As promised, Mauritius photos

MAURITIUS: Sugar & spice & all things nice

How can you not fall in love with a country which...

- names its cities Moka, Tamarind, Flick en Flack (after the noise chappals make when walking in the rain), Rose Hill, Cure Pipe, Bambous, Belle Rose, Triolet, Vingt Cinq (!!)
- has inhabitants of all coulours, sizes and shapes, who all proudly say "I am a Mauritian"
- produces cane sugar, coffee, tea, white rum and vanilla
- has honest taxi drivers
- starts the working day at 8 and no matter what goes home to their family by 5.30 pm
- has zero per cent unemployment rate
- has a dodo bird as a national symbol
- is like a really clean India
- has gorgeous climate, gorgeous seas and volcanic mountains

Photos to follow...

A faithful moment

I had an interesting experience recently. I decided to do up our bedroom while Gurtaj was away on a business trip, as a surprise. So I hired a contractor to coordinate the 5-day effort. In India, workers and contractors are normally bad news. They never deliver on time, they ask for huge advances, and they trick you into also doing this and that around the house, so as to get more money.

However, Akram bhai was the most pleasant surprise! This thin, bearded gentleman with a steely face appeared on my doorstep to inspect the room shortly after I had called him. He scanned the walls and ceiling with expert eyes, and before he could say anything, I told him, in my most earnest broken Hindi, that this was all a surprise for my husband. He looked at me, quiet and confused how to react, and I knew I had won. He said he would call me in half an hour to confirm. "Yea, yea," I thought, "Let's hope he will call me tomorrow". But in half an hour shap my mobile rang and Akram bhai formally committed to start work at 9 am the next day.

The workers turned up on time, worked efficiently and orderly. Akram bhai used to come every morning to discuss the tasks of the day, and every evening to check out the result. I was truly amazed by the porfessionalism. By listening to their conversations, I soon found out that he was simultaneously supervising projects at 5-6 other houses, some as far as Thane. Work never ceased even on Sundays.

This made me look at him and his workers with deep empathy and respect for their hard work. So I would make sure that every day they got unlimited tea and sandwiches. And I made sure I greeted them with a smile and small talk every time they came. Soon enough, I was calling the eldest painter "mama" (uncle) which thouroughly amused them all.

One day, I don't really remember how, I started with Akram bhai one of these endless doorstep conversations, just as he was leaving for another site. Our conversation drifted off in the porcelaine-like fragile area of religion. By now, those of you who know India well, would have realised from his name that he was a Muslim. And here, like everywhere in the world, there is a lot of prejudice and preconception. To me, passing thorugh predominantly Muslim areas, means casting my eyes down, and making sure not too much skin is showing, and also averting my eyes from the slaughter houses along the road. I remember Muslim boys on JJ Flyover breaking cat's eyes. And huge Muslim gatherings on the ground next to Bombay Gym Khana, with propaganda blasting from huge speakers, and crowds of men clad in white gawking at us taking our evening walk in our privileged cocoon.

Two of the most charismatic Muslims I had met were the deadly funny fimls head of my ex-employer, ad agency Leo Burnett, Firoz, who used to make us roll on the floor with laughter, and treated us (200 of us!) to biryani et the end of each Ramzan; and Mumtaz, a Singapore-based Indian woman of 43, GM of Club Med for Asia Pacific, a deeply religious and spiritual woman living in a joint family, who could dance the night away and put us all to shame with her energy to party.

But I am deviating here...

Akram bhai asked me, "you have traveled around the world, which do you think is the best community?" I said something which is quite a cliche, but in which I firmly believed till this conversation. I answered that while in writing religions may seem different, at the base they are all represent the same values - love and the victory of good over evil. And that unfortunately a handful of people use religion to pervert it to suit their own interests.

I though that the conversation was over, but the simple Akram bhai surprised me with some deep thoughts. First, he said he disagreed that all religions were the same. And he explained how, according to him, Allah was in the beginning of all other religions. He also surprised me with an explanation of why Allah was different from Jesus (something about the status of a fallen angel and Jesus being born by humans). He also recommended the works of a particular Muslim scholar who could make me understand Islam better.

He predicted, that in about 30 years, there will be harmony between religions, but that in the meanwhile there will be many wars. Which made my skin crawl. I did not dare to ask him if he thought that these wars were justified, and in vain I scanned his face to see if he supported them. But all I could see was acceptance of something he saw as inevitable, for whatever reason.

He also showed me on his mobile phone a call for a Muslim peace conference and invited me. "We will take care of you there," he said (I did not go as I am highly uncomfortable in big crowds). And promised to get the Quran for me.

And well enough, after the work was over and the house got empty, I looked at the dining table and saw a neat parcel containing two volumes of the Quran, along with a dictionary of terms... Left there without any fuss.

I have kept it carefully on my book shelf, wondering if it is a sin to read it even before I have read the holy book of my own religion - the Bible. I guess this will prompt me to read both (watch this space). But what I appreciate most about this conversation, was the fact that once again it helped me see a face amongst the crowd, and hear a voice that made me think. And despite what Akram bhai said, I am still convinced that in our core, we are all the same, and we want the same things out of life.

I am wondering how would he react if I gift him a Bible for Christmas :-)

Remains if the day

My spirituality and outlook to life has been challenged way too frequently lately and I wonder why. Because, you see, I believe that everything happens for a reason. And the last two weeks have been like a roller coaster of emotions.

Three people are dead, in just the space of these two weeks...

First, the son of one of our closest friends, almost family. He was coughing, so he went to the chemist with his parents to get cough syrup. He dropped right there... A massive heart failure.

A week later, I found out that a person who has been a constant presence in my life in Bombay, Janet Fine, has succumbed to cancer. She had sworn the few who knew into secrecy. I will remember her as one of the liveliest and most energetic people I have ever known. But most of all, as someone extremely enterprising and full of ideas. Another very rare thing about Janet was that she was so very unselfish about her contacts! If she thought someone could be useful or interesting for someone else, she would do anything to facilitate these two people meeting and being in touch. There were times she has called me out of the blue just to say that something she knows I would love is happening across town, and promptly offering to give me a lift. She also made sure I became a member of American Women of Bombay, which gave a brand new dimension of my life here. I will always be grateful for that, and will always fondly remember her CoHO Saturdays - some of the best spent in my life! I went to her apartment the next morning after I found out, to check on Janet's beloved cats. Looking at her apartment and not having her around was a hard, throat choking experience. The cats looked happy. Which reassured me. I believe animals have a sixth sense. So if they were happy, janet must have been in a better place.

