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Let’s Get Our Trinkets Out

‘The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.’

Emily Dickinson

Have you made jewellery pacts before? Well I have, with the lovely girls, Angela, Pamela, Cheila and Lyz, and in the spirit of the game here we go.

Over the last few weeks, I have been in the process of trimming the contents of my jewellery boxes. It is curious that we often hoard for the sake of it. Yet every piece carries its own story. The core pieces remain. They are the ones that carry memories within their many loops and filigrees. The earrings bought in Brussels (because I had not carried enough jewellery while travelling for a month through Belgium), the pair of statement earrings I bought with my first salary, …My favourite statement pieces are contemporary earrings and head jewellery crafted out of silver from an Indian boutique brand called Amrapali. They rarely fail to ensnare the eyes.

Now my heart beats for the kind of jewellery that make you think that a girl can indeed live without her diamonds. But I did lust for the designs I laid eyes upon at the fashion weeks in Delhi. Jewellery collections that smacked of savoir faire. Yet they were always more expensive than the wallet would allow. All my earnings were frittered away on eating out and partying. As a result, I never ended up buying even an itsy bitsy piece. Now I wonder if I should just pick up a couple to sate that old desire…

Some unworn pieces remain in my boxes but then they shall stay for as long as I live. You see they are bits and pieces from my mother’s collection. They effortlessly pick me up from now and deposit me into the body of the little girl who used to watch her mother get ready for an evening out. Transfixed by the rituals of dressing up, the trappings of femininity. How she used to take her time. Drape on a beautiful sari, when I used to be at hand to pull at the edges to straighten out the folds while feeling the texture of the lush fabric at the same time, apply a hint of foundation since she had flawless skin, don pretty jewellery, apply her favourite shade of lipstick and at the end, dab herself with Estee Lauder’s Beautiful. I have never been able to shake off the haunting fragrance of Beautiful since. The faint smell of it lingers in the air (even though I do not own a bottle of it at the moment). But what am I waffling on about. That’s the power of memory and nostalgia.

2017-08-14 02.31.16 1.jpg — Cuffs and bracelets

2017-08-14 02.31.19 1.jpg — Amrapali earrings

2017-08-14 02.31.20 1.jpg — Cheap earring bought from some odd market

Processed with VSCO with nc preset — Collar necked in pearl

2017-08-14 02.31.25 1.jpg — A chain of armour? Psst: Turns me into Cuptain Cupcake

2017-08-14 02.31.22 1.jpg — Amrapali, Delhi

Processed with VSCO with hb1 preset — Black lace choker and a pendant from Portobello Market

2017-08-14 02.31.30 2.jpg — Higgledy-piggledy assortment of earrings

2017-08-14 02.31.30 1.jpg — Busy corners

2017-08-14 02.58.22 1.jpg — The box that holds the tiny studs

2017-08-14 02.58.23 1.jpg — The pop-arty lady from the streets of Alfama who stands above my dressing table and reminds me to go dress up for life.

Aug 15, 2017

Arundhati Basu59 Comments

Who Wants Curry When There’s Indian Accent…

The night air’s soft and balmy. People lurk near squat fountains, bathing in the mist as if to dissipate the heat of the summer evening, people watch other people and a sudden bit of quiet descends upon us in the midst of the surrounding skyscrapers. Are you with me? Then here is the conundrum. Can an oasis of green and tranquility sit within the chaos of Manhattan? Here lies Bryant Park, a heartbeat away from Times Square.

Then, Magnolia Bakery in Rockefeller Center, a vintage dream woven with cupcakes, puff pastries, brownies and blondies, cookies and macarons. All American-style. Slobbering and giving into temptation with four measly cupcakes when a whole world of goodies wink at you. Oh heart, clad in an iron armour, to not melt in the face of such luscious beauty.

But maybe you have had your fill for the day because why you have just tripped out of Indian Accent, that fine-dining modern Indian restaurant sitting on 56th Street.

Food memories. The dishes you have had growing up have been put on the menu by a renowned chef. His modern take on them is calculated to baffle the senses. Works.

The concept is degustation. Tasting menu. You eat a bit of everything. My usual grievance of not possessing four stomachs is taken care of. One stomach will do just fine.

Every dish, in the four-course menu I opt for, tastes different. Indian dishes do often run the danger of tasting somewhat the same. Adi goes for a three-course menu, so between the two of us, we have a plethora of tastes to sample.

The well-felt pinch on the pocket is redeemed by two dishes on the house. Miniature discs of naan that you pop into the mouth. Chew and a warm molten centre of Danish blue cheese is released into the mouth, piquant and sharp. And before you can crave more, pumpkin soup in a mini mug. Moreish.

It is difficult to choose from the line-up of dishes. Everything’s familiar yet there are unfamiliar pairings which stoke the taste buds and the imagination. The soya keema – that was often a constant on the table at home when I would throw a fit at the daily diet of fish – arrives in a small, deep pan topped with quail eggs. Oh, the taste of childhood all over again, but teamed with a mouthful of butter-slathered fresh mini paos (buns) that are redolent of lime leaves.

Nuggets of cauliflower? Did we order cauliflower?! Ahem. The dismay of the non-vegetarian. But then the realisation as you dig into them that they are crab claws slathered in the time-tested winning combination of butter, pepper and garlic.

Oh let’s not think any more.

After a long drawn affair involving smacking sounds and sighs of pleasure, the final stroke of goodness. A magical affair with a candle sticking on top to celebrate Adi’s birthday.

