Daily Prompt: 04/18/26

Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.

This was somewhere around 2015. Winter. It had dragged on for long. The gray of the city had seeped into me.

Trying to juggle wellness appointments for the children, cars, and HVAC systems had become a competitive sport as they took turns to pop up. On occasion they all chose the same day to scream for attention. If nothing, there was always a healthy dose of dishes and laundry among other unavoidable necessities. Any aspirations that I might have had for myself were as lost as I was.

I was trying to make some peace as I steadily lowered the bar for respite each night before bedtime to avoid further disappointment the following day.

And yet, one day I found the time to get away for an hour long massage at the gym. The same gym where I diligently paid my membership dues and rarely ever found the time to go.

The room was warm and dimly lit. The masseuse was a petite lady with a kind voice. I slipped under the blanket, face down and immediately felt myself melting. As she gently started to work, I found myself leaving behind my day and eventually resign and relax. She was intuitive and using minimal words figured out what I needed the most. The hour passed by and she gently woke me up as she left the room for me to dress back. A few moments later she returned. She asked me if I was sad. I had tried hard to keep myself together throughout the hour. How did she see through? It was then that I felt more stripped than I had in the past hour.

Gently she asked my permission to offer help. I thought she was about to come and give me a warm hug. Much to my surprise she didn’t. Instead what she said next was one of the best advices I have ever received.

“May I suggest that you give yourself a tight hug? A hug that we give ourselves is the best hug that we could ever receive.”

And I did. And just like she had promised, it was the best hug I had ever gotten. Me recognizing myself. I had a hearty cry and I was truly soothed in that moment.

I never met her again after that. But her words of wisdom have always stayed with me. Sometimes I may not remember them right away in moments of despair, but they do always come back to me, a mantra I try to live by.

Daily Prompt: 03/29/26

What is your middle name? Does it carry any special meaning/significance?

Like most Indian women, my middle name was not a given name, but an acquired one. For the first 24 years, it was my father’s first name and once I was married, my middle name changed to my husband’s first name.

In either cases, none of them mattered to me. Neither do the 2 last names I’ve had.

Apart from reminding me how patriarchy prevails, even when one isn’t thinking, the names do nothing to me.

Neither my father, nor my husband were capable of understanding that when someone uses their names as a part of their own, it is a privilege handed to them and a respect given, they didn’t earn. But I do strongly suspect their ‘manly hood’ would be challenged if the children/ wife chose to drop it. Such is the irony.

So long story short, my middle name, currently my husband’s first name, signifies an involuntary rolling over, auto renewal if you will, of time-tested patriarchy.

Personally, I am indifferent to it. It’s a few redundant letters… not my identity. I rarely remember it or attach it on any forms/ documents.

I like my first name. My mom chose it!

Philadelphia, February 2026

The scratch of a pen or pencil against the grain of the paper makes writing a pleasure…

This was the promise made by the diary I bought in Philadelphia on Walnut Street, this past weekend, just before I headed on my return journey in the blizzard.

February 21st, my first weekend all by myself, away from home. And Philadelphia was the obvious choice. I love this city. A little bit of new with a whole lot of old. A very easy city to navigate, on foot or by car. Lots of charming cafes and vintage bookstores, lush nurseries and gourmet bakeries, an array wines, cheeses, aged meats. Innumerable restaurants, chefy upscale ones and otherwise, a vibrant art scene and a lot of history, lots of yuppies along side old money, colleges, universities, theaters, museums and markets. Never a dull moment, whether one is moving or watching the city go by. I’ve never had a meal I didn’t love, or a street I didn’t want to linger on. An overnight visit is never enough and yet it somehow it often is. It is like New York in so many ways and yet unique in many more.

I’ve lost count of how often I’ve visited Philly. It holds some strings to my heart, in a manner similar to Delhi and Jodhpur. It keeps pulling me back. I am unable to decide if it has a feminine energy or is it more masculine. Maybe one doesn’t need to identify it.

I find that cities can talk, very softly. And they are able to listen very intently. I find that my most intimate relationships might be with cities. Something I would have been reluctant to admit it, even to myself, perhaps a little sad even, back in the day. Thankfully it gets easier to accept some truths with age.

This trip to Philly was wonderful. I visited one of my favorite college campuses, Penn, for a music show, dined at some fabulous restaurants serving two of my favorite cuisines, Japanese and French. Had some great coffee, made an intriguing acquaintance, bought a beautifully made diary, thread binding, squared up edges, Japanese paper that lived up to its promise of divine pleasure! (I wrote this passage in that diary with an old fashioned fountain pen before typing it here, so I can vouch for it).

