घर

इन दरवाज़ों के पीछे कभी ज़िन्दगी बसा करती होगी, इस दहलीज़ के अंदर कभी महफ़िलें सजा करती रहीं होंगी;
इनके आँगन में कभी गूंजा करती होगी बच्चों की किलकारी, कभी नानी, कभी दादी, कभी प्यारी सी बुआ हमारी

इनकी चौखट पर कभी चाची की प्यासी आँखें चाचा का इंतज़ार करती रहीं होंगी, इनकी दलानो पर कभी चाचा ताऊ की तकरार भी हुई ही होगी; इस दहलीज़ को लांघ कितनी बहुएं घर आयीं होंगी, और सिर्फ अपनी मय्यत पर ही इसको छोड़ कर जा पायीं होंगी

अंदर की कोठरियां तो दिखाई नहीं देतीं, पर शायद वहां मोहब्बतें पनपी होंगी, कुछ किस्से बुने गए होंगे, कुछ कहानिये पढ़ी गयीं होंगी; चौके के चूल्हे पर कभी गरम रोटियां तो कभी कभी अम्मा की उँगलियाँ सिकीं होंगी, पर किसीको एक आह भी नहीं सुनाई पड़ी होगी.

बरामदे की खटिया पर बैठती थी शायद दादी, कभी मटर छिलती तो कभी बढ़िया बनाती; कभी मेहरिन से बतियाती, कभी महाराजिन को हड़कतीं; बड़ा नाज़ था उनको अपने इस परिवार पर, इसकी हर एक ईंट, हर दीवार पर;
क्या कभी सोचा था उन्होंने की एक ऐसा भी दिन आएगा, जब उनका यह घर खँडहर बन जायेगा, न कोई इसके आँगन में हसेंगा, न कोई खिखिलायेगा, न यहाँ कोई रोयेगा न मुस्कुराएगा;
क्या कभी सोचा था दादा ने की उनका ही पोता उनके खून पसीने की कमाई को बेच खायेगा, उनके टूटे हुए सपनों पर एक आंसू भी न बहायेग.

कौन जाने किसका का है ये आशियाँ, जिसमें न अब जिस्म बचें हैं न जान; शायद भूत रहतें होंगे अंदर, आवाज़ें तो आतीं हैं तरह तरह की अक्सर: कभी बेतहाशा हंसी की, तो कभी फ़ूट फ़ूट के रोने की, और कभी कभी किसी बच्चे के खिलोने की;
कहते हैं जो रहतें हैं इस गांव में, भूत ही सही कोई तो बचा कई इसकी टूटी फूटी छाँव में, सच ही तो है ये कहानी, आख़िर में न राजा बचता है न रानी, बस रह जाता हैं उनके ख्वाबों का खंडहर और उसकी बर्बादी की कहानी I

Of Bangalore Dosa and Madras Idli

So I hadn’t slept all night. It is a typical trait of my travel: I am so excited that I do not sleep the night before, and I cannot sleep on the flight or the train. And then when you arrive in a city like Bangalore at 5:00  in the morning how can you sleep?

Bangalore Morning

Since stepping into the city, at 5 in the morning, I had been craving for the typical Bangalore Dosa. I had discovered it one similar morning 9 years ago, when I had, for the very first time, come in the city with the intention of making it my home (and I did for some years). The Dosa was nothing like anything I had eaten until then. It was thick, it was rich and it was soft and crisp in equal parts. The most exceptional thing about it was the garlic masala smeared on the inside. For a girl who had only eaten the flimsy, Tamilian, roasts until then, this Dosa was a revelation. I am not ashamed to say that for many days afterwards, I had survived only on the Masala Dosa and filter coffee. It did cause my clothes to shirk, or waist to expand — its the way you look at it really — but it had played an important part in my finding my feet — and food — in an unknown city.  And so began my lifelong love for the Dosa.

Idli with green, red, and white chutneys — all made with coconut. 

There was a problem though. I moved out of Bangalore two years afterwords.

Today, in town after 6 years, I could only think of the Dosas. The crunch of its crust, the body of it’s filling, the texture of its chutney. And of course all of it coming together in the mouth. Sigh!

So at 7, I walk into this place with friends, dreaming of my Benne Dosa and Filter Kapi. The tiny hole in the wall joint was packed — as all joints are in Bangalore — and the fragrance of coffee wafted far and wide. My mouth was watering and my heart was full of joy. I looked forward to meeting my Dosa after years of staying away.

It was only inside that I discovered that this place is a Tamilian joint. Now, don’t get me wrong, I totally love Tamilian food. Their melt in the mouth idlis and the fragrant flavourful sambar, the soft, smooth vadas, and their meals. But today, at this point, I only wanted my Dosa. So yeah, I was a little disappointed.

But then I saw the man manning the place. Dressed in clean clothes and with a kumkum tika on his forehead, laying out banana leaves for us on a tiny corner table.

The 10X10 room was full to the brim, each table laden with food and banana leaves. The air was thick with the heady smell of the Sambar and freshly fried vadas. Each table had a pail of Sambar and a pot with the three kinds of coconut chutneys. The food started arriving soon after — idlis, soft and pillowi, like cotton candy, vadas, tiny and crunchy; chutneys, sharp and potent, rich with goodness of coconut and fresh tadka. And the Sambar, of course flavourful and fragrant — only the way Tamilians can make it. Together they made a stellar combination and for that moment, temporarily, I forgot about my dosa.

Oh yeah, there was coffee too but my hands were too soiled to take any nice pictures…

What’s your favorite dosa story.. would love to hear!
*

Lucknow: A Paradise for Vegetarians

Think of Lucknow and the first thing that comes to mind are kebabs, biriyanis, kormas, and sheermal. While the legendary non-vegetarian food deserves all the attention it gets, there is also an entire alternate cuisine that the city specializes in (and not many know about). The lip-smacking vegetarian options that you find in Lucknow are as good as, if not better than their non-vegetarian counterparts. Don’t believe us? Try for yourself.

