Travels with S: Adventures in Athens

After a short-lived panic attack at Athens airport (read about it here), S somewhat redeemed himself by accessing a previously downloaded offline map of Athens on Google Maps. Coupled with the detailed directions provided by our host, this proved sufficient for us to find the apartment that would be our home for the next 3 days.

And so it was, that by late afternoon, S and I found ourselves at a cosy studio in a quiet neighbourhood near the Acropolis. Tired and somewhat disoriented after the long journey, we took a couple of hours to rest and chalk out a rough itinerary.

That evening we spent just walking around exploring the area. The Acropolis Museum was nearby and the streets were lined with little bistros and cafes. We picked one at random and settled down to a very Greek meal comprising Greek salad buried under slabs of feta cheese, some souvlaki (skewered chicken),  and a bottle of the house white.

Here’s S, enjoying the first of many, many glasses of wine on this trip.

We eventually made our way back to retire for the night, walking past the Arch of Hadrian, which sparked off some comments on Roman Emperor Hadrian’s progress through Europe and beyond, accurately summed up by my husband’s proclamation ‘Man, that Hadrian really got around back in the day’.

Early the next morning, we set off towards the Acropolis of Athens, which was around 1.5 km away from the neighbourhood of Glakfou. Starting from the Theatre of Dionysus at the foot of the hill, we made our way up, passing the Odeon of Herodes Atticus – a theatre carved out of stone on the southwest slope.

The entrance to the top of the Acropolis lies through this doorway

The Odeon of Herodes Atticus – a stone theatre structure built in 161 AD

At the top, stood the ruins of the Parthenon, the Erechtheion, the Propylaia, and the temple of Athena-Nike.

Looking up at the magnificent structures against a deep blue sky, we were struck by how well-preserved these pieces of history were. Each was surrounded by a barricade, so no tourist can go right up to or inside it. Apparently, even when the newer Parthenon was constructed somewhere around 430 BC, no one was allowed to go right inside. Visitors could only come up to a point to see the now lost Athena Parthenos – a colossal gold and ivory statue of the goddess Athena that was housed in the Parthenon before it was plundered.

This ‘looky, but no touchy’ policy definitely augured well for preservation purposes. You are most unlikely to find ‘Theodoros loves Alexandra’ carved into the pillars here.

The Parthenon

The Erechtheion – a temple built in honour of the city’s patron goddess Athena

Most of the sculptures adorning the temples are now housed in the Acropolis Museum. Whatever few statues that can be seen at the site are replicas.

Replicas of the Caryatids – sculpted female figures serving as pillars – at the Erechtheion

We spent over 2 hours at the site enjoying the weather, the architecture, and the view of the city below. It was a warm and sunny day, but the wind at the top of the hill was strong – so much so that it came close to knocking me off my feet several times.

A windy day at the Acropolis

Later that evening, we headed to Monastiraki Square, a picturesque neighbourhood famous for its flea markets. The area was crammed with little outdoor restaurants, clothing boutiques, and souvenir shops for us to explore.

The lively Monastiraki Square

Selfie at the Square

We’d heard of a rooftop bar called A for Athens that was famous for its views, so we decided to grab a few drinks there. Copious amounts of wine and a sunset later, we were rewarded by a stunning view of the Acropolis lit up against the night sky – a fitting end to a memorable day.

The Acropolis at night

The next morning was spent at the Acropolis museum, which is built on the remains of an ancient Athenian neighbourhood. Glass floors allow you to catch glimpses of the excavated archaeological site below.

S surveys the excavated site underneath the Acropolis

S, the architect, pointed out many interesting things such as a fairly complex network where pipes must have been laid. The museum is laid out very well with each artefact accompanied by an informative note about where it was found and what it signified.

As someone with zero understanding of art, I was very thankful that this was an archaeological museum, and the tid-bits of history and mythology made the tour very interesting.

We wrapped up the hot afternoon by enjoying a delicious Pasta Greca and Tzatziki and Bread at the very hospitable restaurant Much Butter. The very kind host, Nico, was full of smiles and good advice. He also had us try a scrumptious olive-mayo dip and a traditional Greek dessert on the house, and in all, was a shining example of the Greek hospitality.

We debated on how to spend our last day in Athens. S wanted to take a tram ride for reasons unknown. He apparently had visions of us sitting by the window gliding along and enjoying the views of the coast. I knew better, but decided to let him earn his reality check.

First, the tram ticket machine rapidly swallowed 3 euros without dispensing our tickets. A kindly local said we should board the tram anyway and that he would explain our lack of tickets should there be any checking. So, we boarded to go to a stop where we would change trams and take a ride along the coastline.

Then, far from what poor S had envisioned; the tram was hot and crowded and much like travelling in the Delhi Metro (although during the non-peak hours). We stood for an interminably long time, crammed among other commuters – me glaring pointedly at S and he, equally pointedly, avoiding my gaze.

Finally, S gave up and suggested we quickly move on to our final adventure in Athens – Mt. Lycabettus.

We decided to take a taxi to a point on the hill as it was already getting quite late. After failing to explain where we wanted to go to numerous drivers, a young cabbie finally understood and dropped us off at a point high enough on the hill. We wandered up and down meandering paths, delighted with the refreshing evening breeze and the panoramic view of Athens below.

