A Perfect Afternoon to Reminisce

Shimmering shadows of leaves rustling in a light afternoon breeze have cast a mystical spell over my living room today. Pale yellow streaks of sunlight creep in through the open blinds carrying these shadows on their back. With fragile yet warm fingers, an ever elusive sun lightly caresses my cheek and urges me to slip into a wonderland of memories and tales. Soaked in words, these memories seek to make eternal marks on the pages of this blog.

I reel back to a time when winter vacations meant spending an extra hour in bed under my thick patchwork blanket, tucking into fluffy cheese omelets served with paranthas while warming my toes in front of the heater, devouring Enid Blyton's books by the dozen, waiting for Ma to come back from work so that we could play board games, sipping the customary after-dinner hot chocolate while watching Doogie Howser M.D and finally calling it a day, peacefully snuggled between Papa and Ma.

The second half of the year was always more special. It brought along festivities, lights, mithai, presents and general merriment. The holiday-season kicked off in style with Dusshera. Diwali too closely followed at its heels. My exceptional vacation privileges were revoked on these special days and Ma would badger me into rising early and showering. With the ease of a skillful storyteller, within seconds she would make me believe that if I did not, God would morph me into a donkey.

Each of these events was an experience in itself. Dusshera would begin with a grand pooja at the Army parade ground, conducted usually by the Gorkha regiment. The celebration typically ended on a gory note with the sacrifice of an animal to appease the goddess. Evenings were reserved for witnessing the colossal statues of Ravana, Kumbhkarana and Meghanada being gobbled up by angry flames and finally reduced to ashes.

A few weeks later Diwali would knock at our doors. The tedious process of making gujiyas and laddoos commenced well in advance. Tiny clay lamps with cotton wicks would find their place in front of the household temple. Crackers also shared space with the lamps and were gleefully gawked at by Pranay every single day till Diwali. Come evening and the glimmer of stringed lights on each house alchemized the cantonment into a fairyland. The aroma of fresh gujiyas mingled with the pungent odour of smoke from the firecrackers made for a signature Diwali memory.

On one of my trips home, I came across a letter supposedly written to me by Santa Claus although the handwriting suspiciously resembled Ma’s. It brought back a flood of reminiscences. The socks I would hang on our clothesline on Christmas Eve and the excitement I fought the whole night long were almost always amply rewarded the next morning. This was one day other than my birthday when I needed no coaxing or cajoling to get out of bed. The chocolates stuffed in my old socks and the toys and books littered on the floor bolstered my belief in magical creatures like elves, gnomes, pixies and of course Santa Claus. And every year with my bundle of gifts I got a letter from Santa telling me how much I was loved.

Finally the year would bid adieu with a flourish as we ushered in the New Year with friends and family at the Officers’ Institute. The quintessential elements of a party – loud music, dancing, copious amounts of food and happy people in pretty clothes – made for a pleasant picture. A patina of jollity hung over the crowd as tired but eager voices bellowed the countdown to a brand new year. In a shower of colourful ribbons and glitter the much awaited year would arrive donning new hopes, experiences and resolutions.

For most people the festivities of the year drew to an end here but for us there was one more eagerly awaited event – the Raising Day and Paagal Gymkhana – an occasion commemorating the day when the Armed Medical Corps - the establishment to which Papa belonged - was formed. Paagal Gymkhana – a fair of sorts – included all sorts of unheard of games like the ‘Jalebi race’, ‘Sack Race’, the ‘Three legged race’ followed by a ‘Badakhaana’- a large community meal. All the unspoken barriers between officers, soldiers and their respective families were lifted as the entire regiment participated as one big happy family. Binging on the excessively oily yet lip smacking delicious food was a norm to which I most enthusiastically conformed.

My first holiday-season away from India has made me believe that festivities all over the globe are just as exciting and elevating. The gaiety, the lights, the food and the merry-making are intrinsically the same though they may differ in form and fashion. Candy and costumes on Halloween and Christmas trees, lights and gifts on Christmas are as much fun as the crackers and mithai on Diwali. I am finally ready to open my heart and generously allot space to these new entrants right next to my traditional Indian ones. Three cheers to making fresh memories and writing about them on future cozy winter afternoons.

Conversations with a cabbie

Yet another week in Michigan and I find myself staring at an even more dismal sight than what I beheld the last time I was here. The weather app on my phone shows a tiny grey cloud showering drops of water over the city and sure enough, the view outside is a real life, zoomed-in replica. I walk out of the airport lugging my satchel and trolley bag, engulfed in a mighty overcoat, the tag on which assures me that it is lined with the finest quality felt to keep me warm. I am still shivering despite these assurances. The makers perhaps didn’t comprehend how cold a girl from India can get.

I approach the Metro Cabs booth and shudder at the thought of eliciting services from a cab driver after my past experience. This time though, I am in store for a pleasant surprise. My cabbie – Mahmoud – looks nothing like the surly brute I encountered last week. On the contrary, he has clear blue eyes which never stop dancing and an almost musical Middle Eastern lilt. His cheeriness feels as comforting as a cup of hot cocoa on a cold, rainy day. With my luggage safely tucked in the boot and the heat turned up I feel my good humour rise from the dead.

As we cruise past familiar landmarks, Mahmoud informs me about the Tsunami that has recently hit Japan. His depth of information on the subject startles and embarrasses me all at once. With a hint of scepticism, I surreptitiously cross check the news on the internet and am surprised by the accuracy of his knowledge. I realize that in the routine chaos of my day, I haven’t had the time to browse the headlines of a newspaper or pay attention to the newsreader’s monologue on TV. In short, I am clueless about what is happening in the world around me. In addition, his succinct description of the topography of Japan leads me to conclude that he can easily give Geography teachers around the world a run for their money.

Now I am all ears, eagerly waiting for Mahmoud’s next flurry of wisdom. This time I get a brief but power packed lesson in History. He talks about varied subjects like the British colonization of America and the American Civil War. It isn't just facts that he is rattling off; he has his own perspective about everything he speaks. Mesmerized, I sit upright and absorb everything he has to say. Somewhere in between,the conversation turns philosophical and we discuss the futility of being one in a million rats in the rat race of life. ‘Life is meant to be enjoyed, not frittered away, consumed in jealousy and greed’ he says. I couldn't agree more.

A few more nuggets of wisdom about propane laws and traffic rules in the state are thrown my way before Mahmoud promptly pulls up in front of my hotel. For the first time I am feeling sorry about having covered the distance so quickly. Before I know it, Mahmoud is gone and I am left standing on the curb, a lot more enlightened than I was thirty minutes ago. In a world teeming with over ambitious, over stressed and over cranky people, Mahmoud and the likes of him who are knowledgeable, hard working yet cheerful form a fast diminishing breed. The world would certainly be a more interesting and happy place if there were more of his kind.

