We need Indian sweets.....

WE NEED SOME INDIAN SWEETS……

“Don’t forget the Indian sweets”, my mother commanded as I added onto the shopping list – Rasgullah white 1kg, black 1kg with an almost obvious drool. We had visitors that evening,

From the time I can remember I have been fortunate to sink my teeth into  the sinfully sweet ‘Indian Sweets’ the  sweet people visiting us brought in those soggy mistana bhandar  paper boxes.( I can prove it -every time I stand on my weighing scale I  guiltily eye the needle tipping off into the  zone  beyond my BMI).  "I got you some Indian sweets" grinned my sweet  Aunty Magdalene  and I could kiss her to death. The delish rasgullahs and the pearly white  sandesh stared at me – hmmm yummy Indian Sweets.I was a hilly billy with an aweful sweet tooth.

They have been Indian sweets for me  all my life till very recently. I  realised  that these  are Bengali sweets.The only difference is their  ‘chomchom’ is our ‘chamcham’ and their  ‘sondesh’ is our ‘sandesh’( the lip roll will do the trick here),the rest  remains the same ! and  there are Gujurati  sugar laced  snacks   and Rajasthani  munchies. These are not us - these are Indian fare!

Growing up in the North- East of India ; or should I say in the cold  lush green  gateway to the North-East, with the true blue ( a mix here and there) Indo Mongoloid blood running through my veins. ( I can prove that too - look at my slanty dreamy eyes, my high cheek bones and my pale yellow complexion ) I associate myself with the hardy life, strong men and women , pumpkin seeds, fierce Winters and oxtail soup, walking uphill and downhill, marigolds in the wild , solid calf muscles and those occasional indian sweets and the didi led  almost step sisterly state government    reminding me that I am an Indian (or is it to create an identity crisis…I wonder).

Have been introspecting since then. Would a girl living up in the north west of the US of A in Seattle munch  on some special ‘american’ candies? or a child in Balochistan crave for some ‘pakistani’ kebabs?  She would just want candies and he would want kebabs. I wondered. This looks like a very Indian thing. Crazy and divided that we are. We might not be very vocal about it ( unlike me!) but this runs deep. Sad but true. I had to look into it. Maybe it was just one of those British hangover still eating us hollow. I asked my mother, ‘Mama why are these sweets called Indian sweets’? She looked at me and said ‘These are Indian sweets that’s why, these are eaten in Mainland India’. Whattttttt? Mainland China- the restaurant and its big  red curly dragon flashed in my highly imaginative mind.  I saw myself sitting in some Macau like corner in India. So we are different, aren't we?  We must be,  we eat Indian sweets sitting in India. So that is  where the sweets come from- from Mainland India. So “What are our sweets?”, I prodded. “We are not ‘sweet’ eaters. We eat meat and rice and chillies and stuff that make us strong.” Her words were final. I agree as my craving for a hotpot of rice and meat overrides all.

As I write this I wonder about my ability to get the message home. Many years back I met this girl in Delhi and she asked me in all sincerity ‘don’t you fall when you walk those treacherous hilly roads’? I looked at her in bewilderment. Maybe the feeling is mutual. So the people from ‘Mainland India’ – I am not asking for much….just try . Indian sweets really? India is indeed diverse and crazy and all.

(P.S There is no such thing as black rasgullahs they  are called gulab jamuns.

This is fyi for my people with small eyes and big hearts!) J

Yours Truly

and She Lived Happily Ever After.....

A relocation induced sabbatical and here I am in a new city  within the comforts of a luxury starred hotel - The hotel stay is always exaggerated if you are the top boss’ wife. The politest wake up call to the array of newspapers and the warm fresh lime to start your day with. You draw the curtains and the best view awaits you! Housekeeping guys are on their toes and so are the laundry guys. The food and beverage guys are extra sweet – with their best smile, best service and creative cocktails. The entire hotel goes that extra mile to ensure the GM’s family is ‘happy’. The guest relations girl will regularly call you and take your feedback on your stay (I want to vanish!) The kitchen stirs you your customised menu and throws in that extra water chestnuts in your stir-fry. They will bring you green apples and blue cheese anywhere, anytime you want it. You won’t hear that signature ‘Sorry Ma’am- We can’t do this, we can’t do that’. You want some fresh air and the most polite driver drives you to the nearest mall for some recycled fresh air. He acquaints you with the city and points out to some landmarks enroute to the mall and back. He usually talks about his family and the little children that he is blessed with.  Everyone smiles at you and your cheek bones hurt reciprocating. I just  hope there is nothing plastic about it!

 Talking about hotels and this gorgeous industry – I have seen it from very close proximity from both sides of the counter. As a hoteliers wife and a traveller now and a flight attendant for almost a decade earlier on- I have been through those  airport to hotel transports, bell hops with paging  boards, security arches , fancy welcome drinks, stiff and stuck up or sweet as honey guest relation girls, those elevators where all the inmates look at the digital floor indicator  with sad longing faces ,presidential suites, innovative  personal bars, sky decks, and  those miniature toiletries that makes me a  kleptomaniac every now and then. I have seen it all.