And I also left one thing out: a Jazz performance at Chris’s Jazz Cafe. The traffic, the crowds, the chaos made it impossible to make it there, but perhaps subconsciously it was intentional. To have a reason to return…

Until then, Philadelphia holds me by those strings…

Life in Vignettes: Vignette #1

That one extra day we stayed back in Ahmedabad.

Scene: 1995. Second year of architectural college, Zonal NASA (National Association of Students of Architecture), hosted by CEPT Ahmedabad. An intercollegiate meet, a perfect playground for all budding student architects. Three days of interactions, festivities, celebration and lots of geeky architecture stuff. But we didn’t have our fill. If only we could stay back one more day…

Quick calls were made to our families in Bombay to get approvals and the adventure began.

We were in Ahmedabad, the check post for architecture by the greats such as Le Corbusier, Louis Kahn, B. V. Doshi and Charles Correa. And as aspiring flag bearers of architecture in the 21st century, we expected ourselves to be well-versed in history. So our agenda was obvious.

We woke up early and bid the rest of our college contingent goodbye as they boarded the train to return home. Since we had no boarding options, we dropped our bags at the College of Architecture in a corner hoping we would find them upon our return..

First on the agenda was the Mill Owners’ Association Building by Le Corbusier. As excited 19 year olds, we assumed everyone in the streets would know this ‘iconic’ building by Corb. Much to our surprise, none of the rickshaw walas recognized the name. We knew the general area, but didn’t have enough information on its exact location. Prior to Google, this is how we dealt with life. Sometimes lost, sometimes disappointed. But then suddenly very elated as we found someone who took us there.

It was completely deserted. Not a soul in sight, very eerie. Built in the 1950s this was a great example of Modernist and Brutalist architecture. The imposing ramp and sun breakers, all in exposed concrete, I couldn’t tell if the building was unfinished. It was ugly and attractive at the same time. A stage actor once told me that for someone to be attractive they need not be conventionally good looking. They must be interesting. And that this building most certainly was.

We finally saw a person and he let us see parts of it. We walked through the famed corridors of the structure. As the legend goes, the mill owners who contracted Corb were upset with the narrow corridors. To which he retorted: “If a pregnant woman carrying two suitcases can pass through a train aisle, you businessmen, with your fat bellies will surely pass through these corridors.” Lots of contradictions regarding this story, but nonetheless, it was quirky and we recalled it as we walked through those corridors.

We shouldn’t have been alone in that empty building but youth is oblivious and thankfully we were physically unscathed. As a student of architecture I was most certainly confused. Intrigued by the experience, we happily checked off this prominent piece on our list.

While we were still in the Modernist vibe, we headed to Villa Shodhan, yet another Corb design. Now this was tricky. Unlike our previous target, Shodhan House was a private residence. Which meant we had no access to it unless the owners invited us. This was not to happen. So we did the next best thing. We trespassed. Interestingly their garden had no fence and we could reach the entrance of the house with ease. We rang the doorbell. Now what? We had no plan of action and there was an impulse to flee. But before we could react a member of the household staff opened the door. We mumbled something to the effect of we were invited by the owners as we entered the living room. This one was beautiful and attractive. By now we were in the middle of the living room, looking around, sneakily taking pictures, when a member of the family came in to catch our bluff. We panicked and literally fled the scene and ran out as fast as our legs could carry us. I cannot imagine what the plan was in case fleeing was not possible. Clearly it wasn’t thought through and we were on the run. I assume the residents were used to random students come through their renowned home and didn’t consider chasing us.

After a quick economical meal we were on to the next and final destination: The Gandhi Smarak Sangrahalay. Architect: Charles Correa. A popular destination for tourists and locals, this was easy to get to. Based on repetition of a simple modular unit of concrete beams and posts, tiled sloping roofs, brick walls and pronounced gargoyles, it was peaceful and assuring. This went on to influence my work in the years to follow.

It had been a very successful day. We circled back to the architecture school in the evening for our bags and saw many students working in the studios. It seemed like we could crash on the drawing boards for the night. Instead of asking for permission we decided to ask for forgiveness if caught by the authorities. The night was spent restlessly on these hard boards amongst mosquitoes but as I recalled the events of the day, I smiled.

The next day we caught the train back to Bombay and the journey is a blur.

The fulfilling act of feeding

As we were looking for a parking spot near the community hall where we were invited to celebrate Eden’s graduation, we saw a bunch of young, dapper men carrying foil trays towards the backdoor, dropping them off and returning for another round. There were a couple of older folks orchestrating this dance, while the younger men dutifully ran between the loaded cars and the hall. It was a wholesome sight to watch.