Up, Up and Away

Painful skeletal remains of once lush green trees stand braving an ice cold draft. The sky is overcast and gloomy as if mourning their demise. Even though the heater in my room is working overtime to keep me warm and toasty, I find it difficult to crawl out of my quilt. With promises of a hot water shower and a fresh cup of coffee, I finally convince myself to leave the warmth of my bed. The aroma of coffee emanating from the coffee pot is comforting but the aforementioned view from my window isn’t.

It is my first day at work in a new city after a blissful six-month vacation. The butterflies in my stomach haven’t allowed me much sleep last night. Michigan – my current abode – has been a strange experience so far. After the pleasant cheerfulness of southern folk in Texas and the well bred mannerisms of the affluent populace in California, the grumpiness of ‘Michiganites’ is a rude shock. Of course, one cannot generalize and as always there is a mixed bag – a foul mouthed cab driver, a polite security guard, a bunch of courteous strangers at a restaurant and a surly front desk staff at the hotel.

Bundled in layers of woolly nirvana, I step out hoping to walk the less than half a mile distance to work. A bitter winter draft slaps me hard across the only portion of my body which is exposed – my face. It jerks me right out of my dreamland and shakes out all dregs of drowsiness left. I scramble as quickly as possible towards my destination, silently cursing the celestial movements which cause seasons to change. A wrong turn and a near death experience with a speeding vehicle later, I manage to walk into my office in one piece. My nose is red and numb and my fingertips, even though encased in fleece lined gloves, are frozen. I soak in the delicious cozy interiors of the office and my Rudolph-like nose slowly returns to its original colour.

It is going to be a hard day at work as the rusty gears of my brain slowly creak into action. I have tried to keep them oiled during my sabbatical but I am sure they are still going to oppose working ceaselessly towards achieving our unrealistic project deadlines. Was I happier doing my own thing at home at a relaxed pace or will I be happier working under pressure on a difficult project? I don’t know the answer to that yet but I do know that the solace I get in peacefully writing or reading at home cannot be replaced by the adrenaline rush that is associated with being able to hand over quality work against all odds and vice versa. Till I find an answer, I shall dabble in both with the hope that I will find my true calling one day.

With these thoughts I head in trying to work out a game plan for the day. Walking past the cafeteria on my way to my desk, my now near normal nose is further placated by a whiff of oven fresh muffins. I resist only because I have been warned about winter binges and the kilos they add. However, it is just a matter of time that I succumb. After all I deserve a tasty treat for valiantly fighting the vile Queen of Winter, don’t I?

A San Francisco Affair

The heart at Union Square

The seeds of my love affair with San Francisco were sown the very day we were acquainted. What started out as a mere check mark on the to-do list of a travel aficionado, culminated into a full blown obsession which grew exponentially with each passing day. This is the story of my bitter sweet romance with a city which has a little bit of old, a little bit of new, a touch of grey, a splash of colour, a mean streak, a kind vein and many such contrasting characteristics that I fell in love with.

It all began on a beautiful summer day in June of 2012 when I made my maiden trip to San Francisco. Like a seasoned suitor, the city began wooing me instantly and flaunted its most attractive feature – the architectural splendor- to sweep me off my feet. To this effect, its first offering was the tall and handsome Golden Gate Bridge, standing strong with feet planted firmly in the Pacific bed. From atop a hill, the shiny red structure looked grander with sparkling white cotton-ball clouds bobbing in the powder blue sky above and colorful sailboats floating in the crystal water below. As I felt my heart stir and my knees go weak, I realized that I stood very little chance of not succumbing to my wooer’s charms.

Each aspect of the city’s architecture hit me like an arrow from Cupid’s bow. For instance, the rollercoaster like roads and alleys which were unknowing purveyors of breathtaking views knocked the breath out of me. Just when I was at my wits end, having huffed and puffed up one such alley, it suddenly dropped downhill at a steep angle leaving me standing at a peak with a beautiful view of the sun melting into an infinite ocean. As soon as the sun set, darkness metamorphosed the soft blue ocean into a sinister grey monster which appeared to be guarding its glimmering bridges.

I was further smitten by the fact that the intolerance endemic to human beings which causes the young and the old to drift apart, did not affect the city. Old and new landscapes coexisted in perfect harmony. The ill-famed ‘Generation Gap syndrome’ did not ail them and as a result there was no awkwardness. Victorian structures comfortably shared space with modern skyscrapers. A 114 year old statue of Victory on a Corinthian column did not appear out of place in the middle of contemporary buildings housing trendy stores like Saks 5th Avenue and Macy’s in Union Square. Pale yellow cable cars of yore still plied on roads alongside fancy automobiles.

Appealing to the shopaholic in me were miles and miles of retail nirvana in the form of Lombard Street and Union Square. Unfortunately the day drew to an end as quickly as it tends to when one is lost in fantasy and I was left yearning for more. The city grew cold and unforgiving as we painfully parted. Even though it was the peak of summer, a frosty draft seeped in through the layers I was clad in and froze me to my bones. This was soon to become a norm as each time I bid farewell to my beloved, I had to suffer it’s bitter wrath in the form of gusts of cold wind which made my teeth chatter and my brain go numb.

Little did I know that the city was not going to give up easily and I was going to return soon. 4th of July celebrations at Ghirardelli square brought me to San Francisco yet again. This time the city baited me with my love for chocolates. It lay in front of me what can only be described as a chocolate lover’s ultimate fantasy. I stood agog as I took in a view of a different kind. Mountainous stacks of rich chocolate squares with unimaginable fillings like – pumpkin spiced caramel, vanilla bean, pecan pie, salted almonds, egg nog and peppermint bark towered in front of me. Pictures of humungous ice cream sundaes dripping with chocolate fudge and caramel sauce stared at me teasingly from the menu. And yet again I yielded to the city’s love. Savouring the velvety smoothness of chocolate and enraptured by the dazzle of the firecrackers which lit up the sky, I finally accepted that I had fallen head over heels in love with San Francisco.

Hippies engulfed in marijuana smoke at Fisheman’s Wharf, homosexuals publicly proclaiming gay-pride, bizarre performances by street performers, the seal family at Pier 39, large tufts of fluffy pink cotton candy on sticks…my courtship with San Francisco had it all. It was an honest relationship too as the city shared all its facets with me - good, bad and ugly. Today as I pack my bags to move several miles away from San Francisco, I have a feeling of loss deep down. The city, or rather, my city continues to tug at my heartstrings even though I have said my final goodbye and urges me to visit again and again and again. Well, who knows, perhaps I will….

