Gastronomical Delights

Food is something we all love, at least most of us do! And when someone else cooks and posts pictures, that's just icing on the cake.

Jelu.melu is an Instagram page that provides you with food for thought. From cakes to Indian desserts to non-vegetarian delights, this page will keep you scrolling, post after post.

The lockdown has brought out hidden skills in this household. Having always been interested in different cuisines, the extra time during the lockdown has given this couple the chance to experiment and try out a variety of recipes, with their 5 year old daughter assisting. All three of them are foodies and their love for food can be seen in the delicacies they are whipping up! 

Do check out the posts on paneer shaslik, kadai chicken, gulab jamun, khasta kachori and phirni, to name just a few. 

Battling Depression

Cambridge dictionary defines depression as "the state of feeling very unhappy and without hope for the future."

One of the first things I noticed about the concept of depression was how taboo it was. People spoke about it in hushed tones and tiptoed around the topic, as though they were scared they might get afflicted by mere association.

Growing up, I came across depression in various forms. A news article about some celebrity battling it, a rumour about a student struggling with it, some gossip about an aunty in the colony falling prey to it. Every time the news was delivered with shocking overtones; designed to impart the message that being depressed was abnormal or unnatural.

But you know what? It's not. It might come as a surprise to know that depression is almost as common as.. well, the common cold. Almost every one of us has been prone to some form of depression, at some point in our lives; some of us recognize it, some ignore it.

I get depressed these days. It's not the kinds where I cannot function but there are several days when I wake up with a cloud hanging over my head. I often feel as though I am being sucked into a quicksand of memories, centred around how Aarav was vs. how Aarav is. The worst part of the situation is that it's open-ended. We don't know how many days, weeks or months it will take to have him back to what he's supposed to be- an active toddler, running all over the place.

There are a lot of people who tell me to stay strong. To focus on the positives. To believe that everything will be fine. They are truly my well-wishers, I have no doubts, but they can't experience a fraction of what I am going through. This is our battle- Sameer's, mom's, Ayana's and mine. A member of our unit has been wounded and each day is a battle towards restoring him to normalcy. Some days we win, some days we lose.

I recently decided to talk to a counsellor. I felt that maybe speaking to someone neutral might help. I was told that what we are feeling is akin to PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). Where the slightest thing can throw us back to those absolute dark days of the ICU. And it happens daily. No matter how much I guard against it, there are inevitably things that draw me back. A stray picture on my phone, a bhajan I used to play in the hospital, a message from one of the nurses, the smell of antiseptic, the list is neverending. And each time it's a struggle to pull myself out of the gaping hole which seems to be ever ready to swallow me whole.

Am I ashamed of how I feel? No. What happened with Aarav in the past few months was not something ordinary. It was an extraordinary event which shook us out of our routines and turned our world upside down. Nothing could ever have prepared us for it. Feeling low or going through phases of depression seems perfectly normal to me after all that we have experienced.

The important thing though is to recognize that what we are feeling is natural and not let it control us. Unfortunately, this is something that often gets swept away, like that last little bit of dust you promise yourself you'll tackle tomorrow. Because, at the end of the day, it's an uncomfortable admission to make. No one wants to be labelled and this brings me to the point that why the label? We don't look at people prone to common colds in a certain way so then why are censoring looks reserved for people who are going through a hard time? Isn't it enough that they are already battling demons which seem larger than life to them? It seems to me that we need to move away from this mindset and become more accepting of struggles which might seem trivial to us but aren't to the other person.

I have a lot to be thankful for, for I am aware. The greatest gift is the second lease of life Aarav has been given. Yet I know there will continue to be days when everything seems bleak and hopeless. Just as I know I will push myself to get over it and face another day. And when the days are dark and the tunnel seems endless, I shall reach out for help to people who can convince me that this too shall pass.

The Red Suitcase

I am on a cleaning spree. Actually it's more of a decluttering drive. Since the past few days I have been overtaken by the urge to clean out lofts, cupboards and any other space which I haven't dared venture into since a few years. When there are two adults, two kids and one dog in the house, it's incredible the amount of stuff that gets collected - almost by itself. It's as though things gravitate towards such households, making themselves invisible and fitting into whatever space available; until one day we open our eyes and see just how much stuff has accumulated.

My father once said, and it was probably the only sensible thing he ever told me, that things which haven't been used for over six months need to be chucked, because if you lived without it for six months, you can live without it forever!

