Sand between my fingers

I'm about to leave the city that I've lived in for all but three years of my life. This city is more than home. It defines me.

I'm about to relocate and adopt a foreign land. I know that I will crave familiar sounds and smells. And most of all, the people. The people I love and those that constitute this city's vibrant spirit. I will feel so lost without you, my friends.

I will miss knowing that it's possible to cut through Barton Centre from Church Street to MG Road, or the other way around, without having to walk all the way around. The big, golden Deepam sign that crowns MG Road. Browsing through the crowded shelves of Blossoms or the well laid out ones at Crossword. Hopping over to Gangaram's if you need a book that you can't find in either. Sipping on a cafe latte at Coffee Day watching the evening traffic whizz past. Driving my beautiful black hatchback through streets that I recognise and the silent satisfaction I feel in knowing which ones are one-ways and secret shortcuts. Mastering the art of crossing Cunninghan Road. Knowing what 'Koramangala Exit' and 'Madivala Exit' on the signboards in the basement parking of the Forum Mall mean. Hearing the flow of Kannada from local tongues wondering when the day will arrive that you'll be able to speak like that or at least understand what is being said. Corner House. Cubbon Park. The Leela Palace. Gulmohur trees, The monsoons. Hot bhajjis. Cold Pepsi. Beijing Bites. The maddening traffic. Autos. Two wheelers. Cows, dogs, cats. Life just won't be the same without the chaos.

I'm hopeful about the change. It promises to be exciting and I'm really looking forward to it. But a large part of me will remained anchored here. It's the part that will allow me to pick up where I left off when I return. Until then, I only wish that the new city attempts to be as kind to me as my home has been.

In-flight Dinner

I love airports. They're like people. Could it be because they see so many...?

Everyone has a story. An airport is one those places that seems to hold everyone's story. Everyone who passes through them, that is. The businessman who's making his thrid trip to Hong Kong this month. The seven year-old who's taking his first flight back home on his own. His uncle, with whom he spent the summer, dropped him off two hours ago, after placing him under air hostess care. Now he'll take the short ride back home where his father will be waiting to receive him at another airport. The girfriend who can't wait to throw her arms around her man just like in the Lufthansa ad and the college student whose leaving home for a long time.

There are plenty others, like the parents visiting their married children who live abroad, the first time traveller who is petrified of flying and the happy family on another Raj Travel Tour. Whoever you are, the airport has a place for you.

The atmosphere is bursting with emotion. It's heavy and electric. All the farewells and teary eyes, the innumerable hugs and vehement promises to return soon. Or its the welcoming bunches of flowers from family/friends and air conditioned cars that they bring with them, whose doors they throw open to rescue the tired traveller.

And yet, none of this is permanent. Sure, nothing is. But at an airport, it's even more temporal. From the winding queues at immigration and customs to the walk on the aerobridge from the aircraft to the building when you drag your luggage-on-wheels behind you. The manicured meals that you're served as a passenger or the more-perfect-than-life duty-free shops in the departure lounge. The distances that are covered. You know that it will end soon. Sooner than expected. It's all in transit. Always.

Maybe that's exactly what makes it real and therefore more appealing. In an age of plastic and Botox, anything remotely real is welcome.

Speaking of real, although this is entirely unconnected, I had a realy good meal tonight. Beijing Bites round the corner served up a particularly fabulous dinner of Crispy Peking Chicken, Lemon and Basil Prawns (which were sooooo goood! Flattened seafood in herbal seasoning goodness. I'm still smacking my lips) and Butter Garlic Noodles. It was a traditional Indo-Chinese dinner. But it was simply divine. And I have to mention the Bhuna Gosht from nearby Shahi Kabab Centre. Spiced and garnished, for my tasting pleasure - splendid. One of those moments that genuinely make me feel proud to be a carnivore.

Indyeah! - A Tribute to the Tricolour

I was at the cinema today and before the trailers began, a message came up on the screen instructing the audience to stand for the National Anthem. Unquestioningly we rose from our seats and the music played. Instruments came to life with images of the Indian Army atop an icy mountain. Temperatures are clearly below freezing, it's blizzardy and bundled Indian soldiers are holding the Indian trciloured flag. It's waving furiously in the wind and the crescendo is growing louder. Before I realise it, I'm mouthing the words, matching the music. I can't tell how many instruments are being used, but it's a rich sound. I have goosebumps on my body and I feel wieghtless inside. Patriotism washes over my insides, I feel new, alive. I am proud to be Indian.