Eden Oladimeji, Maithili’s roommate for the past two years, and a very dear friend, graduated in spring 2025. Today was the party to celebrate her big achievement and to wish her the very best for her onward journey into the big world. I was very honored to be included in the celebration. With her infectious smile and energy, Eden has been a very important chapter of Maithili’s college life, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world.

We found a spot not too far from the hall, powdered our noses, brushed our hair in place and led ourselves to the venue, sniffing the trail left behind by the trays that had just been taken in. There were spicy notes of cloves, smoked paprika, cumin and even a lingering whiff of earthy sweetness. We knew we were at the correct location!

We were greeted by Eden with a warm hug. She glowed in her beautiful bright pink traditional Nigerian kaftan. Behind Eden, stood who I believe were the closest members of the Oladimeji clan, with her parents being up next. This was our first meeting. I had heard great stories of her mom and she was exactly as I had imagined her to be. She was dressed fashionably in a bright red halter neck dress with shoes to match. Dad was dressed comfortably. Both welcomed us enthusiastically. Next up were her siblings, followed by the aunties and cousins. Maithili knew most of them while I was new to all. But they included me in their family right away as if we had known each other all along. I was left with no choice but to drop my usually introverted disposition and succumb to their infectious warmth.

The party hall was decorated for the celebration with such care and details. Round tables covered with tablecloths, chargers and dinner plates, cutlery, gold rimmed water glasses set the stage for the feast that followed. Each table had framed pictures of Eden through the years adding the special touch. I saw a TV with an audio visual set up so we picked our spots to get a good view of the screen. The guests were enthusiastically pouring in. There were more uncles and aunties, cousins of all ages, some with babies in their arms, all dressed in colorful and festive ensembles. It was such a wholesome sight. As everyone seated themselves, there were platters of appetizers brought to every table, neatly piled with meat pies and what looked like beignets. We watched others as they dug into these and took that to be our cue. Such a crumbly and flaky crust the pies had! The beignets were lightly sweetened and both these hit the spot. Drinks were self-serve and near the buffet that was getting laid out for later. As we got ourselves some water, we saw the core family members fuss over the food layout, organizing and sharing laughs.

Once everyone was seated, the official celebration began with the Pastor of their church congratulating and blessing Eden for her achievements and the future and reminding us to be thankful for the community and the food. A short and simple yet powerful message it was.

Soon after, the party was officially open. Each table was directed to the buffet in a sequence.

I had never tried Nigerian food before and didn’t know what to expect. The spread elaborate. Food was laid out simply. Starting with chicken sliders, tuna sandwiches, a whole fish smothered with a spice rub and grilled, fried chicken, grilled beef, oven-roasted drumsticks, fried rice, salad, something that in India is popular as Russian salad… the list was endless. And there was the Jollof, known as the national dish of Nigeria along with the fried plantains! The aunties were entrusted the important task of serving food from the other side of the buffet, ensuring there enough for all and no wastage. Each one was happy to be there and guiding the non-Nigerians like us through the line-up. I wanted to try everything so made sure to ask for just a bite of each dish, in spite of which, I walked away with a mound on my plate. I skipped the tuna sliders. The Jollof most certainly met the hype. The drumsticks were all individually skinned, and cleaned to appear as lollipops, the plantains beautifully cubed evenly to perfection. The entire spread was cooked by Eden’s mother over the week leading up to the party. It is so special when you know someone took an effort in cooking and labored over the finer details. It is the ultimate form of love and care for me. Similar to when a bed is neatly made for the overnight guests and a new bar of soap is placed in the soap dish in the shower. And a beautifully set breakfast table with fresh cut flowers and omelettes made to order.

This party was so well organized and everyone was happy, either eating or serving. It was very evident that Eden and her family were loved by many. There were as many enthusiastic diners as there were on the serving crew. The family made their rounds to every table, ensuring everyone was well fed. I kept a close eye on her family. Never did they sit down to eat themselves. While everyone was enjoying the food, her mom and siblings were setting up the desserts. There was a variety of individually crafted trifles, cakes and so on, stylishly arranged on stands. Yet again, the effort to make this day memorable was so evident.

There was jolly music in the background, the slideshow documenting Eden’s life playing on loop. It was admirable how she was able to take in all the attention coming her way so unabashedly. To be so confident at such a young age is such a gift and a sign of a secure and loving family. I didn’t want put a damper on my own merry mood by thinking about my own children and whether they felt the same way… but the thought did cross my mind.

