.... how something as ordinary as an email from a friend can lift you. Make that an email from your best friend. Especially if you haven't really been able to speak to them in a long, long time. So when you actually do, the smile on your face stay long after you've hit the send button. Didn't think I'd actually say this, but it's better than real dark chocolate...!
Yes, I got distracted, lazy, apathetic and gave the blog a skip. Hadn't planned to write this, but hey, here I am, and I'm not even playing freecell on the side :). It is about getting into the habit, but sometimes, it's so much easier to just left yourself go, and I did. Inspiration however, comes in many guises. Some more unpleasant than others, sometimes sudden, sometimes stealthily, sometimes an email from your best friend.
जिंदगी एक सफर हैं सुहाना... यहाँ कल क्या हो किसने जाना
इ'वे जुस्त दिस्कोवेरेड ठाट यू कैन ट्रांसलेट तह ब्लॉग फ्रॉम इंग्लिश तो अनोठेर लैंगुएज - हाउ कूल इस थिस?? इ'डी हवे चोसें बंगाली, बुत ठाट'स नोट अन आप्शन अत थिस पॉइंट.... अलस! लोल! थिस इस ह्य्स्तेरिकाल्ली फुन्न्य, एंड नोट हलफ बाद :) । ह्म्म्म - मिघ्त बे बेत्टर इफ इस त्य्पेद इन हिन्दी एंड जुस्त हवे आईटी स्क्रिप्तेद आउट। लेट'स सी - उनीस बीस, कभी कभी मेरे त्दिल में, ख्याल आता हैं - बिंगो!!
A year and a day.... that's how long it feels, since the last time I was here. A lot can happen in that time. A lot has. Wish I could say it was water under the bridge, but it's more like a flash flood that's taken the bridge out and is swamping the banks. Unstoppable, relentless, inexorable. Watching the sides of the embankment cave in like big gooey mud pies melting under searing heat. Victim to the lashing anger of the river. It frightens you but you can't take your eyes of it. You feel yourself drawn to it, drowning in it, choking on it... but your feet are still dry. Or are they?
Salad Tales
Damndest thing...this jetlag. It's coming up to twenty past one in the morning, and here I am.... and who's going to believe me at work when I get in all bleared eyed and incoherent blaming it on the jetlag. I would have said my morning reputation was in shreds, but truth be told, I just don't have a reputation to speak of when it comes to the am and the office... so much so that despite all the melodramatic gasps when people find me in at 8.30, no one seems to remember those monumental occasions when it comes to slagging off Apara and her daytime appearances at work - cry wolf! gah! I have been awake since Monday morning NYC time, and now it's Wednesday am UK time, and I'm still bloody awake. Wasn't it enough - the interminable wait for the delayed flight at JFK's cruddy terminal 7? Their duty free shops and waiting areas are almost reminisicent of CS International Airport, Mumbai! Then the flight from hell - bawling babies, muttering men, nasty cabin crew, the sudden piercing of garish lights during a totally unnecessary, tasteless and excessively loud dinner service, whining people missing their special asian vegetarian meals. It's bloody midnight - eat up or shut up!
But to the highlight of my misanthropic adventure.... Caesar salad. Like no other. If I was lyrical, I'd pen an ode to this creation, but since I'm not, allow me to describe the most unique de-construction of a Caesar I've ever seen....and I've seen a few - the best being the one they used to serve up at Bellissima in Bombay, positively addictive, and that's hard to say about a bunch of leaves, toast and some dressing! Still, there I was, not really hungry.. just mostly bored with the waiting around in the hall of hell that is terminal 7, so I venture into this restaurant where an insipid hostess informs me in martyred tones that they've just finished the last order for the drinks... good start. I wave her aside and demand food and a seat under some light so I can read my book - an erotic tale of twins sharing their lover. Ok, so it's pornography, but hey, the style was literary... verrrry literary. Since I'm not really hungry, I absentmindedly eavesdrop on the Bangladeshi wait staff, but they're not slagging anyone off, so I turn my attention to the menu and the next table, where the chewed remenants of a corn cob send me into nostalgic rapture of bhutta in the rain on Marine Drive. I can almost smell it roasting on the charcoal, the angry red, yellow sparks finding your bare skin. I can't just ask for a corn on the cob... or so I believe, so I sigh and gaze at the uninspiring menu again. Obviously too much fine dining in NYC, my lips curl in disdain as my brain processes the descriptions and my stomach turns. A Caeser salad is simple. Elegant. Hard to ruin. So when the smiley Bangladeshi waitress asks 'Is that going to be enough for you honey?' I just smile at her nodding my thanks.
