What's cooking?

Food holds a special place in everyone’s life - not only in the methods in which it is prepared but also the ways in which it is consumed. A table shared with friends energises and anchors relationships. A humble meal with folks revives memories. When we share tables, we effortlessly share a part of ourselves that chooses to stay latent otherwise.

Lately, I have begun to believe, there is no better way to connect than through the medium of food. Gatherings, no matter how small, infuse a spirit of warmth in you. Food ceases to be food and becomes a catalyst to connect, share stories and soak in laughter.



Food is all about sharing time with family and friends – at home, in restaurants, at work. We really spend quality time and linger over meals. The value of these gatherings is not in the quality of food, the flowers or any decorations as much as it is about the time spent together in eating and enjoying these things.

“Talk becomes more honest and more personal; the words mirror the spirit of the food served. Hearty, warm dishes lead to talk of things that affect the soul: love, loss, sickness, and success” - Forging Family by Saer Richards




Gastronomy, then, is as much of a pleasure as an art. It can be shared, offered, discussed –in flavours, colours, images and words. The culinary canvas is as much a means of self-expression as a way of entertainment. To say the least, food is the common denominator that pulls us together and stimulates conversation.

There’s something about sitting together and sharing a meal. It’s the most natural approach to entertaining. It’s a healthy reminder to appreciate the friends we have and the times we gather. But more importantly, it’s a reminder to share our tables more often, to open our doors and our hearts.

Death of a hero

Another hero dies and takes away with him a part of me.

As I read the news of Mario Miranda, one of my favourite cartoonists pass away, I cannot help but wonder what conspiracy is afoot. The last couple of months have witnessed the loss of people who are an indispensable part of my growing years, an inspiration to my creative spirit and to say the least, a companion to an entire generation. Jagjit Singh, Bhupen Hazarika, Dev Anand, Uncle Pai and now Mario Miranda.

Each demise was like a pebble thrown in a placid lake, disturbing the comfort zone I was living in. I realized, death has a knack of stirring memories that often sit quietly in a corner of the subconscious mind.

I recollect picking a cassette of Jagjit Singh’s album from didi’s huge music library and listening to the heavy vocabulary just to feel her presence around. I never thought the same songs that once so bore me would become a point of connection and comfort me after didi got married. Surely, when she left, I lost a companion, but in listening to her favourite singer, I found another.

I remember how every outstation trip meant picking a Tinkle from Wheelers on the railway station. The tales of Suppandi, Shikari Shambhu, Tantri the mantri along with the riddles and puzzles made for such a joyous journey. All thanks to Uncle Pai. And then, sometime in school I discovered Mario Miranda. I actually gave cartooning a shot after I saw Mr. Miranda’s distinctive style put to best use in a full page ad. The cutting of that page is neatly tucked away in one of my diaries.

And for a nation obsessed with cinema, how could you miss a legend like Dev Anand. Though remembered jokingly for his slouch and bobbing head, Dev Anand impressed me as a person whose spirit was undaunted by age. Add to it some of the most unforgettable songs from his films that continue to cheer me up on a bad day.

Not having these people, who shaped my sensibility in one way or another, is like losing a part of me that was so intricately attached to their body of work. It creates a vacuum that is difficult to fill.

In the words of Santosh Desai, “When people who make us who we are die, we grieve as much for ourselves as we do for them.”

A tear is shed and life goes on. Though deep within you know, it’s not like before.

Malled

It was huge. Well lit. The entrance itself was grand enough to intimidate. Flashy banners screamed names of brands she’d only read in overpriced magazines. It looked pretty. On second thoughts, pretty snobbish.

While driving down the parking space, which looked like a never-ending twirling ride, she read something that reaffirmed her sense of the place.

“Most people may not have heard of these brands. But then, this place is not for most people.”

Clever line, she said to herself. As a writer, that’s the first thing that came to her mind. But wait, there was much more to those words. There was a categorization of a brutal sense that she did not appreciate.

Euphemism – that’s the word she was looking for.

Euphemism (n) - Substitution of an inoffensive term for one considered offensively explicit.

She’d read it a hundred times in school; appreciated many examples of the same from countless poems. But unlike those several times, today it didn’t leave her with a very happy feeling.

She felt uneasy, probably unable to decipher which side of the bracket she belonged to. She entered the large atrium nonetheless. Manicured women, spendthrift men and difficult kids – it had the usual elements that make for the drama called retail therapy.

But remember, this mall was not for the usual shopaholics. People walked in and out of the obnoxiously expensive stores - checking price tags, expressing surprise in hushed voices and longingly looking at the stuff they wish she could afford. Suddenly, the uber- cool mall culture seemed like a conspiracy to stop people from being who they are. Why would you want an overcoat that’s meant for the London weather? Why would you need a soap that costs more than your pair of jeans?

Surely, she didn’t belong to this bracket, even if she could. After an hour of aimless walking that left her with tired eyes and feet, she headed back to the car. There again, in front of her, she saw that line; like a swear word written in beautiful calligraphy.

“… But then, this place is not for most people.”

November Rain

The drama in the clouds





Blurred escapes





The sweet surrender



No words can match up to the magic of monsoon.

Notes to myself

How little does it take to be happy?

A perfectly made cup of tea
A new coat of nail paint
A random post written as perfectly as it could be
A picture that transports you to another world
An unexpected kiss
The sweet smell of flowers in the house
The play of shadow and light on his face
An unusual buy

We always remember things that make us feel miserable. How seldom do we soak in the thousands of moments that bring us joy.

Notes to self: Devour every beautiful moment. Stop cribbing.

Sipping tea while it rains

Funny how a little drizzle
is enough to start
a flood of thoughts

Myopia

This city is of extremes. There’s so much to see, to hear, to feel. It keeps her senses on high alert. She doesn’t want to miss anything. Everyday, she keeps dealing with the overload.

Then, one day, the city’s sharpness gets blurred.

She forgets her glasses at home. On purpose.


(An attempt to write 50-word stories. This one is exactly 50 words.)