Friday, September 15, 2017


She never thought she was ugly, on the contrary, she believed herself to be charming and pretty.
Her belief lent her a poise and grace that was not easy to find in girls her age.

She often admired herself --  the long slender fingers, the curvy eyelashes, the little button nose,
Her eyes, she thought, were a bit small, but it did not affect her confidence, which was very, very tall.

Of her height she was very proud, so what if some parts of her body were a little stout?
Her wavy hair were her pride, her smooth complexion made her apple of everyone's eyes.

And then one day she met her best friend, the meeting was the beginning to many a end.

The friend thought she was dark and totally out of grace, she commented on how her silver earrings shone on a sun tanned face;
When a photographer said she could be a model so proud, the friend laughed about it out loud.
The laughter burnt a hole in a heart, something she could never throw apart;
The comments continued to flow -- sometimes it was her skin, sometimes face, sometimes even her small toe.

The wavy hair now seemed unruly, the copper skin suddenly became dark and ugly,
Her slender fingers ceased to matter, the long eyelashes were used to conceal tears lest they would splatter.

Her confidence fled like mice from a sinking ship, her poise went away on a lifelong trip,
The mirror became her biggest enemy, and vanity seemed like the deadliest blasphemy.

The friend left long ago, but not before her words dug deep trenches in her ego,
For three-fourth of her life she bore the burden of her comments, hating herself for things that she thought she ought to lament.

Today she finally decides, she needs to no longer hide -- the hurt, the pain, the dark skin, the thinning mane, she needs to take everything in her stride.
For she don't know what the friend really meant, was it actually a vicious jibe or just a kid's innocent comment?

Beauty they say rests in the eye, but the real beauty is what radiates from inside,
It does not matter if you are dark or light, if your eyes are small or skin bright, what matters is your confidence and your pride.

Let no one tell you how you should look, feel or be -- others opinion of you is your greatest enemy,
Be proud of whoever you are -- the sun, the moon, or just a tiny star;
For the sun and moon maybe full of might, but all we wish for is some magical starlight. 


Thursday, September 7, 2017

Following Tintin's Footsteps in Brussels

“Blistering barnacles! We are trapped!”

You can almost hear Captain Haddock shout as he leads Tintin and Snowy down the fire exit of a tall building. As always, they have landed themselves in trouble while trying to solve The Calculus Affair. A few miles away you find Tintin clinging to the wall outside his hotel in Chicago in a bid to get to the goon’s room. While the scene is from Tintin in America, it is being played at the Zuidstation in Brussels. You also see him perched up along with snowy over a multistoried building, smiling at the passerby, and walking along his entire entourage at an underground station in Stokel.

Tintin can be found everywhere in Brussels – on the walls, at underground stations, along the streets, in the marketplaces; in museums and even inside hotels, which have special Tintin themed rooms. And why not, Brussels after all is home to the world’s favorite reporter in baggy pants.

Tintin was first seen boarding a train to Russia from the Brussels station on 10th January 1929 in his debut strip, in the youth supplement of a weekly. During this time, a young boy dressed as Tintin could be found roaming at the Zuidstation greeting the passengers. The antic worked and the tiny cartoon strip soon metamorphosed into an iconic series we now know as The Adventures of Tintin.

“If you are a fan of comics, Brussels won’t disappoint you. Often called the comic strip capital of the world, Belgium is home to many popular characters like Gaston, Smurfs, Lucky Luke, and Tintin. All of them are loved in Belgium but Tintin is popular across the world. There is no better place than Brussels for a Tintin lover.” Françoise Flamente, an elderly lady, tells me as she walks me along the Tintin trail in the Belgian capital.

The starting point of the trail is the Belgian Comic Strip Center set by Tintin’s creator, Hergé.

A large prototype of the red and white rocket from Explorers of the Moon stands tall in the lobby ready to take off. You can almost hear Professor Calculus say “That’ amazing! That’s tremendous! That’s incredible!”