There's my corn on the cob - a bit boiled, but all in all, not a bad taste at all (well, if you daub buttery cheese flavoured stuff on anything hot and roasted, you can't go wrong can you??).. and then I stop, like a ricketly old car that stalls at the traffic light, my front teeth still attached to the bhutta as lo and behold... another bhutta is brought towards me. Except this one's green. Mother of God! (and for all you believers, I do NOT say this in vain). It's the Caesar Salad. The most unique interpretation I've seen yet. I manage to disengage my teeth from the cob, and even set it back down on the dish that it came in, all without using my eyes. They're in thrall. I inspect the salad from all angles. It looks like an unhusked ear of corn with bits of creamy white stuff and bits of grated cheese on it. I poke at it experimentally with my fork. For some reason, I have two of those implements, but no knife. But, they did have those lovely paper serviettes that pretend to be cloth... I wave at another Bangladeshi mimicing a rusty guillotine, and she brings over the necessary steel.
Faced with this bold statement of a salad, I lose my customary assertiveness, and gingerly saw at the top of the green object. Nothing happens really. So I muster my machoness and hack at it. Houston, we have visual. It's an entire whatchamacallit of iceberg. Head of lettuce I suppose - but it looked more like a cigar on steroids. I mutter to myself 'It is I... LeCigar, disguised as a wilted corn field...and I shall only say zis wance...' People are looking at me, so I take up my book with great nonchalance and read a few lusty lines. But my attention is back to this UFO in front of me, and I have to put my book down. All my faculties are engaged as I call upon my best hand eye co-ordination to wrestle the Caesar into submission, inadvenrtently knocking one of the three pieces of fried bread that were masquerading as croutons onto the tablecloth. No one's looking, so I stick it back on the plate and spike it with my fork. It's so well fried, that it splits the moment my fork makes contact, and I feel a bit like I'm wielding Poseiden's trident. Somehow I manage the chop off a hunk of leaves, the outer ones redolent with velvety dressing and specs of grated cheese (rumour had it was parmigianna, but I couldn't say...), the inner ones all bright green, leafy and well, tasting of leaf, and crumbling bits of crouton - a complete mouthful - and after a brief struggle with some overly affectionate leaves, I reign supreme. I chew thoughtfully. It tastes like a Caesar... mostly.
Like Dora the Explorer I hack my way through most of the vegetation, but have to stop halfwayish for some immoral sustenance, before regrouping for the next assault. Moral of the story? Not a good combination - a salad that fights back above the waist and a sexy novel that undermines from below..... an interesting meal, shall we say...? I left a generous tip... :)
But to the highlight of my misanthropic adventure.... Caesar salad. Like no other. If I was lyrical, I'd pen an ode to this creation, but since I'm not, allow me to describe the most unique de-construction of a Caesar I've ever seen....and I've seen a few - the best being the one they used to serve up at Bellissima in Bombay, positively addictive, and that's hard to say about a bunch of leaves, toast and some dressing! Still, there I was, not really hungry.. just mostly bored with the waiting around in the hall of hell that is terminal 7, so I venture into this restaurant where an insipid hostess informs me in martyred tones that they've just finished the last order for the drinks... good start. I wave her aside and demand food and a seat under some light so I can read my book - an erotic tale of twins sharing their lover. Ok, so it's pornography, but hey, the style was literary... verrrry literary. Since I'm not really hungry, I absentmindedly eavesdrop on the Bangladeshi wait staff, but they're not slagging anyone off, so I turn my attention to the menu and the next table, where the chewed remenants of a corn cob send me into nostalgic rapture of bhutta in the rain on Marine Drive. I can almost smell it roasting on the charcoal, the angry red, yellow sparks finding your bare skin. I can't just ask for a corn on the cob... or so I believe, so I sigh and gaze at the uninspiring menu again. Obviously too much fine dining in NYC, my lips curl in disdain as my brain processes the descriptions and my stomach turns. A Caeser salad is simple. Elegant. Hard to ruin. So when the smiley Bangladeshi waitress asks 'Is that going to be enough for you honey?' I just smile at her nodding my thanks.