It looks like cake, but it is not cake, my darlings. Oh no. This is a token of a closely-guarded secret from the narrow alleys of Chandni Chowk in Old Delhi, where the narrow lanes are upholstered with shops selling silver, spices, antiques, sweets and fried food diverse enough to leave the food lover in a tizzy. This is where you want more than four stomachs, my friend. But to return to the frothy matter at hand, it is called Daulat ki Chaat. An ethereal concoction of milk, saffron, sugar and nuts that disappears into the mouth, offering you a glimpse of paradise. Light and airy.

This is how we sail out of Indian Accent – floating on a cloud of heavenly saffron and potent Belgian ale – you could go with wine. Know this that we had already been drinking beer the entire evening and a few glasses of wine would have sent us into the arms of deep sleep. Plus who wants to have just arrived in NYC and already kickstart the process of getting thrown out of restaurants, you know. All in good time.

2017-07-03 12.00.22 1.jpg — Pumpkin soup. You can see that I had drained off a fair bit of it before I took a shot. Patience is not often a strong suit of mine.

2017-07-03 12.00.21 1.jpg — A trio of traditional dishes – smoked aubergine, duck *khurchan* and chicken *khurchan –* stuffed into flaky biscuits. *Khurchan* is basically scrapings off the bottom of a dish. In this case, well-cooked, crisp lashes of meat.

2017-07-03 12.00.20 1.jpg — Crab claws in butter, garlic and pepper. Not cauliflower.

2017-07-03 12.00.18 2.jpg — Chicken kofta (meatball) with *pakora* in the shape of an onion ring and greens.

2017-07-03 12.00.19 1.jpg — *Pathar* beef kebab and bone-marrow *nihari. Pathar* kebabs are a speciality of the southern state of Hyderabad in India. Marinated meat is cooked over *pathar* or stone while *nihari* is slow-cooked meat (usually beef or lamb) presented along with the bone marrow.

2017-07-03 12.00.18 1.jpg — Soya *keema* (minced) topped with quail eggs and lime-leaf flavoured *pao.*

2017-07-03 12.00.17 1.jpg — Butter chicken-stuffed *naan.* Guaranteed streak of delight.

2017-07-03 12.00.15 1.jpg — Ghee roast lamb and *roomali roti* pancakes. *Roomal* is Hindi for handkerchief, so these breads or rotis are as thin as handkerchiefs.

2017-07-03 12.00.14 1.jpg — *Dal makhni* (creamy black lentils) chaperoned by garlic & butter *naan.*

2017-07-03 12.00.12 1.jpg — Adi and his unusual birthday non-cake. A dewy cloud of milk flavoured with saffron, rose petal jaggery brittle and almonds.

2017-07-03 12.00.09 2.jpg — Neon-lit streets of Manhattan.

2017-07-02 11.23.42 1.jpg — Scandalous graffiti

2017-07-02 11.23.43 1.jpg — Steel-and-glass glory of 7 Bryant Park, in rainbow hues.

2017-07-02 11.23.56 1.jpg — There’s always space for more dessert. Magnolia Bakery.

2017-07-02 11.23.55 1.jpg — American vintage bakeries and cupcakes

2017-07-02 11.23.40 1.jpg — The top right-hand side cupcake got a bit squished, but hey, what is beauty without a flaw? They were good, bordering on the sweeter side of it, but the lemon blueberry cupcake on the top left-hand side stole the show (whispers: Hummingbird Bakery might still win the cupcake war, but I am not taking on a New Yorker yet).

Processed with VSCO with b5 preset — Ending the night on a ‘Sex and the City’ note. Carrie and Miranda. Love lives and cupcakes. Shut your eyes and take both.

Jul 12, 2017

Arundhati Basu120 Comments

Three Awards in One

The way I look in the photo is how I felt when my dear lady Cherylene nominated me for three awards. Not all at one go but over a period of time. I take my time in getting around to answering these award questions, not because I do not want to do them, but because I take time to babble. You know I take it seriously – the art of talking as little sense as possible.

Through her blog titled ‘Living Vs. Existing’, Cherylene motivates and inspires readers to stay strong through the travails of life. She almost always pops up on my various posts from time to time and leaves lovely thoughts. You can see why she is a great friend to have your back. To get to the task at hand, the questions under each award are all hers.

Thank you Cherylene, I had fun answering these questions. Made me ponder and smile.

Sunshine Blogger Award

Do you prefer to smell the roses or grow them?

Grow them, smell ‘em and see them wither away. The cycle of life is inescapable.

Are you the adventurous type or more reserved?

My stomach will tighten into knots and my heart shall pop out of my mouth, but Adventure, you scamp, you’re not getting away easy!

Do you prefer cake as a dessert or ice cream?

There are whiffs of existential crisis in that question.

Do you prefer to drive or be driven?

I drive in my dreams. My husband does not dare to let me drive in reality, yet. But I have agreed to polish up my driving skills by enrolling in a driving school in the US, ‘polish up’ being the key words here.

Where is your ideal vacation spot?

Cornwall.

Can you cook?

Yes.

What is your favourite dish to prepare?

Chicken biryani/ Aglio e olio

Who is the most supportive person you know?

My husband. My brother and father have been my rock during the formative stages of my life.

Who is you favourite singer?

Bob Dylan/Leonard Cohen. How do I choose between them?!

When you think of blogging, list one word to describe the feeling it gives you.

Contentment

Do you pamper yourself as much as you like?

Without doubt.

Unique Blogger Award

If you could be any Marvel superhero who would you be and why?

Marvel needs to contact me for a patent. Cuptain Cupcake. Need I say why after you read my name? I even know what I shall charge Marvel. A lifetime’s subscription to cupcakes from The Hummingbird Bakery.

How do you cope with stress?

Devouring popcorn and reading crime thrillers. Works like magic for me. I also walk around the room talking to myself (so I reveal at the cost of coming across as a certified loon).

