Air turbulence

Why do people forget the rules of civilised behaviour while in the air?

I have written earlier about how people seem to forget the rules of civilised behaviour while at the airport. It’s almost as if the airport is a portal between two places where anything and everything goes: drinking alcohol for breakfast; wearing your pjs out in public; stealing snacks from the lounge etc. 

But I have realised over the years that truly anti-social behaviour really kicks in when people are in the air. That’s when all inhibitions seems to disappear and it’s a free for all in the skies. It’s almost as if for some folks their inflight experience is less than perfect if they can’t make a perfect nuisance of themselves. 

And how do they do that? Well, let me count the ways. 

• For me, the most annoying thing is when fellow passengers start watching a video, listening to music, or playing a video game on the flight without using their headphones. This happens with a sickening regularity on almost every single flight I take. No amount of staring or looking askance makes a difference. Asking the airline crew to intervene only grants a temporary respite. The moment a decent interval has passed, the noise resumes. Honestly, what is up with these people? Do they not have earphones? Or have they gone missing along with their civic sense?
• Then, there is the species who boards the plane and immediately reclines their seat as far as it will go. It’s no point asking them to raise it for take-off (as mandated by the safety manual). And good luck trying to open your tray table when the crew comes to serve your meal. There simply will be no space to do so. And don’t even start me on those people sitting behind you who can’t seem to get up from their seats without pulling your seat back down without so much as a by your leave. 
• All of us make allowances for children and babies on flights who cry incessantly because we realise that flying can be a traumatic experience for them. But what I find unforgivable is parents who allow their kids to run amok on flights without making the slightest effort to control them. The kids will be racing up and down the aisle, annoying both crew and passengers and the parents will be busy watching their videos on their phones (without headphones, of course), ignoring their children’s antics completely. What is up with that?
• But a special hell awaits those people who are travelling in a big group and think nothing of setting up an impromptu party in the cabin on night flights when everyone else is trying very hard to sleep. Just as service is over, the lights have been lowered, and everyone else is ready to catch a few winks, these nocturnal beasts come alive — and make life miserable for the rest of us. Truly, the stuff of nightmares — if we’d ever get to nod off, that is!

'Tis (not) the season...

But there is a special charm to off-season holidays (not to mention lower rates and smaller crowds)

I was trying to work out the other day when my fondness for off-season holidays first began. And I traced it right back to my first visit to Venice nearly 25 years ago. It was the dead of winter, and Venice itself seemed deathly calm, with nary a tourist in sight. I wandered through a deserted San Marco Square, I visited the Doge’s Palace in near-solitary splendour, I sat in empty cafes sipping on steaming cappuccinos, and I wandered through the streets without being jostled by a million other people who had had the same idea. 

 

It was always freezing, sometimes very wet, but with an overcoat, boots and hat, I was well-equipped to deal with the extreme weather while reveling in the extraordinary beauty of Venice, which shone through even more intensely in the absence of crowds who would otherwise obscure it. I have been back to Venice many times since during peak seasons but I have never managed to recapture the magic of that first visit in the bitter Venetian winter.

 

Ever since then, I have been a fan of visiting prime locations at non-prime times so that I can make the most of them. In the old days, for instance, you could visit Goa or Kerala during the monsoon and feast your eyes on the verdant green, without the usual tourist hordes who otherwise ruin the experience. But, alas, those days are long gone. Now every hotel and resort in this region has special monsoon offers, which attract just as many (if not more) people to the area during this season. So, all the off-season monsoon bliss I remember is now a distant memory.

 

More recently, though, my husband and I decided to give Puglia (in southern Italy) a try before the season truly opened. We were a bit apprehensive because the weather forecast threatened thunderstorms for some of the time we were there. But we bit the bullet and headed out there anyway, with waterproof trench coats and umbrellas at the ready. 

 

As it turned out, we needn’t have worried. Even though some of the attractions hadn’t opened, and the sea waters were too cold to venture in, these deprivations were nothing compared to the absolute bliss of wandering through the many quaint towns and villages of the regions without being crowded by thousands of other tourists. So, we walked through the stunning streets of Lecce (known as the Florence of the South), stopping to admire the many astonishing buildings the city houses. We visited the magnificent cathedral in Monopoli. We feasted our eyes on the amazing sea views from the terraces of Polignano di Mare. And wherever we went, we rejoiced in the complete absence of crowds. 