But what really hit me was the way life was just going on...

The same evening, the son of my husband's company's VP, just 17 years old, died in the most tragic accident.

We were both stunned... What was happening around us? Why? What was life trying to tell us? Why so many coincidences.

We went to the hospital where the body was kept, just to see if we can help. The father was crushed. I don't think you EVER recover from anything like this.

The hospital looked terrible. I did not even want to go inside. Everything looked dilapidated and old. There was a stray dog coming in and out as if it was his home. Hospital staff was pacing up and down in dirty uniforms. Some of them were just standing around in lungis. a really old, shabby woman walked into the morgue... A wounded man was brought in by a rickshaw, and unqualified drivers and cops just helped him shuffle into his wheelchair. A prisoner was taken back to jail after treatment. Despite the tubes sticking out of him, he was just put down to lie on the bench of the police van, far from being long enough to let him rest comfortably. And I suddenly realised. That there are high chances I may die in this country, in a hospital like that, surrounded by completely foreign people. I will not even be understanding the language they are talking. I was terrified. And I just wanted to go home, to things I am familiar and comfortable with.

An even scarier thought occured to me. The few christian cemeteries I have seen here were in a complete state of desolation, with garbage dumps right next to them. The thought of cremation terrifies me. I have always been uncomfortable around fire.

The next day, life continued, I drove past movie halls showing mvies these three people will never see; heard songs they will never hear again... Life was going on... Is life really just waiting for death?

India from the sideview car window

I'm in a relationship on four wheels. Literally. We drive... A lot. For Gurtaj, it's like a drug. As for me... Sometimes I love it, sometimes I loathe it. It allows me to see the best and the worst of India. From the arid, stunning landscape of Rajasthan, to the lush greenery of Madhya Pradesh's natural parks. Picturesque villages, herds of sheep and goats, colourful people, tucked away forts... Rivers and lakes. I wish I had a camera in my head, to do "click" every time I saw something that touched my heart. And then, the other side: runover dogs splattered all over the road, 4-hour long traffic jams of ugly, pollution-spewing trucks with despondent drivers, dirty little desolate towns with piles of garbage along the road. Sometimes, I don't want to see all this. I want to live in a dream... But sooner or later, we are on the road agan, and the movie begins...

We have driven from Bombay to Chandigarh and back (through Rajasthan) innumerable times, in a yellow convertible Merc (this must be the most driven sports car in India); our honeymoon was a road trip; we have done Bombay-Goa in a single night, in an open Gipsy (me the only girl amongst 5 rowdy guys); I have lost count of the impromptu day drives to Lonavala and Pune; we have been to Indore & Mandu (on a moon surface road) in a Ford; we were driven (with Gurtaj looking completely out of place in the passenger's seat) from Chandigarh to Leh, all over Ladakh; for my last birthday, we drove through Madhya Pradesh in a huge silver Mitsubishi Montero.

When we drive, it is just the two of us, in a bubble, in our own world. We are the only ones in control. I know he is watching the road. I know the way he sees it, the way he reacts. I know how other drivers think. I can predict theirs and his next actions. We know how to take care of each other on long drives. He knows when I get sick, he puts his hand over my eyes when there is an accident or a dead animal ahead. I know when he is tired, when to change the Cd and when to hand him the water bottle. It's perfect team work. I've had some of the best times of our marriage on long drives.

It tires me... A lot... And yet once it's a reality, there are moments of amazing thrill. Like driving up through a bustling tiny lane to Deogarh palace (if I take my hand out, I can literally do window shopping from the car). Or discovering a virgin, lush green road in MP (are these rocks on the road a sign of dacoits???).

BOTTOM LINE: We recently bought an SUV. It is the BEST car for India. I don't feel claustrophobic in traffic jams - I am actually at the same level as those traveling on buses (they can't peek into my cleavage from high above anymore!). We can go off road and avoid huge traffic jams. We can go through all the holes in the road. I am not scared of flash flooding anymore. It's like riding on top of my own big grey elephant!

The case of Bombay vs Delhi

It happens every time I go to Delhi... This feeling of "what on Earth am I doing in Bombay?!". Delhi has wide, even, clean roads. Big, beautifully landscaped gardens and parks. Less slums. New, environmentally friendly, clean cabs in a very good condition. Same for the rickshaws - and they are painted in cool green and yellow colours!! The houses are huge and it seems there is an unofficial competition of who's garden will be the most beautiful of them all. People are stylish like hell. And since there is something like a winter here (temperatures drop significantly from November to March), they actually have a "winter wardrobe" with boots, stockings, beautiful shawls, jackets, polo necks... It's only in Delhi that I feel like layering and throwing on an elegant pashmina over my shoulders when I go out. The Delhi Golf Club has winter outdoors dining, with the creme de la creme of the city picking up delicacies from al fresco cooking stations, chatting over their Gucci shades, surrounded by blooming chrysantemum.

There is so much greenery in the city, that the bird population is huge, colourful, cute and interesting, unlike the Bombay nagging, ugly crows. Here, you can actually see flocks of green parrots, a peacock here and there, and even deer at the Golf Club (we were sitting at the pub one night and a deer crossed the green in the moonlight - in the middle of a bustling city - surreal!!)

If you feel like cooking here, all the exotic ingredients are easily available - even filo pastry sheets and vine leaves for my favourite dolmades!!! I also love the shopping areas and markets, with all possible goods and brands stuffed together at a walking distance.

When I see all this, I think I can live with the North Indian aggressive attitude, with all the staring and eve-teasing males, without partying on my own till 4 am. I just need one of these beautiful houses with gardens, one of these big kitchens, and a car & a driver to be happy (that itself amounts in total to more than a million dollars but what the heck :-)

P.S. But you see, Bombay loves to hate Delhi. And it's true - Bombay is on the go, it means business, it's kinder to its women, lives and lets you live, its cool quotient is up there and its vibe is uncomparable, it has the vast expanse of the sea... Well, it's also polluted like hell, every hour is peak traffic hour, it's filthy, slum infested, cramped, hot all year round. So the question remains - is it just an illusion that I am happy here?

Chandigarh Whispers 2

Chandigarh Whispers

I am lying on the bed in an airy, cool, green room, in scented rose-patterned sheets.

I am looking at the pink and white blossoms of bougenvillas swaying in the November breeze.

A bird is peeking at me from outside the window, then another, and it shows off its tail to me, unfolding it like a white fan.

Two dogs are sleeping under my bed, and I can hear them shuffling in their sleep.

I have a wonderful book to read.