Strolling on Lycabettus Hill

The view from the hill

We wished we had packed a picnic dinner as we settled down on a nice balcony-like spot jutting out of the hill. We sat on the edge with our feet dangling above the city. After stowing the cameras away, my husband and I chatted about this and that as darkness set in all around us and the city lights below began to twinkle.

The sun sets over Athens

Twilight conversations

Around 8.30 pm, we started our descent. It took us around 20 minutes to make our way downhill and back to the square we had started from. By then, our stomachs had begun to rumble. We decided to dine at a restaurant we’d heard much about – called The Greco’s Project, and proceeded to order a very pork-intensive meal – our last in the Greek capital.

After packing and a night’s rest, we awoke at 6 am the next morning to head to the port of Piraeus to catch a ferry for the next leg of our holiday in the Greek islands. Despite a nerve-wracking few minutes with no cabs in sight, we did make it to the port on time and joyfully boarded a massive Blue Star ferry that proved to be kind of like a floating mall/hotel. Like two excited children, we explored the different levels and made our way out onto the open deck as the boat pulled out of the port.

The sun was shining on me, the wind was in my hair and…. the camera was in my face!! I bestowed many a dirty look upon the blissfully ignorant S as he proceeded to do what he always does…click away.

Athens grew smaller and smaller in our sights as we leaned over the rails in farewell to a city that had treated us most kindly. But, we had a few more sunny days in the Greek islands to look forward to.

Next stop … Santorini!!

In Sickness…

Bengali roots and past experiences with ill health have left S with just a touch of hypochondria. I knew this when I married him, and I found it kind of endearing.

But that was before he started stealing my thunder.

I started to notice that when I complained of an ailment, my husband’s automatic reaction would be one of empathy – because he too magically had the same ailment.

For example:

Me: I have a headache.

S: Me too.

Even when S was unable to generate the malaise at the same time as me, he would display his empathy by referring to a past experience with the stated problem. He wanted me to know that he knew exactly how I was feeling.

For example:

Me: I’m having a dizzy spell.

S: Remember when I was having dizzy spells 3 months ago?

Gradually, our mutual afflictions became a subtle contest over who was feeling worse at any given point of time or who was numero uno in the race to voice their complaint.

For example:

Me: My throat hurts.

S: Mine too.

Me: But I said it first!

There are no winners here.

One of the few areas where we could not compete, was the realm of menstruation cramps. This remains the one arena where I dance alone, wielding my exclusively female problem like a fittingly blood-stained sword. At these times, S bows out, ever-gracious in defeat.

Our joint sufferings have even amazed and amused a plethora of family doctors.

We recently visited our ENT because I had been suffering attacks of vertigo.

Me: So doc, I’ve been having these bouts of vertigo. It happened to me the first time last week.

Doc (gazing disinterestedly into my ear): Any other symptoms? Ringing in the ears? Headaches?

Me: No, not really.

Doc: It is a disorder of the inner ear. There is no known cause really, it can happen to anyone.

Shaunak: I had the same feeling you know. Some months ago.

Doc (ignoring this irrelevant chime-in and continuing to address me): You’ll have to be on medication regularly and taper it off over the course of the next few weeks. And it can recur anytime anywhere, so always carry a strip of the medicine with you.

Shaunak (not giving up): But isn’t it strange? That I had the same thing a few months ago?

Doc (drily): It’s not contagious, if that’s what you’re suggesting. You did not give your wife vertigo.

With that, S mercifully lapsed into a somewhat injured silence and I was free to hog the doctor’s attention.

Before we were married, I saw myself and S exploring the world together. Now, with each passing year, I see that this expedition includes the world of myriad illnesses.

Until death parts us. If that.

Travels with S: Greece and Italy – Prologue

 

The highlight of 2016 was to be 2-week vacation in Greece and Italy. We decided to cover  Athens, Santorini, Rome, and Florence in this 14-day period.

It took months of planning. On my part, at least. S spent much of this time doing the following:

a. Nodding dreamily at me whenever I talked about the trip, not hearing or retaining a word I said and then acting greatly surprised when I mentioned the same thing again, weeks later.

b. Cajoling and placating me with unlimited patience whenever I accused him of not being interested in planning our trip.

c. Periodically raising his eyebrows  at the debits based on various trip-related expenses and predicting vastly exaggerated totals of what we would spend in all.

Despite this, we finally had everything in place and were set to go. From booking all the flights, ferries, trains, hotels, and tours to research on what to do in each city; I had ensured that all the bases were covered weeks and months in advance.

“I’m giving you ONE responsibility, okay?” I had told S seriously, a few weeks prior to our departure. “You have to figure out how to get from the airport to the hotel/B&B in each city. I do NOT want to rely on cabs, they’ll fleece us.”

I was nervous about Athens most of all, because it was the first time I had booked any sort of accommodation on Airbnb. It is easier to find a hotel than an apartment. I instructed S to watch the video that our kind Airbnb host had sent us on how to get from the metro station to her apartment.

“I’m on it, honey,” said S, determined to contribute successfully, if solely, to this one aspect.

So, of course, one fine Sunday morning we landed, bleary-eyed, in Athens with no idea of how to get to our destination. S frantically tried to access the airport wi-fi to watch the video that our host had sent but could not download it. “I gave you ONE thing to do,” I sputtered helplessly and stared at him, frustrated, as he struggled with the URL, swearing alternately at his iPhone, the airport wi-fi, and his wretched luck.

