Unexplained

There lives a man who
On freezing winter mornings
Or searing hot afternoons
Seems so engrossed
With no care in this world
But with a piece of chalk
Or a rusted stone
He writes.
Writes with a yearning
On the streets, the black charcoal road
On the outer walls of houses,
On railings, on dustbins,
He writes.
A story? Some tale long lost?
No, just crumbs of knowledge
The alphabet, or just numbers.
Undecipherable, unexplained
No beginning, no end.
They call him ‘mad’.
But he writes still-
“one, two, three, four…”
A count that goes on
Inexplicable, unstoppable...

"Excuse me bhaisaab, you forgot your manners behind"

Agreed, early childhood and adulthood are far apart. Too many years in between, but that certainly is no excuse to forget two or three simple words- excuse me, please and sorry. Yeah, our daily lives are busy, majority of our population struggle to keep up their hand to mouth existence, but honestly, how much does it take to be polite? How much does it take not to push women on a street, to step on people’s toes on the bus (and not even say sorry, while the poor thing yelps with pain) and what exactly does it take not to swear at the top of your voice in public?

The lack of civic sense is common knowledge, but on Delhi roads, its absence hits you hard in the face! You have to constantly look out to dodge people’s spit flying through the air like some extraterrestrial insect, and have to face the embarrassment of the background music of multi lingual swear words while taking an important call on your cell phone. Bus rides are the worst hit situations- Fights over the ‘Ladies’ seats’ are outrageous. Women lugging their children and bags get onto the bus and begin asking men to vacate seats for them, and more often than not, young and middle aged men simply ignore them. Then begins a round of bickering and abuse. In fact many a times it is elderly men who vacate seats for women. You wonder what’s wrong with these young guys who refuse to vacate seats even when they’re being given an earful for that. Not just anyone, even college students around my age, who look like they’ve been trained in manners, do that. Then comes the politeness bit. It seems most people assume that the bus conductors and drivers don’t deserve politeness. Even while asking for change, I saw this gentleman apparently on the way to a decent office, swear at the conductor loudly. And yeah, we Delhiites have a penchant for swearing even to joke with buddies. Sample this- “Arre kahan tha ab tak *$#%@ $# ?” and a hearty reunion of two guys follows. People fail to realize that their rather unruly reunion has an audience of around 70 people on a bus, including children. God knows what those poor kids make of it!

If I’m sounding like an uppity city girl who wrinkles her nose at others for some reason or the other, I apologize. But the point I’m trying to make is, our public places need to be a bit cleaner- not only the physical surroundings but also in terms of our manners and courtesy. You can clean and scrub Delhi’s face all you want for the Commonwealth Games, but if the common citizens refuse to make an effort to match up to this image makeover, I think it’s all pointless in the end. In fact this makes me think of rather bleak possibilities in terms of the after-effects of the Games. I hope we don't end up ravaging the city's resources for something that won't last lon enough to make it worthwhile. Here’s hoping for a better Delhi, AND better Delhiites!

The Negligent Blogger

Yeah, this is not ignorance, nor reluctance or anything in that league. A bit of negligence, and maybe, i confess, laziness on my part, that this blog hasn't been used in a loooong time. So I'm here to make amends. I've been missing not because there eren't things to write about- I just didn't squeeze out time and maybe I was procrastinating too much. So things accumulated for a long while, piling one on top of the other like sediments on a river bed, that sort of strated weighing heavily on my mind recetly. But since my other preoccupations took a back seat, (read: no SNSes anymore in my life) I think i'll manage to be fairly regular here. So hang on, my readers! I'm coming up with some interesting stuff soon! Catch you!

Narcissism all around!

Why, even i caught myself today, clicking myself, from my own cell phone. In case you haven't noticed the number of 'me's in this sentence, I'll share with you the scenario in college on a regular day: most people who happen to be free lounge about the corridors and lawns, either looking at themselves in pocket mirrors, or taking pictures of themselves and their friends. Scene on the bus: people buried in smses and cell phones, and yeah, some clicking away here too! Scene on the road: well, i don't need to repeat it again. so what happens to all these pics? they're on display for the benefit of the entire world. You'll find them on social networking sites, as cellphone wallpapers. And not just photos, even blogs talk about publishing yourself to the world. Even my blog here tells people so much about me. So what with so much of obsession with the self and what belongs to the self, aren't we heading to a society where people would simply refuse to look beyond their cell phone, their profile pages and their blogs? Everyone seems to be keen on expressing themselves and not on what others have to say. So eventually, there is going to be no audience for all this display! And the snake would turn in on itself...

