So, what's happening?

Sreeja of St Xavier's College, Mumbai

2012-01-16T22:04:00.000-08:00

Sreeja Ravindranathan, a bright final year student of Arts at Mumbai's prestigious college St Xavier's interviewed me. The interview was a part of her application to Universities that would let her study journalism.

I enjoyed meeting her and being interviewed by her. Below is the extract. And all the best Sreeja!
THE INTERVIEW
Seated in the snug settings of the staffroom at St. Xavier’s college, clad in a turtleneck and trousers, Mini Nair looks more like one of the students waiting around than a mother of two.
“Let’s begin!” she says, her enthusiasm beating that of any teenager around the premises.
Mini Nair is a first-time author of the recently published novel ‘The Fourth Passenger’ that delves into the sensitive topic of the ’92 Bombay communal riots, religious fundamentalism and the omnipresent fear used to control an entire populace. She has also authored a children’s book and the biography of a noted pharmaceutical scientist. A postgraduate in chemistry she always had an abiding love for literature and writing. She currently works for a German MNC and resides with her family in Mumbai: a city she is passionate about.
Her carefree air and candid demeanour belies the intense themes that thread through the fabric of her narrative. Set against the background of the religious and political unrest and riots that pervaded the city of Mumbai in the 1992 after the demolition of the Babri Masjid Mosque, ‘The Fourth Passenger’ portrays the lives of four women who have made the city their home and their discovery of their true selves as well as that of a city and Nation torn by religious fundamentalism.
These women have been denied a voice both within the family and society at large. However, the four friends decide to steer the course of their lives and extend their friendship that supplies them with emotional support into a business partnership by setting up a food stall/restaurant thus securing them financially. The rest of the novel traverses their triumphs over the multitude of hurdles in the form of corruption, religious extremism and blatant sexism that impede their progress and test their friendship’s mettle.
“At the end of the day, no matter what kind of crisis a community faces it’s the women who bear the brunt of it all.” says Nair emphasising the position of women within the Indian society. Whether inflation due to economic crisis or a curfew due to a strike the women have to keep their households running and despite such a pivotal influence have no right to dissent.
She highlights how subjugation is a direct product of social conditioning, “It begins at home and since most know no other way of life we accept the one we’re served with.”
She also drives home the fact that in times of social turmoil the women of any community, considered to represent the honour and dignity of their clan are the first to be assaulted and end up being pawns in the power play of an inherently patriarchal society.
“Take for example the genocides in Rwanda or in Mumbai”, she says “women were raped and murdered brutally to bring shame to their community.” She talks about this systematic objectification of women both in media, history and culture which is ironical in a nation where women are revered as the mother, Bharat Mata (the mother land),Stree Shakti (the Goddess).

Did these ideas guide her to intentionally name their establishment ‘Stree’, the Sanskrit word for woman with its many empowering connotations?
“The protagonists in my book are just regular women who lead too much of a prosaic existence to come up with such an inspired name.” Nonetheless as an author she admits to have subconsciously implied the dichotomy between the doctrine about women we maintain and the treatment meted out to them.
So has the scenario changed today?
“Has it?” she questions playfully. “We’re still fighting for an equal footing with men on numerous avenues. As a country we’re still developing. We’ll reach the zenith of progress when we have an egalitarian society.”
Despite being a staunch advocate of female empowerment, she is quick to reject the label of a feminist.
“I’m not a man hating radical”, she says with a wry smile. “I celebrate and revel in my femininity.” This is why Nair, an avid cook herself, subverts cooking; traditionally viewed as a woman’s chore in her novel to function as a source of empowerment. She feels that every woman should be allowed to do so and this is where education according to her plays a crucial role. Her views regarding education are lucidly outlined through her characters who deem it as a form of social escape.
“Awareness is the solution to most of these problems. Education, I feel, is the doorway to awareness and self sufficiency.”
And is it the function of artists and authors to open up such doors?
She smiles thoughtfully, “It is. Since, we can reach out to a large section of the populace than most can, we should exert our influence positively.”
But didacticism isn’t the sole purpose of art and literature, she feels. At the end of the day it’s narrating an aesthetically rich story that she finds satisfying.

