The Firang Diaries

Blog makeover

2011-11-03T20:21:00.000-07:00

Damn... It's time consuming to write a blog! I spent more than an hour yesterday just re-vamping the template, fonts etc, to make it look a bit more contemporary. I chose the handmade paper background because I used to have a hand-written diary with identical pages. Loved this new font and I hope it's easy to read - any suggestions are welcome!

So now I am back at it, and I hope I can be consistent, despite the constant demands and questions I have to deal with at home, and little hands tugging on my legs: "Mama, I want to sit on your lap pleeeeeeaaaaaaseeeee!" Or simply: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!" courtesy my little one.

I also hope that my life will get a bit more exciting now that the kids are older and I have the time and opportunity to do things for myself. So watch this space...

Peace...

2011-11-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

Stunning lotus flowers at the market street leading to the Temple of the Tooth in Kandy, Sri Lanka...

The White Tiger

2010-06-29T05:33:00.000-07:00

For some time now, I have consciously stayed away from books "on India". I had my fill of pages filled with nostalgia, or the gushing of foreigners who claim India had changed their lives. I was also really not in the mood to read non-fiction and deepen my awareness of reality. Call it a phase of escapism (YES, I did read the whole "Twilight" series during that "phase" and yes feel free to laugh!). Nothing prepared me for the brutal shock of this book by Aravind Adiga. For two days, my child, my home and husband were severely neglected. Laundry piled up and I even read for hours in an unmade bed (and I hate unmade beds!!). Although some of the reviews claim this is a thriller, I would not call it so and this is not why it kept me on tenderhooks. It is the sudden and brutal recall of the reality I had chosen to stay away from, consciously, that prevents me to sleep at night ever since I turned the last page. I knew India has a side which is beyond my wildest imagination, even after living here for 10 years. But Adiga's insight into the minds, souls and lives of those who live in the "Darkness", or the poor, surpassed everything I had seen, or heard of, or guessed. I was really not prepared to read about all this, especially now that I am about to bring up two children in this country.

Balram is one of the anonymous faces I pass on the street every day. He could be the delivery boy of my neighbourhood pharmacy, or even my own driver. And now, maybe, somehow, I know a bit more about what is happening behind the smiling, or sometimes openly resentful, face of my neighbourhood Balram. What he probably thinks of me, how he eavesdrops on my life and probably knows about me much more than I would want him to. Of how, within the huge jungle of casts that India is, there are sub-casts even at his level, and the acute consciousness he has about the difference between him and other "servants". Of the kind of family he has left behind in the village. Of the kinds of pressures he may be subjected to, beyond his poverty.

I would really like to meet Aravind Adiga one day and ask him, did he actually live in a village like Balram's, how many Balrams did he interview and how did he go about his research to come up with such a raw, graphic and confident account of the life of this villager turned tea boy turned driver turned entrepreneur. His keen observations and the minute details he delivers are so staggering, that one has to actually remind one's self that he/ she is not reading "Lord of the Rings", but about a dark world that actually exists under our own windows.

Why this book was really good for me to read:

- I don't think I will ever look at my housekeeper, nanny and driver in the same way ever again. I will be a bit more conscious of what is important to them, even if from my position it seems really stupid and trivial.

Why this book was really bad for me:

- It leaves me hopeless that the Darkness these people come from will never change.

- It confirms the fact that there is a whole fraction of society out there that has a vested interest in keeping things the way they are.

- And yes, again, I will never look at the people who work for me the same way, but I will also never be able to shake off the spark of suspicion and fear about what is going on in their minds, that this book ignited in me.

On a break...

2010-06-28T06:09:00.000-07:00

I recently met someone at a kiddie birthday party who asked me why I have not updated my blog for so long. It's such a great feeling every time someone approaches you with comments on the random thoughts you put out there... I am so thankful to everyone who has read this blog and encourages me to continue writing it. This blog is in no way "defunct" - for some time now I have been pretty fulfilled with bringing up my son and many other things took the back seat. But I still have a lot to share - so watch this space.

Winter setting in in Chandigarh

2009-10-27T23:18:00.001-07:00

2009-09-29T00:51:00.000-07:00

Motherhood has made me extremely sensitive to absolutely anything to do with children. I don't know if it is the hormones, or it is this little creature that gives me so much happiness every day, but the sight of a suffering or crying child makes me sick...

So I guess you will understand why this news - http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090928/ap_on_re_as/as_australia_homeopathic_death that i first read in The Times Of India this morning has been hounding me all day long.

It is about an India-born Australian couple who let their 9-month old daughter die of acute eczema, because they refused to treat her with conventional medicine, and kept giving her homeopathy. I am a very big fan of homeopathy. I swear by my homeopathic doctor and trust her enormously. And I would use it, for sure, if Ravi was to get ill.

However, it was obvious that it did not work in this little girl's case. But the parents continued, even after her hair turned white, even after she got weaker and weaker, even after an infection started eating at her cornea...

I wonder how could they wake up every morning and see their baby in so much pain (she had to be given morphine in the hospital!). How could they watch her slowly fade away? How could they look in these big innocent eyes and keep on stubbornly feeding her something which obviously was not working.

Everyone makes mistakes. But a mistake that lasted for so many months, a suffering that went on and on pointlessly... I wonder how a family member, a neighbour or a friend did not make them see reason! I wonder how this mother did not go insane seeing her child in so much pain?

Not only I am happy they are going to prison, but I really feel it is not enough!

Children do not ask to be born in this world. They are an expression of OUR desire, of our love for another human being. For months, years, we are their universe. They live through and for us. They have no other vehicle than us to express their feelings and needs. They have no one else to make sure they are loved and healthy. We should look after them well not just because we love them, but because it is our responsibility and there is no scope for error with someone so small and fragile.

Bulgarians are everywhere!