Straight from Papa's mouth - The Gum Boots

I have sometimes wondered how I came to possess a fervent imagination, one which is constantly itching to get down to business. The answer perhaps lies in the fact that I was born to parents who placed a high premium on good reading, listening and regaling skills. I grew up hearing Papa narrate comical incidents from his own childhood with such merry abandon and animated gesticulations that no matter how many times they were repeated, these tales of mischief would always manage to gather an avid audience. Mummy ‘s bed time tales from Aesop’s Fables, Grimms Brothers’ Fairy Tales and Mahabharata were also recounted with such aplomb that it was difficult not to picture the quixotic characters and places. Enraptured, I would listen to both sets of stories, building corresponding images in my mind while dreaming of someday being able to recapitulate with just as much gusto.

This is my first attempt to put on paper these tit-bits from the past and I hope that you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed listening to them.

It was one of those late December evenings in Gwalior when merciless gusts of cold wind threatened to freeze those who dared to venture out and cups of hot masala chai (masala tea) and pakoras were handed out to those ensconced in the warmth of Buaji’s house. Three generations of family huddled around an old heater which barely managed to spout enough hot air to warm ice cold fingers and toes. Enveloped in sweaters, scarves and shawls, we braved the sub zero temperature that night with chai, pakoras, a rickety heater and an inevitable round of storytelling. Fuelled by the sweet gingery kick of chai, anecdotes and real life incidents soon started flowing in copious amounts. Several stories branched out, multiplying like neutrons in a nuclear fission reaction.

4 brothers (my father being one of them) – the biggest mischief makers of their time- figured in more than one tale. A story of one of these brothers, brother number 3 to be precise, who will be referred to as P (a respected doctor in today’s day and age) left everyone laughing so hard that tears trickled down most cheeks. Here goes……. Summer vacations had begun and the first day dawned bright and sunny - simply perfect for all the tomfoolery already mushrooming in his head. With much effort P shook off the drowsiness which lay heavy on his eyelids and looked around to check if he was the last one to get up. As conscientious as ever, his oldest brother S was sitting at his study deeply immersed in a book while brother number 2, R was nowhere to be seen. His youngest brother, brother number 4, also known as my Dad or D, sat on his bed fiddling around in general.

‘Let’s play Hide and Seek today!!!’ exclaimed P jumping out of bed in one quick leap and landing right in front of S. Keeping his book aside, S appraised him from top to bottom and replied with great disdain ‘At least brush your teeth and drink your milk before you begin hatching plans for the day’. P turned a questioning gaze towards D who was already nodding excitedly, giving his consent for a game of Hide and Seek. Within minutes all 4 brothers were outside in the courtyard along with their friends from the neighborhood all set to kick off the vacations in style. With a whole lot of cheating and some luck P managed to avoid being the Seeker and couldn’t help making fun of his poor slob of a friend who was conned into being one. As the Seeker turned his back to the rest of the boys and began counting, the group scattered in an instant. A few crouched behind nearby stone pillars while others slinked into the recesses between houses.

P took off as quickly as his legs could take him, determined to find the most ingenious place to hide. Soon he found himself standing at a road construction site a little further away from home. The place was littered with empty cylindrical cans of coal tar (dambar in Hindi) which were almost as tall as P himself. But crouching behind one of these cans seemed too clichéd to P. Just as he was about to take off once again in search of a perfect hiding place a glimmer of an idea lit up in his head bringing a broad smile to his face. He checked the can in front of him and found it devoid of its usual content: molten coal tar. Having checked a few more cans he was convinced that all the cans were empty and would serve as an ideal hiding place.

With great dexterity P hauled himself over the can kept at the far end of the construction site and swiftly lowered himself inside. All this while, he did not take his eyes off the road as he knew that by now the Seeker would be roaming around like a wild animal searching for his prey. When he had almost sunk to the bottom of the can he happened to look down at his body inside the can and couldn’t believe his eyes. His lower body, beyond the waist, was submerged in a shiny jet black viscous solution of coal tar! ‘How could this happen?’ he thought in dismay. In his hurry, he had not checked all the cans and had assumed after looking into a few that the rest were empty as well. A little shred of panic wriggled its way into P’s heart as he sank deeper into the quick sand like coal tar. ‘This is no time to panic’, he told himself sternly. The gears in his brain started creaking and grunting as he mulled over plans to get out of his predicament

A few hours of struggle later an exhausted P heaved himself out of the can. Huffing and panting he stood on the road now but his troubles had not ended just as yet. His legs were covered in a thick layer of coal tar and it appeared as if he was wearing knee length dark black gum boots which stuck to the hot road as if they had adhesive on their soles. Slowly he inched back home as each step felt like a mile. ‘Maybe this is how it feels when one is walking on an iron road wearing magnetic shoes’ he imagined. Thoughts of super heroes swooping in and carrying him back home crossed his mind along with images of his favorite halwa-poori which painfully tantalized his fast building hunger.

Needless to say, P reached home and was received by a stunned group of brothers and friends. Not wanting to look like a complete fool in front of everyone, P began boasting about his adventures and clowning around showing off his coal tar boots. I can only imagine what must have transpired between him and his mother (my Dadiji) when she found out what had happened but I am cent percent sure that he wasn’t rewarded with halwa-poori. I am told that it took all of her patience and a gallon or more of kerosene oil to peel off the adventures of the day. In that moment all characters of this story must have been unaware of the number of times this incident was to be recounted in years to come and the generations ahead who were going to hear about it on cold winter nights drinking chai and devouring pakoras.

Yellowstone Diaries

There are dozens of places on this planet which stake claim to the coveted appellation ‘Heaven on Earth’. We even have one in the midst of the so called squalor in India – Kashmir.  But this is not a sonnet praising the beauty and serenity of Kashmir; it is a humble offering to the majestic Yellowstone national park which has all the qualities to secure a top notch spot in the aforementioned list of contenders. Spread across almost the entire state of Wyoming in North America, it is the world's first ever National Park.

Truth be told, being a greenhorn at National Park adventures, at the outset I did not know what to expect. My over- fertile imagination fabricated disturbing images of a zoo-like edifice minus the cages, dangerous wild animals cavorting unattended in the open, creepy crawly creatures slithering up my bed post in the middle of the night and mucky hike trails just waiting to spew unimaginable filth.  Pushing these dark thoughts into the deepest recesses of my mind I wore a happy smile and rallied on. My perseverance was rewarded instantly as after a rather onerous journey we walked into a beautiful condominium which was to be ours for the next few days.

Nestling in a valley surrounded by towering peaks, our abode was a little piece of paradise in itself. The fact that it was located in Paradise Valley further corroborated my analogy. As the spindly golden thread like rays of the morning sun filtered through our windows, we prepared ourselves for the quest that lay ahead. At first glance Paradise valley looked ethereal doused in a golden shimmer of tenuous sunshine. We drove past green and yellow meadows, catching our first glimpse of herds of bison chomping grass in languid contentment. As each one of us reached for the camera little did we know that this was going to be the most frequent sight during our 5 day long trip and by the end of it we were going to care two hoots for these humungous albeit misshapen creatures.

