Foodie Christmas

December 25, 2014

We usually end up going out for either lunch or dinner on Christmas. But this time, with Amit away, I just couldn’t work up the enthusiasm. After spending the morning wondering whether a trip to the mall would be worth it or not, I decided at 12 o’clock to go to Nature’s Basket instead and see what could be found. In the end, for the princely sum of 680 rupees, I came back with a feast. At 1 p.m., lunch was served. How? Well, it doesn’t take much time when all you have to do is to throw everything into a big non-stick pan and call it a mixed grill platter. We had bacon bits (which of course lent their fat and flavour to everything else in the pan), a roast chicken breast, chicken with onion and cheese sausages, and – in another pan – spicy chicken wings. I took out some of yesterday’s sauted veggies to lend a bit of greenery to the meal, but we didn’t waste much time with them. The kids got a slice of bread each to mop up the bacon fat.

I’d bought a plum cake from the local shop, which is an off-shoot of All Saints and the kids had been ploughing their way through it for the last several days. When they have eaten well, they are often too full for dessert – something that is quite absolutely amazing to me. I’m never too full for dessert, no matter how well I’ve eaten. Dessert gets a separate compartment all to itself in my stomach.

Anyhow, they managed tiny bits of plum cake.

Tis the season to be jolly, as the song says, and where’s there any hope of that for gluten intolerant folks like me? Well, a couple of weeks ago, Amit suggested that I make a fruit cake. I’ve done this once before, with memorable results. When we went out to shop for dry fruit, he almost gave up the idea after seeing the price tags. But I went ahead and bought everything anyway and made my gluten-free eggless rum-drunk fruit cake. Now, I know that properly speaking the fruit should soak for several months. In fact, my understanding was that the cake should be made several months ahead and should be fed on a steady diet of alcohol thereafter. All I had was a couple of weeks, but I made good use of them. My fruit soaked for a few days, and the cakes have been drinking up their rum for two weeks now. So, it being Christmas day and all, I cut myself a piece. I can honestly declare that it didn’t make me tipsy, but that was only because of all that meat that was already sitting in my stomach, lining it like lead.

You’d think after a lunch like that, I’d be kind of done for the day. But no. After Nature’s Basket, I’d gone to another shop where I’d picked up half a kilo of mutton mince. So it was to be to be either meatloaf of shepherd’s pie for dinner. All that potato didn’t seem to be required, though, so I made a meatloaf. It’s the first time I’ve made it eggless and gluten free. Apart from onion and garlic and salt and pepper, I usually add stale wet bread as a binder and one or two eggs, I’m not sure why. This time, I just added a bit of brown rice flour and that was it. Tasted just as good as ever, if I do say so myself.

Unlike me, the kids had spent an hour playing football in the nearby playground, so they were hungry already. I pulled out some frozen french fries from the freezer, and, since the oven was already in use, stuck them in there. That didn’t work out so well – fried fries are definitely nicer than baked fries. But fries are fries, so we ate them anyway. I added some greens, again, and again we largely ignored those.

Another small slice of drunk fruit cake and now I’m really done for the day.

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you had as much fun as I did.018 022


Finally! The Perfect Gluten-free Eggless Chocolate Cake

October 11, 2014

I’ve been struggling with this one. It was one thing when I needed a gluten free cake with egg. That was pretty do-able. But when I discovered, a year or so ago, that I was intolerant to egg white as well, cake became even more difficult than it already was. I’ve been experimenting off and on since then. Almost every gluten-free cake I’ve tried has been chocolate – that’s because I love chocolate, but also because cocoa powder provides one of the “flour” elements to the cake that’s gluten free. I’ve used other flour substitutes ranging from white rice flour to brown rice flour to potato flour to god knows what. The potato flour didn’t work out so well (also besan, or chickpea flour – don’t ever try that in a cake), but in the other attempts, the flour has not been the problem. The problem is, without egg, there’s nothing to moisten the mix. I’ve been using curd or milk, but they tend to make the cake soggy and damp and though the taste doesn’t suffer, the texture has been not very good. I’ve also looked at recipes on the net, but many of them call for ingredients that I don’t have easy access to, like cocoa butter, or guar gum or whatnot. I want to make a cake with stuff that I generally have in my kitchen.

Now I’ve been yearning for cake for a week or so. Last weekend – a four day weekend – was much too hectic, what with going to the puja pandal on one day and trying to get the house back in running order the rest of the days; we were just back from a short vacation in Kerala, and the amount of work that getting back from a short vacation involves is just unbelievable.