Coming back to the party, deserts were devoured, our bellies full, hearts fuller, but the family was not done pampering us. An uncle walked from table to table with a platter of watermelon slices. I politely refused (how could anyone have room for more food?) but he insisted that I ‘needed’ one and so I picked a slice (how could I not, after he convinced me that I needed one!). This reminded me very much of the traditional pangat in a Maharashtrian wedding where the diners are lined up in rows and served food by the servers at first, followed by the host family members and then served some more. And it is customary that the diners refuse at first, then they are cajoled by the hosts into ‘just a little more’, and then finally they pretend to succumb and accept more! This is a well-rehearsed skit that gets replayed at every wedding. As a young child I was amused by this routine.

But now I understand it. It is never about the food. Feeding is reassuring us of the village we belong to.

An Unexpected friendship

It was a rather nondescript Japanese restaurant, with a drab decor and a snazzy bar, very typical in a university town. We were hungry from a long day of walking around the Virginia Tech campus and the steaming bowl of ramen hit the spot. It was close to 9 pm and we should have found a place to retire for the night in Blacksburg, Virginia. Instead, we chose to drive for three hours to Durham, North Carolina, our final destination on our list of college visits in his Spring break to tour Duke University. We were on a roll!

Shantanu has been very serious about visiting colleges and over the span of fifteen months or so, we’ve been to many universities with him, some as a family and some split up. Maithili traveled across the country and they hit some big names in California. Amit visited many along I-95 North along the East coast with him, I got to go South. While I am not a big fan of driving, I am always ready for a trip with my favorite person. So Junior year Spring break was my time with him. 

It wasn’t until Maithili was off to college that I had the opportunity to hang with Shantanu all by myself. Also, Maithili with her big, often melodramatic personality, would occupy the room and all our senses, which left a somewhat limited scope for Shantanu to grab our attention. 

But now he was the only child at home, for the very first time. We were trying to figure out our paths around each other. Also, when she first left for college, we were rather gloomy. We needed something to uplift our spirits and decided to do wholesome things. There was a lot of doing household chores together such as menu planning, grocery shopping, cooking and folding laundry. These were accompanied by long conversations on a variety of topics, ranging from finances to home improvements, and leadership and gender equality and many more. Through this, we started to develop our own little group of two buddies. We became homies in his words. As we continued to do things together, we decided we must have a show that we watch with one another, our own little guilty pleasure, something wholesome, something sweet. We settled on Gilmore Girls, or GG as we referred to it. Set in an imaginary small town called Stars Hollow, it was a perfect antidote to our melancholy. It was comforting, witty, funny, predictable and above all, followed a sixteen year old’s journey through High School into college. It became our thing. “Hey, do you want to catch one (episode) before heading to work?” was his line and my cue that he (and me) needed a little warmth and fuzz. 

Now GG is several seasons long with twenty plus episodes in each season. Slowly but surely we had learnt to navigate through life without M. Also, his initial fear that I would crumble without her was put to rest and he no longer felt the need to babysit me every minute. Over time GG watching was reduced. 

We still had a routine where we’d hang out for a bit after his school and before I left for work. 

Through all this, we continued working together on the weekends at the restaurant. As Martin in the movie Chef had told us, “Kitchen staff doesn’t have an age,” we were more like colleagues. He worked his way up from bagging to-go orders to being a Line Cook. He was open to criticism as well as learning. In him I found a perfect right hand person. I learnt a lot watching him take leadership roles. The next generation is always several steps ahead. He taught me how not to take everything personally and accept the things out of my control and not to micromanage. Through all this, our friendship always had the right measure of candor and respect. 

With his older sister in the picture, there was always a buffer or filter so to speak between him and me. He and Amit had their jam going while M and me had our thing. And then suddenly he and I had this space. 

I wasn’t sure how Shantanu would respond to me, especially since I didn’t share the same enthusiasm for his interest and passion for soccer as Amit. But he was gracious enough to overlook it and traverse the distance. 

Over the past few years, we’ve taken several short weekend trips together and had a really fun time.

As we drove through Virginia into North Carolina through deserted state highways, I was beginning to feel drowsy. He quickly started to play our favorite episodes of GG from back in the day and we were chatting away and before we knew it, we were in Durham.

Chef Vikas Khanna & the lingering taste of New York

New York once again! A part of me was left behind in New York City during my very first visit in 1990. And thirty four years and innumerable visits later, I still haven’t found that piece of my heart that got left behind then.

This time it was just Shantanu and me. Our last outing by ourselves to the South was one of the best road trips I’ve had. So I was looking forward to this one. We found ourselves an exquisite, historic hotel in the Greenwich Village. “Our rooms are tiny but our hearts are big,” is how they advertized themselves. And they weren’t kidding. We checked in and set out. We had a few hours until our dinner reservation, but were hungry after our car ride, so decided to grab a bite at a deli. We ate in a little park, taking in the sights and sounds of the big city. There is so much that meets the eye and then there is so much underneath the surface. The attitude of the city and its people may appear to be brisk, or indifferent even on occasions. But a single interaction with a New Yorker is enough to burst this misconception. It is full of genuine and kind people.

