Biscuits II

and now, my daughter is visiting from Kolkata.
Someone from her office just phoned:

Kya, Poona gayi?
Bataya nahin!
Kya baat hai!
Koi suspense hai, kya?
Biscuit lana, ok!

Ode to a Bakery

So the other day I wanted some biscuits

Not just ordinary biscuits, mind

The biscuits I was craving

Had got to be light and crisp

Oozing with butter

Packed into square boxes

Immediately after they had cooled

Straight from the oven.

But it was morning!

What to do?

I was craving them –

And so were all my Bombay friends!

So I had to buy not one box but a dozen!

I phoned City Bakery

(Which opens for retail sale on weekday afternoons)

“Yes, you can come,” said Salamat Irani.

I rang the bell, he opened the door, I entered.

The door stayed open, just a sliver, behind me.

An elderly gentleman eased his way in,

Opening the door slightly more.

Two fat ladies entered

Chatting away animatedly

About the last dentist appointment

While they waited their turn.

A group of children came in

Then someone’s driver

Soon there was a big crowd waiting.

They had appeared mysteriously

Gravitated to the open City Bakery door

(Which stays closed all morning, every day)

Like ants when you drop a few grains of sugar.

Patient but eager,

They waited for their biscuits,

While my boxes got filled.

Happy Birthday - in Slovenian

The restaurant was noisy with a group of students. Their teachers sat together at one table. All of us were enjoying the delicious Greek food. At first I thought they must be American but soon realised they weren’t speaking English – except to the waiter, another surprise. The students finished and trickled out and the teachers stayed on, finishing their wine and enjoying their dessert. I just had to know where they were from so got up and asked them and was intrigued to learn they were from Slovenia. Never met anyone from Slovenia before. I said we were going to Meteora tomorrow and they said, “Oh that’s a long drive, nearly three hours!” When I told them that for people who live in Pune, a three-hour drive is something you’re quite used to, they said if they got in a bus in three hours they would be at the other end of their country.
Well, the baklava came in with a candle and they stood up and sang Happy Birthday Dear Ajay – in Slovenian! It was wonderful, but I pressed the wrong button so it didn’t get recorded. Everyone came to wish him, including the manager’s cute little children.
We’ve had many special moments in Greece but this was one of the most special on this very special milestone birthday … HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AJAY!

In memory of Ramananad (Bob) Savur 14 Jan 1936 to 19 Aug 2010

When I was young, my father told me, “You can be anything you want”. As a child, it felt like a gratifying affirmation of my capabilities. Only as an adult have I realised how lucky I was, an Indian woman of my generation, to have the kind of freedom I had – to travel alone at a young age, to read whatever I wanted, to think and behave independently, to make my own decisions, to never even imagine that boys could be valued more than girls. I inherited a lot from my father, including my features and life attitudes. One of his most precious gifts was to be told I could be anything I wanted, the subtext of which was that I never needed to do something just because other people were doing it.

Monsoon Country 2

On a day like this, I feel grateful that I don’t live in Bombay anymore. Fifteen consecutive Bombay monsoons cured me of the concept that rains might be poetic or romantic because in Bombay what the rains represent is the stink of damp clothes, soggy biscuits, fungus on every untended surface, and turds and plastic bags that flap around your ankles as you try to cross a flooding road. (For a longer whine, please read Monsoon country 1)
One of the most striking annual features of those fifteen years of monsoon was a newspaper front-page headline which said, “City limps back to normalcy”. Usually on another day there would be a three-column photograph, an overhead street shot which showed nothing but large black Bombay umbrellas. Though the photograph was doubtless shot fresh every year, it looked like the same photograph. Surely they were the same umbrellas.
What ever happened to those umbrella photographs? I went looking for one a few years ago to illustrate something I wrote about in my book on stories from Sindh but could not find one and felt sorry that I had to send the book off to print without it. Eventually, I came across this on pinterest.
The reason I wanted it for the book was because something my mother told me made me realise that in Sindh in the 1940s, an umbrella was less a household item and more something you saw only in movies and magazines. What could the displaced people of Sindh, who had lost everything they had and arrived with nothing in Bombay, thought and felt when they encountered the relentless torrents of rain and the acres of jostling umbrellas of their new home?

