city with a hole.

It has been SO long. Three months, I guess, since my last post.

Because honestly, I just didn't have the time! :S

I guess this is the part where I update the blog on my current life situation, whats going on with me, with my friends, and college, and my love life(non-existent?) and academics and blah blah. But I'd rather not. I'd rather tell you about this amazing place I went just last week (during Diwali) to eat breakfast. Yeah, I know that sounds weird.. You went out to eat BREAKFAST? Whats that about?.. But seriously, although I was doubtful at first, I came back lusting for more. :3

Its called The Hole In The Wall.

Every city needs one. And Bangalore is one of the lucky few to have one.

Located in a quaint little corner in Koramangala, straight ahead and left from Maharaja place, this cute little cafe literally is just a hole in the wall. Its less of a cafe and more of somebody's private kitchen turned into a public eating joint. Drawings, sketches, pictures on the wall.. handicrafts, paintings, remarks scribbled on napkins..you name it, they got it. Put one of your own on the wall too, if you want!

The entire cafe is about the size of a single bedroom, with three tables inside, and one on the outside. The menus are animated and inviting.

The best part? The prices. Experience the pocket-friendly yummy delicious goodness of a wholesome and traditional English breakfast.

On a rainy day, four of us girls decided to make the most of the weekend and treat ourselves to a breakfast-cum-lunch mega feast.. and hell, it was worth it.

Waffles with honey.. Hot cocoa.. toasted bread with butter and jam.. kachhe aam ka juice.. and finally, the most magnificent omelette I have ever had (with melted cheddar cheese, mushrooms, tomatoes and the softest yellowest eggs in the world (sigh).

Must try: Waffles with honey. Buttermilk pancakes. Do-it-yourself omelettes!

Trust me.

You won't regret it.

oh, calcutta.

The best thing about Cal is that its probably the cheapest city in India.

I will MISS waiting in line to catch a 7 rupee auto. I will miss braving lethal office time crowds to catch a ride on the Metro. I'll miss clinging to the sides of an auto jam-packed with 6 people EXCLUDING the driver, hanging on for dear life; not to mention, fighting inertia in a moving bus to keep from tumbling into some poor old lady.

Not Bombay, Not Delhi, nor even Bangalore can match how pocket friendly my city is.

A bus will take you miles for under ten bucks. Autos are always swarming like bees on every route known. And my favorite, the Metro Rail, oh. I guarantee it won't cost you more than TEN rupees to go from the extreme North of Calcutta to the extreme South. A cycle rickshaw in Saltlake will probably cheat you but its still under 20 rupees, most of the time. And for those who prefer a little luxury, the minimum fare for a taxi will amount to 22 rupees, and shoot up drastically hence forth.

I will miss the bad, diluted kind of tea at 2 rs. and the decent kind at 4. I'll miss bargaining like crazy at Lindsay street as if I didn't have even 1p to spare. I'll miss pitying the gora chitta "phoreners" getting looted by our faithful team of ever-cheating hawkers. I'll miss the DELICIOUS street food that could fill you up so well and at so little that KFC and Mc'Donalds would hang their heads in shame.

The inexpensive nature of all things makes me feel so at home here it'll kill me to leave, the inborn kanjoos that I am.

I'll miss how even in the thickest and rowdiest of crowds you'll find a touch of Bengali class. I'll never forget Nandan, Shishir mancha, Rabindra Sadan and all the high class Bengali intellectuals (or Aantels, as we like to call them) swarming there, drinking tea, wearing kurtas, carrying jholas and chatting about politics, art and Satyajit Ray. I'll miss dirty, dingy Olypub, the night life at Park Street, Oxford bookstore, chocolate brownies at Flurys.

I will miss the Bengali mishtis, even though I'm not a huge fan. The rosogollas which every celebrity simply has to mention when they're in Calcutta even though they might not have even tasted one in their life.

I'll miss crossing the Laketown footbridge just to avoid the evening traffic snarl at Ultadanga.

I might even kind of miss Mamata Banerjee and her weekly Bandhs, which used to be useful during school days as a window to mid-week holidays.

