Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose



Ganga from Assi Ghat @5.30AM

 Yes, that is the realization at the end of the journey- the more things change, the more they remain the same. No amount of turbulence all around can change the basics. It’s so true of people and also for places. At least for places, which have seen a lot of changes over the centuries. No wonder it applied to the oldest living city of the world.

Looking back, I wonder why I was expecting that it will change at all. A city which continues to be what it is for centuries-unaware of people who come here, people who patronize it, who destroy it …people who love it and hate it for almost similar reasons. Why was I expecting, it might have changed in last 15-20 years? May be because even then, the squalor and garbage, the broken roads and unruly traffic made me uneasy. I last visited Varanasi as a schoolgirl.  I loved the city, its old charming ways – its narrow lanes, its traditional eateries and of course the river. Back then, I found the nearby Buddhist pilgrimage Sarnath straight out of my history books. It was in Sarnath that I first experienced how powerful would have been the faith preached by Buddha that it broke the centuries old customs of Hinduism in the 6^th century BC. In Sarnath, during my last visit, I was amazed to see the spread of Buddha’s dhamma across the world and how it ties the citizens of different countries beyond language and politics. I was also very envious of the students of BHU, the sprawling university campus and the unmatched courses on offer.  

            Then in last 20 years I changed. My gaze changed as well. Now when I looked at the dirty lanes of Banaras, I thought of lanes in historical part of the Rome and compared the two. The two eternal cities – which continued in all times of History, so similar in this aspect and so contrasting in all others. While in Rome there was a constant awareness of the historical context of the place, here it was blissful ignorance. Even the government notice boards and pamphlets do not speak the facts – but merely state the folklore, the “belief” associated with the place. While in Rome even the smallest and most ordinary of churches were very clean, in Banaras even the holiest of all temple, the Kashi Vishwanath temple needed some real faith to ignore the stench and dirt around it. Though I am not a religious person as such, I did not even feel moved at the sight of the temples. But then, temples were in any case not the most favourite sight in the city for me.

            The early morning boat ride was the best remembered part in my memories for Banaras. So we went again for it. The sky was full of monsoon clouds and the river was swelling with flood water from Nepal. The ghats, very uncharacteristically were almost barren. The life of the city, however, slowly started to appear. Priests and foreign tourists, local people and devotees from outside, cows and stray dogs, flower sellers and boatmen…slowly they all took their places on the Ghats. It was from the ghats that we saw the swamp of foreign tourist gathered with their cameras at Manikarnika Ghat to see the cremation as per Hindu rites.  For my mind, it was a very disturbing fact that death too can be a tourist sight! But apparently in the age of reality TV, all emotions attract our curiosity- even the most tragic ones. We wondered about the centuries of history appearing in the names of the ghats and also the naïve ignorance of people. There is something special about the place – something very real and important, but somehow, I had lost the innocent eyes of a child to admire that.

On the Ghats of Ganga

Ramnagar fort and the mysterious fort of Chunar, both places have definitely lost their grandeur and charm. Badly encroached and mindlessly maintained by insensitive government organizations, they no longer remind one about the days gone by. The stories of prince and princesses, spies and romance as narrated by Devaki Nandan Khatri in his ‘Chandrakanta’ seem very remote to the present structures.

Chunar Fort

Is it simply our ignorance about our history or our disinterest in anything beyond basic needs that can make people use a beautifully located British cemetery as a garbage dump?  Even the royal carriages of King of Kashi, used for the annual Ramlila look so ill kept and unimpressive. All along the overpowering thought was about the people visiting the place from other countries. Would they be able to sail through the complicated and tricky madness of the city to find some greater meaning in all this? I am somewhat doubtful of that!

Sarnath, unlike Banaras was clean and serene.  Through very deficient in terms of facilities and infrastructure, at least the place looked holy and inviting. It was, in fact, in Sarnath that I realized the answer to my disquiet about Banaras. It was in fact foolish of me to think that anything will change in the eternal city. Even with the new swanky shopping malls selling McDonalds burgers and western-style bakeries, the city will remain the same. It may be the world’s most un-hygienic holy place but it is also one of the most sought after. The city perhaps breaths with faith and not the polluted air. One can never judge this place at a material level. As a philosophical capital of India, the only way one can see and appreciate Varanasi is philosophically. Probably the groups of Sri Lankan and Thai tourists, with folded hands and whisper-like chants of mantras, got this from the beginning. And that is why perhaps, near the dilapidated Ramnagar fort and the ill maintained Chunar fort, the dirty, crowded ghats and just behind the snakelike lanes, with all the pollution and garbage, quiet flows the Ganges.