If you were given the opportunity to act in any movie, would you take it? What type of movie would it be – action, romance, horror, drama, sci-fiction or comedy?

Why, of course, the superhero genre. Remember Cuptain Cupcake? I think I would be a darling at it.

Real Neat Blog Award

Your three favourite foods

Mustard Hilsa (freshwater fish cooked in mustard, atypical of Calcutta), Chicken Biryani (Calcutta-style biryani strictly) and Lal Shaak (red spinach the way my mother cooks it).

Do you prefer watching sports or playing sports?

Playing sports

Would you choose a vacation in Hawaii or Alaska? Why?

Both. I would love to walk upon the volcanoes of Big Island and soak in the charms of its canvas of environments. I have watched some fascinating documentaries on Alaska which intrigued me. Plus I would feel like I were on top of the world.

If you would go back in time, what year would you travel to?

To the year 2011. Adi and I travelled together through the UK and discovered our common passion for being on the road.

What has been your biggest challenge?

To return home safe each day when I lived and worked in Delhi. Just reminiscing about the incidents that were a part of my daily life makes me prone to ranting about the importance of safety of women in that city.

Something you miss the most from childhood?

The early idyllic years in Salalah, Oman. My brother would visit us from time to time during summer vacations – he lived in a monastic hostel on the outskirts of Calcutta. I remember days spent on the beach by the rugged Jabbal mountains; attempting to steal flowers from my neighbour aunt (who used to open the door just at the time that I reached it – I realise that I used to turn up at the same time every day); heading to the souks in the evenings with my parents for Lebanese bread fresh off the tandoor (the fragrance of which is still lodged in the memory cells); and long drives through the deserts of Oman.

What does a perfect day look like to you?

Just being in the company of my love.

Jul 8, 2017

Arundhati Basu123 Comments

‘What Do I Think About Art’

In between rushing to stores, gobbling up pizzas and giant cookies, while setting up our new apartment to the tune of endless cups of Lady Grey tea, I came upon this cutesy tag courtesy Angela. Interesting and innovative. An art tag! But I had to do it asap before I lost steam and let it slip to the bottom of the pile. Thank you Angela, I had fun going about this tag.

Here I introduce you to the “What Do I Think About Art” tag.

Rules:

Copy the piece of art given to you by the nominator into the post and these rules
Analyse the piece of art given to you and what it means to you (you can be as abstract as you like)
Nominate five people to analyse another piece of art of your choice

The lead photo is the one that I was tagged to analyse by Angela.

It is an example of going green on a whole different level, eh. You see the cityscape in the backdrop – ’tis the picture of barrenness, a leaf or two sticking out here and there. Maybe more than a leaf, but hey, I am permitted a smidgen of exaggeration surely by dint of the fact that if art allows us to stretch our imagination we can let it seep into into our words too.

Okay, so we all need green. More so in the cities.

How do we go about it? We grow a green bush on our head. That is the best way of getting your own personal bit of green on this planet where world leaders with exceptional vision denounce the concept of global warming as a weapon for hoodwinking the masses.

Right, so our man is a self-sufficient personality. But watch out for that brush in his hand. Could it be that there might be an itchy witchy feeling creeping up on him and that all is not as well as Mister Smug (just look at his expression) might claim to all and sundry?

“The streets are empty and here’s my chance to go berserk,” he sniggers as he sneaks the brush into his green pate. He is about to have a real good go at it just like a scratchy sheep makes a go of it against a fence or a highland cow rubs its massive horns against dry stone walls. You get the picture, I suppose. I shall let it rest there.

I would love to hear your take on the piece too.

Deconstructing art takes me back to the beginning of my feature reporting days when I used to be bundled off to art exhibitions to interview artists. Artists are the kind of professionals I never felt uncomfortable around. It was easy to feel gauche around fashion designers, hoity-toity actors and egoistic sport stars, but with artists, no way. It seemed to me, during those long conversations, that they were suspended in the cloudy realms of their heads from where they need time to wade out at ease. So yes, I could take my time.

Art is also supposed to be individual. You can imagine my delight that there was no censure. That I could sit there and come up with bizarre interpretations. Thus you have the logic behind my view of Angela’s street art piece.

Below is my piece for you. I clicked it in Jersey City downtown the other day. Would you care to analyse it? If yes, you can do a post on it, or just leave your interpretation in the comments section. Going beyond the stated number, I nominate you all. Humour me?

Jun 18, 2017

Arundhati Basu44 Comments

Friday Thoughts on Carpe Diem

‘To His Coy Mistress’

Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust;

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Jun 10, 2017

Arundhati Basu8 Comments

Smile

“If you haven’t seen your wife smile at a traffic cop, you haven’t seen her smile her prettiest,” said an American journalist called Kin Hubbard once. He has been gone a long while now but this man was funny. Look at another example of his wit, “Don’t knock th’ weather. Nine-tenths o’ th’ people couldn’ start a conversation if it didn’ change once in a while.”

See what I just did. Rambled at the beginning of a tag. Sigh.

I was tagged by the beauteous Kristyn who makes me roar with laughter. Lion roars. Thank you, Kristyn, I truly had a wonderful time taking part in this tag.

This is The SMILE TAG and I am going to tell you how it works before I get going.

Ciarralorren, creator of The SMILE Tag, wants to see your smiles! If you are nominated for this tag (which I hope all of you are), then simply post a photo of yourself smiling! There really are no rules for this tag. You can post as many pictures with as many people as you’d like solely under the condition that you are smiling in the photo or looking back at the photo makes you smile. It’s really quite simple. If you’d like, also share the story or stories behind the photos you post to let your followers gain more of an insight of who you are and what makes you happy. Or don’t. It’s really up to you. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter how you interpret this tag, so long as you spread joy and happiness around the Internet and in doing so within your own life. Let’s all be happy and share our smiles!