And most of all, most of all I will miss Calcutta in October, the sight, smell and taste of Durga Pujo. The women in "lal paar shada saree", all-night adda at Maddox Square, the shopping, the dressing up, the dhunuchi naach, pandals and paras competing for first prize, "theme" pujas, and OH! The Dhaak! Oh, the Dhaak, how will I ever survive a Pujo without listening to a Dhaaki?

Ah, Durga Pujo. There's nothing like it. If you're a Bengali and you're not in Calcutta at the time, then get your ass back here this instant!

Because you just can't compare, and you certainly can NOT replicate the feel of the festival anywhere out of Bengal. They might try, it might be.. "fun" sometimes, but it can never come close to being the same.

Why is it that you can hate a place and take it for granted for a long, long time but when its finally time to leave, you feel like ripping your heart out? And you start thinking, Is it really that important for me to leave? Whats the point of so much studying anyway? Why not skip a year and take admission right here? And it has only been a year or two since I've truly begun to discover the flavor of this city, from knowing nothing about it other than the little during the daily ride to school in a car.

Well, leave I must. But that doesn't mean I won't be back for every single Puja. :P And when 4 years fly by in a flash, I'll be back home. Permanently. And this is where I'll stay put forever, true to my lazy Bengali blood.

people.

"people are just nosy loudmouth interferers

whose own lives are boring as hell

so they judge others to pass the time"

Hell yes, they are.

meltdown day.

There are days when EVERYTHING goes wrong.

It started after the morning show of Aisha. The movie went smoothly, but the real chaos began when we decided to explore uncharted territory i.e. when Ifra suggested we leave City Centre.

• We walk to Mani Square in the oppressive, sultry heat.
• Ifra slips thrice on the escalator.
• The ketchup packets at McD's refuse to open. Ifra's first coke glass is leaky.
• The bus to ultadanga DOES NOT stop for us, and we are forced to jump of it while it is still in motion.
• The auto to Shovabajar almost hits a car.
• In the metro, we buy tickets for Park Street, and then get on the wrong train. After one stop, we get off at Shyambajar. From Shyambajar we get on the right train, except we don't know which stop is which since they don't announce it. Somehow we manage to get off at Park Street.
• On resurfacing from the underground station, we go the wrong way and end up near Victoria Memorial. Then we turn around and walk back to Park Street.
• I almost trip and fall in front of the Park.
• I almost trip again in Oxford.
• We drink warm, dilute Cold Coffee with big chunks of ice. The ice melts later, and it gets chilled.

At this point I'm left with 10 rupees. I had left home with 500.]

Both now tired and nervous wrecks, we walk back to New market for a while, and then disperse.

I don't know about Ifra after that, but my luck continued, as after coming back I had to go to my sir's house to give him something, and my car dropped me off at Laketown. Thus I had to walk to Bangur.. and on returning I thought since I was so tired I'd take a rickshaw. THEN I realized i had LEFT MY WALLET AT HOME. And so I had to walk back again.

P.S. My pudding didn't set either. KILL ME.

chocolate pudding.

Since we don't have an oven in the house, I have had to resort to using drastic measures to create every possible kind of non-oven-requiring dessert available. First there was fudge, and now this.

I snagged this off a Youtube video and improvised on it.

You'll need:

1/4 cup - sugar

2/5 cup - cocoa powder

2 tbsp - cornstarch (cornflour)

2 cups - milk

chocolate chips (optional)

1 egg

a whisk

and a medium saucepan.

1. Add the sugar, cocoa powder and cornstarch to a medium saucepan. Whisk in the milk slowly. Dont allow the cornflour to clump.

2. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg, and temper it [tempering prevents the raw egg from turning into an omelette on exposure to quick heat]. Here's what ya do.. pour a little bit of the hot mixture into the egg and stir REALLY quick, till the entire thing is warm enough.

3. Pour the egg into the saucepan while constantly stirring.

4. Boil and whisk till thick.

5. Add the chocolate chips or pieces. After they've melted, take it off the heat and pour into small cups or ramekins.

6. Refrigerate. Voila! Delicious pudding :D

distraction.

When I need to cry but don't want to, I bite my fingers hard. It works well most of the time. And people never notice, either. I think I know the logic behind it - the hurt from my finger distracts me. Thats all I need to be to stop myself from crying - distracted. I suppose its just another method of self preservation.

the other sex.

Boys. I will never understand them. Maybe I'm cursed that way, in that I just don't get what goes on in their heads; what drives them to do what they do.

