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.

Family First

I have to send that last email before  I leave.
Oh a brainstorm? Now? Wellll ok..
When do I reach home? Most times after nine at night.
Weekend work... of course... am always available.

That is me.
That was me.

Have made some minor alterations in life.
Like knowing when to shut the laptop and  swipe out of work.
Like  giving my little girl those precious moments every day- reading, watching her favourite show together
Or taking off on the weekend

I watch movies
I read
I walk
Even venture into the kitchen and make daring experiments

Laptop time at home is more about catching up with friends on FB
Or writing
Instead of checking, replying, forwarding, ccing, bccing emails

My family sees more of me
I see more of them
We enjoy each other's company
We have meals together
Say our goodnight prayers together

Realised that family comes first.
No matter what.

And this has made me a better person at work as well.
Coz I am happy. And  happy people are effective. Almost always.

Life's Guinea Pig

At times I used to look at Life and say- why is it that I have been chosen as the guinea pig for all trials and tribulations?
But then I realise that  each trial and every tribulation has made me richer. And stronger.


With every loss of family or friend, I have gained compassion and love from new bonds.
From every move to a new place, I have made new friends , shared passion and interests.
With every change at work, I have had newer experiences, new clients who have believed in me, old clients who have become friends.
Every role- daughter, wife, mother, companion... has taught me lessons of a lifetime.



Every tear has been wiped with a million smiles
Every sulk smeared away with laughter
Challenges have brought out strengths I never knew existed.

From bitterness, I have learnt to believe .
In Hope. Opportunities.


Thank you  Life for chosing me as the guinea pig.....

Work to Live

Just back from a week long break.
A break from work.
A respite from responsibilities.
A rest from the daily race and pace.

I had been on many vacations before. Some for 10 days. Some for 3 weeks and more.
Yet I never really managed to switch off.
Would check my emails all the time.
Make that quick call over a coffee on a sidewalk.
Send that sms while  driving past lush meadows and chalets.
Call my maid  for telephonic  instructions  between trying out shoes in that weekend market sale.

No wonder, vacations just seemed like a longer coffee break at work.

This time was different.
Just a week.
But told myself that this was time I have earned.
And time that was solely mine.
And that the world would move on and manage very well without me.

Was difficult initially- kept checking my phone almost on rote until I boarded the flight at midnight.

But  let go soon after.
Every site and sound took on a new meaning.
Every bite seemed like heaven.
I frolicked, played, danced, swam, ate, read, walked....
Felt rejuvenated

Came back to change.
Change is a way of life today.

But this short break has made me realise that there's so much more to life than just work and ambition.
And, for the first time, I am beginning to work to live.
And not live to work.

Same words. Just a different order.
That makes all the difference.

Fishy Tales

Buying fish has always been a crucial discussion and conversation point in our family.
Well, used to be.
Most of the evening small talk  between my mother and the neighbourhood aunties , as they strolled casually up and down the lanes connecting the houses, was about the rohu which Mr. Ganguly got the other day from Char Ali Bazar, or the small pabho ( pavda) that Mr. Baruah haggled for just  twenty rupees. Went on to the fish sour curry recipe and the steamed mustard secret.

My grandmother's house in Dibrugarh was by the mighty Brahmaputra and we would skip along with my father in the mornings as he went to the fish market and inspected the fresh catch, eventually  returning with a big glassy eyed fish, tomatoes, greens and ginger.

My mother would always call my sister and me when she was frying fish for the curry and give us a piece of the deep fried delicious fish with two onion rings and some ketchup.


The pieces were also carefully served up. My father would get two large and the choicest pieces. My sister and I would get the "peti" ( belly). Mother would have the tail . The guts would be fried with rice and coriander, the head with moong dal.

Kolkata saw me landing up at Gariahat market  on Sunday mornings buying fresh chingri, katla and betki.
 The betki fries served up in some of the finest diners on Park Street was to die for.

Then came Mumbai. My trust with the catch of the sea- pomfrets, surmais, rawas, gassi dishes, rawa coated fires, bombil fry, Gazalee thalis, koliwadas. Fell in love with it all.

INA Market and CR Park Delhi are my new haunts now. With my fluent Bengali , I almost pass off for one and haggle and gaggle till I get a week's stock of hilsa, prawns, rohu and the works. I have even started buying squids. Frozen fish fingers ornate my deep freezer box.

Amazing how life has such varied experience even when it comes to fish.