Just keep the tagging along and TOGETHER, let’s create a mass movement of happiness! So start posting and tagging people now! Go, go, go!!

*The Telegraph India, Delhi. September 2009*. With one of my closest friends in office. It seems a lifetime ago that we used to spend all our time eating, giggling, shopping and being silly apart from stressing about coming up with story ideas for ghastly idea meetings.

2017-05-12 12.30.46 1.jpg — *Delhi, May, 2013.* A goofy moment of cupcakes and coffee in Khan Market which is one of the best hangouts in the city. This was in a cafe called Choko La where the cupcakes were a dream and therefore it was my choice of coffee and conversations with one of my dearest friends.

*Gower Peninsula, Wales. June 2011.* This was the first time we had reached the Rhossili Bay of the gales and gusts, where to stand still on the cliffs and not to be blown away is an achievement.

391004_10150486888521273_1512305057_n — *Delhi, December 2011.* On a cold December’s night, we had our first cocktail party for the wedding, thrown by my generous in-laws for us at a beautiful garden restaurant called Magique. The food was delectable and the drinks flowed. How they flowed. Adi had to be carted back home at the end of the party because his friends poured shots down his throat.

2017-05-14 03.34.24 1.jpg — *Floatel, Calcutta, December 2011.* A photo marked by relief. That my groom had reached Calcutta at all with his entire party of friends and family. The train from Delhi to Calcutta had been delayed for hours because of foggy conditions. So the night before Adi had to book a flight for everyone to make it in time for the cocktail party and the wedding. This shot is from the cocktail party which was thrown by my parents at a floating venue on the Hooghly river. The best thing was that it was night and you did not have to admire the incredibly muddy waters of the Hooghly. Oh, but it was pure magic. It was about dancing the night away.

2017-05-14 03.34.22 1.jpg — A shot from the cocktail party with my brother and his wife. And no, I do not look like him.

2017-05-14 03.34.23 2.jpg — With my four closest friends. The one on the extreme left was always my cupcake and coffee friend. The other two lovelies on each side of me are my former flatmates. They know me as well as one would know another when they have lived together.

*Dec 11, 2011*. The wedding. It is an urban myth that Indian brides are coy. I for one had no chance to play the part since I was micro-managing the wedding. Everything that could go wrong went wrong. But our family priest wed us by chanting away mantras and interspersing them with his funny asides. We had such fun getting married. We had not expected it.

There were many tears and fears. Firstly, the photographer had forgotten the simple fact that he had to turn up. This was my newspaper’s photographer and I had great faith in him. “The wedding is today, is it?” he asked in an incredulous tone. Now this happened as I sat to get married. “Yes you cutlet! Get your behind here, NOW,” was what I wanted to scream. However to unleash bridezilla in public is not convenient. I bit out words into the phone, “If you can please just get here.” Secondly, there was the videographer. Another talented man. He found his way to some other wedding and started shooting it because he was convinced it was ours. Both these tools turned up midway through the wedding rituals. Most of my wedding photos, as a result, were taken by my journalist friend who is an excellent photographer-documentary maker. Thirdly, I had arranged a *phuchka* (water balls – street food) stall. No surprises. It did not turn up. Therein lay the three reasons I could not be a coy bride.

201038_10151239341076273_501923657_o — *The Isle of Wight. October 2012.* We went camping by the sea at a time when most sane people would avoid pitching tents on the edge of a cliff. The other tents were occupied by our friends and I was never happier than when the sun rose. Evenings saw me almost weeping with misery when I could spare tears from shivering.

*Durga Puja, Calcutta. October 2016*. The puja was held at my home this year. It is a 250-year-old family affair that is rotated amongst our uncles and us. It is that one time of the year when my whole heart belongs to Calcutta. The sun mellows, the breeze picks up and the *kaash phool (*wild sugarcane grass) sways its white feathery heads in the breeze when Goddess Durga comes visiting Calcutta with great pomp. I am not religious in the least but this festival does it for me. It is about dressing up in new clothes, gorging on delicious food all through the day, meeting friends and spending time with family. Those are my cousin sisters-in-law, who look sane but are quite not all there. So, it is easy to love them.

1427406285000820b78d09a37f707ca43dd874d329b055d925f08cb980474661f7c7792468c16da59933bf3f221b6f8110ba3a44244e15bd648173c9b89d4fdc38539490cf964 — *Santa Teresa Gallura, Sardinia. March 2015.* Windblown in Santa Teresa Gallura, a beautiful beach town in Sardinia, with friends. I miss my overgrown pixie cut.

Hatching plans to steal Vespas in the alleys of Alghero, Sardinia.

*December 2013.* The last time Adi put his arms around Tuktuk. I will never forget that like an oaf I did not travel with him to meet our beloved boy. He passed away early in 2014. We were sleeping in Mechelen, Belgium, when we got the call in the wee hours of the morning.

*Pulpit Rock, Norway. August 2015.* The best hike we have ever done. We had almost given up on taking the flight to Stavanger the night before because the weather forecast was doleful. Then the woman at the other end uttered her magical Norwegian belief, “There’s nothing like bad weather, only bad clothes.” We gave in. The result was that I got to dangle my legs off Pulpit Rock for a brief while before a nervous Adi barked at me that he was not ready yet to lose his wife. You see, it is easy to fall in love with Norway.

2017-05-12 12.30.51 1.jpg — *Holyhead, Wales. April 2013.* My sister-in-law was visiting us and we had driven down to Wales to one of our favourite lighthouses which is supposed to be haunted. It is there that I met this big boy. Now, I have long conversations with horses. When they perk up their ears and seem interested, it is rude not to talk, don’t you think? Plus it is not easy to find patient ears. My niece now sees horses and thinks of me. I have a reputation to maintain.