Tasting 'il dolce far niente' in Rome ...

Even before I learnt my first lesson of Italian language or ate my first slice of Pizza , I knew few things about Rome . I mean other than the history and art stuff. These were images that came from the movies and books mostly . To sum up in three words the image of the city was Vespas- Vatican-Vino . Now several weeks old in this city I still make and revise my opinion about this place every day. It remains a puzzle and enigma for which solutions seems to be just on the tip of my tongue . It amazes me to no end how a city can be so much and much more . Every day I discover some or the other new aspects of the city which entirely changes the equation. But then there are few things you can’t miss when in Rome .

 Rome might have patronized world acclaimed great artists and musicians, painters and singers but there are two arts which most ordinary people practice to excellence- famous La Dolce Vita (The Sweet Life), and also Il dolce far niente ("Sweet Doing Nothing" or "Sweet Idleness"). The latter in fact is very curious. It’s not being lazy or indifferent . It means letting your senses be the guide, getting lost, immersing in the place and just watching it live and display, also being impressed by how much beauty can be created by so many non-planned aspects crammed and layered through the millennia.

To a Roman, to see and to be seen, to experience life to the fullest, to love and to be loved, are the very essence of living —and the Eternal City provides an enchanting venue in which to “do it all.” A distinctive feature of Rome in fact is that it throbs with life ticking every second with an enjoyable spirit of enthusiasm, innocence, intuition, improvisation and leisure. The beauty is that they have designed the entire city that way or actually the city has developed over many centuries like that . The ruins , the monuments and history are just the first few reasons to fall in love with this city ...and they are not even the best ones.

There are such crazy facts about Italy that speak for itself .I read in a travel magazine that in a country of approximately 58 million they have more than 63 million phones . An average italian eats 26 Kg bread per year but gulps down 26 gallons of wine per annum. While the Italian economy is at its lowest ebb, Trevi fountain still makes 3000 euros every day in coins. A crazy town where every third building is a church and every fourth is a pizzeria . But like any other great city- Rome grows on you. You love it despite its pickpocketers, its mindless drivers and its inefficiencies . City can be best described as the spaghetti twirled around a fork. It is built up on contradictions. It tastes best because its slippery . In this town, you get the best designer brands as well as their Chinese imitations side by side - one in showrooms other on the pavements . You see a confluence of a buzzing metropolis and a medieval town at almost every turn . You enter a non descript kind of lane and find yourself facing a most amazing church or palace. A very holy and serene church can have a most morbid crypt with sculptures made up of bones and sculls.

The city makes you feel like a greedy child in a candy store. You want to see every church, appreciate every painting, savour all colours and walk every street . But after you have a stomach fill of sights and smells.....all you can do is to sit down in a cafe and watch the town go by. The town reveals its new colours only then. Its only when you get over that compulsive sightseeing that you actually see the beauty of the Rome . The feeling is beyond words, much like the mix of gelati you learn to savour . It was only when I reached this stage that I realized the very sensible il dolce far niente . Its only then I noticed the beautiful white seagulls encircling all monuments and churches of Rome. It appears as if the angels have taken this form to savour the beauty of this place day in and out. Its only then I noticed how beautiful , how kind and how emotional people are .

They love and love the display of love . They can't talk without a very characteristic movement of hands, they can't step out of house without looking stylish enough to walk the ramp and they cannot help looking like Greek gods and goddesses despite their very modern dressing. And only when I was just about to think that I am the first one noticing all this, I read somewhere that "Rome will reward you as no other city can, by making you feel as all her visitors have for over two thousand years: that you are the first person to really understand and appreciate her, the only one truly worthy of her infinite charms."

This morning when I sat down near River Tiber looking at the vatican bridge on one side and a  streetful of tourists on the other ,  I realised that visitors love Rome precisely because it can do this to them, especially in a global era in which a hectic working pace makes us all forget the taste of life, and its facets. The city gives you an assurance that it will remain here for your next visit and the coin you threw in the fountain guarantees that there will be a next time.