On asking what motivated her to revisit the long forgotten gory episode from Mumbai’s past almost 2 decades later, she talks about how it took her all that time to garner the courage to put in words the horrors every Mumbaikar experienced and accept the magnitude of what occurred.
“It took me time like everyone else. But now, I can confidently say I’m much braver.” she says assertively. Nair opines that we have conveniently buried an unwelcome memory which is a counterproductive exercise.
“Are we allowed to forget the holocaust? We shouldn’t, because in forgetting history we are condemned to repeat its follies”, the fervour evident in her eyes. Her science background she feels has helped her adopt a practical approach in her search for truth about the communal riots of 92. “What is science? But a search for truth” she adds reflectively.
Like any regular Mumbaikar she feared political opposition and backlash. Especially, since she was mindful of the perverse right-wing political interests that fuelled the riots and berates the same in her novel. The result is hate mails that slam her as a Muslim aficionado flooding her inbox.
“Thankfully, no death threats so far”, she bursts out laughing, making light of the malice people generate.
Nair feels that religious extremism manifesting in the form of internal terrorism is proportional to the decreasing levels of our tolerance as a city. Freedom is curbed in artistic expression as well as the right to choose a way of life. She cites examples of public burning of the works of Rohinton Mistry and M.F Hussain . And as such she defies all forms of intolerance in her novel, even homophobia. She rues over the fact that such intolerance thrives in Mumbai- a city of perpetual adjustment, a theme she picks up from the local trains and employ as the title.
“We always make space for a 4th passenger on a seat meant for 3. It’s sad that this allowance doesn’t extend to other aspects of life in Mumbai.”
The city she mentions features as the 5th character in the novel. The eternal magic of Mumbai and its indestructible spirit of survival and humanity is what she reveals despite accentuating the ugly undercurrents of violence it harbours.
“This city is a victim at the hands of the hideous side of its populace. I portray it in a sympathetic tone.”
Just like Mumbai recovers every time it’s dealt a debilitating blow she believes that the people of the city too can recuperate from the bitter memories they live with.
She confesses, “I am eternal optimist”,

God had better plans for you!

2011-11-27T22:03:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the reunion of our Standard 10 batch of our school St Sebastian's. There were some with whom we had spent fourteen years of our life. That is from nursery to standard ten. From the time we were toddler's to the time we were hormone-raring teens!

From all walks we gathered. Balding, pot bellied,C-section paunch, colored hair,reading glasses but the gleam in the eye was still present. There was a connect.

I often used to wonder about all of them......where did they vanish? Can people fall off earth? No they are all there. the axis shifts.

Unrequited romances, awkward holding hands flash in front of your eyes.....What if...? the question remains.....

I remembered so many events that I thought I had forgotten. But no they were in the depths of the recesses of my brains.

A friend I met after nearly three decades told me,' God had better plans for you'. I looked around and saw all us .......
Yes, I would like to believe that God had better plans for all of us.....

A deserted house

2011-09-15T22:48:00.000-07:00

Moss on the walls,
Windows that are holes,
The red tiles on the roof,
Have lived days with the sun and the rain,
The walls are fiercely silent
May have been a sanatorium or a lunatic asylum
Does the green tree know about the house?
I looked for doors
Strangely, there were none,
It stood mute,
Cold unaware,
The bricks may have sound entrapped in them,
But the house refused to let anyone hear the rhythm,
It may have stood there for ages,
And may stand like this for ages,
Ensnared in time,
Wrapped in silence,
Sadly,
I stay in this house.

A hymn

2011-08-20T06:12:00.000-07:00

A hymn
Song of prayer
Not to God
To you
Don’t play God
Leave the game to him.

