For those who care for us

Pujas remind me of happy families, khichdi and labra bhaji, plays in the evening, ram lilas and more.
Pujas also remind me of the young girls in their new dresses and ribbons, going pandal hopping with their families.

These girls come from different regions, speak different languages, but seem to be tied by a common thread.
The first common thread is their outfit.
If it's a dress, it is usually slightly loose, especially around the bust and waist. And has a low waist.
The shoes are a bright coloured pair.
If it's a churidar, it is usually   a poorly mixed mix and match.
While of course, new.
The eyes are darkly kohled. Usually bindis adorn the forehead.
Nowadays we do see a pair of loose jeans and kurtis or long skirts.

Do these girls have a poor fashion sense?
 We will never know.
Because the outfits have been picked up by their families.
Who they work for.

These are the "household help" in India.
Young girls who look after our kids, clean and cook.
We take good care of them. And they are like family.
Yet we go to great pains to ensure that what they are wearing draws the line very clearly.
The skirts and the jeans should not be mistaken for the mistress of the house.
So the poorly matched colours or the slightly ill fitting outfits.

There are more ways in which lines are drawn.
They sit in the middle of the rear seat in the car- usually no window viewing- if there are three people behind.
They get  a  stool in the kitchen or children's room  when we go  visiting friends .
They usually have their own plates and cups and mugs at home.
Their meals are usually in the kitchen.
They feel awkward when we go dining- where do they sit, stand...

But we love them.
We pay good money.
We look after their families.
And their lot would have been worse if not for us.

And they seem happy.
They are happy.
Or are they....

Salt and Cherries

The Namak Dabba in our kitchen when we were young, would always be either an old Dalda container, sometimes hunched on one side because of the heat from the kitchen fire.The spoon inside used for measuring or sprinkling was always a plastic Lactogen milk spoon.

The salt tin was used, abused, from all fronts.
Sometimes, callous cooks would used the haldi spoon and turn the white into a dull yellow.
Instead of being annoyed with them, my mum would say- it's ok- it's salt after all.

With today's packaging innovations, we see beautiful packets of butter, ghee, biscuits, cakes, pickles... and more. Even bottled water has attitude. The Salt packaging is still the most basic.
Makes no difference to noone.

How many of us live a salt life- always adding taste and flavour - always indispensable- but never appreciated.

Noone writes eulogies about us. Noone even says a thank you.

There is no premium, no mark up.
And oneday we will slip away like a ship in the night.
Unless we learn a lesson or two from the cherries.
The fruit with the least amount of goodness compared to most others.
That wins hearts and minds by its sheer red colour, shape and brightness.

It is used as toppings on the best of desserts and is applauded for enhancing the very appetising factor.
Cherries have wormed their way into minds and refrigerator shelves .
And have a place of pride.


Moral of the story.
Don't be superflous like the cherry.
But bring out  the salt worthiness in you by showing the world that you matter.
For if we treat ourselves like salt, the world will do the same.

Escapes and Escapades

What is ESCAPE?

We talk about it at home, in research groups, at work. Everywhere.
And whether, given the chance, we truly escape or cling on to things we have tried escaping from.

Tried looking at some common escapes in our lives.



Like the vacation we have planned for ages and have sworn we won't get into work mode.

And then sign off with an automatic email reply- available on personal gmail " for urgent matters".
What can be so urgent when we are on a break?

Or the  men who compulsively hangout with the boys on a weekend to escape from wives and girlfriends.
They do need that break after a long week of work.
But  all the bonding, jokes and camaraderie, even highs, are mostly over conversations on- you guessed it- womankind!! Uh Um... isn't that what the escape was all about?

