Thank you for loving me?

Thanksgiving is the time of the year when you realize how little you have to give thanks for. People ask themselves different questions: When will this end? How could they do this? How will I pull off this dinner for twelve? Shouldn’t I have a job by now? Was I really a size 2 last year? Why is my bank balance shrinking faster than forest land? Is tomato hummus really better than roasted garlic hummus?

If you are a poor lazy grad student with a weakness for hummus and pita, you find yourself asking all of them.

I was out outlet shopping and you must believe me when I tell you that the reason most clothes are on sale is because they got all the labels mixed up. What you think is a Large is probably a Small, and what not. And they economize by using dodgy mirrors that ahem, accentuate some mildly unflattering curves. And aliens with shrink guns and fish on bicycles…ah well, I know too much. Let me not give away too much in interest of my safety.

One person who was, however, not acting in the interest of his safety (or for the safety of his interests) was the boyfriend.

Scene 1.
‘What’s this?? I thought you were swimming every other day!’
‘It’s a tricky silhouette…who are they designing for? Supermodels? Let me try something else’

Scene 2.
‘Uh, why don’t you try a larger size?’
Raised eyebrow.

Scene 3.
‘Seriously, how did you put on so much weight in two months?’
Glare. Glare.

Emboldened by the observation that his bones and eardrums were still intact, he spewed a slew of endearments.

‘Oh fattie, what will I do with you? You are quickly falling off my ladder, and taking down some rungs with you!’. More witticisms followed.

‘Alright, if that’s what you want I am going to stop eating from now on. I hope you are happy’, and stormed out. I sulked and grimaced for two hours, but the barbs kept coming. The tantrum lasted all of two hours till I found myself outside one of my favourite cafes, that served delicious gooey hot chocolate in martini glasses.

I was amazed. Had I just gone from heartbroken to a hearty eater just like that? From glum to gleeful in minutes? I thought about my many mood swings and something struck me.

I think I have bipolar disorder, I have to eat for two.
That settles it. Now about tomato vs. roasted garlic…

RIP? No, thanks

I am stunned, I am saddened and I am furious too. Furious at their nerve, furious at our loss and furious at the cliches that abound and fly fast like bullets. Everytime.

I don’t want to hear about the spirit of Mumbai.

My father decided to drive to work the morning after the siege started, like he always did the morning after a terror attack, a riot, a flood, a curfew or someone’s tantrum. The city goes on, and all that jazz. For the first time, he had to drive back home; his office was closed. There is such a thing as too much. Thankfully. There’s nothing to love about a city that does not let you mourn your loss.

I don’t want to hear that the Taj is the pride of Bombay.

I know it already.

Every summer till I was 15 was spent in Colaba, every evening passed strolling at the Gateway of India and the Taj. I still remember walking past the plush stores at the Taj as a kid, my little knees warmed and cooled in turns by the radiators and the partly open doors of those fancy shops. The bakery was a favourite. This is where I’ll be when I grow up, I thought every time. And someone heard. My special cake for my special fourth birthday was from the Taj. A chocolate swimming pool with marzipan swimmers. Appropriately, I had lunch at the Taj on my first day of work.

I cried when I saw it in flames.

I don’t want to hear that terror does not have a religion.

Bullshit.

Excerpt from the Times of India:
“All the hostages were asked to reveal their religion. When the Muezzinoglus said they were Muslims, their captors told them that they would not be harmed. The other three Caucasian women were removed from the room next day, and the terrorists informed the Muezzinoglus that they had been shot. “

We condemn these attacks, said Politician X

Oh no you don’t. You don’t have a right to. While you were busy appeasing the neighbours, grovelling for votes and condemning terror strikes, there were people dying; dying defending their dreams, their families, their countrymen.
And then again, what right do I have? I just have a voice, and a blog. And time to spare. Because I am not living the nightmare that friends, family and fellow Mumbaikars are.

A Summer in Pictures – III

A little must also be said about (and shown from) the two least exciting weeks of my Eurotrip – the French Riviera, Venice and Rome. Alright, the French Riviera was really pretty, I met some great people too. Venice had amazing seafood. My grouse is entirely against Rome. I hated it the first time I visited it four years ago, and I guess neither of us has changed much in four years.