The Urchin

2011-08-11T02:20:00.000-07:00

As I waited at the bus stand,
Shielding my eyes from the wind blown sand,
and felt the earth rotate by,
echoes of human being’s anguished wails and cries,

The sun in a scathing rage,
Disallowing the entry of the rain,
Destiny turning life’s every page,
And man carrying his cross of pain,

Then I saw this little girl
with a toothy grin,
I realized she was a price of some adult’s sin,
Her hair brown,tied up to a pig tail,
Walked up to me,confident of making a sale.

She stood wih aplomb,clanked her bowl in front of me,
and suddenly life’s irony laughed for me to see,
Her bowl was a Budweisser beer can,
Here she was standing naked feet and hungry,
and asking for alms in a premium product can.

I stuffed my hands deep down in my pocket,
and saw her eyes gleam in their dark socket,
Took out a five rupee coin
and heard it clink in her beer tin.

Oh god!why did you give me a rupee more and her a less,
I thought equal was our share in this cosmic mess,
Your wisdom I can’t understand,
or is it that the lines were simply strong in my hand.

Other passerbys rebuked me,
maybe right in their view,
and prophesised she would my rupee squander,
but I never let my thought wander.

Proving their prophecy true,
buying ribbons of differant hue,
saw her at the peddler,
she was nothing but a mere toddler.

Well,I shrugged my hands,
who am I to challenge life’s command,
maybe that is why I am here,
to bring back a smile and cheer.

But now bereft of my rupee,
It was very simple for me to see,
I had to walk back home,
The sky a reminder of a ribbon flying somewhere alone.

11th July 2006

2011-06-29T22:46:00.000-07:00

She sat on her haunches and wailed,
A wail that was heard above the din of Mumbai,
Black clouds like mourners gathered and looked down,
A dismembered hand lay near her feet,
She could identify his hand from the many others that lay there,
Not by the Titan, that he had purchased with his Diwali bonus,
Nor by the sleeve of the shirt that refused to leave his hand,
And not even by the nails that were still pearly white,
And not by the fingers that had curled up like a baby’s,
Strangely, by the familiarity of the sensations that the hand had given her,
The hand that fed and loved her,
A few hours ago, this hand was clutching the handle in the train,
And returning home,
Midst the Mumbai rush hour.
She cried out even louder impotently,
Her screams nearly tearing the black sky apart,
Red blood still oozed from the hand,
Redder than the vermillion on her head,
Fresher than the tears from her eyes,
She knew not who and why,
Nor did she understand the politics,
All she saw was mangled remains in a twisted train.
The school fees, milkman’s bills, house rent,
Little Munni’s dreams,
All exploded
With the bomb that detonated in the 6.11 local,
that snaked its way through Mumbai, the land of dreams.

Post note

She knitted two purls and one knit,
One knit and two purls
For Munni’s daughter.
When dusk fell,
She often thought,
Did they get what they want by killing him?
The dismembered hand,
Was the only identification that it was him.

From the heart of Mumbai

2010-06-14T22:54:00.000-07:00

From the heart of Mumbai

They did not open the doors. I wonder why. The whole of Mumbai was flooded and people were subjected to the worst.
July 26th 2005 was a day most of the citizens of Mumbai wish to forget. In the 24-hour period from 8.30 a.m. July 26 to 8.30 a.m. July 27, the city's suburbs received an wrecking 944.2 mm (94.42 cm) of rain. Much of this fell within a 12-hour period that also coincided with the high tide. Water entered the city.
Whilst the many stepped forward, few did not. Like cars that did not stop when you thumbed or restaurants that did not let you in or swanky hotels who were more worried about their upholstery. Were these the soulless that inhabited the city? Were they, the ones who closed the mouth of the river Mithi? Or were they simply busy? Or they did not care?
I stayed back in office at South Mumbai totally cut off since phones were also not working. I went to the Taj at Colaba after having walked around the street not knowing what was happening in North Mumbai where I lived. I was happy, to see the officials of Taj let in drenched men and women into their realm of warmth and grandeur. And I saw the staff treat every sodden person in the same manner as he would a guest.
Mumbai is a fabric, an intricate tapestry woven by many people. At times of crisis, as such we see the true colours of this fabric. Talks of Mumbai earning and Delhi spending will soon be forgotten. We will forgive those who did not let us in. We may even justify their behaviour and shame them. We will take recourse in the fact that nature has humbled us for we were the ones who saw the Mercedes and the 800 floating together, we were the ones who saw a Bisleri water bottle being distributed indiscriminately, we were the ones who saw strangers lending their mobile phones, we were the ones who guided the pregnant women to safety, we were the ones who knew people who sheltered the unknown, we thanked the unknown BEST bus driver for taking us through the waters, we stretched our hand out to pull out a street urchin.
Yes we saw it all!
Aren’t they who did not let us, in already damned?