Our first stop was the visitor center at Mammoth hot springs. This was also destined to be the setting for our next wild animal sighting. An elk lounged peacefully on the grass patch in front of the visitor center, seemingly unaware of the excitement that its presence had incited. Once in a while, not unlike a movie star, it would daintily turn its tiny head adorned by a massive tiara of horns towards the excited mob of tourists as if to oblige them by posing for their cameras. What completed the pretty picture was the play of colors. The red tiled roof of the visitor center stood in sharp contrast against a cloudless blue sky and the grass in varying shades of green and yellow complemented the brown hues of the surrounding mountains. It was as if Mother Nature had used every crayon she could find in her box.

Elk sighting

A short walk brought us face to face with the pristine white Mammoth Hot Springs. The structure loomed in front of us like a giant tiered stage made of limestone. The steam rising from its belly brought memories of a colossal Hindi movie set ready for a Sridevi or a Madhuri Dixit to break into a dance sequence. The hike up the Mammoth Terrace Mountain was arduous but the view from up above was every bit worth the pain. From here we witnessed white puffy clouds shaping footprints in the form of shadows on neighboring peaks. It truly felt as if we had reached out and managed to caress the doors of heaven with our fingertips. On all four sides sharp peaks stood like strong sentinels guarding the flora and fauna ensconced in the valley’s womb.

Mammoth Hot Springs

Mammoth Hot springs was simply the beginning, a gateway of sorts to an adventure of epic proportions which was beginning to unfold in front of us. Over the next few days we explored one geyser basin after the other, each a tad bit different from the previous. One of these was the Norris geyser basin which is a vast barren expanse of white limestone with blackened dead trees dotting it. I shuddered as I took in the view because this is perhaps how our planet would look if the sleeping giant of a volcano on which the beautiful Yellowstone Park sits finally decides to unleash its fury and erupt once again after nearly 60,000 years. Every now and then we would come across a bubbling puddle of scalding hot water and mineral deposits. A strong pungent smell of hydrogen sulphide combined with the white vapor rising from these puddles made the geyser basin look like nature’s very own chemistry laboratory.

Norris geyser basin

Thankfully, next on our itinerary- the West Thumb geyser basin- did not paint a picture of doomsday. With the indigo blue water of the Yellowstone Lake as backdrop, the vivid hot water vents looked like a result of the endemic eccentricity of a painter. It was as if with bold strokes of his brush the maestro had painted dazzling, iridescent pools in an attempt to add a certain mystical vibrancy to his painting. One vent amidst many caught both my eye and my imagination. It looked like it had been outlined by thick red paint which was in reality iron ore deposit. As my gaze roved from the periphery to the center of the pool, I saw its red outline dissolve into a bright yellow lent by sulphur deposits which further melted into emerald green and clear blue right in the middle. The sheer brilliance of the colors which are attributed to both the mineral deposits as well as microorganisms called thermophiles breeding in these puddles stirred poetic sentiments within.

The colourful pool at West Thumb

I was wrong in believing that the upper limit of nature’s creativity had been exhibited at The West Thumb. The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone is art of another kind. It is a deep dent on the face of earth through which the Yellowstone River flows. With great panache the river drops down a steep face of the canyon and snakes its way through the carved volcanic red and white stone. By now a dark patina of dusk was slowly inching over the walls of the canyon as the waning sunlight faded into oblivion. Yet again my imagination went into overdrive as to me it appeared as if God was spreading a warm blanket of love and lulling his brood to sleep. Heading back we encountered a couple of fractious black bears who refused to obediently go to bed and much to the delight of camera toting tourists like us preferred gallivanting in the woods instead.  We clicked away to glory till they retreated into the forest.

Sunset at Grand Canyon of Yellowstone

We had so far seen the beauty and ingenuity of nature but we were still to experience its punctuality. Our destination for the day was The Old Faithful geyser which is named so to honor the promptness that it has been demonstrating since very many years. Like clockwork every 90 minutes the geyser explodes up to a height of 180 feet in the air. People crowd expectantly around the vent and are almost never disappointed. We watched agape as the natural fountain sent a burst of scorching water and steam high up right on schedule. It was abundantly clear to us what the river of hot magma flowing merely 4 miles below the surface of this great park is capable of doing.

Old Faithful

A bit of souvenir shopping, a motor boat expedition up the Yellowstone River, a lazy morning spent playing Ludo with the family, cups of hot chocolate, a moose walking into our backyard to say howdy, a scary moment which left our hearts pounding when our car almost went turtle, a forest fire turning one of the peaks crimson and many more exciting experiences woven together made for an unforgettable vacation. Once back home, immersed in mundane chores, I happened to hear Belinda Carlisle on the radio crooning “Oooh Heaven is a place on earth” and I floated back to Yellowstone. I couldn’t agree with her more. Heaven is most certainly a place on earth, I have seen it.

Bas ho gaya Boss!!!

There is always at least one villain in every story, period. No arguments, no ‘world is beautiful’ theories, not even from the folks living in a world of luminous optimism. My story spanning across 5 years of corporate slavery is no different and thereby between the pages of each of these office tales hides a villain who goes by the alias: ‘The Boss’.

But I was not to know this yet, as at the stroke of 9, I entered the imposing stone building of my very first workplace with stars in my eyes, a spring in my step and a naïve heart bursting with positivity. Little did I know that destiny was playing a dirty game, a game with the sole aim to cut the spring in my step to size and crush the stars in my eyes to dust. My foray into the world of management was to begin in the daunting shadows of one of the worst variety of bosses– ‘The She Worm’.

Being a borderline feminist I am all for gender equality and when I was told that I would be reporting to Ms. J, I felt I had hit jackpot. My elation quickly spiraled down the drain as Ms. J turned out to be my first She Worm. In the following years many more ‘She Worms’ plagued me as a result of which I deciphered an overarching trend in their behaviours and although I have always looked up to the league of women who have successful careers and blossoming personal lives - all at the same time - I developed a strong distaste for the ‘She Worm’ variant. ’The She Worm’ comes from the very same league of dynamic women but her success seeps into her head like a virulent acid eating into whatever modesty and humility it finds in its way leaving behind a hollow shell of narcissistic arrogance. Her narcissism washes over everyone else like a wave of mucky street water splashing over unsuspecting pedestrians. What exacerbates the situation is when, in her quest to be the only success story around, she incongruously doles out additional flak to her women subordinates. With at least one sycophant male subordinate under her armpit, she casually tramples the rest of the staff-subordinates and coworkers alike- under her feet.

