Never challenge a Maharashtrian cook

When your mother shows up, the gastronomic aspect of your life invariably takes a better turn.

Food is important, which is why I seldom outsource buying raw materials, especially vegetables and fish. For the same reason, I am typically reluctant to hire Maharashtrian cooks.

Do not get me wrong. Maharashtrian cooks are honest triers who put in every bit of their culinary skills. They try very hard, incredibly hard, but there is only so much you can do if your armoury consists of, and ends at, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and curry leaves, with coconut for variation.

You cannot blame them. They simply attempt to win a war with pea-shooters. Perhaps it is some sort of guerrilla warfare that we are too mainstream to figure out. Perhaps they can be good in an unfathomable sort of way.

The one that works at my apartment is professional but restricted in a very Maharashtrian sort of way. She toils hard without much success, but expecting quality out of her would be akin to expecting me to sing.

The matriarch of the family had tried to mentor her. She got the cook to prepare fish the proper (Bengali, in other words; machher jhol) way. The cook grumbled at not being allowed to use curry leaves but came to terms with that.

Tomatoes, of course, were another thing altogether. I have known people who seem to think I do not rate tomatoes very highly. That is an understatement. I detest, hate, loathe those squishy red orbs from hell, and even that – or any other synonymous verb, for that matter – is an understatement.

Over years I have mellowed down enough to accept tomatoes in dishes (though never in excess). The raw ones continue to remain inedible abominations.

But we are digressing. She was obviously unhappy about not being able to add tomatoes to machher jhol. She had tried to convince us, but we had stood firm: there was to be no compromise on machher jhol.

So by the time she had showed up yesterday, there was not a single atom of tomato (or even ketchup) in the household. There was not a slice of lemon, not the tiniest morsel of tamarind, not even vinegar. The yoghurt was tucked away safely. There was no contraption she could use to turn machher jhol sour.

But she won.

My mother had forgotten the raw mangoes, kept aside for superior culinary ventures. She had never expected chunks of them to show up next to fish… kajori, especially...

Was this Pujo or not?

Durga Pujo has died for me. Like all old men, all I live by are memories of Kolkata’s grandest festival. Pujo in Kolkata used to reek of polyester, sweat, and chilli sauce. These have been replaced by expensive polyester, failed deodorants, and chilli sauce bought from Big Bazaar.

This might come as a surprise to most, but even I used to be young at some point. I used to like the concept of Pujo at that time. We used to go to nearby Maddox Square. The chairs we acquired were significantly inadequate, so we used to seat ourselves in a substantial circle on the anticipatory newspapers. The chairs were given away to the parents who arrived late.

The evenings used to pass quickly. Was I happier at that point of my life than what I am now? I do not know.

Do I miss Durga Pujo? Not quite. I have deliberately stayed away from the city for four years at a stretch. It may have to do with my age, but struggling for hours to find a place to stand is definitely not my idea of fun anymore.

Being surrounded by cell-phones masquerading as periscopes as they approach pandals adds to that. Perhaps other quadragenarians find the idea attractive.

Today, Shoptomi, was thus just another day for me. I boarded a late-morning train from Vikhroli to Currey Road (update: I have downgraded my location from Navi Mumbai to Mumbai).

The train was empty enough for me to find a seat at Vikhroli. If you know what I am talking about, you might have let out a shriek; if you do not know, you are better off in life.

The train passed Kurla. Thanks to my new location, I do not have to participate in the Battle of Kurla anymore. Instead, I derive sadistic pleasure from watching others do the same from my vantage point inside the train.

A group of schoolchildren boarded the train at Sion. The incredibly discounted student passes invariably result in a high percentage of grateful students in the first-class compartments, and today was no exception.

Today’s batch consisted entirely of pre-teens who would, in three decades’ time, turn into brooding quadragenarians. All of them were donning dusty schoolbags and bright smiles. I could not help but wonder how much salt their toothpaste contains*.

* This is a lame joke and a blatant lie.

The children stood next to the open doors, all of them. It was obviously risky, but at their age even I was not aware of the concepts of fear unless my parents threatened me with kidnappers carrying humongous gunny-bags.

The man opposite me was not too happy about this. He was probably in his high fifties. His hair, though completely white, did not seem headed for premature disappearance anytime soon.