1. Dahi-Jalebi-Khasta.

No morning in Lucknow is complete without the special dahi-jalebi and khasta combination. No matter what time of the year it is, every morning carts magically spring up in nooks and corner of the city to make fresh jalebis and khasta. Where there are no carts there are shops. The jalebis are best eaten with curd that has been set in clay pots, and the khasta is served with a dry preparation of potatoes laced with chili, asafetida, and, dry mango powder. Every lane of the city has its own Jalebi shop, but some are more coveted than the others. Try Kanchan Sweets in Indira Nagar, or Neelkanth in Gomti Nagar to sample the freshest Ghee jalebis and Khasta.

2. Pooris & Kachauris.

Served with a tangy potato curry, these deep fried discs define vegetarian feasts in this part of the country. While every home has its own recipe of the dish, some shops are so famous that even housewives rely on them to feed their guests. Served with a sweet and sour dried mango chutney, boondi ka raita, and a dry preparation of either pumpkin or potatoes, this meal is best had mid morning. The pooris come soft and luscious and the kachauris are crisp and crunchy. They are flavourful, full-bodied, and very, very satisfying. The most famous places to sample them in the city are Netram Ajay Kumar in Aminabad, and Bajpayee Kachauri Bhandar in Hazratgunj.

3. Kulfi- Faluda.

Sweet after spicy and spicy after sweet – this is how a typical foodie in Lucknow describes a meal. And so, after Kachauri comes Kulfi. Served with bland, noodle shaped faluda, topped with flavoured syrup, the kulfi here is rich, sweet, and laced with nuts. The faluda offsets the sweetness and the syrup adds seasonal flavours – rose, mango, saffron. The special thing about the kulfi here is that it is still made the traditional way inside a large earthen pot. It’s not only delicious but also eco friendly. Saunter into any sweet shop and you will find their version of kulfi but the best-known shops are Prakash Kulfi in Aminabad and Chanakya in Boothnath Market.

4, Chaat

There is nothing a true blue Lucknowite loves more than his chaat. And he has reasons to do so. Pani ke Batashe, Aloo ki Tikki, Nimbu ki Matar, Dahi Chutney ke Batashe, Suhaal, Palak ki Chaat, the list is endless as are the flavours and textures. Whether it is the blandness of the mashed peas against the tang of the lemony jaljeera water, or the crispness of the fried potato patty against the softness of beaten curd, the textures will have you and so will the flavours. Once you have tasted the chaat of Lucknow, you will be ruined forever. The most famous place to sample this: Shukla Chaat House in Hazratgunj.

5. Mithai/Sweets.

People in Lucknow take their sweets seriously. So seriously that the most expensive sweet here costs Rs. 36000/- a kilo. While that may be an aberration, there is no denying that the city is home to some of the most mouth-watering sweets in the region. Delicate Doodh ki Barfee, robust Motichoor Laddos, or the indigenous Malai ki Gilori, the sweets from Lucknow are famous worldwide, especially the Malai ki Gilori. Shaped like a paan and made with fresh malai (milk cream), the sweet is filled with crystallized sugar and nuts and garnished with silver varq – thin sheet of real silver. This melt in your mouth mithai defines the very core of the city – sweet, delicate, and unforgettable. You can find the most delectable Malai Paan at Ram Asrey, Hazratgunj.
This post first appeared in The Hindu
*
Got some recommendations for us to try in the city of nawabs? Do let us know and we’d love to try out.

A.

#metoo even though I wish I could say #not me.

I have been thinking long and hard. I have read through every #metoo post that has appeared on my timeline in the last few days. I have felt the pain in each of them, I have understood the anger behind every story, and, needless to say, I see myself or someone I know in all of them. Even though I always knew molestation, harassment, and sexual abuse is rampant, these stories have filled me with a deep sense of helplessness. Or should I say fatigue?

Fatigue of fighting all the time. Fatigue of watching my back every second of the day. Fatigue of looking at every man with suspicion. Fatigue of checking on the eye and hand movements of every friend and relative who is close to me, my sister, my daughter, my niece, my friend, my cousin…

I was never taught to stay quiet about the wrong that was done to me. But I was also not categorically told what to do if someone tried to violate my body. Hell! The subject was never even spoken about at home. And with no elder sister, aunt or cousin, I was left to figure things out on my own. Whether it was the 45 year old, seemingly educated and gentle looking tenant at my aunt’s place, or the doctor who operated upon me at 14 — I remember every touch that has made me uncomfortable. But I did not know what to do about it. I did not know I could tell the elders about it, or share it with my friends. All I could do was cringe and wince, and pray to god that I do not have to face the person ever again.

And so, even though I was never taught to stay quiet, I did. Because I did not know any better.

I kept quiet when my math teacher routinely stood behind me and placed his hand on my back, feeling up my bra strap. I kept quiet when some random man flashed at me inside a museum in Calcutta in broad day light. I kept quiet when the lecherous gaze of my father’s young cousins scared me out if my wits. I kept quiet when I was told that I was too grown up for my age. I said nothing when I was groped in the middle of the road or touched in the dark of a movie hall. I even stayed quiet about the man who stalked me every morning for over a year. In retrospect it was such a stupid thing to do, but at that time I did not think so.

Initially these incidents troubled me — as they would trouble anyone. Later, however, they became a part of life. Sometimes I remembered them, sometimes I forgot about them. But I never spoke about any of them, for I always believed that it was something that happened only to me and hence it should be my fault.