–
My most lasting memory of South France is sunning myself on a beach in Villefranche-sur-mer with two fellow backpackers. One wholewheat slice in a loaf of good ole’ white bread. Hmm, definitely not a good Waldo puzzle. This was also the first time I really swam in the sea, and accidentally also announced it to my friends. They looked skeptical, almost incredulous.
“I am sure you have heard how dirty India is. The beaches are no different”, I lied. Ah well, not entirely. India’s speckled landscapes became my alibi for having learnt swimming just earlier this year

Ambling along in Cannes alone made me think (realize?) that traveling alone with a backpack is perhaps not always the best way to see the world. I missed A. I hated being a poor backpacker on a budget in a place peppered with yachts, villas and designer boutiques. This crabbiness lasted all of a few hours till three (relatively non-shady) men told me how pretty I was. So much for empowerment and women’s lib.

I also took an instant liking to old Nice with its fruit and flea markets and colourful scenes. Sample these pictures (but not the cuisine, Niçoise food was a big disappointment)

—-

Venice is a crumbling Disneyland, so surreal that it is almost fake and yet, so imperfect that it remains real. The food though, was almost perfect. Fish with zucchini flowers, spaghetti in cuttlefish ink, 5-euro house wine, a part of me lived in paradise that weekend. (And in case you didn’t know, don’t believe guidebooks, grappa is NOT Italian wine. Do not order it with lunch, unless you are in the mood for the equivalent of three tequila shots at noon)

—

Rome was definitely the low point of the trip. Initially I asked myself why I was wasting 5 days of my time in Europe in Rome. By the third day, I was asking myself why I was wasting 5 days of my life in the city. The men were sleazy and the city bland. Not the best recipe for good memories. I did meet some amazing people in Rome (only briefly though) and it was here that I had the most meaningful conversation of my trip with another traveler. And then I was back to being alone.

—

I must confess that Paris was not exhilarating every single minute of the six days I spent there. However, in Nice, all I remembered was the waltz on Pont des Arts, the kaleidoscopic crowds of Montmartre and the constellation that was the sparkling Eiffel Tower at midnight. I wasn’t surprised that Nice couldn’t match up.

In Rome, I looked back fondly at Nice, the sounds of the vieille ville (the old city), the sepia-toned buildings and the cinemascope markets. And Rome paled in comparison. It’s a strange far-sightedness. What’s past is always so much clearer and brighter than what’s at hand.

The Truth Children

I am taking a class in the Design School here at Stanford this quarter. This interesting class takes us through several user-centric design projects in a span of two months. Our second project was to come up with a way to bring politically silent individuals and groups into the polling booths.

After two weeks of interviewing umm, interesting people in umm, marginalized neighbourhoods, this was our final presentation. We had several really cool ideas (and working prototypes) but decided to go with simple answers that would appeal to a working class mother.

The best part of the project was making this video. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. It’s so camp.

See if you can spot me. I appear in just one scene. And my awesome butt makes an appearance in another, fully clothed of course

I worked on this video at a time when I really really needed something to distract me. And someone to give me a hug and say it would all be okay. Thanks, Truth Children. For both.

A Eulogy

Not all friends know that my family and I went through a tragedy recently. My cousin was in an accident and passed away two weeks ago. Cousin, did I say? She was a sister, friend, gossip girl, backpacker, future hotshot journo, party planner, fashionista, bully. She was a Spark.

A sunbeam lent to us too briefly.

It was a lightless Diwali for us.

I wrote something for her prayer meet. Mulled over this for a long time, and decided to post it. I hope nobody has to go through the experience of losing a loved one. Nothing prepares you for it, it is unlike anything you have read or seen, and yet I pray that it remains a mystery for all of you.