So today I was determined – one might even say desperate – to make a cake that I could eat. And it turned out just right.

Now, the recipe might not be of interest to anyone out there. Unless you are gluten intolerant and vegan (or intolerant to egg) like I am, you really don’t need to be doing this. But on the off chance that you are… here goes.

200 gm butter (salted, unsalted, doesn’t matter)
3/4 cups sugar
3 large ripe bananas, mashed (by hand will do, if you don’t mind a few lumps)
3 dessert spoons of curd (yogurt) – this is an important one. If you put too much, it makes the cake soggy and heavy
1 1/2 cups of flour ingredients, mixed together, consisting of:
1/2 cup buckwheat flour (buckwheat isn’t wheat and it works for me)
1/2 cup brown rice flour
1/2 cup cocoa
1 1/2 tsp baking powder

I generally don’t bother to be very precise about the butter or flour. Today, the butter had been eaten into by the kids and the flour ingredients added up to more than one-and-a-half cups. So my cake was a little less rich than this recipe. But that much variation is not really noticeable.

I just mixed everything together in the sequence listed here and put it into the preheated oven as usual and half an hour later I had a delicious, rich, dark chocolate cake. Yes, it tasted of banana, but that was a surprisingly good combination.

Now, I just hope that when I try this next time, it turns out equally good. Maybe I shouldn’t wait too long. This one’s almost over, already.

Mother’s Day?

May 11, 2014

What’s the big deal about Mother’s Day? I don’t need a “day” to remind me about all it means to be a mother. My kids do that every day.


Sometimes I think I should give up my job and stay at home and look after my family and maybe, if my Muse comes to me, write books.


But then, I have these conversations at office that make me realize how vital it is to keep meeting and interacting with different people. (Of course, there’s more to office than that, but that’s another matter altogether.)


So some of the young people in office, just out of college, early twenties, have been quite vocal about what a pain it is to have kids and how they never want to have kids and how much fun they have in life without these unnecessary encumbrances.


When I hear them, I don’t say anything, and I hope I don’t smile, but inwardly I’m smiling – because it’s like hearing myself talk, 15-odd years ago.


Thinking back, I don’t think I was ever very vocal about it – having kids or not having kids. But inside, I felt that way. Screaming, squalling, runny-nosed brats, who needs them?


And, to be sure, of all the young people who voice these thoughts and those who think them without saying them, it’s not true that all of them will come around to the other way of thinking. It’s not inevitable that all women (to leave the other half out for the moment) will necessarily feel maternal urges later on in life. Some of them might choose to never have kids and they might be quite happy with that choice. I have no problem with that. Let each woman make her own choice, let everyone live their own lives and make their own decisions. I am not crusading in favour of parenthood.


But it amuses me to think that I used to think like that, and then I changed, and now I live with those screaming, squalling, runny-nosed brats, two of them, and I wouldn’t want to trade it for anything.


It counts for something, that I had many years of freedom and adventure before the kids came into my life. I traveled, I worked, I partied, I was gay and free and irresponsible. I made the most of it, those happy childless years. But then I chose to be a parent and I worked towards it with single-minded determination. I made it happen (against quite formidable odds). I made the choice and I gave up all that I needed to give up – the travel, the work, the partying, the gay, free, irresponsible lifestyle. It’s not that I don’t miss it. It’s just that what I have now, with my kids… it’s different. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, it’s maddening at times, but it’s satisfying at a different level. When the kids are screaming and hollering and running around and fighting and driving me crazy (which, let’s face it, is every single day), it’s easy to lose sight of it. But when I step back a moment, it’s still there. I won’t say parenting makes me happy on a moment-to-moment basis, but there’s a much deeper satisfaction to it that mere joy or happiness can’t compete with.


So I was chatting with a much older colleague at work. I don’t even really know this person, we’ve interacted a couple of times, and remotely at that. I mentioned my kids and he said his daughters were grown up now, 19 and 25. I said I was waiting for my girls to get there. He said, “you won’t need to wait. It will happen so fast, and then you will miss tripping over their toys and sneakers.”


So says a father whose two little girls have grown up and left home.


I know he’s right. I have heard it, occasionally, from other parents too. The days crawl by but the years fly. And while we are immersed in the crawling days, we don’t notice the years till they’ve gone.


