The Travelling Bioscope

While Raj Kapoor might have been the first Indian director to take his audience to foreign locales with Sangam in 1964, it was Yash Chopra who reinvented romance creating an everlasting association with chiffons, Swiss dales and meadows in full bloom. Ever since Rekha and Amitabh Bachchan immortalized the famous Kuekenhof tulip gardens in The Netherlands with the riot of colours and the magic of Kishore-Lata in Dekha Ek Khwaab from Silsila, this garden has been a highlight on the itinerary of a large number of Bollywood loving honeymooning couples from India. Apart from these gardens, this legendary onscreen pair also brought Switzerland home to the Indian viewer, beginning a trend which was faithfully followed by blockbusters like Chandni and Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge among a host of many other films. And thus began the Yashraj formula for sureshot success which fused the hero of the day singing hit romantic songs, actresses in chiffons cavorting on green meadows and the snowcapped Alps in the backdrop. So much so that that Swiss tourism tied up with Yashraj Films and Kuoni Travel Group in 2010 to create a customized tour called the YRF Enchanted Journey which takes travellers to different locales from the various films produced under the banner. While this one is perfect for couples, we take a look at a few other cinema-based tours that continue to fuel our imagination long after their last scenes have unspooled on screen.

Middle Earth  (New Zealand)
Peter Jackson’s award-winning trilogy brought Middle Earth to life in all its magnificence and glory. Great credit goes to the director for choosing New Zealand as the backdrop for the LOTR films as its natural beauty is quite unsurpassed. The film catapulted the country’s sights and sounds into the public imagination across the world as Lord of the Rings series went on to become one of  the highest grossing films of all time. Almost all parts of the country have different LOTR tours and can be customized to suit your interests. Some of the most breathtaking sights include the Tongariro National Park providing the stark landscape for Mordor with its central peak Mount Ngauruhoe as Mount Doom which is the figurative beginning and end of the ring. For those who want only the Middle Earth experience, there are the Hobbiton movie set tours which recreate the green splendour that is the shire, complete with the little hobbit holes, the Green Dragon Inn and the Party Tree where Bilbo does his disappearing act!

Amelie’s Montmartre (Paris, France)  
Amelie, the wonderfully quirky 2001 film, follows the travails of a dreamy young waitress through the charming cobblestoned paths of Montmartre. This erstwhile artist’s village is one of the most charming parts of the city, associated with the music of the Jazz Age, the impressionism of Monet, the genius of Picasso, the madness of Dali and the never-ending dances of Moulin Rouge. It is also the MontMartre of Amelie Poulain. From the metro station she used to take to the local grocer and butcher shops that she visits, this is one inexpensive tour that you could craft for yourself with help from the numerous online sites. A good place to end your tour is at Café des Deux Moulins on 15 Rue Lepic, the lovely, quaint and now legendary little cafe where Amelie is shown working in the film. Wrangle a terrace (outdoor seat) and treat yourself to a glass of wine and watch the laidback life unfold on the gorgeous Montmartre Hill.

The Feluda tour (Jaipur, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer and Varanasi) 
This one is quite the personal favourite. While following Feluda’s complete adventures could very well turn into a Bharat Darshan, a fan of the two Satyajit Ray’s films, Sonar Kella and Joy Baba Felunath, could follow this super smart private detective’s adventurous trail across four cities in North India.
Every Bengali’s much-loved sleuth from 21 Rajani Sen Road, Ballygunge, Kolkata, Feluda is Satyajit Ray’s immortal creation whom he brought to life with finesse in his films Sonar Kella and Joy Baba Felunath. While the films were continued by his son, Sandip Ray, it is Ray senior’s mastery over the craft that brought this Charminar-smoking detective to life with all the sharpness of his intellect. Soumitra as Feluda turned in a stellar performance which was equally matched by his young assistant Topshe, essayed by Siddhartha Chatterjee and the unassailable writer of thrillers Jatayu, played by Santosh Dutta. Together, they travel to various cities, encounter oddball characters from those places, find themselves in humorous situations brought about by the clash of different cultures and languages and solve great mysteries plaguing the people and police force alike. Follow the Sonar Kella route as envisioned in the dreams of the young boy Mukul and journey across the often surreal landscape of Rajasthan. A traveller can visit destinations including the Nahargarh Fort in Jaipur, the lesser-known Circuit House in Jodhpur and finally wind up at the marvellous golden-yellow sandstone fort—the Jaisalmer Fort. Travel by train all through and hope to meet characters as diverse as Lalmohan Ganguly, the writer of popular detective fiction and collector of antiques. For those attempting to get lost in the bylanes of Varanasi as depicted in Joy Baba Felunath, the film is the perfect map for the same and will no doubt take you to interesting sights and bring the city alive in a whole new way.

(This was published in the New Indian Express Bangalore on 27 November 2014)

The New Sartorialist

Even before the stroke of the midnight hour  when India awoke to life and freedom, her political leaders had already found their feet on the world stage as far as fashion was concerned. Certain political figures have stuck in our minds for the distinctive head-turning and individualistic styles as much as their ideologies or their theories on nationhood. Their looks have been emblazoned in the public imagination and spawned many copycats over time and yet, the panache, grace and sheer magnificence of these original style gurus remain unmatched. Thus Jackie Kennedy’s bouffant and oversized sunglasses, Nelson Mandela’s silk hand-painted ‘Madiba’ shirts, Margaret Thatcher’s pearls and power suits, Benazir Bhutto’s pop lipstick and headscarf, Indira Gandhi’s grey streak and more recently Priyanka Gandhi’s earthy and elegant cotton saris, Vasundhra Raje’s chiffons are but a few of the unforgettable signature style statements that have carved their place in the annals of fashion.
The Mahatma’s homespun Khadi went on to take Indian ramps by the storm in the 21st century and even ended up being the chosen garb for the powerful Jedi knights in the Star Wars films! As a symbol of Swadeshi nationalism, khadi kurtas and saris became the de facto politician’s uniform, making a strong statement and establishing the socialist agenda of dynastic heads.  
Jawaharlal Nehru was the political fashion icon of our times and his Nehru Jacket has revolutionised the world of Indo-western men’s fashion. His bandhgala, which evolved from the Mughal-style achkan, a fitted jacket with full sleeves and a single row of buttons down the chest with a short collar around the neck gave the jacket its name—the bandhgala. Add to this, the rose tucked into a buttonhole, the fitted churidar and the distinguished topi—it is little wonder that Nehru made it to Time magazine’s list of the top ten political fashion statements of all time.
In what is an ironic twist, Nehru’s true fashion progenitor is not his sneaker-wearing great grandson Rahul, but our newest Prime Minister, Narendra Modi who is a proud ambassador of India’s acche din as well as her fashion to a global audience. Resplendent in his bright yellow, orange and even pale pink half-sleeved kurtas and matching bandi (sleeveless bandhgala jackets) sets, stretched taut over his ‘56-inch chest,’ Modi is a man who understands the importance of a well-cut garment. The NaMo kurta is a reflection of his cult of the individual that has completely changed the dynamics of Indian politics as well as politicians on a world stage.   
From the early crisp saffron kurtas stitched at the posh Gujarat-based Jade Blue boutique to an elaborate wardrobe planned by fashion designer Troy Costa, Modi’s fashion spends and scope might have changed but his sartorial taste has remained ascendant. The pastel kurtas, paisley shawls, wine-coloured bandhgalas, rimless glasses, flamboyant pagdis, ethnic headgear and even an occasional cowboy hat is carried off by this often controversial and eyeball-grabbing figure with great aplomb. 
Although Nehru and Modi might be entirely divided on political, ideological and party lines, this ubiquitous Indian jacket brings them together. Indeed, with Modi’s appointment, the bandhgala is back on the world political stage with a bang. And its has got a new lease of life in its funky 21st-century NaMo avatar. 

(this was published in the New Indian Express Bangalore on 3 November 2014)

25 ways to discover the City of Joy

Kolkata, the grand doyen of the East, where history is a living, breathing root of the city, providing it the nourishment to limp through its not as glorious present. Kolkata, the city which nurtures art, culture, music and poetry and also sounds the death knell for commerce and industry. Kolkata, a haven for immigrants and refugees, from the handful of Jews and Armenians to the disappearing Chinese who made this city their nerve centre and established their culinary sway over India through their hybrid food. Kolkata, a city where Christmas is a state festival, celebrated with fervour and excitement -- a city that knows its Christmas carols and the right consistency of teh plum pudding -- a knowledge gleaned through the British Raj and the vibrant Anglo-Indian community. Kolkata, a city of political idealism and political kerfuffles. Kolkata, a city of fabulous food, madness, contradictions and great beauty to the eyes of a somewhat biased observer like me. However, partiality aside, here is a list of the top 25 things to do in the city, things that would complete any tourist's itinerary and remain the much-loved nostalgia-inspiring treats for an erstwhile Calcuttan returning to his or her home.