Sunday Mutton Curry

Sunday  was mutton curry day for us when we were young.
It was a ritual of sorts.
Kamla , the help, would chop onions and grind garlic and ginger in rhytmic motions as she squatted  and sweated over the stone pestle and mortar.
The potatoes were peeled and sitting on the sink ledge, some bits of skin still clinging bravely on.


Mother would call out to my father to hurry up.
Father would amble out of the shower, hair neatly combed back, the plastic shopping bag in hand and car keys in the other.

He would walk past the garden and the chicken coop , shouting out gentle instructions to the gardener , before we heard the familiar start up rumble of the Amby.

Around one in the afternoon, the screaming pressure cooker and the accompanying stream of aroma would announce that afternoon lunch would be shortly ready.

That was a ritual that not only we, but most of the families we knew followed.

It was not the mutton that made it special.
It was the family meal.
Unlike other days, father was there at home for lunch.
There was no rush, we could savour every bite and more importantly, conversation.
Mother would be relaxed and happy.
We would be playing.
The radio would be belting out our favourite songs.

That's the difference between consumption and purchase.
The more ritualistic our consumption is, the more special the occasion becomes.

Brands that have capitalised uopn this  have had a much stronger bonding with consumers.
Like the mutton curry, these brands remain in our hearts  longer.

So little to crib about

I was cribbing about deadlines and work and late hours
I was irritated. Crabbity.
Even sulky.

Until someone asked me whether what I was going through
Was as bad as a man hanging onto the edge of a cliff, counting his last seconds and hoping for help
Or as sad as that little child who had lost both parents and longed for a loving hug
As tiring as the rickshaw puller straining at the wheels for that extra five rupees
As horrible as someone who had just lost his job
Was it even close to what the mother of the brave soldier was going through, as she remembered her little boy playing with his toy guns


I cringed
And saw how lucky I was

To have just a bad day at work to crib about.

A Suitcase full of.....

There are times when I  remember ....
The favourite discoloured old tshirt I would wear at home
The flip camera my team had gifted me
The antique ashtray I had carefully carried back all the way from Bradford
My books
My pots and pans
My favourite  ladle
My daughter's old pram I never threw away
The old suitcase I had got as part of my wedding trousseau


After all, how much can one pack in a suitcase

And then I look at what I did manage to pack
Stacks of happiness
Packets full of hope
Boxes of inspiration
Labels that screamed Freedom

And then I realise that I did manage to pack what mattered most to me.
What matters most for everyone.
Almost everyone.

What Daddy Missed

My father passed away in 1984.

In those days, we had an Ambassador- a second hand one.
You didn't get car loans to buy a new car.
Anyways, even if you did, you could choose between a Fiat and an Amby.


My father was always budgeting and planning monthly expenses.
He never knew what a credit card was.
Everything had to be within what he earned.


He had no opportunity to travel by air.
Never been inside an airport even.
Vacations for us meant AC train and company guest houses.
And we felt quite privileged.

Daddy  was a cricket addict and was glued to his transistor during the test matches.
He never saw a match on a television.
We knew televisions only from Archie comics.
And English movies.

Daddy never had a passport.
Never left the shores of this country.
Never knew what a Pepsi Can was.
Never owned a cellphone.
Had no idea of what the computer was.
The only web he knew was cobwebs.

But we still had a good life.
We were connected to the world through radio and newspapers.
We called our grandparents much more.
Daddy went home every vacation.
We socialised every day.
We played, we swam, we picniced, we baked.

Sometimes I feel sad that Daddy never saw the life we are leading now.
Sometimes I feel, maybe he looks at us and feels sad.....

Attitude. Cool. Buzzy. Masti.

These are some of the words hanging at the tip of most tongues and pens.
Most of us like to describe ourselves or people we talk about as cool and hip.

Makes me wonder. What exactly is cool?

Is it about being 'with it'?
About talking in text lingo?
Or sporting contemporary fashion?

Can a social worker be cool?
For that matter, a successful entrepreneur?

Social Networking sites have also successfully whipped and whetted our appetites to be cool.
Whether it is our updates, or pictures, or links.

Being a smart thinker can also be cool.
Achieving success at work can be very cool as well.

Age old values of love, expect, sharing, caring will always be cool.

We are only restricting ourselves by limiting the definition of cool to music, apparel, accessories, behaviour.

Being cool is about being confident.
Of who we are and what we are about.

Cool is a state of mind. Not just a state of being.
And we are all cool in our own special ways.

Perform, Not Present

Collecting my thoughts for an open house tomorrow.
On  how to be a good presenter.

Maybe worthwhile sharing it on my blog with everyone.
Would welcome your comments.