Happiness nestles right under your nose when you smile. Have you noticed that? Now if you feel like dredging up some memories to share them and smile, why just fire away.

Jun 8, 2017

Arundhati Basu95 Comments

The Tall, Taller and Tallest in Manhattan

“You can do what you like, sir, but I’ll tell you this. New York is the true capital of America. Every New Yorker knows it, and by God, we always shall.”

That’s not me spouting off biased and borrowed wisdom in my two days of being here. I am not a New Yorker yet. I do not know if I shall ever be one in my heart. The quote is from ‘New York’, a historical novel by British author Edward Rutherford. If you like the kind of bulky tomes that you can hurl at people (who annoy you) and thereby cause serious injury, Rutherford is your man. If you are the kind of person however with a penchant for useless dreaming, and you also possess the patience of a beaver, then you would rather flip open that tome. Channelling your inner Om.

‘New York’ introduced me to historical layers of a world that I had no idea of. The story of Native Americans who lived on Mannahatta, or ‘the land of many hills’, the name given by ancient tribes to Manhattan that is the city’s historical birthplace. The plot starts thickening once the European settlers trickle in.

Now that busy streak from Manhattan’s past, my friend, has infiltrated the present day in which I found myself walking down the busiest of the five boroughs of New York.

On a noon hedged in by skyscrapers, there we were, two people ultimately new to New York’s glitzy glory, craning our necks to take in the full view of an army of towers. Some tipped with golden spires, others with sombre spires and facades sheathed in glass in which you could catch reflections. Just a vision of tall buildings looming above us, no matter what angle we turned our heads at. Oh, it was a giddy feeling alright.

A series of impressive court houses with their massive pillars achieved the intended effect of imbibing us with the requisite amount of awe. A colonial building in a leafy park turned out to be the city hall where the mayor of New York sits and an old church in red bricks shot its hand out to declare its presence right after.

Walking beneath old gaslights into the leafy City Hall Park that was the place for public executions and recreations in old times, we soon found that we were at the portals of the hallowed St. Paul’s Chapel. Standing outside the oldest church building in Manhattan, where George Washington prayed and which survived the 9/11 attacks, we were in a sense soaking in the colonial heritage of the city.

Then there’s the iconic One World Trade Center, rebuilt upon the old World Trade Center complex, catching reflections of the changing skies above us and… wait, what was that strange building, presenting a strange vision of bifurcating ribs?

A thorn in the taxpayer’s line of vision, as a New Yorker might say. Or The Oculus. But I cannot and shall not complain about this building that was conceived of as a giant dove by a Spanish architect. It might end up looking like giant claws apart from ribs but that is a different matter. Some have even likened it to a dinosaur.

You do feel for the architect. Creativity requires imagination and not everyone can give into your vision, however grand and ambitious it might be. It might not be everyone’s favourite building but The Oculus is a paradigm of space and modern design. Through its ribs the skyline of the city was broken up in a linear manner, which was strangely engrossing as the three pink balloons winking down at us from its elevated spot upon the glass beams.

Dear old Oculus is now one of my closest buds in New York. I shall not try and explain that odd fact away given that you know me by now. You see, I enter the city through The Oculus which is the World Trade Center Transportation Hub. It replaced the old PATH station that was destroyed by the 9/11 attacks. Just to put it in perspective, the PATH decoded is Port Authority Trans-Hudson, the rapid transit system that connects places like Newark, Harrison, Hoboken, and Jersey City in New Jersey to New York City, apart from linking up lower and midtown Manhattan as well.

You can well imagine then why I shall rely upon Oculus dear for emotional support and extensive hand holding during all the times that I shall find myself goofing my way around New York, boarding the wrong trains and finding myself in places unknown.

I know this that Oculus shall always be there for me.

2017-05-28 06.17.03 1.jpg — Gaping at The Oculus. Just a very normal reaction.

2017-05-28 06.16.55 1.jpg — Manhattan skyline through the Oculus

2017-05-28 06.16.52 1.jpg — A hip photographer hugs the ground as he waits for the four to kick their feet into the air

2017-05-28 06.16.53 1.jpg — Imagine all the times they must have fallen on their heads. I am odd anyway. A fall or two might take it to unnecessary levels.

2017-05-29 08.00.06 1.jpg — Approaching the pillars of justice around the bend

2017-05-29 08.00.03 1.jpg — Hefty pillars of governance

2017-05-29 08.00.02 1.jpg — The traffic is incessant

2017-05-29 08.00.01 1.jpg — The wheels of justice. They grind on.

2017-05-29 08.00.00 1.jpg — Sizing up the city

Processed with VSCO with preset — City Hall. The office of the mayor of New York.

2017-05-29 07.59.48 1.jpg — City Hall. A profile.

2017-05-29 07.59.47 1.jpg — The goodness of two alliums bobbing their pretty heads inside the City Hall Park

2017-05-29 07.59.46 1.jpg — Gaslights and the city

2017-05-29 07.59.41 1.jpg — City Hall Park

2017-05-29 07.59.42 1.jpg — The old and the new stand shoulder to shoulder

2017-05-29 07.59.40 1.jpg — Brownstone buildings of Manhattan

2017-05-29 07.59.37 1.jpg — One World Trade Center

2017-05-28 06.17.04 1.jpg — Mr. Whippy where art thou?

2017-05-28 06.17.14 1.jpg — St. Paul’s Chapel, cross-sectioned

2017-05-28 06.17.12 1.jpg — Spires. Old and new.

2017-05-28 06.17.10 1.jpg — Entering the picture in silhouette

2017-05-28 06.17.05 1.jpg — ‘Show me the glint of light on broken glass.’ What would you have made of this, Mr. Chekhov?