2009-02-17T02:56:00.000-08:00

Yes, it's true! We are just about 8 million of us, but wherever you go in the world, you would meet at least one. It is a mystery how exactly we do it and yet survive as a nation. The phenomenon of 'brain leakage' out of the country has been written about ever since I can remember myself. And one Bulgarian out of three you meet on home soil will definitely share with you an elaborate plan or at least a dream of living abroad. I guess it is in our genes. Maybe because we have always been a people on a crossroad, and our very DNA fabric is made of migrating tribes (which is why in Bulgaria, on such a small territory, you will find people who look like Indian gypsies, alongside people who look like nordic Vikings).
As a Bulgarian, I have to always be careful what I do or say at international airports, because you never know where a compatriot will be lurking and listening. I have myself been a 'victim' of flirty lines in the Parisian metro by two guys who thought I don't understand them. I just missed a violin concert by a Bulgarian musician visiting Mumbai from France. I have met countless people from countless countries who either have Bulgarian friends or have studied with one.
I have been asked many times if I am the only Bulgarian married to an Indian in Mumbai. To which I had always replied that in a 16-million people city, you never know. But as far as I know, I was... There are a few ladies married to Indians living in Delhi, whom I had met. There are plenty of Indians studying in Bulgaria, and a few of them had also found their life partners there. Women of different generations, who had gone through different stages of the development of India. An elderly one, married to a veterinary doctor, remembers stitching her own kaftans upon arrival in Delhi. Another bubbly girl married into a traditional Sikh family and her beturbaned husband speaks better Bulgarian than me! I have heard of a couple of others who are married into such staunch families, that they don't even come to the receptions at the Bulgarian embassy despite being invited.
So while I was highly amused, I was not very surprised when the other day a French friend of mine smsed me: "Your child's position as a Punjabi-Bulgarian interpreter at the UN is compromised! I just met a friend whose brother-in-law is married to a Bulgarian girl!"
So now I know - since 8 months I am not the only one!
"A" met her Punjabi husband in New York while they were both studying together. They also had a tumultuous long distance relationship before she finally shifted here 8 months ago. We met over dinner at my French friend's friend place and had a fun dinner sprinkled with lots of alcohol (I was just watching, of course) and laughter. I discovered that most Punjabis are the same - they love driving (our host had done something that till now I could attribute only to Gurtaj - driving to Goa for 11 hours just to have a beer on the beach and head back), drinking, stupid jokes... So even there I am not the only one!
A was curious to know how the first few months of my arrival in Mumbai were. She is not working currently, and finds it extremely difficult to be independent in a city where someone has to drive you everywhere. She is still very rough at edges where I have softened - like unexpected and endless family visits. And she has a big advantage over me - she has the guts to drive here!
She has come to India at a very different time. Nine years ago when I arrived here, Bombay was not the same city. There was strictly nothing to do and nowhere to go out, except to 5-star hotels. Foreigners were a rarity and I was cheated and ogled at everywhere I went. Finding food I like was nearly impossible. It was tough.
I tried to explain this to A and tell her how lucky she is to have come at a much more exciting time.
She also shared my views of living here with candid and upfront honesty. Difficulties that I tend to brush under the carpet and things she does not agree with. So I wondered if I am compromising too much with what I believe in. I was shocked to realize how Indianised I have become (I am not saying this is a bad thing) and as our hosts admired my Indian accent, I wondered how much of myself I have lost along the way, how much I have forgotten and mutated to fit in.
It was great to have this sort of a mirror in front of me which brought upon all these reflections again. I hope I can meet A again and get in touch with my inner Bulgarian more often.

I'm back!

2009-02-13T02:49:00.000-08:00

I can't believe that my last post was in September 2008!
And thanks to all those who wrote little notes asking what's up and why have I not been updating my blog... This is what really encouraged me to start again.
The thing is - A LOT has happened since my last posting. I don't even know where to start, so I will start chronologically:
--> September was the month when I found out I am pregnant. It was by far the biggest and most pleasant suprise of the year. So I guess I was too busy being sick, tired and elated all at once, to write in this blog. I am in my 5th month now, and have even more energy and ideas than before I got pregnant. So watch this space!
--> The terrorist attacks in Bombay happened, very close to our house. Three days of hearing shots, explosions, watching the gruesome coverage on TV, loosing friends and people we know, left us disillusioned and shocked. I honestly wondered what world am I bringing my child in. And it still hurts. Our city will never be the same.
--> I lost my grandmother...
--> We traveled to Kerala and Chandigarh.
--> My mom retired and went back to Bulgaria. I miss her every single day and the thought we are no longer on the same continent is unbearable.
--> For the first time since 15 years, I left my job without looking back and without having anything else on offer, to focuss on freelance writing and editing and later on, on motherhood. I am still shaking with the aftershock of this momentous event.
It is hard to imagine my life has gone through so much change and critical events. I hope it is for the best. Will keep you updated, I promise...

Careless whispers...

2008-09-05T06:19:00.000-07:00

I just love this time of the day. It is 6.30 pm, and the light is glorious and dim, the sky is buring in orange and hot white, and the evening descends gently, easing up the frown on my forehead. The crows have gone 'to bed', so instead I see groups of sparrows, and little green parrots flying in twos or fours, very close to the balcony. Their excited screams make them sound like little kids let loose by their parents to play ball after a whole day at home. And they do endless rounds of the building, in perfect sync. I am listening to a Celine Dion CD. It's so soothing... I could be anywhere in the world. This light makes every big city look alike. I could be happy anywhere in this light and cool breeze. I feel so calm, that I could let anything go, anyone walk all over me, anything happen... I can feel my heart overpouring with love for my family and friends. It is when I think of the most. And hope they are happy and fine, and thinking of me too. It's beautiful!