–

On the 23rd of October, my life changed. In the beginning, I had just one question. I asked, how could this happen to her? She was only 20. She loved life more than anybody else I know, with a zest and energy that was both enviable and inspiring. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I thought about her confident ‘hellooow’ on the phone, her crazy sardar dance, about how she could be a bully and a friend at once and how she held on to her ideals and beliefs no matter what. Avanti was special. In so many ways, she was the glue that held lots of us together. As I thought about Avanti, I slowly realized how my life would never be the same again. And I had a second question. I was asking God, how could this happen to me?

I had to slowly get used to saying, Avanti was special. At times like these, you wish you had never learnt the past tense. You wish that no language had a past tense and the need to describe a loved one in the past tense never arose. But meeting and parting are facts of life. There is always a past, a present and a future. Yes, there is always a future. This accident that took Avanti away from us is not a full stop, but just a comma, a brief pause before she moves on to a better life, a life of limitless possibilities, a world where she could truly be everything that she wanted to be.

Even though I believe that Avanti is peaceful and happy wherever she is, there is an emptiness inside that cannot be fixed. Who can take the place of the most vivacious, passionate sister and friend that I had? How do I step into a Cafe Coffee Day without thinking about her? How do I criticize Shah Rukh Khan without expecting her to roll her eyes at me?  Can I watch the news without remembering Avanti’s strong opinions about the journalistic excellence of India TV? Will there ever be anyone else who reviews a movie saying, “This is a film that grabs you by the shoulders and says, come watch me!”? No matter what I think of, I think of her. In just 20 years, she managed to touch so many lives in so many ways. And now that she’s gone, what are we to do with this emptiness in our lives? How do we fill this void?

There is only one answer. We must fill this void with happy memories of Avanti, and I can say for all of us that there is no shortage of that. Think of Avanti the friend, Avanti the sister, Avanti the cousin, Avanti the daughter, the niece, the colleague, the classmate. Avanti played many roles and played them all brilliantly. Avanti, we will miss you and you will be a part of our lives forever.

A summer in pictures – II

Sometime in January, while trying to get an internship in France (how? the old Indian way, I heard your dad works in….), I had an epiphany. I had a history of being ambitious and resourceful behind me and a lifetime of being ambitious and productive ahead. For one summer, could I not try and be something else? Spend a summer not building bridges and ladders and just be. Just be, hmm, but where? My diet allows me just one brilliant insight a day, and I decided that (surprise surprise) Europe will have the honour of entertaining my backpack and me this summer.

It was not an easy task (not a particularly arduous one either) planning this trip. The visa officials, for instance, could not understand why I wanted to travel alone, till I showed them my US visa (It’s strange, this math of meandering, how some people are more entitled to travel than others). As I sat waiting for my visa, nearly in tears, I remember telling myself, if I don’t get this, I will never write again, I will straighten my hair and become a banker.

Why? Because I don’t always make sense.
—

I did get the visa. And after four short, cold days in London, I was off to..well, I’ll let you guess.

Paris in a modern city in every respect, but has the charming pace of a town on the verge of a breakthrough. Fast, but not tripping over. The fashion is carefully put together to look careless, carefree. Souvenir shops abound in all corners like moss on a rainy wall. People and cameras (and pickpockets) jostle for space in crowded markets.

And yet, a moment of solitude is an arm’s length away. The city is social and solitary at once. Buildings have rows of brown chimneys on the roofs, like curious marmots peeping out of their cubbyholes, soaking the city in. The architecture imbibes this voyeurism from the city. Chairs in cafes face outwards towards the street, and not each other.

You might also wonder why after a rather wordy (and woefully inadequate) description of a summer in Paris, there is a picture of a yellow rose in a cemetery. No, I do not wish you dead. I just didn’t get too many pictures in Paris. Was busy looking out for cheap food and handsome men. Sadly, Paris offered just one.

What Paris offered abundantly was opportunities to get lost and discover unexpected sights, sounds and smells. A night at Pont des Arts (a wooden bridge outside the Louvre which comes alive with ‘musicians and merrymakers’ at night), drinking cheap wine from a borrowed plastic cup, talking about Kaiz and breaking out into an impromptu waltz; such are the joys of life.