He yelled at the children, asking them to move away from the doors. The children, though taken aback, hesitated. A second shout did the trick. They feebly uttered something on the lines of getting down at Matunga (the next station) before retiring to their seats.

His job done, the man returned to his newspaper. Our eyes met. Instinctively, for no known reason, I did something uncharacteristic of me: I nodded, smiled, uttering “baraabar”.

But then, Pujo is about doing things you don’t do every day. Was this my Pujo? I have no idea. Probably. Probably not.

But I did reach work in a good mood. I even remembered to thank the liftman.

The 400th blog post: Sentimental stuff

This is the 400th post on my blog. Seriously, I had never thought I would make it till here. Long, long back there used to be a brown diary where I used to write terrible poems. Thankfully, it no longer exists (probably). Maybe someone had wrapped fruits or jhalmuri in some of the pages.

Maybe someone has preserved it, at least a single page.

I do not miss my diary anymore. Diaries cannot be preserved. You can get all sentimental about diaries and letters and dry flowers inside books, but, well, you cannot stack them up neatly in Google Drive. You cannot use F3 or Ctrl + F when you want to, badly.

But I digress, as usual. This is my 400th post. I wanted to make it stand out. I thought of all sorts of 400s — of Brian Lara, of the fact that it is the square of 20, of HTTP status code 400.

I also realised that it reads CD in Roman, which meant I could write on compact disks (no, not on compact disks, for they are too small; I could write something on the topic).

Then I decided to write on my grandparents. There is no logic behind that, barring the fact that the number has four hundreds and there were four grandparents. Neither of my grandparents lived till a hundred, so writing about them in a 400-themed post makes no sense.

But then, blog-posts need not make sense; not always.

More importantly, someone has to chronicle about these four remarkable people.

***

My grandparents were seriously interesting and diverse — all of them — way more than my parents or brother or I have been or are (am) or will be.

Let me start with Guru Prasanna Roy Chowdhury, my maternal grandfather, a man whose roots lay in Faridpur, Bangladesh, but he loved Kolkata so much that he did not take up a promotion (he worked at DVC) because it would have meant leaving the city.

I had no clue why he cared so much for me, for I was not the quintessential lively kid. I read, and I read a lot. When I was at his place, and both of us were in the same room, hours passed by as I read on and he played solitaire, the Phillips transistor radio on, tuned in to irrelevant programmes.

In other words, he rarely communicated with me when I was busy. He respected my space.

And yet, when he took me out for a walk, he was full of conversations, of Kolkata of the 1940s and 1950s, of my mother’s childhood, of how Durga Puja has evolved, of Congress and CPM, of Gavaskar and Kapil Dev.

He was always the same. He would wear a white punjabi and dhuti; there would be a walking-stick in his right hand; my right wrist would be clutched very tight; and there would be long, very long, tireless walks that always seemed to get over too soon, for he never ran out of insights and information and trivia.

Those evening walks taught me more of Kolkata and her history than books.

In the monsoon months he took me to Potopara, a locality where they make idols of Durga. I could not understand why he, an atheist to the core, used to do this. I kept asking him, but he never told me till I was about ten.

“You have seen what The Goddess actually is. I will not influence you, but make up your mind on God’s existence.”

I wish I could be a teacher half as good.

He never believed in exuberance. He did not speak a lot. But when he did, the words were profound, and made an impact.

My brother and I got admitted to Kyokushinkaikan karate. In late 1980s or early 1990s you always had to learn something. Karate had perhaps to do with the fact that my father loved watching movies on martial arts (just a guess).

It was exciting, especially those first few days. We visited his place after class, one day. He was reading a newspaper.

“We are learning karate.”

He nodded sadly, very sadly. He looked at me from behind his thick glasses and said, “Pipe-guns — they are everywhere these days. So many innocent people get killed every day. Can you help them?”

I got decent marks in my 10th. Everyone assumed I would take up science, barring this man. He called me, separately, and asked me to do what I wanted to. He would stand by me if it came to that.

“It does not matter what you study, or what you do. If you are good at it, and if your heart lies in it, the subject does not matter. You will never get these days back.”

Two years later he asked me the same question. I chose to study statistics, not engineering, after my 12th.

