Wind beneath my wings

 

Parenting cannot be taught or learnt in advance, even though there are many hundreds of “How To” books on the topic. It’s learning on the job.

My father was at the tail end of the brood that his parents looked after, and one would expect that he benefitted from the cumulative learning thus acquired. And that this learning would be deployed for the wellbeing of his own trio (I have a feeling I was the accident of the family but that’s neither here nor there.)

As a child – and even after reaching man’s estate for that matter - I did not have any yardstick for comparing the way my father exercised his fatherhood over me and how others exercised theirs. I did have expectations honed by an intensive study of global cultures and practices (mainly Archie comics and Wodehouse books) but I soon realised that these were good only in theory.

I grew up as part of a large family of which a substantial number was elder to me. So, while respect was accorded to divers uncles and older brothers, who were treated like “father figures”, the relationship duality (that of give and take) functioned only with my father. He spoke, I listened. He commanded, I executed. He roared, I slipped under the covers.

I suppose that today my father would be considered a “hands off” parent, content with leaving the minutiae of daily upbringing to his wife and mate (the same person, I hasten to clarify.) He had a sense of responsibility towards not just his immediate family but to our extended family. He played the role of father figure to a whole raft of children in the family both onshore and offshore and bobbing somewhere in the merry throng was his direct heir (the genes ensured that I stood tall in the crowd.) Being a man of huge intellect and with a silent, brooding and somewhat forbidding demeanour, to approach him for anything was an act of courage akin to putting a hand on a sleeping tiger.

He was not one to lavish words or gestures of affection. He preferred to show that he cared through concrete action. Action for which he expected no recognition or thanks. He was the quintessential man in the shadows, content doing his duty as he knew best for his Quartet (mom and us siblings) and others. And when he felt he had done what he could by everyone around him, he slipped out quietly through the door. Three years ago, today.

So, while Mom provides the ailerons to give direction to my life, Dad continues to be the wind beneath my wings. And since a father expects no thanks, I will not thank him. I will only keep walking on the path he showed me. And hope that when I meet him again he will complete that story of the former secretary to the Jamsaheb of Nawanagar and the Morris Minor car.

Nostalgia is a bitch

 

An aunt recently wrote about the travails of moving house. She wrote feelingly about the dilemma of keeping or leaving things, of the weight of memories triggered by a forgotten photo that fell out of a bunch of dresses. While moving is par for the course for individuals or families in certain walks of life such as the armed forces, government service (especially in India), the diplomatic corps and the “global manager”, who move houses the way others change shirts, most of us go through life with perhaps one move at best.

Even this one move can be an extreme life moment, one that leads the mover to frequent bouts of lachrymosity and walks backward into the mist of time. I have been there. Even 18 years after moving, to a larger house (with my own bedroom!), I still pine for the old family house where our family of five squeezed into a tiny “half flat” and made it home, full of warmth and fun. As a matter of policy, I have stopped going to the area in which it is situated. The rush of memories makes me dizzy.

Nostalgia is a by-product of houses which have become homes. Of strangers who briefly became acquaintances, if not friends. Of a pastiche of visuals, edges blurred by time, which instantly raises a lump or a smile and vanishes into the ether. Nostalgia is a crutch for the displaced, offering a tiny ray of comfort for those who leave home by force, due to war, famine or other catastrophes.

I have lived in 5 different countries in my career. And the cities that I have graced with my presence – Kolkata, Paris, Amsterdam and Lagos among others – have all given me an armful of nostalgia, through which I can rummage and pull out a memory or two at any time. But in nearly sixteen years in Dubai, I have moved houses eight times. And nary a nudge of nostalgia from any of them. That’s because these were all functional abodes - I have lived in hotel apartments (or serviced apartments if you like) for the majority of my time in the desert. These do not lend themselves to roots or memories.

Neither does Dubai. Dubai has no time for the luxury of nostalgia. The past has been consumed and spat out. It is full of “carelessly discarded yesterdays” as the author Bill Bryson wrote (in a different context and on a different continent). The Dubai of yesterday is as nothing compared to today and will be completely obliterated by the Dubai of tomorrow. Which is good. Erasing a whole lot of yesterdays, where there is nothing but emptiness, is a smart move.

My brand of nostalgia is a blend of people and places. Even a mention of a tiny monument in Paris (o wondrous city of lights) tugs at the heart strings. But I barely made any friends there. Amsterdam is where I discovered the ease of mixing with people of other cultures. But I barely remember the sights. London is family and sights and sounds. And smells. Of wet earth, of Earl Grey tea, of that peculiar fragrance that is probably a famous air freshener brand which I have found nowhere else.