I was reeling under the after effects of the She Worm when I was thrown in the arena with another bizarre specimen – ‘The Smitten Kitten’. Just when I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of not reporting to a female supervisor, the Smitten Kitten started showing his colours and boy, were they not to my liking. Mr. Smitten Kitten, as his name suggests, had his eyes and heart set on a pretty young thing in our team and nothing could stop Ms. Pretty Young Thing from making the most of it. She simply had to bat her eyelids and feign distress for him to scoop large portions of her work into other people’s plates. As the ‘Smitten Kitten’ conferred one exclusive perk after the other on her, she hopped, skipped and jumped her way to the top, rubbing her luck in our faces on the way up. Exploiting her benefactor’s benevolence to the hilt she enjoyed extended vacations, perfect performance ratings, recommendations to senior management for early promotions and the list goes on. As for the rest of us, we couldn’t do much except turn a new shade of green every time a new favour was bestowed upon her.

From the claws of the ‘Smitten Kitten’ I landed straight in the lair of ‘The One with a God Complex’. I held my breath each day as I witnessed a specimen of this variety in its full glory. This guy knew his stuff like the back of his hand. However, his cockiness and overly self assured demeanor were quite the killjoys for most people working with him. Despite all this, he has by far been the best boss I have worked for. His God Complex made him a good teacher as he liked to show off his breadth and depth of knowledge to a perpetually awestruck audience. Oozing confidence from each pore in his body, he made his presence felt wherever he went. To some he was intimidating, to others he was infuriating and to still others he was odd. But to me he was someone whose each action meant something – a learning experience to be made use of at work, a funny anecdote to be related to friends later or simply a shrewd move which resembled a tactical chess strategy. Working with him meant hard work - unimaginably late nights owing to crazy deadlines and perplexing tasks. His motto of pushing people to the maximum to bring out their true potential did not improve his chances of winning a popularity contest at work.

As if they weren’t enough, the above were interspersed with specimen from other interesting varieties as well. For instance, there was ‘The One without a Spine’, who had no qualms about thrusting his unarmed juniors headlong into enemy lines so that he could escape a sticky situation, there was the ‘King of Sarcasm’, who only spouted sentences laced with vicious sarcasm whenever he opened his mouth and the ‘Dumb, Dumber, Dumbest’ trinity, a set of three inanely brainless supervisors who would zone off into a world of their own as soon as conversation around them took an intellectual turn. Another noteworthy specimen was ‘Mr. I-love-massacring-the-English-language’. True to his name, he repeatedly slaughtered the language of the world. Sentences like ‘Saar, if you don’t finger me, I won’t finger you (read: Sir, if you don’t trouble me, I won’t trouble you)’, ‘I could not able to do it, you could able to do it (read: I wasn’t able to do it, were you able to do it?)’, ‘What ball in my court, ball in his court, I want your balls in your court and his balls in his court’ (read: I do not understand the phrase: ‘the ball is in their court’) would render us breathless with peals of laughter.

As each boss left an indelible mark on me, it appeared as if I was stuck at the receiving end of a damaged assembly line which produced only faulty bosses. Notwithstanding the trauma and strain they inflicted on me, I managed to learn a little something from each of them. ‘The She Worm’ and ‘The Smitten Kitten’ taught me what not to do when in a position of power, ‘The One with the God Complex’ taught me the importance of confidence that comes from being thorough with one’s work and ‘Mr. I love-massacring-the-English-language’ taught me how bouts of laughter at work could be highly effective in beating stress and work- blues. Lessons learnt from each specimen, odious or otherwise, now seem precious and I hope to put them to good use someday.

An ode to the Birthday Girl......

There she stood, her eyes framed in a pair of gigantic glasses, wearing a baggy brown t shirt over equally baggy dark brown corduroy trousers and a wide smile stretched across her face. “Hi I am Manisha, you can call me Mini” she bubbled. Hearing her effervesce, I couldn't believe my mother had coerced me into befriending her simply because her parents had moved next door. From the moment we met I knew that the bully inside me could finally be unleashed and let loose on this unsuspecting simpleton. While hatching all the devious plans to trouble her (tricking her into believing that I had original autographs of the entire Indian cricket team, making fun of her low grades in Polynomials and so on),  little did I know then that she was soon to become a permanent and irreplaceably important fixture in my life.

Two very tumultuous years later, Mini and her family moved to another city. This inevitably spelled ‘The End’ for our blow-hot-blow-cold friendship, or so I thought. Owing to the fact that we weren't big on snail mail and also perhaps as neither of us had anything great to exchange, we lost contact and moved on with our lives.

I never imagined that our paths would cross again but as luck would have it, not only did we bump into each other in a new city where we were off to start our lives as college students but we also began a brand new experience of hostel life together. And so, on a very warm night in June of 2002, we found ourselves at our new hostel, shivering at the mere prospect of getting ragged by a bunch of formidable seniors. Since Mini had an elder brother who had gone through his days of ragging a few years back, she had been counseled on how to survive the much feared first month of ragging. With his advice as her mantra, she appeared calmer. ‘Don’t worry Preeti’ she said valiantly, “Just do whatever they ask you to do”. By the time we reached the staircase to hell which was our common room, her pep talk had given me just enough courage to get by. However, I may have sucked all her valor because she suddenly froze on the last step and mumbled “I cannot do this Preeti. They are going to butcher us”. Thus began a cycle of mutual motivation and consolation which was to last for several years to come. Through countless moments of feeling lost in the crowd and agonizing over growing-up pains I found Mini by my side making things a tad bit easier. We got through the night albeit with a painful introduction to the ‘chawanni athanni’ dance and an interaction with the much dreaded Tashi ma’am who was soon to become our nemesis.

An era of life changing endeavours had begun. Each day would bring with it weird experiences which later made for great anecdotes. Be it the time when we were sent to get a dirty movie for the seniors from a nearby movie library and wanting to believe that we were as inconspicuous as possible even with the  helmets and terrorist like scarves tied around our faces-which we refused to take off even when inside the shop (now come on, this was the first time we had laid hands on something as despicable as an X-rated movie let alone having seen one before), or the time when our God awful warden cornered us into almost giving away the seniors in our dorm for having a midnight alcohol party the previous night (Mini’s valour, which made itself evident in flashes, did a guest appearance again that day)or the time when we got into trouble for returning 30 minutes after the hostel in-time, each incident was one of a kind. What was common though among these seemingly diverse events was the fact that Mini and I were always at the epicenter together. Somewhere along the way several nicknames were bestowed upon us like Pinki-Rinki, Pinty-Minty and so on.