In Memory of my 'Idiot' Phone

It was a basic cell phone taken 6 years back when phones were “just phones”. It remained with me till 2 months back. Six years with  the same cell phone -- I know, I know … it is almost 500 Phone technology years and almost equivalent to 250 years of human age. But the machine – however primitive, stood with me tightly in all weathers, travels and more than occasional slipping off from hand . But finally it was a machine!  First it’s body lost its colour and polish  then one by one the keymarks started dimming and very soon it was barely audible. I still continued with it stubbornly. One day while in the heat of an argument, it just conked off. Well, it was a long life well lived. It travelled with me to 4 countries and numerous cities. Almost forced by circumstances, I had to graduate to a new generation smart phone.

Now with this shining new “smart” device in my hand, I do realize that I missed several generations of phones. Smartness of this new cell is addictive. It dazzles you with its display , impresses you with information, amazes you with accuracy and there are moments when you wonder how could you even exist without it for so long.  The phone is just a tiny step short of living my life for me. It has cleverly consumed all information about me and now offers unsolicited advice on every aspect of my life . 

But then in the heart of my heart I do miss my thick as a brick and dumb as dirt old cell phone. I mean it was an idiot of course. A perfectly rustic and dumb looking idiot . It could do nothing more than a phone call. Could not click pictures, had no clue about my location, my reason to be there and did not even know the road to the nearest Pizza shop. If I ever expected it to do anything but a phone call, I guess it would have stared at me blankly – like an idiot. I have to accept that there were occasions when I was embarrassed by the plain phone in my hand. At times when someone asked me to click a picture from mobile or to send a file through it, I had to grudgingly accept that  my phone cannot perform these feats . There were jokes in my office that I am hoping to get a good deal in antique market for my set one day. But I resisted the temptation to go the “smart” way or rather turn dumb with a smart device. That was mainly  because I liked the simplicity of the device. It had a very clear-cut function of being a phone. No convergence of devices, no multimedia experience hi-fi gadgets …opps widgets, a simple functional machine to make calls .

 But then there is another side of this story  too.  The old idiot phone never bothered me when a new mail arrived in my inbox at wee hours  or when a friend logged in on Facebook while I am driving .  There was no way I could surf internet or even play 3D games on it….leave alone playing videos and chatting on skype. Poor dear was not even aware about the cool “apps” which rule my world these days. But oh God , what a bliss it was to be ignorant!

But come to think of it, my idiot phone  never made me realize how fat my fingers are, as the bulging buttons always got the right hit…unlike, the sleek smart keyboard. It never made me click everyday scenes which have little or no meaning later on. Now two months old in my “smart” phone, I at times wake up in the night and had this urge to check what is going on in the world, at Facebook, and  if I have any mails . Standing at railway station, I get this urge to check out the position of the train (real time) on my smart ass device. It almost sounds like colonization of my mind. I no longer remember numbers, addresses, birthdays or routes. The situation is frightening.

I have come to conclusion that the choice is that either you or your phone can be smart  Just two months with it and I almost feel ignorant and stupid on most occasion without my know-it-all sleek ‘n snooty phone. This one is sleekly discreet about hiding the fat bulges of phone buttons, you don’t actually press the buttons , you  flick your pinky fingertip over them like a plenipotent wizard. At times I fear that one day it may just start telling me that I am taking the longer route, writing incorrect spelling, cooking the wrong dish  or calling the wrong person.

I wonder what a sane person would do if the choice is being a dumb guy with smart phone or a smart guy with an idiot phone. But then it’s no longer a choice for most of us. It’s something like Facebook Timeline format…once you opt for it, you can’t go back to simpler times when you have privacy, secrets and discretion. Its fascinating to begin with but once the new-ness goes away from the dazzling new world of smartness, one  can’t help missing  the good old days of simple devices and smart minds using them . 

Officially Anti Social

In one of my school textbooks many years ago, I came across the bold declaration: “Man is a social animal.” I have since carried strong objections to this seemingly innocent five-word sentence.