 

We were so happy with the experience, that we made a resolution right there and then that from now on we would only holiday during the off season. Not only does it make financial sense (both flights and hotels are so much cheaper at this time) it also makes for a stress-free holiday experience, when you are not competing with thousands of others to enjoy the same destinations. 

 

So, next stop is Sicily, just when winter is on the wane and spring is about to dawn. Palermo, here we come!

The power of 'no'

Don't be a people-please like me; recognise that 'no' is a complete sentence

 

Growing up as an inveterate people-pleaser, I came rather late to the power of saying ‘no’. As a child, a teenager, and then a young adult, I spent many hours of my life doing things that I actively disliked because I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I could actually refuse to do them. Now that I look back, I realize that I must have wasted an entire year (if not more) of my life saying yes to stuff that I really should have said a firm ‘no’ to. 

 

Well, those days are long gone. Now that I am in my middle years, I have zero compunction about saying ‘no’ to people, no matter how awkward the interaction may become as a consequence. I think the transition occurred in the Covid years, when enforced solitude made most of us examine our life choices. And as I looked back on my own life, I realized that most of my unhappiness stemmed from occasions when I had said ‘yes’ despite my misgivings. And with that realization in mind, I gave myself permission to say ‘no’ to anything that left me cold.

 

The resolution made, I implemented it on my first trip abroad soon after the Covid restrictions were lifted. We were wandering through Spain, when an Indian couple turned to me, held their phone out peremptorily, and asked me to take their picture. The very thought of holding someone else’s phone (which might as well be a petri dish of germs) brought me out in hives. In a previous incarnation I may have tamped down on my germophobia, taken the photo, and spent the rest of the day obsessively sanitizing my hands. But this time, I took a deep breath and replied with a simple, “No, thank you.” The couple looked as if they had been slapped in the face, but I wasn’t going to add any explanation to my refusal. 

 

‘No,’ as the saying goes, ‘is a complete sentence’.

 

Since then, I have deployed the power of ‘no’ in myriad situations, and I am much happier for setting up boundaries for myself (and for other people). At parties and dinners, I refuse to get brow-beaten by hosts who insist that I have ‘just one more drink’ or another helping of dessert. Initially, I would try and shame them into backing off by explaining that I was a diabetic. But now I offer no sugar-coating (oh! The irony!) to my ‘no’. I have had my fill of your excellent wine, I don’t want any seconds, and no, dessert doesn’t occupy a separate compartment in my stomach. No means no.

 

The same goes for invitations. If they don’t spark joy (with apologies to Marie Kondo) in my heart, then I would rather stay home than waste my time pretending to have fun. Which is why when a friend invited me to a bhajan evening at her home with her spiritual guru, I decided to adopt my new-found mantra and reply, “Thanks very much, but no, I’m really not a bhajan-type person.”

 

Her reply came back immediately. A laughing emoji followed by, “I love your honesty!” Which made me think that all of us would be better off if we applied the power of ‘no’ judiciously in our own lives.

Down memory lane

The tricky bit is - nobody remembers the same experience the same way

Memory is a funny thing. Two people may have the same experience but ask them about it many years down the line and they will remember it completely differently. It’s as if the brain selects elements that are important to you, retains them, and deletes everything else as extraneous. So, no two people can ever have the same recall of an experience they went through together. 

I thought of this again recently when the classmates of my English Honours course in Loreto College, Calcutta (as it then was), formed a Whatsapp group to stay in touch, update each other on our lives, and plan reunions for the future. Sadly, soon after we formed the group, our formidable principal, Sister Maeve Hughes, passed away. So we shared her obituaries and chatted about our interactions with her in college. 

That’s when the bombshell dropped. Two of our members talked about how she had taught us Milton’s Paradise Lost. That came as a complete shock to me. I had no recollection of ever attending such a class. When I said so on the group, my college bestie, Seema Mayecha, commented, “You sat right under her nose! Paradise was truly lost!”

But just as I was worrying about whether I was getting early onset dementia, I was reassured to find that several others on the group didn’t remember Sister Maeve teaching us either. (Or, it wasn’t just me who was losing my mind!)