After our little break, we decided to walk off our sandwich and so we set off, pacing up and down the streets and cross streets, that have now become familiar after our many visits over the years. It was nearing dinner time and we headed back to the hotel to freshen up.

Ever since we decided to take this trip, I was trying to get ourselves a table at the new Indian restaurant in town, Bungalow, by the famed Michelin starred chef, Vikas Khanna. The reservations open two weeks ahead of time and get taken within seconds. I was hoping someone would cancel plans and we would snag a table. Sadly, we had no such luck. So we resigned to our destiny and decided to enjoy our meal at another popular Indian restaurant in the area where I had a back-up reservation. The place was hip with an upbeat vibe. The food on the tables around us looked delicious. It is difficult to eat a big variety when you are a party of just two. But we made sure to pack away a part of each dish as it arrived to our table to be enjoyed at a later time. This allowed us to try many of their specialties. And we went back with a delicious doggy bag.

At about 9:30pm, the night was still young, so we decided to drive past Bungalow to pay our respects. We found a parking spot around the corner from it and decided to poke our heads in. The exterior was clad in fake vines which is the latest trend in New York storefront designing. The flowers in the vine were marigold, a good Indian touch. It had a pleasant presence. Reservation or not, we decided to walk in. While the hostess had turned down some other hopeful diners who had walked in right before us, we were lucky. She welcomed us and led us to the lounge and promised to check back in a few. I am not sure what I did differently but we were the chosen ones. The decor was elegant and an homage to the clubs during the Britsh rule, that stayed on post independence. It reminded me of the Calcutta Club I had stayed at a few years back. We sipped on a Mango spritzer drink, while enjoying the room. Suddenly, my eyes caught a familiar smile, a smile I had seen on Youtube one too many times. It was Chef Vikas Khanna in flesh! In a chef’s coat and an apron!! While I knew he was the owner and the creative mind behind the menu, I did not expect the man himself to be there… working! He effortlessly moved from one table to the next, meeting and greeting every diner. It was obvious that he loved every minute of it. It was late on the Sunday evening, the last dinner service of what was evidently a busy week. While his hair was disheveled, the exhaustion in his eyes was well-hidden behind the twinkle as he graciously posed for pictures with one and all.

I thanked the lady who sat us in the lounge for making this happen and how inspiring it was to be in the same room as Chef, soaking in his energy and warmth. She reciprocated it by bringing us a dessert, named Celebration, courtesy of the restaurant. A generous gesture indeed.

Chef continued to mingle. I felt empathy for him but decided this wasn’t the time to be bashful. I strategically placed myself in his path of movement. I called Shantanu on his phone asking him to look for me before Chef did. And as expected, there we were, recipients of his warm smile. One often hears stories of big Chefs being cocky and arrogant. Clearly, he had skipped that class at Chef school. He found a way to connect with Shantanu as he gave us a tour of the restaurant. I told him that I appreciated how he recognized the contributions of the women in his life towards his career and success. We ended the meeting with the obligatory picture with him. We didn’t get to eat his food but this was a treat big enough. While the menu didn’t specify in so many words, meeting with the Chef was clearly their specialty.

The rest of the evening was a blur. On our ride back to the hotel, I told Shantanu all the stories about Chef Vikas I had known through his interviews on Youtube. We went back to our tiny rooms with our bellies full and hearts fuller.

This unexpected meeting couldn’t have timed itself better. Recently, my memory had become rusty as to why I had started cooking professionally almost fifteen years ago. When I first started, we were at the farmers’ markets. Cooking live is much like performing on stage. One got to witness the satisfied reactions of the patrons instantaneously. The feedback was immediate. The gratification instant. But ever since I changed roles and focused primarily on the kitchen, I had lost a connection with our diners. Which eventually resulted in forgetting why I wanted to cook Indian food for the foreign crowds. Visiting Bungalow and seeing Chef Khanna expressing his passion for sharing his culture through food shook me out of my slump. Also, he is a man with a vision who is brave and unapologetic to follow it. This subtle yet powerful reminder was what I needed. On another important note, young boys are often and repeatedly exposed to toxic masculinity. Unfortunately it is rampant in all societies. And here we were, watching this gentle-mannered man, scaling tall peaks in his profession on the international platform, not intimidated by the sky scrapers around him, taking on the world with the force of his vision backed by his passion and dedication. And all this without a hint of aggression, his boyish charm and youthful energy being his tools. I see this chat with the Chef, unafraid to show us his vulnerability as a myth buster for Shantanu. In his eyes I saw respect as well as admiration for his simplicity. Momentarily the cynic in me was tempted to believe this to be a well-rehearsed skit, he repeats day in and day out. But I am happy to report that it lasted only for a few fleeting and misguided moments before I involuntarily, or perhaps voluntarily, succumbed to his humility and grace.