Jun 5, 2017

Arundhati Basu65 Comments

The Manhattan Story

His face etched by age, the man in front of Big Wong stood with a faraway look in his face, his hands busy stuffing golden tobacco into the thin stem that stuck out from the side of a wooden bong. That’s not the bongo which would imply an antelope, or on the other end of the spectrum, a drum. But since you can spot our man in the featured photograph with the bong in his hand (behind the potbellied man in the blue tee), you could safely cross out both antelope and drum-shaped possibilities. Instead, you can probably figure out that the bong is a pipe with a filtration device that allows you to smoke anything from tobacco to cannabis. His white apron flecked extensively by red sauce, the man then continued to puff away at the pipe and release curls of smoke as he nodded vigorously to emphasise that he was not partial to getting clicked. Why he was out for a break from his overwrought job of churning out noodles and sauce-laden dishes.

With the clucking of his tongue and the shake of his head, he might as well have mouthed out, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than shooting photographs, so really Horatio, go eat some’.

We did eat a whole lot right after. Steamy bowls of soup with pork dumplings floating in them, a massive plate of noodles topped up with greens and strips of chicken and then the ubiquitous American Chinese dish called General Tso’s Chicken (that often surfaces on pinterest) appeared within minutes of our sitting at the table. All in big portions. We had forgotten the monumental portions of food served up in America. Surrounded by Chinese families going about their bowls with chopsticks and speaking in rapid Chinese, we slurped away.

This was Manhattan. Chinatown, New York. But I could have been easily in an eatery on the streets of Chinatown in Calcutta where the Chinese folks around us would been chattering in Bengali. The common factor was the intensely flavourful food, because that is what makes Chinese such a Friday night comfort food, isn’t it?

Do you put on your PJs after a long day at the end of the week and unwind with delicious Chinese and a frightfully scary movie? I look forward to such evenings when I rustle up Indochinese fare (typically it is about Schezwan dishes concocted with garlic and dried red chillies, moreish Manchurian dishes and chilli dishes which are typically batter fried chicken/fish/ veggies tossed up in spicy sauces). It is a version of Chinese food bequeathed to every Indian by the Han/Hakka community who made their way to Calcutta as far back as the mid 1800s when a businessman called Tong Achi established a sugar mill there.

The migrant Hakka people who belong to the provincial Hakka-speaking provinces of China started working in the sugar mill. In time they turned their skills to work in the tanneries (the stench of which can and will send you into a dead faint) to churn out fashionable and high quality leather goods in British India (working on leather was looked down upon by upper-caste Hindus) and some even operated opium dens. There are faded sepia photographs of rake-thin Chinese men with pipes of opium and punkahs (hand-held bamboo fans) alongside, staring at the lenses with glazed eyes, a sense of detachment from the squalor of their den. I wonder about stories from another era that the Manhattan Chinese have to tell too.

At the same time that some were making their inroads into British India, others chose to make the considerably longer journey to America, lured by stories of the gold rush of the 1840s.

Now New York to Calcutta spells a gigantic leap, but the common thread that runs through them is woven with the warp and weft of stories. Of migration, of immense determination to make it work despite abject circumstances and then these migrants’ renditions of Chinese food that was inevitably tempered by the environment that they found themselves in.

My jaunts have taken me to the Chinatowns in London, Kuala Lumpur, Seattle, Bangkok, Singapore, Port Louis in Mauritius to name some but the way of life of the Manhattan Chinese and the Calcutta Chinese have seeped into the very fabric of their surroundings.

Bringing you back to the streets of Lower Manhattan, the older generation of Chinese turn out to be sticklers for their customs, language and stern expressions. Far removed from the glitziness of the nearby Financial District of New York City, it is a world peopled by old Chinese men and women, bent double with age over walking sticks as they hobble across pavements, stopping once in a while to look askew at passers-by, cordial young bankers sitting inside their chambers and talking about their love for everything modern and coming across as the quintessential New Yorker living in their microcosm, younger store workers with colourful dragon tattoos splayed across their arms and then the antique shop owner with five generations of antiquing in the blood. The streets of Lower Manhattan are entrancing.

This was how we were introduced to the well-known and oft talked about grand American dream – that if you put in hard work why you shall reap the rewards – all tucked in comfortably within the streets of Chinatown.

2017-05-29 10.26.02 2.jpg — Sunday masses at the church are held in English, Mandarin and Cantonese.

2017-05-30 07.45.35 1.jpg — Chinatown Starbucks

2017-05-30 07.45.35 2.jpg — Heritage and modernity join hands in Starbucks, Chinatown.

2017-05-30 07.45.36 1.jpg — Colours of Chinatown in Lower Manhattan

2017-05-29 10.26.01 1.jpg — The oldest store in Chinatown, Manhattan, is this antique store called Wing On Wo & Co. Generations of Chinese have been selling porcelain here since the 1920s.

2017-05-29 10.26.03 1.jpg — Those fire escapes fascinated me. Here you see them on Mott Street, which is the nerve centre of Chinatown.

2017-05-29 10.26.10 1.jpg — A Cantonese businessman was the first to arrive in Lower Manhattan and start the process of slowly and surely changing the nature of these streets.

2017-05-29 10.26.06 1.jpg — At Big Wong, we let go. Pork dumplings.

2017-05-29 10.26.08 2.jpg — Noodles laden with pak choi and chicken

2017-05-29 10.26.07 1.jpg — General Tso’s Chicken. A piquant affair.

2017-05-29 10.22.32 1.jpg — Fire escapes and dimsum palaces

2017-05-29 10.22.27 1.jpg — Chinatown leads you into Little Italy. A neighbourhood where once immigrants from Naples and Sicily arrived in the 1800s.

