that I had waited for nearly four decades to see it, what was another eight weeks?

 

But this entire episode got me thinking. I know that being stuck at home in lockdown-like circumstances is far from ideal. But who can deny that this is the best time in the history of mankind to be isolating within the four walls of your house?

 

And we have technology to thank for that. We can work from home, interact with our colleagues on Zoom, and network via various social media apps. If we want to cook, we can get ingredients delivered to our doorsteps in a matter of minutes. If we don’t feel like cooking, we can order in our favourite foods through various delivery apps. 

 

All that we need is available to us at the click of a button, and we can enjoy the best that the world has to offer from the comfort of our living room couches, as we binge-watch our way through everything the sundry streaming services have to offer. What more could a locked-down person possibly ask for?

 

Don’t believe me. Well, let’s conduct a little experiment. Imagine that Covid had struck not in 2019 but in 2000. How would we have coped with the pandemic in that decade?

 

Working from home would have been a complete impossibility because nobody had high-speed wifi (or any kind of wifi) at home. So, we would have a choice of either shutting down all businesses or keeping them open but risking infection to all workers – not much of a choice, you will agree. 

 

Cooking would have been a challenge because only the basic groceries would have been delivered by your kinara shop. And certainly, you could not have ordered in any cuisine of your choice and had it re-heating in your kitchen in less than an hour. 

 

And what would we have done during those long evenings spent at home? Yes, we had a few DVDs stashed away that could have kept us entertained for a couple of weeks. And we could have watched TV for an hour or so. But there would have been nothing like Netflix, Amazon Prime, or other such streaming services, offering us zillions of shows to feast on. 

 

Looking back on the last two years, I have to admit that lockdown has not been so bad to me. The lack of distractions meant that I could finish my book, Madam Prime Minister, well within deadline. And though its release has come in the midst of Omicron, I have still managed to promote it, conducting TV interviews via Zoom, answering questionnaires via email, and so on.

 

And when I wasn’t writing, I managed to read all the latest books, thank to my Kindle app that stood in for all those shuttered bookshops. I cooked everything my heart (and my husband) desired, getting everything from sausages to sauces delivered to my door. I ordered in from my favourite restaurants, and even though the experience wasn’t quite the same, the food certainly was. And I spent my evenings watching the best TV shows and movies made over the past few decades.

 

Technology may be a mixed blessing. But at this time of global crisis, we have technology to thank for keeping us sane.