The rest of trip was beautiful. The next day was a rainy day, and the mist only added to the city’s mystique. We rode the subway, walked almost half of Manhattan, bought shoes… Every so often I had a sense of déjà vu… my very first visit in 1990. Cold, misty streets with soaring skyscrapers lacing the edges, fast moving crowds…

And as I look back on this visit, I might have crossed paths with that piece of my heart when we walked in the rain, clutching on our tiny umberella, trying to stay dry. But I turned the other way. To think of it, I probably see it on every visit. But I pretend to not see it. I want to leave it there so I can keep going back, again and again.

Casablanca Airport Diaries

In the few days that we spent in Morocco, I have developed an awkward, read resentful, relationship with this airport. For a trip that was only eleven days, I have spent way too much time here than one needs to. 

First visit: Baggage claim woes.

We start our vacation at Casablanca, our port of entry. We breeze through immigration, me using my US passport first time, seeing its clout, not needing visas in so many countries world wide. We head to baggage belt, only to be told that our luggage didn’t make it. Ughh. Although no surprises considering the debacle of our connecting flights on Egypt Air in Cairo, this wasn’t the best way to start the journey. Thankfully we had more than a day in Casablanca and could wait for the bags to arrive the following day without having to change our onward plans.

Second Visit: Baggage retrieval attempt 2. 

We were dismissed by the officer saying luggage has yet to arrive, while after a bit of exploration ourselves, we found it was sitting right there, at another belt. Thank god for our brightly colored bags, I was able to spot them from a distance. 

Third visit: In transit

On our way to our overnight hotel on the last day, we had to follow an unnecessary security check that took a couple of hours, just to get from the train stop to the outside. An inconvenience for no reason. 

Fourth Visit: A narrow escape

My last morning, flying out of the country after a variety of experiences through our time there. I hadn’t quite woken up and completely miscalculated time. I had about half hour to board (or so I thought) and decided to get a hand massage, which was supposed to be a fifteen minute affair, to use up my last few dirhams. Between the massage, the chit chat with my masseuse and trying to pay while still semi asleep, I underestimated the time it took. Clearly I missed the announcement as it was in Arabic and French. I missed the last call too. As I ran to the gate, there was no one. The boarding had completed and gate CLOSED. The stern officers mercilessly said to me, “Too late,” (which I was) and boarding had ended. At first I thought they were kidding, but they were dead serious. HORROR! What does that mean? I was checked in, my bag was on the plane. Does that leave me in no-man’s-land? I was pleading hopelessly, tried begging, with folded arms… lied about a medical emergency…. Voice shaking. Some acting, but mostly real. I was a part of a movie. Geez. Being a filmy keeda, I imagined being stuck in a Muslim country like Sally Field in Not without my Daughter. All this time, they continued being ruthless. One of them made a snide remark about the massage. A woman was typing away something on her computer, checking with the higher ups. Geez. They were cut throat, and I was being reprimanded like a six year old cantankerous child for breaking a fancy glass. Thoughts racing through my mind in those dreadful 5 minutes: 

1. One more day in Casablanca. Since I just finished my Dirhams, I will need to exchange currency…. 
2. One more night in a hotel… Or will they put me up some place? (Why would they? It was entirely my fault)
3. Missing connections, baggage mess up… oh no…. 
4. One more time at Casablanca airport… a bigger OH NO…..
5. Now reaching on Sunday instead of Saturday, this messes with college drop off plans for M. 
6. One more day of off-putting cuisine. 
7. I could now buy that rug I should have in the first place? (I always see the silver linning)
8. Possibly Hammam that I had miss in the Fez? Why not?

It’s not so bad after all…. 

Obvious things I didn’t think of immediately: 

1. Bag was probably gone, gone for good… which means my designer wear by Anita Dongre and M’s clothes, along with Hakimi shirt…GONE!!!
2. I would actually have to buy another ticket altogether…. Added expense…. 

Anyway, the miserable five minutes were up and this dude with the heavy Arabic (and/or French accent) says to me: You are Lucky…. Phewwww. He didn’t even bother to throw a glance at me. What a smug fellow! I did my bit of thanking him profusely, holding his hand, gave him all the attention and glory he asked for. If this was an audition for a Hindi movie or sas bahu soap, I would have totally bagged the role. I was truly melodramatic… pathetic! 