Another accidental discovery was Montmartre – the artists’ district (I say accidental because I traveled without guide books. It is rather touristy to be honest). This scene (that I would later discover is found in ALL European cities) completely swept me away.

My staccato thoughts hardly do justice to the experience that is Paris. Neither does one week. And the next time I go to Paris, I hope I speak much much more French than ‘Est-ce que vous avez des pins?’ Till then, I can just wait.

A summer in pictures – I

I am pretty tired of the self-deprecating brand of humour (?) and the endless ranting about a joyless and meaningless life that seem to pervade all my posts. This post was initially going to be about my semi-drunken announcement last week that I am a 1.2 on the Kinsey scale. Thankfully, my friends were busy getting swept off their feet by the eloquence of the Hockey Mom and my revelation sank like a polar bear.

Anyway, before I launch into a soliloquy about sexual preferences or global warming, let me get to the point of the post. So yes, as I was saying before, grey is not the only colour on the palette and free food is not the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I have very few principles that I live by. One of them is that every pair of contact lenses should see a new place. In the last few months, I have been very principled indeed. I spent a large part of this summer on the road (and the other part sitting on my ass at home, eating wonderful home-cooked food). My first destination was Ladakh, a district in Jammu & Kashmir in India.

Ladakh is essentially a desert with vast dramatic barren landscapes and some unexpected bursts of colour; a capricious mountain beauty who smiles as and when she pleases. Ladakh shares a border (and a lake) with Tibet and it’s hard to miss the influence. In fact, the cultural links between Ladakh and the rest of India are tenuous. The roads, however, are spectacular.

The sky takes on new shades of blue and every sight, every experience becomes more intense than most other things you have experienced. At over 10,000 feet, you have to earn every breath you take, and breath becomes the locus of living. You slow down to regain control over your own body, and soon wonder why you were ever in such a rush anyway.

There’s no better way to see Ladakh than on a bike. A big burly noisy Royal Enfield announces your arrival a few seconds before you burst into the scene. The adrenaline transforms the gentle cool breeze into a chilly roaring monster that follows you, much like a dog chasing a bike. As you ride by, villagers wave and shout Jhuley! and you smile and wave back.

Ladakh has several monasteries, simple and crumbling. The thin air and the prospect of a lifetime of austerity haven’t worn out the little monks who happily pose for cameras and clap their hands with joy when they see their own pictures.

The place that made for the best pictures was of course the Pangong lake, the lake that made sure that we braved winding roads, altitude sickness, a landslide and a little flood before we earned the right to be click-happy.

And how can I forget, this is the place where I had the best Maggi ever. (Maggi is Indian ramen, only much better). And the ginger lemon tea in Ladakh, I still wake up in the middle of the night craving it. Well not really, but it was pretty good stuff.

We also stayed with a Ladakhi family in a little village called Likir (On the way to which, I rode, or rather attempted to ride, the bike myself and managed to crash it pretty badly) In Likir, houses don’t have numbers and people don’t have real addresses. The postman knows everyone by name. We stayed with a family of farmers as part of a Himalayan homestay program and were blown away by their hospitality. Except of course, when the men were served chang (a local barley brew) and the woman (that’s me) was expected to help out in the kitchen. Hmm, maybe Ladakh is not that far removed from India after all.

How far would you go?

Stanford screwed up my housing assignment and to make up for it, they have given me a semi-swanky (but kitchenless) guest suite in a remote corner of the campus. This means that on most days, I am actively seeking out people to eat lunch or grab coffee with. I have a friend who seems to be on top of all events on campus and is almost as big a sucker for free food as I am. We decided to get lunch today, and befittingly, at an event that served free food. So, my friend calls me this noon.

For the sake of brevity and to protect his privacy, let’s call him Addy.

‘There’s a BGSA lunch this afternoon’
‘What’s BGSA?’. Something sounded wrong.
‘The Black Graduate Students Association’
‘Uh, I know I am not white, and I am swimming at least two afternoons a week, but this is gonna be a little difficult to pull off Addy.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s open to everyone’

As soon as we got to the venue, I saw before my eyes the narrowest definition of ‘open to everyone’.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea Addy?’
‘I hope so!’