Two years later he was no more.

There are too many memories to share as my glasses are getting thick, almost thick as his. And yet, what stands out in memory is a retort aimed at my mother:

“Baba, tuck in your mosquito net properly. The malignant malaria-bearing mosquitoes operate only between two and three at night.”

“Yeah, right; they have watches.”

[হ, অগো হাতে ঘোরি আসে।]

We kept his last wishes: we donated his body to Calcutta Medical College; and there was no funeral.

***

Latika, his wife, was a curious, most singular character, one of the liveliest and most energetic I have seen. They stayed on the fourth floor, and well in her late eighties she would climb the staircase with ease, going to market, to ‘gas booking’ if there was an issue with LPG cylinders and the phone was not working, and more.

My father helped her with banking and other similar activities, but she was generally fiercely independent. At an age when most mothers are happy to stay at their daughters’ (she had two), she refused to do the same. Seldom did she stay happily at our place, or my aunt’s.

She had her idiosyncrasies. I remember an occasion when I was supposed to pick her up at 10. She called me at, about, 9.20, enquiring why I had still not arrived. When I pointed out that there was still forty-odd minutes left, she mentioned that she was ready by 8.30, walked downstairs, waited till 9, then 9.15, got irritated, and walked up all four storeys to call.

[I have double-checked the times while writing.]

She was powerfully (but harmlessly) patriotic, and used to salute a photograph of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose on January 23 till well into her final years.

That was probably normal.

She had expected me (in my early twenties), my brother, and my cousin (both in their late teens) to stand in a queue and welcome the arrival third millennium.

That was probably not normal.

But it did not matter, for she did not give a, well, you-know-what to what the world thought of her.

She lived till I was thirty-five, which meant I saw a lot of her. By then I knew more about life than I ever thought I would, at thirty. And I marvelled at the resilience of the woman who went on about everything with a near-toothless smile.

This was the woman who introduced me to Ramayan, and generally, to mythology.

This was the woman who waited at the doorsteps, and applauded me all the way to the bedroom when I visited them the day after I passed my 10th.

Do you realise how embarrassing this was?

This was a woman who had seen, lived, and conquered poverty.

This was a woman who had seen her youngest daughter pass away; and overcame it.

This was a woman who used to panic when she saved fifty rupees at the end of the month (from her pension), wondering how she would spend all that money. This was fifty rupees in the 2000s, mind you.

This was a woman who could not be conquered by age or grief.

And today, as I approach forty, I wish she was here, to applaud me all the way at achievements as insignificant as passing an examination.

***

Sova Mukherjee was the ubiquitous grandmother (Achala Sachdev, not Zohra Sehgal). She was kind, she walked at the pace of about fifty metres an hour (okay, I exaggerated that), was blessed with a nice smile, and was extremely grandmotherly.

She mothered three children. Since both my parents were working, she almost ‘mothered’ my brother and me as well.

She ensured we were well-fed (or, in my case, a bit too well-fed).

She used to talk to tea (yes, you have read that right). She remains the only person I have seen who consumed two cups of tea simultaneously, one in each hand, sipping alternately, taking out time for words of praise: “Oh, tea — the person who discovered you must have been a genius! Can you tell me his name?”

She never understood a word of Hindi, but used to get extremely excited whenever the climax of a Bollywood movie approached on Doordarshan and the hero had managed to rescue the heroine and corner the villain: “Maar! Maar!”

And then, “The movie got over? Just like that?”

“What else were you expecting? The villain went to prison, the hero and heroine got together...”

“But there will be a wedding! They will ‘do shongshar’! What about that?”

She loved her shongshar. You can probably visualise her, in her black, broad-rimmed glasses, keys tied to her white, cotton aatpoure sari — keys that always announced her arrival.

She had little formal education and could barely write her name, and yet could tell whether there was an Enid Blyton inside my history book: “your expressions gave it away.”

My mother once told me a story about her. A didi (my neighbour and second cousin) was once walking outside the terrace of our neighbour’s, grabbing the perilously fragile-looking cornice. A hysteric yell would have been catastrophic. She kept her calm, whispered to my didi’s mother (my something, do not ask, it is very confusing), telling her everything and asking her not to panic.

