Sandeep Uncle's Red Mutton Curry

That Colaba house holds a lot of fond memories, for me. Somehow south Bombay's humid, searing, sultry atmosphere never penetrated the mesh-covered windows. Many a joyous Christmas or summer was spent there, in the company of my cousins, their pets and their wonderful maid.

At the end of a tiring day, Sandeep uncle would come home, exhausted, to lots of hugs from the whole family. He'd sit down on his wooden chair in front of the TV in the master bedroom and watch the news and cricket highlights of the day, along with me and Kartik, my cousin. The maid, Manjula, would bring in a tray with dinner as he took off his shoes and freshened up. For some reason, I remember this one mutton curry that he used to love. That curry can teleport me across time and space to that Colaba house and all the times I spent there.

Days were spent playing cricket in the garden or in my cousins room - something I'd look forward to doing all year. We'd be taken to see all of Bombay's new, trendy malls and cinemas and occasionally, for a sunset walk along the coastline. As kids, it was really a home away from home. My sister and I would wait for our cousins to come home from school, passing time watching TV or be entertained with games and stories from our grandparents.

The smell of that curry as the maid took it out of the kitchen and to the master bedroom filled the whole house. We'd already had dinner but this was like watching a celebrity walk down the road. We'd follow our noses to the room and take in the glory of that mutton curry. Sandeep looked like a king on his throne, savouring the evening meal after a hard day mediating a ferocious court.

It was a deep red-brown. The curry-meat ratio wasn't too high but what little sauce there was, was the perfect amount. Like icebergs on the ocean, the succulent, dark brown chunks of boneless mutton would protrude the surface. The rotis brought along with it were piping hot and the curry was crying out to be wrapped and consumed in them. He'd obviously give Kartik and I a taste.

It was mutton, wrapped in curry, wrapped in roti, wrapped in Bombay. The heat of the curry, tenderness of the meat and softness of the roti encapsulated the city and that house. One side of Bombay, to me, is synonymous with heat, gossip and hustle and bustle. South Bombay especially.....its all very cut to cut - no one stands still for a second, even in the searing heat. The people are always going somewhere or doing something. Their demeanour is rushed and their eyes are wild. The spicy, deep red of the curry summed that up.

Biting into the mutton itself was like jumping into a duvet. The mutton was massaging you in that tense spot. It was like Bandra....laid back and meant to be taken in slowly. It was so full of flavour but rushing into swallowing it was pure unforgivable sin. You have to throw it around in your mouth for a bit, then let the first of the juices escape. Then you chew slowly, fully grasping the majestic simplicity of a piece of well marinated, spicy meat. Don't bite, caress with your teeth. Don't zoom around Bandra in a car with preppy yuppies, go to a frankie stand and stroll along Carter Road and let the salty sea breeze season your roll.

The roti is the simple, hard working people of Bombay. The ones who you don't see outside Phoenix Mills or Cafe Coffee Day. The roti is the middle class. The accountants and the shop owners. The roti is soft but firm, hot but slightly sweet. It is what holds the meat in place, what holds the city together.

I'm hungry.

Birmingham

I left my flat and walked towards town, leaving the towers of my university behind. What a strange city this was. If it was deserted, it would look like any other city - concrete and glass and the occasional, refreshing, old English style building with gargoyles. But no, when the soul of a city, it's people are taken into account, it becomes a very strange and unique city indeed. Growing up, I've lived in and visited many cities around the world, but none with an identity as confused as Birmingham.

I was in England but it did not feel that way. At the street crossing next to Tesco, I saw one of the few white people I'd see on this mundane trek to Tesco. There were two adolescents, adorned in gloriously cheap, grey tacksuits wearing baseball caps and shiny white trainers. The boy had more gel on his scalp than hair. His short, wispy brown hair was slicked forward, over his forehead. The girl was blond and chubby and carried herself in a most lethargic manner. She was sucking on a lollipop, fiddling with the 'gold' chain around the boy's acne ridden neck. Young love. Their expressions were bored, their faces almost lifeless. I walked on.