Howrah bound!

2010-06-02T23:34:00.000-07:00

Arun watched the missybabas in awe. They were eleven months and three weeks old. Next Sunday was the first birthday and a party. He had never seen such white children except on the foreign channels on the television.
‘Arun, next Sunday, at the club. There is a magic show, music, chocolate cake; the memsahib said brushing her hair.
‘Yes, Madam, he replied in pidgin English.
He looked hopefully at the memsahib’s face. She sailed away but Sita, his mother looked at him proudly.
‘The twenty five rupees that I spent on the English Rapidex has not gone down the drain, she thought.

Sita lived with the memsahib and took care of the memsahib’s children. Arun worked with a plumber and lived with a distant cousin in a shanty forty kilometres away from the memsahib’s large home. Every Sunday Arun visited his mother and played with the missybabas. They climbed over him, pulled his ears, hair and sometimes pried opened his mouth to see if he was eating a toffee.
Sita would look apprehensively at the memsahib whenever they played thus. The memsahib had views on hygiene and Arun used a twig to brush his teeth. But the missybabas laughter relaxed all the rules in the house.

‘Ah! The memsahib has invited you. What a nice woman!’
‘I will wear the shirt that Tutu gave.’
‘Which Tutu and why did Tutu give you a shirt?’
Arun frowned and did not reply and Sita did not press further.
‘I hope Tutu is not of a lower caste. He comes once a week and if I nag …….Sita thought.
‘Are you eating well? You look very thin, Sita said serving him scrambled egg.
Arun sat on the floor in the kitchen and ate after the memsahib had finished.
‘No……Ali….No Ari..he laughed and restrained the missybabas from eating off his plate.
Arun could not sleep well that night. He dreamed of waltzing with the memsahib and doing the twist with the missybabas. And prattling in English.
The Sunday arrived and Arun spent a considerable amount of time preening. He purchased a plastic red train wrapped in red gelatine paper for the missybabas. He knew they liked wrappers more than the gift.
‘Choo! Choo! Kolkata,Howrah, Mumbai..they would play with the train.
Arun met Baba, the memsahib’s driver at the gate of the club.
‘Wear this and tell everyone that the party is upstairs, Baba instructed throwing a packet at him.
‘Has the memsahib purchased new clothes for me? He asked expectantly.
‘Be clear and don’t babble in English, Baba laughed and walked away.

Arun opened the packet to first see a round red nose of a clown and then a clown’s gear. He looked to see memsahib’s friends accompanied by their maids carrying well fed babies get out of their cars.
He slowly wore the slightly large dress over Tutu’s shirt and began directing guests,’ Upstairs, Up’ ‘On the top’. In English.
Nobody recognized him. He was the clown.
He looked beneath the clown’s dress to see that Tutu’s shirt was smooth.
‘Memsahib will send someone to fetch me once all the guests have reached’

However no one came to fetch him. It was getting dark and he knew that the missybabas would get cranky with sleep. He climbed a stair or two and then sprinted down afraid to leave his post.
He waited out till the party got over. Desolately he played with the gelatine paper making a crinkly sound.
‘Goo! Blub! Blub, he heard.
The missybabas, carried by their cousins were looking at him through sleepy eyes and smiled knowingly.
Choo! Choo! Kolkata,Howrah, Mumbai…he cried.