Being  brought up on a rigorous schedule of classical and folk dance, I often draw parallels between a performance and a presentation.
Both are to an audience.
Both make a point interestingly and  entertainingly.
Both have to justify the time the audience is investing.
Both are on stage, visible or invisible.

Some pointers which have always helped me present.

1. Rehearse. Many times over.
2. It's a Performance.
3. Passion Shows.
4. Energy is Infectious.
5. Connect with the Audience
6. Be a storyteller
7. The Power of Voice
8. Focus on the key point being made but make it come alive in many ways
9. Watch TED  and good orators like President Obama
10. Be  Yourself. It's your  show.

It's an art to  hold the attention of an audience.
It's important to understand who we are facing.
It's  good to take on questions confidently, and not be defensive.

Finally, humour always works.
So does creativity.

Making a presentation come alive with slides or charts can make that vital difference.

When Dettol was White

I grew up thinking Dettol was white.
And shampoos needed to be mixed in half a mug of water before usage
And skirts had to be unhemmed as you grew taller
And text books were hand me downs
And Cadbury's was a thrice a year treat.

No we were not poor
Yes my parents doted on me

But this was what the great Indian middle class was about in those days.
Working men had huge liabilities.
Mostly single income households, most men were responsible to getting their sisters and brothers  educated and married.
Money orders to parents every month was a must, they were not on pension plans.

My mother was an expert at making things last.
Whether it was our skirts, or textbooks, or every bit of a vegetable being used up deliciously.
Or changing the straps of the hawai chappals till they could be used nomore.


We were conditioned never to ask for expensive things
We were content with what we were given
If we weren't, there was no choice anyways.

We lived by value. Where Lalitaji ruled the roost with her "samajdari"

Later on in life, I realised that Dettol was not white.
My father would dilute the  Dettol in an empty bottle as he used it after his shaves regularly.
And that we could shampoo straight off the bottle.

Today, things are far better for all of us.
Our liabilities have reduced. Money orders have been replaced by annual gifts to parents.
Incomes have increased. Wives have started earning or becoming efficient home managers.

In all of this, I wonder  whether the value equation has also  changed dimension.
What does good value mean today?
It is obviously not just price and utility specific.
There is a big intangible dimension attached to every purchase, every brand.

What is this new conversation?

Why we should Twitter and FB at work

Yes, it's a waste of time and productivity to Twit and FB during work.
Or, is it?

Here's some good reasons why  it may actually increase all our efficiences.

1. Our work hours are NOT 9 to 5. We work for far longer, so there can't be "after work surfing hours".

2. Twitter is one of the  most effective ways of  staying connected to the world news and events- in real time.

3.  These sites give us insights into how the world communicates and for those of us in the business of communication, it is invaluable information

4. FB gives us that much needed coffee break of saying a hi to friends when our minds are clouded and tired

5. FB also enhances our creativity- we take great pains and put in much thought into crafting our FB updates.

6. We can use all such sites to do quick researches and get feedback in seconds. For eg: what do we think of the word "stress"

7. We get good understanding of that strange animal "youth" ( if we have "youth" friends that is)

8. Twitter is a great site for knowledge sharing and I have read some of the best marketing blogs and artciles thru Twitter

9. Finally, for our kinda work with long hours, Twitter and FB helps us stay awake and alert and happy,  as we wait for that final artwork to roll.

That's about all I could come up with- as I write this during my lunch break at work.

My 100th Post today

Ok this is it.
My 100th post.
Started off in August last year. Wrote like crazy all of October, November. Basked in glory in December.
Swamped with work in February and  March.

This blog is for all my readers, my friends and colleagues who have praised and critiqued.
Thank you.

Here are some  invaluable learnings  in these seven months on What's Good Writing.

1. Write from the heart

2. Write for yourself, not others

3. Don't think too much about what to write. If there's an intent, the topics  emerge.


4. Accept feedback graciously. Every feedback builds.

5. Simple words and phrases help

6. Have a point of view

7. Be Bold

8. Be yourself.

When the writings are a reflection of what we strongly believe in, words flow unabashed.
And reach out to the readers in their own unique way.

Thanks everyone. Will start off on my 101th piece this weekend.

Pickled in the Past

It's been a long gap.
Thought I would complete my 100th blog much earlier but still on the 97th.
Caught in the warp of work and fever and child and everything else. And passion as usual took a backseat.

Was clearing up some old pickle bottles this morning when I stopped for a moment to look at the vegetables  wrinkled up and masked with oil and spices and vinegar. These bottles had been a delightful accompaniment to many a simple meal and had tickled the palate with the tangy masala twist.