And what of Mumbai and the people there, you ask? Well, it will always be Bombay for me. The city and its people (friends, families, strangers) shaped me and made me fit for purpose. Whose raffish, no-time-to-stand-and-stare attitude brushes aside those who cannot move fast. But it’s where I created my own space and memories. And we are all a product of our memories, n’est-ce pas?

Nostalgia requires a large dollop of sentiment, of a willingness to go back in time. And an unconscious desire to hurt, because it pains us to know that the past will not return. Nostalgia bites hard just when you try to look into the future and try to move on. It chains our present and future to its sagging bosom. And that’s why nostalgia is a bitch.

The Moving Finger Writes…

This is neither a tribute to Omar Khayyám nor am I trying to copy Agatha Christie (the other Agatha mentioned by a fellow author is neither here nor there).

Yes, I did say “fellow author”. For I have joined the hallowed, serried ranks of those who write. Of those who put thoughts on paper for a reader, who write not in ledgers but books.

In keeping with modern trends and thoughts, my first book is what's called an "e-book", a Kindle edition made possible by a certain bozo called Bezos. It might lead to untold riches and fame. Or it might not. But that is not the point, n’est-ce pas!

People are at a loss to react to a statement such as “I am an author”. The reactions range from “awter?” (awful writer) to “aawter?” (aaw he’s a writer!!). You also hear a shuffling sound as people try to subtly move away from you, fearing a sales pitch, or worse, an offer for a free reading!

But my readers do not have to worry. I do not intend to force my output on unsuspecting people or those who read nothing more taxing than the cereal boxes at breakfast. I know my readers are more discerning, and will go through vale and meadow, climb through boughs and tramp through deserts, to get my book. (Actually, all they will need to do is log in). For the princely sum of 99p or equivalent in coin of the realm of their country my readers will get access to a book that will elevate, entertain and amuse.

Everyone can be a writer, but to be an author requires a tenacity of purpose, above-average dermal thickness, the ability to look beyond the here and now, and the inexplicable desire to enrich people’s lives through engaging prose. Ah well, it could be verse.

The story doesn’t end there. This is merely Volume 1. The worth of an author, even an e-author, can only be seen if he is voluminous. So, there will be Volume 2. Possibly a Volume 3 and Volume 4. Followed by a compendium.

So please log in and get engaged. And help a struggling author in his quest to spread sweetness and light! You could also listen to a song about paperback writers by a group of 4 lads, while tapping on the keyboard.

Should a chef become a "global brand"?

The best chefs, in my not so humble opinion, are those who dish up hearty, flavourful food, the plates creaking under the weight of substantial comestibles. They let their food speak for itself, and practise their art in specific locations, presiding over the stove as happy purveyors of Good Food.

Everyone knows that “food” is one of my preferred four-letter words. I spend most of my time eating, thinking about eating, watching food programmes or reading about food. I eat whatever doesn’t eat me, thanks to a very liberal home upbringing and strict parental rules about (a) not wasting food (b) not being too fussy about food. But I am not a cook and can’t go beyond the basics in a kitchen.

 Since moving out of home and hearth (and mom’s kitchen) a score and eight years back I have perforce been obliged to frequent restaurants of different hues, shapes and cuisines. Student cafeterias to roadside shacks, dingy dhabas to purveyors of fancy rubbish, streetside stalls to food courts in malls, my tongue has been tingled by a variety of tastes and flavours. Memorable meals there have been aplenty, and some humungously disgusting meals too.

I like quality and quantity in my food. A growing boy’s appetite and all that. So those twee concoctions offered by “World Famous Restaurants”, with a glob of yellow, green and perhaps brown, are not what I seek or like. I have dined in some of these WFRs thanks to the generosity of friends and family, and while I managed to keep a straight face and make appropriate appreciative sounds at the pink Nike-like swoosh cuddling two perfect beans, the digestive system looked askance at me and raised several questioning eyebrows.

 Most of these WFRs are helmed by chefs who have earned A Name. They are a brand burnished through love for good food, (sometimes) education at renowned culinary schools and a consistency of quality that only happens through sustained hard work at the stoves. These WFRs are not cheap. But their fame spreads through word of mouth and the happy sighs of fatted diners who have had their fill! Most of these "brand chefs" are content to ply their trade at one single location, be it in a bustling city or in sylvan countrysides.

However, some of these chefs go rogue and decide that they want to become Global Celebrities. So, they (a) spread their wings (b) experiment with their food, and (c) get on TV food shows. The single-location restaurant spreads like a rash in the “culinary capitals of the world” (some of which, like Mumbai, are questionable). These outposts are helmed by staff "trained by world famous chef ABC". The World Famous Chef visits his culinary empire, checks that the staff is following his instructions and takes off for the next cooking show.