1. Have a cup of creamy Viennese Coffee and a sinful Strawberry Cube at Flury’s on Park Street. This must-have tea-time cake laden with marzipan, cream and all things nice accompanied by a cup of their signature brew will surely warm your cockles as well as give you a sense of the history of the place.

2. Take a boat ride on the Hooghly that snakes its way through the city. This is a great way to watch the life on the banks, unravelling before your eyes in a slow and unrushed manner. Late afternoon is the best time to hire one of the numerous noukas or country boats at the Princep Ghat. Watch the sky change colours as the boatman rows you into a golden sunset.

3. Go on a tonga ride around the Victoria Memorial in the evening. Best undertaken in winter, while this activity might be obviously touristy, there is some amount of charm in the ride around the greenest and prettiest part of the city. Take your loved one, climb on to the carriage and slip into another era. Tongas are available for hire in front of the Victoria Memorial.

4. Indulge in the unforgettable rich plum cake from Nahoums, an Armenian bakery in New Market which used to make the best Christmas cakes and remains a part of every Calcuttan's Christmas itinerary. While the last Armenian owner, David Nahoum recently passed away, his employees continue to keep his legacy alive and run this age-old establishment.

5. Catch the best live music in town at Someplace Else in the Park Hotel. This iconic bar has developed an identity of its own, nurturing new musicians and initiating generations of young people into the hallowed world of rock n roll. Whatever be your favoured style – blues, jazz, or good old-fashioned rock n roll, Someplace Else provides something for every kind of music aficionado.

6. Olypub is a dusty old character-laden bar on Park Street which is a good place to catch a quick beer and a fine Steak Chateaubriand. They grill this meat in magical ways and rare, medium or well done you are likely to get a surprisingly wonderful steak as well as some great conversation with the regulars who patronize the joint. While a recent fire shut the establishment, everyone is waiting for the pub to reopen.

7. Eat a chello kebab platter at Peter Cat , a food experience you cannot leave Calcutta without. This entirely appropriated version of an Irani classic withsucculent mutton/chicken kebabs on a skewer, buttery rice, roasted vegetables and an egg fried sunny side up on top, makes it a perfect symphony of flavours. No wonder hundreds of chello kebab platters roll out of the restaurant’s kitchens.

8. End a night out on town with the sumptuous Chinese Breakfast or Yum Cha at Tiretti Bazaar, Poddar Court. Freshly prepared by the Chinese community in the city, this breakfast includes everything from honeyed pork to succulent chicken buns. You have to be an early riser to catch it as the food is laid out around 5:30 am and finishes by 7 am.

9. Visit Kumartuli to check out this artisan community that showcases some of the most beautiful art work by local craftsmen, sculptors and potters as they make idols of gods and goddesses. Visit in the run-up to the Durga Puja to see the colony buzzing with activity.

10. Eat the typical and mouth-watering Kolkata-style biryani at Arsalan, complete with the saffron grains of rice, melt-the-mouth chunks of meat, whole fragrant potatoes and a boiled egg.

11. Indulge in a typically Calcutta midweek activity and visit either Saturday Club or Calcutta Cricket and Football Club (CCFC) for a lively bar night. These erstwhile colonial sports clubs have a relaxed charm and vibe that is entirely their own. You need to befriend a member to make your way into the club,s but once there just sit back, chat and drink the evening away.

12. Take a tram ride down Red Road, the central artery of the city. This is a lovely way of enjoying this laidback and historical city and the ride is through the Maidan, which is one of the greenest stretches in Kolkata.

13. Revisit Tagore’s life at the Jorasanko Thakur Bari, the ancestral home of the Tagores. The house has been restored and converted into a museum and gives visitors an insight into the life and influences of this noble father of Bengali art, music and culture.

14. Discover the marvellous architecture and history of the erstwhile zamindars, intellectuals and student revolutionaries on a North Kolkata walk. The labyrinthine lanes of the old city offer surprises at every turn and an organized walk by companies like Calcutta Walks or a resident who knows the history of the area can add value to your wanderings in this atmospheric part of the city.

15. Take a morning walk along the promenade of the vast Dhakuria Lake and follow it up with a lebu cha right outside any of the gates, a quintessential South Calcutta early morning experience.

16. Catch a play or film at Nandan, the epicentre of Calcutta’s cultural activities. The place is always buzzing with foreign film festivals, international dance performances and local, national and international theatre performances.

17. Visit a traditional fish market and watch the innumerable fresh fish on display as well as the whole process of assessing, bargaining and buying. Mornings at the Gariahat Market are a good time to experience an ordinary day in the life of a fish market.

18. Take in the imposing Gothic architecture of St Paul’s Cathedral in the heart of the city. The seat of the Anglican Diocese of Calcutta, this is a grand sprawling structure with an awe-inspiring midnight mass on Christmas eve.

19. Volunteer or simply visit Mother House, the headquarters of the Missionaries of Charity, which has great historical value as the one-time abode and resting place of Mother Teresa.

20. Don't miss a photo-op at the Malik Ghat flower market thriving on the banks of the Hooghly. This colourful mess of all kinds of beautiful fresh flowers, right below the Howrah Bridge is a sensory early morning experience.

21. Visit Calcutta University and Presidency College, world renowned academic institutions, which are worth a visit for their architectural styles. Take a walk down the corridors that have produced numerous eminent personalities. Both are on College Street

22. Victoria Memorial might be an odd relic from the Raj. but it is grand, opulent and worth a trip. Its lovely lawns under the shadow of a massive statue of Queen Victoria are a great picnic spot.

23. Give in to your religious side at the Kalighat temple. This chaotic and ancient temple is much venerated as one of the 51 Shakti peethas and is believed to be the spot where the toes of the Goddess Sati fell to earth.

24. Do not miss a football match in progress at one of the clubs in the Maidan to get a feel between the legendary rivalry between the Mohan Bagan and East Bengal football teams. The practice matches are usually free and there is a lot of good natured ribbing that goes on during the game as supporters gather on to cheer their favourites.

25. Stay at the Fairlawn Hotel which is renowned for its famous guests like Dominique Lapierre, Shashi Kapoor (there is a room named after him). The hotel has a cluttered Victorian air and till very recently, had a wonderful proprietor, the indomitable Mrs Violet Smith, who would watch over single female travelers with a watchful eye and would regale anyone willing to listen with stories of a bygone era.

(This was published in the New Indian Express Bangalore on 13 November 2014)

You gotta roll with it

The quintessential kati roll was born in a cavernous and smoky Mughlai restaurant in the Byzantine back alleys of Kolkata called Nizam's way back in 1932. The classic kebab cooked on a bamboo skewer or kati (as it was called in Bengali) and stuffed in a fluffy paratha, was a quick meal on the go and a substantial snack that nurtured generationsof Calcuttans. The kati roll shortened to a simple 'roll' soon travelled with enterprising Bengalis to other parts of the country and was soon appropriated as Indian street food available in every nook and corner in every city across the country. Everyone had their own secret spices, their own meat and veggie variation and their own secret sauces. From Delhi's kakori kebab rolls to Mumbai's aloo filled frankies, the roll has many avatars. However, it is the Kolkata-style kati roll that has survived many pretenders and converted even the health food junkie to break their resolve and try a bite of this delicious, greasy and unbelievably hearty meal on a stick. Bangalore as a shape-shifting city of expats is home to varied cuisines and cultures and a large Bengali population (numbering in lakhs) has ensured that the Calcutta-style kati roll has found its way into the leafy bylanes of neighbourhoods across the city. Surprsingly, we found some delicious rolls hidden away in the backlanes of Indiranagar, that posh high street of gourmet restaurants and chic pubs. Move away from the glittery neon lights of the main roads, through the warren of bungalows and boutiques, use your nose as a GPS radar, follow the smoky smell of burning charcoal and before long, you will find yourself at these popular hole-in-the-wall establishments that have become my comfort food on blustery and rainy days.

Chakum Chukum: Calcutta on a Roll: This little roll shop tucked away in a corner off
7th Main Road, Indiranagar is always busy and the few plastic chairs and stools outside its outlet are almost always occupied and many others stand by waiting for the parcels or chowing down hot rolls under the tree. The three or four member staff operate out of minuscule kitchen churning out rolls by the dozen with assembly line precision. The paratha in each roll is equally crisp, the lemony onions creating the perfect balance with the charred edges of the kebab or veggie filling. Started by an advertising executive, Sujoy Das (also the man behind the innovative Bengali and Anglo-Indian restaurant Bow Barracks which has unfortunately shut shop) and his wife Arpita Sinha, this little joint has a loyal; customer base as well as daily converts. My favourite: their Double Chicken Egg Roll where the paratha is cooked on the griddle along with egg, creating this flaky hybrid paratha-omelette which is then given that right bit of heat with the green chillies, the sweet and sour red onions and the melt-in-the mouth and tangy chicken tikkas. This one is really Calcutta on a kati. Priced at `140, this is a perfect substitute for dinner. The  prices start at Rs 50.