2017-05-29 10.22.22 1.jpg — I was taken in by those fire escapes as you can see.

2017-05-29 10.22.26 1.jpg — Italy nostalgia.

2017-05-29 10.22.23 1.jpg — A typical NYC sight

2017-05-29 10.26.12 1.jpg — Red chequered table cloths, cannoli, espresso, pizzas, pastas…a feast awaits you in Little Italy. I cannot wait to get back and tuck into some Italian fare.

2017-05-29 10.26.11 1.jpg — We might have started with Chinatown but I leave you here with Little Italy, which goes to show that here is a city that belongs to everybody, and at first glance, seems to be made up of a million dreams and desires.

Jun 2, 2017

Arundhati Basu77 Comments

On Almost Not Making It

We almost did not make our flight to New York. The traffic jams on the motorways of London are notorious. If you are stuck on the M1, because there always seems at least one accident in the works, know this that you shall surely miss your flight. As my parents experienced much to their horror when they were returning to Calcutta from a holiday in the Blighty.

Now the thing is when you are not in someone’s shoes, even if it be your parents’, it is difficult to absorb the enormity of a situation. The proverbial sitting ducks, they went ballistic, the hours flying away dizzily enough – as it always does the day you are about to catch a flight. They were still sitting on the M1. Could it be? A bad bad dream but yes there they were, caught in a cab with somewhere to go, yet with no choice but to sit tight on the motorway, miss their flight and hyperventilate alongside. This even as they had left hours before they were supposed to from Northampton.

The day before we were to catch the flight, my mother said with a nervous laugh, “M (pet name alert), get out well ahead. You know what happened to us.” I did the usual thing that daughters do, roll their eyes, and note impatiently: “But obviously, ma. What happened to you was a freak incident. It does not take place all the time.”

Now indulging in a cliche, because cliches work my dear friend, do not go around counting those chickens. They may hatch but is there a guarantee in life? Non.

Two factors worked simultaneously in our favour as we set out for the airport. The most important was the fact that we had decided to part ways with British Airways this once and opted for Norwegian Airlines. It is a low-cost long-haul option that offers a world of comfort. Do ink it in for your next search for cheap travel tickets. You shall see by and by, why.

The second crucial factor was that the system of British Airways had developed a major snag that morning and it had crashed. The upshot of it is that many were caught aboard BA planes with no idea of what was happening, others could not fly out of Heathrow for their bank holiday trips to Europe, some were trapped in Europe with no way to fly back home to the UK. And our flight was delayed by 45 minutes. It was thus that we made it to Gatwick with 15 minutes left before boarding began. I am sure BA is not about to forget it in a hurry. They have to after all pay up 500-odd euros of compensation per couple. Do remember that little fact if you were caught up in a situation the last weekend thanks to BA.

There is a silver lining in most every situation, you see. You have just got to remind yourself of it in life. We managed to sidetrack the M1 accidents, felt grandly astute, but how could the M25 be left bereft without its share of accidents? So we sat in the car for aeons. Our bums froze and Adi engaged his maws to showcase magnificent yawns, worthy of a sleepy lion, behind the wheel. When an opportunity arose for a divergence, like eager beavers we jumped at it.

This meant that we were on the A roads soon puttering through beautiful villages at 20 miles per hour in West Sussex country. Doing what we do best. Smiling in indulgence at the chocolate-box cottages and acres of green where cricketers in white huddled together for to-do about serious matters such as how to lob the ball and catch the batsman unawares (I kid, okay? A serious cricket fan would lob the very ball at my nose for even suggesting that lobbing or underarm bowling still takes place, goodness gracious me). Charming parish churches of middling height stood quietly besides timber-framed cottages and jolly little pubs showed up to tickle us for a last pint within those wondrous dark rooms of joy, but no we resisted.

The larger picture had to be kept in mind there.

2017-05-30 10.22.31 1.jpg — Part of the larger picture. Food served with clouds on the side. If you fly Norwegian Airlines, premium economy, as we did, you shall be pampered.

2017-05-30 10.22.31 2.jpg — Grilled chicken with risotto, sugar snaps and sundried tomatoes on the side. Don’t sniff your nose at the sugar snaps, you ungrateful wrtech. Yes they look a little worse for the wear, but then you are as hungry as a bear.

2017-05-30 10.22.30 1.jpg — The motto in life

2017-05-30 10.22.30 2.jpg — Salmon salad. If that was Norwegian farmed salmon, apparently I had greedily gobbled up tons of chemicals on the side along with potato salad and itsy-bitsy greens.

2017-05-30 10.22.29 1.jpg — Not to be looked at with a gimlet eye

2017-05-30 07.45.47 1.jpg — New York beneath a dream sequence of clouds

It was how we did not miss the flight after all, made a dash for the gates to board, and then sunk with relief into the arms of comfort (wine, delicious food and movies) to be swept into New York’s abysmally drab John F. Kennedy airport of pesky hustlers and expensive yellow cabs. To my amusement, we were rewarded with a disgusted ‘chhi’ apropos a female Chinese hustler who lost a possible pair of cows to a yellow cab in which the able African-American driver informed us sagely, “You should be allowed to make the choice.”

A ride through the glitziness of Manhattan and he was emptying out massive four suitcases and two strolleys at the end of the journey. A wink was accompanied with some advise, “Now don’t you go unpacking tonight, just order yourself a bottle of red wine and relax.” Who am I to ignore the wise? Both of us just fell into bed and had a long 10 hours of sleep before we woke up to our cosy little service apartment with a view of my neighbours in Jersey City – who can, through the bay windows, surely espy a bespectacled girl scooched over the table on her bar stool as she clacks away and sips on tea.