As a young girl as I knelt in prayer every evening – I was very prompt in applying what I had read in those ‘prayers for girls’ booklet. I looked up to the  heavens and asked Mother Mary to bless me with a good spouse if ever I wanted to ditch the plan of joining the nunnery :) I had my Plan B in place – my pact with the Holy Family. The genuine prayer of a little girl does not go unheard.

My prayer was answered many years down the line – I met this hotelier and my life was not going to be the same. Whoever said there is nothing called the free lunches?  Aspiring hoteliers like my husband pampered by this industry in return to the inhuman hours they put in to ensure smooth operation day in and day out. Been a pretty good run for him and playing the boss for a decade now.

So here I am in this new city not very happy but comfortable. - kids in a new school and hubby as usual happy and super busy  with his new job. I am settling in a new place –I am lucky to have an old friend Nidhi  living in the same city. She did make my transition  easy.  We will be moving into our company leased pad very soon– my fall back is again the hotel.   No glitches and no struggles when you relocate – how great is that  and a comfortable run till it is  time for the next relocation. I sure must be lucky- the housekeeping troupe was getting the  house deep cleaned and they put up curtains and made sure every tile was sparkly and clean. The engineers worked on every light fixtures and turned my living room into a warm chandelier lit space. As I over see the works in the  starter home I get my fix of Darjeeling tea and cookies all packed and delivered on time at my doorstep. A guy drilled the  wall decors in place and the hotel gardener racked and cleaned the empty garden patch where I could start my very own patch of green. I spent the days at the new pad opening boxes and transforming the house into a home. It is almost dusk and the kids are back in the hotel from school –splashing in the warm jacuzzi. I am done and dusted for the day and I go back to the hotel gazing at the the slightly familiar skyline.

I slump  into the cushy sofa of our plush suite – the phone rings and the therapist from the spa reminds me of my 6 pm appointment. My body is used to the pampering and the kneading - from Balinese to Swedish to our very own Ayurvedic. I am a hotelier’s wife! I better get going. Before I go my suggestion and advice for girls vying for a snug and comfortable life –get hitched with a go- getter hotelier with dream in his eyes.Your life will be sorted. I wonder why Indians have been harping about engineers and doctors all this while!!! Hoteliers rock!

A modest hotelier’s modest wife…… 🙂

not quite cut out to fit in.... :)

Priscilla - in Living and in dying

 Priscilla - in Living and in dying

 Mama and my maternal aunty bought two pairs of identical white sandals in the shoe store on the slope in Darjeeling town ; Christmas that year was approaching and Priscilla and I were preparing for our First Holy Communion. Our Winter vacation started on a ‘holy’ note when our old Catechist announced on the first day of catechism class that we were the chosen ones! We went about the Advent weeks reciting prayers and practicing mock ‘penitential and confessional’ rites.  On Christmas day we were inducted into the Church yet once more – privileged to receive the Holy Communion. Priscilla and I in our pure white dresses and veils  sat in the lace lined pew in the church .Aunty had exchanged the white sandals for a pair of white ballerinas for Priscilla ( said the heels  were a bit too high for her)while I strutted in those heels  bought at that shop on the slope. That day was a beautiful day indeed! We were indeed the ‘chosen ones’ – Today  I look back in question.

 Off and on Priscilla came to live with us in St. Mary’s Hill . The school was closer for her and she could be with us and that was a delightful thing. We lived a guarded life under the hawk eyes of my parents! Priscilla was my first cousin , my senior in school and my friend. The beautiful Spring and the few Summer days gives  way to the rolling dark South- West Monsoon that blankets the hills of Darjeeling for the next four months. One of those wet cold Monsoons days  in the early 80’s crippled Priscilla in school – she was in pain, her joints were hurting and she could barely walk. As we three walked home tears rolled down her cheeks and we rested on a wet green parapet. Mabel then carried her piggy back while I shouldered three school bags and we managed to get home. She was down with  a rheumatoid condition.  She was a braveheart and still is - kept that indomitable spirit and the incessant  smile on her beautiful face. Children that we were – we had a club of our own Thrilling Three ( influenced deeply by Enid Blyton whose books we devoured turn by turn ) we three sang in the parish hall , went for picnics, played house- house, teacher- teacher,( holy mass- holy mass too!) and  ran through the parish vegetable garden to pluck carrots and corn. One Christmas we collected money for the less privileged and handed it to Fr. Leonard to do the needful. Life could not get better when Priscilla shared her brown buttery 'suji halwa’, I could have it all. Our ‘suji’ at home was always squishy and white and I  wondered why!