The excruciating torture of semester exams became tolerable with Mini being there to share the suffering. Being a part of an ever shrinking bunch of engineering students in the hostel, we were always unfortunate enough to have our exams during those times of the year when the rest of our dorm mates would be free as birds and as a result prone to creating ruckus ad infinitum. Often, one or both of us would succumb to the notorious examination blues. Such times called for desperate stress busting measures - the ‘Friends’ marathon or the 60 buck delectable dinner at our filthy road side Chinese ‘tapri’ (this comprised mountainous portions of vegetable noodles and chilly chicken followed by a single scoop of ice cream split in two). The ‘Friends’ marathon always started with a mutual agreement over watching only one episode but both of us had such wavering will power when it came to studies that we would end up watching an entire season or more only to realize that half the day had gone by (the exam being the next day) and we had barely covered the tip of the iceberg which was our syllabus for the exam. The Chinese tapri on the other hand aside from being just as dirty as any other roadside fast food vending cart, provided us the crucial spirit lifting tasty treats. Braving all fears of jaundice ridden livers and diarrhea ridden guts we would devour the meal as if it was our last meal before being executed.

As we slowly climbed the seniority ladder, we added new experiences and new friends to our kitty. The time we ragged our juniors, the time we sneaked into the common room through the window to watch ‘Sex and the City’ and then scurried out the same way, the time we stayed up all night trying to develop a taste for a terrible concoction of vodka and Milkmaid, the abnormal jubilation we felt after watching ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’, the terrible trauma we went through while watching ‘Kal ho na Ho’, our astonishment when we saw Mini’s hair ablaze as part of an unexpected prank, the unusual strength she exhibited during the ‘Maro-Maro’ fights, the midnight ludo or even the time we waged war against an uber snooty group of girls in the hostel are stories worth a million.  

Today as I try to encapsulate these memories for Mini’s birthday write up I find it difficult to pick only a handful because, cheesy as it may sound, each and every story is just as dear as the other. Times have changed and we all seem to have grown up which means that we now have clouds of mundane worry hovering incessantly over our heads. Yet, thankfully, each time I speak to Mini we embark upon an insane giggle trip which lasts for anything between 15 minutes to an hour. Our inane chatter is so rejuvenating that even on a cloudy day I feel a warm, golden sun shining upon me. She has an ingrained ability to crack me up with her comical stories and antics.  From being my sounding board to being the crazy clown in my life and from being someone whom I can trust my darkest secret with to being my practical touchstone and gossip partner, Mini has always been there during the good and not so good times and I love her for that. Oh and before I forget, I also give her credit for a whole lot of important milestones in my life, the most vital one being pruning my caterpillar shaped eyebrows to a more acceptable earthworm like shape. On her birthday today, I wish her all the giggles, craziness, happiness and love to last her a lifetime and more………Mintyyyyy, have a blast, cannot wait to start a new chapter of our lives in ‘phoren’ land together!!

Happy 4th!!!

I am slightly biased when it comes to India’s two most prominent national festivals. The grandiose of the Republic Day parade beats the vanilla celebrations on Independence Day hollow each year. In a way, I have always perceived Independence Day celebration at home as an impoverished brother of the more ostentatious Republic Day festivity. 

I was highly mistaken when, given this premise, I did not expect much out of the 4th of July celebrations that we were to witness at San Francisco. Even though I was every bit excited about seeing how a country other than my own celebrated their independence, I was slightly blasé about it. As history goes, 236 years ago on this day after a fierce revolution, Americans finally won their freedom from the British. I once read a Chinese proverb “One generation plants the trees and another gets the shade”. Akin to all other wars waged for freedom, the American Revolution was fought by a generation which wanted to ensure that future generations would enjoy the cool shade of a free country.

After a very American 4th of July barbeque brunch with some friends, my husband and I boarded the Cal train to San Francisco. The minute we set foot in SF, we could feel the gaiety in the air. Dressed in their national colours with the national flag painted on their faces, some people overtly displayed their patriotism while others seemed happy in simply buzzing around like bees. The entire mob, engulfed in electrifying energy, seemed to be moving uniformly in one direction. We rightly assumed that they were all off to see the fireworks.

Having joined the aforesaid mob, we found ourselves at Ghirardelli square waiting for the crackers to go off. The steely grey Pacific Ocean instantly came alive with a kaleidoscope of colours as it reflected the bright explosion of each firecracker. In calculated synchrony, coloured formations of bright lights painted the dark canvas of the night sky. Street musicians took this opportunity to croon their favourite true blue American ballads like ‘Miss American Pie’ and ‘Sweet home Alabama’. The roads in San Francisco resembled fun rides at amusement parks which rise and fall at sharp angles rendering their patrons giddy. One such road led us to another vantage point from where we got a brilliant view of the Pacific and the last of the fireworks. As we looked for a place to eat and encountered long queues at each restaurant, it appeared as if the entire city was out partying. The merriment was contagious and all the good cheer made our spirits soar despite the fact that on our way back we got stuck in terrible traffic and missed the last train.

On our way home in a toasty warm cab, I confessed to myself how wrong I was in underestimating the grandeur of this day. In a country where even the smallest of achievements translates into a big party, Independence Day was bound to be the biggest yearly party for the masses. As far as fussing over small achievements goes, I couldn’t help ponder, how this is probably a rare culture in which people rejoice over anything that vaguely resembles triumph. Be it a child’s kindergarten graduation or a pets’ birthday or something as seemingly nugatory as a ‘first date’ anniversary, they all call for a celebration of some kind. Much ado is made over occasions which go unnoticed back in India because of their sheer triviality. Perhaps sitting up and noticing small achievements is important and sometimes making a big deal out of these may be a good idea to stir up that elusive element called fun which we Indians tend to neglect ever so often.

Pranay's Mango tree

Bright yellow mangoes with their characteristic heady aroma and juicy sweetness occupied most of little Pranay's thoughts these days. This was not an out of ordinary occurrence given that Pranay and his family were major mango fanatics. Year after year along with the summer heat a certain mango mania descended upon the Sharma household.

Mummy being the sanest of the lot had realized early on in life that the only way she could deal with her family's crazy love for mangoes was by ensuring that the brown wicker basket adorning the dining table was forever groaning under the weight of several varieties of the coveted fruit. However, despite her best efforts, Pranay who was the youngest in the family, suffered from a nagging apprehension that one day he would come home from school to find an empty wicker basket and no mangoes to sink his teeth in. What with a bully of an elder sister who shared his maniacal love for the fruit, he could well imagine his worst fear coming true any day.

As he sat one day contemplating this terrible consequence a sudden bright idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. What if he planted a mango tree of his own? Then all the mangoes borne by this tree would technically belong to him, thought a jubilant Pranay. Proud of himself for having hatched such a brilliant plan, he quickly approached his sole counsel for all affairs-Mummy.

