Veggie Delight

To tell you a fact, my favourite dinosaur has always been the Brontosaurus. Like me, it must have also known what it feels like to be a vegetarian wandering amongst the world of carnivores.

Last month, a Norwegian friend, turned towards me during a dinner in Vienna and asked with a twinkle in his eyes, “So why are you vegetarian?”. As always, I began my oft repeated explanation - I was born in a family where everyone was vegetarian, so I too started as one and now I truly believe in vegetarianism etc etc   . And then I continued, “Some people do not eat non-veg due to religious reasons in India, some now converting for health reasons”. He calmly listened and then shrugged carelessly, “In Norway, the only reason we eat is -because we are hungry”. I sighed. 

It is difficult to explain others, why you have a particular dietary habit. More so, if you are Indian. In India, we have so many varieties of vegetarians that to expect anyone else to comprehend our habits and the reason behind them, is expecting too much. We have people who do not eat non-vegetarian food on some particular days/ meals , people who do not eat particular kind of meats , people who do not cook non-veg food at home but would eat otherwise  and then you have “pure” vegetarians  like me who irrespective of days, meals or location remain true to vegetables, fruits and grains   . I respect individual choice in matters of food, religion and dress. I do not question or ridicule it and expect the same from others. But then, we vegetarians, while being accused of being food snobs, are also butt of numerous jokes and taunts because of our food habits. But, believe me, life at the dinner table is not always fun, if you are a vegetarian, foodie and a frequent traveller.

  

My own experiments with globetrotting on veg diet are nothing less than hilarious. And the fact that far from going extinct like poor Brontosauruses I am plump and happy, proves that I managed the journey so far pretty well.

The year was 2008. We were on our first ‘real’ foreign visit to China. In a group of 10 , we were 4 vegetarians . Our Chinese hosts left no effort wanting in treating the group in best possible eateries. Yet we four vegetarians came out with only fruits and juices in our stomach even from the best of places. For us even the cooking oil was non-veg, which ruled out any chance of any cooked food. So while our other colleagues were savouring all kinds of Chinese soups, dishes and desserts, we were desperate to find “anything” to eat. The worst came in a formal sit down dinner when our hosts decided to treat us with ‘mock meat’. Even though we knew it was not meat, the look and the smell was so meat-like that we daren’t touch it and since we were scared of causing a diplomatic fiasco with our hosts, we pretended to like the meal . After the 11 course ‘hearty’ meal, four of us, famished and tired of pretending to eat, rushed to our rooms for emergency supplies of food brought from home. 

I was fearing a similar fate even in Africa, but there for the first time I realised power of one billion plus. Both Uganda and Kenya have a sizable Indian population and eateries there knew about the finicky Indian vegetarians. More so because the communities settled there are traditionally vegetarian communities ( Marwaris , Gujaratis and Jains ) . So not only we got our Indian roti and curry but also all favourite Gujarati snacks and delicacies neatly arranged in a “thali” . In many cases the best eateries were owned by Indians or had Indian chef.   Then on many trips to various other countries, I did not face much trouble with food. Both Italy and Austria were very kind to vegetarians with lots of variety and options. South Korea proved to be tough but still manageable as, by then I was a veteran traveller and knew how to find my kind of food in alien lands.

In my search for Veg food abroad, I found some pretty unusual places too. E.g. in Seoul , I found temple restaurants run by monks and nuns serving outstanding vegan food . The place I visited was “Balwoo Gongyang”, specializing in traditional temple food, where you can taste the carefully prepared dishes, handmade by Buddhist practitioners. It was an amazing experience to eat that food. 

Like places, in my veg-food pursuits, I often had very unusual partners. E.g. in South Korea I found many Arabs joining my Veggie gang as they were not sure of getting halal meat. In Bhutan my entire team from Kolkata office, otherwise hearty meat –eaters, turned vegetarian when they did not like the dry meat being served there. To my credit, I usually try to find vegetarian local food also and mostly get it. I have tasted vegan Bibimbap and vegetarian Kimchi in Korea, eggless Sachar Torte in Vienna and even yummy vegetarian Arabian food in Dubai. In Uganda my hosts treated me with delicious pumpkin soup, roots and salads prepared specifically for me in veg- versions. 

But then there were also occasions when the buffet breakfast at the hotel was my only meal in a day as I could not find much to eat at Lunch or Dinner. Luckily, the foodie in me is always ready to research and find out local options beyond Subway sandwiches (which by the way are lifesavers).

Now on my present work charge, I see many Indians travelling abroad with full preparation to cook their meals themselves. Some do it to save money, others because they can’t do without their familiar food and most others  to avoid hassle of searching options abroad. As for me, my learning from my travels is that I will invariably find something to eat with my dietary restrictions and with some effort will be able to find some local food too. For many this may be a hassle in an unknown city, but to me finding suitable food and the joy of tasting something new is part of knowing the place, and I would not like to miss out on that. Poor hubby keeps on hoping that I might return bit slim after my tours abroad for lack of food. Alas, he hopes in vain- I remain pleasantly plump with my hearty diet of Falafels, fruits, juices, salads and cheese and worse, every time I come back from a trip I add new food items in my list of must-eats . 

Leaving Mumbai............

Even when I said goodbye to Delhi , I knew we’d meet again — but not even in my wildest imagination did I think it would be so soon. As someone who takes time to adjust to places, people, and rhythms, who learns slowly and makes friends even more slowly, frequent moves feel like a tasting menu at a restaurant: a glimpse of what could have been, but never enough to feel full. Not a happy situation. I remember this feeling — of not. being quite done — when I left Jaipur, or Rome, or even my hometown, Lucknow. And now, I add Mumbai to that list.