The skills of a good chef do not travel well. The fame of a chef is not enough to justify high prices and gushing hurrahs for a restaurant unless the chef is cooking himself. I will pay $$$ for a meal cooked by say, Paul Bocuse. But certainly not for a meal cooked by a “chef trained by Paul Bocuse”. It’s like seeing the Eiffel Tower replicated in Las Vegas. Not The Same Thing! I would rather that the chef developed his own name using the skills gained from Paul Bocuse.

A good chef needs to allow his brand’s mystique and aura to develop over time. A "Gordon Ramsay" restaurant in Marine Drive, Mumbai, may add a certain cachet to Marine Drive, Mumbai. But you are not eating a Ramsay Meal. Though you are paying for his brand value. The whole chain becomes an assembly line, with meals produced through a written list of instructions. This allows no space for a customer to interact with a Celebrity Chef (for which he or she is paying good $$$$), not does it allow the Chef to dazzle with his skills, to come up with an impromptu riff on a piece of meat that makes the customer feel special!

There are exceptions of course. Particularly when its a cuisine that goes global rather than a chef. We all know the Chinatowns all over the world. There are famous restaurants which have opened branches in different cities. But it's the food here that is the brand. And perhaps the place of origin. These restaurants can be pricey, but they serve that valuable purpose of reminding us of home, which is priceless!

So, remember, not all Chefs can be global brands. Some are best in their home markets only.

And while you wait for the next smoked offering from your favourite chef, remember what the Great Foodie Baxicius said: “Molecular gastronomy just so much gas.”

Hate, Love, Rain

I hated rain. 

During my growth years, the onset of the “monsoon season” in India equalled the start of the academic year. Those were dark, grey days, literally and otherwise. I did not like school. Not one bit. The education dished out was not meant for me. The soul was burdened with the weight of woe and the school bag. Umbrellas were a luxury and the raincoats were designed for Cindrella's dwarves rather than a chunky, fast growing lad. My school took “mass education” literally – 5,000 brats hummering away made it difficult to stand out in class and recognised as a budding genius. Unless you sat on the first bench and kept raising your hand all the time. All in all the combination of rain and a curriculum designed to turn the student into a drivelling, gibbering snorter made me wonder if Nietzsche actually had a point. 

The manic tremolo of raindrops on the awning over our windows at home is a sound I will never forget. It disturbed my sleep, my meals, my studies (such as they were) and was a background VFX that I can do without today.

Moving to man’s estate I finally got the chance to experience rain as a gift from the gods and not as a dam(p) nuisance. My love affair with rain was kindled in Paris, where the autumn rain helped me effortlessly dish out maudlin musings and robust food and wine pairings. London was wet through and through but the vision of huge Union Jack umbrellas, beers and scotch eggs in a cosy tavern just north of Swiss Cottage, vast swathes of rolling green fields glistening in the rain and hot tea in a village called Little Slaughter with lightning and thunder for company as the world stood still are some of my best memories of the city and the country. And West Africa is a byword for rain of course – it probably needs a separate post!

Unlike Paris and London and to an extent Amsterdam, Mumbai in the rain is not the best of places to be out of home in. The mud, the smells, the overflowing drains and on select days the tide in the affairs of (Mumbai) man, which when taken at the flood, leads to your shoes and trousers (and more) getting damaged beyond repair! Not to mention water-borne illnesses! Do not for a moment get trapped by lurid descriptions of roasted corn / spicy snacks / hot tea outside in the rain. These are mere projections of a weak mind.

The infamous Mumbai floods of 2005 convinced me it was time to move to a place where “rain” is chimeric – heard of in song and lore perhaps but rarely seen. Dubai happened fortuitously but with my usual impeccable sense of timing I landed there on its Annual Rain Day - when I believe the camels are decked up and let loose to frolic in the drops of rain while the natives roll up the windows of their Rollses – and was stuck at the airport for 3 hours.

However in the decade and a half since I have basked in sunshine through the year, with the memories of grey monsoons during school days like an old wadi in the desert - lifeless and dry. How I now crave for a flood to fill up that wadi! (for a glimpse of dubai in the rain check out my 1st ever blog post: dubai rain

I love rain. I am at my happiest when indoors with a cup of the steaming and a good thick novel (no Bookers please) at hand, while the heavens above open up. There is something about the sound of rain, pelting down on rooftops, tippering on leaves, that makes me sigh with a sense of what could have been, of unfulfilled desires and wishes (unkind folk who suggest that the sigh is really a wheeze are wet behind the ears). The occasional lightning and thunder are value additions which uplift the soul. And sometimes scare the beejezus out of me due to volume and intensity.

