Reflections, Banter and the Honest Truth

There are quite a few things that make me feel warm and give me comfort, and not surprisingly quite a few of them belong on the list of food and beverages. Last evening, both my daughter and I were feeling under the weather, and I wasn't sure what to cook- that would make us all feel nourished and satisfied. My elder daughter would not put up with a meal meant for for a convalescent.  I quickly glanced through the fridge, and the kitchen cabinets. An apple, chicken breast, carrots, potatoes, masoor dhal, coriander leaves, onions- few of the things that caught my eye. I thought of a recipe that I had years ago, and had cooked just once before, soon after I was married. My husband relished it then and so did I.  So mulligatawny soup it was then.  I was introduced to this soup at the establishment that our (extended) family ran years ago, in Bangalore. And we always had it in the non vegetarian form. You would normally not call something like this a soup. A pottage, maybe? It is thick

I remember the sound of drums, from when I was little As processions from the temple near my home Went past and the smell of incense and smoke  Would waft through the cold air. I would run out in excitement to look at the people  Sometimes ladies dressed in silk and gold Sometimes men bare chested, with tongues pierced. Wailing, chanting, singing Depending on the occasion. And when the procession was three feet from my gate, The sounds and the vibrations of the drums,  Made my heart pound, like the drums. I would shriek and run into the house and peer from behind the door. I couldn't miss the sight and the sound of the traditional temple drums Even if it was from behind the door. It was probably a decade later, A different drum, watching Ustad Zakir Hussain Playing the tabla in the Taj Mahal Tea advertisement. Which was more fascinating? I now wonder. Watching the Ustad with his lovely smile and locks Or the rhythm of the tabla. A few years later, whenever we had family visit from

While I am one of the most patient people that I know, I am extremely disorganised. This contributes to a bit of a mess around the house at times.  My sister, Maria (who is lovingly called Akka, by all the siblings) last visited me and my girls about six months ago and I think she was a bit shocked at the amount of unnecessary things that were in the house. From planks of wood lying in the loft, to pedestal fans that did not work, jars of ingredients in the kitchen which were probably used only once a year, to pans that were never used, and artificial flowers - something that I absolutely loathe.  I will make an exception for something that is beautiful and classy. Well, my wedding bouquet was artificial white poinsettias, because I love how beautifully the lady (Sandy) who made mine and my bridesmaid's bouquets does her arrangements, and they had to be brought from Sri Lanka. The fresh flowers would not have made it.   Well, in addition to all this we all had loads of clothes in o

 Looking back on my last 12 days with Gerard, I think of him lying on that bed in the ICU, intubated, with the ventilator, monitors and machines all around him, tubes in his nose and mouth, tapes stuck on his neck and his face, holding the tubes in place. The monitors beeping in the silent ICU. The smell of  medicines and  hand sanitisers, and on some days, a dialysis machine next to him, while I stood there and watched his blood flowing through the tubes. A blown up purple medical glove on his chest, to prop up all the paraphernalia that needed to be held in place. Doctors calling me into their rooms to give me updates and reports that I barely comprehended. He had to have the restraints removed from his hands to write things he wanted to tell me. The last time he probably smiled was when I spoke to him about our two girls and was imitating them, in the middle of the ICU.  When I told him that I loved him, he pursed his lips to give me a kiss, even with the breathing tube going into h

 I wake up to the sounds of the birds in the neem tree outside my window, the neighbour's dog yelping even before the sun has started to warm the streets, the milkman blowing his noisy horn while he rides around the neighbourhood.  The ladies in their nighties, with towels draped over their shoulders,  go outside with their shiny steel vessels, to have it filled with fresh, and creamy milk. This followed by a cacophony of sounds, as the ladies in the neighbourhood, talk to each other over the walls, across the streets, shouting at Jimmy, who has scampered out of the compound while she was engaged in a long chat with the milkman. And this is how my day begins, lying in bed, trying to block out the sounds with my thin bedsheet. I finally decide to get out of bed, look at the photograph on the shelf near the foot of my bed-'Gerard smiling', drink a glass of water, open the doors, unlock the gate, and go to the terrace to get a bit of sun. I look into the distance, at the squir

It is 3 months since my husband, partner and best friend passed on..... And our lives will never quite be the same again.  I hear people (who just want me to feel some kind of comfort) tell me that he will always be there, or that he is watching over us. I think that it takes the loss of a loved one to know that there is nothing like actually having that person be able to touch you or be physically present.  We miss - How he spent time with the girls and me I asked if with his friends he would rather be, I want to be here and I don't want to go  I can surely meet them tomorrow. How he would sit on the bed in his pensive mood About religion and discipline we often argued. And he'd bring down his guitar from the wall, To sings some tunes with him his daughters he'd call. Storms Never Last and Sister Golden Hair  His nasal singing voice, and then he'd declare  Don't I have a good voice, Sugar? We would smile and even he would then snigger. He'd scream at us all if