( applies  vice versa as well)



Or the women who rant and rave and weep about a non existent loveless  marriage.
And look for "alternate means" of happiness. We all have the right to be happy.
But then continue  with the same bonds  as well. Best of both worlds is always comfy.
( again applies vice versa)

And there are the little Escapes.
The books we buy. And leave unread.
The masalas in the kitchen cupboard for that new recipe. Yet untried.
The half written book.
The mildewed bag of Japanese crackers.
The unused passes to the new show in town.
The  impulse purchase trinkets yet to be worn.
The neighbourhood spa  that we have never stepped into.

All of these and more, bought or got as escapes from a boring world , but yet to be indulged in.


Maybe we are like the elephant in chains.
When the chains are removed, he doesn't run away.
He doesn't know he is free.
He likes being cared for by his mahout.

We often use "Escape" as an excuse to do things we want to.
While maintaining status quo.

Status Quo is unreal.
It is the Ultimate Balance, but before that, every escape or action has an impact.
More far reaching than we ever imagine.

Maybe we should take a leaf out of Coelho's Alchemist.
Maybe our happiness and escape lies at our doorstep.In our own lives.
We simply haven't  discovered it!!!


Happy weekend everyone and happy escapes and escapades:-)

When STD calls meant High decibels

Remember STD calls in the days of  yore.
Not calls really. Bookings.
My aunt would "book a trunk call" to Guwahati- all of 10 hours drive from  where we were in Dibrugarh.
But it was an event.

Because trunk calls were booked mostly  for breaking news.
Usually bad. Sometimes good.

There was a sense of emergency when such calls were booked.
One of us youngsters were designated to guard the phone and holler if it rang.

Once the call was connected, the designated speaker would start off with a shout if not a yell.
HELLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Immediately breaking into the news delivery , almost akin to the way brands deliver the statutory warning message on audio.
The high decibel voice is maintained- repeating meant more time and more money.

An audible sigh of relief would be heard around the room once the call was over.

No question of calling to just say a hi.
Or wonder what's for breakfast.
Or whether mum has  visited the jeweller's place before the wedding season
Or simply a call to say "I am missing you"

We have the power to do that today.
To express what we feel in just a dial.
To say what we want to in a split second.

Do we do that enough?
Or do we still call our parents only on Sunday evenings....

Letting Go

The day started off earlier than usual.
Meetings at work.
Teaching session in the evening.
Late night lawyer session.
Back to the warmth of home to see Zoya snuggled up in bed.
The soft snore of peace and comfort.
That children are blessed with.
Because, unlike us, they can let go.

It is hard to let go.
Why should we see ourselves as losers while others win the war?
Why should our enemies even dream of a victory
When we are right, we have the power, we can hold on.
Not give in.

We have been conditioned to be winners.
We applaud those who make it big.
We look up to the ones who  emerge survivors.
We want to be heroes.
We are heroes.

So what if it is at the cost of our own freedom
Our own happiness
So what if, in our not giving in, we are giving up many things?

Maybe it takes greater courage to let go.
To settle for less. Scale down our negativity.

May leave us poorer on many counts.
But will give us what we want most.

To do what we want.
To indulge in what we like.
To move on the road of happiness.

Or maybe, to simply snore a peaceful sleep at night.

The Special Eyes

A dark skinned little girl toddles along with her mother.
Her mother is more than beautiful. She is gorgeous... fair gold polished skin, rose blushed cheeks that would put any blusher to shame, dark almond eyes... and a laughter so infectious that men and women would swarm around her just by the sheer sound.

The little girl is always shy because people look at her with surprise and wonder how she is so dark.
But her mother always  jumps to her rescue. Saying she is the most beautiful child in the world.
The little girl then sits on her beautiful mother's lap and her mother tells her how real beauty lies inside us and only people with special eyes can see that beauty.

Many years later, when my mother, sister and I would be lost in thought, I would dream about someone with special eyes who would see my inner beauty. And carry me away to the clouds. Where there would be only laughter and love and happiness.

With my father "missing" for so many years, my mother bore the brunt of a society that always questioned her status. Was she to be relegated to white, or was she a wife in waiting? She loved dressing up and was always looking her best. Dressing up created a mood of optimism, with me staring mesmerised at her every day and wondering how lucky I was to have such a beautiful mother.