It was much later that I realized how every girl I knew had a story to share. Well almost. The friend who’s uncle regularly felt her up right in the middle of family get togethers. The class-mate who’s cousin almost raped her. The cousin whose cousin who she found naked next to her one night. Everyone had a story to share but none of them had told anyone about it. The reason? The same feeling of guilt and shame, and the belief that reporting it may cause families to break.

I do not know who told them that the family was more important that their dignity or well being, but somehow the belief was conveyed and so like me they had stayed quiet too.

But I also found those who taught me to fight. Like the cousin who chased an auto guy who had passed lewd comments on her and pulled him out of the auto to kick him in his stomach before handing him over to the police. Or the friend who told me how I ought to stand up for myself and fight back the man who was trying to come too close. Even though I succeeded in doing so, and hitting, fighting, and protecting myself, I cannot say the same about the others.

I really don’t know if #metoo is going to change anything. Maybe like most internet movements this too will die its own death. Or maybe it will make a small little dent somewhere. Maybe it will succeed in bringing forth the magnitude of the problem. Every change begins with acceptance and talking is the first step to changing. Or so we can hope.

And yes, #metoo. Like everyone else. And I really hope there are more #notme than #metoo.

In Gods Own Home

Miles and miles of fluorescent green paddy fields covered in mist. A gleaming white Pagoda in the horizon. Impossibly blue skies with cotton candy clouds floating in and out of the frame. Patches of fluffy Kaash phool swaying to mild autumn breeze. And, among all this, the serpent of a road slithering majestically. No, I am not talking about some exotic location in the heart of the Indian Ocean, but a humble highway that is taking me from the capital city of Odhisha to the home of Lord Jagannath, Puri.

I have started my journey for Puri at 5 in the morning rather reluctantly — after a 24-hour long train ride, all I wanted was to sleep — but just twenty minutes into the drive, I am already glad that I have decided to spend my morning on this road rather than in the uncomfortable hotel bed. The hour-long drive turns out to be one of the most picturesque drives that I have taken in a long time.

Jagannath Puri, or Puri, as it is commonly known is a tiny town at the eastern edge of the country. Geographically, it is just another coastal town like many others in the state of Odhisha. But, historically, spiritually, and religiously it is one of the most important places in the country. It is, after all, the abode of Lord Jagannath, and one of the oldest cities in the Indian subcontinent.

All roads in Puri, naturally enough, lead to only one place — the Jagganath Temple. And all action is concentrated along the main street called boro dhandoo. at the end of which stands the imposing three-tired Jagannath temple.

We arrive at the main street, boro dhandoo, a little before seven and even though I want to drive all the way until the temple, we realize that cars cannot go beyond a certain point. It is holiday season and I expect the street to be narrow, claustrophobic, crowded, messy and chaotic. The breadth of boro dhandoo however defies whatever I have seen and experienced about temple towns until now. What I see along its length however is starkly similar: beggars, lepers, hawkers, vendors, policemen, rickshaw pullers, food sellers — all seem to co-exist comfortably along the margins of Puri’s lifeline. Soon we become a part of them.

According to folklore, Puri is believed to be the home to Lord Vishnu. It is said that the idol of Lord Jagannath, another form of Vishnu, or Krishna, had manifested itself at the shores of Puri in the Vedic times. Later, when Adi Shankaracharaya was laying the foundation of the four dhams, he made Puri the home of Vishnu. Some other estimates claim that the temple is more recent, and that a local ruler had built it about 900 years ago, in the 12^th century. But everyone agrees with one thing — the temple has relics of Gods, which are the life force of the idols here. Those who frequent the place, also claim that unexplained energy can be felt inside the sanctum sanctorum of the temple. Being a sceptic, I have doubts

The temple stands along the Bay of Bengal, built on high platform enclosed by a high boundary. Four gates, one on each side, guard the complex. The Lion gate, or the Eastern gate, happens to be the main entrance and is adorned by large Lion statues and a tall monolith pillar called the Aruna Stambha. It is flanked by umpteen shops selling prasad and flowers, doubling up as shoe stands. There are cows too, scores of them sitting leisurely watching the world go by. The interior however, is surprisingly clean and organized.

What I find interesting about the place is its unique form. The sprawling complex is divided into several sections and hundreds of small shrines dot the complex, each complete with its own deity and priest. In front of every shrine I see a congregation of people — mostly poor — with their hands folded and heads bowed, as if asking the Gods to rid them of their miseries. I wonder if God can really help them.

Whether or not God can help the pilgrims, the priests here surely claim to help people get closer to God.

The priests happen to be most powerful set of people inside the Jagannath temple complex. They are infamous world over for extracting huge sums of money as dakshina from innocent pilgrims in lieu of helping them connect with God and thus getting rid of their miseries.

Even as we walk past the shrines towards the main sanctum, a group of priests appears out of thin air. They ask, in Hindi, if we’d like to pray for our ancestor’s peace, or our children’s prosperity. Upon refusing, they insist that we do: what is the point of travelling so far if you do not worship? My husband’s knowledge of Oriya comes in handy at this point and he tells them off quietly yet assertively.

The main hall of the temple happens to be much less crowded than I had expected it to be. With its walls, pillars, and ceilings covered in traditional pattachitra paintings, it looks pleasantly vibrant. The sanctum is different too — a large dark hall devoid of any ornamentation and decoration. Other than a sea of people — this part of the temple is crowded — there is nothing between the Gods and you.

Unwilling to fight the crowd of devotees and priest, I decide to stand at the threshold of the sanctum, and directly look into the eyes of the deities. Even as I look at them transfixed by their sheer magnitude and grandeur, I can feel the energy and the power of this place in my gut. I now know why they say that the Gods reside in Puri.
*

This post first appeared in The Week. 