Once in a way, you need someone to remind you of what the view will be like 15-odd years from now. You need to hear the things that you know you are going to say 15-odd years in the future. Hear them and heed them. You need to remember to hold on to what you have right now. Don’t just fret about the days that crawl, take a step back to cherish the years… before they fly away.


Happy Mother’s Day!

Old Dog, New Tricks

May 6, 2014

There are certainly some privileges to being female. One is that nobody ever really expects you to be able to change a flat tyre. If you’re lucky, you have your father, brother, husband, son, or male friend with you when you discover the flat, and they grumblingly take responsibility for getting the flat tyre off and replacing it with a healthier spare. If you’re unlucky and you happen to be alone… well, with a bit of distressed hand-wringing, help can usually be found. If merely the allure of helping a damsel in distress is not enough, help can sometimes be obtained with the promise of a cash reward. Sometimes, even just a smile will do.


I must confess, I haven’t often been in the unlucky situation. In ages gone by, when flats were common enough, when cars were ancient enough and tyres were often completely bald before anyone even thought of getting a new set, it was my father who changed the tyre. In those days, we always had an extra 15 minutes in hand when driving to the railway station (and it was always the railway station, never the airport, for who could afford flights back then?). And 15 minutes was all it took. If we were lucky enough to be in a taxi, then seven minutes were sufficient.


I never did much to help my father change the tyre. Usually, we women stood around and passed unhelpful and perhaps infuriating comments. Well, nothing helpful can be expected from the mouths of those who’ve no practical experience in a task.


Once we got married, it was, of course, Amit’s job to handle such eventualities. I don’t think we had flats quite as often by then. For one thing, once we were done with the family heirloom Fiat, we got a new car with new tyres. And in those days, I didn’t drive the car that much, especially not alone – if I was going somewhere on my own, I took my two-wheeler. And then tubeless tyres came along. So now you could actually drive with a punctured tyre; as long as you didn’t stop, it would be ok. My first experience with tubeless tyres was on my last bike (by which I mean, my motorcycle) and it was a relief, because motorcycles don’t even come with a spare. Which was especially great, because it also meant that you didn’t have to bother about keeping the spare tyre inflated.


So I haven’t had too many opportunities with flat tyres in recent years. And those I have had, I’ve happily passed up. I mean, like I said, nobody really expects you to be able to do it, anyway. It’s quite ok to wave one’s hands, look hapless, and summon up help.


But then again – why shouldn’t I be able to do it?


All along, I’ve had this sneaking suspicion that it would be really tough to change a flat. I didn’t think I could. But Amit has been telling me for a while that I jolly well should be able to change a flat on my own.


So here’s how things went on Friday. I was at the tennis court when I noticed that one tyre was really low on air. I started to drive back home, wondering about it. It was 7 a.m. so the chances of getting it fixed right away were nonexistent. I did manage to get it pumped up, on the way home. But I was pretty sure it was a flat. I had had my tyres checked just recently, so there was no reason for the air to be low unless it was a flat.


I resolved to change the tyre when I got home. Myself, I thought. This time, I’ll do it myself.


In fact, it was the perfect opportunity. Amit was home to help me (I mean, advise me). I was not getting late for anything more critical than work. I was already sweaty and ready for a shower. And I even had a serviceable spare.


Or did I? Actually, come to think of it, when was the last time I got that tyre inflated? And why didn’t I think of doing it when I stopped to pump up the punctured tyre just now? Well, it would just have to do.

I got home, got Amit, got a cup of coffee, and set to work. Managed to take the jack and spare tyre out of the boot. Managed, after fiddling around for a bit, to find the proper place to fix the jack. Managed to figure out, after quite a bit of head scratching, how to operate the jack. Was advised by Amit to loosen the nuts before jacking up the car, which little trick I would have never figured out on my own. And then I even actually managed to loosen the nuts on my own. Of course I used the time-honored technique of standing on the spanner. There are some advantages to being overweight, who’d have thought? Next, I struggled to place the spare on the rim, manouevred it into position, and put the nuts in. Jacked the car back down.


And found that the spare was much, much lower on air than the punctured tyre had been.




It’s not that the process thus far had been as physically strenuous as I’d feared. But I certainly didn’t fancy doing it all over again, to remove this spare. And once I did that, what then? Either walk or drive one or both of the tyres to the petrol bunk to get it (or them) inflated. Or replace the punctured tyre and drive on it.