But as the conversation progressed it became clear that all of us remembered completely different things from college. I had picture perfect recall of the classes taught by the witty Miss Chatterjee. Others had fond memories of different professors. Clearly, even though we had attended the same course, the memories that stayed with each of us were completely different. 

Going back further in time, it is much the same story. My childhood best friend, Kavita Walia,  and I often have catch-up sessions in which the conversation invariably veers to our growing up years. But strangely enough, we never ever remember the same things. She reminds me of the time we played a trick on my grandmother; an incident I have wiped from my mind. I remind her of the time when we were chased down the street by a cow; but her mind has erased that traumatic memory. And so on. 

This selective retention of facts extends to my working life as well. Much to my chagrin, my husband remembers some stories and interviews I did as a young journalist much better than I do. And the interactions and articles that left an impression on me, he doesn’t recall at all. We often joke that between us, we can fill in the blanks that exist in the other’s mind. 

So, I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad that so much of my college life is lost in the mists of time. Perhaps now that all my classmates have got together we can pool all our memories and thus manage a perfect recall of our college days. As they say, it takes a village. In our case, I guess it’s takes an entire class!

Home is where...

The heart is? Or is it a little more complicated?

What is the image that pops up in your mind’s eye when someone mentions the word ‘home’? Well, in my case, it is a series of images that flash past, of the various places I have called home in my time. 

 

The first image is of my childhood home in Calcutta (as it was known then) with its sun-dappled verandah on which I spent many blissful afternoons reading my Enid Blytons and daydreaming of the time I would also get to go to boarding school (spoiler alert: that never happened). The next picture to materialize is of my first home in Delhi, a humble barsati in Defence Colony, which was too hot in summer and too cold in the winter – but which I loved anyway, because it was the first space that was mine and mine alone. My thoughts then drift to the apartment in Mumbai, where I spent some precious moments with my mother-in-law in her last years. And only then, do I think of the current home in which I have lived for nearly a decade now.

 

But while these physical spaces have spelt home for me at one time or another, I have come to believe that ‘home’ implies much more than a house where you live. Sometimes it is the presence of another person that makes a place feel like home. It could be your parents who have the knack of making you feel at home no matter how long you have been away from the house where you grew up. It could be your spouse, whose presence by your side when you wake every morning and go to bed every night, makes you feel at home. It could be your kids – which is why empty-nest syndrome hits so hard. It could even be a beloved pet who makes a house feel like home.

 

Sometimes, though, ‘home’ is just a feeling, which kicks in when you get truly comfortable – either in a particular space or with some special people. It could be a holiday destination which you visit so often that it feels like coming home even though you’ve never lived there. That’s the feeling I get when I visit my two favourite cities in the world: Bangkok and London. Even though I don’t have a house in either city, I have managed to replicate that ‘home-like’ feeling by always staying in the same hotel – and, with a bit of luck, in the same room. That way, even the hotel feels as familiar as a home, with the same sofa to sink into, the same bed to sleep in, and even the same view from the window.

 

I guess the instinct to make ourselves feel at home is so strong that we try and recreate a ‘home’ wherever we go. It could be by vacationing at the same places, as I do ever so often. Or just recreating a home-like ambience in a strange environment by bringing along those creature comforts that we swear by. I carry my own coffee pods wherever I travel, along with a packet or two of Mcvities dark chocolate digestives. That way, I can effortlessly replicate the tastes and smells of my morning routine. And I can feel truly at home, no matter where in the world I am.

Start 'em young

What's the best way to introduce kids to the joys of cooking Indian food?

 

I have always been a fan of Jamie Oliver’s, having enjoyed his many TV cooking shows. I became even more of a devotee when Oliver dedicated himself to improving school dinners in the UK. But it was his recent initiative, 10 Cooking Skills for Life, rolled out for schoolkids to help them learn how to cook, that set me thinking: how could we best introduce our kids to the joys of Indian cooking? It must be done in a way that doesn’t scare them off the process. And yet, it needs to be challenging enough so that they learn the requisite skills to put an Indian meal together.

 

So, how do we reconcile these two objectives, while keeping things fun and wholesome in the kitchen? Well, here are just some tips I thought of in case you have children around the ages of 10-12, whom you would like to introduce to the art of cooking their own cuisine.