This Mental Health Week, Learn How To Tame Your Mind

-->

It happens so quietly that you cannot prepare for it, and before you know, you are enveloped in its grip so tight that escaping seems impossible. So what does one do? Does one sit in a corner with the head bowed, eyes shut, and arms tightly wrapped, waiting for it to leave, or does one stand up and fight?

Battling with anxiety, stress, and depression can be hard, but it is not impossible. With a little care, awareness, and self love, you can manage, if not overcome, the perpetual feeling of despair. How do I know? Well, I do it every day.

Stress, anxiety and depression are the three demons of modern times trapping more and more people in their clutches every passing day. National Institute of Mental Health describes depression as "a common but serious mood disorder that causes severe symptoms that affect how you feel, think, and handle daily activities, such as sleeping, eating, or working". According to a WHO report almost 36% of people in India suffer from some form of depression, most of them young and at the peak of their lives.

Here are some things that really work.

1. Accept.

Acceptance is the beginning of healing. You can, of course, ask 'why me?' or gloat in self pity, or you can take it in your stride and move ahead. Mental disturbances are no more than physical disorders. They are often caused by chemical imbalance in the brain, or external triggers just like physical disorders, and just like physical disorder, they can happen to any of us -- some are affected more than the others, and some deal with them better than others. Accepting it makes a whole lot of difference. So breathe deep, smile wide, and embrace yourself wholeheartedly.

2. Share.

Having someone who understands makes a lot of difference. If you are not comfortable sharing your feelings with immediate family, spouse, or even close friends, reach out to a support group. There are numerous mental well-being communities worldwide that extend help and support. Look them up online, connect with them on social media, or be an active physical member, the choice is yours. Knowing you are not alone always makes you feel better and more confident.

3. Identify Your Triggers.

Most episodes of extreme stress, anxiety, and deep depression are followed by a trigger. The trigger could be an intangible feeling or fear, or a more concrete situation. Is it fatigue, or feeling out of control that does it for you? Or is it coming face to face with an unpleasant situation or person that pushes the wrong buttons? Recognizing what triggers the discomfort and despair helps not only dealing with them better, but also preventing the feeling to a large extent.

It feels good when people understand you. Or at least try to. When they trust you and believe you. When instead of doling out advice, they listen. Sometimes all you need is someone to talk to without the fear of judgment.

4. Pursue A Hobby. 

Doing what you love doing is a great and easy way to feel good. Investing time in yourself is proven to make you feel more positive and happier. Recall a long forgotten passion and revive it. Music, arts, dancing, gardening, philately, travel, writing, poetry, pottery -- all of them are ways of healing and feeling positive. Join online and offline communities and connect with people who share your love. Creating something new, even as an ametuear, gives you a feeling of accomplishment which goes a long way in ensuring metal well being.

5. Walk. Run. Work-out. 

Picking yourself up and stepping out for a run is the last thing you'd want to do on a bad day, but trust me, once you have overcome that hurdle, rest will be much easier. Studies have shown that physical activity helps the body produce endorphins, hormones that promote feeling of happiness and euphoria. According to NCBI "Exercise improves mental health by reducing anxiety, depression, and negative mood and by improving self-esteem and cognitive function." If running or working out seems impossible, just step out for a walk in the park -- looking at the green grass and blue sky will do you more good that you can imagine.

6. Love Yourself. Unconditionally.

We live in times where loving ourselves is not the easiest thing to do. The perfection portrayed in the media, films, and social media makes it even more difficult to appreciate our imperfections and flaws. The trick is to understand that what is portrayed is not always complete, and that perfection may not always be possible. Knowing our limitations and capabilities helps us appreciate the flaws in others too. Love yourself unconditionally no matter what and the rest will follow.

Note: While these are ways and methods to manage your condition, the importance of professional help cannot, and should not, be ruled out. Seeking medical attention, or help from mental health practitioners -- counselors, psychiatrist, phycologists -- is important to ensure you feel and perform at your best.

Calcutta’s Must-Try Street Food in Durga Puja

Come Puja and the city of Calcutta turns into a life-size food court. Streets are lined with stalls, people queue outside eateries, and plates full of food are passed between family and friends. Then there is bhog, the most important part of any Puja. On some days it comprises of simple khichdi and labda, on others it is a lavish fare of mutton curry, luchis, sweets, rice, and payesh, the Bengali version of kheer. While most of the country fasts during this time, Calcutta feasts and why not, food after all is an integral part of any celebration—in Calcutta no celebration is bigger than the homecoming of the goddess and her children.

So whether you are busy hopping from Pandal to Pandal appreciating the art, craft and beauty of the festival, or walking miles in search of a taxi and cursing the drivers for quoting obscene amounts, food remains a constant companion throughout. It however changes forms depending upon which part of the town you are in – the posh south or the more down to earth north.

While eateries in Calcutta are open all night during the Puja but even at 2:00 AM you may not get space to sit in a restaurant. Street food therefore is your best bet. It is fresh, it is authentic, and you’d never have to wait for more than a few minutes.

Here’s a list of things you must try this Durga Puja.



Rolls, Chowmein, Chops & Cutlets

Everyone who knows Calcutta knows about its rolls. Flacky parathas filled with chunky chicken, fried egg, and sliced onions, seasoned with ketchup and chillies, and wrapped in a butter paper are found everywhere, especially during the Puja. These rolls define Calcutta in one bite. The huge griddle is also used to dish out spicy noodles tossed with julienned vegetables, eggs and shreds of meat and topped with chili and tomato sauce. No one makes roadside noodles like Calcutta does.

Chops and Cutlets are slightly more subtle. Made with Chicken, Fish, or vegetable mince, they are coated in bread-crumbs and are deep fried before being handed over to you with kasundhi, salad, and rock salt. The egg devil however, is a different devil altogether – boiled egg, coated in spicy potato mix, rolled in breadcrumbs and deep-fried. Think twice before you order the second helping of this one.