I am served lunch in the blue sunny room - crunchy okra, amber-coloured lentils, puffy chappatis, and plump red tomatoes with sweet red onions. Delicious simplicity! Followed by a moist cake with black coffee. The dogs are begging.

I am alone in the house. Nobody is asking for my attention. I can do whatever I want, on my own pace.

I can see the sun outside, but inside the air is crisp - this house is built the old way, to keep the cool (and the warm when necessary) in.

I am actually... at complete and blissful peace....

Twisted feminist

Sometimes we have really conflicting views on what an empowered woman is. We spend hours mulling over how things should be, how we should behave, how we should put our foot down. But what if the really empowered women are those who...

- come from backward families, and yet manage to get educated and find jobs

- get up at at 5 am, prepare breakfast and lunch, get the kids to the school bus, then dress up, put immaculate makeup, then board a train stuffed with sweaty bodies and bad moods, and arrive at work with not a single crease in their sari

- work quietly on their desks while the men have countless tea breaks

- fearlessly ride scooters in crazy traffic

- leave cushy jobs to start their own businesses with very little or no money

- are able to dish out a 5-star meal after a 10-hours working day

- are not scared, while at the village well, to share with other women the problems they face at home, without being worried that "the perfect picture" will get spoilt

- are able to revolt and close down all liquor shops in their city, in order to stop men from spending all their savings on booze (http://in.news.yahoo.com/070621/139/6h855.html)

- can't read but learn to save and become independent (http://www.workingwomensforum.org/)

Food for thought...

Stayin' Alive

This is how thousands of Indians commute daily. In the bus picture, what I missed was the conductor climbing up to the rooftop from the outside, collecting fare from those sitting on the rooftop, and then getting back in via the outside ladder...

A talent to watch out for!

I don't know if it is because I consciously kept away this year, but I really didn't feel the buzz of fashion week! It just came and went without any major brouhaha. I dropped by the other day to see two completely new designers - I loved Anuj Sharma's origami dresses! The next show was one hour late, so I bunked it and instead walked around the showcase area, where each designer had a boutique-like space.

I chanced upon the booth of a young designer duo, Rahul & Firdos (Rahul Mishra and Samar Firdos). These two are still studying at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, but have already gone places, and will travel even higher, I am sure. From the moment I walked into their booth, Rahul drew my attention to their designs and started talking about their work with refreshing passion and enthusiasm. It was so incredible to hear someone so new and talented speak without a trace of arrogance about introducing new techniques, working with local craftsmen, and creating magic on a very small budget, yet having the guts to forego sales until they get their due profit.

Also at the booth were a bunch of young girls helping out, from both the boy's families, and a gentleman who, as far as I understood, helps them with chikankari work. It was heartwarming to see the support and team effort. But most of all, it was a welcome change from the "I'm too important for you" attitude of fashion week. I hope these boys never lose their humble approach! Definitely a talent to watch out for!!!

I could have bought and worn every single design on display. Not only were the clothes very wearable and yet spelt killer chic (off-white, Indo-Western cuts with beautiful subtle chikankari work on semi see-through fabric, very light, excellently structured to flatter a woman's body at the right places), but their USP was truly amazing - almost no seams!!! Rahul showed me pieces where there was absolutely no stitching on the shoulders, underarms and on the front. It supposedly not only saves tons of fabric, but it helps envelop the body like a glove!

The duo also refuses to use China-imported silks for their other creations.

Photos courtesy nowrunning.com

Rahul & Firdos stuff is available at AZA, at Kemps Corner in Bombay. Definitely worth a look!!! AND your money!

Cooking Indian is not for sissies... like me

Last night I tried to cook mutton rogan josh for Gurtaj's birthday and it turned out a complete disaster. The kitchen was smouldering hot (how the heck does my cook do this on a daily basis??); it took me half an hour to just lay out the ingredients (separately for the "meat", "paste", "vegetables"), measure and grind them; I found out half the stuff was missing, so I had to run to the neighbours to borrow it. And finally, I ignored the instruction of cooking the meat for two hours (!) and of course it turned out completely undercooked! We finished by eating out and getting into a fight. LESSON LEARNT: On the next special occasion I would rather gift my husband with a pleasant wife, rather than a 5-star meal. AND I will stick to things I know rather than experimenting!

Join the club!

There's a club in Bombay called Breach Candy. Right next to the hospital of the same name, it is THE place to be a member if you are a European passport holder in Bombay. Until a few years ago, membership was opened only to Europeans and it was dirt-cheap. But I refused to become a member because the whole concept seemed really racist to me. When I finally woke up and smelt the humungous salt water infinity pool, the first class gym and the crepes counter, membership fees had increased ten fold and the waiting period is a year or more. Anyway, my papers are still waiting for approval, and I had blissfully forgotten about it till last Sunday, when I went there for lunch with Steph, Karine, Jill and Sheerine. Apart from the obvious 'kicking myself' feeling, I realised something funny and surprising. Once again I felt how I juggle my life between two realities. First of all, it seemed that half of Paris has migrated to Breach Candy Club for a day. At the pool, dads in shorts were feeding babies, moms in itsy bitsy bikinis were sunbathing (one of them without qualms displaying a huge scar across her stomach, another couldn't care less that her legs were not waxed) or chatting with their best gay friends. Skins were all possible shades of white and pink. I was surprised to realise that I was in total sensorial shock! Had I become more Indian than I ever thought??? This public display of self freedom and comfort with one's own body suddenly felt so alien, like something from another era. In some corner of my mind something clicked - 'yes, you lived in Paris in the past and yes, that was your everyday!' and 'yes, now you live in a place where you wouldn't even dream of wearing sleeveless if your arms are not waxed, and where you would ask the pool boy to put your chair behind the bushes at the Bombay Gym, so that you can sunbathe in a bikini. Where you would rather pinch yourself before displaying affection publicly to your husband, forget about asking him to feed the baby while you are having a chocolate crepe with your friends'.
Then the conversation went about where to find organic beef, frozen blueberries and some complicated cheese. And about going back to Paris followed by tearful reunions with stilettos and clean streets.
I almost felt dizzy trying to juggle the conflicting feelings in my head. It was like I was hearing someone from the past, who was yet in my present and part of my present, yet my present could not be more different. Did you get it? Neither did I! Let's just say it was a funny reverse cultural shock.

Yoga-ing my way to happiness

Well after I wrote about alcohol intoxication, let me elaborate a bit on what puts me down to earth. I have been doing yoga for about two years now. A lot has been written on yoga and the amazing way it makes you feel. I have no choice but add my bit to it, as yoga has really awakened in me feelings, qualities and thoughts that I have never imagined were possible.