And my grandmother masterminded the rescue in the matter of minutes, by having the right people in right places.

She was religious, and was extremely prejudiced when it came to religion. And yet, there was no real issue when my parents had an inter-caste love marriage.

More importantly, when Indira Gandhi was assassinated in 1984, she went out of her way to accommodate a Sikh family in our house.

That was the second lesson in religion from a grandparent.

But, most importantly, she was the mother when my mother was away on her day job.

Her health deteriorated quickly after my grandfather passed away. She had slipped once, in her last days. I had picked her up and put her to bed. She seemed light, very light. I wondered how she had carried the entire household on her shoulders all those decades.

She was about to breathe her last when I was in Washington-Dulles on a seven-hour layover, for the British Airways flight had been delayed.

She breathed her last by the time I had landed in Heathrow. I never got to know till I landed in Kolkata.

All that waited for me was a photograph and incense sticks. My grandmother was somewhere else, they said, embalmed, waiting for me.

When I finally got to see her, she was not smiling anymore. Embalming had not helped.

***

This leaves me with Satya Charan Mukherjee, probably the coolest individual I have known in real life.

My dadu worked as a car salesman. He had a way with his words, which meant that he topped the charts every month in his organisation. This was not unexpected, for if his gift of the gab was even a fragment of what it was in his late eighties, he must have been phenomenal.

But then, he would not leave Kolkata, which was hardly unusual in our family.

What was more, he would not compromise with his siesta. This meant that he left for office in the morning, came back at one, had his lunch followed by his afternoon sleep, and never returned for the day.

And yet, he topped the charts, month after month.

His boss obviously told him one day that he could not leave office that early every day.

My grandfather showed him the sales charts.

His boss mentioned that the company had decorum to maintain.

So my grandfather resigned, went to a rival organisation, and announced that he was available. He was hired instantly.

Note: This is a verified story.

My grandfather used to participate in car-rallies and win awards, and made his way to newspapers.

For a long time the hat, the whistle, and the baton remained a mystery, but I got to know that he was a part of the police special force.

I cannot sell a car, drive, or fight crime to save my life, which are among the many reasons why I thought he was cool.

He had once caught a fraud astrologer red-handed, and, well, did not let him get away with it.

He watched cricket with my mother. The two of them gave me cricket.

He made sure I had a library membership at a very young age.

He cooked mutton the way few chefs can.

He kept odd hours, going to bed at eight at night and waking up at half-past three. He was back from his morning-walk by five. When the clock ticked over to 7.45 at night, he made sure the bedroom was cleared.

He made sure my aunt became a Company Secretary when married teenage girls seldom pursued studies, let alone a professional course. This, despite taking immense pride in announcing that he was a “matriculate by chance”.

He was the first guardian to reach my school to collect his ward the day Mrs Gandhi was assassinated.

He made sure I accompanied him to market. By six I could tell fresh, soft ladies’-fingers from their stubborn components, or how to identify a desi potol.

I got my first job a year before he passed away. I had a choice between a handsome package in Hyderabad and a moderate one in Kolkata. I told him.

“Who leaves Kolkata for money?”

I did, eventually. Not for money, but for a job, for they do not have many back there anymore.

***

They were cool and jovial, perseverant and bizarre, smiling and radical, compassionate and protective. They knew the thin line between encouraging and spoiling, all four of them.

When I was young I was tired of everyone telling me how fortunate I was to have all four of them, not only alive, but healthy. It took me years to understand why.

As my thirties come to a close, memories swarm my mind. I do not have photographs of them with me, or at least, hard copies.

But meeting them is never far away. I am blessed with an above-average memory, you see.

Memories of Ms Mitra

I am ashamed, for when Mohua Roy sent me the above picture, I had no clue who this person was, and decided to discard it for her idiosyncrasies. It was unfortunate that she died (Nandita Mitra, not Mohua), but why should I care? Neither the photograph nor the name rang a bell, after all.

Mohua admonished me later for not even asking who the lady was. And then she told me. And the sky came crashing down. This was her. This was the woman I have always wanted to meet but never made an effort to.

***

Though I had no memory of her name, let her refer to her as Ms Mitra.