Puchka, Jhaal Muri, Alu-Kabli
No trip to Calcutta can be complete without the three essentials — puchka, jhaal muri, and alu-kabli. While Alu-kabli – a mishmash of chopped boiled potatoes, chickpeas, onions and cucumber, seasoned with green chilli, cumin powder and tamarind water – is the city’s favourite snack, the Puchka needs no introduction.

Calcutta’s Puchkas are in a league of their own – large, crisp, and filled with zingy potatoes and tangy water. Every pandal has at least half a dozen puchka sellers lined up, and each one of them has at least a dozen people waiting their turn. That’s is a lot of puchkas!

Jhaal muri comes next. A mixture of various textures and flavours in a base of puffed rice, peanuts & potatoes, the bhel like mixture hits you hard if you are not used to it. The secret is in the raw mustard oil added in generous quantities. The jhaal muri is the quintessential snack that keeps you company as you walk through the Pandal, or during the day-long adda session outside a pandal.



Chicken Korma and Biryani.

Calcutta loves Biryani like no one else does. No, not even Hyderabad or Lucknow. And in Puja, the demand for it hits an all time high. When the popular joints struggle to keep pace with the city’s insatiable hunger, the street side vendors spring in action and set up stalls outside the pandals. More often than not their Biryani is better than the most famous names in the city. This Biryani, kept on low flame in giant pots, is had best with chicken korma offered by the same stalls.

These Succulent pieces of chicken smothered in thick gravy, pan fried and doled out on steel plates can also be eaten with rice or luchi, but as I said have it with biryani for complete Puja indulgence.




Sondesh, Mishti-Doi, Rosgulla

It is hard to say if the Durga Puja started earlier in Bengal or does the love for sweets of the Bengali predates the love for celebration of the Godess’ homecoming, but one thing is for sure: there can be no celebration without Mishti. 

Every street in Calcutta boasts of its own sweet shop, and every neighbourhood has a favourite Mishtir Dokan. Make the most of the city’s sweet obsession and gorge on the famous Mishti doi, Rosogulla, and Sondesh. While at it, also try the local version of the Samosa, Singhara, and some lesser-known sweets like Shorbhaja, Ladykeni, and kacha gola.

Remember though, that sometimes these shops maybe hidden behind the pandals. Do not hesitate to ask a local for the nearest sweet shop, chances are they’d walk you there themselves.

A version of this post appeared on The Huffington Post. 

An Insiders Guide to Surviving Calcutta’s Durga Puja

There are two types of people in this world: one) who love Durga Puja, two) who hate Durga Puja. There is another tiny variety though — of people who hopped over the fence somewhere along the way. I belong to that category.

Making the switch is not, however, the easiest thing even if you are a sucker of food, arts, music, and culture — elements that signify the festival. It takes grit, and a lot of time, to fall in love with the overwhelming Pujos of Calcutta. But it is not impossible. With a little planning & preparation, you can enjoy, if not fall in love, with the beautiful experiences that the festival brings with it.

So let’s get started.

Basics:

Durga Puja begins from the Mahalaya Amavasya, the day before the auspicious period of navratras, or nine nights of the goddess begins. The festivities however commence only on the 6th day, called shashti, when the goddess and the four children are invoked, and lasts until dashami, when she is sent off with a heavy heart and teary eyes. If you are planning a visit, plan to reach Calcutta by Pamchami and settle in before the action begins.

Timing:

In my 15 years as an insider at the Durga Puja — after my marrying a bong boy — if there is one thing I have learnt, it is to get the timing right. To witness the beauty and grandeur of the art, craft, and spirit of the festival, you will have to make an effort to beat the locals to it. In a Puja Pandal, it always pays to be early.

Shashti and saptami mornings are best to go pandal-hopping. The Puja Pandals are already up but the people have yet to come out in full force. There is still some space to walk, drive, breathe, the queues are smaller, and you can take your time to appreciate the themes, decor, aesthetics and the gods in each pandal.

It is important to know that Calcuttans do not sleep during the Puja, at least not in the nights. For that is when they are out with friends and families for a night full of revelry. If crowds intimidate you, avoid getting out in the night, especially on ashtami and navami, or be ready to swim in a sea of people and sway in whichever direction the crowds take you.

Commute:

Taxi drivers in Calcutta go crazy during the Pujas. They are in great demand and the public is ready to pay any price for their services, so don’t be surprised if they quote obscene amounts. Either hop in or walk off — they will not wait for you.

A better way to commute is by metro or bus. They are cheap, take you from point to point and ply all night. Also, be prepared to walk a lot. Imagine you are in Paris, or Rome, and it will be easier for you. In any case chances are you’d spot the Eiffel Tower and the Colosseum somewhere along the road. In fact, Calcutta now has its own Big Ben too: but for the sweat streaming down every part of your body, you can very well imagine walking the streets of London.

If commuting into the city from the station, cross the Hoogly on a boat, and soak in the beautiful skyline of the city, stock up your lungs with fresh air, and hop in on the taxi at Babu ghat. It will save you time, effort and a lot of traffic. If you decide to fly in to save travel time, you can rest assured about it being compensated in the cab. Fares will be equitable too!

 

Pandal Hopping:

Pujas in Calcutta revolves around two things Pujo Pendal, and Thakur. The pandals come in all shapes and sizes. So do the gods. So while you will have a 100 feet tall Durga at Deshopriyo Park, you will also have a rojger ginni at Hindustan park. The themes range from surgical strikes to demonetization, from Bhutanese tourism to a humble village set up, from the Meenakshi temple in Tamilnadu to the Somnath temple in Gujrat. Then there is recycling, global warming, deforestation. If the brilliance of Bengal is visible anywhere, it is in a Puja Pandal.