I’ve come to realize I’m full of contradictions. I have gypsy streaks that make me restless if I stay in one place too long — and at the same time, I suffer from a kind of incurable inertia. When it’s time to leave, I panic. With inertia like mine, you often find yourself in strange emotional spaces. You feel reluctant to leave a city even when you haven’t done half the things you wanted to. You wake up in the middle of the night aching to rewind time. You bristle at your new office or colleagues for no reason at all — even when they’re kind, even when they understand your moodiness. The strange thing is, even as you're looking forward to the new — the fresh sights, smells, and flavours — you still resist letting go of the now-familiar people, places, and routines.

Leaving Mumbai was especially frustrating — just as I was beginning to grasp the nuances of work and look forward to exciting assignments, the news came as a surprise. I’m not particularly good with surprises, but I played my part with as much courage as I could muster. All those “congratulations” sounded bittersweet to a heart that was, in equal parts, sad to leave and scared to join the new, larger assignment at the big office.

And yet, here I am — back. Back in Delhi, back on the familiar old campus with known faces, scents, and routines. Still, a certain sadness lingers. It would be a lie to say I’m not happy — I am genuinely excited about this new role — but like a greedy child, I want both joys, without having to choose. My mind tells me I should feel content, both personally and professionally, but the heart is stubborn. It clings to what I’ve had to leave behind.

A good friend told me, after hearing the news, that perhaps this is life teaching me to grow up — to stop imagining the world in black and white and to embrace the role of destiny, the fifty shades of grey that shape our paths. Something like what Nida Fazli so aptly captured:

"अपनी मर्ज़ी से कहाँ अपने सफ़र के हम हैं,
रुख़ हवाओं का जिधर का है उधर के हम हैं।
वक़्त के साथ है मिट्टी का सफ़र सदियों से,
किसको मालूम कहाँ के हैं किधर के हम हैं।
चलते रहते हैं कि चलना है मुसाफ़िर का नसीब,
सोचते रहते हैं किस रहगुज़र के हम हैं।"

(We never quite choose our paths — it's the wind that decides our direction.
Dust has travelled with time for centuries — who knows where we come from, or where we belong?
We keep walking because that is the traveler’s fate —
Even as we wonder which path is truly ours.)

Before leaving Mumbai, I found myself thinking about all that I loved and all that I didn’t — about the unfinished checklist of things to do, and the reasons I’d like to return.

To begin with, I was happy to leave behind the nerve-wracking traffic: the incessant, mostly unnecessary honking that seems to be a constant feature of Mumbai’s roads. Coming from small towns, the hyper-urban intensity of the city often felt overwhelming. I never warmed up to the view of endless apartment blocks, clothes dangling from window bars, or the cramped, concrete monotony of city living.

And yet, Mumbai gave me sights I will never forget — the monsoon clouds gathering over a deep blue sea, colourful fishing boats bobbing in the harbour, seagulls chasing them as they returned with the day’s catch. The sun setting behind Haji Ali. R.K. Laxman’s “Common Man” statue quietly watching over Worli Sea Face. The endless stream of people along Marine Drive.

At first, I laughed at the couples cosying up along the promenade. It felt awkward, intrusive even. But soon I understood the necessity. In a city where flats are smaller than pigeonholes, where big families often share tiny spaces and relatives drop in unannounced, privacy is a luxury. Over time, I began to find those public displays of love oddly beautiful — even poignant.

Every day, Marine Drive made me smile. The selfie queens posing with practiced ease, wide-eyed tourists from rural India, and slightly confused foreigners. The well-heeled elites turning fitness freaks on weekends, dressed in expensive sportswear. The middle-aged women gossiping about neighbours, celebrities, and simpler times — many of them now living in luxury, yet nostalgic for the days when they arrived in Mumbai with little more than dreams.

On my morning and evening walks, I met others who, like me, came to Mumbai as strangers and ended up falling in love. They now love even the noise, the grime, the chaos. Artists, musicians, entrepreneurs — people who chose this city not out of compulsion, but out of fascination. It amazed my small-town heart to see that in Mumbai, there’s no such thing as “too late” to go out. Unlike Delhi, where I wouldn’t dream of stepping out alone in the evenings, Mumbai mostly felt safe — especially for women.

It’s a pity I only got a glimpse of its cultural life. Though I managed to visit Prithvi Theatre, the NCPA, and the Kala Ghoda festival, there’s still so much I left unseen in this city that never sleeps.

The most unexpectedly heartbreaking part, though, was leaving my workplace. I had assumed it would be dull, impersonal — but I ended up loving the work. For someone who once couldn’t tell upstream from downstream petroleum, and who had no childhood fascination with aircraft, it’s surprising how my eyes now go first to aviation and petroleum news. I can’t board a flight without noting the plane’s make, model, and tail number.

This unexpected learning curve was made possible by a rare team: colleagues and a boss who inspired, taught, supported — and never let personal troubles interfere with professionalism. People who put work above ego, who welcomed my questions and ignorance with patience and generosity. It’s my loss, I know, to have had such a brief time with them.

Each time something like this happens, I tell myself I won’t plan the future. I won’t make wishlists or imagine how things will turn out. So I won’t end this by saying I hope to return to Mumbai. But let me just confess this:

For the last five days, on my way back from work, I’ve watched the sun set behind the shabby, uneven colonies that line the Delhi-Noida highway. And every evening, a part of me aches for the sight of the sun dipping into the Arabian Sea — calm, majestic, unforgettable. If I ever get to see that again, I’ll consider myself very lucky.