For a long, long time I was annoyed at this Ms Mitra, especially during my student days. Her mantra was different from her competitors: though she, or her outlet, never mentioned, the moment you tried out her product you realised she would dish out quality (the best in the world, and I am not exaggerating) over anything else.

Unfortunately, this also meant her products were almost invariably out of my range during my school days. The pocket-money increased as I entered college — but so did the prices at her joint. But whenever I managed to conjure the money, or had managed to procure something as a gift, well, it was magical.

I cannot forgive myself for not knowing her name. I really cannot. For this seems as impossible as using Microsoft products for close to two decades and not knowing the name of Bill Gates. Or not being aware of the fact that Bloomsbury had published Harry Potter. Or not knowing of Thomas Bata (Tomáš Jan Baťa, to be specific).

I had probably taken Ms Mitra for granted. I had assumed the outlet was a nameless, ownerless outlet designed for me. Its products were created for me, and only me — something I knew was not true — for there are thousands, more, many more of them who have craved for that quality-over-everything-else aspect; for when Ms Mitra said quality, she meant it.

***

How to describe what she dished out for her customers — her immensely loyal fan base? I had made an effort, in vain, in one of my earlier posts. Let me copy-paste:

No chilli sauce. No tomato ketchup. None of that cucumber nonsense. Maybe a few minuscule strips of well-cooked onion, but that’s about it.

It gets unceremoniously dropped inside a brown-paper bag, along with a single green chilli and a slice of lemon. You bribe them and get her released. They do not bother: for them you are just another customer. For you, however, they are demigods who can be bribed to open the gates of the forbidden garden. Now it’s just you and that object of desire in your eager, impatient grip.

Roll.

Your fingers clutch around the roll. You know it is hot, but you also know that rolls are at their succulent best when they scald the ceiling of your mouth. And then — after a wait that had seemed longer than waiting to catch a glimpse of your first crush on her balcony — you’re there.

She is stuffed it with a precision so magical that not a single cubic millimetre is left unoccupied by meat; your eyes shut automatically the moment your teeth dig close on to her, sending a thrill down your spine. It is like a kiss — only with more reciprocation than any human can dream of producing.

Take a moment here to appreciate the porota; the flour is never left raw, and not the smallest of squares is charred beyond edible limits. They somehow form an idea of the exact level of crispiness you want, they never over-fry, they go low on oil, and execute it with the precision of a surgeon performing a brain operation.

One bite follows another. You now face the infamous Roll-Eater’s Dilemma that has haunted mankind for decades: should you make it last longer or should you finish it while it’s still hot? Ultimately you end up sinning as patience gives in.

The chicken roll does not get a chance to cross the road.

And then, if you’re fortunate, you get a final moment of joy: once you’ve eaten your way to glory, you turn the wrapper upside down with your palm cupped underneath it in frantic hope.

If you have led a life of penance, if you have helped the poor and the needy, if you have never committed adultery, if you have always fulfilled every wish of your parents, if you have never cheated in an examination, if you have never taken personal print-outs at work, there may be a possibility that a piece of meat — the last survivor — may slide into your anticipating palm.

Bliss.

***

Ms Mitra owned Campari — the greatest roll boutique that has ever existed; and Campari owns me.

Rest in peace, Ms Mitra; you will not remember, but I am one of the many teenagers you had probably seen counting coins on the palm outside your shop in late 1980s and early 1990s.

Oh, and thank you, Mohua.

Tannin

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I only said that because I wanted to quote Dickens for no reason. Oh well, because I had a wonderful year away from home, which meant I led a life spanning two cities.

I was in Delhi, the city that has been built (or rebuilt, I am never sure which one is correct) seven times. I was a student from Kolkata, which meant I owned neither a car nor a gun (for Kolkatans are too lazy to purchase guns); this probably meant I should have had issues maintaining a proper status in the greatest city of India — one that has been built (or rebuilt) seven times, and whose laddoos are, for some mysterious reason, considered synonymous to marriage.

I added to the infestation level in a hostel infested by Bengalis. There we were, marvelling at the broad, Boroline-smooth, sun-baked roads of the capital, home to politicians and bureaucrats and power-cuts and water problems. Thankfully, we managed to avoid all four during my stay in the city barring a slightly uncomfortable 18-hour ‘load-shedding’ in summer.