At these times, I like to think that the Guv’nor is up and about with a wee dram, about to tell me one of his lawyer stories.

And I am sure he would agree with the revered sage Baxicius’ advice on how to handle rain: Better to be wet inside and dry outside.

Mango-phrenia (or Mango Madness of the Average Indian)

 Indians are generally a laid-back, easy-going people, not prone to hysteria and manic attacks. But talk about food likes and dislikes, and the Average Indian (AI, usually male) turns into a red-eyed, slavering devil who will brook no argument against his favourite dish / cuisine.

This is especially true of mangoes – the national fruit of India and a potent source of the most vociferous, bellicose and chest-thumping declarations of passionate longing not heard since Romeo facetimed Juliet.

This frenzy of inflamed emotions comes to a peak during the “mango season” in India just before the monsoon breaks – April and May. The mango season coincides with the annual summer break in schools and colleges and the AI is free to devote all his energies on sourcing and consuming the fruit of kings (or is it the king of fruits?) till his shirt buttons pop out. Cliff Richard warbled about “summer holidays” and was indisputably inspired by the indecent-sounding Chausa mangoes of his birth city Lucknow.

Having got the above off my chest I can now come out and declare that I am not a fan of mangoes.

It wouldn’t be too far off the mark to say that if there is a food that I hate, it is this, it is this, it is this. I am not a fan of the colour yellow. Any fruit that needs to be sucked…sucks. The taste and smell of a ripe mango can be overpoweringly cloying. The very act of eating a mango is distressingly messy and “poetic conversations” about the many attributes of mangoes move me…out of audible range of the mangomaniac who spouts these odes through mango smeared lips.

This dislike is so intense that I reject white wines (usually a favourite tipple) that have the aroma of mangoes (think Meursault or Sauternes). Which is sad because these wines are like nectar and have other notes that uplift the soul.

I fail to understand what it is about these mammary shaped fruits – which incidentally come from plants belonging to the poison ivy family – that drives man to paens of putrid prose which could be classified as objectionable content if posted on social media. Is it the look? The shape? The hand feel? The mouth feel? The intensity of the taste? Or is it a forced, unjust liking, a pretence effected to be socially acceptable and not be branded a misfit? Heaven knows. But a fruit whose peel can trigger contact dermatitis is best scratched off the dining table, n’est-ce pas?

I may stand alone and solitary in my dislike of this fruit. But I shall hold true to my beliefs, to my credo and will not let any AI persuade me that my dislike of mangoes is unnatural and against all principles of mankind.

As the revered sage Baxicius said, let mango go to seed!

RIP Xiexier (4-9-2007 to 13-5-2021)

 

Xiexier left his alternate reality on 13^th May 2021. Xiexier was a teen in human terms so why does this unlamented departure deserve a blog post?

Because Xiexier was my alter ego on Facebook. Yes, I had a Facebook avatar. And I am glad I discarded it. Because it represents a liberation for my soul.

Xiexier happened on planet Facebook back in 2007. FB itself was a 3-year-old toddler, and today’s heavy userbase was just an egg struggling to get into an ovum. Xiexier was attracted to FB’s radical-for-the-times idea of a “social medium”, using the internet to give him the ability to “reconnect with your loved ones”, even across vast distances, by simply writing something on a “wall” (whoever decided to call it a post was obviously a male. Bad pun intended).

Xiexier posted incessantly. Piecemeal thoughts. Greetings. Queries on someone’s wellbeing. Random stuff about literally anything that tickled Xiexier’s fancy, or thought would interest his cousin’s wife’s sister’s long lost school friend. Facebook allowed Xiexier to not only find out what happened to his school flame, but also allowed him to poke fun at her current mate. It allowed Xiexier to enter a new reality where friends and families of his friends and families became his friends and families.

It also was a place where Xiexier shared his greatest highs, his deepest griefs and just occasionally the unbearable lightness of being. For FB was a digital Speaker's Corner where everyone got a chance to express freely and without fear.

Over time the ease of posting and the impact it had on impressionable minds made FB a propaganda tool to influence thoughts and opinions to good and bad agendas. It became a vaguely evil manifestation of man's ability to speak with a forked tongue. 

Xiexier had always used FB more as a graffiti wall - an outlet for random bursts of colourful stuff. It was never a serious source of anything for him. But the stuff on his wall became increasingly fractious. He started seeing new and not particularly pleasant shades of people whom he thought he knew very well. It became an evil mirror which showed man’s natural face and mortified Xiexier. He had to come out of this alternativist situation.

