Mental Excursions

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...

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...

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...

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...

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)...

Why my doorbell rings more than my phone! The doorbell rang. Still chewing the spicy matthi , I put down my cup of tea, got up, and opened the door. A young man in a navy-blue suit stood there, another behind him carrying a tall, colourful cake box and a small bag which clearly contained paper plates and spoons. “ Cake delivery hai ,” the nattily dressed one announced.   “ Humne to cake khareeda ya mangaya nahin . (We did not buy or order a cake),” I said, covering my now chilli-burnt mouth. He helpfully added the name of the bakery, hoping it would jog my memory, “ Aapke yahan se cake order hua tha . (A cake had been ordered from your place).” Forever ready to help, I said, “ Humne cake to nahin mangaya, par aap dena chahte hain to de dijiye ! (We did not order a cake but if you wish to give it, please give it.)” For a split-second, the criminal in me tried to sprout, I even considered keeping the cake. His smile uncertain, he paused for a second, then asked, “D… yaha...