Every street in Calcutta has a Puja Pandal that you cannot miss and every para showcases something unique; how do you then decide what to cover and what to skip? You don’t — just start from one place and join the dots as you go. It is best to cover the most famous Pandals in the morning, and meander into smaller ones on the way. They are all interconnected and the crowds will lead you from one to another. Stay closer to your home/hotel/residence in the evenings — so that even if you have to walk home you can.

Do not miss the smaller Pujos in North and South Calcutta, for it is in these tiny pandals that you’d discover the most beautiful idols, and most innovative themes.

Some of the lesser known pandals that you should have on your itinerary are:  Mudiali club, Shib Mandir, Seebak Sangha, 66 Palli, Maddox Square, Jorashonko, Kumhartuli, Hindustan Park, Durga bari, Jodhpur Park, Dhakuria. Ahiritola, Kumhartuli. You can thank me later!

Food:

No one eats at home during the Puja. Not that they need to with a feast laid out at every nook and corner. Lined with stalls selling everything from biryani to korma, from coffee to cola, from ice cream to sweets, the streets of Calcutta transform into food courts during the festival. While most of the country fasts during this time of the year, Kolkata feasts.

Use the opportunity to sample Calcutta’s lip smacking variety of street food. Gorge on the tangy Puchkas, try the zingy jhaal muri, taste the aloo kabli, and stuff yourself with cups of mishti doi, and dozens of rasgullas and shinghara. When you are done with street food (I never am), get on with chicken korma, biryani, kheer and kulfi, and later to noodles, rolls, momos, and more mishti doi.

The best thing about eating so much is that the walking offsets the effects — at least it digestion part of it. So when you are hungry again, head to the evergreen Park Street where, open from noon till well after midnight, the iconic eateries of Calcutta await you. Choose from Mocambo or Peter Cat, or walk into Bar-B-Que or Trincas. But ready for long queues: the whole city is out to eat during the Pujas.

Exit:

Why would somebody need to plan the exit from a city? Well, because it is Calcutta and it is Puja. And I cannot leave you wandering on the crowded roads without a taxi — if I have got you in, I better get you out too!

So, first and foremost, never plan a train or flight out on Dashami. The city swells that day like a river on the rise; there are no cabs, there are no autos, there are hardly any buses either. Unless of course you have a friend who is willing to sacrifice the whole day battling traffic jams and barricades (trust me, no self-respecting Bengali will do this), it’s best to leave a day before, preferably in the day. Else, you can always walk back from the airport after a missed flight, or sleep over at the Howrah station post a missed train. The city will always have space for you.

Also featured in Huffington Post

Beauty.

She never thought she was ugly, on the contrary, she believed herself to be charming and pretty.

Her belief lent her a poise and grace that was not easy to find in girls her age.

She often admired herself --  the long slender fingers, the curvy eyelashes, the little button nose,

Her eyes, she thought, were a bit small, but it did not affect her confidence, which was very, very tall.

Of her height she was very proud, so what if some parts of her body were a little stout?

Her wavy hair were her pride, her smooth complexion made her apple of everyone's eyes.

And then one day she met her best friend, the meeting was the beginning to many a end.

The friend thought she was dark and totally out of grace, she commented on how her silver earrings shone on a sun tanned face;

When a photographer said she could be a model so proud, the friend laughed about it out loud.

The laughter burnt a hole in a heart, something she could never throw apart;

The comments continued to flow -- sometimes it was her skin, sometimes face, sometimes even her small toe.

The wavy hair now seemed unruly, the copper skin suddenly became dark and ugly,

Her slender fingers ceased to matter, the long eyelashes were used to conceal tears lest they would splatter.

Her confidence fled like mice from a sinking ship, her poise went away on a lifelong trip,

The mirror became her biggest enemy, and vanity seemed like the deadliest blasphemy.

The friend left long ago, but not before her words dug deep trenches in her ego,

For three-fourth of her life she bore the burden of her comments, hating herself for things that she thought she ought to lament.

Today she finally decides, she needs to no longer hide -- the hurt, the pain, the dark skin, the thinning mane, she needs to take everything in her stride.

For she don't know what the friend really meant, was it actually a vicious jibe or just a kid's innocent comment?

Beauty they say rests in the eye, but the real beauty is what radiates from inside,

It does not matter if you are dark or light, if your eyes are small or skin bright, what matters is your confidence and your pride.

Let no one tell you how you should look, feel or be -- others opinion of you is your greatest enemy,

Be proud of whoever you are -- the sun, the moon, or just a tiny star;

For the sun and moon maybe full of might, but all we wish for is some magical starlight. 

*

Following Tintin's Footsteps in Brussels

“Blistering barnacles! We are trapped!”

You can almost hear Captain Haddock shout as he leads Tintin and Snowy down the fire exit of a tall building. As always, they have landed themselves in trouble while trying to solve The Calculus Affair. A few miles away you find Tintin clinging to the wall outside his hotel in Chicago in a bid to get to the goon’s room. While the scene is from Tintin in America, it is being played at the Zuidstation in Brussels. You also see him perched up along with snowy over a multistoried building, smiling at the passerby, and walking along his entire entourage at an underground station in Stokel.

Tintin can be found everywhere in Brussels – on the walls, at underground stations, along the streets, in the marketplaces; in museums and even inside hotels, which have special Tintin themed rooms. And why not, Brussels after all is home to the world’s favorite reporter in baggy pants.

Tintin was first seen boarding a train to Russia from the Brussels station on 10^th January 1929 in his debut strip, in the youth supplement of a weekly. During this time, a young boy dressed as Tintin could be found roaming at the Zuidstation greeting the passengers. The antic worked and the tiny cartoon strip soon metamorphosed into an iconic series we now know as The Adventures of Tintin.