I started yoga with a friend. I felt so terribly clumsy and bored, that from the moment the session started, I was already thinking of the moment it would end and I will go home. It was a disaster. I never thought it would last two years, and I never thought I would be able to sustain it. I still don't do it by myself, like I am supposed to, but I enjoy every minute with Rama Ji, my teacher.

She slowly and gently broke my body's resistance, and taught me how by simply breathing I can clear my head, bend a bit more, get a kick of oxygen in my brain to last me the hole day. During yoga sessions, I have had memories of early childhood, brilliant ideas, and many, many good thoughts. It has changed my attitude towards certain things - mainly taught me to let go. And it makes my face glow to an extent that Gurtaj claims that after every yoga session I look like a different person.

How can a series of movements combined with breathing can achieve all that, I have no idea. I sometimes try to imagine the ancient sages sitting under their trees and getting ideas of postures and stretches. It's a mystery how they created this science. But one thing I know for sure - nothing in yoga feels unnatural. And as you progress, the movements become an extension of your body.

I love the way my teacher makes me stop during a pose and observe what is happening within my body and mind. This is when I stop being a machine and actually listen to my deepest self, sense muscles that I didn't know existed, listen to my breathing, learn to "read" my body.

I just want to end up on that note: I recently found out that whatever she charges, Rama Ji gives to charity. She doesn't feel right making a commerce of something she considers her vocation and duty.

In a haze...

To me, there's maybe no other drink that symbolises partying in Bombay more than Old Monk rum. To quote an alcohol website:

"A velvet smooth dark rum with a hint of vanilla, it has an alcohol content of 42.8%. Honored the world over, Old Monk had been awarded gold medals at Monde World Selections since 1982. Its a classic 7 yr blended dark rum. With the first drop of Old Monk Rum, the sheer aroma of distilled cane sugar grown in lush green fields of India, stirs up the age old legend. Old Monk Rum is a form of the legendary 'Som-ras' of India's centuries old scriptures--The Drink of Gods and Lords of India."

Well, I can tell you I don't feel like a Goddess at all after last night's session with the monk at Bombay Gymkhana. I always drink it large, with Diet Coke and no ice. I always blame Ferzin and Gilles for getting me addicted to this drink when I was still a "good girl" in France. It's been my favourite ever since, although it is not considered "elegant" and "lady-like" to have rum and coke. For Indians, this is mostly a macho drink.

The only difference between drinking it then and now is that now I need not less than 12 hours to recover. And of course, the embarassing memories of jumping around the dance floor, "let's be honest" drunken conversations and throwing up (excuise my French). Well, I know that as much as I promise myself "never again", I will look for the naughty monk's company again next Friday!

Rantings of a frequent traveler

I have finally understood… Every single Indian is a CEO! The completely indispensable kind, who has to be reachable 24/7, on his/her mobile of course. I used to get intensely angry at people keeping their mobiles on during flights, despite repeated requests from the flight attendants, but now, I know… You can’t mess with important people.
Especially with the housewife type, which has to call home the minute the plane has touched ground to instruct the maid to start cooking the dal. Or with the bespectacled, middle aged gentleman who picks up the phone while boarding a 5 am flight, looking as if he is striking the deal of a lifetime (but instead giving instructions to the wife on when to go and pick up so and so from uncle’s house).

The pits was a flight from London to Mumbai, when an elderly man sitting next to me kept screaming in the receiver while the plane was picking up speed on the runway (a moment when everything, absolutely every electronic device has to be off). I couldn’t help but glare at him, so he asked the person at the other end to hold, and earnestly explained: “Madam, that’s exactly what I am trying to tell them – to stop calling me now as we are taking off!”. What on earth could I have replied to that?!

Flights to Delhi are the worst. Almost all mobiles on board are on, all the time, and at the moment we touch ground, a myriad of loud beeps and alarms resound from every seat. The CEOs take on a serious expression and start checking their messages, and invariably a thunderous voice from somewhere will say: “Haaaaa? Kon hai? Haaaa! Just landed! … Haaa? Nahin, Rinku teek hai… Uska blood pressure todha sa high hai… Haaaa!” All essential information which has to be conveyed at this very moment.

The same stands when exiting the plane. The CEO tribe is in such a hurry, that seat belts are unbuckled at the very second the plane’s tyres touch the runway. So the beeping of mobiles is complimented with click clack clack from everywhere. The race is on! Everyone around me is on the edge of their seats, ready to pounce. As soon as the plane comes to a stop, the smartest ones jump up, and if their fellow passengers occupying the aisle seats are still wasting time sitting around, they don’t mind continuing to stand in all sorts of contorted positions, waiting for their chance to fling themselves at the overhead compartments to collect their precious hand luggage. A small battle of bodies and wills ensues (all while talking on the mobile), and finally everyone is standing, breathing in each other’s necks, waiting for the doors to open (I agree, it’s not a good idea to be left behind, locked up into an empty plane just because you waited around).

When we can finally go, the rule is ‘gentleman first!’. The competition is so intense, that’s it’s actually a bit dangerous to try and edge your way out of your seat – your feet may get smashed under a trolley, pulled along by some man obviously in a hurry for his kidney transplant operation. My question is: why all this struggle, when we will all end up in the same bus, going to the same terminal, waiting for the same luggage belt to start screeching and rolling out our luggage? But logic doesn’t seem to be the order of the day, and as I almost get pushed out of the bus (I have the audacity to stop to pull out my trolley’s handle and block the way of five cardiac specialists on their way to save someone’s life), I just remind myself… We are all a nation of CEOs.

Another 12 hours in India...

• Yesterday 2.30 pm - I leave for the airport. I am flying to Delhi to attend the reception in honour of the Bulgarian Prime Minister who is visiting India. I am flying Jet Airways, so I expect no surprises.


• My driver is again imagining he is on a Formula 1 track. I try to buckle up, but the buckle is neatly concealed behind the seat. Who needs seat belts in India anyway?


• At the airport, I indulge in a Baskin & Robbins English Candy ice cream. Mmmmmm! Delicious!


• I have printed out my boarding pass, so I am ready to go through security. Suddenly, a problem - a new rule has come into place - even passengers who have checked in online have to physically go to the check in counter, show an ID and get the boarding pass stamped (oh how much we LOVE stamps in this country!). I refuse to go back. Luckilly, a Jet employee is hanging around, so he stamps my boarding pass after an incredulous look at my Indian driving licence. The girl who is searching me is so thrilled I speak Hindi that she continues chatting oblivious to the growing queue.