The single and wife in waiting also made my mother prey to every conversation, every social visit where there was a man- so what if that person was a colleague at work, a friend or even a relative.

She never let anything get in her way.
We grew up- three women in a new city- with the strength that mother instilled in us everyday.
We liked seeing her happy, and she always laughed for us- even if her laugh sometimes shook with the pain of carefully hidden tears.

I wanted to make my mother happy.
I wanted to give her everything she lost with my father.
I studied and studied and worked and worked.

So that oneday I could give her back what she gave us.
 But then life engulfed me with family, relationships, career and unknowingly, my plans for my mother got postponed.
Maybe another day.
Could be next year.
What's the hurry? She is always around-  my work can't wait.

Till four years ago, in the early hours of dawn, I woke up to the ominous ring of the phone.
And I realised that everything that I  thought couldn't wait is still around.
Except my mother.

My life changed after that.
I put myself  and my happiness before  everything else.
Took calls that I could have never dreamt of before.
Moved cities, offices, clients, colleagues.
Carried my life and menories in a suitcase.

I am happy with what I have today.
My work, my family, my friends... with everything.

I realised that when I am happy, I can make everyone around me much happier.
And in this journey, I have found many  who have special eyes.
Just like my mother said, so many years ago.

That day, long time ago...

It was a regular Sunday that day, when my father left for work. He always went to check on work for a couple of hours on Sundays. Mother checking school note books- she was a teacher. My sister and I whiling away time in the garden. Me day dreaming as usual . Chicken steaming in the pot on the stove. The Hawkins cooker jumping with shrilly whistles and releasing the aroma of dal and spices. The gardener  hunched up over the weeds around the rose bushes. Crows and Mynahs out chirping each other on the giant Xilikha tree.

The clock struck one. Mother called out the maid to set  the table for lunch.  She was still checking the notebooks and pushed the pile to one corner, while Bandana put out the mats, glasses, dishes and water jug. Mother asked her to leave the food in the pantry, since Father was not yet home.

Like all wives, she started murmuring, mostly to herself , about how men spend all the time at work.
I was now reading a book, curled up on the divan next to her .

The clock kept striking. My mother put down her red ball point pen which had ticked and crossed more than fifty notebooks all morning. The first signs of worry creased her beautiful face. She asked me to call up the office.

That was it. Hundreds of calls to a room where only the walls bore witness silently to what may have happened. Pen still on desk. Umbrella leaning against the stand. Visitors, well wishes, security, police. Family, relatives, distant relatives. More calls, more visitors.

My mother getting a job. We leaving our big home and life for another place, another school, another set of neighbours and friends.Strange looks, questions. Three women walking down a completely new  road replete with challenges. And always waiting. For my father to come home.

He never did.

But he left us with something that made us believe in life.
With  Hope.
That oneday he will be back.
That oneday things would be the same again and we would be happy and smiling.
That the table could still be  set for four.
That his coats and shirts could still be left in the almirah.


With this hope we had the strength and courage to lead ten long years.
Till one fateful day, ten years later,  my father's remains were discovered.
He had passed away that day itself. September 9th.

Killing everything around us but our spirit.
And the gift of Hope.

I have written this story for the first time today.
Because I have come to terms with the fact that when all the dots are joined, the picture is always positive.
We just need to believe.

Thank you Daddy, wherever you are.

Birthday Cake

It's the one thing we used to wait with bated breath for.
In the earlier days, my father  would drive home with a white paper box carefully balanced on the cushioned rear seat of the Amby. With the Digboi Stores cursive logo proudly perched on the packet.
We would crowd around the table, mother, father, the help, some early bird friends, as my mother gently opened the white box and revealed the pink iced roses and the all important letterings in sugar- Happy Birthday.


