"So, what would be the top five things you do if the 2012 fiasco were to happen?"
Kanika Chaturvedi left this query for me @twitter a day before. I had never given it a thought. If the world were to end, as has been predicted in some quarters, in the year 2012, what would be top five things I would want to do? The high bred among my stock of friends would snub the query, as useless confabulations of some vacuous brains. But it was an interesting note to have welcomed in the year 2012 with. So, I tweeted.

The first interesting detail I would remember from the year 2012 would be the following five points, which are the innocent first thoughts to have entered my brain. I find them naive and cute at the same time, and I am copy pasting them straight from twitter. Of course, with slight bit of my musings accessorizing them at their tail end.

#1 I have letters to write. I want to finish them before the world ends.

As said earlier, I love the whiff of paper. There are certain traditional paradigms, which, I wish, had not been hijacked by the technology which establishes itself as an omnipotent deity at present.  Writing letters is a romantic's delight! Quite obviously, hence, it is mine. There are some I started on. Some are pure cheese and corn mixed together to let my special ones know they are special. Some others are important confessions of guilt, hurt and anger which I wanted to convey to dear kith after putting thought and heart in it. They lie incomplete. But they are cozy reminders of how much I value those who make my world. And if it were the world, my world coming to an end, these I intend to complete as a first priority. Sounds bollywood-ish? Well, that's what I grew up watching. (

#2 There is a large chunk of Italian Cuisine I still have to taste. Learning it won't make sense anymore.
To call myself an inveterate foodie would be an understatement. I recently started falling for Italian cuisine, realizing quite late that luscious Italian culinary specialties are naturally made for me. I am 'cheesy' and 'corny' in my thoughts and writings, may be also in my appetite. Those dollops of cheese of a dozen different kinds, that creaminess, that subtle aroma of herbs, and the generous quantities of corns and mushrooms in different preparations- this is stuff that dreams are made of. Give chocolates and give me cheese- I won't have a single regret before dying then.

#3 There are some people I met via WSDC/EOC interactions, who are in need of urgent smiles and warmth. They will take my attention.

Hugs and smiles in copious quantities, to everyone walking past by. On a serious note though, being at the helm of organizations like Women Studies and Development Cell and Equal Opportunity Cell made me come across some faces and some stories that can touch anyone at the softest spot in their heart. These were stories of courage, of despair, of honesty, of losses, of dreams, of daring, of tears and of smiles. The faces behind these stories, some at least, don't need, but deserve some genuine smiles and warm hugs. 2012 or not- this one thought I intent to keep. At some places at least, we should not procrastinate.


#4 I dream of a novel. To compensate hastily, I will compile Nascent Emissions into a book, printed with a jazzy cover, & kiss it when done.
It was supposed to be a secret dream, but the moment I posted on twitter, being a published author no longer remained secret, but it still remains a dream. I realized it a moment too late, but the thought of the alternative devised to suit the requirements of ending time filled me with mirth. Nascent Emissions forms an important part of my subconscious, I realized. And why should it not? It has been a companion for the most special of my thoughts and ideas.

#5 I will marry!

Oh yes! This, I will. Now is not the best time to write on it, because I am filled with the visions of passion which surface when Elizabeth Turner (the heroine of a compelling Barbara Bradford historical fiction which I am reading currently) meets her love and is consumed by it before she can take another breath. However, this is perhaps the most important part of my top five. So, even though the visions are their, describing them is a near impossible task. I can only share a chuckle and some knowing smiles with other fellow romantics, females specifically, for they would know why this wish. All this romance, it has to go somewhere, isn't it?

Thanks Kanika Chaturvedi, for being the idea behind this post. More gratitude for giving my these silly smiles and thoughts. Not all of them are silly though. He was an intelligent man who asked us to live each day as our last. To do a few things mentioned above, and a few more things which are pullulating inside my brain, I do not really need to wait for the end of the world. What should be done, must be done. So, except for the marriage bit, I shall do all. Its a better note to begin the year on, rather than resolving to lose weight, because, as Sonal Kalra puts it, 'woh hota toh hai nahi'.

And now that I mention her name, I am also reminded of the fact that I wanted to dedicate my first post of the year to the people I love. But Ms. Sonal Kalra stopped me. In her casual yet persuasive tone, she churned out another priceless set of calmness tricks, this time on the first day of 2012. Her article, titled Are You Ready To Fall In Love? was about just that, falling in love, not with anyone, but your own self. Her fabulous quill yet again worked its magic, and made me want to dedicate the first post of they year to myself. I will heed her advice and not spend the year seeking the approval of others. I will make sure I have my own.