Today morning I decided to tackle the garage. For fear of spiders and lizards (shudder), I enlisted the help of driver bhaiya and my nanny. For a few seconds after we opened the door, we just stood staring. It looked like a miniature version of a junkyard. Driver bhaiya jumped into action and started pulling out stuff while I watched from a safe distance. A huge spider scampered out; I could almost see the malevolent look it shot me for disturbing its cocoon. I took a few more steps back, just in case it decided to take revenge.

At the end of an hour, we had made neat piles of stuff to be thrown, given away and kept for future use. Among it all, fitting into none of the piles was a large red suitcase. I just couldn't remember what it contained. It looked frayed and worse for wear, with patches of red peeping through, as though to remind me what it once looked like. There was a small lock on it, which made me wonder what I would have wanted locked up. And that too in the garage! Obviously I had no idea where the key was, so a pair of pliers was produced and the lock broken. I almost felt the suitcase sighing with relief that it was going to be opened, probably after years. We lugged it up to our balcony where I sat down and proceeded to discover its contents.

Have you ever experienced being transported back in time by something you see or read or hear? That's what happened with me. As I took out one diary after another, I was suddenly 12 and 14 and 18 again. I had completely forgotten that I used to keep daily diaries. Pages and pages filled with mundane stuff, interspersed with an exciting event, perceived from the eyes of a teenager. The intensity of a first crush, the thrill of it being reciprocated. The joy of the first time I learned to drive; the indescribable feeling of having the car move under my control. The bitter disappointment of not getting the marks I wanted; the pleasure of being praised for an essay in class.

Our generation has the unique privilege (or curse!) of straddling two eras of time. One we are in currently, with smartphones and smart televisions and oversmart people around us. The other era, not so far back, of writing letters, exchanging Archies greeting cards and watching Rs. 7 movie tickets at PVR cinemas.

I found a packet filled with cards; there must have been a 100 of them. From friends, family and some blank ones which I must have bought to give on the right occasion. I found letters; earnest outpourings by friends, innocent love notes by classmates and some I had written but never had the courage to send. I found photographs; faded squares and rectangles of memories, the faces almost unrecognizable. In that red suitcase, I found pieces of how I had grown up, each item stirring a part of who I used to be; something buried under the layers of being a wife and mother.

My five year old daughter sat with me and exclaimed over the treasures. At one point she asked, "Mama why did people write letters, was there no email?" As I looked at her face I realised these children will never know so many things that were an integral part of our lives as kids. I showed her the cards- she had never seen a store bought one and was, fascinated! I showed her my diaries, filled with hopes and dreams and fears. I told her how things used to be simpler when I was growing up and we had fewer choices. I don't know how much her five year old brain processed but I could see her curiosity and fascination with the glimpses she had been given into another world.

After an hour we closed the red suitcase. I had transferred the stuff I wanted to keep into a smaller box. The now empty suitcase stood, looking more forlorn that ever, as though knowing that it's role of a keeper of memories was over.

My daughter came and slipped her hand into mine. "Mama, can you get me a diary? I want to write too. And can we please keep my diaries in this suitcase? "

I looked at the red suitcase and smiled. It seemed that some things would be passed onto the next generation.

Rain, rain...

I had an errand to run today morning. In my typical mommy-brain state, I forgot to carry an umbrella. As I dashed to my car I felt the raindrops skim against my skin, like an old friend I was meeting after a long time. I sat in the car and watched the water pour down the windscreen, the wipers slashing through the deluge. The scene brought long forgotten lines of a song to mind.

"Magar mujh ko lautaa do bachapan ka saavan

woh kaagaz kii kashti, woh baarish kaa paani"

After the kind of year it's been, nostalgia hit me like a brick. I found myself longing for the old days, when life was simpler and days happier. Challenges didn't seem insurmountable and stress was something I experienced occasionally.

Not to say that everything was rosy when I was younger. Human nature is programmed to mostly long for the other side, which we are convinced is always greener. What we don't realise is that when we are on that other side, the vibrancy of the colour invariably fades.