The Urchin.

2010-05-17T23:19:00.000-07:00

A Letter.

2010-05-07T00:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Ashfaque,

‘I saw you on the television. That should have been said with pride but I am ashamed. Maulvisaab was there too. It’s been five years since I wrote you. I never returned your telephone calls. But today……I saw Pari’s body lying dead on the snow. Her red salwar and the dried blood on the white snow seemed like the vermillion dot on her forehead. And inset was your face gaunt and your eyes…desperate.
You never ever wanted a separate room and today you want a separate state…...’
When you went missing I thought you ran away to Delhi or Mumbai. Maybe because I could not afford to buy you a play station or that fancy phone you wanted. And today you own an Uzi.
‘Allah! Give me the strength to bear this’.
Did Lal Uncle plead for his life when you shot him? Did you have the courage to look into his eyes? Lal Uncle carried you to the school on his shoulders and Pari was your playmate. The television girl said you…I can’t bring myself to write what you did to Pari. Like always please say, ‘Amma, they are all lying’. This time I want to believe you.
How many more lives did you take? What did you want? Lal Uncle’s land or Pari’s hand? Remember the rhyming game we played? That was such a long time ago!

When you were very young, the town witnessed a bloody riot. The two communities were killing each other. I was afraid for you. Just the two of us in a house with a door that could be broken with a little brute force. Lal uncle took us to the safety of his house. Lal Uncle answered stoically to the everyone who came looking for us, ‘She is my sister and that brat is my nephew. If God wills he will take care of my cloth shop.’
And that day when you did not return from college, Pari went looking for you. It was then that she told me about you leading rallies and making political speeches in the college ground. Seeing my worried face she consoled, ‘Everyone wants to be a young, handsome rebel. And our laughter echoed in the valley.
The valley is tainted with blood and the spring flowers look a deathly pale. Military convoys pass on the winding roads where once upon a time shepherds walked. The scented whiff of the kahwa is replaced with the nauseous smell of gunpowder. Most of the times there is a curfew and I dare not step out. I have neither neighbours nor friends. All are killed or have fled. I stay alone in this house that has been in my family for ages. The roof has been destroyed by bombs and that stump in the garden was once our apple tree. I have stopped trying to figure out who is bombing whom. And when rarely I am asked about you, I long to say he is dead..
Son, I write this letter to ask you of a favour. Promise me that you will oblige.
Please spare me of the indignity. Kill me.
Khuda Hafiz. God be with you.’

News from the wire agency: Ashfaque, twenty four, a dreaded terrorist wanted by the government was found dead in a tent in the Hind Kush area. Apparently, he had killed himself using his revolver. The reason for his suicide is unknown. Found on his person was a letter written presumably by his mother. The folds of the letter were torn indicating that it was opened and probably read many times.

They grow and go!

2010-05-06T01:04:00.000-07:00

I peered through the high cast iron gates to see my three old twins, Aaliyah and Aaria walk hand in hand to their class in school. They did not turn back. If they did they would have seen a proud mother albeit a teary eyed one. The distance from the gate to the class may not be more than a meter. For their tiny legs it may seem a long walk. And also considering the fact that most of the times the adults give in to their demand of carrying then and stopping when they like.

The young teacher standing at the gate said in a loud teacher- voice,’ Parents, please stay away from the gate. If your children see you, then they will start crying’.
Perhaps she does not understand that all the young ones are preparing for their flight. This is the first step and we watch with trepidation their trajectory.

I turned my back and walked away my thoughts stirred like the ripples created by the migratory birds in the lake near the school. They will soon go to the high school, and then to the university and then maybe to their first jobs. I will be waiting at the gates seeing their journey and praying that they go always together. And some person will be always admonishing me to go away because if they turn they will cry.