I passed the bus-stop and saw a large group of brown teenage boys, all dressed the same. All with the same hair style. All talking in the same manner. All being loud, obnoxious and boisterous. All laughing and swearing without a care in the world for the nearby families, the children eyeing them nervously from behind their parent's legs, the disapproving old couples and me. I walked on.

I saw a black lady, struggling to manage her three curious and energetic children. The blustery spring afternoon made it all the more difficult for her to navigate the streets, steering her pram clear of on-coming traffic and trying desperately to get her children to stay in the same place. Her sigh spoke a thousand words and revealed emotions that perhaps cannot be emptied through the literary sieve and into this blog. She was a young woman, she must have been in her twenties; she looked far too young for this job. She looked out of ideas. She needed a hug. I walked on.

Two young Chinese women passed me. Eyes down, mouths shut, holding hands and walking at a furious pace. They were probably university students. Boy, were they far from home! The Chinese.....they seldom speak. This is my observation. I walked on.

I saw two, large, fat, black women ambling along in their elaborate African dresses and head-gear. They spoke in a tongue that was easy on the ear, in an accent that felt on the ears like blissfully relaxing shampoo on one's scalp at the hair-dressers before the cut itself. They walked slowly and labouriously but they were smiling and laughing all the way. The first happy people I'd seen. I walked on.

As I continued to walk down Corporation street towards Tesco, I realised just how varied the population of this city was. What was the spirit of this place? What people characterised this city? When I think of Birmingham, what face will pop into my mind? I cannot put my finger on it. It is a city of immigrants. I had never seen this many Pakistanis in the same place! I was dressed differently to most people. My suit jacket and sunglasses contrasted sharply with the hooded jackets, nylon raincoats and cotton tracksuits of most people. I must have passed 500 people on the way to the supermarket that afternoon - no more than 20 of them were white. This was the reality.

I saw a brown family walking in the same direction, just ahead of me. The high pitch voices of the children brought laughter to the faces of the parents, which brought a smile to mine. The children were as inquisitive as any, firing one question after the other at their father, while the mother rocked and sweet-talked the little bundle in her arms. They stopped so that the father could tie his son's shoe laces. I walked on.

Two construction workers were enjoying some gourmet English food outside a chip shop in the mid-April sunshine. Their reflective flourescent green jackets made me squint at one point. One was bald, fat and white. The other was thin and brown, mouse-faced with that same 'crown' hairstyle that most brown men here sported. They were exchanging stories, their laughter filled the air.

I had reached Tesco. It was 6pm. It was Sunday. It was closed.

An Open Letter to Mrs Preethi Menon

Dear Mrs Preethi,

How are you?

I caught myself day-dreaming last week; I was remembering English class. I remembered the class we had on the Monday afternoon, when it the heat outside was sweltering but the fans in our classroom lulled us into a subtle peace with their soft, constant whirring and the sympathetic breeze they let flow across the room. I remembered you talking about the deeper connotations of the themes discussed in 'Like Water for Chocolate'. You know I'm not a big reader but I really enjoyed that book and the way you explained it! It seems a long time ago and a long way away from where I am now, in the world and in my life. I felt compelled to write to you.

Do you remember Gautam Jain and how awake and alive and enthusiastic he was? Or how Tanay, Raj and co. would be 'taking notes' so furiously on their laptops? Or the impressive array of excuses Arun so expertly used to wriggle out of the classroom for those few extra seconds? Or (and no sarcasm here, just admiration) how refreshingly sincere Soudeh was with her work? Or how Karan would complain about the length and variety of the Russian names in Dr Zhivago (as well as his now well documented hand gestures)? What about how pedantic and cynical I was? What is your English class like now?

As I'm sure you do remember, I am at Aston University, in Birmingham, in England. I am studying Business and International Relations and really enjoying it - particularly the International Relations component. I try and continue my writing in my spare time. It offers me solace and is a great catalyst for reflection and self-examination. I am happy with my life and my university experience.