We headed to the buffet hall next door (which is usually a restaurant) and were relieved by the more polychromatic nature of the room.
‘Well, I guess we should be fine’
‘Let’s eat! The food looks good!’

And good it was. Pasta in blue cheese sauce. Grilled catfish. Marinated mushrooms with black pepper. A salad bar with LOW-FAT thousand island. We decided to find a comfortable place right there next to the spread, instead of going back to the other room.

So Addy and I sat down to lunch discussing salad forks, lunch etiquette and my provincial ways (dehati to be precise). Soon a waiter walks by and asks whether we had a lunch coupon or we would be paying cash.

‘The buffet hall (which is usually a restaurant)’ was a restaurant.

Our razor-sharp engineers’ minds swung into action.
‘You mean this is not the BGSA lunch?’
‘How stupid of us!’
‘No wonder our friends are not here’
‘Oh my God, we will have to move to the other room with our plates now’
‘Too bad we started eating, this is awful’

<Show sad face to waiter in sync>

‘Oh no, it’s okay, you can continue to sit here. Do you want something to drink?’
Flash 100-watt smile, ‘Thank you so much, but don’t bother, we are good’

We quickly finished lunch and ran up the stairs, bursting into spells of giggling. Make that fits of laughter.
‘How did we pull this off?’
‘Because…we are good’

And as we cycled off into the day, imaginary funky music playing in the background, this con caper came to an end. For now.

–

Isn’t it funny how we seek out little thrills to spice up our mundane lives? How with every passing year, you don’t necessarily get taller; but the world seems to be sinking deeper and deeper, but it gets all the more difficult to stand out (and stand up)? Swashbuckling buccaneer devious daredevil are words I wish I could have used to describe myself. Truth is, at the end of the day I am still a clueless lost risk-averse boring old cheapskate.

I think I am going to be very very optimistic and call it a quarter-life crisis.

–

As soon as I got back, I tried to brag about my afternoon to a cynical party-pooper friend (yes, you know who you are). As expected, he didn’t seem impressed. Well, guess where I had dinner last night, he asked. I waited for his answer so that I could retort with a scowl, for a change.

‘At the Stanford Women Engineers welcome party’.

He takes this round, appetizer, entree and dessert.

Bonjour

Here I am in Paris, putting all my intellectual faculties to use in trying to figure out this quaint French keyboard which hqs Q in plqce of A. So far it has been fun (Paris, not the keyboqrd). My rudimentary French is put to use and test every couple of minutes. My room looks out into the Sacré-Coeur. The crêpes are tasty, the contradictions even more delicious (more in another post). The men are, well, …. the men are French. Soon, the time on the cybercafé counter will run out. Soon, I will sit, pen in hand, notebook on desk, the moon shining on the Sacré-Coeur, someone smiling at me. Finally.

The joys of life are simple, c’est la vie.

__

Edit: This post makes me cringe. £3 wine talks very loudly indeed.

Blah

Things to do in India
a.k.a. Why I am looking forward to summer.

- Coffee shack (Yeah, PPS!)
- Gorge on alphonso mangoes
- Get a haircut (short or long? red again?)
- Watch Jaane tu ya jaane na
- Pani puris!
- Friend’s wedding in Indore (Wow, I feel old..)
- Use a phone without looking at the time of the day or the day of the week
- Show off new-found cooking skills to mother
- BUT get fed good home-cooked food for a month
- Not do dishes for a month (how cool is that!)
- Throw tantrums
- Laugh at some saas bahu shows
- Tropical Iceberg at CCD Carter Road
- Bombil fry at Jai Hind, Margherita pizzas and chocolate shakes at JATC
- Give Indigo one last chance
- Sip Sunset on the beach (?) at Salt Water Grill
- Shop till I drop at MNG
- Party with Bollywood beats and familiar hip-hop in the background
- Visit Sikkim/Ladakh/Leh (fingers crossed on this one)
- Renew passport. Get UK and Schengen visas (Yawn!)
- Be happy, find inspiration

Damn. I hate this miserable place.