• I go in and start watching the news. India has fired a test missile. A VIP passes by, dressed all in black, with a mignion from the airline carrying his briefcase and newspapers.


• Boarding. Everyone is rushing as if they are going to miss the plane. Surprise! Another hand luggage screening at the boarding counter... Only for Delhi-bound passengers. Those going to Bangalore just go through... Bombs are only allowed to Bangalore today! I am tempted to make a joke, but remember that at American airports just mentioning the "b" word may land you in prison. So I keep quiet.


• Desperate paging for someone who has left their mobile phone at the security check.


• On the plane. Have a great seat but the lady next to me decides to partially drape me in her sari.


• The Jet crew have new awesomly handsome uniforms. Just as I admire them and mentally praise the finish, the material and colour, I notice the cheap transparent plastic buttons and the horrendous pumps (how do I even describe them?). Why invest in new uniforms and forgo the small last details?


• Have the best airplane nap ever!


• Arrive in Delhi. It's 6 in the evening and its 36 degrees C!!! At the moment we touch ground, people start flipping out their mobile phones, despite repeated requests from the crew not to. Dinner cooking instructions and "han ji"s start resounding. The crew gives up...


• On the bus, a member of the crew rushes in and asks passengers if anyone has mistakenly carried out someone else's laptop bag.


• Trying to get out of the bus, I am almost trampled by three netas (a word for politicians which I would like to think is derogatory) who abide by the rule "gentlemen first".


• Now the interesting part comes - trying to get a pre-paid cab. I first go to the government counter and I am quoted a ridiculous price (500 bucks to just drop me to Chanakyapuri). At my astonishment they answer "Then go to Easycabs" - which is basically their competition. I notice a new booth and go to enquire. A rerale decent Delhiite informs me that these cabs are very basic and don't have a radio, but it's my choice. I almost choose this company just for this guy's sake, but decide in favour of Easycabs. While there is a long queue at other counters, Easycab is empty. I ask them why. Thyey say it's because they are more expensive and have better cars. Tired, I just go for them.


• I get out of the airport and as usual am surrounded with touts offering hotel rooms and cabs. I finally find my cab and driver and get in. I explain where I am going and how exactly I want to be taken there. He gesticulates reassuringly and seems as if he has taken this route thousands of times. I am promptly taken by the wrong, longer way, of course. En route, he stops to put air in his tyres. And the car makes an incredible noise, as if the wheels are going to fly off at any moment. To reinforce the fact that it is an AC cab, the blast is to the maximum, and the deep freeze ironically adds to the fire of my anger. But fortunately, in this car, the seat belt is fully operational and I have the semblant of a feeling of security in Delhi's frenzied traffic.


• At the moment I reach the Embassy and crash on my mom's sofa with a sigh of relief, I get a call. A cheery voice: "Hello, M'am, I am calling from Indian Airlines!" (I am flying them on my return). A bad predicament creeps up my spine. "I am sorry to inform you that your flight has been delayed by 1 and half hours! But you can come to the airport right now and we can give you a booking on an earlier flight." COME BACK TO THE AIRPORT??? I try to keep my cool... And decide to just "f..." it and enjoy the evening.


• The reception goes well. I meet the honorary council of Bulgaria in Calcutta, and his son happens to be married to the daughter of my newspaper's chairman. That's India for you - one billion and still small like a village!


• Next day, I go to the airport and manage to get onto the 9 am flight. I am rushing to the gate, but a security guard directs me to another gate for "my class". At the other gate they send me back to the first gate. I run there and the guard tries to send em back to the other gate. I scream! And soon enough I am in the business class bus full of netas in white kurtis and lunghis. Of course, why should they fly economy if they have so much of public money??


• It's a 9 o'clock flight, but needless to say, we only fly out at 9.20...


• Finally back home. I love the first few minutes of being in Bombay - the faces, the manners, change completely. People mean business here and touches of coolness are everywhere. To confirm my feeling, a bright red Bentley with a huge sign "government of Karnataka" overtakes us. The driver is wearing huge silver rings depicting bones and skulls.

If you can't see this smile anymore, blame the system...

It was a shock to read about the man who drowned two of his daughters because they were a “shame” and a “burden”, since they were not “blessed” with a son. I know I am discussing an age-old issue and that probably I won’t say anything Indians don’t already know. It has been like that for thousands of years and it is going to remain like that? It is part of Indian culture to prefer sons. I have heard all that and tried to sink into comfortable apathy. I have grown to love India and made it my home… But each time I come across such story in the newspapers, I feel such a sinking despair, and so much doubt with my own judgment. How can this exist in the 21st century? Does this man realise that if it was not for a woman, he would never been born? And that he is married to one, for God’s sake! Or does he hold her in contempt every day of their life together? You might call me a naïve phirang and maybe this is what I am. A lot of people around us live in such unimaginable poverty, that I understand their despair – feeding 3 children (he had 3 daughters, one was spared as she was with her mother) and saving for three marriages, must have not been easy for him (why did he have three daughters to start with?????). But killing them?… You need complete lack of thought and logic not to understand that natural, or any evolution, is impossible without both sexes coexisting. That women are as important as men. But here I am stating the obvious!

I can’t help thinking that we, women, are somehow responsible for this. It is a woman who brings up the child, and if she instills in him that women are not a lesser species, something somewhere will rub off. And maybe this man will treat his wife, his daughters, his maid, the women he meets on the street and at work, with a little bit more respect. And maybe if we decide that we will never accept it, never sink in comfortable apathy, something sometime will start changing. I browsed the net and realized that many women have gotten their act together and started NGOs, resource centers, shelters, to support less fortunate women from men’s exploitation and violence. So I feel that if we, the fortunate ones, start spreading little doses of awareness, non-militantly, respectfully, so that we are understood, to our maids, drivers, by giving a little bit of our time, we might earn the right to protest and be appalled.

Beware, your dreams may come true!

Even in my wildest fantasies, I never imagined that after living in Paris, I would live in India… I didn’t know anything about it. Actually, in my mother tongue (Bulgarian) there is an expression “it’s India to me”, meaning “I don’t understand”. But I fell for a Sikh. And soon the Euros I was saving for a backpack trip around England materialised into a Paris-Bombay-Paris ticket. Then two more later… I was getting addicted to life in Bombay, Goa trance, rum & coke and cold coffee, the crows waking me up, drives in an open Gypsy on Marine Drive, lunches at Fountain Sizzlers. I imbibed the Bombay accent like a sponge, learnt to bargain like a pro, had a crush on Salmaan Khan and learnt to eat garam khana (with a tissue handy). Until one day it was just a one-way ticket.

