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Once upon a chole bhature

I wrote this little essay for Roads and Kingdoms. When I pitched the idea, it was going to be all about the food and the flavour and crackle of the sizzling pattice on the tava. Midway through writing it, though, memories of my dad crept in, and I remembered how much food meant to him and how the memory of it is intertwined with how my life turned out.

Writing brings out the strangest memories.

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Short reviews: January #100bookpact

As part of the ambitious #100bookpact, I’m reading with intention. I’m reading fiction and memoir, poetry and cookbooks. I’m looking over a teetering tbr pile and smiling gleefully to myself. I’m not intimidated by the goal at all. It will be nice to reach it, but I won’t beat myself over not reaching that arbitrary number either.

In January 2016, I read 19 books. They were an assortment of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. Here are my favourites:

The Art of Stillness by Pico Iyer : Silence and stillness has fascinated me for years and the quest for it only gets stronger with each passing hour living by the side of a busy road. This gem of a book is based on a TED talk by the reclusive author and I savored it, much like feasting over a patch of green or the quiet of a night in a village. I had to read the book in relative quiet too, which meant taking it with me while I waited for M to finish a chess class, reading it in the stillness of the car, the sounds of a football game not as deal-breaking as unending traffic. The book also has some stunning images of Iceland, all of which make me terribly glad that I bought this for myself for Christmas.

Why Loiter by Shilpa Phadke, Sameera Khan, Shilpa Ranade: This one has been on my wishlist forever. I finally ordered it for aforementioned Christmas and I’m so glad I did. Women’s access to public space in India is negligible at best and groups like Why Loiter  and Blank Noise are doing significant work in changing this. Fascinating reading.

Lullabies by Lang Leav : I took part in one of those Facebook Secret Santa Book Exchanges (yes, one of those). Christmas is a time when you can afford to put your cynicism aside and I’m glad I did. I sent out just one book but got about nine in return. It’s a long way from the promised 36, but really, do we need so many? Most of the ones sent to me were good choice. Some were not to my taste, so those will find another, more welcoming home. This one was a beauty. The cover itself is dark, alluring. Lang imagines this to be “a bedside table kind of book” and indeed it is. The poems are short and lyrical enough that you can choose one at random and it will flow through your heart like a warm breeze on a Spring morning.

Calenday by Lauren Halderman : I read this book last year but never got around to posting a review online. I’m remedied it by re-reading this little firecracker of a tribute to motherhood. You find yourself nodding at all the recognised gestures, the forgotten vignettes of your child’s early years. Halderman experiments with form, chasing the words down the page unfettered and wild much like that two year old who could not be restrained and the only way to watch him in slow motion is in your hazy memory.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Sheffer and Annie Barrows: I bought this book for myself (and the next one in this list) after reading this round-up of epistolary novels on Charukesi’s blog. My interest in letter writing began early and Daddy Long Legs took it to another level altogether. This year I’m doing #100letters so maybe it was divine providence to come across these recommendations. Guernsey was a delight. It was lush and elegant, simple and complicated with a story-line populated with the most charming characters and some heartbreaking events straight out of a war movie. Set in Guernsey, the story revolves around a literary club that comes up overnight during World War II and what happens over the next few years. I expected to enjoy this book very much, and indeed I did. It was flawless. What I didn’t expect was to cry several times. There are many soul-crushing moments, when you question humanity or the lack of it. I loved this book and I hope you will read it and love it too.

84, Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff was another totally charming book of letters between Hanff, an American writer and a London bookshop. Such a correspondence today would only be fiction, given how overnight book deliveries and emails have changed the way we communicate with the world. One doesn’t have to wait months or years for a book to show up and be posted to you. Again set in World War II, the book is a treat for lovers of reading and letters alike. Makes you want to pick up the pen and dust off that notepad once again.


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I’ve always been a dedicated New Year Resolution Maker. I love my ‘Word for the Year’, my list of goals and to-dos. The internet has added another whopper now, making me promise things I might not be able to do. Still, life is all about trying, so watch out for two things:


The #100bookpact is about reading 100 books in 2016. Re-reading and ebooks are permitted which makes things easier! Facebook’s Secret Santa brought me several surprises for Christmas, plus I gifted myself four beautiful books. So right now I’m reading Pico Iyer’s quiet ‘The Art of Stillness’ and Shilpa Phadke’s significant work ‘Why Loiter’, a book that has been long on my wish-list and is finally here.

The second pact I’m making is the #100letters. Inspired by Sandhya Menon’s post, I’m challenging myself to write (and post!) 100 letters this year. I’ve always been an enthusiastic letter writer and my earliest memories of summer holidays are filled with inland letters from my father (who stayed behind in Bombay to work while we cavorted with the cows at my grandmother’s home) and from a school friend, who enjoyed this exchange of news as much as I did. Pen-friending has not worked in recent years as email or other things get in the way and it feels a bit fake.

I still write letters, though, even though the postal department continues to lose my postcards and letters and one is never assured of it reaching its destination. Still, the sheer pleasure of receiving something in the post is unbeatable (and increasingly rare) so if you would like a letter from me, please let me know!

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It’s Christmas time in the city

It’s siesta time on Christmas Day. The family is sleeping away the stuffed chicken and the (awesome) Duty Free bottle of Port wine. M is playing quietly with his new toys. Actually, he is playing quietly with the box – the package is as interesting to him as the toy itself.