Maybe we can pump it up with the cycle pump, I suggested.


Amit dismissed the idea out of hand, but both the alternatives were so unappealing that we tried it anyway and guess what? It worked! When I finally drove to the petrol bunk and got the tyre inflated, it was at 27 psi, compared to the ideal of 33 psi. Not bad at all, eh?


So, lessons learned: Loosen the screws before you jack up the car. Check the picture on the jack to figure out where exactly it should be placed. Make sure your spare tyre is inflated (and if not, keep a cycle pump handy). And at any rate, it’s not as tough as it looks.


Oh, and one more thing. It’s never too late to learn. Or, in other words, yes, you can teach an old dog new tricks.

The Incident of the Stuck Fishbone

April 15, 2014

Sunday lunch. My father in law is in town and lunch was at his house. He has unearthed this fabulous cook who has cooked up a fabulous fish curry. While we are all doing homage to this dish (by wolfing it down, I mean), Amit chokes on a fishbone. Well, there are five of us, and thus far maybe 20 pieces of fish have been consumed, so one person choking is par for the course. He did the usual things – first coughed, then, because there was no rice, gulped chunks of bread and potato hoping it would engulf the errant fishbone and carry it down the gullet.


To be sure, choking on a fishbone is not a matter to be taken lightly. It can be fatal. Amit, however, did not seem to have the fishbone in his windpipe. He could talk through all this and he was still breathing and not turning blue. He even ate another piece of fish, though the bone was still lodged.


Over the next three hours, he tried gulping various other items to no avail – rice flakes, boiled eggs, banana, and, when all those failed, he even made rice and waited for it to cool and then gulped that. In the end, he went to the doctor across the road, who is a neighbor, friend, and pediatrician. That too was to no avail. He couldn’t see the bone by peering down Amit’s throat with a flashlight and sent him off with a recommendation to go to a hospital.


So we sighed and girded up our loins and dropped the kids off with Amit’s dad and went to Manipal Hospital. It was Sunday evening, of course, so all the departments were closed and we were sent to Emergency, where they took one look at us and did nothing for a very long time. It was close to 90 minutes before we got the X-ray they thought we required and then the on-duty doctor declared himself unable to see the fishbone in the throat (though he could see it on the X-ray) and called for the ENT on-duty doctor. A pretty young female came and took us up to the ENT department and proceeded to peer down Amit’s throat, again to no avail. Then she called for her Consultant (senior doctor) and that was also when she called the anaesthesiologist and started talking about OT and GA and suchlike things.


Wait, what?


She explained to us why we needed an OT and what was to be done and then we asked the million dollar question: What would it cost? She hemmed and hawed and came with up a number: 30k.


Luckily we had a good 45 minute wait on our hands till the consultant extricated herself from her Sunday evening activities and came to the hospital. In that interval, we decided we really didn’t need to be pressurized into a 30k surgery for a measly little fishbone that wasn’t stopping Amit from breathing, eating, or talking.


Well, it was 8 p.m. when the consultant arrived and I have to say, she did a good job – at least, the bedside table manner part of her job. She was patient and deft and appeared to be very in-charge and expert. All cool and zen. All good.


For one full hour, she poked and peered and tried to see the fishbone, but kept saying she wasn’t sure she could see it. In the middle, Amit had an extremely violent coughing fit and we all hoped that had done the job. Except the doc kept telling him not to cough so violently and I wondered what harm it could do.


In the end, Amit said the bone was still there and the doc said there was nothing she could do outside an OT and without GA. But why, we asked. She gave us a vague reply that it would be too dangerous. The anaesthesiologist had already been called, she said. The OT would be busy in the morning, she said. You shouldn’t wait, she said. She seemed all very earnest and concerned, all “doing my best as a doctor”-ish. Don’t leave here without your surgery, she said. If you do, I’ll have to make you sign a big long statement saying that you left against my advice.


Woooo, scary! Go under GA unnecessarily versus sign a big long statement. Which would you rather do?


Since we’d had our discussion beforehand and decided that to us ignorant laymen Amit’s situation did not appear to be life threatening, we were not easily swayed. I don’t say that we weren’t swayed, mind you. Amit told me later he was 50:50 about it. But to his credit, he wasn’t entirely swayed.


For me, there were two things that were suspicious. First, why did this doctor want to do this procedure in such a hurry? Why was she not able to clearly explain to us why she could not do a simple outpatient procedure? Why did her assistant hand us a form for admission before the consultant had even arrived and assessed the situation? It looked as if they had already decided what was to be done and the rest was a charade for our benefit.