Xiexier stopped posting and ignored FB for a long time. And found he didn't miss it. But then neither did FB miss him - the mammoth propagator of likes just barreled on, disdainful of the many discarded emoticons it left in its wake!

Last month Xiexier notified Mark’s Minions of his wish to discontinue his alternate reality. On 13^th May his wish was fulfilled.

The great sage Baxicius said, “Man Who Leave Facebook RIP – Rest In Posts”. So, RIP Xiexier.

Birthdays in the time of Covid (with profound apologies to Gabriel García Márquez)

The last two years have seen too many “birthdays” getting unexpectedly converted to “birth anniversaries”. Birthday indulgences these days are either not possible in the way we used to celebrate them in the BC era or seem downright grotesque when we see all the mayhem wreaked by a virus.

So, though my birthday celebrations are not page 3-worthy, I did indulge myself by going down memory lane. It's something I do effortlessly and frequently.

I suppose I was always a wee brat for my dad, even after I started shaving. Thoughts of his annual ritual of giving me Rs. 100 on my birthday and saying "Here you go. Have some fun” are what triggered this walkabout.

During my college days I used to have a strong need of what is today called "me time". So, with those 100 skins I used to trot off by myself to "town" (as SoBo is called), buy a couple of books, have a massive lunch at the much-loved and much-lamented quirky-after-my-heart Samovar (in Jehangir Art Gallery) and return home. Feeling very grown up.

Dad continued with this even after I reached the shaving stage, passed out (feet first) from college and started doing odd jobs which could fund my me time. Of course, the 100 skins had to be augmented to 5 times that amount (with self contributing the balance). Bur for him it was an acknowledgement of my need to be by myself, and for me it was the continuation of a much-loved tradition. Pops was very strong on tradition, btw.

I have a Rs. 100 note in my wallet (think its pre-DeMon). So today I took it out, placed in on the table (like pops used to do since I would be snoring when he would leave for work) and put it back in my wallet. Thank you pops. Let’s go party!

And oh, remember what the Great Sage Baxicius said: Never ask woman her salary and man his age.

Travel broadens the…waist

One of my favourite dictums (dictii?) is “Travel Broadens The Mind”. Usually delivered with a lot of gravitas by an armchair traveller whose furthest travel has been to what we Indians call “native”, or “hometown”. This was perhaps valid in the early days when travel was a more leisurely and refined activity rather than the frantic, Instagrammable, group dash it is today.

In pre-Google days people not only took a long time to reach their destinations, they also took the trouble of learning about the history, ethnography, language and culture of the destination by actually reading up on the available literature of the place. So, not only did we broaden our minds, but by doing moved that much higher up the evolution scale (when was the last time you saw an ape reading up on “Thing To Do In Deadhorse, Alaska”?)

But an ancillary benefit of this kind of travel has not really got its place in the sun – the opportunity to try different cuisines, in the countries of their origin. Globalisation has made it possible to eat sushi in Saki Naka (a suburb of Mumbai, India) but does it have the same feel-good factor as going to Sushi Saito in Tokyo?

Travel for travel’s sake may have been a fad during the times of da Gama and Columbus, but today with the growth of digital media, there are “bucket lists” of things to do which usually include dining at “famous local eatery in Timbuktu” and posting photos of you holding the dead goat’s head on Instagram. Food For Likes.

Ancient cities like London, Paris, Tokyo, Beirut, Fez and Amsterdam have a whole host of famous eating spots and you cannot visit these cities without eating in at least one of these spots. The mushrooming of food blogs, restaurant review sites and cooking shows fuels an urgent desire to “travel to be seen to be eating in the right place”. As long as you are travelling to eat, I suppose it is OK.

As a resident of Dubai, the world’s most worldly city, I can access a host of international cuisines within half an hour of driving from home. Many restaurants try to recreate the ambience of the country whose cuisine is on offer. But the whole effect is ruined because the person serving you is never of the right ethnicity – surprising for a city with over 200 nationalities! I would rather enjoy Oktoberfest with a bevy of lederhosen-clad dralle Damen from Germany. Know what I mean?

I have had some very fine meals in the 29 cities that I have lived in during a rather chequered life and career (camel meat in Kano, Nigeria and so forth) I have also had some of the same meals in Dubai (camel burgers included), led on by memories of meals past. But the experience has always been spicier, more fragrant and much more insightful in the city itself. But as a microcosm of the world, Dubai serves its purpose of allowing you to sample cuisines from places you might not visit, and not just because of a virus.

So, the next time you feel hungry remember what renowned sage Baxicius said: “getting to table is also about journey, not just destination”.