I’m spending Christmas afternoon reading up on urbanism. A quick google to check up on something else led to a whole wonderland of blogs and sites doing exactly what I want to do – study and write about the intersection between people and spaces.

I am riveted. It is not the first time I have come across urbanists, of course. But this time, for some strange reason, the wheels turned and things fell into place. Urban spaces and all their nooks and crannies intrigue me. Improving an existing space by involving the stakeholders, particularly the people who actually live there, is a source of endless fascination, thanks to all the constant parade of planners and plotters we see in Goa.

So here I am, (hair flying in my face and blinding me thanks to a  breezy table fan), bursting with ideas. It’s putting in focus what I want to do in the coming years and it is this: I want to write about cities and its people and their problems. While other work is of course welcome, this is what I really really want to do. And I want to have enough work of this kind that I can afford to say no to the mind-numbing or boring assignments that are offered to writers in India.

And now that we’re over Christmas Day (whew) and the fun of the holidays really begins, I’m so eager to get back to work. But for now, hours after I got bookmarked the blogs before my family chucked a stuffed Santa at me, Jim Reeves is crooning on the stereo system and M is enjoying his teenage cousins. Our Christmas tree lights and star lights have both blown, but what the heck, everybody’s still laughing and in a good mood so that’s all that matters.

How’s your Christmas been so far?


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This has probably been the longest that I have gone without updating this blog. Somewhere along the line, this space lost its identity. When I began blogging over a decade ago in 2004, the medium was full of promise. It was a safe space for observations and commentary on Bombay, my city. Then it became about life in England. Books and parenting and writing crept in along the way. And now all those things are such an integral part of my life that they don’t warrant special notes online.

Or for that matter, off-line.

I’ve been actively engaged in the pursuit of writing since the age of eight. I would have never foreseen that this is what I would do for a living, that words would become my bread and butter, literally food for thought and sustenance. But that’s what it has come to, and the thought gives me unbridled joy. Writing is the one thing that sustains me. More than reading or gardening or painting, scribbling in my journal or dog-eared notebook keeps me alive. It allows me to smile.

This year, I broke new ground with writing published in The Atlantic, Vice, Scroll.in, The Wire, Culture and Cuisines, among others. Next year promises to be equally shiny and I can’t wait to get back to it (after the holidays).

As the year sets, my resolutions/goals for the next twelve months are firmly in place. I have my word for 2016 and it encompasses everything I want in my life. I might have used it before, but that doesn’t matter, because it fits perfectly right now.

I want More. More work, more writing, more travel, definitely more art. I want more essays, more poetry, and lots more money from my work. Some of this is contradictory (more money from poetry? No chance!) but it will all work out.

Because 2016 is going to be the year of more kisses, more holding hands, more games and practicing cha-cha in the kitchen.

I feel that rare sense of sunny optimism that always comes at the end of the year. Do you?

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The drug of solitude

In India, the academic year begins in June. After two months of summer, where yellow mangoes and the humidity consumed our waking hours, the kids are back in school. M is now in first grade, his first year in big-boy school. This first week has gone by pretty uneventfully. There were the expected tears on the first day, tummy-aches continue without fail every morning, there’s anxiety over ‘strict’ teachers and mid-day meals served by the school. He comes home for lunch, happy and buzzing, so perhaps it is safe to let go of the anxiety (mine).

I wake before the sun has shown up for work, the sky still getting out of bed. Rain clouds linger, waiting just for the moment we step out. The house is deliciously dark and quiet. I have thirty minutes to sleep-walk through the bathroom, make the coffee, open the downstairs door so the newspaper man can bring the three newspapers upstairs instead of leaving them on the stoop where they could get wet or worse, stolen.

The thirty minutes are over before I’m properly awake. I gulp my first cup of coffee, wake M and then while he is easing into the morning I have my second cup of coffee and get things ready.

By eight I’m back home, M safely ensconced in his classroom. By then though, the rest of the household has woken up, the house is wide awake and the magic of the morning is lost.

I’m surprised at how much this affects me, this not having ‘adequate’ time to sit in the semi-darkness by myself and watch my thoughts wake up. As the years go by, I find myself getting even more solitary, longing for pockets of time where I have the house to myself, or a quiet moment to read without interruption or noise. It makes me feel bad, this wanting to be away from the family. But without this quiet-time, I might lose my mind completely.

It’s only the first week of this new schedule and I’m still trying to work out this new rhythm. Would waking 30 minutes earlier help? Last night, I went to sleep almost at 1 am, having wrapped up a deadline. With that kind of night, waking at 5.30 seems almost cruel.

Do you have this need to steal some time for yourself as well? Or am I wanting too much?

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The end? (31/31) #1truething

Today’s the last day of my month long experiment with #1truething. I managed to post every single day except one, where we went swimming with elephants.

It’s not been easy, doing these posts, but by God, it has been so much fun. Coming up with things for each day made me more present, more aware, more likely to make notes or take photos.

Two nights ago I got into the zone and wrote about 1800 good words. I think this was the result of #1truething, of having writing and story on my mind, of daily practice. It’s a minimalist version of Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages, something I’ve tried on and off for years now, but never had success sticking to.

But a short blog post every day? I think that might work.

I’m in awe of Cynthia for doing this for a whole year. 365 days, imagine. I’m not quite ready to commit to a year yet, but I think I might do an occasional #1truething post and surely one more bout (at least) of a whole month before the year is over.

Has this blog got a new lease of life? Let’s wait and see! Thanks, Cynthia!


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