Marathi power

2008-08-29T00:13:00.001-07:00

This morning, I woke up to a whole new neighbourhood. When heading to work, I realised that there was something changed about the shop signs and billboards all over Colaba. The local Vodafone store had its name plastered in Marathi right accross the original (which was something like 'translating' Coca Cola??), a tailor had hastily glued a piece of paper with the Marathi equivalent of his already Marathi name under the original signage, and even the local pet shop owner was furiously scrubbing off the Marathi sign that he had mistakenly fixed upside down. And if you are sitting down, you may also want to know that the Colaba branch of McDonald's also had a sign in Marathi right underneath the original. Some shops had more permanently-looking signs, no doubt from the previous wave of violence inflicted by the Shiv Sena fascist party on the war path of saveguarding Maharashtra only for Maharashtirans, and reviving the 'pride' in the Marathi language.
I am all for local languages and their flourishing. I am all for Maharashtrians speaking their mother tongue and being proud of it. I am all for the preservation of local culture and expression. I think every language is beautiful and unique. And I have all intention is speaking Bulgarian to my kids one day.
However, I think Marathi now will forever have a negative connotation for me, because of the 'methods' Mr Raj Thackeray is employing to convince people to do just that. Breaking shops and property of people who are feeding a family with their businesses; treatening; going on a rampage; lecturing and imposing on others what they think is 'right'.
Mr Thackeray, if you are so hell-bent on saving the Marathi language, why don't you fight for teacher's salaries to become more adequate? Why don't you sponsor a few marathi-medium schools with the same amount of money which gets wasted in the chaos and destruction your 'men' cause? Why don't you encourage Marathi book stores, search for talented writers in your native language, spread leaflets promoting the beauty and importance of it, start a magazine... I heard that you are now putting pressure on TV channels to start programmes in Marathi. Will you pay for the air time they may lose if those programmes are not watched? Will you compensate all these shop owners for whom it may be detrimental to have their business names displayed in Marathi? How can you force any private initiative to change its name to suit your purpose?
I can sit here and endlessly think of constructive ways and means to achieve your purpose. But of course, it is so much easier to break and destroy; it is so much more 'profitable' incensing a band of not very intelligent 'men' with nothing better to do in life, to go on a rampage and take out their frustration on people who actually work, call them your 'party workers' thus almost giving them a legitimate 'designation' allowing them to throw their weight around.
However, I really think the cherry on the cake was when your 'men' demanded that the Bombay Scottish school, a hundreds of years old institution, change its name to Mumbai Scottish. You are a genius, Mr Thackeray. I will not be surprised if tomorrow you send your 'men' to all public libraries and ask them to destroy all historical or age-old volumes which still mention 'Mumbai' as 'Bombay'.
With what guts do you think, Mr Thackeray, that you will be able to change a nation's history, an essential part of which is the English language, thanks to which now your compatriots can study in the best universities abroad, land profitable jobs, travel the world and communicate, read literature, and have such a big advantage over other Asian countries (completely underutilised, but this is a different subject). You are like a bully in a school yard, loathed solely because of your 'muscle power'. Only in your case this power is combined with lethal intelligence, able to manipulate people in following you in your destructive and power-hungry aspirations.
I will not be surprised if soon you demand Maharashtra's independence from the rest of India and proclaim yourself the king.

The 'imported' daughter-in-law diaries?

2008-08-12T02:34:00.000-07:00

This week, my very talented brother-in-law Raj Patel (Gurtaj's sister's husband) launched his much-acclaimed book, Stuffed and Starved (www.stuffedandstarved.org), in Delhi. And while Harper Collins India made a mess of the whole exercise (topic of another post), there were a few light moments. One of the panelists started with a speech about Indians wanting everything foreign. He started with the lowest creature in the food chain - the worm. He bemoaned how worms are killed with pesticides, and then 'we' import worms from Mexico to do vermiculture. He continued with the more noble seeds and grains, went through the vegetables, and reached the sacred cow - which, it seems, we also cross breed like mad, or just import, with disregard to our biological heritage. "But that's not all," he raised his voice even more, with a glint in his eyes, proud of having found another soundbyte, "We are now not happy with Indian daughters-in-law, and prefer to get foreign ones!!!" He could have not known that the girl turning crimson red on the first row was an 'imported' daughter-in-law, but there were Gurtaj's friends (some of them with a lethal sense of humour), Dr Vandana Shiva whom I had interviewed, my in-laws, a bunch of relatives, the culprit who 'imported' me, my in-laws AND of course Raj. They all bursted out laughing (some of them going as far as pointing at me) - with double the strenght they would have usually - because the pun was oh-so-unintended. And the speaker beamed even more, proud of having cracked the joke of the evening.
So now, friends, it is good to know where I stand in the Indian tree of life:
worm
seed
grain
vegetable
cow
daughter-in-law (imported)
Or should I say, in the food chain of essential consumatives???
Thank you, sir!!!

The recent blasts in India

2008-07-29T10:41:00.000-07:00

I was far removed from any 'reality' when the bomb blasts happened. I was in the peaceful island of Bintan, in Indonesia, basking in the sun and the warm Chinese Sea. When the blasts in Bangalore were flashed on the internet, it gave us a heavy heart, but we continued partying. The next day, we logged on to follow up on the Bangalore investigations, but instead whet the screen was screaming at us was '17 blasts in Ahmedabad'!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The feeling was nothing short of shattered. What is happening to our country?! Aren't we ridden enough with dirt, poverty, diseases, overpopulation, and now this? And why do such things always seem to moslty affect the common guy, out there to earn an extra buck, taking the train to go back to his family, or barely making ends meet. The guy far removed from any agenda other than what to put on his family's plates the next day... I know I sound populist and naive here, but I feel there is complete disconnect between means and ends, as misery is added to more misery. And human life seems to be so cheap...
People due to travel to India were scared... But honestly, today, this could happen anywhere, even in the most developed country. I was in London when the subway and bus blasts happened.
What personally scares me here is that when something similar happens in India, you never know if an ambulance will reach you or not. You don't know what hospital you will be taken to. I am scared of the fact that chaos breeds more chaos. Bodies are being lifted without concern for the kind of injury they have and whether this would make it worst. People are left to fend for themselves and do with whatever resources they have on their disposal. I am sure the police does a great job, but sometimes they just seem so archaic and so pathetically underpaid and undisciplined. Uneducated crowds gather immediately to stare or to help, which completely destroys a lot of evidence. Cameramen step all over each other to get this shot of a torn off leg or arm, or a splatter of blood, which channels will repeat in a loop again and again and again.
What also scares me is the sophistication and arrogance of the attacks - they did not even wait for a few days before hitting Ahmedabad!