It was a trying time, but I reminded myself that I had married S, not for his planning skills, but mostly because he was handsome; and thus refrained from strangling him with my bare hands.

It was going to be a fun two weeks.

 

 

 

 

Travels with S: Barog

It was September 2015. At the first opportunity provided by a long weekend, S and I escaped our dusty concrete Gurgaon jungle in search of some much-needed fresh mountain air.

A co-worker had recommended a hill station called Barog, tucked away in the depths of the Solan district of Himachal Pradesh. I had never heard of this place before.

And that was good enough for me.

We made reservations at a hilltop property called The Barog Heights, hired a car for the weekend and took off on a Friday morning armed with the bare essentials – Avomine for motion sickness in my case, and the DSLR camera in S’s.

On the way, we stopped only at a roadside dhaba for a breakfast of tea and steaming hot stuffed paranthas topped with a dollop of white butter. Thus, ensuring a nap for most of the journey (don’t be alarmed, we had a driver), we awoke some 5-6 hours later to find the car doing a near-vertical climb of a rather steep hill.

Perched atop this hill stood The Barog Heights, majestically overlooking the lush valley with blue mountains in the distance. We checked into our accommodation, a charming semi-circular room with floor-to-ceiling windows all around the curved portion, which was surrounded by trees offering glimpses of the mountains beyond.

After freshening up, we hurried to the viewing decks of the hotel which offered generous views of the landscape. Rejoicing in the pleasantly cool air that was gradually turning chilly as the evening wore on, we clicked away happily till the sun had set.

 

That evening, S informed me of his intention of waking up in the early hours of the morning to return to the viewing decks and capture the sunrise. I concurred with this plan, though with markedly less enthusiasm, and so we decided to turn in after an early dinner.

As promised, S woke me up a few minutes before 6 am the following morning. Humming happily, he proceeded to affix the monopod to the window as I stumbled sleepily around the room to get ready. When asked, he explained that he wanted to fix his phone to the monopod and capture a shot of the light moving over the landscape as the sun rose. “Then we can watch it at super-speed in hyper-lapse mode,” he proclaimed gleefully. Not really ready for this onslaught of tech terms at 6 in the morning, I uncharitably thought that this is what you get when you marry one of those annoying morning persons.

But as we stepped out onto the viewing decks, all sleep was forgotten. The hotel was covered in clouds moving across the hill. We watched fascinated as a thick carpet of white gradually covered everything in sight, and happily occupied ourselves with taking photographs.

Dawn breaks over Barog

Above the clouds

 

As the morning sun made its appearance, everything around us seemed to come to life. The hills seemed greener, the valley exuded warmth, the flowers seemed brighter, the monkeys came out to play.

“Wow that’s a lot of monkeys,” S pointed towards the trees just outside our room.

“Ummm.. honey, you do realise that the window is open…” I began.

“My phone!!” shouted S, taking off towards the hotel entrance at high speed.

I ran after him, and together we entered our room in nervous anticipation of the wreckage we expected to find.

But the room looked just as we had left it. The phone was still propped up on the open window, recording. The room service dishes of the previous night lay stacked in the corner, untouched. We breathed a sigh of relief. So, the monkeys hadn’t entered after all.

That’s when I noticed a trail of red drops leading from the table to the windows. My gaze followed the trail to a monkey sitting on the ledge right outside calmly tearing open a juice box that had been sitting on a table in our room when I last saw it. Later, the footage captured by the phone (in hyper-lapse mode) revealed a fleeting glimpse of the intruder as he entered our room in search of goods to purloin. We can only marvel that he did it so neatly, that those few drops of cranberry juice were the only evidence of his break-in.

We quickly locked the window and proceeded to formulate our next adventure. The monkeys outside were a bit of a distraction, as they ambled across the ledge and periodically peered in through the windows from different vantage points. Eventually, we had a plan in place.

We spent the morning in Kasauli, mostly ambling along winding mountain paths. We also visited a charming little bazaar and stopped at a hillside resort for refreshments and a view.

The picturesque Kasauli roads

Our next stop was the Barog railway station, from where we intended to take the Kalka-Shimla train to Dharampur – two stations away.

Barog is known for its picturesque railway station and its railway tunnel. According to legend, the hill station is named after one Col. Barog, who was involved in designing a railway tunnel near the station in 1903. He supervised the digging of the tunnel from both sides of the mountain. Unfortunately, he made a bit of an error in calculations, and the two sides of the tunnel did not meet in the middle. The British government fined him Re. 1. Unable to withstand the humiliation, Col. Barog committed suicide. He is said to have been buried near the incomplete tunnel and also to, quite understandably, haunt it.

Eventually, the railway tunnel, as originally intended, was completed under the supervision of Chief Engineer H.S. Harrington. Stretching over 1.1 km, it is known for being the straightest tunnel in the world.

But they still named the place after the guy who’d messed it up.

We returned from Kasauli, and the driver dropped us off near the station telling us that we would have to walk the last 500 metres. We set off along a vaguely discernible path meandering its way downhill till we reached a pretty little station done up in blue and red, featuring a narrow gauge railway.

Once the train pulled in, we boarded along with the rest of the passengers and found our way to our allotted seats. The locals seemed highly amused by the fact that we had actually booked tickets for this train and were intrigued by our monopod/selfie stick. After some thirty minutes of taking pictures and explaining ourselves to the curious locals, the Dharampur station loomed into view. We stood at the doorway, waiting for the train to stop.