But let us not digress.

We were pursuing our Master’s, and shared the hostel with wannabe PhDs. These people, despite being infinitesimally more knowledgeable (by this I mean serious stuff; you probably get it), chose to treat us like fellow humans.

They were really nice people, that lot — all of them.

So nice that they decided we should have proper Delhi food. They took us out, and made sure our wallets never left our pockets. I kid you not. Yes, in a city where people have traditionally murdered fathers and brothers, we had the most amazing seniors. In fact, they were so nice that we often thought there was a catch somewhere.

A month or so had passed since our arrival. The seniors seemed genuinely concerned by the fact that we were reluctant to step out of the campus (all we seemed to enjoy was playing cricket in the lawn under floodlights), and decided to take us out. Since the nearest place of any significance was Sarojini Nagar, the destination was a no-brainer.

We loitered around Sarojini Nagar and the market nearby, which was named, rather imaginatively, Sarojini Market. Given that Delhi boasts of names like RKpuram (and, of course, Ghitorni, which I was to find out over a decade after this stay), this came as a major letdown.

The seniors, of course, were disappointed at our lack of enthusiasm. They decided to treat us to something capital (see what I did there?). There was a brief discussion before they came to a conclusion. They suggested something that translated to cold tea.

Mind you, this was 1998. Eating out in Kolkata was restricted to a selection from the Chinese package (chicken fried rice, chicken chow mein, chilli chicken, and chicken Manchurian), the Indian package (biryani and/or naan with a ‘gravy item’), or, on excellent days, continental. Barring dosa and idli, our exposure to food from other states was genuinely limited. Cold coffee (of course, with ice-cream) was not unheard-of, but cold tea?

Yes, I was surprised to find that kulcha was not cold tea, or any form of tea, or anything remotely close to ‘cold’ in temperature. I must have looked extremely foolish, and got away without being ridiculed only because the sex ratio at our institution has traditionally been unfavourable to youthful men in full vigour.

Did the seniors guess something? Perhaps, perhaps not. The kulcha was, of course, delicious. It was unlike anything we had tasted before, for it was a Delhi kulcha, and had probably been created (or recreated) seven times in pursuit of perfection, so our honest, innocent faces (one look at my current photograph will reveal my honesty and innocence) must have glowed in satisfaction.

We came back happy, for we had eaten well (yes, we were satisfied easily back then; contentment started to vanish as adulthood crept into our lives without a warning). Our seniors were happy, for we were happy. And Delhi, the great city with whom the number seven is associated in some way I am never sure of, was happy as well.

***

A fortnight later, we made the same trip, this time with a purpose: we actually had to buy a few things. Afterwards, the seniors — those wise, generous men — decided to treat us again; and once again they insisted on paying.

We were told it was a delicacy that was new even in Delhi (this was true). This was true, and surprising, for Delhi is the city of all cities, and something had been done it to it a whopping seven times. We were told it was dispensed in a manner we have never seen before (this was true as well).

I asked what it was called. After all, not all names sound like variants of tannin-rich liquids. One of them smiled and enlightened me.

“Softy. It is called softy.”

It was kulcha all over again.

The Heat and Dust Project: A beautiful gift from a couple who know their India

My copy

Do you read? Are you a voracious reader? If yes, how many books have you come across that have made you feel old and young at the same time?

Someone had once told me that reading, like writing, is a form of art, and had gone into an elaborate explanation to validate her point. I had argued, but had given in — for her logic, though slightly convoluted, was sound.

The Heat and Dust Project is a reader’s delight. If you are a casual reader, the very concept of the book will blow you away before you click the Order button. A couple gives up on the comfort of city life to travel India on a budget of 500 rupees a day for bed and board.

The fun begins when you start reading, for you had probably not expected it to be this gripping. Before you realise exactly what is going on you have become their co-passenger, have left Delhi ages back, and are trundling through dusty Rajasthan roads that transport you to lands of stories and myths and people and rituals and philosophy.

It is a beautiful book: a must-read for every casual reader like me. The serious reader in you, however, discovers something else as you keep flipping through the pages. It is not your average travelogue. It helps you discover India.