I've seen obsessive boys. Boys who keep calling you even if you hang up, who keep texting you even if you don't reply. Boys who talk about you to strangers which makes them come up and ask you for sympathy. Really messy stuff.

Possessive boys; who won't let you talk to anything male that moves and think of you as their property. Guys who try their luck everywhere. If not you, then the girl next to you! Commitment-phobic boys. Egotistic boys. And then there are the compulsive liars. Its like they can't help it. They'll wind up some completely outrageous yet convincing lie for their starry eyed 14 year old girlfriends. Girls who think they're going to marry their teenage boyfriends and start naming their future children. But thats another story.

I've seen emotionally dependant emo boys. Delicate, very. You can't fuck around with them too much or you risk them slitting their wrists at every opportunity.

The psycho lunatic jilted lover. Boys who go out of their way to annoy you and drive you crazy after you've rejected their advances. I will never understand why they do that, or to what purpose.

And I just don't see why boys have to screw it all up and fall in love with you all the friggin' time. Ever heard of friendship? Simple, undemanding, uncomplicated.

Not to say that girls are any less complicated. I don't get them either.

I just get dogs. Dogs are simple.

the south, by word of mouth.

Millions and millions of sweaty, sticky, smelly, vulgar South Indians everywhere I turn. They push and they shove and they talk loudly in that irritating language. It is simple impossible to stand 7 days of this, it is. By the time I got on the plane home I was pining for Bangalis and the sound of Bengali conversation.

Bangalore is a nice place, though. But the food is expensive, living is expensive, and transportation, very very expensive. There are no rickshaws, no shuttles, hardly any taxis, one or two buses, and mostly all autos. And the autos there are different from here. Autos in Calcutta ply on specific routes for not more than ten rupees. In bangalore, autos are like taxis. They'll take you anywhere, they'll run on meter if you're lucky or they'll name their price and you'll have to comply.

The streets are full of black belchy autos. Arrey, what happened to LPG yaar? Even Kolkata has more green autos than over there. Ironically, you also see a lot of Revas in bangalore. You know, those tiny electric cars running on battery. Cute.

M.G.Road is probably the New Market of B'lore. And Koramangla seemed really posh, like Saltlake. But thats only to draw some comparisons.

And the airport.. oof, just TOO GOOD.

Coming to Mysore. I have to say, that was the best part of the holiday. Stayed up late both nights, and toured the city during the day. Hardly got any sleep, but it was worth it. The food was alright. Although, please make a note, South Indians CANNOT, for even their own sake, make biriyani or tea. Tea. They dont know how to make liquor tea. Can you believe it?

So carrying on with my tea-less journey, we toured Mysore in the relentless blazing heat.

Never go to Bridavan Gardens. Just don't. I mean, go only if you can bear being in a crowd of hundreds of jobless, obnoxious, perspiring tetuls who god-knows-why have nothing else to do than visit their own tourist spots on a Monday evening. The fluorescent attire, the overbearing stench, their sheer behaviour will bring you close to nausea. I have seen many crowds in Calcutta, believe me, but never THIS. Never this.

Hindu temples, of course, are like money-making machines. Ten rupees for a handful of flowers shoved into your hand, which you ultimately have to throw at some earthen idol, which are later picked up and sold again to some gullible tourist - yes, thats only the least of it. They'll make you keep your shoes with people who dont give you receipts, and I nearly died worrying about my new Gladiator kicks and their fate. Luckily all shoes were recovered.

The monkeys there are satanic. One of them snatched away a banana from an unsuspecting man in front of our very eyes.

I did get to feed a little hungry puppy, and a cow. They finished off a big pack of Parle-G biscuits I'd bought for them.

Ooty was the final blow. The hotel, small, cramped, dingy, unkempt. Room service was slack. Vegetarian food everywhere. The location, in front of a dumpster. If you opened the windows, the room filled up with flies. A eunuch accosted my friend on the street.

Locals clog up the tourist spots - the boathouse, Doddabetta peak, the Botanical Gardens, you name it. Again, I have no idea why. I came back with the impression that Southerners have very little work to do and a LOT of free time on their hands. And so they frequent cheap tourist locations every day of the week.