Birthday cakes have the ability of lifting the occasion to a high.
Even when there is no party or do.

In fact, during the latter years, when we moved towns, our birthdays were signalled by a cake from Diamond Bakery in Guwahati and a gift from mother. And maybe some friends in school.

But we never felt short changed. So long as the cake was there, all was well.

Birthday cakes at work now are about singing, smashing, laughing and uploading on FB and Twitter.

Shows how important rituals are in life.
In adding a meaning or significance to an otherwise regular day.
Injects an "occasion" even when there may be  none.
Adds magic to when there is one.

Holds true for brands as well.
It is not easy to make a brand a ritual.
Needs to have strong relevance and a connect that goes beyond product usage and consumption.
But once it gets into that mould, it is there to stay.

Coming back to the birthday cake, it will always be the best way to show a person that we care.

I am crying....

No I am not.
But it's good to get those tear buds active and the cheeks smeared once in a while.
It's an outflow of emotions.
A release of things pent up and we all need to  do that.

Actually a good cry does much more than just release.
It clears our clouds.
Makes us see things in the right perspective.
Most calls in life are taken after a good cry.
When the emotions that make us blind at times have been  let out.

Maybe it's a good idea to have "Cry Sessions" at work.
Where everyone gets together and just give vent to feelings.
Well not really cry but do pretty much the same thing - in fact really let go.
No seniority juniority
No calls taken at that session
No judgement passed
Just talk and crib and express and rave and rant


Will make that difference once it's all out.

Middle Common Denominator

The jargon we commonly use in advertising and marketing are Lowest Common Denominator  or LCM to work out something that can be comprehended and is relevant to the lowest demographic or psychographic cut.

This  blog on middle class values is  based on my observations and anecdotes. So here goes.

There are uncanny similarities between the Economically Deprived( ED) section of society and the Economically Abundantly  ( EA) Endowed.

For instance,
Marriages are often an "arrangement" with financial implications knotted in

Well defined and quite different passion points for men and women

The men earn for the family but splurge on themselves as well- on all kinds of indulgences. Wives do not question because their needs are satisfied.Men hang out with "boys", share jokes , talk about financial aquisitions- whether it is a new goat or a new jet, dabble in Sunday hangouts, sports and hobbies. Wives have their women friends, share jokes, talk about financial management at home- whether it is a new pair of gold earrings she managed to squeeze out of her monthly scrappings and will pay the local jeweller a small amount every month or  Cruises on the  Mediterranean, depending on whether  you are ED or EA.

Children are given ample freedom- no displinarian mom spending nights before exams and expecting star grades everytime. There is understanding that the children will grow up and take over the financial management, eitherways.

Minimalism is the mantra- from wardrobe to home decor.

Sensuality is more overt- whether navels in fields or well waxed page 3 legs.

Regular food habits are skewed towards greens and health- no oily evening snacks rule the roost
Future is today. Now is everything.

Compare this to the now defined in various ways but what we used to define as the Great Indian Middle Class.

Marriages are arranged love bondings- with couples reliving romances together in temple gardens, now malls, parks and beaches.
Husband and wife have shared passions and interests- they cannot afford to splurge on individual ones. As a result, most free time, weekends are spent together as one family unit. There is happiness in a bhelpuri snack by the beach or a Mc Donald's icecream and Aloo Tikki burger meal on a Sunday evening.
Husbands and wives, if working, put in their earnings in a joint kitty- no question on  spending on themselves. 
Children are disciplned, groomed,  coached, grilled- academics is paramount.
Future is Tomorrow. Now is temporary.

Yes there is a mix and mingle of values across all sections and demographies.

Some of us have lived out all three definitions at some point in life.
Most of my blog readers will maybe be in the EA category.

Yet sometimes I wonder... are we giving up quite a few "good values" ( for want of another term) that defined us and our parents, as we cross the line to greater heights? Do we unconsciously put "family" second stage at times and justify that it's all right- we have earned this, or this is important for my business and career?