First, why “animal”? Could we not have gone with something a bit more... flattering? Second, what about women? Why are we left out of this zoological generalization? And third—and most important—I categorically disagree with this sweeping statement. Not all men (or women, or anyone else on the spectrum) are inherently social. I, for one, am a proud, card-carrying member of the “Anti-Socials Anonymous.” Social gatherings make me feel like a misplaced comma in a perfectly punctuated paragraph.

And I do not understand why this very simple fact is so hard for others to get. Perhaps we should blame the school system for brainwashing us into believing that humans must enjoy mingling. That all of us must laugh heartily in groups, attend brunches with joy, and make sparkling small talk as if our lives depend on it. News flash: some of us would rather read a tax manual than go to a tea party.

I’ve already confessed on this blog how weddings make me feel like I’ve walked into a parallel universe. But allow me to extend my rant to office events. I dread those “innocent” little invitations in my office email—those lunch and dinner get-togethers that come cloaked in politeness but smell suspiciously like social pressure. Let me tell you: the least understood and most unfairly judged group in any organization is the introverts who dislike socializing. We don’t make trouble, we don't gossip, we just want to be left alone. Yet, paradoxically, we’re seen as threats. Why? Because we don’t want to discuss our boss’s dog over badly catered food?

In smaller postings, life was blissfully quiet. Socializing with colleagues was limited to brief nods and strategically timed tea breaks. But then I moved to Delhi—and suddenly entered a world where everything is a networking opportunity. Here, socializing is not just encouraged, it’s practically an obligation. Official lunches, dinners, tea meets, Diwali Milan, Holi get-togethers, New Year high teas—you name it, Delhi’s babudom celebrates it. And heaven forbid you miss any of them.

To make things worse, they notice if you’re absent. Apparently, attending such events is part of being a “team player.” So now, I find myself having to manufacture excuses—mysterious illnesses, sudden house guests, imaginary urgent meetings—just to skip an evening of awkward small talk and soggy samosas. How many times can one claim their spouse has "just tested mildly positive"? Even my excuses have started sounding antisocial.

And then, about a month ago, things escalated.

The Big Boss, clearly perturbed by falling attendance at socials, made an announcement in a meeting. He didn’t name names, but he did look pointedly in my direction while issuing a mild fatwa against "childish" no-shows. According to him, we antisocial types are simply lazy. We fail to appreciate the bonding opportunities that come with forced mingling. The implication was clear: social gatherings are now part of Key Performance Indicators.

How do I explain to people that I don’t want to share meals and small talk with colleagues and bosses? That I feel like a fraud in these settings, trying hard to smile while my soul shrivels slowly in the background music? That I genuinely have no interest in knowing whether Mr. Sharma’s new hobby is collecting bonsai or whether Madam Boss prefers Pinot Grigio over Merlot?

Honestly, I try to listen. I really do. But after the third anecdote about someone’s “glorious posting in 1997,” my brain just files everything under blah. And don’t even get me started on the music—so loud it could resuscitate the dead, but definitely not conversations.

Still, there’s some amusement to be found. As an unwilling but observant attendee, I’ve managed to classify the usual characters who populate these sarkari soirees. Behold, the five recurring themes of every official social event:

1. The Wardrobe Warriors

They treat every event as Lakmé Fashion Week minus the cameras. Women flaunt their finest sarees, pearls, and handbags; their compliments fly faster than buffet spoons. Recently, some men have joined this glittering tribe, proudly rocking purple scarves and pastel pink sweaters. Equality in accessorizing, finally!

2. The ‘I’-Specialists (aka The Ophthalmologists)

These are the ones with “I am amazing” written across their foreheads in invisible ink. At work, at play, in war, and in love—they are always the hero. They dominate conversations with tales of legendary office feats, aesthetic adventures, and how the Cabinet Secretary once nodded appreciatively at their PowerPoint. You’re expected to listen reverently, and maybe take notes.

3. The Foodies & Boozies

This group knows what they came for: free food and subsidized drinks. They grin dutifully at the bosses, perform the necessary rounds, then disappear into a corner with plate and glass in hand. Except for their initial gossiping warm-up, they’re actually a focused and harmless lot—until the drinks start talking.