Khan Saheb Grills and Rolls: Just down the road from Chakum Chukum, Khan Saheb
is located on the ground floor of Sri Shiva Sai Complex on the 13th Main, HAL 2nd stage Indiranagar and is a roll shop worth patronizing. Another primarily takeaway joint, they make their rolls in paratha, roomali roll as well as whole wheat
wraps. They also have a more extensive menu with kebabs and tandoori items as well
as beda roti and bhuna combos. However, since rolls were what I wanted, rolls werewhat I stuck to. I tried their Chicken Reshmi Tikka Roll in a whole wheat wrap. This healthy option was surprisingly tasty and holding the succulent kebab filling with elan. The Mutton Seekh Roll (one cannot have do justice to a mutton roll unless it comes in a paratha) was a delightful spicy concoction of finely ground meat kebabs and julienned onions. Priced at Rs 70 and Rs 120 each, the two rolls were an economical and satisfying
late evening snack. While this roll joint combines the Kolkata kati roll with local flavour, it does so with finesse, making sure that kati roll junkies or wrap-eating fitness enthusiasts get their fix.

Kitchen of Joy: This tiny and cheerful snack joint is bedecked with snapshots of the city,
stuffed with Kolkata-themed memorabilia and little tables and mudas where your knees and elbows might graze against your neighbours, providing the perfect session for intimate adda sessions or a frugal first date. Apart from chops, samosas, boiled eggs and a range of teas, the little shop modelled after a neighboured snack joint in Kolkata, also serves kati rolls. I picked a Chicken Egg roll and was surprised to find a generous portion of a tawa-style chicken stuffed inside a flaky paratha. While there are some purists who argue that the regular kati roll can sometimes be a tad too dry, this roll is the answer to all those cribs. Coated in a spicy sauce, onions and slivers of capsicum, this roll is hearty and fillling. Quell your tingling tastebuds with a soft rosogolla from the same shop and you will leave as a happy camper. The Chicken Egg roll is competitively priced at Rs 90.

(This story was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 15 November 2014)

Tales of Spice and Curry

It is not often that one meets a chef and food writer who is an ex British RAF pilot, a stage lighting specialist an an expert on all things curry. But then again Pat Chapman is not your regular bloke. This bright-eyed 64-year-old has visited India 44 times and his personal roots lie firmly intertwined with the history of India. It is not much of a surprise that Chapman carries the sobriquet of Curry King confidently and is as eloquent with his knowledge of the different masalas and spices as he is deft with preparing dishes based on andaaz. Recently in town for a special demonstration on marinades and grills, Pat Chapman held forth on what curry meant for the British people and how he has in his own way tried to popularize the concept without owning a restaurant, or manufacturing ready-to-eat TV dinners a la Sir Noon to the populace, thus making it nearly as ubiquitous as the neighbourhood fish and chips in 21st century UK.

According to old family records and his grandmother's stories, Pat Chapman can trace his history right back to the first British presence in the country. In a tale that reads straight out of a great East-West novel, Chapman's great great great grandfather came to India with the East India Company merchants way back in 1715. Not too much is known of this period and it is only in the the mid-19th century that the trail picks up again with his great grandfather who was enlisted in the British army and was living in India with his wife and infant daughter. As the tide of favour turned against the ruling powers and found expression in the 1857 Sepoy Mutiny, great violence ensued throughout the country. Chapman's great-grandfather and his wife were killed and the little daughter ended up as the sole survivor of the family. Although she was raised in England, the moment she came of age, she returned to India to study at the St Joseph's College, Nainital and lived here till things got unpleasant for the Raj. Her daughter, Patrick's mother was also born in Nainital. When his grandmother did return to England, she carried with as a legacy, a wealth of culinary knowledge from the country. And it was this legacy that she passed on to her grandson Patrick.

Patrick grew up eating Indian food at a time when it was a rare thing in England. "I remember in those days there were 6 Indian restaurants in all of Britain while today, there are over 9000. Things are very different now and everything is available in your local mom n pop store. When I was young, I remember my grandmother ordering spices from the chemist as that was the only chance of getting a hold of them," says Chapman.

Growing up in the wake of a post World War II England, Patrick developed an interest in curry as a hobby. Since he had grown up eating Indian food, he decided to take his interest and knowledge a step forward by helping out friends, colleagues and acquaintances with recipes and information about spices. In keeping with this, he founded the Curry Club, an offline social network (this was 1982) to disseminate information about Indian curries. This hobby expanded into a full-time profession and very soon, Chapman was a consultant, cookery show host and food writer with his recipes and knowledge about Indian food making him a much coveted expert in the field. It is thus quite apt that Pat Chapman was in fact invited by the Kerala government to give a talk on spices at an agricultural fair.

According to Chapman, the term 'curry' which has been appropriated into the British culinary vocabulary today, is a word that is unmatched by anything else from another geography or another cuisine. "The word curry describes a dish, a meal and the food of a nation and I don't think that there is anything quite like it," says Pat Chapman. Chapman who travels across Britain giving cooking demonstrations and teaches amateur as well as first-time cooks the nuances of spices, encouraging them to move beyond the Chicken Tikka Masala and its clones realizes that the diversity of Indian food is far too great to be captured by curries alone. "Since the earliest settlers and consequently the earliest restaurants in England were the Punjabis, that is also the Indian food which has remained most popular in the nation. Today, we have broken away from the stereotypical pastiche of Indian food that used to dot every menu in London. Chefs are introducing regional cuisine as well as fusion," says Chapman even though he remains a purist who loves the authentic and often fiery nature of curry rather than hybrid versions of the same.

Chapman stands as a beacon of Indian food in a foreign land helping make it global, accessible and giving it the recognition that it deserves. He is the undisputed curry king who loves his Goan Vindaloo which he believes gets its right flavour only with the hard-to-get toddy vinegar and the high levels of heat that might make most people squirm, but rests easy in the belly of the 'Curry King' .

(this was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 1 November 2014)

the young and restless clothes maiden

It was a bright Saturday morning, the kind of day you'd imagine that pretty young things would be lunching with friends or sunning themselves at the park, instead, here they were at a mall, standing in a serpentine queue (at a quick count I estimated nearly 150 people standing in line) for a chance to catch the opening of the much-awaited affordable and trendy high-street fashion store--Forever 21.

On the selfsame Saturday afternoon, the borderline decrepit Garuda Mall in Bangalore was dotted with young girls and well preserved older women carrying the huge signature bright-yellow shopping bags. Some, barely able to contain their excitement had upended their bags on the benches outside the store and were comparing notes about their loot with friends.

The queue that I contemplated standing in for precisely two seconds, was full of young girls 21 and younger, dressed in their fashionable best with candy coloured lips and skinny jeans in pop colours. Pop and indie dance music boomed from the interiors of the store (special note must be made of Sia's Chandelier which has lodged itself in my head as a permanent earworm), keeping spirits buoyant. The girls (they were all women in all their late teen and early twenties, wit blazing hormones and dapper spirits. A few male stragglers stood around shuffling uncomfortably, no doubt waiting to surprise their girlfriends and win a few brownie points), stodd patiently conserving their energy reserves like sprinters waiting to take their turns at athletic heats.

The atmosphere was charged as the security guards would remove the ropes guarding the entrance and let the next group in. All around me I could here whispered asides about the fashion and affordability quotient of the brand that was enough to send young'uns into a tizzy. I shamelessly eavesdropped as one girl recounted stories of a sale at another Forever 21. There was jostling and pushing, tugging at errant arms and legs of the same pair of jeans and tops, and jackets and even shoes sent flying by the fashion marauders. This was a whole new retail experience, slightly surreal and entirely exciting.

 I was hardly a callow young girl and had few pretensions of being forever 21 in any part of my body apart from my head. Yet, even I wasn't immune to the attraction of this store, counting down the days till its opening. While, I made it a point to shop it big brands only during the sale season, this store offered stylish alternatives of the same outfits at full price that were otherwise available on some lucky days on some backstreet alley export rejects store. While, out of respect for my age, I didn't stand in the queue and returned in the evening, I also did get my Forever 21 fix on the very first day that it opened.

By the time I returned to the store, the staff was seemingly on their last legs. There were mountains of tried and discarded outfits just about everywhere. The brave would stick their arms in and pull out gems fro those selfsame pile, while a more lazy shopper like me dawdled through the stands of the sprawling 8000 sq feet of neon-lit space and picked up bits and bobs in various shades of black that suited my age and body type. Showcasing their winter line, the orderly display had, by 9 pm, turned into one large blur of plaid minis, woolly shrugs, faux leather jackets, trendy tan-coloured workman boots and distressed denims. It was also populated with dazed boyfriends, tired mothers and giggly girls whose energy had not waned in the least after standing in lines for the changing room, lines for bills and lines to reach particular stands.

As I managed to grab my purchases and make my way to the billing counter without losing either limb or life, I spotted a pile of ankle socks with little pugs, kitties and lions going rrrr and realized that it is perhaps this quirky take on style that makes every shopper here truly feel the lightness of youth!