What ensued was a rather long drawn process with an air of urgency making it resemble a high priority project concerning state security. The best mango of the lot was prudently chosen and sliced. Its oval seed was extracted and washed with utmost care almost as if a new born baby was being cleaned post delivery. After Vishnu Bhaiyya, the sahayak detailed to Papa (who was more a family member than a sahayak), had dug a pit of exact dimensions in the backyard, Pranay placed the dried seed in Mother Earth's womb. The cherished seed now tucked in folds of soft black mud was to be guarded and nurtured by Pranay.

Each day Pranay would eagerly rush back from school to water the seed and feed it manure.This ritual went on for over two months and as each day passed without any trace of the much awaited tiny sprout pushing it's way out of the layer of mud, Pranay's disappointment grew. Finally, no longer able to see him downcast and distraught, Mummy asked Vishnu Bhaiyya to dig out the errant seed so that she could figure out the problem. Vishnu Bhaiyya rummaged through the mud and pryed out a half rotten mango seed studded with nasty worms feeding on it. Mummy looked at the find in dismay. She couldn't help but picture Pranay's crestfallen face when told about the horrible end suffered by his beloved mango seed.

Making up her mind, she rushed Vishnu Bhaiyya to the nearest nursery instructing him to get the tiniest mango sapling available. Vishnu Bhaiyya returned shortly with a 4 feet tall plant which was nowhere close to the tiny sapling that Mummy was expecting. "There were no tiny saplings in any of the nurseries. I checked all the nurseries around this area", he said helplessly. "Pranay will never buy this tale", despaired Mummy.

Guess what..this is what the crazy boy looks like now

 Nevertheless, Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya proceeded to place the plant in the exact same location where the erstwhile seed was buried. As soon as Pranay returned, he was welcomed with more than usual exuberance and a tall glass of his favourite mango milk shake. Unsure of what he had done to deserve it, Pranay habitually made way to the backyard to water the mango seed. Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya followed him shakily and waited a few steps away as Pranay stood rooted in his place staring at the mango plant which had magically appeared. A soft breeze made the long green and brown leaves of the plant sway. Pranay snapped out of his trance and let out a sharp squeal of joy. "Mummy, look my mango seed has sprouted and has grown so quickly!! I always knew that the manure meals will pay off someday" And just as suddenly Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya's grim faces broke into big smiles.

It has been 12 years since then and little Pranay is no longer little. He acts all macho and manly showing off his Elvis like side burns and his toned muscles but there is one thing that brings back the 6 year old boy in him-complete with a toothy grin and dimples. Till this day he firmly believes that the mango seed he had lovingly planted, miraculously grew into a fine looking 4 feet tall plant overnight all because of his love and care.

Santa Claus, the Tooth fairy, Christmas elves and the likes-that is the list which Pranay's mango tree belonged to. It was an innocent child's figment of imagination which proved to him how perfect the world was.
I wish this was something grownups could do as well. It would make each day so much easier to get by, won’t it?

The Auto Rickshaw tales

Autorickshaws are to commuters in developing countries what cabs are to those in the developed countries. At first, they resemble tiny insects trying not to get squished under the large ungainly tyres of other co habitants of Indian roads but beware, do not get fooled by their harmless demeanor. More often than not these bright coloured seemingly innocent three wheeled capsules are operated by greasy haired, roguish Autorickshaw Waale Bhaiyyas who have the ability to ruffle the calmest of feathers. In the past 7 years, especially after me and my beloved Scooty parted ways, I have had the misfortune of availing the services of these strange characters to drive me around the city. There are several categories in which these people can be profiled. Here is an ode to some of my favourite ones  :)

1) The one with the verbal diarrhoea: I would like to confess at this point that I am absolutely not a morning person. In fact I usually try to fight the morning blues by keeping quiet and steering clear of potentially explosive encounters which can bring out the worst in me. So, one typical Monday morning (morning blues accentuated manifold by virtue of the fact that it was a Monday), I scrambled into an ordinary looking autorickshaw driven by a chubby overgrown child like bhaiyya. As soon as the three wheeled contraption whirred to life, the aforementioned man-child fired a volley of questions at me:  "Madam, kaun sa raaste se chalne ka? Left'aa'? Straight'aa'? Aajkal baut baut traffic aane laga hai ma?"…he driveled on in broken Hindi as I felt myself being sucked into a vortex of question marks. I stuck to monosyllabic answers in a desperate attempt to dissuade him from further verbal assault but did my ploy work? No sir, my Auto waale Bhaiyya was determined to use me as a piece of sandpaper to polish the rough edges of his Hindi language.By the time I reached my destination, my head was spinning. Viva exams from my engineering days weren't half as grueling as the past one hour in the autorickshaw from hell. Ever since that fateful day, I say a silent prayer each time I get into an autorickshaw, hoping that I do not have a similar experience again.

2) Schumacher ke bhatije: Now these are the weirdest of all specimen. They like to believe that their green and yellow toy vehicles are just as good or perhaps even better than the Ferraris and Jaguars driven by the likes of Michael Schumacher. They fly over speed breakers, zip through potholes and swerve between lanes to avoid traffic with the dexterity of a cheetah. As the unsuspecting passenger is flung mercilessly from one corner to the other the Auto waale Bhaiyya  races towards an invisible finish line. Maybe it isn't a race, maybe the Auto waale Bhaiyya  has bad memories of a swarm of angry bees chasing him and he just cannot get over the trauma. Whatever be the reason, at the end of the day, yet another poor commuter is left with a mutilated back bone and a fit of nausea.

3) The one with the Tsunami in his mouth: Of all the repugnant people on earth, this one is the worst. The road, to him is a giant wash basin in which he constantly spits. One might wonder from where he gets this unsual quantity of spit in his mouth. I personally believe that it is a disease which causes Tsunami like waves of spit to burst out of the patient's mouth at regular intervals. Much to the horror of the passengers, who may conclude that the poor Auto waale Bhaiyya has tuberculosis or some other ghastly disease, he continues to cough and spit violently while somehow managing to steer the auto rickshaw through traffic. Made popular by Leo di Caprio as Jack in Titanic, spitting while emanating a sharp guttural noise has taken the fancy of many Auto waale Bhaiyyas . I wonder if they also believe that it would help them bag a voluptuous Kate Winslet a.k.a Rose look alike. After several encounters with this variety, my self defence mechanism now includes an ipod and a set of headphones which not only safeguards me from them but also from their 'verbal diarrhoea' cousins.