You are aware of the existence of a country called India. You are aware of being a part of her. You have read of her in books and on the internet. If you are an avid traveller, you may have ventured her nooks and corners (and even blogged about your adventures).

But do you know of India beyond your comfort zone? Is a country, her history, her culture, her heritage, her legacy not supposed to be about her people? How do you know a country if her people have not spoken to you of her?

Let us digress here a bit. Open Google Images and type Barmer. The usual clichéd images of camels and deserts will fill your monitor. But what of the herdsmen that appear in the pictures but you choose to ignore? They have stories of their own, handed down from generation to generation, stories ignored by historians and chroniclers and beyond the realm of archaeologists.

Every place has its own inhabitants, who are, in turn, products of the place. Every place speaks for its people. And the people speak for the place. If you traverse across the length and breadth of the country and put the parts together, you will realise that India is more than a sum of her people.

That is precisely what The Heat and Dust Project does: it opens up a gateway for you to India. If the youthful zest of the authors has made you feel young, you definitely finish the book enriched by the erudite narration of the great land that is India.

The narration is one-of-its-kind (but then, so is the book). It would not have been possible without one of the couple. Devapriya befriends the reader. Saurav educates him. And yet, when they bicker during the journey, you realise this is a “them” territory, and leave them on their own.

I have mentioned elsewhere that writing comes naturally to Devapriya. She is an excellent narrator who can keep the reader hooked without making an effort, and is therefore the one who brings the places to life with her vivid description.

Saurav, on the other hand, brings the much-needed punctuation. It would have been a breakneck monotone of a narration otherwise. In more ways than one he tells you of the place and her people; and tells them of you. He forms a chain between the worlds.

In other words, Devapriya sets the pace for the book. Saurav puts a rein on it whenever the book demands. Between them they pull off a fantastic book. There are times when you want to buy them a bottle of water so that they can save 15 rupees; heave a sigh of relief if they get invited by someone and save on a meal; wish Devapriya gets her dose of chocolate pancake; and yearn for Saurav to go on with his narration till your thirst for this country is quenched.

And amidst the heat and dust and grime and excruciating regime, humour peeps in, as does the insatiable thirst for knowledge. And, well, the chemistry that binds them and makes them complement each other without the slightest hint of mush (of which there was ample scope throughout the book).

The Heat and Dust Project is a world of fantasy carved out of reality. But so is India. She always has been. And this is an Indian book written by a very, very Indian couple who, unlike most, know what this seemingly confusing menagerie called India is all about.

I do not like to travel. The trait probably makes me hodophobic. On the rare occasions that I do, I care too much for creature comforts to give in to the completely alien seduction of backpacking. But then, if these little imps keep producing sequels (yes, there will be at least one more) over time...

Of Deepika Padukone and the battle against depression: awe and support

Courtesy: hdwallpaperscool.com

“We talk about all kinds of aliments [sic], but this is probably one of the deadliest mental disorders. Nothing, including life, makes sense to people suffering from it”; thus spake Deepika Padukone, heartthrob of a billion, to Hindustan Times.

Deepika has admitted that she suffered from acute depression (acting in Happy New Year was not the reason).* The lady who had bowled me over in Om Shanti Om with her vivacity, who was so full of life, the woman with one of the most disarming smiles, was actually a victim of depression without the world knowing.

And she has been honest about it. No pretensions. Nothing. Coming out of the closet does not mean admitting an affair. Coming out of the closet is more about winning an affair against demons. Like depression.

But then, so was Robin Williams. The funniest and most cheerful people are often the saddest ones. Throughout his life Robin Williams played the cheery loner on screen; we failed to understand he had been playing himself all along.

It is a fact we will read and choose to ignore till it concerns us some day, simply because we think it is a luxury one can afford if the person

(a) has time and money, or

(b) does not have any responsibility to deal with.

Makes it sound like a trip to Mauritius or Seychelles or wherever Blue was shot, does it not?

Wrong.

This is (copy-pasted) exactly what Deepika had to face herself: “How can you be depressed? You have everything going for you. You are the supposed number one heroine and have a plush home, car, movies. What else do you want?” Does this sound familiar?