Days and years rolled by –  she went on to Loreto College. While in school  one weekend I visited her - I was mersmerised by her college life and her friends. I told her I would follow her into college and so I did. Met her ever so often in college and in the hostel- admired her soft sweet ways, her obsession with cleanliness and her ever growing love for financial independence and freedom. She was inspiring me in her own quiet way. In the mid 90s she married her high-school sweetheart. She made this beautiful bride and the entire life was for her to live – the way she had dreamt all this while. This was not to be – So started her journey of heart break and pain and dreams  coming crashing down on her. She tried , she tried her best and I believed her and I still do. She worked hard , moved places and kept her head held high always. We lost touch for a while here and there- there was no Facebook and cell phones were just trickling in. In a faraway land in the Middle East, in Jordan when I was flying for their national carrier, one night I dreamt of Priscilla. Moved and mind in rewind, that morning I sat at my table and wrote a long letter to her – telling her how I cherished my childhood days with her, reminding her that we need to keep in touch and how much I loved her for what she was. I never posted that letter  – I tore it and dropped  it in the bin a few days later. I wish I had not done that. Thankfully I did have many many more opportunities to convey my message to her - but I still regret not having posted that letter. She kissed me on my forehead and hugged me tight and wished me the ‘bestest’ life on my wedding day. She is the only cousin I look up to for reasons beyond words.

Life moved on and the new millennium greeted us . The children of the family now all grown up and taking up responsibilities to newer heights. One day I heard that she would be joining her brother in Brunei, in the Far East. By then Mark Zuckerburg had followed his dream and Facebook was a reality so that  I could keep in touch with my beloved cousin ! Priscilla was just a click away.  We updated, chit chatted, exchanged notes on life, shared jokes and howlers, and exchanged  tongue-popping emoticons at midnight :P . We skyped – I made my children peer  at the screen to say hello to their aunty far away. She loved Maggi noodles – I told her that is not food it is trash ! Sisterly affection and chiding was a done thing. She enjoyed her teacher’s job and on her vacation home we got to sample anchovies and preserved fruits and what not from the island nation that brought her happiness and satisfaction.

One afternoon she called me – she told me she is coming to India and heading to Chennai the same day. Her life was back on track and here she gets another blow. She was diagnosed with uterine cancer. Cancer is a b****! How I hate it! She fought like a braveheart. Her spirit and her faith leading her everyday till she was given an all clear. She was among us yet again – we met and spent some meaningful and beautiful days together. Took a tonga ride to the Taj Mahal, forgot our worries and stress as we whiled away hours in the  spa and came out rejuvenated  and refreshed. We started our day with yoga….she giggled and laughed at her stiff muscles .We knew we were in the right path -healthy holistic approach was the answer to her new life . This ordeal of hers brought us closer- we shared and talked our hearts out. We were healing and Living in the true sense of the term. Older and wiser we both were. I was ecstatic that she was happy and healthy – we all dream to be that. Little did I know that she would be fighting  a losing battle when that forgotten cancer came back with a vengeance with a tumour in the brain.

Today she waits for death to take her away. I do not want her to go , yet she is slipping away . If there is a Heaven,that is where she belongs. I want her to be free – free from the pain, free from the feeble body tired  of  fighting  the dreadful onslaught of the disease. It is her spirit leading  her on to live , don’t know why ! I see my cousins and my uncle and aunty share her pain. I wonder how they bear it all. In all this Priscilla is loved dearly and she knows that. How I want to be with  Priscilla just to be able to hold her hand . Angelina told me that she is losing her sense of sight and hearing, she is  hallucinating . I have nothing to tell her- no words.

 I sit here numb and write like a brain dead woman. See Priscilla we both  are the same- your brain is taken away by the tumour and the surgery  and mine by the helplessness and the uselessness that I am feeling now (  I do not know if there is Jesus sitting among the clouds and listening to our hearts talking ). In all this helplessness, I know you will keep that smile on your angelic face, that you will feel for your family that you are leaving behind, remember your loved ones, make peace with yourself and that you will leave behind very many  precious memories – like the one when Mabel, you and I  sang ‘If I were a butterfly’ on that little wooden stage and many many more.  Memories that I will carry close to my heart for ever. 

Your sister in Heart and Soul, in living and in dying. 

29, Feb 2016





P.S : I visited Darjeeling in April and I literally ran up her house once I reached St. Mary's Hill. I held her close - all frail and eaten away by the deadly disease.She felt my hands and cupped my face in the palms of her hands. She kissed me ( I will never forget the love I felt...the love that I will keep alive in me). I  shouted in her ears ' Prisci do you remember the song "If I were a Butterfly?" That brought a smile on her face that was looking into nowhere  as we sang the beautiful song of promise together - 

.....for You gave me a Heart , You gave me a soul, You gave me Jesus and you made me His Child but I just Thank you Father for making me me...' 

Tears rolled down my cheeks.

I held onto her hand. I gave her drops of water to moisten her parched throat, massaged her back and tried to make her confortable.This was all I could do - nothing more ! Days rolled by amidst prayers and visitors - in hope of a miracle! The short lived Summer  gave way to the cold Monsoon once again
On 2, June Priscilla breathed her last in the comforting presence of my maternal aunty ( her mother) and  mama. The clouds gave way to blue skies and the sun shone down on her funeral procession.

Priscilla is gone- gone forever.  I did get to hold her hand and give a 'closure and continuity'  to our  familial friendship that goes  back to our toddler days. I am thankful that she is free from her pain and look forward to meeting her   someday sometimes somewhere.

 Until we meet again....

19, August 2016