Welcome to the joys of city living.

May 30, 2017

Arundhati Basu77 Comments

Pints, Trains, Snores and Friday Nights

Friday nights and drinking are an art that has been perfected by the London working crowd. You will notice this that all workers are done and dusted with work by almost as early as 3pm. The process starts around midday when they gather in clusters outside office, smokes and cups of coffee in their hand, nattering away. That is what Fridays should look like – the prospect of the weekend starting off, armed with cups of coffee and all-important conversations that hinge upon … you take your pick of what they should go like. Go wild.

A Friday evening decides the tone of the night. Will you be relegated to the guest bed or the couch? For your own bed shall be out of limits. Let there be no doubt about that.

That is If you make it back home by morning.

Take my husband’s colleague. He boarded a train from London after a substantial evening of pints to get back to his home in the suburbs. Sleep took over. The worthy man woke up and found himself in the seaside town of Brighton. What a frightful mess you would think. You would also think he would have been alert to the possibilities of what lay after. Think again. He nodded off. Yes once more.

Life is a series of dramatic incidents on any particular Friday evening that starts with an innocent drink. When our friend woke up a second time, he found himself in Brighton, fell asleep, woke up and found himself in Brighton all over again. A vicious cycle alright but brought to a halt the third time when his wife turned up at the station. The aftermath would not have been pretty.

Then there is the husband. After an evening of drinks post work on a Friday, he called to say he would be home after a couple of drinks. Two drinks being the operative words here. Our friends, part of the merry party, called to assure me that he was hauling his behind out of the pub soon. Contrary to what it sounds like, I Do Not sit with a cudgel at home.

That was 8pm. This was 11pm. Barring an evening of books and Netflix, a twinge of conscience made me put through a call. It turned out that Adi had just then got onto a train.

Midnight came and went. Radio silence. Several frantic calls. Now booze, sleep and trains make for best friends forever. Adi, it turned out, had been on a train to Gatwick. No prizes for guessing, but he had slept off in between. Now, Gatwick is an hour away from Euston, the station from which Adi catches the train back home to Northampton. By the time he had reached London again, the last train for Northampton had left the station. Voila.

The story did not end there. This talented husband of mine declared that why he would sleep the last few hours of the morning at the station. Alarm bells started ringing in my head. I was picturing him, a drunk man in a suit by the side of the road, snoring away with his mouth open, not unlike a hobo.

Oh not a scene to be endured even though my thoughts for this pesky creature were not too kind at the moment. After a session of extreme nagging (it is a tiring job, isn’t it?), he tottered over to a taxi and spent a not-too-moderate sum to get back home.

The clock struck 4 when my warrior reached home.

Sympathy had run dry and the guest bed was the perfect repository for all drunken snores.

Lest you are in London on a night out, this time with the errant partner/friend, do give these spots a look-in.

Shoreditch

In ultra-hip Shoreditch, which some poor sod ranted about as being too hip (as if!), the East Enders welcome Friday with a bang. Boho-chic fashion, hipster beards and a chilled-out vibe reigns supreme. The mind boggles to think that the place is supposed to have got its name from some mistress of a 13th century king of England who lay dead in a ditch here. And Shoreditch came to be – her name was Jane Shore. What a pathetic insert into the happy evening we are contemplating, I admit, but then in London it is easy to think that the bench you are sitting on belonged to some earl who sat on it as he played the violin, releasing mournful strains by the minute.

The streets of Shoreditch are awash with colour and you can spend your time watching movies on rooftop cinemas or shop away and scout street art in its various alleys with a tripod and trusty DSLR in your hand. Better still, you can catch a drink in one of its gastropubs and do some pub-hopping. Be a busy bee in short.

The Owl & Pussycat

Now you would be forgiven for wondering, ‘Why are people spilling over onto the streets? Did the pub throw them out for bad behaviour and they therefore stand around like punished schoolboys and girls. Only with glasses in their hand?’ No these fine men and women just like to stand and drink, okay? It is a London end-of-the-week ritual. This 18th century pub here is a fine place to sit and nosh away, if you get any space on one of its fashionable Chesterfields. If not, just take yourself to the beer garden at its back for my sake and join the many who stand around dreaming away or eavesdrop on others who pontificate about changes in life with a glass of wine in their hands.

Dirty Burger

The name does the job. A small joint but when you are down a few pints you know what burgers can do. So I shall just quietly step away from the burger. Go on. Make it sloppy.

Boxpark

A converted shipping container that is filled with options for when you want to eat and drink alongside ‘cos why should you do one thing when you can multi-task. Chomp and guzzle.

BBB

That stands for Beach Blanket Babylon. Why on earth would they think of beach and Babylon together? My imagination is at a loss. Also because I did not end up inside. But if you do, let me know?

Dirty Bones

Some more dirty stuff. Here you can truly get working with your hands. Now stop overworking that ripe imagination and wait for the bowl of spicy chicken wings to make its way to your table. Magic.

Indigo

You could look in here and try the gol gappas. Water-filled balls that is. Translations sometimes can put a smile on your face. The spiciness and tanginess of them can act as the perfect antidote to an evening of Bacchanalian pleasures.

Euston Tap

Lastly, I have to slip in this wonderful little institution outside Euston station. Now Euston is the gateway to London for some who arrive by train from various parts of the country. The location of Euston Tap is strategic. No time is too early or late for a pint. You can choose to slowly get sloshed before taking your train or you can arrive at Euston and get started at this craft beer pub. The only thing is you have got to remember – and this is vital – is to get on the train to make it back home, okay?

Processed with VSCO with a5 preset — **Euston Tap. Where life looks rosy with a drink in each hand.**

May 26, 2017

Arundhati Basu45 Comments