(this was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 24 November 2014) 

One more cup of coffee for the road

(the best-ever spoof of the original)

There is something almost cerebral about sitting in a cafe sipping a cuppa with good conversation, or a good book for those who trammel the solitary path. I grew up in a pre-liberalization era when neon-lit chain coffee shops did not dot every single neighbourhood in the country. The American, British and European chains had still not made inroads into metros and most people had vague ideas about the pronunciation and spelling of espresso and cappuccino. My notion of cafes was derived from the old colonial tea rooms and coffee houses where I got the first whiff of freshly brewed coffee and also learnt that meeting for a cup of coffee was a leisurely activity that had little to do with the temperature of the coffee in your cup and more to do with the cash in your wallet that allowed you to order endless cups, the conversations that meandered over topics and issues with differing levels of engagement, the number of cigarettes remaining in your packet and time that was remaining to while away the in-between hours, to seek shelter and succour on rainy days, to kindle romances old and new, to strike up intellectual debates, to share confessions, to have tear-stained goodbyes, to people watch and to invigorate the body reeling under a late summer afternoon lassitude. Going back in time, there are cafes that I remember as milestones in my life.

College Street Coffee House
As a young student, peeling walls, grime, cigarette smoke, jholas, khadi kurtas and the occasional strain of guitar accompanied to Dylan songs had an unbelievable and near-irrational attraction for me. Thus the first time I ever stepped into the legendary College Street Coffee House, my own imagination sufficed to make this a place of unmatched atmosphere. Redolent with stories of the revolutionary Naxals who hatched their plots over cups of the famous coffee, artists and filmmakers like Satyajit Ray, Ritwick Ghatak and Aparna Sen who had adda sessions accompanied by mutton cutlets and the literary icons of the Hungry generation including Shakti Chattopadhyay who used this buzzing space as a platform for hot debates, Coffee House is an indelible part of any Calcutta student's growing-up years. This coffee house fuels romantic notions of history and revolution and is a near time capsule of the 60s and 70s when flower power, anti-
establishment struggles, protest literature and music was at its all-time peak.

 The Tea Stall at Prafulla Chandra Sarkar Street

As a wide-eyed rookie reporter, I have drunk cups of lebu cha and milky tea boiled beyond oblivion in a kettle that had probably been around since the beginning of time. Sitting on the grimy steps of old hardware shops under the magnificent arches of a quintessentially colonial building in Calcutta that housed one of the foremost papers of the country, it was this ever-bubbling kettle that was companion to many hours spent in the company of all manner of journalists, smoking cheap cigarettes and discussing a city in political disarray.

Flury's, Park Street
 Flury's, an age-old tearoom in Calcutta's famous Park Street is the place that always made me linger over my cuppa. For a pastry shop that opened in 1927, this cafe has seen a changing world and its own rather remarkable journey has been from neighborhood confectionary to a decrepit colonial coffeehouse to a stylish cafe/restaurant/bakery after the fashion of a turn-of-the-century European tea room done up in pink and a rich chocolate brown. This was a far cry from its earlier stodgy avatar as a dingy, cavernous room with air conditioning that would chill you to the bone. I saw the downed shutters on a holiday one summer. I was about to begin the process of mourning when I heard the whispered word "renovation" that was murmured by all who passed the mysteriously shrouded corner. And one fine day it reopened. The new Flury's straddled history and a modern chic. I returned to the city. I returned to Flury's and it became a place for endless conversations, bitter reminiscing, good-natured camaraderie, sweet romance, and maddening love. I lived out all my separate selves here – as a poor student scraping together just enough for that Viennese coffee; as a struggling  journalist looking for a story; as a  tourist introducing others to the delights I had known. I fell in love with my husband over cups of coffee in Flury's and made life decisions about leaving the city and all that I knew along with Flury's. Till date, I have never found a replacement.

 A Parisian Cafe
 As a traveller, I have joined the legions of map-scanning, Lonely Planet toting, sunblock wearing hordes who have sat in a cafe in the shadow of the Louvre in Paris. The love affair with the city has been as much about walking the streets by night as it has been about sharing space with skinny French women on the outdoor terraces of cafes in the August sun watching the world go by as we all sipped on our cafe au lait in comfortable silence. Paris was the city I had dreamed about my whole life and in those dreams, I was always sitting by the Louvre or the Seine, drinking black coffee, smoking elegant slim cigarettes, eating flaky croissants and talking to strangers about Sartre.

Urban Cafe Crawlers
Today, as an urban migrant moving from one city to the next, anonymous as I search for the familiar -- the cafe that I can haunt. Since I have no emotional maps to refer to any longer, all I can do is break down the familiar into familiar smells and tastes of caramel macchiato and hazelnut frappes. Thus I have become a part of the floating population that lives in neon-lit chain coffee shops, drinking cups of characterless coffee and over-sweet confections in order to stave off being a legal alien.

(This was published in the New Indian Express Bangalore on 30 October 2014)

A Sweet and Savoury Superhero

Diwali is the time for all things sweet and a representation of the victory of all things good. Drawing the two themes together is an artist whose unique creations will pique your curiosity and your sweet tooth at the same time.

Artist Rajkamal Aich is the man behind some essentially Indian and quirky superheroes like the Samosa Boy, Jalebi Woman, Laddoo Boy, the Misti-Doi Man and the Bengali Vampire, all of whom represent the common men and women and a rather uncommon imagination.

These superheroes are a departure from the rather cliched interpretations of mythical characters and gods and draw on one of our country’s greatest universal as well as diverse aspects—its food! Each of these characters are common folk who don their super avatars when threatened with real injustice. Thus the ordinary Chotu Lal turns into Samosa Boy who can throw his samosa with “a deadly accuracy which explodes when it comes in contact with chutney.” Similarly Jalebi Woman is a regular Bengali girl called Mishti Bose who takes on the bad guys in her superheroine avatar where she “dunks enemies into sugar syrup after tying them in knots.” His characters are drawn from personal food memories like the jalebi. “I remember eating freshly made and hot jalebis after cricket practice at 6:30 am when I was a child. And this memory somehow translated into the inspiration behind the Jalebi Woman.”

Then there are the characters who have a slightly darker bent like the Bengali Vampire who sucks life out of plump and juicy rasgullas, leaving them as juiceless corpses. He is the scourge of all things sweet. Perhaps his polar opposite is the Misti-Doi Man who is an ordinary government employee hassled by his bosses and his wife. He finally finds meaning and purpose in his life as the Misti-Doi Man after he discovers that he can give his enemies high blood sugar.

 Rajkamal Aich’s creations capture a child-like innocence where ordinary street food items transcend their humble origins to become a representation of the common man who could be a superhero by night. ‘Just like kids can transform a cardboard box into a plane, a castle or a ship with their imagination, I have taken food like jalebis, laddoos, the Bengali favourites of mishti doi and rasgulla and turned them into anthropomorphic super creatures who fight against evil with their very unique culinary powers. Interestingly, Rajkamal doesn’t really envision a comic book life for his characters.

Meanwhile, one can enjoy the brief linear tales of these sweet heroes on his Facebook page called Indian Superheroes. He is also the perfect artist for Diwali and his beautiful limited edition art prints are an ideal festive gift adding that touch of humour to your walls. The 14”x14” prints can be ordered via his Facebook page.

(pics from Rajkamal Aich's Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Indian-superheroes)


(This story appeared in New Indian Express Bangalore on 20 October)

A Bellyful of Celebrations In KL

 Kuala Lumpur or KL glitters by night. It is Fritz Lang’s Metropolis where towers and spires of chrome and glass exuding a diamond brilliance stretch towards the skies competing with the glittering stars. The city is a futuristic and grand sonnet in steel. It is also a city of brand names and numerous malls--Southeast Asia's offering to the capitalist gods.

As me and my husband are driven to our bed in the 22-storey tower in the heart of the city with
a lovely rooftop pool in the shadow of the Petronas Towers, we are shocked by the contrast with
our own home city of Kolkata from where we boarded the flight some 4 hours ago. The two cities
are a study in opposites and if there is one place they converge -- that would be in its largesse -- in
welcoming migrants and refugees and offering them a place they can call home on this crowded earth.
It’s two days before Christmas and a nice feeling to wake up to a gorgeous view of the city’s
impressive skyline.

And the first sight on our agenda is Petaling Street with its impressive gates opening on to an older world removed from the glamorous malls and corporate skyscrapers--the city's age-old Chinatown. Once inside, we were greeted by strange snake-like creatures on grills, herbal concoctions being served out of beautiful Chinese teapots in tea shops, vendors selling 'fake originals', stores with a line of roast ducks hanging from
hooks. There were stalls selling longan (a litchi like fruit), stalls selling Chicken Rice and Indian food especially virulent orange tandoori chicken. Most of these stalls encroached on to the road itself, making sure the food was literally in your face, tempting you as you took your next step forward. And if somehow you resisted, then there were the old toothless ladies waving bowls under our noses, a live advertisement for their stalls which were slightly less conspicuously placed. Unable to survive the sensory assault, we stopped at a stall which had a crowd milling around it.Chicken Rice could very well be the national dish of this country, considering its ubiquitous presence just about everywhere -- from the Air Asia flight into the country to mall food court kiosks. Our dish came with a giant bowl of stock, little servings of red chilli paste, sliced cucumbers and a large portion of sliced chicken. The chicken was poached with its shiny outer skin providing nice texture. The reason this dish is so popular is because it’s a simple balancing of flavours and textures--the smooth tender chicken, the sticky grains of rice, the sharp edge of the red chilli, the cool crunch of cucumber and the hot broth to dunk your rice into.