4. The Network Ninjas

They are on a Mission—with a capital M. Their sole aim: to be seen, heard, and remembered. Loud greetings, excessive laughter, forced cheer—they play semi-host, invite people to dance, and might even volunteer to clear tables. Subtlety is not their strong suit, but watching them in action is the only perk of such events.

5. The Loners (a.k.a. Us)

This rare and endangered group prefers corners, quiet, and phones. We often look confused or distracted, peering into our glasses like they hold existential truths. We’re the first to arrive (for lack of excuses) and first to leave (for sanity). Sometimes, we call home midway just to fake a rescue operation.

                                        

Just yesterday, still dazed from my birthday-and-New-Year double whammy, I accidentally on purpose missed two official socials. I didn’t even bother with an excuse. But of course, today I got an earful. I know more reprimands are coming, which means I’ll have to be extra visible at the next gathering to compensate—grinning like a Cheshire cat while counting every soul-crushing minute.

So until the world learns to accept that “not all animals are social,” I see no escape. It's going to be more dull evenings, hollow pleasantries, unappetizing hors d'oeuvres, and conversations that make you question your life choices.

Pathetic, isn’t it?

And just to clarify—if you spot someone standing alone near the lemonade, staring into their plate like it holds the meaning of life—please do not come and say hi. If we wanted company, we’d be out there socialising, wearing sequins and enthusiasm. We are not lonely. We are just biding our time till we can quietly slink out, go home, and finally breathe in peace.

Now, if you’ll excuse me—I need to invent a mildly convincing excuse for the next party.

Maid in India

Two days before the New Year an Indian couple, now living in Singapore, visited my house. When I invited them in and said that there is no need to take off their shoes, the wife exclaimed that such luxury is possible only on a Friday. I could not really get her, till I learnt that in her house the help visits only on a Friday to clean and for rest of the week they have to be very careful about dirtying the floor. It got me thinking about the luxury of being served, of having a maid, a help, a dhobi and a chauffeur. In India, mostly, we do not realise the importance of these essential elements of our daily life.

In Kolkata, where I first set up my house independently after marriage, I was amazed to find that even housewives do not cook anymore. Neither do most people do their own laundry (despite having fully automatic washing machines at home!). Of course babies need ayahs to mind them and a driver is a must even for a small hatchback car. Very amusingly the term used to define the serving people is “Kaajer Lok”- the people who work. It is almost like that literally – they work and the rest pay. Kolkata is not alone. All Indian cities today have the same “can’t-survive-without-maid” trend. Not that it was very different in the previous generation. I can now understand how spoilt and feudal the Englishman must have felt during their stay in colonial India. They had power to keep an army of servants – and soon they made it a way of life.

One finds many versions of these server-served relationships in a typical urban setting today.  There are full time maids/servants and part time ones. All in one – servant and specialised mali, dhobi, cook etc. They also join the families at different age groups. Some are teenagers. Some are women with families; others are single men who have families back in the villages. Sometimes entire family is in the business of serving in different capacities. Some live with the “master’s” family, others in the outhouse and some even independently on their own. Some eat with the family they work for, some don’t.  But then there are many commonalities as well. They are expected to be obedient and quick, unquestioning and silent. They speak when spoken to. Their needs come at last in sleeping, eating and rest.

 It is somewhere in our genes.  We love to have people to lord over. If you are born in a certain affluent class – you expect the servility from these workers unquestioningly. Why only domestic helpers – even in hotels and trains, how many of us say “ thank you “ to those who serve or for that matter, even acknowledge their presence by a nod or smile. There is an underlying, unspoken acceptance of their inferiority in “class”. Sounds very feudal isn’t it? Many stories of exploitation of domestic help, inhuman treatment of children working as help must have crossed your mind. They are mostly true. The sad part is that somewhere in our heart, we also expect the children of these workers- inferior to our own. We kind of assume that as our children will replace us in professions, they will replace their parents. In India like most other such complex societies, we do not expect a certain section of society (read poor) to dream. To our convenience we would always like some people lesser privileged than us.  We have a different yardstick to measure their Dos and Don’ts.  The existence of servants in a house is taken as a status symbol.  The new affluence is often recognised by the neighbourhood when an expensive full time maid is hired by the family. 