THE COMPANY OF WOMEN

2008-05-30T01:44:00.000-07:00

I am not going to be discussing Khushwant Singh’s book here, but I can’t think of a better title! Because this is what is happening to me here! From a household dominated by a man and a male housekeeper, I am now in an oestrogen-filled apartment in Sofia – my aunt, her two daughters (pictured here), my grandmother, and the dog – female! Somewhere in between all this – my uncle, always nervously smoking in a corner.
Flashback to an episode of Friends I saw some time ago – the one where Rachel is moving out as Chandler is moving in with Monica. The two of them are remembering the good times and the little signs of attention they used to give to each other, and the small ways in which they took care of each other. It all ends with Monica letting out a teary wail: ‘You are moving out! And now I have to live with a booooooyyyyy!’
Yep… living with other women has its advantages. You can borrow anything – from cellulite gel to tweezers. If you say you need hair volumiser they actually know what you are talking about. They empathise when you say you did not sleep the whole night as this new slimming product makes you pee every 15 minutes, and they notice the impeccable stitching and finish of your new dress. They can tell that 3 months ago you had blond highlights which still look not that bad, and they can tell you whether your khaki or green shoes go better with your trousers – to a man, both would look exactly the same! They know the difference between normal sugar, brown sugar, raw sugar and sweetener. And the difference between slow carbs, fast carbs and fibre. They know the latest celebrity gossip and don’t mind discussing it with you as if their lives depended on it. They don’t think you are nuts if you cry watching the latest Brazilian TV series. And yes, they understand why, when you see a pile of dirty clothes on the floor or a stain on the tablecloth, you feel like someone is wrenching your guts!
In this house, we can walk around half naked without a worry in this world, pointing out each other’s flaws without taking it personally and feeling like s…t for days. We can take cleaning and storage tips from each other. We can bitch about men and feel human. We can discuss what the gyanec said last time we went for a checkup, without fear that someone will get turned off.I LOVE this time spend with them… Until the day I have to take the plane to Bombay and go back to ‘living with a booooooyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!'

NOSTALGIA

2008-05-30T01:42:00.000-07:00

I have been in Sofia for almost five days now. I am mostly home looking after my grandmother. So every time I step out for a breather, it is like a brainwave of nostalgia. It is funny how the people we have been slowly vanish into some secret compartment of our brains, which gets unlocked by the strangest of things. In my case, songs I hear on the radio while in a cab, names and faces in newspapers (now mostly gone white and wrinkled), ad jingles, old book covers, old jokes… And suddenly I am 15 again, carelessly walking the streets of ‘this town where I was born’ (another old song I heard in a cab today). I am my old lanky and carefree self. Memories flow in and I almost have the feeling I am peeking into someone else’s life. I look at the people around me, and I can see how their dreams, lives have changed since I have been away. And I realise how far removed from all this I have become. And honestly, I can’t decide if this is wrong or right… I feel home, and yet I feel completely lost. I realise that my brain takes more time to process information delivered in Bulgarian. I ask people to repeat things and explain again. They must be thinking I am retarded or something! When Gurtaj calls me on the phone, I suddenly get an Eastern European accent I have never had before, and I feel I speak English with a Bulgarian sing song in it.

THE WORLD FROM THE AIR

2008-05-30T01:27:00.000-07:00

I am on a flight from Bombay to London (final destination – Sofia) and I am flying over the most amazing landscape of arid mountains, gorges and plateaus. As far as the eye can see, all there is, is brown land, at places creased and wrinkled like old cardboard. No water. A lonely little town is in the distance, and I can see a long, straight road cutting through, going into the unknown. Ashkhabad and Mashhad. This is all the tangible information I can get from the map provided on my screen. Never very good at geography, I am clueless as per what country I am flying over. I will definitely have to look it over as soon as I get an Internet connection. My heart swells as I look down at this land so far removed from my reality, and from the reality of most passengers on this airplane. I am trying to imagine the lives of those living underneath, how they cope with this unforgiving landscape. I wonder what animals live down below… Will I ever visit this place in my lifetime? We are soon going to fly over Baku, Yerevan (and several other ex-Soviet strongholds with exotic names) and Kiev… Then on to Vienna, etc. etc. The world is so incredibly big! So much to see! So many stories and different lifestyles, most of them never to be known to me! It is amazing and sad at the same time. A strange feeling of insignificance and loneliness also creeps in. I feel a particle of something far beyond full understanding.

A FEW DAYS LATER: And here is some information on Ashkhabad:

It is the capital and largest city of Turkmenistan, a country in Central Asia. It has a population of 695,300 and is situated between the Kara Kum desert (which I must have seen from the plane) and the Kopet Dag mountain range. Ashgabat has a primarily Turkmen population, with minorities of ethnic Russians, Armenians and Azeris. It is 250 km from the second largest city in Iran, Mashhad (another name I saw on the electronic route map). The name is believed to derive from the Persian Ashk-ābād meaning "the City of Arsaces." Another explanation is that the name is a dialect version of the Persian عشق (eshq meaning "love") and آباد (ābād meaning "cultivated place" or "city", etymologically "abode"), and hence loosely translates as "the city of love."Ashgabat is a relatively young city, growing out of a village of the same name established in 1818. It is not far from the site of Nisa, ancient capital of the Parthians and the ruins of the Silk Road city of Konjikala, which had been destroyed either by an earthquake in the first decade BC, or by the Mongols in the 13th century. It remained a part of Persia until 1884. In 1869, Russian soldiers built a fortress on a hill near the village, and this added security soon attracted merchants and craftsmen to the area. Tsarist Russia annexed the region in 1884 from Persia under he terms of Akhal Treaty, and chose to develop the town as a regional center due to its proximity to the border of British-influenced Persia. It was regarded as a pleasant town with European style buildings, shops and hotels. It was re-named Poltoratsk under Soviet rule. A merciless earthquake in 1948 killed 2\3rd of its population... Pictures on the Internet show a beautiful city with gold cupolas and impressive buildings, nothing to do with the arid landscape I saw...

Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans

2008-05-22T03:36:00.000-07:00

I love this quote (which today I found out is from a John Lennon song) and I find it is so true! You just have to look at all the disasters happening around in the world and realise how fickle any sort of major life plan is, even if it is for a short period of time.
I am talking about another sort of disaster here. While I was busy planning a blissful first month in our new home, in complete privacy (with the cook, driver and maid on leave!), my grandma in Bulgaria fell (after a very strong dizzy spell which caused disorientation – yet not diagnosed why) and injured her back. She is bed-ridden now and my aunt has been looking after her. My mum, just a few months before retiring from the Bulgarian embassy in Delhi, has been grounded by me – I have put my foot down that she can’t travel now. So to make her feel less guilty, I am heading to Sofia to spend time with my granny. Life happened, with all my other plans going into flames.
I have been strangely stressed about leaving, almost feeling like I will be traveling ‘abroad’ and thus uprooting myself from my Bombay life. And of course, having to face some harsh realities:
- my family getting older and frailer
- rubbing in the distance factor
- domestic issues that are so well taken care of here, which drive my family and friends in Bulgaria insane
- complete lack of control and comfort in the country that used to be my own
- my mother being in the same position one day and me being the only child
Weird realizations…

The good thing is that the control freak in me is finally starting to lay lower, understanding that the more I want to control something, the more life is amused to throw a wrench in the wheel of my just about steady bicycle wheel. So all of you control freaks out there, remember: hope for the best but be ready for the worst; if you have the chance to finish off something, do it NOW; if you want to do something positive for yourself or others, just jump at the deep end, don’t start with endless excel sheets and daydreaming – just do it if you have the time.
Another positive thought: the definition of ‘luxury’ for me today is the fact that I can just get up and go because I have to and because I want to. I can lean back on an incredibly supportive husband and a really cool boss, and I don’t need to worry financially. I am so grateful for that!