Thus started my great firang experience. My husband’s jeeves welcomed me in the house with trepidation, but soon realised that I was clueless about the local ways, and sunk comfortably in his role of the boss, twitching with displeasure every time I entered the kitchen and watching over my shoulder every little thing I put in “baba’s” food (I had to significantly curb my creativity to fit his standards). The cleaning lady came in shyly, throwing curious glances at the strange new m’em sahib, who let her fake cleaning, sitting in a corner with her feet on the couch. Then in came my Hindi tutor, who, excited to have gotten her hands on such soft clay, proceeded to teach me with great enthusiasm how to pronounce “Mera pati parmeshwar hai” ("my husband is my god"). My driving school appointed the most handsome and perfumed instructor for me, who reassured me, with artistic gesticulations, “Madam, India – many people. You kill one, two? No problem!” And of course, I fell head first into every single tourist trap imaginable.

But I have to admit, my fascination in return was not less. And I almost miss it now, having acquired a significantly thicker skin and having learned to play the firang game to my full advantage. For example, if a policeman stops me for honking (in a country where survival depends on honking) in front of the Bombay Court, I can look at “uncle” with blue innocent eyes and pretend I don’t speak a word of Hindi. Until poor chap, frustrated of me not understanding that he simply wants a bribe, lets me go. Or when an exasperating repairman gives me an insane estimate, I just act dumb and say I need to call my husband (it works every time!). I revel the moments when I can give a full lecture in civic sense to an unsuspecting taxi driver, in Hindi of course (pathetic grammar though) and shout at him to watch the road and not turn around, giving me a surprised look. I now even reply to other newcomer’s puzzled questions “we are like this only!” Thus provoking even more puzzled glances from my Indian friends. Has the big adventure really turned into a comfort zone? I struggle to keep it alive, and search for a hint of the old me in the enthralled eyes of every foreign guest I give the grand Mumbai tour to. And just when I get desperate, Bombay makes sure to throw something or the other at me: It keeps me awake at night with the story of a little boy who ran 68 kilometers just to see this crazy city; makes me thank god for surviving another ride with my driver who thinks my red Alto is a red Ferrari; or makes me want to become a neuroscientist, just so that I can understand what’s going on in the brain of my carpenter who beams with pride every time he infallibly hangs a painting upside down. And keeps me longing for my daily dose of chaos whenever I travel abroad. I am far from having enough of it.

A BAD DAY: How the dirty job is done!

It was one of those moments in life when the truth suddenly hits you in the face and you know your perception of certain things will never be the same. I was in my car commuting to work as usual, when I saw a worker being lowered in a manhole (or was it a sewer?) by a few others. He had stripped down to his underwear, and all he had for protection was a belt across his chest, attached to the rope, which was meant to lower him into the hole. No protective gear. No gloves. No helmet. No torch. No gum boots. No mask against the gases and stench down there. Wearing his own personal underwear bought with his own money. Obviously the other choice would have been his own clothes – and looking at the guy I am sure he doesn’t have that many. This is when it occurred to me that I have never seen a municipality worker – be it a sweeper or other, wearing work clothes or a uniform provided by the municipality (the most “impressive” feature I have seen in this regard is the light-reflective vests of the cleaners of the JJ flyover). I also remembered an exhibition of photographs held at a past Kala Ghoda festival, which my merciful brain had made me forget: It was about those who are in charge of cleaning Mumbai’s sewers. No visual detail was spared about the atrocities they have to wade through every day, the kind of waste they have to deal with, touch with their bare hands and then wash off in their own bathrooms (well, I guess it would be too much to even think that the municipality would give them service bathrooms. But hey, they should be happy they have a job at all, right?). So this is what really hit me: Yes, as tax payers we have all the right to complain about the bad conditions of our city, the dirt, the overflowing sewers. But what do we really expect if the dirty work is done by people like these, devoid of dignity, paid peanuts, and without even the simplest protective devices? No self-respecting wageworker in any developed country would have even considered going “down the drain” in his underwear, and what’s more, if asked, he would have slapped the respective authorities with a serious lawsuit. Not to speak about the outburst of public anger that would have swept the media.

Other examples:

- ladies sweep the roads in their own saris

- they are made to use very short brooms, so they have to be bent in two all the time

- in the absence of a broom, they are given two broken pieces of cardboard to squeeze rubbish into!

- on construction sites, women carry loads on their heads, men don't wear protective goggles when working with machines, and their kids are all over

- workers are made to step bare-footed in all kinds of stuff, including tar

- temporary road workers are "accomodated" in shanties, basically, they sleep on the street

- I have always wondered - why can't they work at night, when it's cooler?

HOW MUCH MORE CRUELER CAN WE GET??????????

A GOOD DAY: It's a dog's life!

Suresh hardly looks like a super human, but his life is somehow like an epic hero from a cartoon book. A company employee by day, at night he turns into a stray dogs rescuer. While other Mumbaiites are sleeping or partying, he treats wounds, answers emergency calls, cleans fleas and ticks, checks upon the “regulars”. On weekends, he conducts awareness programs in Dharavi (Asia's biggest slum). And dismisses my admiration with a simple “Someone has to do it, no?”

I met him for the first time when I needed help with an injured dog in my colony. And I never forgot the way he picked her up despite the foul smell of her wounds and the blood. I had never seen such a combination of compassion and cool professionalism. But this is all the Welfare of Stray Dogs is about.

Abodh, CEO of the WSD left a promising career to head the organization. An MBA from ITM Mumbai, he was the Customer Service Manager of DHL, on his way of becoming a Business Manager. One day he left it all, to everyone’s disbelief. The result of Abodh’s leadership is one of the most admired NGOs in Mumbai, providing first aid; programs for sterilization; immunization; adoption; education and awareness at schools, colleges and slums; rabies awareness and eradication. Counting 150 dedicated, unique individuals.

Daisy, a designer, heads the adoption program. Keith works at Mitsubishi, but volunteers every Saturday morning and lends them his four wheels. Pooja attends to customers during long hours at a call center and dedicates her free time to the cause. Prerna is a student… The list goes on… And then there is the fabulous secret weapon of the WSD - Dr Padam, a homeopath, who treats strays for free in her Saturday pet clinic and also attends to dogs in WSD’s kennel at Mahalaxhmi. This petite soft-spoken lady has treated humans, dogs and even a crocodile… She has cured a dog from distemper, a normally fatal disease, another dog from his injuries from a high rise fall, prescribes drops that delay cataract... She makes most of the lotions and potions in the volunteer’s first-aid kits. And homeopathy works wonders with dogs, it seems!

