The one with the affair in Gurgaon (and a conversation)

0

Tweet

Nora Ephron, in one of her columns - possibly in 'Esquire' though I can't be sure - had wondered about the exact time the word "adultery" became irrelevant - and politically incorrect - in America. I am not sure if metropolitan India is quite there yet, but Nirupama Subramanian's recent novel 'Intermission' is a layered novel that in some ways raises this rather sensitive question. Set in a gated community in Gurgaon - and Subramanian raises all the points that sociologists agonize over, with a keen eye and a quiet sense of humor - 'Intermission' is the story of forty-four year old Varun Sarin, a suave entrepreneur, a newly-returned Indian, resident of the seventh floor of Trafalgar Towers (incidentally, I chuckled at how Subramanian has chosen the name of the colony with spot-on irony that grand Gurgaon namkaran provides). Sarin's wife Gayatri, in my opinion one of the most finely-drawn....

The one where rains come to delhi: some notes on saawan, lover ants, and a song

1

Tweet

The rains have come to Delhi, on the heels of the month of saawan. Shravan or saawan is well-known as the season of mellow fulfillment in Bollywood, given that Bollywood lovers do not quite have to brave Gurgaon roads or Delhi traffic. Late afternoon on Friday, it darkened outside suddenly and the birds were caught in great confusion. Drawn to the balcony by their mad twittering and the insistent call of the peacocks, I saw the sky, roiling dark and grim, rumbling, and the wind racked with rain. I knew immediately this was it: the real thing, the royal Indian monsoon. The chatter of rain on the dry red earth was consistent once it began. As dusk deepened - I had to tell from my watch as it was completely overcast outside - and the rain stopped for a while, hundreds of ants began to hover in....

The one where I make a case for P.A. Sangma

6

Tweet

These days, I am hoping for a miracle too. One that shall see P.A. Sangma take oath as the President of India. For one, the ridiculous enthusiasm that Bengalis left, right and centre (pun intended) are displaying in the matter itself offers a worthy reason for me to pray feverishly to my various goddesses that Sangma might win. If the honourable Pranab Mukherjee, in the course of his long distinguished career, did not ever insist that as a Bengali he ought to do a few things to benefit Bengal (which is just as well for a national leader I guess), I don't see why Bengal cannot follow the glorious example set by him in this regard. For another, I have always been a little in love with P.A. Sangma. The time when he was the Speaker of the Lok Sabha (between 1996 and 1998) and would try, in....

The one with the mulfi

0

Tweet

As monsoon lashes against the Kerala coast, and rains creep up the sub-continent following their usual trail, I decide that I too in my fashion must address the Indian obsession with the mango. Clichéd it is, of course; bordering on oral fixation, true; but, well, cultures perhaps owe it to themselves somewhat to live up to their stereotypes, especially if said stereotypes were first generated-for and subsequently were seen-through-and-analyzed-as-thus-by goras. Ergo, the mango. Or rather, if we were to go with the flow, the magical mangoes from Dharamtallah, which played a critical role in pushing me from one side of the blogosphere (foodporn-viewing) to the other (foodporn-contributing or whatever). But long before these magical mangoes, came the train journeys to Howrah, at the end of the summer holidays. So that is where the story really begins. Every June, when Mummy would return to Calcutta from the glorious environs....

The one with late reminiscences of summer

1

Tweet

Unfortunately, as one who is still working on a manuscript that was to have been completed and submitted last year (or was it the year before?), I cannot really complain about the heat in Delhi. If anything, it is forcing me to remain indoors, undistracted by the pleasures of gallivanting here or there and get my ass moving on what is, with ironical aptness, called "The Heat and Dust Project". The afternoons outside our tiny flat are filled with the solid quiet intense white heat that stands like a handsome asura, the guardian of the Delhi summer; the neighbourhood dogs rush about busily in the sun with a frenzy that is part sexual. There is a water booth for them where they mill around at lunchtime, bossing over the thirsty mynas who wait patiently in queue; and then, suddenly, they vanish. To sleep beneath the green benches, stretch....

The one where I dabble in divine secrets

2

Tweet

On a mild spring evening in a second-hand bookstore in Bangalore, I find a newish copy of the book. It is by Rebecca Wells, enticingly called Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood - and being one forever in awe of said kind of secrets and any kind of sisterhood, I buy it immediately. Over the next two days, I am gripped by the gorgeous world of Louisiana it brings to life, with a cast of eccentric, often heart-breaking, characters. And then there are the flavours of the crawfish etouffee and duck gumbo cooking, the subtle shifts of sunlight on the bayou, the songs and sounds of the black quarters at the edge of town, the clinks of tall glasses filled with iced lemonade as the rich heat oozes slowly from the cotton farmlands and fills the air with a sort of sorrow. There is that quality of ripeness,....

The one where an inspiring cookbook is found

0

Tweet

One day in the library I had an epiphany. It came in the form of a slim little yellow hardbound book that nobody had borrowed in a long time. It was called The Pedant in the Kitchen and was by Julian Barnes, half-mistakenly kept in the cookery section, though it really belonged in philosophy. Never mind that though. It was a little treat. In a fundamental way, this book comforted a deep sense of inadequacy in me - but more on that later. It is more important to explain at this point what I was doing in the cookery section of the library anyway. Long(ish) story. In the year 1973 my mother had made a tiny slice of history in her part of India; it is Jharkhand today, but in those days it was still a part of Bihar. She became one of the first girl....