Rain has always held a special place in my heart. I was one of the few people I know who shunned a winter wedding and got married in the peak monsoon season. The day before the wedding, it rained like it had never rained before. We were convinced the outdoor wedding we had planned would be a disaster. But the next day dawned bright and clear. My favourite way to unwind used to be to take a walk in the rain and so far, nothing has topped the feeling of swimming in the rain-water everywhere and raindrops on my face. Some of my fondest memories consist of a richshaw ride in the rain, in north campus, having hot chai and butter toast in the Saket Sports Complex admist the raindrops falling on us and a rare scene of Sameer laughing unabashedly as we dashed to our car in the rain, after catching a movie.

Three of the best years of my life were the college days. Life stretched out in front like an empty canvas, waiting and prepped to be painted upon with whatever scene I wanted, in whichever hues I chose. The biggest tension was whether to have chowmein or choley bhature in the college canteen. The library was my sanctuary, I would often wander in even when I didn't have any new material to look for. The shelves filled with books, reaching for the ceiling. The smell of books, some old, some new. The whirring of fans, their noise unbroken in the silence of the rooms. And when the rain joined in the chorus, pattering softly on the roof, the days took on a magical feel.

Days were filled with hot coffee, samosas and the company of friends.  I miss those days. When dilemmas consisted of whether to go to Dilli Haat or Ansal Plaza. Where bunking a class and getting away with it, sent our hearts thudding with excitement. Where words took us into worlds we could only imagine about. And in the background of it all, for a few months every year, the rain adding a realm of coziness to everything we did.

I finish my errand and return home. There is an umbrella in the boot of the car. I sit for a minute and contemplate getting it. Then I open the car door and slowly walk home. The rain embraces me, reminding me that sometimes the simplest pleasures of life can be the greatest de-stressors.

A Woman of Substance

Years ago I came across a book called 'The Woman of Substance' by Barbara Taylor Bradford. As a child of six, I thought the book was about my mother.

From the beginning I knew mom was special. It wasn't just because she was my mother, there was something that set her apart from the rest. Maybe it was the steely determination she had to succeed no matter what the odds or the innate strength which got her through 10 years of domestic violence. Or maybe just the fact that being optimistic and cheerful came so naturally to her.

I would often look at her and wonder why she wasn't embittered at the tough set of cards dealt out to her. In fact, there were times I even resented her optimism, mainly because I couldn't relate to it. We have had our share of arguments and fights where I often accused her of being a Saint!!

It is only now, after becoming a mother myself that I realise that she is as human as any of us. What makes her different is the absolute belief she has that good karma will always pay off and that bad times cannot last forever.

I wasn't the easiest child to bring up for a single parent. I went through my rebellious phase which lasted well beyond my teens. I also went through a I-don't-care-what-you-think phase where I would listen to everything she said with disdain and dismiss it. I must have caused her a lot of grief at times but there was never a time when I went to bed without knowing that she was there for me.

Mom is my go-to for every crises, big or small. I am often guilty of firing the gun from her shoulder at several unpleasant tasks. I am fully prepared my daughter will return the favor as she grows up!! Mom calls it the law of karma :)

Mom is someone who believes in absolute communication. According to her anything that is bottled up can only lead to a physical manifestation of disease. Because it was just the two of us for the longest time, she never concealed anything from me. I vividly remember how at the beginning of each month, we would sit together and make envelopes - rent, gas, electricity, water. With the meagre amount leftover, mom and I would decide what to spend it on-fruits or a meal out or maybe a visit to our then favourite market, Sarojini Nagar. While those days were hard; I was in college and mom was the sole earning member, they taught me valuable life lessons.

From mom I have learned that it's okay to be scared. It's natural to be upset or feel low. It's okay to want to give up. And it's normal to cry during bad times. Maybe because of this I have grown up with very little residue from the years of violence I witnessed. It was mom who kept me grounded, and still does.

Years ago, I came across these lines "The best things to give your children are Roots and Wings." I would say that my upbringing epitomized these lines. There have been many mistakes I have made; as a parent it must have been terribly hard for mom to stand by and not interfere. Yet she let me chart my own course and find my way through it all. Today she is my biggest supporter and greatest support.

It might sound clichéd to say that she is my inspiration, but she truly is. There are many things I want to emulate when it comes to her, hopefully I'll be able to by the time I am her age. Of all the people I have met in life, she is truly what I call A Woman of Substance.