Having lived a nomadic childhhood, I always found it hard to answer the question, "So where are you from?" That's because I never felt like I belonged anywhere. Now I know that India is home. No matter where I go, that will remain constant. I am so proud to be Indian. And I'd love to shout that out from atop an icy mountain.

Some thyme just in time

So the Elle girls went out for brunch to Herbs and Spices, 80 Ft. Road, Indiranagar. I've heard plenty about the place for ages now but never got down to actually going. I finally went and wondered why I had been putiing off the trip all this while. It's small and basic but fun with an open space in the centre that welcomes the sun. Split level seating adds character to the space and the tables are surprisingly private though being in close proximity. It's all about the arangement.

I tried the chicken quiche, with the faintest hint of onion and seasoned with thyme. I'm not kidding when I say that it really was the best that I have eaten so far. Fluffy pastry married to cheesy fillings and spinach blended together - it silenced all conversation on my end with its arrival to our table. My mouth was too busy savouring the delicacy to talk :P

Dessert was cheesecake topped with slices of fresh mango. Sumptious. And the Walnut Meringue was light as a cloud but quite bland. The eggless chocolate cake was an honest effort but fell short on account of being almost sugarless and unacceptably 'pasty'.

The decor was pleasing, I was in beautiful company, and conversation with friends followed the completion of the quiche. The afternoon could not have got much better.

In Passing

I love it when friends fight over the bill at a restaurant after a meal.

If the Walls had Ears

The other night I was curled on a chair watching a movie. My mom and dad were reclined on the daybed next to me and my sister was sprawled out on the carpet. It occurred to me that it was after a really long time that we were sitting in the comfort of a home watching a movie all together. It had been ages since we had done that. We had the sound up quite high but it didn't matter because we have two vacant plots on either side of this house. So the space is largely ours to turn up the volume to a decibel level of our choice.

It was late at night and very quiet outside. Apart from the distant hum of traffic on the busy ring road outside, there was no doorbell or telephones to dispel the silence.

For a few moments, I diverted my attention from the engaging movie that was playing on the DVD palyer and thought to myself. This house came into our lives about two years ago. We put off moving into it until a year ago because we were pretty comfortable where we were back then. Or so we thought. It didn't occur to us that we were multiplying like amoeba and needed more space. Reluctantly, after many tear-filled battles and caustic exchanges later, we moved into this house. It didn't affect my life much because about a month after our arrival, I moved away from home to live on-campus which I couldn't have been happier about. There was no waythat I was going to call this pile of bricks, 'home'. No, that title was reserved for more sacred spaces that held my memories, where pencil marks indicated how tall I had gotten in a year or where the dining table had been just high enough for me to walk under one end of it and out the other without stooping an inch when I was a year and a half old. Much like the place that I had been forced to leave behind. Not like the new place that seemed to be a cheap replacement attempting to allure occupants with its bright shiny fixtures and 'newness'. Besides, it seemed too far away from all the things important to me - namely, the city centre. But after a year spent at a college on the outskirts, that was no longer an excuse. Moving in was inevitable.

Ironically, the college that I left home for was the same one that I hadn't considered on even applying to simple because its adminstrative office was in the same area as the 'new house'. Please note that the phrase 'new house' was used almost as an expletive. Turned out that my stint at this college, though I attended a month late, was the happiest period of my life. It aslo let me get used to silence - something I despised before. The quiet drove me insne. But at the new college, I had no choice because it was tucked away, 30 Km from the city, nested in village. I didn't mind a minute of it because my college experience was perfect. Nothing could make me think of it otherwise.

But just like all good things come to an end. College ended and I had to come 'home'again. That meant the new place that I still couldn't begin to call 'home', for all the reasons that I just put down. It was still my parent's house that I was just a guest at before I zipped off to graduate school in the US in two months.

Tonight, however, I felt differently about it. It didn't seem as horrible to me as it always had. It was where all of us could put our feet up and relax as a family. Where we didn't have to worry about interruptions and disturbances. For the first time in 22 years, the four of us shared a domestic space that was just for us. And contrary to what I had thought earlier, it actually felt pretty good.