It indeed is incredible to see so much of Tintin in one place. Books in multiple languages line the shelves, collectables of all possible characters stand in glass cabinets, life size posters and exhibits are displayed all over. A series of sketches trace Tintin’s origin from a black & white line drawing to the dapper ginger head with the trademark quiff. It also outlines the evolution of Snowy, Tintin’s wire fox terrier modeled after the dog at Hergé’s favourite café, the loud mouth Captain Haddock, whose name came from the curses that the creator’s wife often hurled at him, and the famous glass-shattering opera star Bianca Castafiore, who, it is believed, is a dig at the creator’s opera-loving wife.

The imposing grey and cream building of The Royal Palace can transport anyone back in time, for a Tintin fan however, it has only one significance: it formed the backdrop of King Ottokar’s Sceptre. You feel like a detective yourself as you trace Tintin’s footsteps through the Brussels Park, to the exact spot where he finds the suitcase that helps him solve the mystery.

A short walk from the Palace leads to Boulevard Adolphe Max, home to Hotel Metroplole. The street and the hotel are seen in The Seven Crystal balls when Mark Falconers taxis his way to 26 Labrador Road, Tintin’s home. If you stand across the road with the comic book in hand opened to page 20, you’d almost find yourself inside the book.

The flea market at the Place du Jeu de Balle that features in the opening sequence of The Secret of the Unicorn is a few miles away. The market, where Ivan Sakharine tries to persuade the Unicorn off Tintin, turns out just how Hergé had depicted it – an exciting mass of bric-a-brac and antiques laid out on the streets and tables. As you walk through the market, rubbing shoulders with the locals and tourists, you secretly wish to find the Unicorn, or perhaps Tintin, trying to guard the Unicorn from Sakharine.

The Tintin trail.

1. A mural of Tintin and Captain Haddock on Rue de L’Etuve from the book The Calculus Affaiar.

2. The Comic Strip House on Boulevard de l’Impératrice, depicts the evolution of the characters.

3. La Monnaie is the theatre that inspired Hergé’s drawings of the opera in The Seven Crystal Balls.

4. Park of Brussels at the Royal Palace, where Tintin finds an abandoned suitcase in King Ottokar’s Sceptre.

5. Across the park, is the Royal Palace, which inspired the home of the king of Syldavia in King Ottokar’s Sceptre.

6. Stockel Metro Station has two colourful murals with several characters from Tintin’s adventures.

7. Place du Jeu de Balle flea market featured in the Secrets of The Unicorn

8. Gare du Midi, the Brussels South Railway Station, features a Tintin mural at the entrance.

9. The first publishers of the Tintin books, Editions du Lombard, have a giant Tintin and Snowy sign on top of their office building.

10. The Tintin Boutique at Rue de la Colline 13, right in center of the town, stocks a host Tintin products including figurines, comics, stationary, and apparel.

Friday, September 1, 2017

What is my worth?

What is my worth and how do I calculate it?

My bank account says I have a couple of hundred thousands – is that my worth?
My salary statement says I make a fraction of what I used to years ago – is that my worth?

The husband says he cannot do without me. The girls think they may not survive without me. Is running their lives my worth?

My housekeeper requires me to constantly need her, so that my money can constantly feed her. Is her need my worth?
My colleagues think I am great at what I do, and should be in a corner office making a fortune. Is their opinion of me my worth?

A few who read what I write, say a book I hold inside -- is being a writer my worth?
My words, floating all around, tell me my calling I have finally found -- is the fulfillment of a long lost dream my worth?

My prized possessions, my meager earnings, my hard work, my tiny rewards; my lovely home, my lovelier girls; my few friends, my fewer loves. Do they determine my worth?

But if they did, I would not have been declared 'low on self worth'.

So what is my worth and how do I measure it?

My worth is in my lost dreams, it lurks is in the crevices my broken heart;
It can be found in the ambitions I killed, it lives in the compromises I chose to reach.

My worth is in every no I said to myself when I could have said yes, in every yes I said when I should have said no;
It is in every dream I should have nurtured but decided to let it go, and every relationship I murdered for the sake of another to grow.