Then I am escorted through windy corridors and a series of stairs to a connecting bus. Another dude in uniform gets on next to the driver to navigate him. I am the only one on board, sat down, catching my breath. A celebratory grin was about to escape from my lips when a sudden cautious thought surfaced. What if we don’t find the aircraft? What if it IS TOO LATE?? All over again a turmoil in my mind. I got up and stood trying to locate Air France as if they needed my help. But I had to do my earnest bit, show that I am appreciative (which I was totally) and remorseful (which I partially was).

I spot it! But couldn’t see the ladder that led to the aircraft. But I saw the cargo belt still stuck on. I was even ready to hop on there. The thought of yet another Tagine dinner can make you want to do ridiculous things. 

But just like Shah Rukh said in Om Shanti Om, “Agar end tak sab kuch sahi nahi ho jata, toh abhi picture baaki hai mere dost.” I spotted the ladder, there were about 5-7 uniform clad people waiting for me to climb it. I reach the aircraft and the flight attendant was lovely. The passengers were calmly waiting, one overhead bin was open for my carry-on bag that had the Tagine carefully packed in it. I had barely settled in when the plane began to move! What an adventure.

And the best part: I snuck in a fabulous hand massage, complete with Argan oil and some free advice on how I must release tension from my wrist.

Covid musings

What a lovely gathering we had, full of stories and smiles to send off our dear Deepti on her next adventure out west. It ended in good time and I had just finished putting back the last cup and saucer back into the china cabinet from our soirée, when I suddenly felt exhausted. There is exhaustion and then there is exhaustion.

The night was rough, between fevers and chills, I might have managed a few winks. I woke up feeling even worse. Aai was headed back to India the next day. There was no way I could make the drive to the airport and back, especially not wanting to be in the same car as her, not knowing what I had. Our goodbye was a distant air hug. While I assumed it was the flu, I decided to rule out Covid. And sure enough, the test came back positive! Is Covid still a thing? Apparently it is. And I have it.

The following night and day were spent in crippling pain. I felt really helpless. Friends and family were checking up on me, and yet, quarantined in my room, I was fully connected, yet completely disconnected. I lost my sense of smell and taste. Food was either salty or sweet, soft or crunchy. My body couldn’t decide if it was hot or cold. Head was blasting as if a thousand hammers hit all at once.

Interestingly I found some gratitude in all this. The month leading up to this week was very busy, in terms of events and parties, family vacations and all the planning and logistics around them. And I have a busy traveling month coming up in four weeks. I knew I needed to catch up on rest, but probably wouldn’t have voluntarily. So I did feel grateful for this imposed break and disconnect, to be able to sit on my bed and watch everything else carry on perfectly well without me. Humbling and grounding.

Last few months, Amit’s 93 year old grandmother’s health was slowly but surely on the decline. She had lived a very vibrant, healthy and wholesome life. I have known her as a petite lady, but with a personality so large that she filled any room she entered. Her fitness was enviable and inspiring. The past few weeks were especially grueling for the family. But being sick myself, I wondered what it might feel for a person, who is mentally fit, to know that their body can no longer support their spirit. And that the two must part ways soon. Or is it easy when you are 93 years old? But my father was only 59 years old, still very much in his prime, career wise and socially. His sudden illness was completely unexpected and between his initial diagnosis and eventual passing he had just eight months to process this. Although, is it fair to say, “Just eight months?” After all he was suffering and in pain through those eight months. After a just a day and a half of pain, which I know is temporary, I have become a thinker. I cannot imagine, and never want to be in that position either, what a prolonged illness must do to a person, especially when a part of them knows there is no return…

Well, thankfully not all of my time away from my usual life was spent thinking about serious things. I am very fortunate to have two attentive men by my side. I have noticed this, especially more so in this past year after Maithili left for college, that I get treated like royalty around here. There is very little I need to physically do around at home, except manage them. I almost feel like a successful, dare-I-say, professional Indian housewife! All my orders are sent via texts and they get fulfilled in no time!

All this time, I’ve been binge watching the show Julia on the life of Julia Child and her television career. How remarkable her life was, or what she made of it. She was no spring chicken when things took off for her as a food educator and tv show host. Of course watching food on tv while I have no taste for it is strange. When I can taste it, I mindlessly eat, mostly as a past-time. But with that no longer being true, I have no reasons to eat. Huh, who knew….