Like, I've said earlier, home is where the heart is and I really do believe that. So while a large part of mine will lay firmly embedded in the home I left behind, where I had gown up all these years, I can now feel a small part join this house. Maybe I can now finally begin the process of learning to call it home.

I snapped back to reality and focussed on the movie again.But this timeI had a slightly goofy grin plastered on my face. I think I've finally made peace with the walls.

Desire fuelled by Fire

I almost forgot. Apart from Philadelphia, I also watched Fire, by Deepa Mehta this weekend. I thought it was only fair to complete the trilogy having watched Earth and Water earlier. Ms Mehta really is a talented filmmaker. And in this particular production, she had the added advantage of the acting skills of Shabana Azmi to exploit. Honestly, I thought Nandita Das was mediocre. I've never really been a big fan although she was better in Earth.

Getting back to the movie, it was new and interesting. It got me thinking. Is lesbianism a condition of circumstances or a definite predisposition brought to the surface by these circumstances? I posed the question to a colleague at work who said that all women are sexually curious when it comes to members of their own sex. In other words, all women have it in them to be lesbians. Strangely, that makes quite a bit of sense. Just for the record, I'm straight.

I thought it was funny that Kulbhushan Kharbanda and Azmi came together all these years later in a set up of role reversals. This time around, Azmi was the adulterous spouse , cheating on her excessively spiritually husband with her sister-in-law as opposed to Kharbanda who had been enamoured by a starlet and strayed, cheating on his wife played by Azmi in Mahesh Bhatt's, Arth. Talk about turning the tables...

Bank on Hanks

Where do you begin with Tom Hanks? At the part where he plays young Allen Bauer who falls in love with a mermaid or as Winston Groom in Forrest Gump, struggling to make sense of the world around him, with only his mother's words of wisdom that "life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you'll get", as his only defence against cruel experiences. Perhaps it's when he plays frazzled Viktor Navorski of Krakozhia in The Terminal or as strapping American symbologist, Professor Robert Langdon in The DaVinci Code. Wherever it was the you first fell in love with him, he always gives you a chance to do it all over again.

And that's exactly what happened when I watched Philadelphia this Friday night. Yes, I agree that it's not the usual choice for a weekend-watch-to-be-teamed-with-popcorn see. But I figured it was about time that I saw this milestone movie.

It's hard to do justice to charcters that are played by exquisite actors like Tom Hanks and Denzel Washington when they're sharing the same frame. But director, Joanthan Demme, is fair in his treatment of both and the camerawork added intrigue. The real highlight of the movie is Hanks who steals your heart as the gay lawyer suffering from AIDS. The scene after the party where he's explaining the opera to Wahington is haunting to say the least.

In one word, Tom Hanks is brilliant. Which other actor lets you believe that it's the same guy playing the single father unknowingly in search of love in Sleepless in Seattle, the mysterious hatter in You've Got Mail, or the man who has The Greeen Mile, the production of My Big Fat Greek Wedding and the voice of Woody Allen in Toy Story to his credit? And when the lights go out at the end of a shoot, it's the same guy that you can still imagine going home to be Rita Wilson's charismatic husband and Colin Hanks' dad.

Tom Hanks' versatility as an actor never lets an audience get bored. It's definitely got to do with the sincerity that he puts into his work - the kind that can only stem from genuine love for your work.

Mr. Hanks, you raise the bar when you come on screen. Everytime.

Sunday leftovers

Being a firm food lover, I find it difficult to outrightly dislike any kind of grub. But last night's dinner was partciluarly bad. I dined at Ruby Tuesday's on Church Street and was thouroughly disappointed.

The nachos were dismal. I'm pretty sure they were stale. It was served with an excuse of a salsa. It lacked any kind of flavour or taste. The chicken wings were the only saving grace of the evening. Liberally smothered in a tangy sauce with chilli bits in it, the meat was well cooked and made up for the nachos topped with black beans and an insanely small amount of cheese that preceded it.

The settings were also disappointing. It seemed as though it were trying hard to be a hangout but was just falling short of the target. The acousitics weren't too bad. The only highlight of the evening was the courteous staff.