But then things are changing even for them. The old days of family retainers that lived in servitude of a family for a lifetime are increasingly a fading memory, and today's generation of servants are very clear that this is not their eventual goal in life, and most certainly this is not what they are preparing their next generation for. Most send their kids to school and hope a better future for them some day. I often feel that it’s not them but us who needs this retinue of workers to do our daily chores. That we ill-treat or look down upon them is doubly unfortunate because it’s us who are unskilled to run our lives, look after our kids, cook our food and clean our houses. Interestingly, we are also the ungrateful ones who love to circulate stories about criminality, callousness and unpredictability of our servants to somehow portray as if we are the victims of bad services at a high cost.
 In reality, we often rate the work done by them with a soap opera like evil Mom-in law. No amount of sincerity and hard work satisfies us (it’s a given ....we pay them money after all!) but an isolated case of negligence is worth quoting as often as possible. Oh yes, fascism starts at home.

But that is just one side of the story. There is a bright side of this relationship too. The side which often takes a comical turn . The side which found portrayal in the media and literature too .

In a typical middle class urban setting, maids are also big binding force. A colleague with whom I share my maid rightly claims that we are “maid-sisters”- persons who share the woes and stories of maids. Maids are also great company to many people living alone. They supply information and stories about neighbours free of cost. For many of us they are a mirror to the rest of the society. Their family life, their beliefs, their compulsions- there is so much to learn and compare. I have very fond memories of people who worked in our family in different capacities and became almost like family members. Many keep in touch even decades after the employer –employee relation was over. Some of the skilled gardeners in my parents’ house are responsible for my love for gardening. Some of the “family” recipes actually came from the cooks we had at different stations and are always credited to them. I had my driving lessons from my father’s chauffeur and my mom cannot complete one story about my childhood without mention of one or the other help she had at that time.

There have been many depictions in literature and movies of this servant- master relationships. Some comical and some bittersweet. Some even tragic. I still remember one short story titled Bahadur in our course syllabus is school. Bahadur is often the nickname of people from hills or Nepal coming to serve in the cities. The story tells about one such boy who was working faithfully in a family as domestic help till a false charge of theft leads to his expulsion. The story depicts the sad tale of unequal and often unfair relationship that exists between the two classes . It is still  a relationship which largely depends on the benevolence of the master rather than a fair work contract .

Recently, my poor maid went through hell of a time because of her family and health problems. None of this ever made her even one inch less sincere in attending to her work. So much so that at times I had to warn her from overdoing her bit. Undoubtedly, it takes a superior heart to adopt an unknown family with such sincerity as she has adopted mine. These domestics practically run the show at home, especially in the metros where both husband and wife are in busy earning the family bread. Their world would go topsy-turvy if these servants The numerous maids who rear children of others with care and affection while the mothers go to work/ party are contributing much more to the society than we can measure in purely material terms.  It is they who give us the taste of “home-made food”. Children often learn their language more from the maids and nannies than from the parents. It is because of these men and women that today’s young couple manage their newly set up homes. And yet we consider that we are the masters and mistresses of their fate!

What if the Mayans were right?

Have you heard about the World ending on December 21, 2012 as per the Mayan Prophecy? Chances are that you have. For the last few months and specially after the movie 2012, there have been a lot of discussions on the 2012 phenomenon which the Mayan calendar (or its modern interpretation ) holds.

The 2012 phenomenon comprises a range of viewpoints according to which disastrous or transformative events will occur on December 21, 2012. To some, this date is regarded as the end-date of a 5,125-year-long cycle in the Meso-american Long Count calendar. Various astronomical alignments and numerological formulae related to this date have been proposed. Another interpretation of this transition is that this date marks the start of time in which Earth and its inhabitants may undergo a positive physical or spiritual transformation, and that 2012 may mark the beginning of a new era. Others suggest that the 2012 date marks the end of the world or a similar catastrophe. Scenarios suggested for the end of the world include the arrival of the next solar maximum, or Earth's collision with a passing asteroid or a planet called "Nibiru". It will definitely remain a subject of curiosity and debate what Mayans meant by the “end” of the calendar. Whatever little I know of that civilisation, it seems unlikely that such optimistic and scientific civilisation was actually thinking of an end as –THE END. But one would not know till the date arrives (and hopefully passes on).