It didn’t.

It only paused for some 3 seconds, and that too with no platform in sight! The locals assured us that this was where we had to get off. S was forced to act quickly and jumped off beside the tracks. I followed close behind, but he didn’t trust clumsy me to make the jump on my own and practically lifted me off the now-moving train as I squeaked in high-pitched protest.

There we stood among the tracks, taking a few seconds to recover from this rather unique experience of alighting from a train. I declared that I could have jumped off the train and landed safely on my own. “Yeah right, on your bum maybe,” S’s smirk said the words that he would never voice.

Our driver was waiting for us at the Dharampur station and ferried us back to Barog and our hotel. We sat on the decks for a round of hot pakodas and chai against the backdrop of pink skies lit by the glow of a setting sun.

Watching the sunset from the hotel viewing deck

There is nothing quite like the chill of the mountain air against your cheeks combined with the warmth of a cup of tea in your hands. Twilight eventually gave way to darkness, marking the end of the last day of our brief getaway. The city lights twinkled like stars in a black sky.

I looked across at S, happy just that he was there sharing these fleeting moments with me.

“So, I thought we’d take another crack at that sunrise tomorrow morning,” he said enthusiastically, launching into an explanation of why this was important and selling the morning wake-up for all it was worth.

Oh well. I’m still glad I married him.

Even if he is one of those annoying morning persons.

Travels with S: Khajuraho & Raneh Falls

I had been nagging S for weeks (maybe months) to go somewhere out of Delhi for a weekend. He finally responded to complaint #176 and with unexpected decisiveness declared “Let’s go to Khajuraho!”

Before he could start vacillating on the matter, we quickly booked train tickets and a hotel.

And so, on a cloudy Saturday morning in July, we found ourselves being bullied into a three-wheeler at the Khajuraho railway station by a proactive autowallah. Ranjeet quickly took ownership of our 2-day stay and commanded us to summon him for wherever we wanted to go. He thrust at us his phone number, ignoring our feeble protests that we wanted to walk around since our hotel was just about 1 km away from the main attraction that the place had to offer.

The Radisson Jass was a charming hotel and we took a couple of hours to rest and freshen up after the overnight train journey. Thus recharged, we stepped out of the hotel armed with a DSLR, a monopod and every intention of walking to the Western Complex District.

But it was not to be. As soon as we stepped forth from the hotel gate, we were accosted by our self-appointed chauffeur who warded off the other vultures hovering around the hotel with his own unique rendition of “I got dibs!”. Ranjeet ferried us to the western temple complex and left us to our own devices, with the promise of returning after a few hours to pick us up.

By this time, the midday sun was beating down on us and we decided to take shelter at the charming Raja Cafe – nestled among tall and leafy green trees – located right across from the temple complex. Refreshments were ordered and plans discussed. We decided to take a guided tour of the temples.

We procured a tour guide by the simple means of looking decidedly unsure of ourselves as we hovered around the entrance of the complex. Soon we were being shown around while marvelling at the architectural and sculptural expertise shown by craftsmen of the 10th century. Our guide quite matter-of-factly and unblushingly pointed out the erotic sculptures illustrating various positions from the Kama Sutra that covered the roofs and walls of the temples. It struck me that 10th century Indians seemed to be a much more free-thinking lot than we are today.

S was in his element – clicking pictures left, right and centre and occasionally dropping some fancy architectural jargon that I didn’t bother to try and follow. I had discovered the delights of the monopod by now and was busy taking selfies that did not look like selfies. We managed to get some satisfactory shots before the light faded.

 

The sound and lights show in the evening was a bit of a disappointment, though we did enjoy Amitabh Bachchan’s narration. The rest of the voice cast were being a bit too British to be credible as the kings of the Chandela dynasty. We headed back to our hotel and retired for the night, but not before discovering the joy of Malibu rum and pineapple juice.

The next morning, we awoke to weather that was, as my husband would say, sublime. It was a perfect day for a bike ride and so we decided to hire a scooter and visit Raneh Falls – which we had been told was around 25 km away from Khajuraho. I envisioned a small-ish stream and with some charming little waterfalls. “Can we go under the waterfall?” we innocently asked the hotel staff. “No, no!” they responded in tones of alarm tinged with amusement.

Khajuraho’s community of residents was small and tightly-knit. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. This was brought home to us by the fact that even though we had lost the faithful Ranjeet many times during the previous day (the cellular network having consistently failed us), we simply had to ask a passer-by whether they’d seen a guy in a horribly bright pink shirt commandeering an auto and several people said “Ahh, you mean Ranjeet!” and offered up his last-known location. Through word of mouth, we even got the message across that we were waiting for him. During the course of events, we met up with a young chap called Ahmed who had offered to rent us a scooter. We told him we’d let him know the next day and exchanged numbers.

As we set out of the hotel on the morning to Day 2, attempting to fulfill our wish to walk to the temple complex, we were conjecturing on how to trace young Ahmed. Of course the number he had given us was not reachable. Suddenly, an auto-rickshaw rode up and for once, it wasn’t Ranjeet. The elderly driver asked us if we were looking for Ahmed. Slightly taken aback, we confirmed his suspicions. He explained that he was Ahmed’s uncle who had been witness to our exchange the previous day. He quickly explained his elusive nephew’s whereabouts and then of course insisted on taking us there to ensure that we fulfilled our agreement of patronising the business of his own flesh-and-blood. “Dibs” was indeed the popular sales & marketing medium in Khajuraho. We assured him that we had every intention of approaching only his nephew for our vehicular needs but asserted our desire to walk. He reluctantly agreed and proceeded to follow us in his auto-rickshaw the whole way.