My worth lives inside every friend I lost, it lays dead is in every love I left in the past, my worth is in my failures, my vices, my demons, and my choices.
It lives inside the rejections and my abjection, it thrives on my heartache and my heartbreaks.

My worth is in all that I should have seen, should have done, could have been,
It is in the truths that I should have perceived, in the life I could have achieved.

No wonder it is in a deep pit, along with my soul, spirit, and my being;
So deep inside a gutter that it can no longer be heard, felt, or seen.

Jamshedpur: a jampot of flavours

Every evening, after the sun sets in the steel city, the sky lights up. The orange glow can be attributed partially to the burning metal at the steel plant, and partially, to the illuminated carts of food street in the heart of the town.

Tatanagar was founded a little over 100 years ago, when Jamsetji Tata decided to set up a steel plant there. His decision resulted in two things. One: an obscure village metamorphosed into a cosmopolitan hub of people from all parts of the country; and two: it brought the time-tested recipes from their kitchens and streets into this little hamlet. In no time, Tatanagar turned into a melting pot of flavours and textures. The best way to sample this mélange of tastes, textures, and flavours, is through the food street. Positioned along the well-laid-out J road, where pushcarts appear magically after dusk and bring with them the most lip-smacking, mouth-watering food one can imagine.

Take Raja’s dosa for example. His dosas are golden, crunchy and stuffed with julienned onion, beetroot, and cabbage, apart from the standard potato mix. Served with the local version of chutney — made with channa dal, not coconut — and watery yet flavourful sambar, they beat the South Indian ghee roast hands down. Or Ashok’s littis for that matter — the thick balls of flour stuffed with sattu, roasted on charcoal, and dipped in pure ghee; they are served with chokha, a spicy preparation of roasted potato and brinjal, mashed with a generous helping of mustard oil. One bite of this is all it takes for your taste buds to come alive.

“Sometimes, it’s hard for non-Jamshedpurians to understand what the fuss is about, why people from Tatanagar rave so much about the food here. But if someone hasn’t lived here, he will never understand what we are talking about,” says Krishna, a homemaker and a regular at the food street, even as she waits for her portion of litti. Her favourite happens to be chilli chicken and noodles from the van, and puchkas from the nameless man in the corner.

Her children, however, are ardent fans of the papdi chaat made with dry puchkas, mashed spiced potatoes and topped with tamarind chutney. While spice rules the roost here, there is also provision for sweet. The freshly fried jalebis and imartis and the dabbewali kulfi with falooda add much needed sweetness to the palate, balancing out the spice. It is this balance that makes the street treats of Tatanagar so special.

This post first appeared in The Hindu

An Ode to the Roll

“Yesterday, I had a roll at New Town. It was horrible! Ekdom baje. I knew only Kusum’s roll would be able to offset the trauma, so I came here.”

You know you are in Kolkata when you hear passionate discussions about food around you, especially street food. The shop in question has been standing in an obscure corner off Park Street for almost 40 years, and though inconspicuous by its presence, the serpentine queues outside, and the intense aroma around it, ensure you cannot miss the humble stall situated behind a large iron gate.
“No one is certain when the roll came to Calcutta, but everyone who knows Kolkata knows about Kusum Rolls. You see, every corner has a roll walah here, but nothing beats Kusum’s rolls,” says Rajat Mitra, a regular, who, as evident, swears by the shop.

A bright yellow board tells you that the rolls come in 30 varieties — egg, chicken, mutton, veg, paneer, cheese, liver, prawn and their variations — and the prices range from a paltry thirty rupees to a whopping two hundred and twenty. A total of three men man the shop. Their hands move in perfect coordination as they dish out rolls by the dozen, customising each one as they go: extra chilli in one, no chilli in the other, fried onion in one, raw in another; sauces, spices, eggs, onions — everything can be added, removed, reduced, or increased to suit your palate.