So now my plans are to spend quality time with granny and finally get around to doing that book on childhood recipes that make me feel home; catching up on reading and on the latest gossip in my cousin’s lives; going on a diet while I am there (!!!) and of course loading up on my favourite Bulgarian designers whenever I get the time to go shopping!

And by the way, here’s John Lennon’s song with the above quote:

BEAUTIFUL BOY
Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster's gone
He's on the run and your daddy's here
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Before you go to sleep
Say a little prayer
Every day in every way
It's getting better and better
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
Beautiful boy
Out on the ocean sailing away
I can hardly wait to see you come of age
But I guess we'll both just have to be patient
'Cause it's a long way to go
A hard row to hoe
Yes it's a long way to go
But in the meantime
Before you cross the street
Take my hand
Life is what happens to you
While you're busy making other plans

DAY DREAMING

2008-05-07T02:14:00.000-07:00

At office... My soul feels like a trapped bird. Today I want to...
- feel winter air in my lungs
- look at fresh blossoms
- plant basil on my kitchen window sill
- browse a shop for vintage clothes
- sit in the Tuilerries garden and sip on a Perimenthe
- hug a dog
- walk and feel the fresh spring air in my face
- explore a city with a camera in hand
- see something excruciatingly beautiful and feel my heart swell
- take black and white photos of Gurtaj
- have coffee with my mother
- arrange flowers
- learn to mambo
- eat strawberry sorbet at Ile Saint Louis
- visit my grandmother and talk about the old times
- run my fingers through her white curly hair
- create a beautiful living room
- rinse my hair with diluted apple vinegar for extra shine
- look at a clear blue sky and feel like crying with joy
- take a bus and miss my stop, just because I felt like
- I want to be greeted with a smile and smell of cinnamon at the neighbourhood baker
- sit on a wooden planks floor and listen to jazz while leafing through magazines

Thought of the day...

2008-04-10T02:27:00.000-07:00

Virginia Woolfe's interpretation of incandescence in ‘A Room of Her Own’:
Being independent and owing nothing to anybody is essential to achieve the state of mind necessary to produce great art. With material and financial independence, "no force in the world can take from me my five hundred pounds. Food, house and clothing are mine for ever. I need not hate any man; he can not hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me" Material independence grants its owner an emotional independence, it allows one to be free of "grudges and spites and antipathies," to have one's mind unclouded by "alien emotions like fear and hatred". Woolf calls this state of mind "incandescence".

Just wasting time...

2008-03-31T04:31:00.001-07:00

This little girl was blissfully playing with her own hands at the Kemps Corner traffic light, creating a little world of fun, all her own.

Dia

2008-03-05T01:48:00.000-08:00

I met her at Tanah Lok temple in Bali. She was trying to sell me some colourful souvenirs with quiet desperation on her face. She had no time for my niceties. She was here to do a job. There are plenty of street children in India trying to sell me stuff, but Dia somehow tore my heart with her grown up almond eyes, neat ponytail, clean clothes and sling bag, translucent flawless skin and serious expression. I could not touch her on the head, as I read in The Lonely Planet that here the head is considered the home of the spirit, and it is very rude to touch it. So I just made eye contact and spoke to her gently, asking her to smile and then showing her the photo on my digicam. This somehow brightened her up, until she disappeared into the crowd of tourists, on a mission.

Of dogs and golfers with soft hearts

2008-03-05T01:17:00.000-08:00

What you see is the most expensive grass that a golf course would have - "The Green". No one, and I repeat, no one is allowed to step on it without special golf shoes. And no one (except the caddie) could even dream of hanging out there while a golfer is putting towards the hole. But at Tollygunge Golf Club in Kolkata, the rules are different. Here, stray dogs are allowed, loved and welcomed everywhere.

Meet Julie, supposedly 18 years old. I watched her with my heart in my mouth, shuffling with her arthritic legs to The Green, and lying down there, blissfully soaking up the sun. A group of golfers were all around, and one of them cautiously started approaching her. Just when I though he would tap her with his golf club and prod her to go away, he... bent down and patted her with utmost care and affection!!! Julie is also the only dog allowed within The Shamiana - the open air cafe at the club, where players and guests can have tea, snacks or breakfast. She has her own little food and water bowls in a corner, and is a permanent 'fixture' around. She was sleeping peacefully one morning, until a table of elderly gentlemen (the type I would normally assume hate dogs) was served hot steaming omelettes and toast. Almost blind Julie woke up, smelled the air, and slowly limped towards their table. She stood there for good 5-10 minutes, patiently. Until one of the men lovingly cut a piece of omelette and gave it to her, patting her on the head for dessert. The fact is, The Shamiana was full, and everyone's table was laden with delicious treats. Why did she go to this table?

The next day at breakfast, I saw a lady giving Julie her daily dose of vitamins (!). She told me that on days when the kitchen is closed, she comes especially from home to make sure the old lady is fed and happy!

It would have been hard to miss a horde of small puppies running around. In the evening, the club staff secures them in an old concrete tub, and covers them with cardboard, so that the jackals which abound around the premises, don't eat them up at night. Someone is responsible for taking them out at the crack of dawn. And yes, "a doctor did come around last week to check out their skin disease, madam". And part of the watchman's duties is to make sure the puppies stay off the drive in alley of the club (which he demonstrated proudly, gently using a short stick).

Thought of the day...