Anyway, having located Ahmed and rented a nice Honda Activa, we set off with low expectations having never heard of Raneh Falls till that very day. The ride itself was great fun, although S seemed a bit tense having not ridden a two-wheeler since his youth, aeons ago. A delightfully cool breeze accompanied us all the way as we travelled the narrow roads of the countryside with trees and green fields on both sides and some hills in the distance. As we rode up to our destination, we were greeted by the roar of water and the complete absence of human activity.

It was a spectacular canyon – grand even. Formed by the Ken river, the canyon walls were of sparkling granite in shades of red and pink and even grey and black in some areas. At intervals, the walls gave way to a series of waterfalls of varying size and volume. Struck by the sheer force of the water forging its way through gaps in the rock, we laughed at our naive question on splashing about under the falls – which may have been possible but would have been a one-way trip.

For me, this was a real hidden gem of MP, primarily because it was devoid of the usual throng of people and litter that marks most tourist spots in India. We had the place to ourselves for quite a while, leaving us free to explore the different viewing platforms built along one side of the canyon.

Here, we stumbled upon the use of the monopod for shooting self AVs. To S’s delight, I agreed to co-host a mini travel video of our visit to the falls and we spent a pleasurable hour crafting the narrative of our Raneh Falls story and exploring the different camera angles and shooting modes that are possible with just a monopod and an iPhone.

 

On the way back to Khajuraho, we reflected that Madhya Pradesh offered many ideal weekend getaway destinations from Delhi with some undiscovered delights tucked away. We were there for less than 2 days but we managed to optimize our time without packing in too much activity thus also allowing us to lounge around in and by the Radisson pool from time to time and enjoy a drink or two.

By Sunday evening, it was time to go home and so we reluctantly called it a day and headed for the Khajuraho station chauffeured of course by the ever-proactive Ranjeet. It was to be a comfortable overnight journey back to Delhi.

As the train pulled out of the station, we settled into our berth. S ruffled my hair affectionately as I leant against his shoulder. We watched the Khajuraho sign get smaller and smaller till it faded out of sight completely. It was time to head back to our regular lives.

“So,” said my husband, “Where are we going next?”

“To the hills of course,” I replied.

The Name is Smith.. Word Smith

While my husband would say that he has a quaint way of conversing, I (and most other people) would (and do) simply say “that guy sure talks funny“.

***********************************************************************************

I consider myself to have an above average vocabulary but S takes it to another level altogether. Apparently his 5 years at architecture school did this to him. Architecture seems to favour a somewhat elitist language that necessitates the use of terms like fenestrations to refer to the door and window openings of a building. Now you wouldn’t think that a person would get the opportunity to toss around these fancy-shmancy terms in the course of everyday life would you?

Well you would be wrong. Case in point:

S (gazing thoughtfully at an apartment building we were checking out): I somehow don’t like the look of this building. The fenestrations are so close together. 

Me: Yeah, dude, fenestrations are the worst.

S (kindly): Do you know what fenestration means, honey?

As it turns out (rather obviously), I did NOT know what the word meant. And the saga continues…

I remember when I first noticed his way with words. It was in the very early stages of our courtship and was actually a real turning point in our relationship. He was relating some incident from the past and concluded with ‘… and babe.. I was absolutely befuddled.’

“Befuddled,” I repeated, very amused because I never thought I’d hear anyone use that word in present-day normal speech. Clearly he thought that I didn’t know what the word meant because he attempted to replace it with (his idea of) a simpler synonym. “Flummoxed?” he offered.

That’s when I knew I had to marry him.

This has turned out to be a source of endless entertainment. It’s like living in one of those historical period dramas. For instance, my husband will never turn around and ask me “You wanna get a drink?”. Instead he will courteously enquire “Are you desirous of some libation?”.

The best part is that he doesn’t realize he’s doing anything out of the ordinary. Often he seems quite surprised that the people around him don’t understand what he’s saying. And he certainly does not get what is so funny about using these words.

That just makes it funnier.

My ex-flatmate Indu (who actually introduced S into my life) shares my amusement. She loves listening to his terrible jokes because his narration (using terms like ablution mug to describe a commonplace bathroom object) is often way funnier than the joke itself. Just the other day, S sent us into peals of laughter by innocently remarking “I don’t think that this plant is a money plant. A money plant has leaves with these striations.”

“Striations?” Indu and I looked at each other delightedly. We’d been waiting for this. “What the hell are striations?”

“You don’t know what striations are?” asked S, genuinely surprised. “Well it means… wait.. what’s so funny???”

He did it again, later on in the evening, while we were playing the game of Taboo. He gave us the most helpful clue of “White coloured version of a Kodiak” causing much confusion and hilarity.

I’ll let you figure that one out for yourself. I have to go and explain to my husband why this is funny…

..or in other words.. elucidate the rationale behind finding this mirthful.