After many icy tender coconut drinks and many miles walked on burning asphalt and air conditioned
mall floors, we decided to make our next food stop at the giant among malls – Berjaya Times Square.
From steamboat restaurants to tropical fruit salads to sushi bars, it was all under one cavernous roof
and like in the adventurous spirit of things, we made our way from one kiosk to the next ordering bits
and bobs of grills and poaches, sushi and fried chicken, shaved ice, coconut and red mung beans, till
we were ready to pop at the seams.

KL despite being the capital city of a predominantly Islamic country, was the proverbial melting
pot of food, language and culture. Its population is largely made up of Malays, Chinese and Indians
with Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism being predominant religions and yet, none of these facts deter
its cosmopolitan crowd from coming out with it Santa Hats and bells and whistles and celebrating
Christmas eve with an unmatched gusto. We were told to make our way to Changkat Bukit Bintang, the busy-buzzy street lined with bars, al fresco restaurants and cafes specializing in food from across the world, this was a street with character and drama. Quiet and sunny during the day, this looked like a street grabbing a quick afternoon siesta in preparation for the big night ahead. As I sipped on fruity cider in a quaint wine shop, we watched the late afternoon sun fade into a dusky orange, I watched the city begin to heave and awaken for KL was a city of the night.

I pondered over the cultural chequered the fabric that clothed this country and marvelled at its ability
to integrate with all. It was a traditional country keenly aware of its history, its religion, its language
and its roots. It was also a supremely liberal country. A small case in point was the fact that I was
sitting in an outdoor cafe, drinking my cider near the heart of a predominantly Muslim city. Across
the road, a Tamilian family in traditional attire were dumping bags of groceries from an international
supermarket chain into the boot of their car. A few streets away, pretty young things were powdering
their noses for a night out on the party strip at Jalan Sultan Ismail. A few intersections away, Chinese
housewives were gathering their pots and pans with simmering soups and crackling roasts and making
their way to the night markets on Petaling Street.

While, we were eating lunch, Bukit Bintang had bedecked herself with tinsel, silver bells and fairy
lights. Even in the sharp humid air, the smell of Christmas cake and mulled wine were hard to miss.
As the muezzin gave the call for the evening prayer, I linked arms with the husband and made our
way back to our temporary home in the clouds only to emerge a few hours later when the Christmas
Eve celebrations were in full swing. Malaysians (the mixed Indian-Chinese and Malay populace), migrants, expats and tourists jostled for space on Bukit Bintang. It was a night that took me back to Park Street in Kolkata, where people of all faiths and all walks of life come together on a brightly decorated stretch of the city, celebrating Christmas, far away from the land of its origin, with great bonhomie and fervour. Maybe the two cities weren't so different after all.

My thoughts were interrupted by a group of bikers who looked straight out of the Terminator series
who had arrived at a pub across us with much fanfare. They just added to the oddball mix of people.
We readjusted our Santa hats with glittering light baubles on its end, dug into our roast turkey with
stuffing, counted down to midnight with the rest of the street and burst into crazy impromptu jigs with
strangers who had become friends over the course of this crazy evening and we ushered in a truly
merry Christmas on a balmy tropical night.

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 16 October 2014

When the Devi transforms the city

The crisp Sharad sky is corn blue and there is a light breeze fanning the dusty trees on
the arterial roads of Calcutta. There is a particular smell in the air as the season begins to turn. The kaash phool (which is actually not a phool or flower but a species of invasive perennial grass) makes its appearance on empty fields and abandoned lots, dressing them up in beautiful white. Rendered immortal through Tagore's poetry and captured for posterity in Satyajit Ray's lens, the bobbing white heads of the kaash phool are nature's way of ushering in the Devi Paksha or the fortnight of the goddess.

Every year during Durga Puja, the old city heaves a sigh, tucks its ungainly bits under her and rolls over, presenting her best face to the world. Just like Ma Durga who returns to her parental abode every year bringing renewed hope and joy, for those five days, Calcutta also transforms into the grand doyen, reliving her remembered past as the proverbial big city with bright lights.

Durga Puja is entirely unique in its scope as it transcends its religious connotations and becomes a social event celebrating the arts, the culture of the city and its people. Ma Durga is a goddess for all and as sweaty faces jostle against each other, eager to catch a glimpse of her multi-hued glory at the various pandals (temporary structure housing the idol or protima) dotted across the city, the invisible curtain between communities and classes falls away.

I joined the hundreds and thousands of people from various walks of life, dressed in their Sunday best, milling about on the once familiar streets of the city, now rendered entirely unrecognizable with the decorations and the lights. And despite being a witness to the goddess year after year, I am still as wide-eyed as when I saw the first idol inside the first pandal in my neighbourhood. From my point of view as a knee high toddler, Ma Durga was a study in perspective. Nothing loomed larger or appeared grander in my universe. And surprisingly, every protima and every pandal I saw in the subsequent years continued to inspire the same feeling in the years that followed. I have seen visionaries and lunatics, touches of genius and touches of the absurd - from a Harry Potter- inspired Hogwarts pandal to one created out of Maggi noodles, from the US presidential campaign represented through lights to a goddess bedecked in a see-through white sari, from an edible biscuit pandal to a 3D printed goddess battling a centaur, there are no boundaries and no inhibitions as far as interpretation is concerned.

The colours of the Rio de Janeiro carnival, the splendid costumes and craftsmanship of the Venetian masked festival, the music and gaiety of the New Orleans Mardi Gras and the spectacular floats from the French Riviera -- all fade in comparison to the spectacle that is Durga Puja. The sheer scale and magnificence of the craftmanship that defines the festival, the reverberating frenzied tempo of the dhaak (local drums), the journey of the exquisitely cast idols from the lanes of Kumartuli (the potter's lane in Calcutta which has been making idols of gods and goddesses for several generations) to the Byzantine streets of North Calcutta, the modern thematic twists of South Calcutta and reimagining of the tableau in which the Mother slays the buffalo demon, Mahishasura, the image of married Bengali women resplendent in their white saris with red borders smearing each other with the bridal sindoor -- each sense is engaged in this celebration and they all seem to come together in one perfect and unanimous whole.

Greasy food, noisy cap guns, joyrides on ferris wheels, old fashioned flirtations in pujo pandals and a wonderfully dressed-up city and her people -- this festival celebrates the goddess and her great feats as well as art, life, youth, nostalgia and hedonism with equal gusto. Armed with a camera, good walking shoes and an appetite for the offbeat and the unusual, Durga Puja in Calcutta is right in the heart of the madding crowd, where the pulse of the city lies. For five days, the city does not sleep and the sounds, lights and excitement that is Durga Puja keeps spiralling upwards from Shashti to Saptami to Ashtami to Nabami and finally ends with the bittersweet immersion on Dashami.

The city sleeps thereafter reeling under the weight of her acquired persona. But then there is the rallying cry of Aashche Bochor Abar Hobe (It will happen again in the coming year) and I return to a different city, a different life with the assurance that I too shall return to my homeland in the coming year to witness yet another visit from Ma Durga.

 This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 9 October 2014

Durga Puja: a time to eat and pray

 It is a fact universally acknowledged that conversation at a Bengali dinner table will inevitably revolve around food and matters of the digestive tract. And it is in perfect sync with this idea that almost every big or hole-in-the-wall shop selling sweets and fried savouries is flanked by a medicine shop for that quick after-meal pudin hara digestif. Thus for any self-respecting Bengali, all festivals big or small are as much about the special foods prepared for the occasion as they are about the rituals and religiosity. Durga Puja, which is the biggest festival of the Bengali calendar is an occasion to pray to the goddess, show off the entirely new Puja wardrobe (with a new daytime and nighttime outfit for each of the five days) and eat with abandon and without a care for diets or restrictions otherwise followed through the year. And this is hardly a tradition restricted to Calcutta or the big metros across the country. Every community or household puja in India, has its own special menu for each day of the festival. Typically, most Bengali households close their kitchens for the five days of the puja and queue up for the afternoon bhog. The evening is a different ball game altogether when all and sundry dressed in their Sunday best make their way to the numerous food stalls and gorge on deep fried and terribly delicious temptations on offer. Here is an easy primer to help identify the foods blessed by the goddess and eaten by her ever-hungry devotees.  