The dog’s personalities and backgrounds are as various as those of the volunteers. Sick and weak, Kalu landed up at Daisy’s home. With homeopathy, he completely recovered. Still looking miserable and suffering from convulsions, he made the stairs of Regal cinema his home. His looks make people call the WSD at least once daily. But beneath a weak exterior, Kalu is quite a character. His hobby is following people and has been spotted at places as remote as Nariman Point, Fountain, Churchgate, Marine Drive, Eros cinema. This wonderer now has a collar stating his “address” and that he is under WSD’s protection.

Ramesh is a 17 years old (he may not be alive anymore at the time you read this) who “preferred” sitting only on imported cars in his younger days. His “owners” – a family living on the pavement “adopted” him when their daughter was one. She is 18 now. They religiously administer the vitamins and other medication that Abodh leaves and call the WSD if there is a problem. “Yes, we live in a merciless city, but for every case of cruelty, I encounter 10 cases of compassion,” says Abodh. “Cruelty often stems from ignorance. People in Dharavi stone ill dogs scared that they will pass on diseases to their children or that they represent “evil”. But when they see Suresh treating the dogs, they help us themselves and call us when there is a problem. Every stray you see on the road has a “family” and mostly these are poor people taking care of the dogs as if they were their own.”

Like Arvind the shoe shiner at Eros cinema, who has 4-5 dogs around him at all times. He names them all after movies. Pretty (after “Pretty Woman”) is a sweet natured, fat yellow stray, suffering from incontinence. Then there is Tippu (Sultan), Bond (like the 007 agent) and of course Hrithik (Roshan, one of Bollywood's hottest actors!).

Or the dhaba workers behind Mantrayala who have “adopted” Sweetie and called the WSD for help when a car hit her. Or the countless people who have dropped Kalu back to his “home” at Regal in taxis, their own cars or scooters. Or the jain gentleman, a driver of a school bus who adopted Kareena, found in a garbage dump, and took her on the bus every day to hers and the children’s greatest delight. The heartwarming examples never end. And make me feel GOOD being a part of this city.

A naan to remember

I used to be quite a kitchen goddess and I could whip up a gourmet meal in the matter of minutes. But I have somehow lost this vibe, especially with Indian cuisine. Being a “firang” I am still not used to the long and complicated preparations. My husband had whined and nagged for a very long time for a homemade naan (a delicious, fluffy Indian bread). And when one evening we ordered an Indian meal in, I felt a surge of inspiration and (completely baseless) self-confidence, and headed to the kitchen to make my first naan. However, consider this: we were both really hungry and the food was arriving in half an hour; I had never even read the recipe for naan… What was I thinking? Exactly!!!
I opened a book and found the recipe – goodie! I had all the ingredients, down to the yeast! Hmmm. Has to rest for at least 2 hours? Well, let’s just see what happens… I started mixing and kneading energetically. Already during this process I could feel that something was not right, and that the consistency was too sticky. However, not willing to admit defeat, I decided to go further. To put chances on my side, I decided to bake one batch, and roast the other on a tawa. After I finished mixing, I started shaping the separate naans. Yes, the consistency was, indeed, too sticky, and I could not achieve the typical long shape. This was my second chance to admit defeat and call the restaurant to throw in naans into our order. But no! I decided, let’s make “mini naans” instead. Don’t know what this is? Me either!
I proceeded to cook the little gooey blobs which, by this time, have acquired a sickly grayish colour. The ones on the tawa obliged a little, but the middle just refused to cook, no matter how furiously I pressed them against the hot surface. The ones in the oven, even after 25 minutes, remained shapeless and too soft, until the bottom finally burnt. By that time, I took out the white flag and decided to break the bad news to my hubby: “No naans tonight, honey!” In a surge of appreciation for my effort, he nevertheless insisted that I bring the naans to the table so that he can “at least try a bite”… Well now you would say – I can’t be THAT foolish! You know about men and love passing through the stomach, etc… But I did bring them to the table. And I have still not forgotten the look on his face. It all finished with a good laugh, but needless to say, he has never asked me to make naans again!

On the picture: THIS is how a perfect naan should look like!

India is a great place to get creative

... although it is tough to deal with tailors, craftsmen, etc. But the beautiful fabrics, value-for-money materials and help you can get, makes it the perfect place to try your hand at these craft projects you always wanted to learn... Or something more ambitious. Like Gurtaj's aunt who is a designer in her own right in Chandigarh. Pictured here, two of her latest creations.

All roads lead back home...

We can talk about the world becoming a global village as much as we want. We can talk about cultures transcending barriers and merging. We can talk about our ability to adapt till we become hoarse. But let me tell you something: I have realised that a human life comes down to some basic things - the comfort of familiarity, bond and 'sameness'. There is a very famous song (the one which preaches 'don't forget the sunscreen') which says that whatever you do in life, you should always try to reduce the geographical distance between you and those who have seen you grow up... It's so true. Being the only child, I was always sort of rebellious. I wanted, longed to get out of Bulgaria and live away. And that came true. I can't be further away from my birth place.

The euphoria of 'difference' sustained me for very long. I loved the adventure. I loved the thrill. I felt like I was on this endless vacation, a wild ride. But when the years go by and life sinks in, you realise that noone understands you more than those who have been brought up with the same aspirations, with the same challenges or luxuries as you... And that noone will ever feel for you, see into your deepest soul corners, more than your birth family, and your childhood friends. However much you put on a show, they always know what is happening inside.

'AHA' moments, when this truth has hit me like a hammer:

- Tonight, drinking with my girlfriends - Steph from France, Karen from Belgium, Jill from the US (Sheerine from France was sick, and Kirsi from Finland is away on a vacation). From the outside, I am sure we were looking just like a bunch of spoilt rich firangs yapping away, complaining about maids, drivers, roads, airports etc. But I wish everyone the feeling of 'sameness' that I mentioned before, that I experienced tonight. I know that these women heard and understood everything I said, without thinking I am racist, without thinking I am coming from some sort of pedestal. They knew, because we are brought up with the same habits, values, dreams and way of doing things, very diffrerent from the realities here (not saying better, not saying worst - just DIFFERENT). And it is not that I don't find this sort of connection with my Indian friends, it's not that they are less precious to me. But put simply, these women understand 'where I'm coming from'.