Maybe we do, maybe we don't.
The answer lies deep within each of us.

My Professor

As I walked in to the Institute where I was invited for a session, time stood still for a moment.
After 15 years, I saw some one who I respected, feared, was awestruck, and was my inspiration during my MBA days.
My professor.

It was as if things had come full circle.
I was excited, delighted and nervous at the same time.
Will he like my work?
What if there are any shortcomings....


He was there on the front row.
I began my session by saying that today I stand at the podium as a student.
Talking about advertising and marketing.
Hoping that I would be able to live up to expectations.

Things went off well.
I came back home, satisfied and happy.


Realised how we pass out and relegate our  teachers to the back bench of our memory.
How we are connected to half the world but hardly find time to drop an email to them
How we talk about our professional icons but let go of the icons that shaped us when we were mere students, with minds that were yet to be shaped with the right knowledge and thinking.


And how, in the true spirit of teaching, our teachers always shower us with the same love and warmth they had for us when we were young.
Proud of our achievements.
But never taking credit.
Not once.
Never once questioning our short memories.

I  was truly a student today.
And came back wiser and happier.

Bermudas and Kurtis

Birthday parties in those days meant wearing a frilly, lacy white or pink dress.
Tailored by my mum herself or the local tailor, who would put on his thick dark rimmed glasses, slip on the snakey worn out measuring tape around his shoulders , and thumb his way through dog earred pages of "foreign" magazines where beautiful blondes posed in chic suits and little cherubic angels posed in frilly white frocks.

That was as close to fashion as we could get.
The uniqueness lay in the dexterity of mums to select the right outfit that Shombu "darzi" could muster up on his Usha sewing machine.

Then there were the "readymades" in plusher stores- if we were lucky, we would get one or two during pujas.

My first pair of jeans was extremely formal party wear.  Teamed with yet another frilly pink blouse.
Till the jeans became a more familiar sight in and around us, got paired with casual t-shirts.

College was churidars and salwars. And of course, the occasional sarees and our traditional mekhela chador.

The more fashion adventurous ones wore jeans with kurtas. Then jeans with short tops. And jeans with t-shirts. Followed by capri jeans with sleeveless t-shirts till the strict Principal   put his foot down and listed out  what is "allowed" as college wear.

Work  started off with more churidars. Common black, red and white salwars or pyjamas, and a choice of cottons and semi cotton, full sleeves, half sleeves as kurtas.

That was the time when the "bermuda" shorts made their cheeky appearance on shelves. Suddenly, young girls were wearing bermudas and tshirts for evening walks or casually at home on Sundays. Bermudas were rarely worn outside of home or locality but gave the young girls their first whiff of fashion freedom.

The short kurta or "kurti" made its shy appearance maybe 5 or 6 years ago.
Giving the Indian fashion  a facelift. And women and girls permission to  dive into "western wear"- namely jeans and kurtis.
This is the height of fashion in small towns, especially for married women and mums who had quietly folded up their "unmarried" wardrobe in the recesses of the spare Godrej almirah.

The movement is still on- it is always a process.
The latest in line of Indo western fashion fusion are "tunics" with "tights".
Belted, laced, layered, halter necked- they come in all shapes and sizes.

Fashion in mass India is truly an indicator of a change in mindset.
A sign of a sense of freedom.
A symbol of equality in relationships.

And shows that as a nation, we do not blindly adopt but redefine what we have been used to.
Like they say "make adjustments"....

Ladies Who Lunch

I have taken the liberty of expanding the net of "ladies" here to net in almost all ladies I have come across in my career, as colleagues, as research respondents , as friends and as Indian women in general.

And no, this isn't about ladies.
It is about the Lunches.