Bhog
Among one of the unique aspects of the Durga Puja is the fact that there is a clear demarcation between sacred food or food that is offered to the goddess and then eaten by her devotees and street food. Bhog (or the offering to the goddess) is typically vegetarian and comprises Khichudi (the Bengali version of Khichdi or Kedgeree). This wholesome dish has its own special recipe in every puja pandal and household. Accompanied by deep fried vegetable fritters and a mixed vegetable preparation, the khichudi, while varying in its sweet and spice index, remains a community puja food, cooked in giant cauldrons and relished by thousands on a daily basis. Dashami is usually celebrated with a lavish meal of Kosha Mangsho (dry spicy mutton) and Luchis (the Bengali version of pooris made with maida).

The Street Food
Large food courts serve tangy chaats, jhaal muri (the Bengali version of the popular bhel which is dry puffed rice with julienned onions, green chillies and peanuts and topped with a generous sprinkle of mustard oil), fat kathi rolls overflowing with kebabs, fried and crumbed fish fillets, chicken and lamb.
Interesting Bengali innovations and Puja pandal favourites include the Dimer Devil or the Egg Devil (a hard boiled egg covered in a minced layer and then crumbed and fried), the Kabiraji Cutlet (literally the poet’s cutlet where minced mutton or chicken is crumbed with bread and covered with a layer of egg to create a greasy, filling) and the mochar chops (a minced banana flower filled chop). For those looking for a more substantial meal, there are numerous specialties like Hilsa fish and prawn stalls offering generous portions of curried, steamed and fried fish with mustard sauces and steamed rice. Then there is the Kolkata-style biryani — a unique evolution of the saffron yellow Awadhi biryani, but with a whole boiled egg and potato.
There really are no rules and from all— vegetarian thalis to tacos and burritos, the Durga Puja street food courts straddle the local and the international, the big brands and the neighbourhood caterer with equal laissez faire.

Anandamela
Literally translated as a fun fair, this all-woman initiative brings together families, old and the young as they turn cooks as well as entrepreneurs for an evening. Wives, daughters and mothers of committee members and associates of a particular puja whip up their family favourites gleaned from age-old recipes and set up little stalls to sell their produce. From pickles to pakoras, from cakes to pilafs, the sky is the limit and the imagination is extraordinary. This little food festival encourages healthy competition between the ladies and also provides first timers with a perfect and expansive introduction to Bengali cuisine.

 This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 29 September 2014

Where the God of Small Things Lives

While The God of Small Things created ripples in the world of literature way back in the nineties, I waited 13 years to read Arundhati Roy’s magnum opus. Today, my copy of the book is a memory of my holiday, tattered and misshapen and stuffed with stubs, pressed petals and brochures about god's own country.

For me, The God of Small Things was my faithful friend through my journey in the backwater state of Kerala. It was my travel guide, my food bible and my local encyclopedia of trivia. It was a compendium of magic words that brought the backwaters alive with an epic tale. Although the book released way back in 1997, I waited for many summers and winters to pass in order to find the perfect moment to read it. In between jobs and having liquidated all my meagre savings in order to go on a holiday, I decided to embark on my first solo trip in India. This is also when I decided to read the book.

As a woman in India, travelling alone on public transport itself can be daunting, thus a single female holidaymaker is a rare and unheard of species rarely dotting the tourist map. Yet, I persisted, having known gentle people from the state, eaten great food and heard about the remarkably low statistics of violence against women, I was convinced that Kerala was where I must go. The only companion I had was the book. And it managed to transform my ordinary holiday into an imaginary universe. The God of Small Things seemed to appear to me at every twist in the roads of Kerala. I expected the land to be no different from what Arundhati Roy described:

“...by early June the southwest monsoon breaks and there are three months of wind and water with short spells of sharp, glittering sunshine that thrilled children snatch to play with. The countryside turns an immodest green. Boundaries blur as tapioca fences take root and bloom. Brick walls turn mossgreen. Pepper vines snake up electric poles. Wild creepers burst through laterite banks and spill across flooded roads. Boats ply in bazaars. And small fish appear in the puddles that fill the PWD potholes on the highways...”

As my aircraft descended rather bumpily towards the tarmac at the Cochin International Airport, the first thing I saw through the tiny window was a lush, deep-green sea below me. Gradually miniature trees and fields and foliage appeared. Then came the discernible coconut trees waving their heads, and then came the first streaky droplets of rain forming patterns on the outside of my window. Filled with trepidation, I felt strangely comforted by the rain. I had just started reading the book and was at the point when the whole family made a trip to watch The Sound of Music one afternoon. This ended up being a pivotal moment in the book that foreshadowed later tragedies and small and large betrayals. I left the airport humming old tunes from the Hollywood classic just like Estha, one of the fraternal twins who make up the cast of characters that populate the family home at Ayemenem. As I collected my bags, my thoughts still scattered all over wondering whether cinemas like Abhilash Talkies still existed in 21stand versatility of the Keralite mundu after witnessing the ease with which the men all round me irrespective of age and body types showed off their legs. I now also had a mental picture for Velutha, the untouchable antihero of sorts who impresses in his mundu and white shirt as he marched in a party demonstration with a red flag.

I was also thinking about how the afternoon sky would change it colours at random as the sun played hide and seek with the clouds. A few afternoons later as I saw the sky turn red with an impending storm, I remembered another red sky that Rahel (the other twin) sees through her cheap red plastic sunglasses which gradually turns to a sickly orange as her brother Estha is abused by the creepy Orangedrink Lemondrink man.

As I travelled through the banana-fronded backwater country to the secluded Phillip Kutty’s farm set on a manmade island in the middle of an exceptionally large canal off the Vembanad Lake, I realized that I was just a few kilometers from Roy’s Ayemenem and in a little town just like it. Just like the book, this too was a place where life happened on the backwaters. Thus my first ride on a country boat or vallom to see the rising moon was a moment enhanced by Roy’s lyrical poetry. I dipped my hand in the waters and the words came to life.

“It was warm, the water. Greygreen. Like rippled silk.
With fish in it.
With the sky and the trees in it.
And at night, the broken yellow moon in it.”

I spent the balmy nights reading the book out on the porch of my room overlooking the silver waters of the backwaters by the light of a single lamp casting its yellow pool in the darkness and bringing all the silken winged moths to my door to die. I could smell the brooding air of the of Ayemenem. I could hear the fluttering of Pappachi’s moth. My heart ached for Ammu. Just like it ached for the young widow Anu Mathew (the owner of the wonderful homestay that I was staying in). She was a brave and feisty lady who was fulfilling her husband’s dream all by herself. Her farm, where I spent three lovely days, radiated all her family’s warmth and reflected the hopes her husband had for the place before he suddenly passed on.

All these thoughts played into my understanding and love for the book. As I ate homemade banana jam for breakfast, I thought of the Paradise Pickles and Preserves run by Mammachi and the strange consistency of banana jam/jelly. I learnt about the history of the Syrian Christian community through the food that I gorged on every day. I learnt about the produce of the land through Anu Mathew and her mother-in-law over shared conversations on the dinner tables. In the dark hours of the night, Arundhati Roy’s magical prose brought me closer to the land I was passing through. She gave me a language to tell my story about Kerala to the world. I am glad I had waited to read it all these years for now I remember it like no other. The characters in this book gave me a few oddball companions on solitary walks and the story itself became a bookend for my own journey into this beautiful country ruled by the god of small things.

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 25 September 2014

A 'Scrumdiddlyumptious' Treat

Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory published in 1964 is something that has percolated through a myriad storytelling sessions and assumed a permanent spot in the collective memory of generations of children who have come of age in the last five decades.

Set against the unusual backdrop of a mysterious chocolate factory, this curiously dark and often bittersweet tale is in equal parts fantasy and fable and above all a story with startling original content that has captured the imagination as no other.

Adapted variously into films, musicals, games, radio and stage productions, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory has rarely been out of the public eye for long and its characters have become a part of the cultural iconography of our times inspiring dinner menus, tea parties  and of course candy. The real-life Willy Wonka Candy Company which is currently owned by Nestle actually manufactures goodies like the Everlasting Gobstopper which was first imagined in the pages of the book. Then there was the magnificent televised feast inspired by the book created by world-renowned chef Heston Blumenthal who called Willy Wonka his "sixties childhood hero" and went on to recreate a magnificent Lickable Wallpaper.

Based on the real-life spy-thriller tactics employed by rival chocolate companies in order to steal each other's latest innovations and Dahl's own love for candy, Willy Wonka's chocolate universe is one that is as fascinating as it is terrifying. With taffy trees that grow jelly apples, mushrooms that spurt whipped cream, a boiled sweet boat that takes the crew down the chocolate river, this is truly a magic landscape. However, it is also one where danger lurks in the sweet depths and holes and crevasses open up swallowing the greedy and the proud — the veritable bad eggs of the group — and send them off to a sorry unsweet end.