By the time I had finished my meal, it was raining hard outside, torrents of water creating 'waves' against the parked traffic on the street, cascades from rooftops and sheets of liquid across windshields making it increasingly difficult for drivers to maneuvre their way on already crowded spaces. The person in charge of car parking ensured that I didn't have to brave the downpour by having my car which was parked at a distance on the street and not at the restaurant, brought to the doorstep by the valet attendant and being escorted to it while the watchman held a large umbrella over my head.

So apart from being slightly cold, I reached home safe and dry. That's quite a bit to be happy about. Oh, and I had gone to dinner with friends that I hadn't met in a long time. The coversation, the giggles and the endless photoshoots was why I was there in the first place. This was the real highlight of the evening.

But Ruby Tuesday seriously needs to revamp their menu. And paying some attention to the interiors wouldn't hurt either.

The Great Indian Spirit

The monsoons are here early this year. So they're catching us unaware. And Bangalore is already notorius for its unpredicatble weather. It's one of the qualities that make this city so loveable. We might be out shopping in the sun or driving back from work on what appears to be a perfectly clear day when all of a sudden, we find ourselves in the midst of a heavy downpour.

A few days ago, I was parked at a traffic signal. As I waited for the light to change from red to green, it began to rain. I had nothing to worry about because I was in my car. My faithful, beautiful black hatchback would keep me dry as a bone. Heck, I even had the luxury of switching on the heater if the mildly chilly outside was too much for my delicate self to handle. Outside my window, I saw two girls, both of whom were around the same age as me. Only one was wearing a helmet. Both were dressed in thin synthetic salwaars - their only shield from the rain.

I felt a tiny prick inside me that reminded me that I was sitting in a warm dry car, a five-seater that accomodate four others, while these girls were getting soaked and cold. I was positive that if I had been in their position, I would have been grouchy and miserable. I hate being cold.

But when they turned their faces towards me, they were smiling! The windows of my car are tinted, so they couldn't see the look of utter disbelief on my face. It was like a one-way mirror, where they were the happy spectacle and I was the shocked spectator. I just couldn't understand how they could be caught in the rain without any warning and be so happy.

If that wasn't enough, I realised that several other motorists who were getting wet also seemed to be rather unfazed. While those who could get shelter were doing so, either by parking under a nearby bus stop or slipping into a water-proof windcheater that they had tucked into their backpack, the rest with no protection seemed just as comfortable. In fact, some of then were holding their faces up to the sky and using the raindrops to feel fresh. It was in their hair, their eyebrows and their mouths and they were enjoying every minute of it. Just then a car passed by on the other side of the road. It went through a huge muddy puddle at full speed, splashing copius amounts of unclean water on bicyclists, moped users and pedestrains, most of whom were already expecting the onslught. And even before the water could finish dripping of their moppy heads, they had all burst out into a fit of giggles. They seemed to be celebrating their circumstances.

So there I was sitting amidst an entire crowd of dripping wet individuals who thought it was hilarious that their shirts were clinging to their bodies.

That's when it occurred to me. That it's all about the Great Indian Spirit. That's what makes us different. That in no other part of the world will you find a lot quite like us. Where it isn't out of the ordinary to have leaking roofs and inundated basements, where it's possible that the beggar on the street corner makes more in one evening than the management student who's been trying to sell the face steamer/vegetable processor to passersby who shrug him off like vermin, where urchins tap the windows of bullet-proof sedans, where chawls share a wall with gated communties, where your kids go to posh private schools but your maid's go to the government one where the teachers never turn up, the bathroom doesn't function and the roof threatens to cave in. It's injustice sure. But it's also about survival.

It's about hope based on dreams that allows the urchin to believe that he'll be on the other side of the glass one day.

And that I have lots to learn from two minutes at a a traffic signal, which hasn't been covered in my posh private school.

Never before have I come across a race that has the burning instinct of survival searing through them as strongly as it exists in Indians. They find humour in tragedy and possibility despite no ready opportunity. Bill Cosby once said that if you can find humour in something unfortunate, even poverty, chances are you will survive it. That's what's been driving Indians for centuries.

Sometimes I don't know if that survival instinct stems from circumstances or whether the circumstances in this country are such because of the resilience of our people. What came first, the chicken or the egg?