So there are the mothers who wake up at 5.30 in the morning, pack "tiffins" for the kids, make chapati, sabzi for breakfast and pack "boxes" for husband and is a whirlwind of  cooking, chopping, running to drop kid in busstop, back to cooking, packing till the clock strikes ten. Lunch for such mothers are usually alone, or a women only affair in joint families. Which means shortcuts. So a quick serving of chapatis, chawal and sabzi , dahi ( or its eastern or southern equivalent) had while listening to the favourite FM dj belting out songs or the favourite reruns on TV. In fact one of the leading FM stations even had a promo where lucky mums could win a Subway lunch for herself.


Cut to the Working Women. Lunch means picking up the packed lunch or office thali  or dabba and plonking down at the usual ring round the table with other friends at work. Nibbling off each other's food. Food complementing the lively chatter and gossip that makes the lunch hour so relaxing. Appreciating the thepla, the choclate cake slice handed generously around, the rice and bhindi ki sabzi cooked in the morning. Lunch  is a mix of food that's pot pourri, iced with laughter and fun.

Occasionally, these lunches happen out of work in a favourite joint. Food different, same liveliness and masti.

Of course, we have the Kitty Party lunches. Lucky ladies with lucky kitties. In a favourite cool joint. Where four tables have been joined together and a "Reserved" placard sits proudly amidst cut glass vases with single stemmed roses. Mexican, Chinese, Pan Asian, Indian rules the roost.   Or the best in the Fine Dining Menu.

Then we have those other Lunches where the ladies usually meet for a late lunch and discuss serious community welfare issues- maybe the next travel book they are helping edit and co-author, the Teach India sessions in Pahaganj, the blankets to be collected for the Home for the Aged. Food here fuels productive social welfare initiatives.

On certain days of the week, we have the Fast Lunches. Sabudana khichri, fruits, sweets, banana chips. Nothing else. Women who follow this  stick to this religiously. Its great tasting food as well.

And to  end on a high, we have the Great Indian Sunday Lunches. Where the wives and mothers make special dishes and the family waits with eager anticipation. Sanjeev Kapoor,  Sananda and Grihasobha recipes  dominate the table. So does the new Ready To Cook range dishes innovatively dished out- matar paneer, pindi chana, hyderabadi biryani, chicken chettinad, kashmiri rajma and more.
 The Eastern ( also rest of India but writing more from experience) sweat out the ritualistic Sunday Mutton Curry.

Lunches are indeed special- for both Homemakers and Working Women. It is a time to relax, to talk, to connect and reconnect. A time when the woman truly plays herself and not necessarily a wife or a mom.

Car Trinkets Talk!

I have observed something quite interesting.
The trinkets that people use for decorating their car dashboards, rear view mirrors speak a lot about the kind of person or family.

For instance, we have The Believers.
Images of deities.
Sometimes fresh marigold garlands.
Agarbatti smoke trailing out of the windows every morning.

Then there are the Lucky Charmers.
Latest trend is the Greek Eye chain in blue and white dangling  from the mirror.
Feng Shui reigns supreme.
So does an occasional Ganesha ( not a deity but a decoration eg Ganesha playing a guitar)

Followed by the Fragrance Lovers
Poppy Perfume bottles with their lids off are taped to the dashboard
Ivy leaf shaped fragrance sachets swing from the mirror.
AmbiPur is edged somewhere in between.

Not to miss the Flaunters.
Small teddy wearing a I Love NY T-shirt
Car sticker proudly stating  University of Stockholm
Ornate tissue boxes
Hats
Cushions of all shapes and sizes and colours
Rows of nodding puppies ( stuffed)
And more...

Finally, I noticed some Innovators.
The first to buy the latest gizmo or trinket at the traffic lights and slap the double sided tape on the dashboard.
Solar powered flowers.
Yellow chickens that nod and hop.

And yes, we all show our patriotism on Republic and Independence day with the tricolour miniatures.


Really, cars are an extension of our personalities.
( Value equation notwithstanding)
So next time some of us are out on "research", it may be a good idea to peek into the car dashboard.