I miss my school days. I miss the friends I made and the teachers who helped shape my mind. Though I had many differences with the school and some of its policies - as any rebellious teenage boy is likely to have had - I wouldn't change a thing about that time in my life. I want to thank you and indeed all the people that make up Indus, in having a profound influence in who I am today.I remember all the 'anti-establishment' sentiments harboured by me and my peers but I do not regret them. Instead, I am glad that I can look back now and see why we felt that way and why what our superiors did was done with our futures in mind. I am an adult now (barely, though) and therefore I can look at my teachers as individuals and human beings, rather than the all-powerful masters of the universe they once were! I remember feeling a tremendous sense of injustice towards some of the actions taken by staff but now I can see that the staff too, were just human beings. They made mistakes, they were under pressure too. I have so many great memories that take place within the white-washed walls of Indus. I couldn't possibly be angry. I wouldn't change a thing!

Anyways, the theme of this letter isn't a negative one. It is one of reflection and acceptance. I smile when I think of how I grew from a chubby, spectacle wearing 9th grader who did a great Cantonese accent, to one of the taller, more sarcastic, apathetic students in my 12th grade class. I saw life-long friendships form, like those between me, Arun, Anirudh and some of other "not quite back benchers" in your English class! I watched with mixed emotions, guys and girls getting 'closer' - in the most adolescent context! I discovered my passion for writing as a result of being a frustrated, stressed 12th grader, buried under college applications and SAT practise papers. I remember the excitement and ecstasy of finding out I'd topped the IGCSE exams and the lazy but fun-filled year that followed it. I remember my disappointment at not even being nominated for a student council post in 11th and 12th grade - not that I'd have done a good job! I remember the comical frenzy of cleaning and tidying activity that followed someone running into a pig-sty of a classroom and yelling "Sarojini is coming!". I remember, perhaps most vividly of all, the feelings of sheer, boundless and all-conquering joy I felt as Prahlad, Arun, Anirudh and I would pry a football out of the clutches of Mr Singha and run onto the football pitch on a Friday afternoon. These memories will, hopefully, stay with me forever.

I smile in my sleep when I think of Anirudh and me doing the impersonations of all the teachers on the steps of the IB block on those sunny mornings! All the legendary Physics teachers we've had, Mr Arul with all his quirks, Colonel Rao and his interrogation techniques, Ms Selina's immaculate enunciation, Ms Sunanda's rather bizarre but nonetheless entertaining rants, Colonel Jasial's 'jokes' on our school trips, the battles for the most perfect Mallu accent (!) between Mr Vijay Thomas and the PE teacher Mr Dilip, Ms Vijayalakshmi's perplexing words of warning to the class, Mr Sudhakaran's fondness for Rushikesh, and so many more! Sadly, I don't think we ever got around to pin-pointing a succinct imitation of you!

But now I must stop reminiscing, before I lose my train of thought! I just want to wish you well and say that I am glad you were my English teacher. I'm sure the rest of our class wishes you the same, wherever in the world they may be. I thank you and Indus for the good times and bad. I hope this letter finds you in good spirits, because writing it has certainly left me in them.

Yours sincerely

Shravan

The Last Leaf

Winter has come and left the tree bare. All but one of the leaves has thrown itself into the cold wind of seasonal change. One clings on, defiant.

Silly leaf.

The 6am Smoker

The night is perfect. It is the best time of day. It is quiet and cool. No superficial people, just the optimistic chirps of birds. This is the domain of the 6am smoker.

I don't know what he's doing up at this time. I can see him from my ground floor window, sipping a cigarette. The night seems to get stiller with every exhalation. Winter has left but a single leaf on the naked tree next to him. I don't know his name but I'm tempted to go ask him what he's doing and why he chooses this time to grace the silent courtyard.

From a distance I see a profound sadness in his eyes. Perhaps he's reflecting on a day or a life. On what's gone well and what hasn't. I think he's thinking about someone because there is longing in his expression. His face is young but his demeanour is tired. Looks like he comes here to escape the world, his cigarette an ally. Early morning provides solace - but from what?