The Wedding Day

I woke up on my wedding day to cloudy skies and a zit the size of a small hillock forming on my forehead. I rushed to the window and swore. I rushed to the mirror and swore again. The word spread around the house. Bridezilla was awake. ******************************************************************************************************* It had all started, as most weddings in India do, with a prayer ceremony at the end of which our family friend/philosopher/astrologer/guide assured us that we had left things in the hands of none other than Lord Rama’s troubleshooter – the capable Hanuman ji. Hanuman ji clearly has a sense of humour. And so he chose December 14, the day of my winter wedding, to shower rain upon the Earth much to the collective chagrin of the wedding decorator and my mother – who had both apparently been imitating ostriches with their head buried in the sand and thus, ignored the weather forecasts that had predicted rain for Sunday all week. ********************************************************************************************************** Agonizing over the impending storm as well as the zit that could be seen from a mile away, I was placated and consoled all day by well-meaning relatives and friends. They brightly said things like “Oh, it looks like it’s clearing up” and scuttled away before I could clarify whether they were referring to the weather or my pimple. But in either case, it was a LIE.

“Good luck covering this thing up,” I said in a text message to my aunt, Mrignaina (known as Maina maasi) who was a professional beautician and had generously volunteered to get me ready for the big event. But at some point, I decided to rein in Bridezilla and cheer up about things which weren’t under my control. It was because of this attitude-change that I only scowled at my friend Aku to discourage her from the incessant picture-taking, instead of tearing her head off and tossing it out the window without regret.

At the stipulated time, we gathered our things together and sped off to the venue where Maina maasi was to meet me and do her stuff. We reached the venue well in time and settled our things in the room where all the make up and bridal adornment was supposed to commence. But there was no sign of Maina maasi. My cousins and sisters started pouring in. Other relatives too. I sat in my bridal lehenga my emotions alternating from feeling forlorn and ugly, to a state of euphoria that I was marrying S.

Finally, a decidedly demented-looking Maina maasi appeared on the scene with her hair in rollers and breathless explanations of “I had TWO accidents on the way here.” There was no time to sympathize and she quickly proceeded to do her magic. And it was magic. She transformed me into a acceptably bride-like figure, highlighting my eyes with kohl, curling my hair and stuffing 65 pins into a bun that would hold my dupatta in place. The maang tika, which is a pendant-like jewel that Hindu brides wear on their forehead, suitably covered up the wretched blemish.

Meanwhile, the groom had arrived. He was regal and handsome and perfect in his traditional attire. I heard him socializing and greeting sundry guests who were looking for shelter from the rain wherever they could find it. It was pandemonium outside, with only a small lobby area and a covered porch for guests to huddle under.

At last, I was ready. But no one was ready for me, it seemed. The groom had to kick off the ceremony on his own and I wasn’t to be allowed outside yet. My giggling sisters and I took selfies as we waited and also submitted to having our pictures taken by the official wedding photographers. “Where’s my woman?” I heard S shout, which we took as the signal for me to make my entrance. I walked to the doorway, squared my shoulders, lifted my lehenga skirt to keep from tripping over it, and walked out.

As I stepped out on in my bridal finery to the makeshift mandap set up hurriedly under the tin covered porch, a deafening clap of thunder announced my arrival to the waiting crowd. There were about a hundred people huddled together, wet and shivering, under that porch. In the midst of the chaos, I vaguely heard a few cheers and one lone, albeit enthusiastic, whistle.

Then I saw S. We grinned at each other. And nothing else mattered.

Garlands were quickly exchanged. Photographs were taken. During a 20-minute respite from the rain, we ran up onto the stage and greeted the various people that had been gracious enough to attend our wedding despite meteorological obstacles. Then it was time for the actual ceremony to begin. And it had started to rain again.

As I made my way back to the mandap, I happened across my two siblings – my older brother and sister – happily gorging on the food. It had been a while since I ate, and now I would have to wait till after the ceremony – till past midnight – to have my dinner. As I paused to reflect on the sarcastic remark that would be appropriate to this situation, my brother handed me an umbrella to hold over their heads while they ate.

The ceremony went by in a blur. I remember flashes of it. I remember my mother and siblings sitting in a row at the mandap giggling uncontrollably and inexplicably during what was supposed to be a very serious affair. They later told me that a guest – a late arrival – had rushed up to my mother and apologized profusely for his tardiness, explaining that his flight had been delayed and he’d rushed to the venue straight from the airport. He then tried to give her the shagan envelope – the customary token gift of cash given for the bride and groom. Only he handed her his boarding pass instead. My brother couldn’t resist remarking that they believed him when he said he’d just got in to the city and that he needn’t show them proof. The nameless guest retired sheepishly after producing the real envelope and was not to be seen for the remainder of the night.

I remember being handed a paper bowl during the ceremony and being told to drop its contents into the fire. Only the instructions weren’t too clear, so I ended up dropping the bowl itself into the fire – an act which evoked a collective gasp from a horrified audience. My 6 year old niece Nikita said it was her favourite part of the night.

I remember my other niece, the 7 year old Anoushka, sitting next to S for a long time during the ceremony in the vague hope of procuring and hiding his shoes – another strange custom of Hindu weddings. She happily used the groom as her personal pillow sliding down progressively into a reclining position. Her twin brothers, aged 4, had graced the occasion for a few fleeting moments, bestowed matching scowls on everyone they saw and rushed back to the familiarity and comfort of their own home at the first opportunity.