Gourmet Legacy- Part 2: Mutton on my plate

Apart from the biryani, there is a whole world of sinful delicacies that vary in flavour, texture and taste. From baked and roasted to steamed and fried, mutton is as versatile as you can make it! To begin with, these can be categorised according to the cut of the meat. Whole pieces are used in gravy based dishes like the korma or the nahari (the latter's etymology rooted in the word 'nahar' or morning. It's eaten for breakfast, despite the rich taste of ghee and strong spices.) Ribs or 'chaap' are also marinated and fried. The next degree is what is called 'pasande', and i can't find an english word for this. It's boneless meat, thinly sliced and cooked in grave of curd and spices. It's flavor is as delicate as its texture, you can't stir it with a spoon, even wooden. Same case with koftas- my mom's trick is to lift up the whole deghchi or kadhav and lightly shake the meat balls to turn them. Koftas could be plain or stuffed with a chilli coriander mixture. And then there's the 'shabdegh', from shab or night and degh or a cooking pot. It's basically koftas with a different combination od spices along with turnips and carrots. And believe it or not, shabdegh has to be prepared on low flame, throughout the night to be served the following day, hence the name. Another variety is the nargisi kofta- delicate koftas, shaped big enough to hold a whole boiled egg at the center.
There are other varieties that I've missed on, a variety of soups, organ meats and much more that I might not have discovered yet. And of course, these are enjoyed with a range of breds- naans, kulchas, rumali rotis, taaftaan, tandoori rotis... Each different flavour is an experience in itself, waiting to be discovered.

Gourmet Legacy- Part 1 : The Biryani Odyssey

The Walled City... Mughals... street food...Did I say roadside biryani? Even if I didn't chances are, that it was already buzzing in your head. If you happen to be a non-vegetarian, you must read on, because here's a ride in to the world of the sinfule delicacies that are clubbed into one broad group- Mughlai food.
Skipping the very debatable debate over what exactly is Mughlai food, who discovered butter chicken etc., I shall right away chuck out all political correctness. It's the job of the food critics and bigwigs of the food industry, let them handle it.
What I'm about to write deals with the layman's preferences. Pardon me, I cater to lay women too. But that in itself is debate because for most people, including a rather intimidating aunt, eating non vegetarian food and eating well, is rowdy and messy business. So 'eating well', is essentially men's prerogative, while women demurely look on as they pick at their salad. However, I for one, enjoy sucking the marrow out of the bones (pun intended). And so I shall enjoy writing about it to.
I belong to a people who hold a fierce pride in being the 'original dilliwallahs'. They can bring out a family tree to trace back the last five or six generations who lived on the same land on which we today live. And so we are born with a certain superior taste when it comes to aunthentic Delhi cuisine. And that is not, my people would tell you with conviction, what is being presented to the world under fancy, much-hyped brands. Restaurants and hotels can slam each other all they want, but the ideal biryani is an art that comes to you naturally, or it doesn't come at all.
So why is the world all worked up about The Biryani? It seems to be every restaurant's claim to fame- the quintessential Indian dish that everyone believes they can get right. And there would be as many versions of it as the commentators- the potli pulao, the zafrani version, the Kashmiri version, the Hyderabadi version... their tastes may be worlds apart but they're all biryanis in the end.
So I'll take you to my people's version of it. Of course we have our 'generations old recipe', which, by the way, everyone seems to have. But the flavour we can achieve, my mother says, can slamdunk any of the "burger chhaaps" and give them a run for their money when it comes to good food.
As any non-veg enthusiast would know, white meat like chicken has no flavour of its own. The flavour of spices and vegetables has to be infused, when cooked with it. On the other hand, red meat has a flavour of its own, and an amazing one at that. So that means if you cook red meat even with the humble old lauki or potatoes, as its done at my place, it can beat any fancy recipe.
But then the beauty of good meat lies in the way it is cut and how fresh it is, which surprisingly, not many food critics seem to write about. In my mother's opinion (and she's a credible authority) meat shops in Old Delhi are perhaps the only ones who know every piece of meat, every bone and joint of the whole sheep or goat so well that they'd never cut the meat "as if they were chopping tomatoes." And then your meat is as good as its fresh. My people can tell with the first bite how fresh the meat is. Ideally, it has to be bought fresh, cooked and consumed within the same day.
Of course the rice and spices are important too. Soaked in salted water, the long and fine grains are inetgral. The spices are every chef's secret- they can make or break your recipe. Each piece of meat cooked in steam, NOT in a pressure cooker but a kadhav or a deghchi, has to be a tender and fragrant one, with its flavour still intact. And that, quick fix biryanis whipped up in pressure cookers can not achieve. Then there are the interesting variants like the 'potli pulao', where all spices are tied in a mulmul cloth, called the "potli" and kept with the meat in steam, called "dum", so as to get the essence of the spices. The potli is removed before serving the pulao. Zafrani and Kashmiri versions are much richer in flavour, enjoyed mostly in winters. This variety is cooked in milk with saffron, making the rice rich in flavour and soft in texture. Fried cashews are also used.
The Hyderabadi version, introduced to my folk by an aunt from Hyderabad, is an altogether different experience for North Indian taste buds. The hyderabadi Biryani is all about its spices- the cinnamons and cloves used in abundance for a sweet and spicy flavour. Also, it uses both mint and coriander together (either as whole leaves or as a paste) which happens to be a taboo in our North Indian cooking mantras. Nevertheless the biryani, in all its diverse glory, finds its way into all meat-lovers' lists of favourites.
(To be continued...)

A Faded Blue Ribbon

A Faded Blue Ribbon

A faded blue ribbon
Has a story of its own
Of days lived, years spent,
And of times bygone.

When a little girl wore it
On her dark locks
The sweetness of innocence
That youth now mocks

When the pretty young lass
Awaiting her life's sunshine
The ribbon adorning her dress
Of youth and beauty fine.

And then the lady of age
Weary of time and still going on
Her hat crowned by the ribbon
Now faded and worn.