The way to a man’s heart is through Amritsar…

Friday afternoon. Working from home. Yawn after yawn. Bored. A noisy insect buzzing in the living room and singing me a lullaby.

But I can’t afford to fall asleep. Have work to finish. And a hungry, tired husband to feed dinner.

Crawl to the freezer. A packet of frozen chillies, quarter packet of frozen corn, half a tub of cookie cream ice-cream, some frozen grated coconut, and half a packet of frozen Basa fillets. Great! Unless the husband eats some ice-cream with corn, chillies and grated coconut…there is nothing for the non-fisheaterian man.

Or is there?

Remember reading somewhere that even the fish-haters can’t say no to “Fish Amritsari”. Crawl back to the laptop. Go to the agony aunt called Google. Browse though a few recipes. And woo-hoo….I am back in business!

I have all the ingredients I need to make Fish Amritsari (how very strange!).

So I marinate the fish:

And fry them:

And this is what the happy husband looks like:

P.S. Considering how much I dislike cooking, I never thought I would ever have a kitchen post on my blog. But I underestimated the power of boredom.

Once upon a bus ride...

If you have ever taken a public transport on a week day, around afternoon or late morning, am sure you were struck by a lightening of some sort. Here is the story of my (en)lightening.

I had a doctor’s appointment today and had to head straight back to office after that. I was to take a bus to the bus port…from where I had to take another bus to my office (not the best use of my time…but can’t complain…it was ME who had been putting off driving lessons for so long).
By the way, those of you have been asking me how my driving is going:
• I have taken 8 classes as of today and I haven’t killed anyone…injured a car or two, including ours.
• I have decided that I will keep taking classes till I successfully pay off my instructor’s mortgage.
• I have also realised that when I finally get a licence, am not going to need it that much. Retirement homes usually have their own transport.

Anyway, coming back to my public transport story, I must say that the simple exercise of taking a bus filled me with the strangest thoughts. At that time of the day on a week day, the busses are filled with people who are either too old to work….or too young. I happened to sit beside an old lady wearing a hearing aid, clutching her walking stick and her shopping bags, casting furtive and even suspicious glances at me, as if I would snatch her bags or her hearing aid and run away. She looked scared, insecure, and uncomfortable to say the least. Does old age do that to every one?

Her life floated in front of my eyes…
Living alone in an old house, with a little dog perhaps, a little garden, a refrigerator full of easy to chew and easy to digest food, a variety of medicines on the bedside table, a reading glass on her coffee table, a glass jar in the window sill that holds her dentures at night. Grocery shopping is a weekly affair, mainly vegetables and soup, as the doctor had prescribed. The young boy at the pharmacy is friendly and helpful…delivers her weekly medicines for diabetes and blood pressure, and enjoys a nice cup of tea and two biscuits in return. The children don’t visit that often now. The elder son is a truck driver and drives to faraway lands…the younger son visits only when he needs to borrow a little money…who else will a son go to? The daughter visits once in three months and brings the grandchildren too. Jeez! How fast they are growing up. If their grandfather was around, he would have taken them for picnics and fishing…but it’s better that he left. The kidney failure was too much to bear.

The driver braked suddenly, and my thoughts jumped back into the bus. The old lady was as uncomfortable as before. I wanted to hold her hand and say “It’s alright…I have seen your house, your dog, your children…even met the pharmacy boy. I know you. Relax, don’t be scared.” But that would scare her even more. So I pressed mute on my vocal cords.

Opposite to me was a young girl with her nails painted fluorescent pink. From the speed at which her fingers moved on the cell phone to type out a text message or perhaps play a game, I guessed she was in her teens (that would explain the nail colour as well). Her hair was a mess and I am sure she would have taken it as a compliment if I told her so. It was probably the reaction she expected and wanted from a fat, old-fashioned, on-the-wrong-side-of-her-twenties woman like me. It would be pretty uncool for her to have a hairstyle that I found cool. She chewed a gum with the aggression of an Australian fast-bowler. Her fluorescent pink iPod played some noise that was loud enough for me to hear, despite the earphones. Again, she would be happy to know that what was music for her, was noise for me.