Most of all, I remember S and the infinite reassurance of his calm and poised presence next to me the entire night. And I remember thinking that the mayhem had all been worth it.

To Mini, Manusa and Aku – you were my pillars of support. Thank you for your patience.

To my siblings, Y and Abhi – thanks for the entertainment, guys. You were zero help, but hilarious.

To S – thanks for marrying me. I owe you one.

To Hanuman ji – thanks for the rain.. And the memories.

To Indu, with love

When I first met Indu in 2012, I frankly thought she was a little bit nuts. This was owing to the fact that I had received the following call from her earlier that day. 

Me (answering my cell phone): Hello?

Unknown stranger: Hello? Is that Gitanjali? I heard that you are looking for a flatmate and I’m desperately looking for a place to stay so when can I come and see the place?

Me: Ummmm… I don’t know… err… why don’t you tell me your name first??…

Despite the initial misgivings, I let her move in anyway.

Two years later, I’m certain that Indu is a little bit nuts – but also endearing, funny and caring and at times surprisingly insightful and wise. I’m not an easy person to befriend but I can happily say that Indu is now one of my ‘inner circle’ gang.

We’ve shared a lot over the years as co-inhabitants of the cosy little bachelorette pad, happiness, success, heartbreak, failure—and even a haunting. Well, sort of..

When I moved into the flat in 2011, there was a full length mirror on the bathroom door which had a huge crack, curving spectacularly right across. This did not bother me or any of the myriad flatmates that came and went. But along came Indu. She approached me seriously one day and asked whether she could have the mirror replaced. “It is bad luck to have a broken mirror in the house,” she said ominously, and added “That’s why you haven’t gotten married yet.”

Thus, having convinced me that my marital fate hinged on the removal of this broken looking glass, she proceeded to call the carpenter and have a brand new mirror installed in place of the old. Satisfied, we went out for the rest of the day for various chores. Later that evening, I was pottering about in Khan Market when I received my second-most strange call on record from Indu. “Dude, I just got home. The new mirror is cracked in exactly the same way as the old one!!” she said in a hushed voice.

Disbelieving and slightly scared, I rushed home. It was true. A different mirror—but the same spectacular crack in the same place!! Clearly, my fate as an old maid was sealed. The fact that the door panel wasn’t a completely flat surface wasn’t the first explanation that came to mind. Nor was it the most interesting one. We quietly removed the mirror and did not attempt to replace it.

And then, a year later I got married!! Ha ha.

Jokes apart, a few weeks after this ‘supernatural’ phenomenon occurred, I was introduced by Indu to this charming and handsome fella who now happens to be my husband. So, in addition to being my flatmate, friend and co-host of various strange little parties that we threw at the bachelorette pad, Indu also became my own personal Cupid.

I have a lot to be grateful to her for. She showed me how far a positive attitude can take you and that sometimes it’s okay to abandon the ‘plan’ and just go with the flow. She continues to serve as a gentle reminder that I should carve out time to do the things that I love – one of them being writing.

Indu, I miss living with you. I miss the chai and pakoda/samosa, pancakes for breakfast, mushroom pasta dinners, failed Ladies Nights at Hauz Khas Village, completely useless Bollywood trivia, the many Mumbai-isms you taught me and the worst/catchiest Bollywood songs emanating from your room.

But I had to go and live with a boy. And now you’re leaving the city for exotic lands.

I always knew that you shouldn’t put down roots anywhere. Not until you’ve travelled the world and spread hope and colour all over it.

So I’m glad to let you go.

As long as you keep bringing back presents.

Introducing S

This was a difficult post to write, the subject being of a deeply personal nature. But I felt I must explain this ‘S’ person’s sudden entry into my life since most future posts will feature him in some capacity.

In the latter half of 2013, I was undergoing a metamorphosis of sorts. I’d said goodbye to ‘long-term-relationship-Red’ and had embraced ‘single Red’ with great gusto. I did all the things single people do, like quit my job in favor of the freelance lifestyle, go to Vegas with my best friend, straighten my hair, go on drinking binges with my buddies, plan a trip to Amsterdam to see Pearl Jam live, and have the odd flirtations. I was actually having a great time and was prepared to do this for a couple of years before meeting the right man and settling down and all that. And if I never met the right man, well I was prepared to be single. Forever. 

This lasted all of 6 months.

Meanwhile, the boy S had moved to Delhi in October whereupon he chanced upon my flatmate as they were both attending a networking picnic type event that professionals from the creative arts fields are wont to frequent. My flatmate had returned from the event and said in her dreamy, eccentric fashion that she had met a guy that I could date. I had laughed. Trying to set me up with some random picnic guy, I thought, amused. Hah!! 

Then things went the way they usually do. You know, standard boy meets girl stuff.

Flatmate invites boy home for a party to balance the sex ratio overwhelmingly skewed in favor of the female invitees. Boy brings date with him. Boy meets girl, forgets date. Girl ignores boy. Boy tries to get invited over again by flatmate. Flatmate tells girl. Girl thinks boy is interested in flatmate.

Flatmate invites boy over again. It is Saturday. Boy meets girl again and plies her with wine and clever conversation. Girl relaxes and plays guitar. Boy is floored. Girl is still clueless as to boy’s interest. Boy finds excuse to talk to girl on Facebook. It is Sunday. They talk for hours – and the next day and the next. Boy finally asks girl out to dinner. It is Wednesday. They meet at a quiet restaurant. A few hours later they have both decided to spend their lives together. But they don’t know it yet. It is Thursday.