But reading about this, and generally joking on this phenomenon, made me think. We all have heard the famous saying -

“Dance as if no one were watching, Sing as if no one were listening, and live every day as if it were your last”

But few of us are able to live lives like that.

There have been many imaginary takes on the last part of the saying “ ....live every day as if it were your last.” I know at least half a dozen movies, plays and books where one central character (mistakenly) gets the impression that he is going to die in a day/ month / few months and that has a comical and dramatic change in the way he lives. People also attempt to list out things they would like to do before they die....but what would you do if you know the end is fixed and you know about it. Just as an experiment, let us imagine that your life is going to end tomorrow night. You have 24 hours to live. How would you live? Would you wait for the hour to approach with fear and panic or you would be calm and cool about it. May be you’d like to have your last party with friends. May be you’d like to spend all the money lying in your bank account? Depending on your personality type- this can be a funny, curious or sickening thought.

I for sure know I would not care about the “important” and “urgent” things on my work table. I would also ignore the decorum and conduct becoming of an officer. I would rather go out and enjoy the pale sunshine of winter. Observe people passing by. Eat what I love to eat (read fattening and more fattening dishes) and go and meet the people for whom I care (but usually forget to call/meet). Come to think of it, I may also give a piece of my mind to few and give unsolicited advice to few others. Write mails to all my crushes and write a will for my huge collection of comic books. Laze around at home and may be sitting pretty updating my Facebook status (through my newly acquired android phone), when the time comes.

Then I extended the experiment and started imagining how others would react to such a situation. Hubby dear (being rational and proud of it!) would definitely discard such nonsensical prophecy, but somehow, if brought to believe, would rush to make his essential phone calls (LOL!). Mom may even worry about the remaining food in the fridge and a particular colleague would pay last visits to the big bosses in HQ. A friend in media will give 6 new ideas how to cover the event of the Doomsday and my walking partner would be depressed to know that after so much efforts to lose the Kilos she won’t live to fit in that new dress. My dear brother-in law will jump to catch his last nap and another girl I know would be “really sorry” that the world is ending and she can’t stop it. The list can go on. The experiment cheered me up endlessly on this winter morning.

But on a serious note, I know at the end of the day my thoughts would be somewhat echoing the sentiments expressed in John Denver’s famous song “Poems, Prayers and Promises”.

“And I have to say it now, It’s been a good life all in all

It's really fine to have a chance to hang around

And lie there by the fire and watch the evening tire

..........And talk of poems and prayers and promises

And things that we believe in .

How sweet it is to love someone, how right it is to care!

How long it's been since yesterday, and what about tomorrow?

And what about our dreams and all the memories we share

The days they pass so quickly now...Nights are seldom long

And time around me whispers when it's cold

The changes somehow frighten me still I have to smile

It turns me on to think of growing old, for though my life's been good to me

There's still so much to do"

(listen to the full song here .)

NB: Whether or not the Mayans calculated it right – we definitely have another New Year to welcome tomorrow. Wish all of you the very best of 2012 ....with or without the doomsday. 

Cook it up Babe!

Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.

Harriet Van Horne

For many like me who cook three times a day and love it, cooking is an expression of our personalities. It somewhere defines us. It is part of a tradition, a culture and always a welcome topic of conversation. I can talk, preach and watch cooking without getting bored for hours. Even the thought of cooking is so happy and of course happier is the sound and aroma coming out of a busy active home kitchen. It’s heartening to see that cooking as an art is finally getting its due. It’s no longer what a housewife does or an act of bare necessity, a symbol of a woman slaving unpaid and un-praised - at least for many of us. Of course there are others who love to eat and hate to cook- both with same intensity. (I would consider this types suffering from a personality disorder) Then there is another variety, who hate to cook, hate to eat and for them all talk on food is trash (I do not dislike such folks; I pity them for being such uncultured fools).

But for those of us for whom good cooking is like a prayer- pious and selfless, a whole new world is unfolding. I was born in a house where food was an evergreen topic of conversation. Each season had its special dishes, pickles, sauces and sweets. My family would go to any extent to ensure we fulfill the gastronomic rituals of eating Kulfis and chaats in the summers, Pakoras and Ghevars in Rains and Carrot-Halwa, cakes and Gur sweets in the winters. Then there were family recipes of particular curries and koftas, rice pudding and stuffed parathas. No wonder when I think of seasons, I think of food associated with it. Even my memories of particular days are intertwined with memories of food cooked on those days. There was a typical menu for my birthday which falls in winters and another typical menu for holi day in the month of March and so on. Of course, festivals have little meaning without the food that comes with it. The food preferences and recipes differ greatly in different families but still we all crave for home-cooked food some day in our lives. In variably the definition of home-cooked is what we ate in our childhood days.