The Absentee Father

I was six when I realised that I had a father whom I had never met; at least in conscious memory. Mom and I had gone for a drive and I was to get a treat-the all-new Softy ice cream which were a thing of wonder to me. The way they swirled out of the machine onto the cones was something that never ceased to fascinate me. My favourite was the one where all the colours got mixed- yellow, green and pink.

I can still recall the chilled taste of the ice cream as I took my first few licks. I was so engrossed that I didn’t see mom talking to a stranger. Until she called me to attention and said “Here she is. Beta, this is your father. “I promptly hid behind her and peeked. This was my father? That strange figure in my world whose absence was never felt mainly because his presence had never registered. Of course, I had wondered about why I only had one parent while all my friends had two- mom & dad, mother& father, mummy & daddy; while my vocabulary was only confined to mom, mother and mummy.  But honestly, at six it didn’t really seem to matter much. The swirling, and rapidly melting, colours of my ice cream were of far more importance.

Mom firmly tugged me out from behind her and I managed to stammer out a “Hello.” Having done my bit, I retreated behind mom again. I vaguely heard them talking, “how much she’s grown.” “Obviously she wouldn’t remember me.” “maybe we could catch up sometime.” Phrases that entered and left my ears within seconds.

Years passed and as I grew up strangely enough, I was never very curious about my father. Whenever we spoke of him, mom was always careful never to pass judgement. By the time I was 11 I had the facts in front of me- how they had met when she was 19 and he 20 and fallen madly in love. How his parents were dead against a Punjabi daughter-in-law, being strict Tamilians, how mom and dad used to meet secretly and one day ran away and got married secretly. The opposition, the blissful period after marriage, the cracks that started appearing all to soon and the almost clinically amicable divorce, with mom getting my full custody. It sounded like a plot straight out of Bollywood to me and I would look at mom and try and imagine her as the heroine of the story. Tough to do because for me she was just Mom!

When I was 11, we shifted to Delhi. One day mom said she needed to talk to me. My dad had reached out to her and wanted to meet. She left the choice up to me. I was curious enough to agree to the meeting. As the day drew closer, I could feel the apprehension starting to mount. What if he didn’t like how I had turned out to be? Was there some deep-seated need in me to gain his approval, even though he was a stranger to me? In those days, Vasant Continental hotel in Vasant Kunj was considered the epitome of luxury and that’s where he wanted to meet us.

I recall the wide-eyed wonder with which we entered the hotel. The high ceilings, the ornate designs everywhere-it was like stepping into another world. As I looked around, I saw a distinguished looking man walk up to us. I dimly heard mom say “Hi, how are you?”. My eyes refused to look up and I could feel my heart beating loudly in my ears. The stranger, my father, knelt down and handed me a box. “This is for you, why don’t you open it?” I looked at mom and she nodded. I opened the box and gasped at the sight of a beautiful watch nestled in blue velvet. Above it was a note which said “to my daughter, to make up for lost time.” And the ice broke.

It would be fair to say that I went through a phase of idol worship where my father was concerned. Maybe all daughters do, I wouldn’t know but for a few years from the time I met him at 11 till I was around 20, I thought he was fantastic. This opinion was also reinforced by the fact that he and mom got along really well. Dad stayed in Bangalore and often made work trips to Delhi. Whenever possible we would meet, more often than not he dropped by home and requested to have food cooked by me- something that made me immensely proud. Sometimes he and I would meet in the lobby of whichever hotel he was staying in but most times mom was also there. I got a glimpse into what life would have been like had they not divorced. Maybe.  He told me about his daughter from his second marriage- a thought that filled me with wonder. I had a half-sister. I promptly packed my cherished barbies and sent them for her through him. I loved hearing him talk about his parents- my grandparents. And then one day he brought them over to Delhi and I met them. I felt like I had gained a whole new family and somewhere I began to wonder whether mom had given up too soon on the marriage. He didn’t seem like the irresponsible, shallow person she had said he was. In fact, they seemed to get along like a house on fire.

More years passed and my interactions with him continued. He invited me to stay with him and his current wife in Bangalore to celebrate his 50th birthday and I went and got to meet my half-sister. On a trip to Mumbai I visited my aunt (his sister) and my grandparents. On a work trip to Pune mom met with his parents and they mended fences- an attempt to set aside 30 years of bitterness and to lay to rest the memories of countless wrongdoings. It seemed that things were on a good track. I had a great job, a supportive mother and now a tangible father. The only cloud on my horizon was that dad’s visits to us became clandestine and less frequent, the reason being that his wife wasn’t too enamoured with the idea of me or my mom!