If you are a regular, you won’t even have to tell them — they remember it. I am neither a local, nor a regular, but the shop remains my first stop in the city. I know the menu by heart and also the chronology of actions. The parathas are fried on the griddle till they are about half done, eggs are simultaneously beaten and poured onto the centre of the griddle, the two are then combined and fried again, until each paratha becomes thick, flaky, and golden. Next, these are transferred to the counter where they are assembled in batches: meat goes in first, then the onions, chillies, spices, and sauces. Each roll is then wrapped in butter paper and handed over to you.

“Do you know these rolls were invented when the busy workers had no time to sit and eat their meal? Someone put his meat into his roti, and voila, the roll was born. Isn’t that amazing?” A woman tells another, even as the man on the counter assembles half a dozen chicken rolls at once. It surely is amazing to see how far these rolls have come.

The post first appeared in The Hindu

Friday, August 18, 2017

Of Late Night Writing and Early Morning Discoveries.

Q. What happens when you write an emotional piece on your phone at midnight, when your mind is numb with sleep, hands are exhausted of typing, and heart is overflowing with emotion?
A. You create an incomprehensible piece of writing, which is high on sentiment, and negative on form, grammar, language, and every other parameter of decent writing.

As a rule I never post my pieces immediately after finishing them. I let them rest for sometime and let my thoughts simmer a little more. This gives me an opportunity to ensure what goes out is not only accurate but also structured well. Sometimes, however, I fall in the trap of “me too”. Last night was one such night.

After having stayed away from my blog, Facebook, and even Instagram for a while, I desperately wanted to write a something about my home-town-in-law. The idea was to put a small note on Instagram and follow it up with a longer piece on my travel page. So even as my back ached, fingers hurt, and mind almost shut down with exhaustion, I typed a longish post and put it up. The writing was a little raw, but I was okay with that: it was only on Instagram after all and I would have revised it before putting it on more formal forums. What I had not noticed was that I was simultaneously posting it on Facebook.

This morning, when I found notifications about the post on my feed, I realized what I had done. The post was high on emotion, but had no structure and form. The sentences were incomprehensible, the paragraphs were misplaced; there were vocabulary issues and punctuation errors. I tried to salvage the it by editing, but it was too late -- it had already been read and opinions had already been formed.

With so much conversation happening about writing everywhere, I do not think I ought to add anything more about the topic. But, as a person who has published over a hundred travel and food pieces in national dailies and weeklies, and uncountable blog posts on established forums on the Internet, I only want to emphasize upon the importance of structure and syntax. And, may I add, patience.

Being particular about what you write is not about being or not being a grammar Nazi. Nor is it about putting a person down. It is only about your honesty towards a craft you have chosen to pursue and respect for the language you have chosen to write in. It maybe okay to compromise on sentiment sometimes, but it is never okay to compromise on structure. Because showing respect to your craft is the least you can do. Isn’t it?

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Secrets of an Insane Mind

It comes ever so quietly without so much as a knock, and before you know it, it has engulfed you in its repulsive suffocating lock;
It makes you low, it makes you sad, but worst is when it turns you mad;
Who is mad, but, my heart asks me -- someone who is crazy, someone who shouts and screams, or someone who the world tells you to stay away from, may be?

But aren't those mad who feign happiness, aren't those mad who mock sadness;
aren't those mad who abide by every rule, or the ones who think crazy isn't cool?
Your mind however is too numb to reply, all it wants to do is to lay in the bed and cry;

So you sit in a corner looking into space, or sometimes you stare at the mirror watching your own face;
Some days it looks pretty, some days it looks nice, but on most days it seems like you have put on a disguise;

You do not recognize your own eyes, your nose, your mouth, your silly crooked smile, and it is on these days you know the time has come to stay away from the world or all you will attract from them is despise;

You sulk and you mop, you weep and you cry, but you cannot reach out for help as much as you may try;
You fall you rise, you slip, you hold, but the truth about your mind must never be told.

