Gwalior Days

Indian Summer, is usually not half as beautiful as the song in its name. And it is often the perfect recipe for mirages, even hallucinations. It is infamous, in the villages and small towns of India, for making people lose sanity. Everybody I saw on the streets that day, had a white cloth wrapped around…

A Calcutta Story

When the haath rickshaa turned towards Dhaka patti, it felt, as if, for a long moment, that time was fluid and this moment suspended mid-air, waiting to drop into an ocean of other moments like this one. The momentary realisation atop that mobile throne, that here, humanity moves like one giant ocean wave, was all…

é

It’s March and suddenly spring. Whatever be the tint of your glasses, there are flowers to be seen everywhere. Isn’t it ironic then, that he chose to send me a whole notebook’s worth of paper covered in poetry and what should fall off from between the leaves but dried pink bougainvillea. ‘How do I not…

I love you – II 

You see the little crabs scuttling away – you’ve noticed how they always walk sideways? And it’s so magical the way they go gupp inside their little holes in the sand. I wonder if they’re dancing perhaps, and not walking.  I like to see you in whites. Your linen pants rolled all the way up to your…

Paper-Cut

Phone calls are so usual, unending silences fill them. Texting is now widely regarded as the best way to propagate misunderstanding. Yes, we had letters. Now we converse in dreams. In a particularly strange dream last night, I found myself hovering over the sand, at the beach where we walked, wiping away all of my…

Cliché

Yun na mil mujh se khafa ho jaisay Saath chal, mauj-e-sabaa ho jaisay [Meet me not in anger, beloved, Walk with me, like the morning breeze walks with spring] Φ A Mehdi Hasan rendition of the famous, Ehsan Danish ghazal, playing from a vinyl record, whitewashed walls, indoor plants, a carved lamp-stand, with a shade to…

J’ai Oublié

‘J’ai oublié’ is a phrase I picked from an adorable movie called Hiroshima Mon Amour. Here, I’ve taken bits and pieces of insights about memory and its fickleness, that I’ve come across in films, in literature and in real life. Some credit goes to an elegant old lady of 82, Mrs. Banta Singh, who I met in Chandigarh once. She is the inspiration for this story.

Do You Love Me?

“I love you.” “…” “I love you a lot.” “Thanks” “What sort of a reply is that!?” He couldn’t possibly mean what he said. There was no reason for him to love me. He doesn’t even know who I am, what if I’m a kleptomaniac? Well, what if he is one? What if he has…

Recipes With Leftover Love – 3

The last in the series of recipes with leftover love. The one about learning. The one about confronting your demons. Sometimes with chocolate, or bourbon.

Recipes with Leftover Love – 1

When you have leftover food from the party the previous night, you give it away to your domestic help, or you upcycle it. Plain rice gets a makeover with some vegetables, egg and chicken and has its Cinderella moment; cold pizza goes into a buttered pan, gets a seasoning with some fresh herbs or a sauce and you beam at this marvellous masterpiece, your breakfast couldn’t be better!

What do you do when you find yourself with a lot of leftover love on your hands?