They realize it a few weeks later. And admit it a few months later. No one proposes, no one accepts. It is just … obvious. 

You know. Typical love story.

Smart, sarcastic, self-deprecating. Asks 10,000 questions for every little thing and has mild touches of OCD. Caring, protective and immensely affectionate. One of the most eloquent people I have ever met. If I had him at ‘Hello’, he had me at ‘Befuddled’. (Yet, he could not string together the words ‘Can I have your phone number?’ without some amount of prodding.) 

I’m marrying this annoying and wonderfully perfect person in a few months from now.

Who would have ever thought I’d end up with Random Picnic Guy? No one, except for the flatmate. She drifts about the house saying ‘I knew it all along’ with an air of omniscience. 

The date is set. It turns out to be the same day as her birthday.

Maybe fate is something.

The Negotiators

When I was a child, the parent’s word (or that of any authoritative adult) was pretty much the law. It was a black and white world of ‘yes’ and ‘no’.

Today, it’s all about negotiating the best deal.

Yes, we’re raising a generation of wheeler-dealers. I felt this keenly when I visited my twin nephews (age: 3.5 years) and niece (age: 6 years) the other day.

I walked into my sister’s place at lunch time. Clearly the bargaining processes had commenced earlier, because the kids had wangled themselves a ‘Watch TV while we eat’ sort of deal and were watching Chhota Bheem with great fascination while distractedly chewing their food after several reminders from their nanny.

The twins threw themselves on me lavishing affection for a sum total of 5 seconds before turning their attention back to the TV while their older sister, for whom I am now old news, waved at me briefly from the other end of the room.

And then the dealing began.

It started with little Papad who turned to me very seriously and asked “Masi, can I watch ten programs on da TV?” (He said ‘ploglams’ but I caught his drift.)

“TEN?” I said, pretending to be horrified. “Certainly not.”

“Five?” came the immediate counter offer with the air of a salesman bestowing a 50% discount and a great favor all rolled into one.

“One!” I said firmly, knowing how this game is played. “And that too if you eat your food properly.”

“Two?” said Papad, flashing his famous and most charming smile.

“IF you eat your food properly!” I relented, disarmed by his toothy grin.

Satisfied by these terms and conditions, he resumed TV viewing and ignoring his food until reminded to have a bite.

His twin, Pickle, took up where he left off.

“Masi, I don’t want to have more,” he whined, indicating his plate of food.

“You have to finish your food,” I said sternly, trying to think of a bargaining chip.

Pickle had thought of his way before I did, because his next move was to clamber up on the couch next to me and fling his little arms around my neck and plead. I was successfully silenced for a few seconds by his chubby little cheek pressed against my face.

Clearly I was dealing with a pro here.

Luckily, my sense of responsibility prevailed and I insisted that he had to eat more if he wanted to finish the TV program.

“Have ONLY five more bites,” I urged, estimating that that’s how much it would take for him to finish his roti.

“One bite,” he offered reluctantly.

“Six bites,” I said smartly.

“Zero bites,” he responded, turning my own strategy against me.

“Zero TV,” I said, displaying my wisdom and experience.

We settled at 5 bites.

Peanut was next. She was supposed to practice her piano and seemed to be procrastinating a little. So I suggested she get down to it, just as she settled on the couch with a cupful of Gems candies.

“First I will eat my Gems,” she said decidedly, clearly feeling entitled to a bit of post-lunch dessert.

“Surely not the whole cupful,” I said knowing how long that might stretch to. “Why don’t you finish a few and then play and then eat the rest after your piano practice?”

“I will eat all of them,” she said calmly, popping one into her mouth.

Hmmm, this one was going to be a bit more difficult than the other two.

Trying a new approach, I said brightly, “Hey, what about that new song you learnt. Your mom said you play it really well and I would really LOVE to hear it.” I was lying valiantly since her mother had told me no such thing.

“Okay,” she said eagerly putting her precious cup of Gems aside and running to her piano.

Hah! Masi – 1, Peanut – 0.

However, she then proceeded to bargain on the number of songs she would practice and I was handicapped by the lack of knowledge of how many she was supposed to practice every day. We settled on what seemed to be a reasonable number and probably both came away feeling like we scored one up over the other.

And then it was time for me to leave for work.

I picked up my bag and the twins, seeing the signs of imminent departure, began to usher me towards their room, insisting “No, you not go”, with some intention of barricading the entrance. “I have to go to the office, darlings,” I said playing an honest but trump card. “Office”, they had learnt to accept, was a non-negotiable category. So they changed tactics.

“You’ll come back?” said little Pickle based on the reasonable assumption that his parents always returned after a day at the office.

“Not today, sweetie,” I said regretfully. “But I’ll come on Sunday.”

“No. Monday!” declared Papad, clearly not thinking his strategy through.

“Okay,” I agreed.

But my readiness to acquiesce made Pickle suspicious.

“What ish tomollow?” queried the more street smart twin.

“Wednesday,” I said.

“Okay, you come on Wen-day,” they chorused.

“All right, little sweethearts,” I said and left them pleased at their victory.

They failed to specify which Wednesday.

Yup, they may know how to drive a hard bargain. But I know the loopholes better.

For now.