Realised that some people have also pickled themselves in the past.
Past glories, old ways of life, philosophies which they believed were right .
The preservatives of their thoughts keep them going.
And they appear at mealtimes to sit at the edge of the plate and tickle and tinge.
After all, it is far easier to be bottled up.

And then there are the others who change.
And accept. And evolve. And share. And liberate.
Their thoughts and actions.
They add colour to lives.
Become the main course in every conversation- steering the taste, the talk, the smiles and the satisfaction.

As I clunked the old pickle bottles out, I felt good that I am surrounded by people who like pickles. But does everything to avoid being pickled in the past.

Wishing everyone a happy holi.

My blog in Campaign India today

A beautiful poem for all the beautiful women in my life

"The beauty of a woman
isn't in the clothes she wears,
The figure that she carries,
or the way she combs her hair.

The beauty of a woman
must be seen from in her eyes;
Because that's the doorway to her heart,
the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman
isn't in a facial mole;
But true beauty in a woman,
is reflected by her soul.

It's the caring that she cares to give,
the passion that she shows;
And the beauty of a woman
with passing years only grows."

For Those Who Came In Late

Morning read of HT over my cuppa... and a familiar face of a forgotten friend pops out of a  weekend story.
It's the Phantom. Ghost who walks.

Took me down memory lane when we were young and comics were the biggest source of entertainment.

My collection consisted of Amar Chitra Kathas, Phantom, a couple of Mandrakes, some war comics ( dunno why I liked them though) and Tarzan.

Comics would make an entry when I stood first in class, on my birthday and when my uncles and aunts used to visit us. I would run  through the pages like an express train and then go back and read and reread. Would carefully script out- This comic belongs to Babita Baruah. And the date.

Because comics were borrowed and lent with ease. And sometimes never returned.

Mum would take a bunch of old comics and have them bound up into a thick volume. These were my prized possessions and I would write in big and bold," Please do not borrow". Seems a little selfish now- but those were the days.

What I earned for were the more expensive Archies,  Little Archies and of course, Tintins.  Managed to coax Mum into buying me an Archie digest once a bluemoon. Never owned a Tintin. But read all of them at Rikhi uncle's place. He was an avid Tintin fan.

What made comics tick?

The stories.
The colours.
The art.
They fuelled imagination, made us lead make believe lives when we played, transported us to a different world of rakshasas, heroes, man in the wild.

Phantom was my hero. I followed every strip I could lay my hands on.
Was sad when he married Diana. Celebrated the birth of the twins- Kit and Heloise.
I marvelled at all Phantoms being called Kit.

And wondered and wondered what Phantom looks like.
For as the old Jungle saying goes- "He who sees the Phantom's face, dies a horrible death".

These were the childhood and adolescent years.
When comics helped us lead the life of fun, adventure, friendship and camaraderie.

Today comics have lost their exalted place to newer means of reading, entertainment.
But to me and maybe a whole lot of people out there, comics will always have a special place in our bookshelves. And hearts.

On Pit Stop Efficiencies and Winning the Race

There was a time when  pit stop efficiency ruled my life.
Everything done on time, with perfection.
No room for mistakes. No fall back.
The smallest of errors can lead to losing that vital race.

Did I deliver? Yes I did.
Was I happy? Yes I was.

Happiness  can be subjective and relative.

Today, I have realised that some things have changed for the better.
Efficiencies and perfection  are still key. Both at work and at home.

But I have let go of the pit stop prowess.
So what if I spend a couple of minutes more over that coffee in the morning.
So what if I my daughter spills her water colour on my kurta just as I am about to leave for work
So what if a trip is cancelled
So what if a day  hasn't gone off as anticipated

I did not dial up or down the pit stop prowess.
I just changed my race.


Sometimes it is  just the wrong race that steers us off the path of smiles and laughter.

Reclaiming Those Smiles

Seventeen years  are not just dates, minutes and seconds to be struck off a calender.

They are moments to live, friends to make and cherish, work that makes you grow , passion that makes you flourish.

Once gone, they are lost forever in the mist of time.

While we make copious lists of things and possessions to be reclaimed legally, is there a way of claiming back those lost moments.

There is none.

Makes me realise  even more than before how important it is to stop by and smell those roses, take that walk together, write that letter I have promised to write, go for  that holiday with the parents, have babies, entertain. Find time for our passion,  enjoy our work and profession, smile when we enter office everyday.

For no petition can ever restore time. And what's lost with it. We can only hope to make the best of what we have left.

This and many more thoughts cloud my mind as I look out of a foggy window into nothingness.