His sleeves are folded up, in defiance to the cold. After a while, a look of contentment spreads across his face. Maybe the cigarette has served its purpose. Maybe the exploration of his own mind has yielded some answers. While the rest of the world dreams about sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, our hero is trying to out-stare the night. People are funny things.

I wonder who's lonelier- me or him?

The Folks

Thank you. 

I look at the world and I see UN schools being bombed in Gaza. I see the (needless) media frenzy over someone as insignificant as Jane Goody. I see a corrupt monetary system. I see people generally not getting along. Where's the good? Where are the things that make you want to wake up the next day?

They exist. And I want to thank two of them. My parents.

When all those bad things overwhelm me (like after watching Zeitgeist, for example - a movie everyone should watch), I like to dream about my house in Bangalore and the warmth and unconditional love that radiate from it. I listen to my friends talk about how they're going to go visit their dad on the weekend and I feel thankful that mine loves my mum. I look at broken families and I smile when I remember my family on one of our signature holidays. You take them for granted till you leave them. My parents are the best people I know - and there's no hyperbole to be found here. Not a trace.

I look at some of my friends' parents with skepticism. The ones I used to think were cool because they let them do whatever they want and I'm grateful my parents were 'firm but fair'. This is one of those moments where the self-fulfilling prophecy of "you'll thank us when you're older" seems to have fulfilled itself. I look at some of my friends' parents who are on the other end of the scale. Treatment of teenage boys has never seen such polarity. Stalin could have learned a thing or two about totalitarian government from this lot. They were - if I said 'no disrespect here', I'd be lying - irrationally strict and in many ways, backward. They irked me because I could see the look of helplessness and anguish on their sons' faces and I couldn't do little about it. All I could do was come home and be happy that I was who I was thanks to my parents being who they were.

I'm 18 now. I've left the creche. I'm out in the real world where you have to be accountable for yourself and 'man up'. I am happy with who I am. I am happy with the product that the conveyor belt that was my childhood, has churned out. I know who I am and where I come from and where I want to go and I have no one but my parents to thank for this. Had they planned it all out this way? I don't know. Perhaps. Maybe I helped myself grow a little but I know they did the bulk of the footwork in that respect. 

I feel sorry for kids who didn't have a dad growing up. I know some and they are fine individuals, but would have been much better had they been provided with half the dad I got. I take after my dad a lot. I surprise myself by the amount I do. I have met a lot of people in my life but I don't think I've met a better planner and organiser than him. Sure, some people may be smarter (although the more I think about who exactly, the more I doubt that statement) but no one puts faith into the world like he does. Even when the world kicks him in the teeth. My dad has this amazing ability of starting out every task or project, with the belief that everyone in the world is a good person who will work as hard as he will. And living in India, when this IS the case, it's a pleasant surprise. When I see my dad bitter or angry it saddens me because I know why. I think he wishes everyone would keep to their word like he did. He isn't perfect and we have had our disagreements, but there's something about his attitude towards life that I've hopefully got a bit of and that is to go out into any endeavour and trust other people to do their best. It's an honesty you'd be hard pressed to find and I love him for it. I love when my dad puts on his reading glasses, gets a pen and paper, and draws up a table. It sums him up. Also, did mention that he knows everything?

I can't imagine my dad when he's older but I sure can picture my mum, say, 20 years down the line. She'll be sitting in our garden, reading Bliss Divine or some such text and smiling. My mum is always smiling. I have always been a big fan of my mum, right from a very early age. She will no doubt harp on about the various things I've said to/about her over the years in the comments box - I eagerly await them! I love when my mum gets angry. Her temper usually lasts for four to five minutes. It's triggered by something as trivial as my sister (I'm tempted to end this sentence here) wanting a different snack to what everyone else is being made. Soon after, it can be quelled by something like 'shikran' (a simple combination of chopped banana, sugar and milk). Then, she will float away to her office and leave us all smiling. My mum is the kind to walk into my sister's room when we're watching an Arsenal match and ask who's playing, and before we can answer, asking me to go across the street and get some bread. My mother is terrible with technology but I wouldn't have it any other way. I get cheap thrills by lapping up compliments from her/my sister/women in general (oooooh no he didn't!) when I've fixed the most minute technical difficulty. My mum has changed a lot ever since she found yoga but she hasn't really changed in her attitude towards raising me and my sister and I'm grateful. I can't wait to talk about philosophy with her this summer. I have never really sat and discussed deep  matters with my parents - not enough, anyway. This will change. 