What was life like for her?
She must have hated school, and hated homework even more. The only saving grace was that she hung out with the hippest girl gang in school…the group that every girl aspired to be in…the group that was mean and smart and ruthless and sexy and adventurous and not afraid of the teachers or the parents. The group that was chased by the coolest boys…the group that always knew what to do, say, wear, eat, chew, paint, colour, pierce, listen to, in order to keep the rest of the school gawking. Mom and Dad were too busy to notice the secret stash of vodka and cigarettes in her room. When the girl gang had one of the wild pajama parties at her place, she would make them the most intoxicating drink…the one that her ex-boyfriend who was a bartender at a night club for backpackers, had taught her. Presently, she is single…though Rob and Dennis both text her 45 times a day, so it’s almost like being with two boys at the same time. Studying wouldn’t do her any good she decided…she was to become a rock star some day and the old guitar in her room believed in her, if no one else did. Life was kinda fun…school camps were great, and the weekends were great too, when Mom and Dad were away. The little sister is a pain in the butt…knocking her room every minute and totally destroying her privacy. She doesn’t read much, though she really did enjoy the Twilight series a lot. Edward Cullen was just the right guy for her, she thought.

As if it was the intermission of an interesting movie, my mind floated back to the present. I was perplexed and even annoyed at myself…that I had done what I always championed against…that is, I had stereo typed people from their appearances. But this was not the time for self-criticism. I was struck by a lightening…one that was a strange mix of gratitude and haste. I realized that I may be living the best years of my life. I wouldn’t swap places with either of the two ladies I had observed in the bus. I ought to be grateful for the life I had NOW…for my present…which may be boring, and often lonely and unadventurous…maybe slightly typical even…and definitely a lot overweight. But this was indeed the best years of my life! I wouldn’t rewind to teenage (can’t bear the thought of acne and the confusion over my body “growing up” all over again)…and would definitely not look forward to a life with my dog and dentures.

That was it! That was such a great feeling…almost like a rebirth. I had suddenly arrived in life and couldn’t help smiling my broadest smile (I noticed the old lady held her bags even more tightly…the obese smiling-to-herself lunatic must be up to something, she must have thought).

Thanking both the ladies profusely for enlightening me such (in my mind of course), I got down at the bus port. Life couldn’t get better, I realized (touch wood) and I hurried up to make the most of it.

Peyaj Koli

My first post in Bengali. Those of you thought that nothing could get worse than my English, time for a rain-check.

Inspired by the only vegetable that a carnivore like me doesn't mind eating...once in a while.

Peyaj koli ami tarei boli,
Khete jare lage na mondo.
Halka shobuj boron jar,
Ar peyaj peyaj gondho.

Shobji rajjey “tuchcho” jey,
Alu raja…ar proja shey.
Phoolkopir moto roop oshi shey noy,
Gooney begun-o koreche tar joy.

Peyaj tar pishtuto bhai,
Jodio tader khub meel nai.
Kheyeche shobai, tobu gaye ni keu tar goon,
Jodio radhte lage shudhu kalo jeera ar noon.

Peyaj koli ami tarei boli,
Amar fridge e ekaki shobuj jey.
Radhte shohoj, khete khasha,
Amar priyo shobji shey.

Fat-so?

Many many kilos ago, there lived a little girl, in the little land of Bongs.
It was Me.

[Though, for those who have had the misfortune of seeing me lately, I understand that it’s difficult to think of me as ever being “little”. My heartfelt apologies for anybody who went back home and dieted/exercised on my behalf. I sincerely hope you have overcome the trauma.]

Anyway, going back many many years when I hadn't taken up the challenge of outdoing the weighing scale, I don’t really see a different “Me”. I mean, I am essentially the same person…just hiding behind layers of adipose…and smiling above the third chin I am blessed with (Oh! What generosity from the God of Adipose).