There's my corn on the cob - a bit boiled, but all in all, not a bad taste at all (well, if you daub buttery cheese flavoured stuff on anything hot and roasted, you can't go wrong can you??).. and then I stop, like a ricketly old car that stalls at the traffic light, my front teeth still attached to the bhutta as lo and behold... another bhutta is brought towards me. Except this one's green. Mother of God! (and for all you believers, I do NOT say this in vain). It's the Caesar Salad. The most unique interpretation I've seen yet. I manage to disengage my teeth from the cob, and even set it back down on the dish that it came in, all without using my eyes. They're in thrall. I inspect the salad from all angles. It looks like an unhusked ear of corn with bits of creamy white stuff and bits of grated cheese on it. I poke at it experimentally with my fork. For some reason, I have two of those implements, but no knife. But, they did have those lovely paper serviettes that pretend to be cloth... I wave at another Bangladeshi mimicing a rusty guillotine, and she brings over the necessary steel.
Faced with this bold statement of a salad, I lose my customary assertiveness, and gingerly saw at the top of the green object. Nothing happens really. So I muster my machoness and hack at it. Houston, we have visual. It's an entire whatchamacallit of iceberg. Head of lettuce I suppose - but it looked more like a cigar on steroids. I mutter to myself 'It is I... LeCigar, disguised as a wilted corn field...and I shall only say zis wance...' People are looking at me, so I take up my book with great nonchalance and read a few lusty lines. But my attention is back to this UFO in front of me, and I have to put my book down. All my faculties are engaged as I call upon my best hand eye co-ordination to wrestle the Caesar into submission, inadvenrtently knocking one of the three pieces of fried bread that were masquerading as croutons onto the tablecloth. No one's looking, so I stick it back on the plate and spike it with my fork. It's so well fried, that it splits the moment my fork makes contact, and I feel a bit like I'm wielding Poseiden's trident. Somehow I manage the chop off a hunk of leaves, the outer ones redolent with velvety dressing and specs of grated cheese (rumour had it was parmigianna, but I couldn't say...), the inner ones all bright green, leafy and well, tasting of leaf, and crumbling bits of crouton - a complete mouthful - and after a brief struggle with some overly affectionate leaves, I reign supreme. I chew thoughtfully. It tastes like a Caesar... mostly.
Like Dora the Explorer I hack my way through most of the vegetation, but have to stop halfwayish for some immoral sustenance, before regrouping for the next assault. Moral of the story? Not a good combination - a salad that fights back above the waist and a sexy novel that undermines from below..... an interesting meal, shall we say...? I left a generous tip... :)
Gasp! Two weeks and counting...
As usual, I succumb to the pressure of those near and dear to me, and return to the blog under duress. Another cutlet I'm rather fond off made not so gentle inquiries about my latest update, and I had to guiltily confess to not straying near here since I tore myself away to finish the vacuuming... and why not you ask? Well, the parents are here aren't they? and when i'm not bullying them (the little, belligerent, pugancious female parent) into going for a walk, or arguing about who gets to wash the dishes, or pay for groceries (this time the tallish, beer guzzling male one), I'm traumatising them by taking them to Ethiopian restaurants where the menu advises one to eat the tablecloth! :) Such a joy to have children, wot?! And what's more, we're now embarking on our ultimate revenge of the long suffering older sibling and parents... yep, we're descending upon Mimi & Rahul in NYC, tomorrow. Yay!! Revenge is sweet! Served cold or warmish with onion rings on the side :-). Poor Mim's gone on a buying spree - bed linen, towels, and hasn't stoped whining about my deliveries that are being stockpiled in their flat waiting for my ascendency. Going to be a fun week given that they live in a lovely 1 bedroom apartment opposite the gay, naked yoga class (Yep, ladies day, every Saturday morning for breakfast ;-))... guess I'll be sleeping in the tub!