The second: As soon as we started to give the “hmm, maybe not” signals to the doc, she promptly asked whether it was the cost that was putting us off and then asked if we had insurance. We’d prepared for that one. Nope, no insurance, we said, making a sad face. (He’s an entrepreneur, I’m a home maker – that was our back story, but we didn’t need it.) And then do you know what she did? “Oh, no worries, we’ll reduce the price, we’ll just bill it as something else. Let’s see, how about this? Then it will come to 12-15 k.”


Amit gave me a look. Was 15 k justifiable? I shook my head. We asked for a few minutes, discussed briefly again, and decided it was just pressure tactics.


Finally, when we told the doc that we would not be opting for the OT tonight, her reaction was strange. There was a certain something. Suddenly, it was not so much as if she was genuinely concerned for the patient but more as though a candy that had been promised her had suddenly and inexplicably been taken away.


What was worse was, when we went back to the Emergency Room to finish the paperwork, the medical staff there gave me an earful – and they didn’t even know what the issue was for chrissakes. There had been a change of shift at 8 p.m. And these on-duty doctors are not specialists – that’s why they sent us off to the department and called in the consultant. If we’d had our discussion with the consultant and been given the “scary, dangerous” talk and walked away from it anyway, why was it even any of their business? For the patient’s good, you say? I would like to say so too. But really? No, it was just too pushy. It was like, “Hey, don’t leave here without your surgery, my salary depends on it.”


It wasn’t easy, though. We did leave, our pockets lighter by only Rs 1130, but it wasn’t easy. It’s a tough call to put a price on your health and call out 30k as too high, call out 15 k as a bluff. Amit said it was the first time we’d gone against medical advice. He even went so far as to tell me that if things turned out badly, I should remember that it was a joint decision. Melodramatic, huh? I wasn’t that worried. He was walking, talking, breathing. He wasn’t in that much pain, it was just an irritation. If he did manage to dislodge the bone overnight, it would hopefully just go down and out the usual way. Otherwise we’d come back in a day. Or two. This wasn’t deep vein thrombosis, after all. That time I was worried. This just didn’t look that serious.


We got home around 10 p.m. The kids had slept with Amit’s dad, so we consoled ourselves with some ice cream (which didn’t dislodge the bone) and some dinner. There wasn’t much, so I fished out the leftover fish curry, which we’d brought home from dad in law’s house. Tempting fate, eh? Considering I’m not as skilled in the art of eating fish as he is.


The next day, I went to work as usual, while Amit asked around among friends for a good ENT specialist who would not be overly trigger happy. He found one and rushed off to Richmond Road by 11 a.m. By 1.30, it was all done. The doc peered down his throat the with stroboscope – the same thing they’d used at the hospital – and saw the bone. He could have fished it out right away, but apparently just because of Amit’s extraordinary height, even his neck is too long for ordinary-sized implements, so he wasn’t able to reach it. He took him to the OT, after all, but got the little bugger out in about 30 seconds with just a local anaesthetic spray. Damages: 4500, only because of Amit’s extraordinary height. Ordinarily it would have been 2500. Total time spent: less than three hours. Outcome: success. At Manipal Hospital we spent almost 4 hours, and to no avail.


It’s extremely sad. I’ve always been very happy with Manipal Hospital. I’ve heard that they’re trigger happy, but our experiences have always been good. Or, well, at least not bad. Or, actually, there have been some bad experiences, but not this bad. This time, the way it ultimately got done so easily, I just feel cheated. There’s now no doubt in my mind that the doc and her assistant put on an elaborate charade when they had no intention of solving the problem outside of the OT. In a way, I’d rather they just took one look and said, “I can take this out in 30 seconds but it will cost you 15 k,” rather than trying to put this spin on it – it’s dangerous, it’s risky, you have to go under GA.


Paying you a king’s ransom is one thing; but if you lie to me, make me panic, play on my fears, and then subject me to unnecessary medical/surgical procedures… that is completely unethical.


When Tara cut her finger, we had to have it operated on. We checked with other doctors, we checked on the net. Surgery was required. It was expensive. That time, we played the system. We made sure that we stayed in the hospital long enough to be covered by insurance. But it’s a lousy thing to do. It’s unethical. The hospitals pump up the bill, knowing that insurance will cover it. Insurance covers it and they raise the premiums so that we all get to pay more for medical insurance. Everybody wins. Nobody wins. Only fools object. Perhaps, if the procedure itself is genuinely required, there is very little harm done. It’s only notional. Everybody else is doing it, right? It’s not even against the law. The doctors are only too happy to sign on the dotted line saying the hospitalization was required.