“If you are a fan of comics, Brussels won’t disappoint you. Often called the comic strip capital of the world, Belgium is home to many popular characters like Gaston, Smurfs, Lucky Luke, and Tintin. All of them are loved in Belgium but Tintin is popular across the world. There is no better place than Brussels for a Tintin lover.” Françoise Flamente, an elderly lady, tells me as she walks me along the Tintin trail in the Belgian capital.

The starting point of the trail is the Belgian Comic Strip Center set by Tintin’s creator, Hergé.

A large prototype of the red and white rocket from Explorers of the Moon stands tall in the lobby ready to take off. You can almost hear Professor Calculus say “That’ amazing! That’s tremendous! That’s incredible!”

It indeed is incredible to see so much of Tintin in one place. Books in multiple languages line the shelves, collectables of all possible characters stand in glass cabinets, life size posters and exhibits are displayed all over. A series of sketches trace Tintin’s origin from a black & white line drawing to the dapper ginger head with the trademark quiff. It also outlines the evolution of Snowy, Tintin’s wire fox terrier modeled after the dog at Hergé’s favourite café, the loud mouth Captain Haddock, whose name came from the curses that the creator’s wife often hurled at him, and the famous glass-shattering opera star Bianca Castafiore, who, it is believed, is a dig at the creator’s opera-loving wife.

The imposing grey and cream building of The Royal Palace can transport anyone back in time, for a Tintin fan however, it has only one significance: it formed the backdrop of King Ottokar’s Sceptre. You feel like a detective yourself as you trace Tintin’s footsteps through the Brussels Park, to the exact spot where he finds the suitcase that helps him solve the mystery.

A short walk from the Palace leads to Boulevard Adolphe Max, home to Hotel Metroplole. The street and the hotel are seen in The Seven Crystal balls when Mark Falconers taxis his way to 26 Labrador Road, Tintin’s home. If you stand across the road with the comic book in hand opened to page 20, you’d almost find yourself inside the book.

The flea market at the Place du Jeu de Balle that features in the opening sequence of The Secret of the Unicorn is a few miles away. The market, where Ivan Sakharine tries to persuade the Unicorn off Tintin, turns out just how Hergé had depicted it – an exciting mass of bric-a-brac and antiques laid out on the streets and tables. As you walk through the market, rubbing shoulders with the locals and tourists, you secretly wish to find the Unicorn, or perhaps Tintin, trying to guard the Unicorn from Sakharine.

The Tintin trail.

1. A mural of Tintin and Captain Haddock on Rue de L’Etuve from the book The Calculus Affaiar.

2. The Comic Strip House on Boulevard de l’Impératrice, depicts the evolution of the characters.

3. La Monnaie is the theatre that inspired Hergé’s drawings of the opera in The Seven Crystal Balls.

4. Park of Brussels at the Royal Palace, where Tintin finds an abandoned suitcase in King Ottokar’s Sceptre.

5. Across the park, is the Royal Palace, which inspired the home of the king of Syldavia in King Ottokar’s Sceptre.

6. Stockel Metro Station has two colourful murals with several characters from Tintin’s adventures.

7. Place du Jeu de Balle flea market featured in the Secrets of The Unicorn

8. Gare du Midi, the Brussels South Railway Station, features a Tintin mural at the entrance.

9. The first publishers of the Tintin books, Editions du Lombard, have a giant Tintin and Snowy sign on top of their office building.

10. The Tintin Boutique at Rue de la Colline 13, right in center of the town, stocks a host Tintin products including figurines, comics, stationary, and apparel.

What is my worth?

What is my worth and how do I calculate it?

My bank account says I have a couple of hundred thousands – is that my worth?

My salary statement says I make a fraction of what I used to years ago – is that my worth?

The husband says he cannot do without me. The girls think they may not survive without me. Is running their lives my worth?

My housekeeper requires me to constantly need her, so that my money can constantly feed her. Is her need my worth?

My colleagues think I am great at what I do, and should be in a corner office making a fortune. Is their opinion of me my worth?

A few who read what I write, say a book I hold inside -- is being a writer my worth?

My words, floating all around, tell me my calling I have finally found -- is the fulfillment of a long lost dream my worth?

My prized possessions, my meager earnings, my hard work, my tiny rewards; my lovely home, my lovelier girls; my few friends, my fewer loves. Do they determine my worth?

But if they did, I would not have been declared 'low on self worth'.

So what is my worth and how do I measure it?

My worth is in my lost dreams, it lurks is in the crevices my broken heart;

It can be found in the ambitions I killed, it lives in the compromises I chose to reach.

My worth is in every no I said to myself when I could have said yes, in every yes I said when I should have said no;
It is in every dream I should have nurtured but decided to let it go, and every relationship I murdered for the sake of another to grow.

My worth lives inside every friend I lost, it lays dead is in every love I left in the past, my worth is in my failures, my vices, my demons, and my choices.
It lives inside the rejections and my abjection, it thrives on my heartache and my heartbreaks.

My worth is in all that I should have seen, should have done, could have been,
It is in the truths that I should have perceived, in the life I could have achieved.

No wonder it is in a deep pit, along with my soul, spirit, and my being;
So deep inside a gutter that it can no longer be heard, felt, or seen.

Jamshedpur: a jampot of flavours

Every evening, after the sun sets in the steel city, the sky lights up. The orange glow can be attributed partially to the burning metal at the steel plant, and partially, to the illuminated carts of food street in the heart of the town.