Though I “see” myself as the same, it’s interesting to note how people’s comments to/on me have changed with the years (kilos).
Sample this:
Earlier
People – Why are you decked up so much? Who are you trying to impress?
Me – Umm…haven’t made the list yet.
Now
People – You look so sweet and cuddly.
Me – Thanks, you said the same thing when you saw my neighbour’s overfed dog.
Earlier
People – You look taller. Are you wearing heels?
Me – Yes I am. It’s quite warm today, so I thought it would be cooler up here.
Now
People – Why are you hugging your saree pallu in every snap? Are you pregnant?
Me – No, just my tummy. Thanks for asking.

When I hear about my friends being on diets (friends who are half my weight) or my fit-and-frisky colleagues going for a run at lunch time, I wonder:
Is there more wrong with me than my weight?

Why don’t my hands fumble when I generously butter my toasts in the morning?
Why don’t I ever stop at the salad or fresh fruits section at the supermarket?
Why do I confidently ask for two sugars in my cappuccino, where all my friends go for a skinny flat white?
Why do I wait for Amit to pick me up when the shopping centre is just a km away from home? (I even complain if he doesn't manage to get the nearest parking)
Why don’t I ever read the calorie information of the food (junk )I buy ?
Why can’t I ever think of a salad as a proper meal? Or a tasty option?
Why don’t I feel ashamed to ask for a size XL when I am out shopping for Tees?
Why do I change the TV channel when they say “1 out of every 2 Australian is obese. Obesity increases your risk of many heart diseases ” ?
Why do I eat the fourth scoop of ice cream without a jitter?
Why does the mirror never make me think of suicide? Or at least a gym?
Why do I love telling my sister that my picture files are too “heavy” to be sent to her?
Why don't the pictures of my slim-and-sexy friends on orkut/facebook intimidate/inspire me?

Is this "I-know-exercise-is-not-for-me" excuse good enough?
Is this “I-don’t-care-how-I-look” attitude normal?
Is this “I-know-diets-don’t-help” perspective a kind of escapism?

There is more wrong with me than my weight.
[sigh]
I think I need therapy.

But for now, a brownie would do.

"Me" - time

Socialising is the greatest form of masochism. You put time, effort and money into meeting new people or catching up with old acquaintances…and then let these very people steal your peace of mind, increase your stress level and leave you disgusted.

The one thing that I really want to be is:
“Self-motivated to be happy” (as one of my wisest friends, Sus di puts it)

As each day goes by, I realise how badly I need to master, or at least acquire this skill. At the moment, I am far from it…depending on “external factors” for my daily dose of happiness.

Friendless, in a far-away land that has offered very few like-minded people, I absolutely MUST learn to be happy alone.

Wish I could be happy in my own company (which is hard…because I am quite boring unless drunk)

Wish I did not need "people" to talk to(I could talk to the trees or insects in my garden and am sure they would reciprocate better)

Wish I had as much fun reading a book or watching a movie as I do when I am with friends (which would also help build that dream library I want so badly)

Wish I did not need to call a hundred people in India to feel good (which would save a lot of money too)

Wish I wouldn’t let random comments from random people affect my peace of mind (which would let me concentrate on other more important things like cloud-watching or cleaning the toilet)

If only I could start enjoying the “me” time, I would be so much closer to the person I want to be.

Aroma therapy

If I could have perfumes specially made for me, I would order these:

Pujo-pujo smell

Ma-ma smell

Bari-bari smell

Kolkata-kolkata smell

Hill station- hill station smell

Brishti-brishti smell

Lazy Sunday afternoon smell

Summer holiday smell

Shiraz Biriyani smell

Bikel-bela-tele-bhaja-and-cha smell

Holi’r abir smell

Bedwin mutton roll smell

Sea-side smell (not the stinking fish types…but the fresh cool breeze types)

P.S. I wouldn’t really “wear” these (I don’t have too many friends here, anyway…and I have to keep my job too). Would just smell them occasionally, according to my mood. I am particularly missing the first one now :(

Home is where the familiar “smell” is.