“To fall in love with oneself is the beginning of a life long romance.” –Oscar Wilde

PS- All this new blissful affection, its my new year gift for myself. I believe in gifts, remember? I hope you all do to :) Love and best wishes for a great year(s) ahead! Even though my most clairvoyant friend thinks this is the last, I'm happily assuming the opposite.

Mere liye :)

A food aficionado on prowl

I belong to a family of food crazy people. Not only my immediate family, but even near and distant kinfolk- all of us obsess about food with an almost religious fervour. A section of us have a chef residing within them, which tries to churn out mouth-watering delicacies for other people's benefit; and another section of us are the unabashed eaters, the perfect heterotrophs, who live off the cooking of other people. I obviously belong to the latter category, as explained explicitly in Mageirocophobia. I hate cooking, but I can't eat bland food, and so, what ensues each night at my home is a long and tiresome discussion, where I reject half the dishes my mother wants to cook. I give her my list of demands, which, mind you, are not easy to meet.

More than home, we (myself and fellow heterotrophs) love exploring newer places which offer interesting answers to our quest of satiating the glutton inside us. From grand and opulent eateries to nondescript, unnoticeable crevices in dingy streets oozing the aroma of unmistakably delicious food, I have had my experiences everywhere. Few of the food experiments did backfire, leading to a sore stomach or a persistent bad taste on my tongue, but many experiences yielded the kind of food whose very thought makes me salivate.

Two such distinct food experiences I had on my recent trip to Ajmer. The first fanned my appetite, the second one provided the happy climax to a perfect meal.

KARARI RUMALI @ Havmor Restaurant, Vega-The Mall, Soochna Kendra Chauraha, Ajmer.

First look of the Karari Rumali, with mint dip hiding under its shadow

Karari Rumali is the first item listed on the menu of the Starters available at this restaurant. The taste comes later, what this dish immediately scores on is the visual appeal it creates. We eat first from our eyes, then nose, then mouth- that is how the saying goes, isn't it? Enormous in size, bigger than perhaps the conventional size of rumali rotis, its crispness enters your ears as the whole family sitting around it breaks off little chunks, and savours them with an brilliantly prepared mint dip. In a restaurant filled to the brim, you can see many similar preparations being gaily eaten away at other tables. For me, it was a good starter. Crisp and light, with no strong flavors, and the sprinkling of the a yummy concoction of tangy spices on top- it tickles your tummy just enough to make way for the heavy main course soon to come. I could associate its texture and flavors closest to a Rajasthani khakra, though the sophistication of its taste surpasses that of a traditional khakra by miles.

DOODH (milk) @ Bhootiya Halwaai, Alwar Gate, Ajmer

Finding favour with a decent crowd, even post eleven at night- Bhootiya Halwaai

After a sumptuous, filling meal, our car drove down a desolate road, with no trace of life whatsoever. At the far end, I could see some light, some human forms, and then a shop with the eeriest name possible- Bhootiya Halwaai. Weird. And even as I got excited, I learned that there is only an embarrassingly tiny legend behind that marvelously intriguing name of this shop. The shop, it is said, serves such amazing thickly boiled milk, that even spirits (bhoots) can't resist its lull and aroma. In some unearthly incidents, it was discovered that all the left over milk mysteriously disappeared from the shop each night, and this was deemed to be the doing of bhoots, and not some hungry/thirsty thief. I don't know about the spirits, but I loved the milk which was served in mitti-ke-kulhad, little earthen cups, which people smash against the ground after consuming its contents. Sweet, boiled, thick milk is one of the most traditional after-dinner-before-bed preparations finding favour with Indians since ages, and I am glad I preferred it to a boring ice-cream for ending my meal. Bhootiya Halwaai knows perfectly how to please his customers, and the lurking spirits too.

These two are the first entries in my food journal. A lot more might just follow. After all, I live to eat, and proudly so. It kind of shows too.

Julia Child! I seek your blessings...