The tiny Oompa Loompas from Loompa-Land who work in Willy Wonka's factory, enamoured by the chocolate and glad to have escaped the predatory Whangdoodles, Hornswogglers and Snozzwanglers from their own land, judge the bad kids with a song and dance and are oddly gleeful at their odd transformations.
The odd childishness of adults like Willy Wonka himself and the rather adult observations of the very astute Charlie Bucket make this a book that turns conventions on its head, subverts established norms as well as presents the majority of children as well as adults as not very pleasant or likeable characters. Apart from this, the unmatched imagination, colour, drama, poetry, humour and unforgettable cast of characters in this book has the power to hold any child in its thrall.

Timed perfectly with its fiftieth birthday, two previously 'lost' chapters of the book were published only last month, thrilling legions of fans, researchers, academics and a whole new generation of 21st century children whose love affair with candy continues unabated. Among other things these chapters show more of Willy Wonka's marvellous inventions like the The Warming Candy Room where —
"There's an amazing machine, a bit like the gum machine we know, but it produces these extraordinarily hot sweets that you're only supposed to eat one of."
 And like all his extraordinary candy that come with certain warnings, this one is no different and promises to delight those who show restraint and punish the greedy with consequences that verge on comic horror. Thus those who gorge on the hot candy, overheat and need to be locked away in refrigerators in remote corners of the factory for a long, long time. Similarly the characters (and these newly published chapters reveal that Roald Dahl originally included ten children in the party) who trespass on the forbidden areas of the Vanilla Fudge Mountain, where hunks of fudge are constantly being pried and taken away also meet a sorry fate. They fall into the 'pounding and cutting room' and —
"into the mouth of a huge machine. The machine then pounds it against the floor until it is all nice and smooth and thin. After that, a whole lot of knives come down and go chop chop chop, cutting it up into neat little squares, ready for the shops."

This is the perfect bookend to a year which is full of celebrations for fans both old and new. The publishers as well as the Roald Dahl Trust have a whole range of goodies lined up which include the launch of a new Roald Dahl Audio App, A West End musical production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Willy Wonka inspired desserts by star chefs, Golden Ticket trails at the Roald Dahl Museum and Story Centre, a Dahlicious Dress Up day in schools across the UK later this month,  and fifty fundraising sky-diving folks dressed up as Oompa Loompas!

When I found out about these new chapters, I felt like doing a little jig just like the 96-year-old Grandpa Joe did when he found out that Charlie had won the Golden Ticket and an entry into the magical factory. It is true for many of my generation that fifty years later, this book is still a scrumdiddlyumptious treat to be savoured one page at a time.

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 23 September 2014

Forgettable fare with a wrong mix of ingredients

Despite the innovative campaign where lead pair Aditya Roy Kapur and Parineeti go on
a food yatra across the country in order to promote their film and a trailer that promises a
spicy love story, Daawat e Ishq is a much diluted and bland offering.

The romance in this apparent feast of love is lacklustre and characterized by a complete
lack of chemistry between the lead pair. But the the greatest disappointment is the fact
that what is touted a film which celebrates food, barely offers a hat tip to the culinary
heritage of the food capitals of Hyderabad and Lucknow with plates of seekh kababs,
oily biryanis and greasy kormas inserted at random points in the film providing an
unappetizing window into a gastronomy that is believed to be unmatched. A closeup of
a half-finished kebab, mutilated mutton sticking to a few grains of rice and a quickly
congealing bowl of salan at the famous Naaz hotel near Charminar at Hyderabad does
little justice to the food or the place. Similarly a bizarre shot in Lucknow focussing on a
closeup of the grease on a bowl of nihari is neither appetizing nor aesthetically appealing.

The complete lack of reference to the biryani rivalry between the two cities apart from a
passing comment by Kapur's Haider based on a few bites of food court fare, will leave
foodie members of the audience deeply unsatisfied.

Director and writer Habib Faisal's previous outings in films like Band Baaja Baraat, Do 
Dooni Chaar proved his mettle as a scriptwriter who had his finger on a certain suburban
middle class ethos and brought the local voices to the fore in all their loudmouthed and
honest splendour. However, with Daawat e Ishq, Faisal's writing fails to impress on all
counts proving to be one of the weakest links in the film.

The script starts off on a strong note establishing Gullu as an English medium-educated
shoe salesgirl of marriageable age who is trying to simultaneously find a good husband
and fulfill her dreams. However, in both cases her dreams take a beating
as her suitors all demand a sizeable dowry or "help" in furthering their own prospects
in foreign climes and are far from suitable. They even include a 'blue film' watching
CV faker who is taken down a peg or two by the feisty heroine. Parineeti's relationship
with her bumbling and meek widower father played by Anupam Kher is etched with
with tenderness and a wry sense of humour. As an honest legal clerk, he is as much of
an anomaly as his his well-educated daughter who has to tolerate insufferable customers
who walk into the swanky shoe store in an upscale mall with a "thank you madam"
and unwavering smile. Credit must be given to Parineeti who plays Hyderabad ki tez
Gulrez with great spunk, essaying her part of a disillusioned shoe salesgirl who dreams of
making it big and having her own line of footwear with conviction. She invests as much
in her nuanced Hyderabadi dialect as she does in the body language of the Dubai-returned
designer kurta-wearing Sania Habibullah.

The first hour of the film is full of promise and potential. Set in Hyderabad, an ancient-
modern city, straddling the spires of Charminar and the glitzy chrome and glass IT offices
with ease, it reveals snippets of lower-middle class India with sub-30k salaries and living
in the older parts of modern cities as seen in the lives of Gulrez Quader, her father and
their curious and often irate neighbours like Bilquis. One of the film's strong points in the
first half is its clever handling of its social message. The practice of dowry is obviously
condemned but in a humorous manner, turning the dowry demanders into comical stock
characters who perform as per their stereotype.

However, the plot begins to unravel from the moment the father-daughter duo arrive
in Lucknow as newly christened con artists out to exploit dowry hunters as well as the
legal system. The story takes absurd twists and turns and from a fairly realist framework
enters the realm of ill placed platters of orange kebabs and choreographed Bollywood
routines. This is unfortunately also the point where Aditya Roy Kapur is introduced as the
effervescent and over the top Lucknow ka ashiq Tariq, who flips his sheermals, greases
his kebab skewers and bedazzles female tourists with his easy charm and generosity.
He is ready with a smile or a kebab as the occasion might demand. The usually posh,
brooding and soft-spoken Kapur clad in ridiculous shirts is fairly convincing as "Taru"
Haider. His only flaw is that he is the victim of an ill-conceived script that goes nowhere
and delivers little by virtue of a romance or a feast. The three day "tuning-setting"
formula between the lead pair is an endless and boring song and dance routine set to
music by Sajid-Wajid. Although the Qawwali influences might have been good in a small
dose, its repetitive nature leaves the soundtrack lacking the punch and recall value of
Habib Faisal's earlier films.

Although there are glimpses of Faisal's trademark humour like the scene where there is a
sudden brake in Gullu and Amju's (TV star Karan Wahi's big screen debut) burgeoning
romance as he mentions that he is a vegetarian and Parineeti's kebab and nihari-eating
character pales, putting her halim before her heart, similarly the nikaah setpiece in front
of the Haider restaurant's focuses on the neon board displaying kakoris as much as the
resplendent bride and groom, these are few and far in between. Most plot points are put
together, complicated and resolved for no particular reason or logic. Daawat-e-Ishq is
like that culinary potpourri that just went wrong due to a whole bunch of too many wrong
ingredients put together.

It would be better advised to spend your time indulging in a real daawat of biryani and
kebab rather than indulging in this forgettable fare.

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 20 September 2014

Coffee and Mist: A monsoon journal from Coorg

When I was much younger and my universe was constrained by the city limits of Calcutta,
Coorg was a little squiggle on the map of Karnataka, its shadowy presence acknowledged
by half-remembered geography lessons, coffee and by a certain gown-like drape of a
certain Mrs Mundappa’s sari. The latter especially stood out in its uniqueness, eking out
a visual cue for Coorg. Many years later in college, Coorg was one of the many places
that people called home in the multicultural melting pot that was Delhi University. And
almost all of them came from homes set in sprawling estates growing coffee and had an
unbelievably high tolerance for alcohol as well as fiery meat dishes. This naturally led to a
conversation about the Pandi Curry or the famous spiced pork curry of the region. Some
Coorgi folk actually believed that this dish was the sacred rite of passage for all meat
lovers. Since a good Pandi Curry eluded me and those I sampled remained greasy blots
in my food memory, just like the dish, with time, the place faded from the memory. Five
years later as I crossed a bridge over the Cauvery in a well-travelled car, with the familiar
highway markers announcing ‘Welcome to Kodagu District’ in my line of sight, I felt a
sudden rush of excitement as all these half-remembered impressions flooded in.