2008-03-04T22:43:00.000-08:00

I recently discovered an amazing blog by Janice, living in DC, a musician fascinated by jewellery. If you need something to spark off your creativity on a dull day, visit http://goddessfindingsjewelsforthespirit.blogspot.com/

I am grateful to janice for publishing an excerpt of one of my favourite books, Like Water for Chocolate, by Laura Esquivel:

“In 1669, Brandt, a chemist from Hamburg, was searching for the philosophers stone discovered phosphorous. My grandmother Morning Star, she was a Kikapu Indian, she used to say that we’re all born with a box of matches inside. We can’t light them by ourselves. Just like in this experiment, we need oxygen and the help of a candle. Except that in our case, the oxygen has to come, for example, from a lover’s breath. The candle can be anything: a melody, a word, a caress, a sound anything that pulls the trigger and sets off one of the matches, Everyone has to discover what will pull his trigger and enable him to live because it it’s the explosive flair of a match that feeds our souls. If there’s nothing to trigger the explosion, our box of matches becomes damp an then we’ll never be able to light any of them."

So what lights up your inner fire?

American Gangster follow up

2008-03-04T02:27:00.000-08:00

I recently saw American Gangster and as I always get super excited about real stories, I decided to read up a bit more on Frank Lucas. And stumbled upon this amazing piece by a New York Magazine journalist who actually spent a whole day with Lucas and recorded his memories. A rare, mesmerizing insight: http://nymag.com/nymetro/news/people/features/3649/

Glimpses of Kala Ghoda

2008-02-17T08:37:00.000-08:00

Once a year, in February, the heritage area of Kala Ghoda ("the black horse", named after a statue which is now in the Byculla Zoo of Bombay), transforms into a bustling non-traffic zone full of street stalls selling crafts and books, open air exhibitions and performances, and all kinds of cool stuff. I love this time of the year!

The nip is still in the Bombay air...

2008-02-14T09:22:00.000-08:00

Love, actually...

2008-02-14T01:01:00.000-08:00

Have always looked forward to reading The Speaking Tree, the spirituality column in The Times Of India. And I really enjoyed this one. Wishing everyone happy Valentine's Day!

ALL YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT LOVE

By Ashok Vohra, published in The Times Of India, February 14th, 2008
Love is a basic emotion, yet you cannot plan to fall in love or create conditions for being in love. It is something over which you have no control. Either you fall in love or you do not. It is ordained. Ramakrishna explains this with the following analogy: "When a huge tidal wave comes, all the little brooks and ditches become full to the brim without any effort or consciousness on their own part”. However, there are some criteria for judging whether one is in love or not.

The first test is that you do not want exclusive possession of the object of your love. You wish the world to know of your love. You could declare your love from the rooftop. And you wish to do or say whatever makes the person you love happy. M K Gandhi said: "Love and exclusive possession can never go together. Theoretically where there is perfect love, there must be perfect non-possession”.

The second test of love is that there can be no bargain. It does not recognise reward or punishment. Love itself is a merit, and itself its own reward. Beyond itself love seeks neither cause nor outcome; the outcome of it is one with the practice of it. You love something or someone for its own sake and not because you want or desire a favour in return. Love is not a means to some ephemeral or non-ephemeral end, but is an end in itself. Love is not a response to a certain positive situation. You can go on loving... for when you give your love it comes back millions of times more. The notion of giving is so consequential to love that "if you do not give it, it goes, it becomes dead, it becomes a dead weight on you. It becomes hatred — it turns into its very opposite. It becomes fear, it becomes jealousy, it becomes possessiveness”, said Osho.

The third test of real love is the annihilation of the ego. It obliterates the distinction between the self and the other by an unconditional surrender to the other; rather it is a total merger, a complete synthesis with the beloved. In true love the lover and the beloved are one. The sense of your own identity and individuality vanishes. The other, therefore, does not place a limit on the lover’s freedom; rather, communion with the beloved leads to unbound freedom. It frees us from limits imposed on us by our ahamkara — ego.

The fourth test of real love is that it knows no fear. Fear could be of unfulfilled desires. If your love springs from fear of punishment, or from your desires being fulfilled, then it is no love at all. Love and fear are incompatible, because in love there is no place for desire.

The fifth test of love is that you love what you consider to be the best. Therefore, the beloved person, object, or ideal is unique. It is the highest from the perspective of the lover; from others’ perspective it may not be so. For others some other ideal could be higher than this one. But for the lover the beloved is the best.

The sixth test of real love is that the lover does not so much believe in pedantic and powerless reason which merely argues but is not able to establish a direct contact with the beloved. The lover gives up the fruitless intellectual groping in the dark, and trusts his own direct experience. He does not give reasons and argu-ments, nor depend upon inference but depends on direct perception and lived life experience.
The writer is head, department of philosophy, Delhi University

A Day In The Life Of Bombay

2008-02-11T04:58:00.000-08:00

- The fascist party of the Shiv Sena is at it again, beating up 'outsiders' and vandalising signs in English. Newspapers are overflowing with letters and interviews where people inanimously say that Bombay is for everyone and its beauty lies in its cosmopilitan natur. Anyone listening?

- a couple drowns (!!!) in the sea near Bandra Bandstand

- real estate prices are soaring - again

- 6 LeT men were arrested just before blowing up bombs at Churchgate station

- a headline in the newspaper says that in the 21st century shining India, child sacrifice (mainly girls) is rampant in West Bengol.

I am angry.

Sick to the stomach.

Speechless.

Furious.

Wondering.

Sad.

Then a phone call comes. Gurtaj tells me that cars on Bombay's busiest intersection all stopped so that a man can shift an injured pigeon from the middle of the road to the foot path.

I am hopeful.

Kinky Boots

2008-01-22T00:42:00.000-08:00

Mom and I had a movie marathon recently, and caught one of the best feel-good movies I have seen recently - Kinky Boots. A very Brit comedy, I found out today that it was actually based on a true story: Charlie Brown's family has been running a shoe factory for more than hundred years. And just as Charlie decides to defy the family tradition and move out of town, his father dies and he has to take over the reins of the factory. He very soon finds out that his father has been steadily losing business without telling anyone. After laying off several people, Charlie decides to do something to save the factory... A chance meeting with a drag queen, Lola, changes everything... And soon they come out with their very own collection of drag queen foot wear (built to support the weight of a man on stilettos). Really cool, really light, and really inspiring.

THE KABUL BEAUTY SCHOOL, By Deborah Rodrigues

2008-01-21T03:16:00.001-08:00

Just finished reading this book and I am eager to share with everyone Debbie's incredible story. At first glance, a small-town American hairdresser volunteering in war-torn Afghanistan after the fall of the Taliban in 2001, would have strictly nothing to do there. But here's a typical, amazing example of being at the right place at the right time, and turning a small advantage into something much bigger than yourself.

Shyly standing amongst her co-aid workers, Debbie listens at everyone being introduced as doctor, epidemiologist, educator, and dreads what explanation would be given about her presence there. But at the moment she is introduced as a hair dresser and beautician, the whole room of foreigners living in Kabul erupts with applause, and before she knows it, she is busy, from morning to evening, cutting hair, giving highlights and pedicures to people from all different nationalities.

From here comes an idea, which, little she knows, will start a mini-revolution in the lives of many an Afghan women. Debbie realises that in the patriarchal Afghani culture, being a hairdresser or a beautician, is one of the very very few professions which give a woman the legitimate reason to leave her home and earn money. So she decides to start a beauty school, as a mean of empowerment and livelihood for Afghani women. Back in the US, she starts collecting donations from customers and even manages to involve big cosmetics companies to contribute money and supplies for the school. Ecstatic, she goes back to Kabul (leaving her mother and two teenage sons back in America) and thus starts a story worth a blockbuster - a lone American woman struggles with prejudice, threats to her security, finances, the rough conditions in the country and bureaucracy, to not only initiate social change, but also change her own life forever (getting a glimpse of life behind the veil, committing every possible cultural faux pas, and even marrying an Afghan man 10 years younger than her - knowing she is his second wife). This is a story of incredible guts, living life to the fullest, of unlikely friendships, and a simple truth I only too well understand - sometimes it is hard to change an injustice happening right in front of your eyes. It is not easy to go into a country with such harsh realities and ancient, rigid culture, and just wave a magic wand. It needs a lot of patience, understanding, treading with a velvet glove.

Another moral of the story for me, personally, is: even if you are wondering about a place and thinking 'what the hell am I doing here?', you never, absolutely never know what life has in stock for you, and sometimes the most unexpected thing can empower you and give a meaning to your existence.

Read more on http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/04/11/DDG5SP5EOE1.DTL

CLICK!

2008-01-21T00:26:00.000-08:00

Recently, stuck at home with high fever and an awful cough, too tired to work online or even read, I found solace in some long-forgotten daytime TV. Sweating it out under a blanket, amongst mountains of used tissues and swigging from a bottle of nicely intoxicating cough syrup, I spent two days into a blur of movie repeats, soap operas and shows that I would normally miss while in office the whole day.

PASS THE SOAP!

THE BOLD AND THE BEAUTIFUL
Can you believe this is still going on? I mean, at this point, everyone has married and re-married everyone possible in this series; Brooke has conceived every single or married hero’s child; Stephanie has plotted and implemented an evil plan against every woman her sons cast an eye upon; all imaginable disappeared or illegitimate relatives have shown up… Many of the heroes already have gray hair. But no, the action continues, and honestly, even if you have missed a few hundred episodes, there’s no problem in catching up thanks to nagging flashbacks. And yes, Brooke is still sleeping around and crying, Ridge is still not sure about her, and Stephanie is still as evil as can be.

THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS
This is where The Bold and The Beautiful rejects live a parallel life, with their own affairs and plots. Switched channels within 5 minutes.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS
Did you know that Zee Studio shows back to back episodes of Friends?! I didn’t, and it made my day. This is one show which never bores me or tires me up. Each joke is a gem, each episode is unique!

HEROES
Ok, everyone is watching it. But allow me not to be part of the herd. Already past the freshness of the first few episodes, the protagonists’ tricks and travails have become like something the dog chewed on and then left in a corner – stale and boring. I love the way Claire (Hayden Panettiere) has transformed from a high school cheer leader into a beautiful young woman, and the Brit accent of India-born Mohinder Suresh (Sendhil Ramamurthy), but that’s about it…

NEVER WATCHED BEFORE…

HANGING UP
I was ecstatic to catch this movie with Meg Ryan, Diane Keaton and Lisa Kudrow. I had read some reviews and was looking forward to a feel-good two hours. But fell flat on my face. I didn’t quite understand why the two sisters played by Diane and Lisa never went to visit their dying father, while a Mother Theresa-ish Meg never left his bedside despite all the mean things he had said to her. And the three sisters dynamics was somehow weak. At least it helped me fall asleep…

REEL TO REAL

WIFE SWAP
The person who invented the concept must have been a genius, and the way the show has been shot and edited is just brilliant. Imagine two families, can’t be more different from each other than that (a couple with two sons and a daughter living as pirates vs a super-organised household where each and every thing is labeled; or a family where the kids have to go to the bathroom on schedule and sign against their daily chores graph vs a family where the three sons are allowed to do whatever they want, with mommy succumbing to their every wish). The two wives swap homes for two weeks. The first week, they have to live as per the existing household rules. The next, they have the right to implement their own rules. Watch the fun as clashes and fights occur, while also subtle, gentle change happens, and both families find balance in their extreme existences.

COOKING UP A STORM

I could finally get a glimpse of the much talked-about celebrity chef Nigella Watson and see for myself what all the fuss is about. Men find her very sensual – tick against that point – I agree nature has gifted her the right assets (and some more, having in mind that at the end of the program they showed her going to the fridge at night and polishing off the leftovers). However, I found her drawl very unappetizing, and her cooking too oil-heavy.

KYLIE KWONG
From the way she talks food, to the frequent “mmmm”s interspersing her demos, everything about this program is absolutely delicious! I watched her for half an hour, mesmerized and hypnotized, dishing out a Peking Duck with plum sauce and fresh condiments. And decided the first thing I’ll do after getting better is dust my cookbooks and re-arrange my pantry.

ANTHONY BOURDAIN: NO RESERVATIONS
This man’s taste for adventure and unusual flavours is just too sexy! The way he can describe a place and its food, and mingle with the locals, is extremely down-to-earth, honest and raw. Love it!

PAST PERFECT
It’s official – daytime TV gets all the old, done to death movies. Several times I got stranded flicking channels for something decent to watch, only to end up recycling ancient UFO movies and horror flicks (although I must say they are much less scary during the day – The Grudge would normally get me screaming with nightmares, but this time I survived through it like I would through an episode of Sesame Street). However, I was very happy to catch up on an old favourite of mine - Practical Magic, with Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock. Brought up by two aunts who are witches, these two sisters are also witches, and so are Sandra’s character’s two daughters. It is a cute, heart-warming story about love, family, loss, fighting and making up. Plus, I can’t remember a movie where Sandra has looked more sexy, feminine and absolutely beautiful! A must-see! I balanced the very girlie aftertaste of this movie, by watching, back-to-back, The Jackal. Bruce Willis and Richard Gere… Need I say more?