Amongst other things, I’ve watched a mindless movie called The Archies. Unnecessary on all counts. But it got me thinking. What self-belief its makers must have to spend time on something with no obvious substance, mission or purpose to it. Isn’t that true art in a way? Not to give a damn about what the world thinks but to go ahead with an idea no matter how frivolous it may seem to the rest? That explains the inane Hindi movies of the 80s and 90s. Come to think of it even the 2000s and 2010s for that matter. While I have skipped many, I’ve also watched many to know this for a fact. I am disgusted honestly. And yet somehow hopeful.

Wonder what else there is left to be amused about while I muse through my quarantine. Maybe a sequel to this post?

New York, New York

May 1990. Late Spring.

My very first visit to the Big Apple. We reached the Port Authority Terminal at midnight. It was raining hard and we had no hotel reservations. The men of the family, Baba and my younger brother Mihir who was all of 10 at the time, set out to find us some place for the night, leaving Aai, Aaji and me at the station. It was a scene straight out of a suspense movie. I wasn’t old enough to feel it myself but I sensed the anxiety all around and the women spoke in hushed tones, displeased with Baba’s midnight adventures. They viewed every passerby with suspicion and moved their weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, in case we’d need to make a dash. But where did they plan on seeking refuge, had a situation arisen? I, on the other hand was thrilled to play the extra in this mysterious movie. My only job was to keep my mouth shut and not express my excitement or else I knew I would be smacked and called a smartass. In hindsight, arriving unannounced at that hour, with no place to go, especially in New York, wasn’t the wisest decision, but it was all too exciting for me then. And isn’t that the purpose of traveling anyway? To create lifelong inane stories, that are only thrilling to the ones experiencing them first hand, and yet to be recollected and told over and over again for generations to come.

Eventually the two guys came back and we checked into a rather shady place called Hotel Carter. It’s only qualification was that it was a few blocks away and had room to take us in. On the way there, we passed through Times Square. The crowds, big billboards, lights, glimpses of sky scrapers…. it was everything America was supposed to be. It truly was the city that never sleeps.

While the women decided to turn in for the night, the guys walked across to a pizza place. Apparently the owner of the pizza shop, a kind gentleman from Pakistan, told them not to loiter around and head straight back to the hotel after their slices. He even made sure the coast was clear before they crossed back. For years to follow we were to hear about how it was “The Most Legendary Slice of Pizza” they had tasted. I refused to believe what I didn’t try myself, but till date, decades after the incident, I have told and retold this story to my own family several times, when in Time Square (or not), expecting them to believe it.

The next day, we were picked up by a distant cousin of Baba’s in his long car and transported to a ‘safer’ part: The Bronx! This uncle and his wife along with their toddler and his nanny lived in a tiny apartment in a creepy neighborhood in a creepier building. But they had large hearts and we spent some memorable times with them in the week to follow.

Through the week, we hit the touristy ‘must visit’ spots dutifully as a family. I have little to no recollection of that. But what stays etched on my heart forever is the unplanned days Baba and I spent meandering aimlessly, combing the streets and avenues of Manhattan. The air was still brisk in May, something unexpected considering May in Bombay is hot as hell. We were unprepared but that didn’t deter us. I have no memory of the routes we traversed. But between subway rides and walking under the skyscrapers, I fell in love with this city. And probably even with life.

Many years later this love of wandering through streets in pursuit of nothing, I still find everything. It is one of those things: if you know, you know.

Since my first visit, I kept coming back to New York through the years. On one such trip, Aai and I even stayed a night at Hotel Carter for old time sake. It was still shady, just as I remembered. Only this time, I knew my way around. We had pizza at Joe’s Pizza in the Village which was pretty good, but it would only have to be content with being the second best slice in the world

April 2022, Early Spring.

I was surprised when the children picked New York for their Spring break this year. Until now, through all our visits, they hadn’t quite been captivated by the city as I was at thirteen. But who was I to raise an objection? Amit couldn’t make it, so I was the designated driver. Traffic and especially parking could be a nightmare, but as the old adage goes, just like cycling and swimming, one can never forget parking in a big, crowded city. I haven’t driven in Bombay since 2001, but I took to the madness in Manhattan just like a fish to water. Maithili who is finally learning to drive, I believe, views me in a reverential light after this trip.

As always, we didn’t have much of an agenda. Shantanu wanted to visit some big shops in Soho and eat pizza at every street corner. In between pizza, we decided to hit every sushi bar we saw. And when we weren’t walking or eating we were in stationery shops and book stores. M was game for anything.

Like a pro, we found hidden parking spots. We ate at a Michelin star Chef’s restaurant. Sashimi was a crowd favorite. We bought stationery and books and shoes.

We drove past Time Square, one of the forgettable moments of our trip. Hotel Carter still stands tall. The street closing didn’t allow us to try pizza across from it. It just means we’ll have to come back again.