The twins paediatrician, a mild mannered Parsi, Dorab always tells me, ‘See, now they don’t cry. They are grown up girls. And sure enough, the doc does not frighten them any more. I look at them and I am wonder struck. Their tiny brains are comprehending this weird logic that we call our reality. I hold on tight to their hands resisting their pressure to break free from me and fall in line with my steps. I understand the dangers they do not. I work hard to make them realise the bad world.

And the day would come when they would introduce me to a man. The man they want to live with. And I am sure to ask a hundred questions forgetting about the rebellious ways I defied my parents. Their hands no longer little, would be adorned with henna designs and they would be holding the hands of their partners ready to step into a world of their own.
I would be still waiting at the gate and seeing their journey. If they turn back they would see a teary eyed mother.

The Taj Mumbai-the way I knew it

2008-12-03T07:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Blog,
Shamiana, at the Taj hotel was one of our favourite places for a cup of tea and of all the things masala dosa. I liked the sambhar there. Even when friends would wax about the Matunga sambhar, I would think of the Taj sambhar.
When Aaliyah and Aaria were in my womb I had this craving to eat palak paneer and dosa. I waddled to the Shamiana. The kitchen was about to close but they humored my culinary eccentricity. I wonder whether that young man who had a twinkle in his eyes when he served me is alive.
CST is another place from where I used to board trains. 'I reached the station meant I was now safe with people buzzing around, beggars, security guards, hookers.
Now what is safe? Be alert Mumbai. Do not be embarrassed to ask the authorities to check anything suspicious. A vigilant city is the first step to deter terrorists.
Today walked down Mahapalika road(passed St Xavier, Cama and BMC). K has kalakhatta and I had 'zeera soda" at the stall next to Canon.
I can do all this-only in Bombay!

Mumbai,my beloved city.......

2008-11-27T07:29:00.000-08:00

Sarfaroshi ki tamanna ab hamaare dil mein hai
Dekhna hai zor kitna baazu-e-qaatil mein hai
-Bismil Azimabadi

A noiseless Diwali

2008-10-27T08:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog
The pollution is tough on Dad. Had a simple dinner of ghee/rice, gherkin stir fry and okra khichadi. Cut the gherkin into long pieces. Heat a tsp coconut oil in a pan. Splutter mustard seeds and fry curry leaves in the same oil. Add a cup of chopped gherkins into this and a little water. Close the pan with a lid. After a little while add some shredded coconut to it. And do not forget the salt. As simple as that. This is Aaliyah's favourite. She stuffs it in her mouth and walks around
Okra khichadi: Saute some okra in a pan. (the original recipe calls for frying. But I cannot get myself to do it.) Grind a little mustard and coconut and thick yogurt and add it to the sauteed okra. Temper with mustard and curry leaves. And the salt......of course.
Had yummy upma at Usha's place. Her leg is better. The twins had a great time.
Today I wish for:
a noiseless Diwali
a less smoky Diwali
a Diwali where the rupee is strong again (my rupee strongest)
a Diwali where my helps do not tell me,' is baar Diwali bin bulaye aagaya'
a creative Diwali
Wish you a happy Diwali,
Good night!

Preparations for Diwali

2008-10-26T03:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog,
Was away for two days in Bangalore. It was cold and resembled an English weather. Shopped at the Nilgiris. Purchased ragi flour, sambhar powder and rasam powder. Had awesome dosa and rava idli at a place called Balal Residency just near the Taj.K had his Pongal and refused to have his upma since it was gheey( laden with ghee). Today purchased earthen diyas, rangoli powder and a mould for drawing the Goddess feet. Need the Goddess at home. Cooked aloo mutter, pulinkari and vellirikai pachadi. Looking for the perfect recipe for kalakand....Any ideas? Wrote an essay on Mumbai...........The bad patch was Usha sprained her leg. Took her to MGM and the local doc. Could not get an appointment. She is back at her home in Thane. .........

Good night!

I need a good editor!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-10-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog,
The manuscript is done and Sandra is interested. Now I need someone to help me spruce it up. Where are you?
Cooked chicken cutlets for the girls and drove to Murud with K. Had breakfast at Vadkhal. Batata vada, Misal and kothanbir wadi. The wadi was cleaned by Mrs Patil. I felt good. The sun shone through the blades of the coconut tree and the suparis swung lazily in the westward breeze. The sea was also languid. Overall a good day.
Good night!