Another interesting point - EVERYTHING in South India has a ticket. Entry free, time deposit fee, boating fee, camera fee, shoe-keeping fee, flower-throwing fee, driving fee, parking fee, air-breathing fee.. whats left? Also, the price for foreign tourists is more than ten times the fare for Indians. Beware if your hair is blond.

The service in South India is atrocious. Absolutely terrible. I have a right mind to propagate this fact and put a stop to their income from tourism. Then we shall see who dares to behave badly with guests.

All in all, when you're planning your next vacation, don't go to South India. Anywhere else is fine. Go to Nepal. Go to Sikkim, a beautiful place. Go to Puri, even. Just dont go down under near the peninsula where you'll need to plug your nose in order to survive.

heading out

Tomorrow I set out on a 10-day journey to Bangalore, Mysore and Ooty. Finally after almost two years I get to escape the confines of this city I know almost too well, and yet not at all. One can get pretty tired of a particular place if they stay in it for too long. Thats exactly the case with me. When I come back I promised to know my city better, but for the time being I need to not know it at all. The only regret I have whenever I leave Calcutta is having to leave my Vaska behind. I know its not even close to a substitute, but I always take a picture of him with me no matter where I go.

I realized my life is composed of several miniature dreams instead of one single BIG dream. And one of those smaller dreams is taking my dog to the beach one day, and letting him play and swim, absolutely unattached.

Then again, I also realized that down the line its better to be a big-dreamer than a dreamer of many tiny dreams.

And as usual, the weather is playing spoilsport. Who wants to leave when its been raining every single day, including two seconds ago?

The kalbaisakhi in Calcutta are always so beautiful.

a february morning

Everyone is familiar with the experience of waking up from a dream. We all have dreams, sometimes manifestations of our hidden and secret desires, sometimes a mirror of our internal conflict, or sometimes just an outlet for the emotions we’ve been experiencing and just can’t deal with while fully conscious.

I had such a kind of dream too, and I woke up feeling utterly perplexed and disturbed. It wasn’t a bad dream, but it gave me a strong whiff of my own desperation and want that was lurking behind a badly disguised sub-conscious play. I had barely slept that night. It was a week before exams, so it was necessary I study. But I couldn’t; it was just one of those days. And when I couldn’t study, and time kept inching past, I started to worry about not studying. I then began to worry about worrying, and inevitably my mind wandered helplessly to those time-tested thoughts that work wonders at filling my heart with dread and depression.

I began to think of the future, of my family and loved ones I would one day have to leave behind; I thought about myself, and what I was doing wrong that made me sad and all alone on nights like these. Most of the time, I believe its not right to burden even your closest friends with such intensely personal doubts and insecurities, and I abstain from spilling my guts to people who, after all, have their own problems to deal with and don’t need mine on their backs as well. But it was one of those nights, and my own shoulder wasn’t strong enough.

I slept after midnight, though generally I’m not a nocturnal person. I love my sleep, cherish it, and devote my night-time completely to sub-conscious bliss. It was difficult to sleep with all the junk swarming about in my head. Sometimes I wish I could switch off my brain and relax using the little time I have, but that’s not possible is it?

It was sudden. My eyes snapped open, and I heard the whistle of a train in the distance. I checked my watch and it was 5.30. I had slept four hours, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. Dawn was silent except for the cawing of a few stray crows. An hour later, Koels would start to coo. Moments like these made me love my neighborhood, absolutely free from the urgency of the city.

And amidst the silence and the breaking dawn played my favorite song out of the blue. It came from a few houses down the block, muffled but loud enough to hear without straining my ears. All the unhappy thoughts that had rushed back into my head when I awoke, kind of melted away into the melody. So I went up to the open window with my cup of tea and I just sat there, listening, while my mother slept on. The moment was very personal, and I knew I would remember it, along with other such experiences which took place before morning. Like the first rain of 2009 – 3AM on a regular day in March, I suddenly awoke to enormous droplets of water splattering on the glass pane of the window, and I was overwhelmed by such elation, I can barely describe it in words. It was the one of the purest, strongest forms of joy I had ever felt.