Soon after I met a guy and we decided to get engaged. His family had family in Punjab who were ultra conservative and so I was told that while it was a hard-enough pill for them to swallow that my parents were divorced, it was definitely not going to be acceptable if my dad landed up at the engagement with his current wife. I met dad and explained the situation to him and he was fine with it. His wife and I had never taken to each other so it wasn’t like I would really miss having her around. She treated me with faint contempt and always told me how lucky I was that dad wanted to keep in touch with me.

Arrangements were made, the venue booked, menus decided. I was in regular touch with dad who was supposed to fly into Delhi the morning of the engagement. My grandparents were to arrive the evening before.

There are moments in one’s life which become etched in stone-as though someone reached out and pressed pause; immortalizing that minute or two in the film of one’s life. For reasons beyond our control my engagement got postponed. In a flurry of phone calls, I remembered that dad and my grandparents also needed to be told. I called him repeatedly but there was no answer. I sent texts, dropped an email and tried every way possible to get in touch with him. Then with mounting worry mom and I called the relatives with whom my grandparents were supposed to be staying. They informed us that they had never turned up. By then I was convinced something was horribly wrong. We called every possible person- friends, family- no one answered our calls or messages.

Finally, after a few hours my aunt picked up the umpteenth call I made to her. I almost sobbed with relief into the phone. “Bua, what has happened. Where is papa? Where are my grandparents?” There was a long silence at her end as I prepared myself to hear the worst.

“They didn’t come to Delhi. We have decided collectively as a family that we want nothing more to do with you. Since you didn’t invite his wife to your engagement and she is what makes him happy, we want no part in your happiness.”

It’s been 11 years since then but I remember the words exactly as she spoke them. I remember the hatred in her voice, the arrogance at having shown me, her niece, her place. In these 11 years I have gotten married, had kids and touchwood have a fulfilling life. Yet there are times when I remember him, that person who I never had a desire to know. Who entered our lives when it suited him and let his eldest daughter down in a most cowardly manner possible. He never even had the courage to tell me to my face that he wasn't interested in being a part of my life. He figured he would let the humiliation of not showing up at my engagement do the trick. His presence in my life was an aberration. In reality, he was all along what he knew being best-an absentee father.

The Friendly Ghost

13 year old Aarna woke up with a start and turned "Yes mama? What happened?" There was no one there. She sat up puzzled. She had distinctly felt a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her awake. She got out of bed and walked to her mother's bedroom and peeped in. Her mother was fast asleep. Must have been a dream, Aarna thought to herself and went back to bed.

Aarna and her mother stayed alone in a typical two bedroom DDA flat. Being the single child of a single parent they had always shared a strong bond, though teenage rebellion had started rearing its head, occasionally. Aarna's mother worked in a government organization and as a hobby she practiced astrology. Aarna used to be fascinated by how her mother could interpret and read horoscopes. She had a clientele of over 500 but refused to charge them till she was working. Aarna loved getting into discussions about karma, destiny and past lives with her mother. There was something very scientific about the way her mom explained it all.

A couple of nights later Aarna woke up again to the feeling of being shaken awake. Once again there was no one. Each time she woke up she felt as though someone was trying to say something to her. There was a sense of urgency in the air. It was an unnerving experience and she was getting a bit spooked but she didn't want to say anything to her mom yet. When for the fifth night in a row Aarna had the same experience, she decided to tell her mother the next morning.

Her mother heard her out and asked "When did this first start?" Aarna thought back and said "You remember the day we shifted the drawing room furniture around and moved my bed from near the window to against the wall? That was the first night." Her mom looked at her with a strange expression. "How about we shift the bed back where it was and see?" her mom suggested. Aarna was game.

They moved the bed back to its original position and that night Aarna took a long time to go to sleep. She was convinced she would be woken up again. Finally she fell into deep sleep and in her dreams heard someone whisper 'thank you.' When she awoke it was morning but the dream was vivid in her mind. After that night she didn't have disturbed sleep again. Aarna's mother was convinced that the shifting of the bed had blocked the passage of a presence who tried to communicate to them to shift the bed back.

This was over 20 years ago but Aarna still often thought of her 'friendly ghost'; that unseen presence which wanted an unhindered passage to wherever she was supposed to go every night.