I never quite understood the romanticism/obsession about a “house”, though it has been the bricks of some great literature. It could be a menacing backdrop, as in Pinter’s The Room or a symbol of “purpose in life” as in Naipaul’s A house for Mr Biswas. Whatever it was, I never quite connected with it, till I visited my “home” two years back…after ages.

Opening the rusty lock, I entered a house full of dusty memories. Having been deserted for quite a few years, the smell of “dust” was beginning to overpower the smell of “home” that I so longed for. Fighting the cobwebs that hung from the ceiling, I tried to concentrate. The sofa that was also a clever little spare bed for cousins who stayed back the night had been specially designed by Baba. I removed the batik-printed bed cover from it (covered by Ma, to protect it from dust), to see if the colour was still what I remembered it to be. It was…only slightly faded.

The pegs on the wall smiled a strange naked smile. The paintings and photographs of friends and family had been dismounted when Ma went away to stay with Didi. They are kept somewhere safe in the cupboards, I think…but the walls look bruised without them.

The book-shelves in my room had also been wrapped up in a floral printed bed cover that I remember on the beds where I sat to do homework. The books were still there…neither Didi nor I could carry them all to our new cities. I picked up the Byomkesh Bakshi : Collection that Mama had given me when I did well in college. The second page had that beautiful handwriting, almost like calligraphy:
Dear Tuli,
May you enjoy the “search” as much as you enjoy the “find”.
Blessings,
Mama

The pujo place, which was actually a shelf converted to a place of worship, was empty. Ma had carried the Gods that she could…and the rest were sent to Mamabari, for regular “jol, batasha and dhoop kathi”. What remained was an old brass dhoop-kathi stand, which didn’t seem to find a new home and lay there all alone. I tried hard again to remember the smell of the incense sticks that Ma used…a chandan one, I think. But the cobwebs distracted me again.

Desperate for some fresh air, I went to the balcony. There were a few pots still, but no plants. Ma had given away most of her potted plants to neighbours and family. She could have left at least the old cactus behind, which always reminded me to a toothless, hairless old man. Cacti don’t need water or care, so am sure it would have survived. But no. She left all her loved ones, with some other loved ones.

I plugged in the old tape recorder that Didi and me had bought with our saved money (years later, we came to know that Baba had to pool in 90%, as our savings could buy us a few cassettes, not a whole cassette player. But we always thought it was “our” hard-saved money…and when Baba asked us to lower the volume, we sometimes told him that we won’t because it was OURS and we could do what we wanted with it.). Luckily, there was a cassette in it “Cliff Richards: Young Ones.” Half expecting the player to crash at my touch, I pressed the Play button.

And to my surprise, the magic voice started singing, low but clear. Clearing away the cobwebs from my home and from my memories, the music brought that familiar “smell” back.

Inspired by a recent conversation with a friend who is also visiting her home after ages.

My home on GoogleMaps:
http://wikimapia.org/435296/Aelite-Housing-Soceity-3-Bidhan-Sishu-Sarani-Kol-700-054

Therapy for a bad day...

It’s one of those days when suicide seems to be the best option…or murder.

And anybody who asks you to “take it easy” or “take a few deep breaths” reserves a place in your serial-killing victims list (an Excel sheet with no colours but grey).

So here’s an exercise for world peace. Am trying to think of all things I want, badly want:

A tree house where I can vanish…and simply disappear



A hammock in my backyard that overlooks the sea



A massage that just goes on and on …and on…and on



A sunny window sill where I can read, day dream and doze off



Is it too much to ask for?

Images - Gracias, Google
Acknowledgements - Gracias, Debanjana. I remember one of your posts on these lines.

The Mythical Land of "Maike"...