"Khaana banana aur bana paana do alag-alag baatein hai"

A micro second after my cousin commented this, with his sharp, gloating, humor filled eyes set firmly on me, about half a dozen people seated in my living room split into laughter bouts loud enough to drown any other sound which competed for attention. Cause was the usual discussion over my non-existent culinary abilities. This discussion invariably starts with me politely offering my aunt a cup of coffee (or tea in some other cases), made by me, with appropriate disclaimers of a potential taste hazard being put promptly in place. My polite offer is always accompanied by a humble, almost begging request, to gulp down my coffee like a medicine just in case the taste is too atrocious, and surpasses even the bitterness of coffee beans at choking one's taste buds. So while my aunt displays her grace at sipping my coffee with a smile, which (deceivingly) conveys that I did a good job with putting milk, sugar and coffee together, some other guests are not always so gracious. If ever I prevaricate over questions of cooking, I am reminded of my 'gender' with an almost irritating promptness, as if I am dumb enough to not have realized my feminine attributes and obligations in the past 21 years of my existence. But 21 years, this is where the problem lies. I am almost marriageable now, though the auspicious nuptials will not knock on my door for at least half a decade more (they better don't!). In this half a decade (audaciously assumed), I have to not just learn cooking for survival, but have to master the culinary art with high grades. What will otherwise be the decisive accessory on my marital resume?

As I ponder over this, I almost get those visions in my head, straight out of loser bollywood movies, where the very first glimpse a hero casts on his would-be is as she heads in his direction, with her eyes demurely lowered, carrying a huge tray of snacks and tea in her hands (Pick up any Rajshri movie for example). Even before their eyes meet, the aroma of delicacies, I am sure, wafts in the air, and a quarter of the decision about accepting or rejecting the girl is taken then and there. (The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, have they not been teaching this to us since time immemorial?) This, given that traditionally, it is a girl who is supposed to have cooked up half a dozen snacks- or is at least boasted to have done so. Even in the not so traditional families, it is the girl who is supposed to serve her would-be/could-be in-laws even if it is admitted that her culinary abilities suck. This is what took place with a close friend of mine, whose nuptials are soon to take place. This, however, is a scarier vision. My clumsiness, especially when it comes to food, is world famous. Ask my cousin why I always get my sub packed, and he will tell you in between loud guffaws that it is because I can create quite a scene while attempting to savour it, even while I am careful at my best.

The worst sufferer of my clumsiness has been my own self. Some three years back, I decided I wanted to dabble in the domain of cooking, beginning my culinary journey with my then-favorite Chinese cuisine. I made Chilly Paneer in gravy, and added that ominous essential ingredient, cornflour in a little excess- I like my gravies thick. However, before I could safely transfer the extremely hot dish onto the dining table, I fumbled, stumbled, and the piping hot gravy splashed right onto my arms and shoulders. The extra cornflour proved to be extra fatal. as it stuck to my skin like burnt, molten plastic, and had to be pulled out along with some skin in a triangular patch which is still discernible on my right arm if carefully checked. My culinary adventure came to a screeching halt. And since then, Chinese has been sacrificed as my favorite in favour of the cheese-rich Italian cuisine.

My bharta did not look as perfect. Sigh.

Why the musings today? That is because today is the second time I attempted to cook the good, old baingan ka bharta , and today is only second time in my existence that I burnt it. I am consistent, amn't I? Just as I was smiling about how simple the recipe seems, I faulted on the technique. If not for my mother, I would have idiotically continued watching Bodyguard, as the bharta simmered away to its eventual demise; as it morphed into black mass of in-edibility. Now that I think of it, Bodyguard is not even a movie worth sacrificing a yummy bharta for. Good news, my mother saved it. Bad news, I had to carry sheepishness in my heart to sleep.

So, while food is what I live for, cooking certainly is dreadful for me. The rebel in me often fought against the imposed learning of this supposed art. I vouched for keeping a servant as I honed my other skills. However, in today's age influenced by the MasterChef India Series, where martial arts instructors, corporate trainers, office errand boys, painters and anchor persons are asserting their skill in cooking professionally competitive delicacies, to claim ignorance in this basic art in nothing short of a crime. For now, I am thinking of becoming my mother's permanent kitchen assistant. The earlier rebel inside my is consumed with envy as I see my 6 year younger sister chop and cook with more expertise than me, and have those culinary discussions with my mother in which I feel like an alien. For now, I think I will take advantage of my short break, and take small steps towards accomplishing what is not short of a herculean task for me. So I will be my mother's unerring kitchen assistant. It would help me more than it helps her. 

Sigh. The compulsions. Ugh! 

The only silver lining is a vision..I lay down a an exquisite dinner table, with a dozen guests seated, ogling with their eyes at the perfectly garnished dishes I lay down with a smug smile on my face, knowing just by the wafts of the subtle aromas that I what I have cooked will be eulogized by the dinner guests till days later.... Dreams.....!

How about an inspiration to begin my foray into cooking with? Chef Vikas Khanna, the latest talk of the town just seems about perfect! Any bribe which includes his mention will certainly make me the best cook on the planet!

PS- Mageirocophobia translates as the fear of cooking. It ain't all that acute, but it does describe the dread in my heart to some good extent.