But forcing patients, scaring and blackmailing them, into procedures that aren’t even remotely required… how can that possibly be part of a doctor’s job description? What’s wrong with the world, when all that matters is how much money you can make? And these are not poor people. These are people with big houses and bigger cars! And these are people who are supposed to make us fitter and healthier.

The Incident of the Cat Litter

April 14, 2014

Once in a way, you come across a weekend that just knocks the stuffing out of you. This past weekend was one such. The events that unfolded this weekend could actually be told in four parts, but I’m going to leave out the least eventful two and treat you, dear readers, to only two parts. Get yourself a cup of coffee (or green tea or whatever) and settle down, because I am going to tell you all about it.

The Incident of the Cat Litter

The problem with keeping cats, instead of dogs, is that you need to do something about their litter. And I’m not talking about the sweet little babies they give birth to, but to the disgusting brown yuck that they eliminate into. You know – pee and poop.

So you do get some commercial cat litter, but I don’t know what it’s made of, and I’m pretty sure it’s expensive. And I doubt it’s biodegradable. And seeing that I’m married to this environmental nutcase, who collects every scrap of paper and plastic to sell it to the kabadiwalla (recycling guy), not to mention assiduously composting our kitchen waste… well, I obviously can’t think about using non-biodegradable kitty litter.

So we have been buying vast quantities of coco peat to use as litter. It’s actually a very good kitty litter – it’s lightweight and very absorbent, a good natural fertilizer, not too bad at absorbing odors, and extremely cheap at Rs 4 per kilo. I use about 2 kilos per day for our two boys. The only problem with this solution is that nobody bloody keeps coco peat. Gardening stores keep only some kind of highly condensed blocks that you are supposed to dissolve in water and use in the garden – not suitable for litter, obviously. Coco peat is made from the husk of coconuts, and in India, especially in south India, coconuts are big business. So we have the Coir Board of India and they keep infinite supplies of coco peat. Only hitch is, you have to go to Kasturba Road to get it. So that’s what I spent Saturday afternoon doing.

Now, to really appreciate what follows, you have to know me. I’m the sort of person who manages to not get lost only if I’ve been to a place at least 20 times. And even then, it’s chancy. I can get lost in a shopping mall, and not even a new one, and it doesn’t even have to be very big. I have a long and terrible history of getting lost. I got lost more than once in Italy, I managed to get lost and lead our whole party astray in the Himalayas, and I even outdid myself by getting lost in Chandigarh, the city I grew up in, and in a part of it I ought to have been extremely familiar with; a part I was, in fact, extremely familiar with – but that doesn’t mean I can’t get lost.

It was only the third time I was going the Coir Board. I know Kasturba Road alright, but I haven’t really had too many opportunities to drive there. Still, get on to MG Road and keep going straight, it doesn’t get easier than that. And even I can find my way to MG Road after 16 years in Bangalore.

The first time I went to the Coir Board, Amit drove, I got off across the road and he went all the way to Kanteerva Stadium to do the U-turn to get on to the other side. By that time, I had crossed the road (no easy task, since there’s a six-foot high barrier running all the way down Kasturba Road, to prevent people from crossing), gone to the Coir Board office, placed my order, got the sacks, paid the money, got the bill, and was waiting on the pavement outside to load the sacks. Perfect. No problem at all.

The second time I went, I had dropped the kids off for Saturday afternoon tennis. I dashed across to Kasturba Road, did the whole U-turn thing and parked on the roadside (a strict no-parking zone) and got the sacks and paid up and everything and got back to the tennis court only 5 minutes after their tennis class ended. Not bad at all. (It helped that I had taken precise directions regarding the u-turn business from Amit just before I started. And in my defense, it’s not actually just a u-turn. It’s kind of like you have to do this huge left-turn, right-turn circuit around Kanteerva stadium.

Still, I had done it all by myself, so the third time, I thought, would be a breeze. It was after the kids’ Saturday tennis and I had Amit in the car with me and the kids as well. No stress. I dropped Amit off across the road from the Coir Board and breezed off to Kanteerva Stadium to do the U-turn.