- My mother coming to visit me. I know that she just has to look at me and know whant I feel. She knows what hurts me, what makes me happy... No questions asked. Even a simple gesture like putting a bag of mine away is filled of pure love... How can I even live away from her???

- In Sofia last May, leaving my aunt in bed, hurt in a car accident, before coming back to Bombay. I bursted out crying in the elevator. My husband and my uncle felt awkward. My cousin Kathy, just looked at me at reached out to hug me. No words exchanged. Just a simple gesture. She understood what I felt.

I love my husband. And I have a beautiful life in India. But with time I understand that I am destined to live with this huge void, without a crucial support and understanding I used to underestimate to badly...

Married To India (compiled from the net)

Picture: still from the Bollywood movie Marigold, based on the Indian romance of an American girl

INTERCULTURAL MARRIAGES: Assumptions... My Way—The Right Way?

Just something interesting I read:

1 - Problems and conflicts often involve assumptions and expectations that are so much a part of the fabric of your background and identity that you aren't even consciously aware of them. Partners must explore their core beliefs and first feel clear about their own identity before deciding how these beliefs will mesh with those of a partner. All couples negotiate differences when marrying. Two individuals from two different families form a new identity and must choose what traditions, habits and beliefs to bring into their marriage. This process is more complex for couples who are from different cultures, races and religions.

2 - Successful intercultural, interracial and interfaith relationships have special challenges, but also special rewards for those who are willing to manage differences in core beliefs not only with their partners, but also with their families, communities and society at large. This doesn't happen automatically. It will take work and sensitivity to self and others.

3 - Whatever decisions and choices you make as a couple about resolving and managing your cultural, religious and racial differences will affect your children. Their reactions to these issues and the reactions of others to them will need your attention throughout their childhood. This is true whether your children look different from one or both of you and other kids they know - or whether the differences are more internal. While our society is becoming increasingly multicultural and mixed, kids are sometimes much more confused and less tolerant of differences than adults are.

Food for thought:

- Do show mutual respect for one another and for one another's cultures. If your differences are creating problems for you, brainstorm together for some solutions.
- Do keep your sense of humor alive.
- Do remain realistic about your differences and about what you have in common.
- Do not ignore your differences thinking that they will just go away. They won't disappear because you don't talk about them.
- Do not defend your parents if they try to interfere in your marriage. Take a stand together and set boundaries.

PS: Thanks, darling, for wearing a Bulgarian football team T-shirt so proudly, and for putting BG stickers on your cars!

Published in DNA Newspaper

Not a firang for them...

For four and a half years I actually worked at an advertising agency - Leo Burnett. And this is where I met some of my best Indian friends. Five of them became very special - Madhu, Shilpa, Alpana, Anita and Deepa. Tarina and Tulika have become soul mates for life. Unfortunately life has taken us in many different directions. The other day I bumped into Madhu. And on my way home after chatting with her and meeting her delectable 10-months old daughter Gia (on the photograph), I remembered her telling me one day while we were still working together, that none of them felt they were around a "firang". "You are just like one of us!"

Missing the snow

What I really miss a lot is waking up to the first snow of the year. It usually went like this: You wake up, and you realise it has snowed the whole night. Everything outside is white and pure, and there is this hard to describe silence, as if someone has carefully wrapped everything in cotton, and all sounds are muted. It's the most beautiful sight and feeling. Then, of course, more practical issues coming into the picture: is the central heating working? has the fuel in the car frozen? piling on the layers of clothes... Winter has finally and surely arrived... Pictured above, people skating in front of the National Theatre Ivan Vazov in Sofia, courtesy Getty Images.

Gourmet Bombay

Can you imagine that seven years ago, when I moved to Bombay, exotic fruits, vegetables, sauces and other "fancy" ingredients were almost non-existent. Baby corn? Travel an hour by cab to Breach Candy area and pick it up from the street market, if you are lucky! Yellow and red capsicums? Zucchini? Iceberg lettuce? I think for a while I forgot their taste... I had to content myself with lentils, rice, and my husband's favourite okra (which is, till today, prepared in our household on a daily basis!). Gone were the days when I would walk into a Parisian Monoprix and stroll around with a caddy... "Hmmm... why don't I pick this endive up? Smoked salmon? Yum! Strawberries... why not?" Getting my hands on something as exquisite as an avocado was a rare treat. And if I had found an interesting "Western" recipe I wanted to try, I had to take cabs and travel to several stores in order to collect all the necessary ingredients, and invariably at the end I had to improvise, as one or two things were always missing, or "out of stock". My one and only visit to a fish market with my mom in law made sure I gagged every time I saw sea food in the next few days.

It's amazing how much things have changed in just a few years. I thought about it today, when I visited the Gourmet Market organised at Olive restaurant in Bandra. In a very small space, I relished the sights and smells of mushrooms, zucchinis, pesto sauce, chorizo saussages, Peccorino cheese, fresh bread, sun dried tomatoes, hummus...

Of course, like everything else in Bombay, the market had started late, and when I arrived (one hour after the announced starting time), the chefs and assistants were still running around, setting stalls. A furious Italian chef was shouting out orders, and a few early birds like me were wandering around, pretending they can't hear him. Nevertheless, for these few minutes, I really felt like I was in Italy, and of course picked up some cheese and salami. Inspired, I went back home and made bruschettas, Peccorino and chorizo toasts, and a salad drizzled with balsamic vinegar... No okra tonight, honey!!!!!!

Gourmet Bombay - my favourites:

Moshe's in Cuffe Parade - to-die-for cheese cakes; delicious dips; foccacia bread and much more...

Sugar And Spice at the Taj President - a sandwich counter to make you salivate; roast beef; savouries to take away; Gurtaj's favourite cheese straws

Nature's Basket at World Trade Center - fruits, veggies, diet products, herbs and spices, Starbuck's coffee, to your heart's content!

Indigo Deli - the gourmet stall at this restaurant offers a great variety of cheeses and cold cuts, marinated artichoke hearts and mushrooms, wines from all over the world, Danish butter... oh god, can't even remember everything. Frightfully expensive but unbeatable choice!

Philips Tea and Coffee - an Indian chain offering the best coffee beans you have ever tasted. I love their old grinding machine. And I have carried packets full of Peaberry and Highlander back to Bulgaria many times.

Pesca Fresh - an online sea food store. They deliver everything spic and span, properly packed and totally clean. Salmon? Mussels? Prawns? They have everything!

The Gourmet Store at The Oberoi shopping arcade - what I like about this store is that they have vacuum packed cold cuts made in India. I am always really happy to buy Indian stuff. And they also sell palmatians, which Gurtaj just adores.