Who knows what picture it may paint......

Crisis at work? Look at Life for answers

We talk about Work Life  Balance.
We talk about strict lines between office and home.
We erect invisible and inpermeable walls in our thinking as well.


Life however is beyond Compartmentalisation.

It doles out lessons to us everyday.
So that we each have our own archive of case studies.

The best place to look for answers- whether it is a marketing roadblock, a brand insight or a team management crisis- is at ourselves.
And at Life.

So, for instance, why refer to consumers as "they" in our thinking ( and ppts)?
It's us. Even if we do not necessarily actively use a product, we have a perception of the brand.

Why struggle to manage dynamics at work?
Be as natural when it comes to actions and reactions as we are when we are at home or with friends.

Why stare at marketing jargons like "Tyranny of Choice" in today's world?
Imagine ourselves at the fish market every Sunday, doing a mental math of our wallets and a visual postcard of the delectable fish menus for the week vis a vis the budgeted outlay and how much the two can be scaled down ( or up)

You name it. Give me any big roadblock and I can guarantee that there will be an answer hidden in our archives of Life.

After all, work is a part of Life, isn't it?

We just need to be spontaneous, bring down the walls we have erected.
The answers lie within ourselves.

A Small Tribute to Vishal

It seems like just yesterday when Pranav, my creative colleague told me that his friend, Vishal, had just joined our office, from Mumbai.
Actually, it was a month ago.

Maybe I was caught up with work and life.
Maybe I just push some things back.
Basically, I did not really spend any significant time welcoming a new creative colleague.

Vishal Shah. 36 years. Young, bright, extremely talented, cheerful, lived life to the full.
I regret not knowing him better.
I wish I had gone to that last client meeting where he had presented his first piece of work on the business.
And that I had added him on as a Facebook friend.
Maybe just walked across to where he  sat and shared a laugh. Or a coffee.

This is life.
We never know what surprise lies around the corner.
We are just so busy with ourselves and our own lives that we forget to take that pause.
That break where we can look around.
And share- a smile, a word... anything...

I will miss you Vishal.
And will always wish that I had known you better.

RIP.
 

A castle called Eldora

Once upon a time, in a castle called Eldora, there lived a beautiful princess...

This is what flashed in my mind as I walked into Eldora a year and a half back.
My new home. The drive up the winding little hillock in Hiranandani Gardens led me up to the majestic lobby and the massive wooden door.

Every room in Eldora seemed out of a dream for me. Every piece of furniture, tasteful but inexpensive, was like a gift I was eagerly waiting for. Every room was a bonus- coming from a self owned two bedroom flat, Eldora was a luxury.

But Eldora was special to me because I felt it was mine.
For the first time, inspite of being a tenant, I felt I owned every little corner, the view from the round balcony overlooking the lake, the pantry and the kitchen... just everything.

Eldora signalled for me an achievement of sorts and  as I walked in every night, I felt proud. Of myself.

And then it was time to move on. Life signalled the change I always wanted. The change I had always worked towards.

Eldora was one of hardest to leave behind.

Yet suddenly,  I did not feel any remorse. Any negativity. I almost heard Eldora whisper to me at nights- saying- Go on Princess, fly to your new world.

As I sip my coffee , I realise that positive change is a great propeller.
It makes us embrace the new and wave out the old, willingly and smilingly.
It makes us wonder how everything is momentous and what is enduring are relationships we believe in.

And how giving up things just means we are making way for the new.

 Thank you Eldora- for giving me the wings to fly.

One Year Later

It's always great to celebrate an anniversary.

Specially when it signals one of the big changes in life.

But change is not as easy as it seems.

Change for me meant more than just a goodbye email  at work.

It meant  bidding goodbye to my colleagues of ten years.
Who made Mumbai a home for me.
The office lunches, the Koolar breakfasts, the Gajalee thalis, Banyan Tree pastries.
The workstation that I made into a second home, replete with my favourite cushion and framed pictures.
The Christmas carols, the Hard Rock evenings, the occasional Blue Frog do's.
The heated debates, the midnight oils, the floods, the samosas...

