I used to think the I-write-in-a-café generation was just high on caffeine. People went on and on about the tranquility of coffee shops, how easily their thoughts flowed, how the steaming hot coffee went down their systems, washing away anxieties and unleashing their creative energy. What a load of hogwash.
All this, until I started trying it out myself. Continue reading
There was a time, many moons ago, when I used to love the monsoon. My heart skipped a beat when it rained and my MP3 player hummed monsoonal tunes. I’d sit by the window as the rain washed the dust off my garden plants and watch everything enliven. I’d ask Granny to make onion pakoras, dip them in ketchup, and munch them with great delight.
Years have now passed since that time. Continue reading
The other evening, I took home a Chicken Hot and Sour Soup. I have been suffering from a bad cold and cough lately, and Chicken Soup is extremely comforting. Mom would make it for me once, along with all the other hot foods in her collection – khichdi and kadha. I was thinking about her as I unpacked the soup and got ready to slurp. The soup was hot – and I don’t just mean the temperature – and it was delicious. But when I went to rinse my mouth later, a shock awaited me. My lips and tongue looked bloodshot. Continue reading
I wonder he didn’t fall off his bike. He had stopped it an abrupt motion, and his pillion rider was also falling over in excitement. It didn’t matter that the two of them had on civil clothes and were riding an expensive-looking bike. It was not beneath them to gawk at the foreign girl walking on the pavement – shamelessly, if you please.
The two guys ran their eyes all over her, and, as she hurried past them, burst into guffaws and would-be cool jokes. They had met a foreigner that morning, thank you very much. A foreigner wearing jeans and a tee and carrying a bag of vegetables was naturally a bizarre sight, because, hey, Indian girls don’t do that! Continue reading
And pure refrigerating and gastronomic genius. Continue reading
Mahabaleshwar, a hill station near Pune [www.tourindia365.com]
It actually is cold in Pune. I mean, my-fingers-are-numb kind of cold. After years of arguing with R about how Pune can never compete with Delhi in the winter department, it does seem like this quaint old city is up to the competition. No, I am not complaining. In fact, I am delighted. Continue reading
*Picture from agfarson.wordpress.com
It’s raining in Pune. The night is still young but the skies look set for an all-nighter. The street lamps are glowing like fairy lights; they twinkle with every falling raindrop. The stars are all under cover but you can figure they are there somewhere, enjoying the sudden shower. The stars love anything that brings shine to the world – and takes the dust off leaves, pebbles and balcony railings. Continue reading
*If I have accidentally quoted you, send me a card.
*Picture from flatonmyback.com
Auto Wallah to an office-goer: You will need to pay me 80 bucks extra as I don’t personally like that area. (Girl starts to walk away frowning) Okay Madam, sit. It was worth a try!
Middle-aged woman to a shopkeeper: Bhaiya, you really need to give a chocolate free now that I have bought so much from you. My old nerves need a sugar rush. (She had bought a packet of Britannia biscuits)
I committed a grave mistake the other evening; I went to get the battery in my watch replaced. Turns out this can be as dangerous as playing with fire.
The watch repair guy sat busily doing nothing behind the counter and said to me: “What’s wrong with your watch?”
“I think the – “ I ventured to reply, when he hushed me and continued. “You don’t really need to tell me. I can figure it out in a second just by holding your watch. I have been in this business for twenty years and this shop of mine is frequented by any knowledgeable Pune-ikar.” He turned to a tea-seller who had his little pop-up shop next door and called out. “What say, mate?”
If you look inside one of those omnipresent auto rickshaws in Pune and spot a particularly hassled passenger, it might as well be me. Wave out to me, Good Samaritan, and I may last out that bit longer. Why the drama, you say? Read on.