As I said earlier, cooking is finally getting recognition. It remained a neglected art for centuries. Many of us have heard of painters, singers and writers of various ages in History. Can anyone tell me names of some legendary cooks? Say who in Noorjahan’s kitchen came up with the divine recipe of Gulab Sherbet. Or who baked the first Bourbons in the Royal French Kitchen? Little was known or written on these topics before. But now in recent years a lot of research is going on to discover our culinary past. There is of course still a good scope to document and research our old recipes and their origin, the history and the art of cooking in various regions and how it defined the people who ate these dishes.

Talking of legendary cooks, I must acknowledge that one very admirable fact about Bengal is the respect given to the cooks in that province. Right or wrong- but they do know and recall which shop/ who invented Rasogulla? And one which day their popular sweet Ledikeni (named in honour of Lady Canning – the sweat was prepared for the first time by sweat shop owners of Burdwan in honour of Lady’s visit to the town)) was first made. Many years back the first cooking expert I heard about was Tarla Dalal. She came to my life through a cook book which accidently landed up in mail one day and stayed with us. Her vegetarian recipes came very handy for the bunch of us when Mom left for my eldest sister’s place and the cook fell ill. Those were my earliest memories of independent cooking. But even before that as kids, Mom allowed us to make one samosa or make one chapati as part of our play. I was in College when I met my cooking Guru- Kamie auntie. Our very generous neighbour who spent time and effort to my half baked (literally) attempts towards baking and more. It was she who made me fall in love with cooking as an art, to read about recipes, to compare them and to talk of cooking equipments.

Today I watch at least 6 cooking shows on TV and regularly glance through the recipe sections in magazines and newspapers. I also browse food blogs and have my favorites too. Recipes are a treasure trove to explore. Every family has them. Some comes to us naturally by watching our moms and Grand moms cooking, others are acquired on inquiry from aunts and sisters (in my case even uncles and brothers). Nowadays you can also download some more recipes from net and even share them with friends. For me Nigella Lawson and Nita Mehta are no less celebrity than Barak Obama or Shahrukh Khan. I watch the shows reverently and read the books as “pep-me-up” reading.

Interestingly the love for cooking no longer remains a “women’s only” trait. Though in my family and many others, the male side has been actively involved in cooking…. It was by and large a woman’s domain till recently. I was so pleasantly surprised to find a friend in my Italian class proudly declaring that both her dad and her sis are chefs. Even in popular culture, the image of woman cooking and men eating is changing.

Another very visible change is the globalization of cuisine. In India we no longer just eat Indian. We experiment with our own dishes and adopt the foreign ones too. Even in other parts of the world there is a lot of awareness and acceptance of various cuisine traditions. Even fusion cooking is getting popular which kind of mingles the best of all to create even better.

There is a lot I can write about cooking, about the changing face of our kitchens, the legendary cook books and favorite recipes. But for now, in this festive season, let me just ponder over the fact how a hearty meal can reconcile all differences and makes a man feel more charitable toward the world than any sermon. My cooking pals would vouch for me that a well raised soft cake made by you can fill you with so much happiness that can hardly be compared to most things and phenomenon of the human world. But recipe is just a tool to create the magic. As Madam Benoit noted in her famous cook show: A recipe is only a theme, which an intelligent cook can play each time with a variation. In my culinary journey, the variations have at times turned disastrous and on other times amazed me at my own fluke. They say that the magic lies in the hands. The same recipe will give different results with different cooks. Some even believe that even the cook’s emotions and feelings have an impact on the outcome. I do not know that for sure, but can certify the therapeutic side of cooking. It’s a great stress buster. It engages all your senses and is a very fulfilling experience.

Cooking traditions are an astute index of a family’s lineage in my eyes. Great families have always been proud of great family recipes and the family kitchen. As they say- you are what you eat.