After a very long time.....

2008-10-20T09:43:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog,
The twins are nearly two. Their time of sleep and food are well defined. This means I have more time to write, cook and watch films. Last night I watched,'Tickets' a movie by Kiarostami, Loach and Olmi. A good one! See if you can pick it up. And cooked today Kerala kadala curry, uppumanga curry and a simple dal. Everyone licked their fingers. The recipes are uncomplicated unlike me. For the kadala curry : Soak two cups of black channa overnight. Pressure cook it with salt, a wee bit of turmeric, a little cinnamon ,two cardamom till the whistles of the cooker drive you nuts. What I mean is cook till the channas are soft. In another pan fry three tbsps of coconut along with a tbsp of coriander seed, three cloves of garlic, red chilly to taste, a little fennel, some more cinnamon and a green cardamom. Fry all the above ingredients till brown and then grind to a fine paste with three or four teaspoons of the cooked channa. Add the ground mixture to the black channa and boil till the rawness of the ground paste disappears. Of course I plucked a few curry leaves from my window sill and added that too. Eat with rice not before checking for salt! By the way, now I try to cook only in earthen pots. I picked up some earthenware when Jinan exhibited kumbham in Mumbai. Google kumbham to discover more about terracotta. Asked Gundya and Swati to buy too.
For the uppumanga curry: When I was walking the streets of Bora Bazar I espied an exclusive Bedekar shop. And I saw tender mangoes in brine and I remembered my grandmother's bharani sitting like a fat woman in the corner of the attic.
The recipe is easy. Grind two mangoes, salt, green chilly and coconut to a fine paste. Add to whipped curd and mix well. Temper with mustard and curry leaves preferably in coconut oil. The mixture should stay in one place like an obedient child and not be runny.
As for Mumbai, at lunch K found a strand of loooong hair in his Chinese thali at Sundance. The dish was replaced but I yucked....
Good night Blog!

Annaprasham(chorunnu) of Aaliyah and Aaria

2007-09-05T23:10:00.000-07:00

'Stoned' at Zenzi

2007-07-07T19:57:00.000-07:00

Saturday was the day when the weather could not make up its mind. It rained and then there was the sun in full regalia. K and I were wondering where to lunch. There were lots to discuss including my manuscript. A trip to Delhi was pending but the twins were still waking up at night.

K suggested Zenzi, a hip place at Waterfield road, Bandra (W). SO it was Zenzi.

We ordered a Tinto Verrano, the description read 'Red wine with lime fizz'. It was a bit of disappointment 'cos we could not feel the taste of wine. We ordered Tempura and Gado-Gado salad. The tempura was a bit greasy.

We decided to order Sula Cabarnet and the waiter got us two glasses. One sip and we knew that the wine was left open for a long time. The waiter filled our glasses with wine from a new bottle.

The discussion of the manuscript got our stomach growling and we ordered Masaman curry with coconut rice.

One spoon of the rice in my mouth and and I found a black stone, you know the type we find in uncleaned rice. Called the waiter, showed him the stone, he replaced with a larger portion of rice. And can you believe, I found another stone. K and I were disgusted!

I called the chef and an affable guy came with apologies. Later they got us plain rice wrongly thinking that the coconut in the rice was the culprit. And the chef sent us some 'fusion' tiramisu as his compliments.

The Q. Why does not restaurants like Zenzi ensure strict hygiene standards and why do they not have a guy/gal in charge who checks on the wine served?

With these Q we walked out to a hot sun!

Here we are!

2007-04-21T08:22:00.000-07:00

The voyage begins. I am going to post recipes of the simple Indian lunch we have at home in Mumbai. And also some thoughts that seize me!
Getting back to reading my book,'Meena' by Melody Ermachild Chavis. A book about a woman who founded the Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan.