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Break-up Day: The Quiet Counter-Festival

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When endings happen in silence We celebrate success but failure is a private funeral. We have inaugurations, ribbon cuttings, housewarmings, but rarely do we speak of closures or endings. There are no ceremonies for what quietly falls apart, no polite announcements for what no longer works. No wonder then that when a relationship dies, it is seldom acknowledged publicly. Haven’t we seen that couples who once had grand weddings, when they speak of their divorce later, do so with a faint touch of apology, explanation, or sometimes accusation in their tone? As if endings must justify themselves in ways beginnings never have to. Why am I thinking of all this today? Valentine’s Week, that carefully curated emotional calendar of all things rosy, officially ended last Saturday. Each day had a name- Rose Day, Propose Day, Chocolate Day, every gesture assigned its slot, every emotion given a stage, finally culminating in the grand exhibition of it all- Valentine’s Day. And then came Ant...
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Two Years of Trying to Like Beetroot

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My heart does not beet for it! Beet Harvest II (or Harvesting beetroots II), a painting by the Polish artist Leon Wyczółkowski (1852–1936),   National Museum in Warsaw. This tale began with one beetroot tikki (Indian style cutlet). Most of the time, fried, unhealthy foods are tastier than their healthier-cooking-method versions. But this pan-fried, dark magenta, supposedly healthy, roundel on the plate had not even made an effort to be palatable. Sitting on its own high horse, it had presumed I would relish its spiced-up avatar as I chewed it wondering, why! To me it felt like it had already lived a life and should have been ordained moksha . You know how insistent Indian hosts are, “Beetroot is so healthy. You must eat it.” People eat and serve beetroot dressed as salad, emulsified in soup, grated in raita, crushed with spices in chutney, shaking hands with hummus, in a dip, killer-sweet in halwa , or some other reincarnation. They begin with extolling its virtues as if they...
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On Extending the Life of Objects

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The Slow Death of Perfectly Useful Things For years, I have typed fast, chasing thoughts before they escape. Then one afternoon this week, my keyboard decided to follow the Buddhist way of living - slow, intentional, deliberate. I was eating dal and typing at the same time- delusionary multitasking. The universe waited till I lifted the bowl to my mouth- drinking dal straight from it to hasten the process, the bowl perfectly poised over the keyboard, my eyes on the screen. Yuk! is all I could say as the bowl tilted at the wrong angle, crashing on the keyboard, and a sea of hot sabut moong (whole moong beans) splashed all over. The next hour was spent cleaning. When wet and dry rags failed to do the job, I had to call in the armoury. I removed the batteries and focussed on the increasingly delicate act of cleaning something I had never operated on earlier. Cotton swabs, sanitiser, toothpicks, pushing, prying, coaxing. The keys that felt slow, uneven, or did not spring back, needed...
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Domestic airports are anthropology museums

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Where Personality Loses Its Training A bullish shove shook my whole being. I rocked on my feet, trying to retain my balance. When I turned around, I discovered the source of this minor seismic event; a young man, ironically, the word ‘patience’ tattooed vertically along the right side of his neck. His pink and grey Little Rabbit neck pillow & backpack had also enthusiastically participated in the shove. He wanted to get ahead of me. Why, I will never know. Seats in an aircraft, after all, are assigned, even purchased, not seized like disputed territory. Somewhere between the aerobridge and the aircraft door, it occurred to me that airports are no longer places you pass through, but settings where our personality briefly loses its training. This is only an introduction to that belief, shaped by recent flights to Jaipur and Indore, and back. Strangely enough, I enjoy being at airports: I breathe in the aroma of food and coffee. I have confessed that shopping is one of my wea...
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Indian Winter Foods

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Winter treats: Who is afraid of calories? 1- Sauteed green peas 2-Roasted peanuts 3-Nuts & dry fruits 4-Spicy paneer 5-Veg pakodas 6-Boiled, spiced peanuts 7-Matar tikki 8-Masala chai Foggy mornings, dull hazy days, dark evenings, and long shivery nights. North India is not Greenland or Siberia, but we live through our own extremes - 45 degrees summers and 95% humidity monsoon. So, whether the day temperature is 1 degree or 14 degrees C, December to mid-February is winter for us. In the days of cold hands, chapped lips and dry skin, when bathing turns into an everyday adventure, clothes do not dry for two days, thick woollens are loaded on bodies, what makes winter bearable for most of us is the thought of razai (cotton-filled quilt) pulled up to chin, with plates piled high with our favourite foods. Rich, healthy and wholesome food, the eyes refuse to look at, the mind does not think about, and the stomach rejects during summer, is respectfully ushered into the must-haves lis...
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Men in stitches

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Why Indian Men Don’t Knit   Tom Daley, retired Olympics champion, knitting at the pool Photo: Vogue Indian men can do many extraordinary things- build industries, run companies, launch missiles, cook elaborate curries, and deliver long lectures on self-reliance. Yet I have never seen an Indian man knit. Hand them two knitting needles and a ball of wool, and suddenly masculinity needs protecting. Men who carry guns without blinking, are unnerved by needles less than a foot long. Really? Not that I am an accomplished knitter or make heirlooms or Instagrammable cardigans, but knitting is my base activity in winter. Any time I am not officially occupied by cooking, household chores, or sundry existential issues, I pick up the needles. Growing up in Chandigarh, I learnt that knitting needles were an extension of woman’s hands. Women began knitting in the humidity of September, so that the family had fresh outfits for the season. A family function meant teamwork, one woman knitted t...
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What a Parent’s Fear Sounds Like After the Sirens Fade

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After the sirens fade. Monday morning, I peered again. The pigeon’s eggs on my ledge had hatched, two new chicks could be seen, glued to the safety of the wall next to the nest. For the last two weeks, my once-in-the-forenoon routine had been to open the window, peek, say ‘hello’ to mama pigeon as she stared at me with her round, pink-rimmed eyes, and click the window shut, lest she should think of me as a threat. I looked at the phone screen, checking the notifications. One message from a niece’s husband who rarely speaks in the family chat group. Since the news broke, my mind has been walking through buildings my child once knew by heart. I was not thinking of events. I was thinking of fear, how quickly it enters a place we once called safe, and how it refuses to leave a parent’s body. We are a family where many of our children have called Brown University home. Then I saw a message from my son. “The weekend was very tough.’ ‘ Log bahut dukhi hain (People are very sad)...
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