Friday, June 30, 2017


I have been on a de-cluttering spree off late. First in my parents' home, in Lucknow, trying to get rid of all that has been accumulated over the years in the lofts and cupboards, stores and attics and serves no purpose anymore, and later, in Delhi, where I have very little to get rid of.

Even though I am not really a hoarder and find it easy to let go of things (as opposed to people and emotions), I found over five used notebooks stacked inside my cupboard full of random musings and scribbling from the time I was totally into writing -- or at least thought so: I was either always reading, or writing, or writing about reading, or reading about writing.

Most of these notes are unfinished. Some are mere thoughts, some are phrases, some read like a verse of a poem. They were never published and never shared, and perhaps will never be used. So I had to let go of them. And I will.

Among the notes, I found this particular passage, written in the courtyard of a guesthouse in Pondicherry, four years ago. Something told me I should retain it, if I ever write a book, maybe, just maybe, it will fit in there.

"Four tiny vadas, and one sticky, steaming hot idli, eaten at a stall, sitting on a narrow bench that had turned black with dirt and grime, with just a few street kids playing across the road, and the family of three -- mother, father, son, -- taking turns at the stove, the tap, and the cash box, was the most satisfying meal I had eaten in a long, long time.

Part of it could be the setting. I was right in the middle of the French Quarters in Pondicherry, and right behind the roaring ocean. The sun had been up long -- about two hours -- but had yet to catch up on its strength, and sea breeze flew in gently. I had been out since five in the morning, had sat by the sea for over two hours, walked along the promenade twice and was famished when I spotted the family setting up the stall in the lane adjacent to the main avenue.

Just when I had finished polishing off the piping hot idli, served to me right off the steamer, and had started licking the plate clean of the freshly grounded coconut chutney --  an act which I otherwise never indulge in -- I noticed a man on the other end of the street looking at me intently. He would not have been a day over twenty-five and was perhaps waiting for his plate of idli. I was suddenly  embarrassed of what I was doing. I left the remaining chutney as it is and finished the coffee in one long gulp. As I got up to pay, I was conscious of his eyes following me.

Growing up in North India, I have experienced everything from roving eyes and curious looks to lewd remarks, cat calls, and even accidental brushing and deliberate groping, but I am used not to a set of eyes following me. I looked at the man again: I wanted to make sure I was not making this up. And sure enough, he was looking at me. Now I was even more awkward and uncomfortable. He had seen me seeing him.

In the past twelve years, I had seldom been on my own. Either the husband or the girls had been stuck to my hip, and in such a case two things happen: a) you are too preoccupied with people around you to notice others, b) others don't pay attention to you. So the feeling of being observed that morning was alien, and, unnerving. At thirty four I felt like fourteen, unable to decide how to deal with the situation.

And so, even though I was thoroughly enjoying sitting on the grimy bench, soaking in the sight and smell of the freshly cooked food and wanted to hang out there doing nothing, I left abruptly."

Monday, May 8, 2017

Dadimaa and I

I did not cry when she died. Not even a single tear drop. I don't know why. The events preceding her death are not etched in my memory either. All I vaguely remember are some phone calls informing that she had been taking to the hospital, probably for the last time, and that father and brother are with her, along with the rest of the family. And that I was supposed to stay put where I was for I had already met her recently, and taking care of my mother and children was equally important. It is unclear why though, especially because all other such events are etched in my mind.

It could be because I was 2000 miles away and too preoccupied with caring for a mother who had been brought back from the dead, a toddler, a home, a husband, my work, and was carrying a little life inside me. But I think more than anything else it was the relief, happiness even -- of her getting rid of the pain and suffering she had been in for over six months.

I had never seen my grandmother weak or frail. Not when half of her lung was removed due to tuberculosis at the age of 20, not when she lost a son at the age of 50, not when she had to care for a sick husband at the age of 75, not even after his death. While most other women of her time and age would have surrendered to life's miseries, she only went from strength to strength, remaining the head of the family she always was.