So why am I here?
Because I will do anything not to have to vacuum... or make the bed...or fold away the laundry (if any of you actually thought I'd throw in ironing, you must be the peripheral lot that do not know the Maharani of Kuchbhinahin well at all! Normally, I'd read this and go... well, don't then. But today is extra special coz Ma & Ba arrive shortly, and them, the Mok will indulge happily. By the way, my feet look very fetching in my new jane norman osho chappals - chocolate and turquoise, quite scrumptious. Was actually hanging around the dating website flinging back silly emails, when I thought it was time I updated those of you who do read this on the protocal of blogging as see through the lens of Apara..... you're meant to post your comments, not send me wonderful emails! actually, feel free to do both, but I just wanted to share what super deluxe cutlet from up north had to say about my 'chasma' (glasses) episode, as in his usual brilliance he's stolen the words right off my fingertips, and I enjoyed it too much not to share. Those of you that continue to be visually challenged, will really appreciate this... so as Bollywood's greatest loss said to me, and I quote......
"I think glasses are sexy...seen as I too have a tendency to indulge in them, from the age of 7! If I had laser surgery, what would freak me out is waking up in the morning and actually seeing things without the usual frantic grope ! My other irrational fear is if I were to be kidnapped and my captors took away my glasses, I wouldnt know who I was kneeling down in front of, but then again..... :-)Hope you are doing OK cutletWe're off to our annual pilgrimage to le France tomorrow with less Euro's to spend this time !!Vinod"
In case you wondered, it's a funny old day here... warm, but cloudy. Feels and looks like rain in the air, but it's behaving like an annoyingly coy bride refusing to raise her eyes beyond the tip of her dainty nose. Still, I rather like it, despite the spring song of this idiot bird on the tree outside. The weater also seems to spawn stud muffin types roaring around in their porsche/bmw convertibles, funky music blaring.... just seems so wrong in this delicate neighbourhood (and don't be rude and go asking so what the hell I'm doing living here!) - especially when you stumble upon an aston martin roadster (yes!! can you believe it??) engine growling in that sexily threatening way only a roadster can... then as your heart races and your eyes adjust to the testosterone steaming for the car, you notice the sole occupant. Sunglasses, gold ornamentation and cigar... yep - waaaay too many fittycen videos methinks. Suddenly, jeans and combat boots don't seem to be a bad thing to be wearing when this snarls past you.
Right, guess I'd better get a move on - it's just gone 5 pm, and there's only so long that the drying towels and I can balefully glare at each other....
"I think glasses are sexy...seen as I too have a tendency to indulge in them, from the age of 7! If I had laser surgery, what would freak me out is waking up in the morning and actually seeing things without the usual frantic grope ! My other irrational fear is if I were to be kidnapped and my captors took away my glasses, I wouldnt know who I was kneeling down in front of, but then again..... :-)Hope you are doing OK cutletWe're off to our annual pilgrimage to le France tomorrow with less Euro's to spend this time !!Vinod"
In case you wondered, it's a funny old day here... warm, but cloudy. Feels and looks like rain in the air, but it's behaving like an annoyingly coy bride refusing to raise her eyes beyond the tip of her dainty nose. Still, I rather like it, despite the spring song of this idiot bird on the tree outside. The weater also seems to spawn stud muffin types roaring around in their porsche/bmw convertibles, funky music blaring.... just seems so wrong in this delicate neighbourhood (and don't be rude and go asking so what the hell I'm doing living here!) - especially when you stumble upon an aston martin roadster (yes!! can you believe it??) engine growling in that sexily threatening way only a roadster can... then as your heart races and your eyes adjust to the testosterone steaming for the car, you notice the sole occupant. Sunglasses, gold ornamentation and cigar... yep - waaaay too many fittycen videos methinks. Suddenly, jeans and combat boots don't seem to be a bad thing to be wearing when this snarls past you.
Right, guess I'd better get a move on - it's just gone 5 pm, and there's only so long that the drying towels and I can balefully glare at each other....
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