Only in Bombay...

2008-01-07T20:39:00.000-08:00

... you can see "Shantaram", or ex-Australian convict and now a bestselling author of the book with the same name Gregory David Roberts, and the princess of Sweden, riding a beautiful black motorcycle on Regal Circle. Both in leather jackets, she, sporting oversized shades. Both in their late 50s, they are nevertheless gorgeous - tall, slim, fit and both with long blond hair.

Between worlds

2008-01-07T20:23:00.000-08:00

This is an excerpt from Anthony Bourdain's book NO RESERVATIONS, based on the TV show with the same name (airing on Discovery Travel + Living). It really "spoke" to me, althought he talks about travel to many different places.

"... When you're a tourist on vacation, coming home means coming back to real life: familiar places, relationships, work, love, the rent... But when you travel for a living - when "work" is drinking ayahuasca with a jungle shaman or standing on a glacier, when you're as likely, on any given day, to be trudging down a riverbed in Borneo as standing in line at Starbucks - you start to ask yourself: Which of these is my "real" life? And if the answer is that the road is the real thing, how do you go back? How do you pick up your old life, your normal life, after you've seen all this? Returning to grilled cheese and bacon, or even a good piece of fish - sauteed Western style with a drizzle of butter sauce and microgreen garnish - seems flat and lifeless after experiencing the colours and condiments of Asia. The expectations of a meal become distorted... The clothes you see and wear back home seem shapeless and washed out... The bar at the W hotel in Westwood starts to seem alien, airless and sterile. And you fear that one day you will look at your friends and loved ones and think: "I was sitting under a bouquet of human skulls, drinking rice whiskey and eating wild pig with my new headhunter buddies last week. How do I feign the appropriate level of interest in everyday things?" It has been said that we find out more about ourselves when we travel than about the places we visit. And it's true that I always look for a universality - some common ground, a unified theory of human behaviour. A comfortable takeaway that would describe the world and the behaviour of everyone in it."

Where is home?

2008-01-07T06:10:00.000-08:00

It's one of these days, when there's a woman inside my head, screaming and demanding answers. Looking for a meaning. Looking for a straw of logic to hold on to. Trying to reconcile "loving India" with "making sense of India". Struggling to remember the person I once was, before moving stock and barrel thousands of kilometers from everything I knew and everyone who knew me upside down. And almost burning all bridges behind me.

There are sometimes days, when I realise that I have gone through months of total haze and robot-like motions. Then I look around and it hits me: I live here now... Yes, after 8 years I still have "moments of truth". I don't know if people around me realise it: the monumental nature of this move. Although I did it totally in love, not caring of any consequences. With a heart wide open. Till recently, I did not realise it myself. I wonder if then I had this knowledge, I would have still made the move. I look at my husband, and I know - I would have done it in a heart beat.

But nevertheless, here I am today, ridden with questions and so few answers. The most important one being - who am I? Trying to put together the pieces I have left behind, and the new traits of Me in India. Struggling to remember the idealistic beliefs in humanity I had, many of which I have had to put to rest here. The dreams and visions of myself which will probably never come true. The belief that love conquers all, no matter what circumstances life throws at you. The conviction that people change, and tradition, religion and pre-conceptions of how life should be, stop to matter when you are consumed with so much passion...

With the adrenalin rush going down, it all starts to sink in. This is not an adventure, it's life. This is not a wild ride, it is a marriage, which I have accepted to live in a totally foreign, sometimes incomprehensible culture. And this is not a country on my list of 1000 Places To Visit Before I Die, this is home... This is the time when the hundreds of small rivers of life come togeher, and one big stream starts flowing full strenght to the unknown.

This is the time for some important decisions and reconciliations.

- I may never be able to raise my children the way I was raised, the way my parents are raised
- they will have very different memories from mine
- they will live customs and everyday things completely foreign to me
- I may have a son with long hair - who may be a complete misfit in Bulgaria
- I will speak with my children a language their father does not understand, and they will speak to their paternal grandparents a language I do not understand
- I may have to accept that most of my Bulgarian relatives will go through the most important moments of their lives without me around
- and I will go through some of the most important moments of my life without them around
- I may have to burry a very large part of my rebelious self and start being "more accepting"
- there are certain things about myself that my husband will never understand
- there are things I loathe about India that will NEVER change - I am the one who will become harder
- I will NEVER wear a floating white dress and will never be kissed in public
- I may have to accept cremation as a last rite, although I fear fire more than anything else
- I may have to accept that one day, after everyone around me is gone and my kids are away studying in whetever country they choose, I will be here alone

I miss home today SO MUCH! But I am afraid that if I say it to my mother, she will say "I told you so" and if I say it to my husband, he will feel guilty for no fault of his.

As promised, Mauritius photos

2007-12-15T05:21:00.000-08:00

MAURITIUS: Sugar & spice & all things nice

2007-12-14T02:06:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-12T02:17:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-29T21:05:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-14T03:15:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-13T20:34:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-12T05:45:00.000-08:00

Chandigarh Whispers

2007-11-10T00:21:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-06T01:13:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-05T05:22:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-10-19T01:40:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-18T00:46:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-10-16T06:36:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-04T07:53:00.001-07:00

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...

2007-09-29T06:54:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-18T04:07:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-09-12T01:20:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-09-01T06:10:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-09-01T06:05:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-08-29T04:17:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-08-29T04:01:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-29T03:42:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-27T08:33:00.000-07:00

... 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...

2007-08-23T10:22:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-08-23T03:33:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-08-23T03:15:00.000-07:00

Published in DNA Newspaper

Not a firang for them...

2007-08-22T07:57:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-22T04:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-21T08:48:00.000-07:00

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.

The Beginning

2007-08-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

I have a brand new laptop - a sunshine yellow Dell. I stumbled upon a interpretation of the colour yellow, and it said it is the colour of creative pursuits. So I took it as s sign and decided to start this long-planned blog. It is a bit scary thinking that the thoughts I write here will be out there for the world to read. But what I hope to achieve is

1. That other women, "stuck between two cultures" associate with my ramblings.
2. Promote the beauty and richness of India to the world, and show my adopted home beyond the newspaper cliches.
3. Find some answers to the question which always hounds me: why India?

I am also creating a work space for myself in the guest room - an old desk, and a few colourful box files are all I need.

Let the adventure begin!