I said this immediately after Robin Williams had passed away: depression is an ogre that nobody barring you agrees to acknowledge. The worst bit is, you would want people — someone who loves you and cares for you — to surround you, to talk to you, to listen to you, to hold you, only to realise that they do not have the time; or intent.

It is then that the battle starts — one against the worst conceivable feeling. Consider this: you will not have a wound to show; you will not run a temperature; you will not need to go for scans or blood tests; and yet it will keep eating you from inside.

In other words, you will be withering away without anyone knowing.

Let us see what Deepika's experience (I never imagined I would quote Deepika, but here you go): “Every morning, it was a struggle to wake up...There were days when I would feel okay, but at times, within a day, there was a roller-coaster of feelings.”

She hated waking up in the morning. This is not the usual Monday morning blues — it happens on Saturday mornings as well. That is what depression does to you. Every day starts with a horrible empty feeling that the day ahead of you is going to be a useless one. Even if you wake up, you need to drag yourself out of bed.

Every day. Every day. Even your birthday.

Depression can make you cry, just like that, when you drop a bar of soap in the shower (no, using shower gel will not solve this) or you lose a pencil or whatever.

Depression can make you crave for being understood, to be held, even if for a minute. The longing does not happen all the while, but it does not go away completely either.  

What do you do once you hate waking up every day and do not feel like doing anything?

You feel your existence is futile.

What do you do if you feel your existence is futile?

You get suicidal thoughts.

What do you do if you get suicidal thoughts?

You do not want me to spell that out, do you?

That is what depression can do to you, and it will be too late if that happens.

But, what do you do if you get suicidal thoughts and are too weak to take your life? What if even the suicide seems futile?

That is what depression can also do to you, except that it will not be too late.

So, if you think you suffer from depression, do not hesitate. Go to a doctor before it is too late. Counselling may not help completely, but it will help improve things. At least you will know there is someone who will listen to you patiently, even if for money.

But there will be a stage after which counselling will refuse to work.

It is then that the medicines will come in. You may be scared of being addicted to them, but you will not be addicted. If you do not believe me, read up; look at Deepika, who has been coping brilliantly since she recovered. She had taken a two-month break, but is back in full swing.

Anxiety,Depression and Panic Attacks are not signs of weakness.They are signs of trying to remain strong for way too long.
— Deepika Padukone (@deepikapadukone) December 31, 2014

Do not give up. On the other hand, do not try to act too strong, for you will never know when you spill over the brink. Remember:

1. Consulting a psychiatrist does not make you a mad person. Go. Do not delay. A day’s delay can be detrimental, and may push recovery by a month.

2. Just because friends do not reach out to you during depression does not mean they are avoiding you. It can have to do with the fact that they do not understand — which is perfectly feasible. Tell people. There is no harm. You never know who the person is.

3. Do not wait for those arms to come to you. Maybe they will not. Keep trying. Reach out for the world.

4. Anti-depressants do not kill people. In fact, a cause for clinical depression is chemical imbalance, and there is no other cure if that is indeed the cause.

5. Do not try to fight depression. Accept it instead, and find a way around it. It is a demon that needs to be killed slowly. You cannot hurry things and cannot be impatient.

6. Most importantly, depression is nothing to be ashamed about. It happens.

Here is what World Health Organisation had to say on the topic as early as in 2001: “If we take the example of depression which is currently ranked fourth among the 10 leading causes of the global burden of disease, it is predicted that by the year 2020, it will have jumped to second place.”

If it is predicted to be at number two in five years’ time, why be ashamed? Why stay in a closet? There are solutions. Come out. Seek them out. Find out others who have been through this. Seek their help. Change your physician, if required. 

But solve it. And once you are done, help others come out. Be the helping hand to them that you never had when you needed. Hold their hands. Hold them tight. Who better than you to cure others?

WE are not alone...
— Deepika Padukone (@deepikapadukone) December 31, 2014

You have vowed to solve this, Deepika. Whatever your team does to eradicate this, I am with you on this (I am sure you will not be reading this, so it will really not matter to you, but just in case) — simply because there are few things in the world as cool as helping others overcome depression.

----------

* Farah Khan, I am still loyal to you; still; I remember Main Hoon Na and Om Shanti Om and forgive you for Happy New Year. Anyone who has given an Om Shanti Om is a legend despite everything else.