I think now that I've grown up (or so I hope), I can look at my parents as individuals rather than my father and mother. I can understand better why they do things, why they make mistakes and what drives them. This has been fascinating because it was like meeting two new people. And they were amongst the most interesting people I've had the pleasure of knowing. My parents used to be these two godly figures whom I had no choice but to obey and I could only look at them as my parents, not as Vijay Bhat and Nilima Bhat. I see all the bad in the world and I think it is balanced by what I feel when I think of my family. They are the good in my world. Not the only good, but probably the biggest contributor. I don't think I'd change a thing about the way they've raised me. 

I'm glad we ate as a family. I'm glad you got angry at me when I lied. I'm glad you didn't force me to do things I didn't fully believe in. I'm glad you recognised what inexpressible joy football brings me. I'm glad you made us write those holiday reports. I wouldn't change a thing.

Thank you. For everything.

PS. I still think you over-reacted when I broke that window ;-)

A spiritual experience?

King's Cross station came and went. I was shocked and confused: how would I get to the stadium now?! Apparently it was over-crowded so the train wouldn't be stopping there! There was barely an hour left till kick-off! How would I get there in time now? I asked advice from fellow tube compartment passengers as to which was the quickest way to get to the Finsbury Park tube station. Some said the bus, some said to stay on the tube and change at the next stop and take a spectacular dog's leg and some said to get off at the next station and walk to another tube station. In the end, I chose to do the latter. I scurried through twilight lit (twilit?) central London on foot, from Farringdon tube station to Holburn, kind, savvy Londoners giving me directions every few hundred yards.

I finally got onto the tube heading northbound, squashed into a carriage with many more football fans, some Brazilian, some Italian, some (like me), just there to experience the spectacle. I heard flowing, easy going Portuguese and fast, harsh Italian being spoken and I saw as many blue scarves, as I did yellow ones. We got off at Finsbury Park station and sprinted to the stadium. Behind and in front of me, both sides of supporters were already singing songs dedicated to their national teams. I smiled as I ran, covered in a few layers of clothes and my trusted white scarf. It's quite a walk (or run, in this case) from the tube station to the magnificent Emirates Stadium so when we arrived at it's exterior, we were all out of breath and had trouble navigating through the crowd in search of our particular turnstiles. Still, the sight of this glowing masterpiece of architecture, almost pulsating with noise, was not lost on me, as I took a few seconds to stand and admire its beauty. I felt the same way when I looked at Kanjimjanga (or K2, the world's second tallest peak) back in 9th grade. It wasn't as good as the Taj Mahal, but then, few things are. Maybe Sashimi. 

I climbed the stairs to my seat in the upper tier, two at a time. I still hadn't emerged into the middle of the ground, I was still inside the stands, surrounded by ugly concrete. But then I walked through the narrow tunnel towards my block and emerged into heaven. The interior Emirates stadium is sight to behold during the day, but at night, under floodlights it really takes your breath away. My senses were overloaded. I asked the steward to direct me towards my seat and after jostling past people who were already there, I finally sat down. After spending the best part of an hour, zipping around Central London on foot or standing up in a train, I sat down. It was bliss. I had a chance to take in the aura of the place.