Now, you really need to know the city to make sense of what follows. If you don’t, here’s a map that explains how I wound up in the places I did, but it doesn’t really convey the flavor.

To cut a very long drive short, the first time I got lost I wound up in Cubbon park, then found myself driving past the Vidhana Soudha and almost wound up in Shivajinagar (!!!) before managing to find my way back to where Jewels de Paragon used to be – that is, the intersection of Kasturba Road with MG Road. All good – only 20-25 minutes wasted. Of course I had called Amit by then and told him that I was at the Vidhana Soudha – and I would have given anything to see his expression of bewilderment right then.

So anyway, 25 minutes later I was breezing past Coir Board again, still on the other side of the road, with the same u-turn looming up again. The first time I’d gone wrong by ignoring the kids’ directions and doing what I thought Amit had instructed me to do last time (which was more than a month ago). This time, I promised myself I would trust the kids – they clearly have better navigation skills than I ever will.

So I followed Tara’s directions to the letter and soon enough found myself on NR Road.

I don’t know about you other Bangaloreans out there, but for me, Nrupathunga Road, Silver Jubilee Park Road, and all those other roads over there are the stuff nightmares are made of. I’ve almost never been there (perhaps once) and all I know of that area is that it leads to some mystical place called City Market which is like a Bangalorean black hole – if you stray near, you get sucked in and are never heard of again.

What’s worse is, not only is that area always crowded, it’s also full of *expletive-deleted* one ways. Here I was, waiting at a traffic light on a road that was clearly taking me in a direction diametrically opposite to where I wanted to be, and my only option – my *only* option – was to go straight. What’s the point of a traffic light where you can only go straight??? Haven’t these people ever heard of left turns, right turns, and most important of all, u-turns?

So I stopped on the roadside and asked some random guy the way to Kasturba Road. “That way,” he said, point back the way I’d come.
“Yes, fine, but how do I get there?” I asked in exasperation.
“Just go straight, you’ll come to City Market, you can do a u-turn there,” he said, moving off to catch a bus.

Great. I went straight and a lovely-looking flyover emerged, beckoning me warmly. It was broad. It was empty. It was oh-so-inviting. I can just imagine how Odysseus felt when the sirens called out to him. It was all I could do to exercise my self restraint to the utmost and drift to the left of the alluring flyover. Later on Amit told me that it would have taken me most of the way towards Mysore, leaving him high and dry on the pavement with only 10 sacks coco peat for company. (At this point, I should also tell you that I had been low on petrol when we started from home two hours ago and by now my situation was perilous. I had money; all I needed was a petrol bunk. On that alluring flyover to Mysore, I would likely have run out of petrol long before I found a way off it and to a petrol bunk.)

Ultimately, of course, I did find a u-turn and then I found my way to Corporation circle, and another red light (somewhat to my relief). At just that moment, Amit called. “Where are you?” he asked tersely.
“I don’t know!” I wailed. “Um… there’s an LIC building on my left.”
“Ok, good. Go straight. Don’t take the next left, or you’ll wind up at the railway station and another whole bunch of one-ways-“
The light changed. There were plenty of cops around. I cut the call abruptly and started driving, trying to remember what he had been telling me about the next left. (I blank out directions when I’m in a panic.) It didn’t help that the kids in the back seat were continuously throwing helpful hints and unhelpful questions at me in rapid succession. “Oh, I know that building. DIdn’t you come this way already? You have to go left here. No, go straight, go straight. Isn’t that where Vidit lives? What are we having for dinner?…”


When I finally pulled up at Coir Board, I had been driving around in circles for an hour! I had taken the kids on a city tour that included a drive-by of Cubbon Park, High Court, Vidhana Soudha, SJP Road, City Market, and just narrowly avoided City Railway Station and Mysore. And I still had a tiny bit of petrol in my tank.

The Coir Board guy who had been waiting patiently to load the sacks of coco peat smirked at me and muttered under his breath, “Waste. Waste!” (You have to be a Bangalorean to understand that one, too.) Amit, much to his credit, didn’t laugh, didn’t explode, and in fact, reacted only with profound relief tinged with resignation. Which is just as well, because after that he drove us to Chitra Kala Parishat and managed to get lost on the way. Not as spectacularly as me, of course, but I am a hard act to follow.

It Never Rains, But It Pours

August 19, 2013

And I’m not talking about the weather.

This week, a friend of Amit’s is coming from “foreign” (i.e. US) and spending a night with us.