Change meant looking back at the office one last time that last evening
Hoping that I would be missed
My team  taken care of....

On the eve of one year in a new office, I also remember the office I left behind
The people I said goodbye to
The office that made me who I am today

Thankyou....

Children Dwell in the House of Tomorrow

I write this as I watch my little girl snuggle next to me watching a movie.
Telling me I am the "bestest mother" in the world.

Remembering my  father and mother.
When my mother would come back from a Club meeting and open her handbag and dole out some tidbits she managed to stuff into her kerchief. Not that we couldn't afford a samosa and a fruit cake. But the fact that she wouldn't dream of having a samosa when she knew my sister and I loved them.

Or when my father would always declare he loved having a not so great piece of chicken.
So that my sister and I had the choicest pieces.

Or when my mother went without new sarees and shoes, so that I could buy the most expensive Economics and Management books.

Or the times when she would  spend that last fifty rupee in her wallet for my sister clamouring for a new pencil box.

I recollect times when I was unwell at night and she would wait up all night for me.
The exam days when she would sit up, half sleepy, making me tea and omelettes, so that I could study.

And then oneday we are all grown up.
Have a mind of our own.
Take pleasure in doing things we want.
Take even greater pleasure in saying things that we know will hurt them most.

As I look at Zoya, I realise that as a parent, it is just about loving.
While being firm when required.
Teaching them what we have learnt in life.
Being a guide and showing them the right direction.
Wishing them well.
And then letting go.
Mostly of expectations.

For, as Kahlil Gibran says, "You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow...."

When Food Comes Full Circle

Life back then was very "English", as my cousins used to say.
Living in an oiltown set up by the British had touches of  the culture everywhere.
Definitely on food.

So we grew up munching "hamburgers" over a sunday evening movie in the Club, saw our mums serve roast chicken and mutton curry with equal aplomb. Our pantry shelves were lined with canned food- baked beans, sausages and sardines. The supper served at parties included soups and croissants.It was a time when puri sabzi and bacon and eggs shook hands on dining tables.

Then Guwahati happened.
Meals were mostly Indian- rice, dal, the mandatory vegetable and the special non vegetarian whenever my mother could make it. College life meant chole bhature in the canteen, aloo paratha at Kalyani, egg rolls at Feeds and oh yes- the butter chicken and naan we would treat ourselves on birthdays  at Prag.


Oh Calcutta ( Kolkata) and our Bengali cook dished up fish curries and aloo posto . Fish happened in my life like never before and at the behest of my good friend Shivaji, I also made the Sunday trip to buy fresh fish.
Gol Gappas, aloor dom, jhaal muri ruled the roost. So did the PeterCat Chelo kebab and the Prince Biryani.
The mishtis became permanent residents inside our fridge.


Mumbai  brought home a Gujrati cook who was really not a cook but managed to dish out basic stuff. Our meals were mostly chapatis and a  veg dish and dal  cooked by her coupled with maybe some sausages or cutlets from Venkys fried before dinner. She would cook in the morning and the same food would be breakfast, lunch and dinner. ( Diaries of a working woman!!!). Sundays saw me cooking Assamese fish curry and chicken.

Eating out was usually fast food or definitely only Indian and Chinese in fine dining.  And how can I forget my orders from our neighbouring Gurukripa- my daughter loved the Chicken 65 ( which I mistook for a Chinese dish)

So Mumbai was again primarily simple Indian and good Chinese and Konkani.

Finally , it's Delhi. Life  has become one euphoria of exotic roasts, pan Asian, Mediterranean, bakes, stir fries- you name it.It's like a TLC show happening live every meal.

But what I love most is the fact that everything I used to remember  from way back then has reappeared. 
Life ( and food) has come full circle.