 

·       The easiest route to learning how to cook for a child is through the humble egg; and the easiest recipe to master is the akuri, the spiced scrambled eggs that make an appearance at most Indian breakfasts. Just chop up garlic, onions, tomatoes and green chillis, sautee them quickly, then add the whisked eggs with your choice of spices like cumin and coriander, and you are good to go. Once your child has mastered this art, you can move on to the other Indian breakfast staple: the masala omelet. 

·       All parents struggle to get their children to eat their vegetables, so cooking with them may present a challenge. But not if you start with something every kid loves: the potato. Teach them how to peel and cut the potato in thin strips to make aloo bhaja; to boil potatoes and sautee with masalas to make a tasty aloo dum; or mash it up with onions, chillis, spices and a dash of mustard oil to make a chokha. Once they have mastered these arts, you can incorporate other vegetables into their recipes: maybe add some aubergine to the bhaja; slip in some peas or even a few florets of gobhi into the aloo dum.

·       If you’re starting with the basics of Indian cooking, then you can’t really ignore the yellow dal. Thankfully, making this is not difficult and long-winded. All you need is a pressure cooker to boil the dal and some ingredients for the tarka. This can be as simple or as complicated as you wish. You can go the whole onion-garlic-tomatoes route or you could just teach your child to heat some ghee, toss some jeera or mustard seeds in, add a dash of red chilli for colour. Splash over your dal and enjoy.

·       While making a chicken curry or even mutton kebabs may be beyond your child’s burgeoning skill set, there are simpler ways to incorporate fish and meat in your meal. Fish may be messy to handle, but prawns are easy to peel and stir fry with your masala of choice. A finely-chopped keema is easy to put together with some beans for texture. And once you’ve taught them how to boil rice, they are ready to feed themselves for the rest of their lives. Bon Appetit, everyone!

Face-off

Brigitte Macron and Queen Camilla are a study in contrasts -- in their approach to cosmetic work

The two women presented a study in contrast as they posed next to each other. The occasion was the state visit of the French President, Emmanuel Macron, to Britain. And the two ladies in question were the French First Lady, Brigitte Macron, and Camilla, the Queen of the United Kingdom. 

 

On the one hand, you had Brigitte, whose unnaturally taut face carried signs of every cosmetic procedure she had ever had. Her cheeks looked hamster-like because of filler, her forehead was immobile because of Botox, and her smile looked more like a grimace on a face that had been stretched tight as a drum. On the other hand, you had Camilla, whose every year was visible on her finely-wrinkled face, with laugh lines, frown lines, wattled neck, et al. It was clear that the only cosmetic procedure the Queen of England had ever signed up for was the beeswax facials that she relies on to keep her skin glowing.

 

But glowing she certainly was: her complexion all peaches and cream, with wrinkles that were completely age-appropriate for a woman in her late seventies. Her hair was an ash blonde so that the greys merged in and was cut in a wispy style that worked well for her angular face. And that’s before we even get to Camilla’s beautifully tailored dresses – that hit just below the knee and were cinched at the waist to draw discreet attention to her figure – that were perfectly judged for the occasion. 

 

On the contrary, Brigitte looked like a caricature of herself, all nipped and tucked, with a preposterous bouffant hairstyle (that looked suspiciously like a wig). Her outfit did her no favours either, with the skirt ending well above the knee, and the jacket cut so tight that she could barely move her arms. The silhouette may well have worked on the runway, but it looked completely inappropriate in the shadow of Windsor Castle. 

 

Looking at the two women pictured together, it was all too easy to tell which one of them was happy with the process of ageing and which one was fighting it all the way. 

 

And while I have no intention of sitting in judgement on women who want to keep the predations of age at bay with every weapon at their command, I can’t help but feel that when it comes to tweakments, after a certain point the law of diminishing returns sets in. So, when you are in your forties and fifties, a little (and very little, mind you) bit of Botox and filler goes a long way. But by the time you hit your sixties and seventies, no amount of cosmetic treatment can mask the inevitable depredations that Nature subjects all of us to as we get older.

 

Once you cross the 65-year-old mark, every tweakment instead of making you look younger, only makes you look just a little bit weird. And by the time you reach your seventies, you end up looking like a cautionary tale, just like Madame Macron did on this occasion.

 

Given a choice, I know which woman I would rather look like if I am lucky enough to get to my seventies. Yes, you’re right, it’s Camilla all the way, the Queen of ageing with grace and dignity.