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I remember reading a story about how Tom Sawyer painted a fence. He was a naughty and intelligent boy, created by Mark Twain, when he wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in the 1870’s. Tom was an orphan who lived with his aunt Polly and was always up to mischief. As a consequence of one…
I remember reading a story about how Tom Sawyer painted a fence. He was a naughty and intelligent boy, created by Mark Twain, when he wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in the 1870’s. Tom was an orphan who lived with his aunt Polly and was always up to mischief. As a consequence of one…
It begins with thunder. Not the dramatic, movie kind with windblown hair and a candle fluttering in an old haveli. No. This is the upgraded Gurgaon variety, thunder, followed by one apologetic drizzle, followed by a tsunami of water that turns roads into Venetian canals, minus the gondolas and charm. Naturally, I am prepared. Which…
In my house, food isn’t just food. It’s the beating heart of the home, the crackling hearth that keeps relationships warm and toasty, and the golden ticket that lures friends and family into our lives. If my kitchen were a stage, food would be the lead actor, the diva, the show-stealer, shimmering in oil, spiced…
All of us, at some glorious point in our very dramatic lives, have felt like we’ve reached the end of the road. A dead end, if you please. At least I have and still do. We’ve clutched our heads, stared dramatically into the abyss (read: bathroom mirror), and declared to no one in particular, “That’s…
The other day, someone looked at me with a mix of surprise and concern and exclaimed, “You have aged over the years.” I paused, smiled, and replied, “Well, isn’t that the general idea?” If we don’t age as the years go by, then either we’re vampires feasting on the blood of unsuspecting teenagers or we’ve…
As I crawl (read: dramatically stagger) through the emotional rollercoaster that is my Ph.D., John Steinbeck has become less of a thesis subject and more of an honorary roommate, minus the rent but with a lot of existential baggage. He now lives rent-free in my head, takes long brooding walks across my daily thoughts, and…
Mrs Basu, the pseudo-environmentalist, had nails sharper than her arguments and a voice that could strip paint off walls. She sat there, perfectly perched in her designer heels, nestled in her animal-printed leggings, clutching a leather handbag worth a small country’s GDP. And then, with the confidence of someone who has just read a half-baked…
Little Nina sat at the dining table, her tiny fingers sinking into the warm, fluffy rice, mixing it deftly with the golden ‘dal’, her face lighting up in anticipation of the sheer joy that awaited her taste buds. It was pure, unadulterated, hands-on pleasure—quite literally. She could revel in this guilty indulgence only at her…
Whilst we crib about the bleak cold winter of Delhi, sitting in our cosy, heated homes, under warm quilts, sipping hot chocolate, many like the 10-month-old Siraj, grandson of my cook, have developed pneumonia because of the severe cold. Their modest “room,” enclosed on four sides with the fifth side a patchwork of plastic sheets,…