Tatanagar was founded a little over 100 years ago, when Jamsetji Tata decided to set up a steel plant there. His decision resulted in two things. One: an obscure village metamorphosed into a cosmopolitan hub of people from all parts of the country; and two: it brought the time-tested recipes from their kitchens and streets into this little hamlet. In no time, Tatanagar turned into a melting pot of flavours and textures. The best way to sample this mélange of tastes, textures, and flavours, is through the food street. Positioned along the well-laid-out J road, where pushcarts appear magically after dusk and bring with them the most lip-smacking, mouth-watering food one can imagine.

Take Raja’s dosa for example. His dosas are golden, crunchy and stuffed with julienned onion, beetroot, and cabbage, apart from the standard potato mix. Served with the local version of chutney — made with channa dal, not coconut — and watery yet flavourful sambar, they beat the South Indian ghee roast hands down. Or Ashok’s littis for that matter — the thick balls of flour stuffed with sattu, roasted on charcoal, and dipped in pure ghee; they are served with chokha, a spicy preparation of roasted potato and brinjal, mashed with a generous helping of mustard oil. One bite of this is all it takes for your taste buds to come alive.

“Sometimes, it’s hard for non-Jamshedpurians to understand what the fuss is about, why people from Tatanagar rave so much about the food here. But if someone hasn’t lived here, he will never understand what we are talking about,” says Krishna, a homemaker and a regular at the food street, even as she waits for her portion of litti. Her favourite happens to be chilli chicken and noodles from the van, and puchkas from the nameless man in the corner.

Her children, however, are ardent fans of the papdi chaat made with dry puchkas, mashed spiced potatoes and topped with tamarind chutney. While spice rules the roost here, there is also provision for sweet. The freshly fried jalebis and imartis and the dabbewali kulfi with falooda add much needed sweetness to the palate, balancing out the spice. It is this balance that makes the street treats of Tatanagar so special.

This post first appeared in The Hindu

An Ode to the Roll

“Yesterday, I had a roll at New Town. It was horrible! Ekdom baje. I knew only Kusum’s roll would be able to offset the trauma, so I came here.”

You know you are in Kolkata when you hear passionate discussions about food around you, especially street food. The shop in question has been standing in an obscure corner off Park Street for almost 40 years, and though inconspicuous by its presence, the serpentine queues outside, and the intense aroma around it, ensure you cannot miss the humble stall situated behind a large iron gate.
“No one is certain when the roll came to Calcutta, but everyone who knows Kolkata knows about Kusum Rolls. You see, every corner has a roll walah here, but nothing beats Kusum’s rolls,” says Rajat Mitra, a regular, who, as evident, swears by the shop.

A bright yellow board tells you that the rolls come in 30 varieties — egg, chicken, mutton, veg, paneer, cheese, liver, prawn and their variations — and the prices range from a paltry thirty rupees to a whopping two hundred and twenty. A total of three men man the shop. Their hands move in perfect coordination as they dish out rolls by the dozen, customising each one as they go: extra chilli in one, no chilli in the other, fried onion in one, raw in another; sauces, spices, eggs, onions — everything can be added, removed, reduced, or increased to suit your palate.

If you are a regular, you won’t even have to tell them — they remember it. I am neither a local, nor a regular, but the shop remains my first stop in the city. I know the menu by heart and also the chronology of actions. The parathas are fried on the griddle till they are about half done, eggs are simultaneously beaten and poured onto the centre of the griddle, the two are then combined and fried again, until each paratha becomes thick, flaky, and golden. Next, these are transferred to the counter where they are assembled in batches: meat goes in first, then the onions, chillies, spices, and sauces. Each roll is then wrapped in butter paper and handed over to you.

“Do you know these rolls were invented when the busy workers had no time to sit and eat their meal? Someone put his meat into his roti, and voila, the roll was born. Isn’t that amazing?” A woman tells another, even as the man on the counter assembles half a dozen chicken rolls at once. It surely is amazing to see how far these rolls have come.

The post first appeared in The Hindu

Of Late Night Writing and Early Morning Discoveries.

-->

Q. What happens when you write an emotional piece on your phone at midnight, when your mind is numb with sleep, hands are exhausted of typing, and heart is overflowing with emotion?

A. You create an incomprehensible piece of writing, which is high on sentiment, and negative on form, grammar, language, and every other parameter of decent writing.

As a rule I never post my pieces immediately after finishing them. I let them rest for sometime and let my thoughts simmer a little more. This gives me an opportunity to ensure what goes out is not only accurate but also structured well. Sometimes, however, I fall in the trap of “me too”. Last night was one such night.

After having stayed away from my blog, Facebook, and even Instagram for a while, I desperately wanted to write a something about my home-town-in-law. The idea was to put a small note on Instagram and follow it up with a longer piece on my travel page. So even as my back ached, fingers hurt, and mind almost shut down with exhaustion, I typed a longish post and put it up. The writing was a little raw, but I was okay with that: it was only on Instagram after all and I would have revised it before putting it on more formal forums. What I had not noticed was that I was simultaneously posting it on Facebook.

This morning, when I found notifications about the post on my feed, I realized what I had done. The post was high on emotion, but had no structure and form. The sentences were incomprehensible, the paragraphs were misplaced; there were vocabulary issues and punctuation errors. I tried to salvage the it by editing, but it was too late -- it had already been read and opinions had already been formed.

With so much conversation happening about writing everywhere, I do not think I ought to add anything more about the topic. But, as a person who has published over a hundred travel and food pieces in national dailies and weeklies, and uncountable blog posts on established forums on the Internet, I only want to emphasize upon the importance of structure and syntax. And, may I add, patience.

Being particular about what you write is not about being or not being a grammar Nazi. Nor is it about putting a person down. It is only about your honesty towards a craft you have chosen to pursue and respect for the language you have chosen to write in. It maybe okay to compromise on sentiment sometimes, but it is never okay to compromise on structure. Because showing respect to your craft is the least you can do. Isn’t it?