My dadi had only one weakness: her love for her children -- and their children. She loved all of us to death and would do anything for us. I remember her making fresh rotis for the whole family even at a time when all mothers-in-law did was order their daughters-in-law around. Every festival, she sent all the daughters-in-law out of the kitchen to enjoy while she prepared the most elaborate and beautiful meals all by herself. She traversed the country alone for them, showered them with gifts and love, and expected very little in return. No, not even a son. If anything, she loved and pampered girls more than the boys.

I was born at a time when the birth of girls wasn't usually celebrated. Especially if they happen to be the first born to the first born. But mine was. I can never forget the happiness on her face in the picture where she's holding me, perhaps for the first time. Dadi maa not only loved me to bits -- barring a few times when my brother came in the way -- but she also thought I was the most good looking and the most hardworking girl around. While none of this was true (love is blind, isn't it?), it always made me feel good about myself. Whenever I heard her talk about me to her friends or a relative, my heart would fill with joy and pride.

It has been six years since I felt that joy, or pride. And a little over six years since I last saw her . She had told me, yet again, how much she liked my 'gol chehra aur salona rang'. Six years since she reiterated how wonderful a job my husband has done of taming me. "Debashish, aapne to Puja ko ekdam badal diya hai" she would tell him and he would beam.

As I write this, I can almost see her sitting oh her bed in my aunt's home in Calcutta. Her face pale with pain, her eyes yellow with jaundice, and her body just a faint shadow of the robust, ample strength that it once encased within itself. I can hear her telling my aunt that she still cannot cook properly while halfheartedly gulping down spoons of sooji ki kheer.

But it is not only today, on her death anniversary, that I can see and hear her. I often do. And almost always she is up and about in her starched cotton sari, making a roti, frying a kachauri, walking down to the mandir for keertan, or going to the park. I can hear her hum her favourite tune in the kitchen and tell the same family tale nth time. I can see her sari fluttering in the air from mummy's balcony (she always washed it herself) and her pale glass churis jingling (she never wore bright gaudy stuff) as she knitted yet another frock for my daughter. But I miss her the most when I try to cook like her and realize I cannot.

Apart from cooking I am what my dadi was in many ways -- both good and not so good. Just like her, I am a strong willed, protective, hard working person, who is also stubborn, fiercely independent, and fond of a good life -- and like her, love happens to be my only weakness. Even though I may not have cried when she died, my heart cries for her more often than I ever imagined, and sometimes my eyes join too. Especially when I ruin her bharva tinda recipe. I am sorry, dadi maa!

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Of Music and Irrerapairable Holes in Your Souls.

They say you leave a little bit of yourself with everyone you have loved -- and lost. No wonder then that we eventually remain just a skeleton of who we once were: when you give away parts of your heart, soul, mind, and sometimes even body away skeletons are the only things that remain, isn't it?
Sometimes, while looking at the mirror, you wonder how would you have looked had you retained all parts of yourself. Probably more beautiful, more complete?

This thought -- of looking better with your chunks intact and retaining yourself -- then forces you to withdraw from people and relationships lest you give away whatever is remaining too. You feel super proud of the indifference that you have conditioned yourself to and believe that the skeleton is slowly and steadily filling up with new flesh and blood. And yet you somewhere long for someone to who you can handover whatever remains of you. To who you can truly belong.
However hard we try, the parts that we have given away do not ever come back. The craters that they create in your souls never fill up, the aches in your heart never heal. You merely learn to live with the incompleteness pretending all is well. But life has a way of reminding you of your losses every now and then.

In such times, when I am reminded of my losses, I am also reminded of a song. It is said that when Gulzar saa'b handed over the lyrics of this song to RD he threw a fit. "Next you'd get me newspaper cutting and tell me to make music for that!" He shouted. But RD being RD and Gulzar Saa'b being Gulzar saa'b, the song was made. And what a song it was.

I had first heard the song when I was no older than ten. I wanted to hear it more often but had no idea how to. Back in the day there was no youtube where you could type the words and get the song. By the time I heard it next, I was, I guess in my teens.

Can you guess which one is it?