4) The ugly one: Just when you are about to conclude that all Auto waale Bhaiyyas fall in one of the above three categories only, the most vicious fourth category attacks. Step aside for the expletive spouting devil who exudes a repulsive arrogance and reeks of greed. The first question he asks you when you hail his auto is where exactly do you want to go. If where you want to go is not where he wants to go, he will give you such a dirty look that you would want to evaporate into thin air. In the rare circumstance that he agrees to take you to your destination, he will proceed to run some complex arithmetic in his head which would result in him quoting a ridiculously high fare. Incidentally this figure has nothing to do with the black fare meter installed inside or the actual distance between the start point and the end point. Try haggling only if you are thick skinned enough to stand resolutely as a tide of abuses washes over you. Also, never ever expect him to return the 5/4/3/2 rupee change that he owes you. If you do, he will give you a mean smirk and ride away leaving you standing on the road, palm stretched out, feeling like a beggar. While dealing with this variety, fortify yourself with Glucon D and take deep breaths to keep yourself focused else you might lose the battle. The I-know-the-ACP-so-you-better-get-your-act-together bit usually works wonders with them. However, I do hope that this variety is soon extinct.

5) And finally the good one…I never thought that I would have an opportunity to come face to face with a specimen from this variety but lo and behold just like a specter he appeared in front of me one fine day. His fare meter was perfect, the passenger seat was not broken and I did not have to worry about sliding off each time the auto rickshaw went over a speed breaker, he spoke little but whenever he did he was polite and last but not the least he was perhaps the most well behaved and immaculately dressed Auto waale Bhaiyya  I had ever met. That day there was no blaring music hurting my ears, no hurling on the road and no broken bones after the ride. There wasn't even a photoshopped Karishma/Aishwarya/Sushmita, bearing leech like eyebrows, staring at me from a poster taped to the interior of the auto. This was an auto rickshaw straight from Paradise. Had I died and gone to heaven? When I received the exact change for the 100 rupee note I gave, I couldn't contain myself and blurted out, "Bhaiyya, this has been the best auto ride I have ever had.  Thank you ! ". He beamed at me and rode off into the horizon in search of yet another lucky passenger.

A weekend in Lucknow

Last weekend I travelled to Lucknow….a city famous for its extravagant Nawabs, its cultured populace and its old world charm. Now, contrary to what you may expect, this was not an ordinary vacation with sight seeing as the primary objective. A dear friend's wedding prompted a bunch of us to converge on this quaint city.

As we alighted at Lucknow's Amausi airport, a nip in the air reminded us that we were no longer in warm South India. Inching through the traffic ridden roads of Lucknow on our way to the hotel, we caught our first glimpses of the maze like flyovers lacing the city and the numerous parks dotting it. There was a lingering whiff of politics in the air courtesy the upcoming state elections. Cordoned off statues of the current CM encased in coffin-like wooden boxes and elephant figurines wrapped in cellophane bore testimony to the notoriety of politics in this part of the country.

An exhilarating reunion with friends ensued upon reaching the hotel. A couple of hours later, decked in our finery we were all set to attend the 'nikaah' ceremony. After driving past almost a dozen wedding pandals, a green ticker informed us that we had finally arrived at the desired site. Festooned in pretty pink and powder blue, the venue looked as if it was picked right out of a fairytale. Strings of tiny crystal lights hung from the white tarpaulin overhead enveloping the surroundings in a warm golden glow. Guests in bright attires made for a kaleidoscope of colours which added to the festivity of the evening. Polite bearers carrying trays laden with butter soft kebabs flitted amongst the guests ensuring there was a constant supply of food.

In one half of the venue the bride sat, petite and graceful, as a swarm of photographers engulfed her trying to capture every emotion that flickered in her almond eyes. She looked radiant in a deep red outfit embroidered with gold thread. It would be an oversight on my part and a pity if I do not mention what a fine looking groom my friend made in his off white sherwani and pink 'saafa'. The two looked perfect together and I overheard many a guests echoing the same sentiment. 

As the evening progressed, we witnessed the 'nikaah' being read, the groom taking his oaths and accepting his bride. General merriment and bonhomie followed the formal ceremony. Both sets of proud parents epitomized perfect hosts and couldn't have been more contented. Even in the thick of organizing and arranging things, their politesse and refinement were commendable.

It would be an understatement if I said that food was in abundance. A large tray of simmering galauti kebab, handis brimming with chicken and mutton biryaani, breads of varied types and melt-in-the-mouth rabri beckoned us. By now, we had realized that our flimsy attires were no where close to keeping us warm and fearing death by hypothermia we made our way to the coal sigris which were conveniently placed all around to keep the guests warm. A long day was now drawing to an end and I was looking forward to creeping under a warm blanket with the heater warming my cold toes.

Day 2 brought with it the exciting opportunity of exploring a new city. We bundled into three autorickshaws and made our way to Aminabad which is the heart of old Lucknow. Aminabad stood like a little piece of history in a city which seems to be modernizing at a rapid pace. The remanants of havelis from a bygone era are still occupied by old timers. As I stood there, a flock of pigeons took flight over children indulging in flying kites as the muezzin called for prayer. This was all the more fascinating for me as I rarely get a chance to feast my eyes on such sights in ever rushing cities like Bangalore. It was no surprise when in our female dominated group, shopping won the war of priorities over sight seeing. In the crowded bylanes of Aminabad and Kaiserabad I realised that there was nothing that one could not find here. From hearing aid manufacturers to opticians, from jewellers selling artificial jewellery to merchants selling sequins and gota, each one had a small niche to himself. Chikan kurtas were what we had come looking for and needless to say we found them in profusion. The store keeper manning the shop we entered could have sold an air conditioner to an Eskimo. He was such a smooth talker that in just over an hour he managed to make a massive sale to our unsuspecting group. All the haggling and seeing and deciding had rendered us fatigued and hungry. The famous Tunday kebab outlet was a natural choice for lunch. 'Did the kebabs live up to their reputation?', you would ask me. It would suffice to say that I now agree with the residents of Lucknow when they say that food in Lucknow is simply the best.

A brief cycle rickshaw ride brought us back to the hotel where we once again bedecked ourselves for the Reception. The gaiety from the previous evening had continued and the venue was buzzing with life. The colours around me fascinated me. The bride's brilliant blue lehenga, a friend's rusted orange sari, the bright green grass dipped in dew and the hues of the flowers used for decoration are some of the colours which are etched in my memory and in all probability will stay there forever. A customary round of introductions followed as we met the bride who was soft spoken and lady like. The food was yet again immensely appealing to the palate. I finally partook of the original ‘Shahi Tukda’ (bread soaked in sugar syrup and glazed with cream) which I had been craving for since years and this made my day.

Each time a friend gets married, it feels like an end of an era. This feeling was even more pronounced as we all sat together one last time reliving memories and laughing till our stomachs hurt.

There is so much in the city of Lucknow which I could not explore this time. I intend to someday come back and scout the city with a fine toothed comb for all the hidden treasures that hide in the nukkads and galis. Till that happens, the memories of the tastes, sounds and sights of this beautiful city will serve as reminders of a lovely weekend spent here.