In a few kilometres after Kushalnagar, the gateway town, the run-of-the-mill state highway
suddenly transformed into a winding hilly road with unending swathes of green on either
side. Monsoon is not regarded as a favoured time to visit this region and yet, whenever I
have travelled across South India, it has been under the aegis of the rain gods. Somehow,
I have always enjoyed this off season experience which drives away the tourist hordes
and returns the place to its serene quietude. The rain-washed land shorn of its summer
dust has a fresh and dewy sheen. Coorg was no different and my first glimpse of the lush
and wild forested tracts interspersed with the vast coffee plantations, was through a gap
between passing rain clouds. As the sun cast its errant late afternoon beams across the
road, the coffee bushes glistened, cementing this as a lasting snapshot of the place.

An interesting fact about the Coorg or the Kodagu district is that it is the least populous of
the 30 districts of Karnataka which make it one of the few places where the wilderness per
square kilometre is far more than the human population around these parts. Also, since
large tracts of this district are privately owned by the coffee planters (Coorg is India’s most
important coffee-growing district), that ensures that the forest cover remains unspoilt and
thus the region supports an extraordinary biodiversity. This also prevents any unnecessary
development in an area which draws hundreds of holidaymakers to its lush hillscapes. As a result
there is the growth of a new hospitality industry -- one which thrives on homestays
and extremely luxurious boutique properties usually the brainchild of the plantation owners
themselves.

As we made our way through the bumpy non-roads a little above Suntikoppa into the Old
Kent Estate, the Coorgi terrain enveloped us in her musky, squelchy and coffee-scented
bosom. An idyll in the middle of 200 odd acres of coffee, cardamom and pepper crops,
the Old Kent Estate is a renovated version of quintessentially English coffee bungalow.
century comforts like sunken tubs and spa treatments are juxtaposed against 21st
coffee plantation walks and traditional Coorgi food. This is the template for most Coorgi
homestays as well as boutique resorts which are a far cry from big banner hotel chains.
We spent our days walking around misty hill roads. Like many other places, Coorg has
also been more about the 'in between' journeys rather than the popular tourist spots. An
initial sightseeing experience at the Abbey Falls left us a little scarred. Buffeted by the jet
spray of the fairly impressive waterfall and trampled by nearly five score camera-happy
tourists who braved precarious rocks and moss-sodden perches in order to get the perfect
shot, we did a quick about turn just as we got a glimpse of the waterfall. The tourist
legions had left in its wake reams of orange Haldiram bhujia packets and green-capped
Bisleri bottles while the excess of water seeping out from every single crevasse had led to
a proliferation of leeches and you were lucky if you left Abbey Falls without a bloodsucker
in tow. Thereafter we drove around aimlessly, tracking the natural beauty of the rolling
hills and stopping where we pleased. Lured by ambling cows, little bridges over gurgling
streams and picturesque sunsets, we were masters of our own itineraries.

A strange fact I discovered is that although this is the land of coffee with green beans
hanging from every bush that you see by the highway, a good cuppa is not all that easy
to come across. The best coffee of the region is actually packed off to the auction houses
and sold off to foreign buyers. They return to India via the circuitous international coffee
chain route with a 100 percent markup and are served in branded cups or as freeze-dried
packs of Arabaica and Robusta with esoteric descriptions on their labels.
Apart from the plantation homestays, it is rather unlikely that one will find Coorgi coffee
at a roadside stall. A single ambitious shop in Madikeri has forward integrated into a cafe
and this was where we had our first traditional Coorgi coffee, made with local beans and
sweetened with jaggery - a perfectly heartwarming brew that kept away the rainy day
chills. However, we managed to wrangle many a cuppa made from the home-grown beans
from the kitchen in our estate. And while we took in the changing light across the coffee
bushes and the colourful profusion of rain-drenched flowers, we drank deeply of the brew of the land.

While coffee is an integral aspect of Coorgi cuisine, a plentiful bounty of the land, so
is meat. Traditionally the Kodavas (the indigenous locals who had settled in the region
thousands of years ago, inherited the land and set up coffee and spice plantations)
were fierce hunters who subsisted on game that they caught and the produce of the
land. This included a limited number of vegetables like plantains, jackfruit and coconuts.
This resulted in meat becoming a central feature of meals. While chicken and fish were
commonly consumed, it was the meat from the wild boar hunt that formed the greatest
delicacy -- Pandi Curry. While we tasted our delightful Pandi Curry in a restaurant with a
jaw-dropping view across a valley, most Pandi curries are best had in traditional homes,
over crackling fires and accompanied by snowy akki rotis. The complex blend of spices,
the varying textures and the fiery edge, made this a meal worthy of a royal repast.

Dotted with a handful of one-horse towns, I discovered that the true beauty of Coorg lies
outside human settlement and in its fragrant coffee and delectable food. Everything is
born of the soil, including its people, who are fiercely independent with a culture that is
as ancient as it is predominant in the region even today. They guard their natural bounty,
local myths and old family secrets with equal zeal.

It rains as I walk under bulbous jackfruits, hanging from mossy branches. I pick an
occasional green berry off a shiny coffee plant and watch kingfishers create a sudden
gash of blue across the green canvas. This is a Coorgi monsoon. And it is like no other
that I have seen.

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 18 September 2014

So Long and Thanks for all the Fish

“The angler forgets most of the fish he catches, but he does not forget the streams and lakes in which they are caught."

--Charles K Fox

Anglers are quirky characters full of stories of the river. They are extremely particular about the
whiskey they drink and the doneness of fresh fish grilled over open fires. They are also solitary
figures who tend to disappear from time to time. Historically angling is a gentleman's sport. These
recreational sportsmen approach the sport with the same enthusiasm as wine connoisseurs sniffing out
the best vintage grape. There are no age bars and very basic fitness requirements, all you should be
able to do is clamber through hills, scrub and stand in the water for long periods. Referred to as 'the
contemplative man's recreation' by author Izaak Walton, what it really requires is dollops of patience,
a fondness for your own company and an unerring bond with your fishing rod, the river and the fish.
Fly fishing is a type of angling which is all about good instincts, skill at throwing the line and landing
the artificial flies in the right spot. In the hills, angling and fly fishing is an even more invigorating
affair as the fisherman along with his fishing skills, also has to negotiate the often tricky terrain along
high-altitude rivers to access the best pools of fish especially trout, the celebrated game fish of the hills.

Although I am not an angler, there is a river that has imprinted on on my mind. There aren't too many
fish that I have caught successfully, but I will always remember being in the hallowed company of the
rainbow trout. Reflecting the sun and darting upstream between the rocks and crevasses, this is the
prized catch of the hill rivers and coveted by both novice and expert anglers. For me, it was a moment
of awe chasing this magnificent creature up a river through one of the most stunning vistas I had ever
seen in my life. Despite travelling far and wide, like an old sepia-tinted photograph in a well-thumbed
album, snapshots of the Tirthan River have followed me through the days of my youth, providing
succour when life demanded it.

Nagini, a small village in the Tirthan Valley in the Kullu District of Himachal Pradesh is an angler's
paradise and almost entirely overlooked by most tourist maps. It is a place outside of time and
far away from the city lights, perfectly preserved with its lush unspoilt sunrises and sunsets and
replete with local myths and legends. Nestled in this village is the Himalayan Trout Fishing Camp,
a getaway from it all. The British introduced trout in the Indian rivers to pursue their favoured sport
and this glorious tradition is kept alive and vibrant at this camp by its colourful owner and angler
extraordinaire, Christopher Mitra.

He and his family welcomed me and my friends, a ragtag bunch of young college students into their
lovely home and ensured that that we were well fed, well rested and completely enamoured by the
hills by the time we left. While there, we learnt how to fish fish, feast on all things trout, sip our
morning tea with the river gurgling by below our tents. We spent evening around a bonfire, nursing
our favourite tipple and inevitably guitars would be unearthed and old half-remembered Beatles
songs would be sung gloriously out of tune. The hills would echo with bonhomie even as the shadows
lengthened. I have been to Nagini twice and some of my other companions on our first trip, return at
regular intervals. A very close friend of mine admitted that he had a deep connection with the place
and would return to it every few months to go on long walks, write his PhD thesis, contemplate or
simply fish, and all of this while living in a foreign country.

It has been many years since I have returned to Nagini and yet there are some things about the place
that are fresh and larger than life itself. I remember our guide who was also the village oracle. I
remember the rusty metal basket on which we crossed the river on a metal rope. I remember just
staring at the mountains in the changing light. I remember the freshest and most delicious grilled trout
with the tang of fresh lemon roasted over a campfire and I remember a little dog who looked like a
furry toilet brush and had set up her permanent home in our tent. The tents have since been replaced
by log cabins and huts but the place still retains all its wonder.

For me, Nagini is a time capsule of a few wonderful days spent with laughter, songs , trout, whiskey
and camaraderie like no other. For me, Nagini is a memory of the smiling face of a girl -- one of
the best friends I ever made, who is no longer with us. For me, Nagini is about the Himalayan Trout
Fishing Camp run by the irrepressible fisherman, storyteller and guitarist -- Christopher Mitra, whose
Irish and Bengali lineage is well reflected in his love for good whiskey and a well-cooked fish. For
me, Nagini is the truth in a Billy Joel song where:

"We're all carried along
By the river of dreams"

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 11 September 2014