I have no doubt that most women today are more privileged than their counterparts from the black-and-white days. No getting married when you would rather go for school camps….no being thrown into the fire when a granddad of a husband takes off for the other world….no being mistaken for firewood by a dowry-greedy mother-in-law…no becoming mothers when you would rather be a kid yourself.

Having said that, I think the women today are deprived of a rather cool privilege. That of rushing off to the “maike” (parents’ place) when they got angry with the husband. It must have been so liberating! One had so many options to choose from:

Light anger – Don’t talk till forgiveness is asked for.

Medium anger – Have a war of words…cry a little…and threaten to go away to your “maike” till the opponent is moved to the golden words of “I am sorry.”

Heavy anger – Cry a lot…pack your clothes (don’t forget the novel you have been planning to read for a while) …walk out of the young man’s house…to walk into the old man’s house (who is always happy to see you, no matter what).

And then, life would be such a party! Eat and sleep and chat and read…and do what you want to do, while closely monitoring the number of times the husband calls in a day (of course you have given out strict instructions that the phone should not be passed to you, no matter what). And when you are sure that he has suffered/felt guilty enough…give him the chance to say “Sorry” or “Please come back home” or “I miss you”. Cry a tear or two to prove once again that “You were really hurt”, but say “yes” when he asks you if he should come to pick you up.

Then go back to a home where the pleasantest surprises are awaiting you. Dinner is cooked (for a change)…maybe a bunch of flowers somewhere to welcome you back home. What bliss!

There was something romantic about the whole episode, don’t you think? The parents are aware that it is only “one of those fights”, and don’t really force you to go back. The neighborhood friends pour in to ask “What exactly happened?” and you spice up the story, where obviously “he” is always at fault. And all this happens under the quiet, reassuring feeling that you will make up with him in a day or two and the two of you will live happily ever after… till the next fight.

Alas! “Maike” these days is as much a mythical place as “Kailash” or “Brindavan”.

We can fight and scream and cry and go into the “I-am-not-talking-till-you-say-sorry” mode. But we can’t rush off to the “maike”. Unless we are ready to apply for a visa, take annual leaves, buy last-moment expensive train/air tickets and travel a few thousand miles or nautical miles.

There is just no fun in marital fights anymore.

Jhooth bole - Bobby (Hindi song)- Watch more Videos at Vodpod.

Driving FAQs

Why is “driving someone crazy” so easy while “driving a car” so difficult?

The grocer’s shop from the petrol station is 2.5 kms. Why does it feel like 0.5 kms when Amit is driving, and 250 kms when I am trying to drive? Is distance inversely proportional to driving expertise? Why didn’t they say so in our Physics books, then?

Why is it important to “indicate” even when you are practicing steering control in an empty parking bay at midnight? Why is it that nothing makes your husband angrier than when you fail to indicate (even if you have taken a good stable turn)?

Why do I act like I am colour blind at a traffic signal? I surely can tell between a red, green and yellow when I am anywhere in the car apart from the driver’s seat. Again, if colour blindness was related to your position inside the car, why didn’t they say so in the Biology books?

Why is it that I can turn “left” when I tell myself “turn left” but will always turn “right” when someone else asks me to take “left”?

Why is it that my "brain" wants to obey my driving instructor but my "hands and feet" will take instructions from nobody but me?

How many times will I have to tell myself that to indicate “left” I need to turn that thing “up”? Don’t know what it’s called…but am referring to an elongated, protruding, rounded-at-the-tip part that can move up and down and also sideways and even a gentle touch can make it move. (Now will you dirty minds stop giggling and tell me what it's called?)

Why did it take me so much time to understand that while reversing a car, the “back” of the car moves to the direction to which the steering is turned? For god’s sake, when you are “reversing”, you want the car to move “backwards” and what the “front” of your car does is none of your concern! Why couldn’t I get such a simple thing?

And most importantly…

Why don’t they have something in between the accelerator and the brakes? Am I the only one confusing the two and speeding up head-on towards incoming traffic?