There were colours everywhere; I had never seen the stadium (albeit, after going for only 3 matches) like this before. There were the blue shirts of the Italian fans and the vibrant yellows and greens of the Brazilians, interspersed with the blacks coats of neutrals like me and the red and white of the decor of the stands. Camera flashes sparkled every few seconds. The pitch was the kind of green carpet any footballer dreams about. Not a divot in sight. The floodlights made the white lines and electronic advertising boards jump out, like glitter on a piece of paper. Oh and the sound. The Italian fans were pumping out battle-cries of "I-ta-lia, I-ta-lia" in a deafening chorus only to be matched but the various songs sent forth by the legions of Brazil fans. It was like a tennis match of song. It cold night air whipped past my now almost hairless head (I really should have taken my wooly hat after my haircut!) but I was too excited and happy to care. Someone started a Mexican wave that coursed around the stadium just as goosebumps coursed over my skin when Brazil scored. I felt a sense of joy and happiness, not because they had scored, but because I could experience this, this sensation. It was just like I'd imagined it, yet still surreal. Was this state of euphoria what they call a spiritual experience? Where you feel connected to an occasion or place or a point in time that is like nothing you've ever felt before and struggle to describe with words? To me, it may well have been.

The Brazil fans jumped to their feet and fist-pumped the air! A pretty Brazilian girl in front of me began doing some variation of the Samba - a tad distracting for a teenage guy, but hey, can't complain! Flags and banners were waved with new enthusiasm and the same songs that were sung before, had a whole new energy about them. Below me, the Brazilian players on the pitch came together in the far corner to celebrate while the Italians walked back to the halfway line, heads hung in disappointment. It was a goal of beauty, from a footballing purists stand point. One touch passing was capped off by a clinical finish. I was so taken up by the brilliance of the occasion, that I'd forgotten that the world's best player were meters away from me, playing the sport they and I love.

The Brazilians were magicians - Ronaldinho and Robinho in particular. They were here to please the crowd as much as they were here to win a football match. They were showmen. I remember Robinho tricking a pair of Italian defenders with some hyptonising step-overs, before threading a simple ball between the two of them! The crowd went wild and he acknowledged. Ronaldinho was at it all night long. He was doing clever flicks and picking out passes that I could barely pull off in my back garden, let alone in front of 60,000 people! He was out there to have fun - and the crowd were loving it. Brazil were running a clinic. Italy had no answer. Their star players, De Rossi and Pirlo both had off-nights and their famously water-tight defence, seemed no match for Brazil's cheeky attack. It was only a matter of time before the second goal came. It was if Robinho had planned 2 steps ahead of everyone else and was already thinking about beating the second defender before he'd embarrassed the first. He nicked the ball of a rather lazy Andrea Pirlo, dribbled around him, put in a couple of (now trademark) step-overs to flummox the second defender and fired a low shot into the far corner that had the world's best keeper, Gianluigi Buffon, beaten. 

The crowd exploded again. Italian fans behind me put their heads in their hands and acknowledged that they had seen a piece of magic. I bet that musicians feel this way when they go to see their favourite bands/musicians play live and witness talent that is infinitely greater than theirs, not with jealousy, but with sheer, dumb admiration. Robinho had been playing cheer-warranting back-heels and no-look flicks all game long, but this goal was on a different level. I can imagine him doing this to defenders at a school level, and still feeling the same joy now. How good were these guys? It humbles you to see the sheer mighty presence of Adriano, winning headers up front - he was built like a bull. The blistering pace of Marcello and Alexander Pato left me, traditionally the slowest player on the team, in shock. The passing of Italy's Andrea Pirlo even made me angry. How can someone look so indifferent when pinging a 60 yard ball to the feet of a team-mate? He did it at ease - it was like watching someone play him on the video game! You know how you always think, when watching matches on TV, "that looks easy, I could play for XYZ club!"? Well I no longer think that! Each player on show was a master at his trade - well, apart from Dossena (Liverpool fans will know what I'm talking about!)

I'd been to a few live Arsenal matches before this and they were great because I'm a huge Arsenal fan but this seemed like a different experience. This was the 5-time world cup winners, Brazil, going up against the 4-time, and current, world champions, Italy. Football is one of the things I live for - food, writing and family being the others. Was this as good as it gets? For me, yes.  This was one of the best things I have ever done. This was an unforgettable night and one that will provide me with happy dreams and memories, for years to come.