If I believed in a god, I would say God played that song at that moment to soothe my soul. But I don’t, so I just thanked the stranger who did, in my head, and got out of bed, feeling not as bad as before. The whole day lay ahead of me, and I knew it would be good, with such a brilliant start.

tragic betrayal :'(

Ah, Airtel. With your touching adverts and your beautiful signature Rahman tune, I fell for you through and though. For your elegance, for the vastness of your network, for the unparalleled connectivity in the remotest of places; you were hard to resist. And so I embraced you, I surrendered to your whims and charms, gave my hard-earned (well, not quite) pocket money into your hands for you to transform into the sweet nectar of unlimited, free-of-cost text messaging. I whole-heartedly campaigned for you, day and night, against a sturdy line-up of your detractors, I went across enemy lines with a white flag in my hand and still stuck to you in the midst of all opposition, as blow after blow rained upon me, and they attacked me with “Vodafone has this” and “Vodafone has that” and struck me down with a “What does AIRTEL have, hmm?” I had no answer for them, for I knew they were right, but I argued and argued that what Vodafone does, Airtel can do just as well. And what kind of a name is Vodafone, anyway? Vodafone, Bhoda-phone, “stupid-phone”, I see no difference. I was a small, but brave, lifeboat amidst an ocean full of sharks.

But then you did it. You took a keen knife from your shelf and stabbed your biggest supporter in the back.

I gave you eighty rupees. Eighty rupees is no laughing matter, especially for a student, and that too a poor one. I gave you my money with such unbreakable trust, that I could have even given you my life to convert into free messages. But what did you do with that trust? You crumpled it up, blew your nose on it, and dumped it in the trashcan. Then you took my money, bought yourself a luxury yacht, and went sailing for the next couple of days, while I sat at home wondering when this goddamn thing is going to be activated. So ironically, I called Customer Care, (though I doubt that’s even close to what they do), and I must say, they took such good care of me, that I’ll never forget it.

17^th March: (9.44 a.m) Easy recharge done. RC80.

17^th March: (12.00 p.m) Still no sign of any free messages, while my general balance starts to dwindle from all the test-run messages being charged one rupee.

17^th March: (2.00 p.m) So I call customer care (I’ve called them so much this year they must think I'm stalking them) and I tell them my problem. A young lady takes down my complaint, gives me a complaint number, and tells me to check by tomorrow evening.

18^th March: (5.30 p.m) Activation status: pending. I call again, a man tells me they have no record of any complaint made, and somehow mysteriously they do have a complaint that had been made in the morning of the same day (my phone was switched off all morning) that I had to “kindly dhoirjo dhorte hobe” till the 22^nd.

22^nd March: (10.00 p.m) Need I say much else? So I call. Again. The man acts confused. I grit my teeth. He tells me it’ll be done in 2 hours. I sigh. Sure, sure.

23^rd March: (12.30 pm) I text. My balance goes down by a rupee.

I QUIT.

The story of your exploits is difficult for me to repeat to others. It stinks of betrayal and unfaithfulness. But the people must know the truth. My 80 bucks is down the drain now, anyway. All you Airtel junkies out there BEWARE. You might be next.

And now, I conclude the telling of this dramatic sequence of events, and sigh with the deepest remorse, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

Moral of the story: My number has changed. And I have finally jumped onto the Vodafone ship.

lasts and firsts

This is not my first blog, neither is it my second. I never seemed to have enough time for blogging, although I've nothing to do with my spare time either. Well, lets just leave it at that. But then, I just had a board exam today, and not a very pleasant one. One more left on Monday, the last one. And then a significant part of my life will have finally ended. Monday is the last time I'll wear my maroon skirt, and white collared shirt, the last time I put on my ragged black ballerinas, the last time I'll have to go to Princep Street as a student. So in contrast to so many "last"s, I felt it was time I started afresh.

Monday will be marked by euphoria, and divine, immeasurable pleasure. Rules will be forgotten, caution thrown to the wind, and holding us back from going insane would be akin to trying to hold back a raging river by a poorly constructed dam; or imagine a single celebrity bodyguard fighting off a hundred paparazzi - get the picture?

Even though I say all this, I probably won't even go that wild or do anything reckless. Probably won't even have much to do, and get bored. And so here, now, I solemnly swear to at least keep this insignificant little page alive, although it wouldn't matter if it were dead or not, but just for the hell of it. I should probably have given some sort of an introduction by now, shouldn't I? Ah well, nevermind,.