Why I love Pune ... featured on Pune 365

The sari that travelled from India to Pakistan

Picture credit: Mukhtar Husain

On Eid day, I was touched to read this facebook post by my friend Rumana Husain who lives in Karachi. She was dressed in a sari that had travelled quite a long way to get to her – but I had not realised until I saw her photo and read her post how special that made it to her.
In February 2015, my daughter and spent a few days in Kochi as guests of our friend Mathew Anthony. I spoke at a Rotary Club meeting and Veda performed a guitar concert at David Hall, an elegant venue in Fort Kochi. One evening, Mathew took us to Kalyan Silks and we decided to buy a traditional Kerala sari as a souvenir of the trip. Knowing Rumana’s love for saris with different local traditions, I bought one for her too. I took it home and put it in my cupboard, and every few days (and, as time passed, every few weeks) would wonder how I was going to get it across to her. At first I was waiting for a visitor from Pakistan who would agree to carry it for her. As the weeks turned into months, I began thinking of taking it with me when I next visited London and requesting a Pakistani friend there to get it sent across to Rumana.
In April 2016, as I packed for a trip to London, I realised that more than a year had passed since I bought the sari. I stook looking at it and wondered what to do. Karachi wasn’t that far away – how silly could I get! I made a parcel and on 11 April dispatched it to Rumana by Speedpost. The post office clerk said that the parcel would reach in two weeks and I felt happy, anticipating my friend’s surprise and pleasure when she received it.
Two weeks passed and there was no word from her. Then another week, and then another. On 14 May, I telephoned Rumana to wish her Happy Birthday and could not stay silent about the sari any longer. I felt terrible hearing her thank-yous when there was nothing to show for it except the post office document which tracked the very interesting and circuitous journey her sari was on. It just did not make any sense to either of us. I kept thinking cynically that with the parcel having been opened so many times, the sari must have fallen out at some point and wandered off to another owner.
Rumana was visiting her son Adil in Singapore when the sari finally arrived at her home in Karachi on 1 June 2015. It was no longer important that it had taken so long, not even important that Rumana was not going to see it for another few weeks till she got home – the sari had reached! I was relieved. And a few weeks later, very moved to see her post and read what she wrote:

Eid Day! It called for wearing a very special sari. This sari was bought last year by my writer and artist friend Saaz Aggarwal in Kerala (she herself lives in Pune). It has a story, which you might find interesting: Saaz kept waiting for someone to carry it for me to Karachi but failed. Eventually she decided to parcel it. On May 14, my birthday, she called to wish me and asked if I had received the parcel. We were both upset to find that even after two months it had not reached me. She then went on a fact-finding mission of the lost saris of Kerala and Pondicherry (she has sent two) and learnt that the saris have had lives of their own! The parcel journeyed from Pune to Mumbai, then to Kolkata. It came back to Mumbai and then from Pune (or was it Mumbai?) it travelled to Karachi when I was in Singapore! Love this elegant sari, which I only saw on my return after a month. I decided to do some research about it and this is what I have found on the Internet. So come with me to this journey of the Kerala/Kasavu sari!
"Mundum Neriyathum (or its modernized version - Kasavu sari) can be traced back to the third century BC when Shraman tradition was spread all over Kerala. Shramanas followed a simple life style. They used to wear hand woven cotton which is yellowish off-white in colour. The tradition of golden coloured borders (Kasavu) along the Mundum Neriyathum might have been influenced by the Graeco-Roman "Palla" or Palmyrene. The Malabar coast had flourishing overseas trade with the Mediterranean world since antiquity. It should also be noted that traditional clothing of a region is closely associated with the local culture, climate and landscape. Mundum Neriyathum was well adapted to the tropical climate of Kerala. If you notice the traditional clothing all across the subcontinent, you can see that local people tend to wear clothes with colour contrasting to the landscape of that region. For example, the traditional colourful Rajasthani clothing match with the desert landscape of Rajasthan (same as our Tharparkar region); or the radiant traditional dress of Kashmiri women contrasting with the whitish landscape of Kashmir. Likewise, the off-white coloured Mundum Neriyathum contrasts well with the vivid landscape of Kerala." 

Ekta, Rumana, Saaz, Veda outside Rumana's home. Karachi, Feb 2013
Picture credit: Ajay Aggarwal