Then, after he leaves, Amit’s cousins are coming to spend a few days.

The kids turn 7 on Sunday, and since it is a Sunday, there will be a party on the very day. All good, except… I hate parties.

Actually, I don’t hate parties, I just hate doing all the work.

Actually, I don’t hate that either. In fact, I quite enjoy it. What I hate is…

Well, there’s this Archaeology module. That’s another story. I’ve decided this shall be the last one I do. For one thing, these things are much too expensive. And they’re a lot of hard work. And besides – I think I’m done. I’ve covered all the areas of maximum interest to me, and I don’t want to keep going just for the sake of the Diploma (tempting though it is).

So I’m done, except for the one that I’m doing now. It’s a very interesting module, no complaints. But for some reason, part way through I suddenly lost interest. Perhaps it was Sandy’s passing that did it. It did happen around that time. Or perhaps it was the sudden realization that I was done with these modules – it did happen around that time too. Whatever the reason, halfway through this module I suddenly ran out of steam, and from there on it’s been a long slog. This thing only works if you’re really driven to do it – otherwise who has the time and energy to spend hours and hours reading and making notes at the end of a long day when it would be so much easier to watch TV or go to bed?

Anyway, now I have to complete the assignment for this last module. It is a 3000-word essay in which practically every sentence must be supported by three references and each one must be correctly cited and painstakingly added to a bibliography. And then checked and re-checked, because if you get a reference wrong… god help you. It’s not exactly something you can dash off in your sleep. And it’s due next Wednesday, which means I must get it done by this weekend. Which is the weekend we are having two installments of house guests, one after the other, and a birthday party to boot.

So, to get organized for all this, I took a five-day weekend. It would have been great, but for the fact that the kids had a four-day weekend, so it’s not like I got a whole lot of time to get my assignment done. Still, we sent them for their very first night out on Independence Day (so apt, right?), so I did manage to get quite a bit done. But there’s still a birthday party to organize and two sets of house guests to get prepared for.

Any guest room in our house tends to turn into a junk yard. Since we don’t have guests too often, we use it for all manner of things – for keeping Tara’s tabla and the harmonium that nobody uses. For keeping the lawn mower. For keeping the cat’s litter box, now that we don’t keep it in the verandah anymore. For keeping sundry spare parts, from a big carton of electricals to mouldy old curtains that we haven’t had the heart to throw out. Things like that. It takes a good dose of commitment, hard work, and time, to get it cleaned up.

And then there’s the birthday party.

Every year, after the part ends, I swear that next year we will just do it at a party venue, like everyone else.

And every year, when it comes around to that time of year again, I let Amit talk me into doing it at home.

Secretly (don’t tell Amit), I like to do it at home. I know that children’s parties are much more fun at home. But, then… there’s so much to DO!

For starters, there’s the guest list. We only have about 25 kids on that list so far. That’s only because Mrini has exercised the utmost restraint and invited only half her class, instead of all of it. Tara has a smaller guest list to begin with, and of course many of her friends are already on the list, by the time Mrini has finished rattling off names.

They both drew something that will pass for an invitation card. Now I only have to stick some appropriate text on the inside and then scan the drawings and get 20-odd color print-outs (some invitees are siblings, of course, so 20 should do).

And I have to organize chairs! Inclusive of parents and hosts, we will need seating for about 40, which is not something we can scrape together at home.

Food is the easy part – it will be the usual junk food, finger food, ordered in from KC Das, which task will be delegated to Amit. But I have to organize paper (or plastic) plates, cups, bowls, spoons, forks, napkins, and giant size garbage bags. And cake, of course. Tons of homemade cake. Since I don’t have an industrial size oven, it will mean baking about half a dozen individual cakes. There goes next Saturday.

We got the essentials done over this four-day weekend – birthday dresses and lots of other little stuff. Thankfully, they still ask for only little stuff – kiddie watches, dark glasses, pretty shoes, books, and the like. Even return gifts are almost done (as long as the guest list doesn’t expand any further!).

But there’s still way too much to do! Next year, I’m really really NOT going to do this party at home. Remind me, ok?

And just as I’m wondering how I’m going to get it all done in time, like a bolt from the blue and with impeccable timing we get notice of the dreaded Parent Teacher Meeting. It’s dreaded only because it eats up so much time. A good half day will be lost. And you know when it’s slated for, right? That’s right – next Saturday.

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