Visit Bruges, Belgium

I’ve been around lately. (Quite literally, no innuendo intended). It has been an exciting and busy work season since I was last smacked in the face with an idea for a series. But all it took was a little change of scene, and I’m ready to write again. Season three on this blog, which will be a three-part series, is about my first time in Europe. I got to travel to the northern region of Belgium, which is known as Flanders, in the last week of September. I visited four cities in five days and seriously had the time of my life.

So in the first episode, I would like to introduce you to my current favourite city in the world—Bruges, a happy little place in western Belgium.

PS: If you’re flying with Jet Airways to the far foreign this month, take a moment to sift through the thick, glossy magazine that you will find below your tray table and right behind the chart on emergency landing. When you find this story in it, stand up and say this to no one in particular, “I know who wrote this!”

I’d do it.

Falling in love with Bruges is easy, leaving it is not.

I’ve always imagined my life with background music. While most days demand incessant drum-roll as I chase a deadline, the distorted riffs of an electronic guitar suits others. But I was welcomed into Bruges early one morning, quite literally, with the rhythmic, well-orchestrated pealing of bells.

Like in the days of yore

A cold wind rustled the leaves of a large tree as our group of five dodged its shade to bask in the warm sunlight. Though we had the choice of being shown around the city in a horse-drawn carriage, we opted to walk on its cobbled paths for a guided tour.

Cycles whizzed past us, always being given right of way, as we strolled along rows of colourful brick houses with sloping roofs. A few big ones looked like typical gothic-style castles, and were surrounded by stained-glass window towers. “You could buy your own heaven back then”, our guide said pointing at the golden gilding work on a turret beside one such house.

One of the narrow, winding lanes led us to an open-spaced compound set against the backdrop of a tranquil canal. A pink house with green window frames stood beside it, with a small red boat tied to its brown fence. After all the swooning girls in the group were literally pulled away from it, we ambled towards our next destination.  

The next big SIGH is right around the corner.

The Belgian Bling

Contrary to popular belief, the art of diamond making actually began in Bruges in the 15^th century. It then moved to Antwerp, which consequently became the hub for diamond trade in the world.

Horse carriages trotted ahead of us as we stopped at the square of Burg, which is a World Heritage Site and part of the city’s historic centre. Bruges’ City Hall, better known as Stadhuis or Belgium’s oldest city hall, stands on this square. The imposing look of this 15^th century, grey and white gothic construction—with long, intricately designed windows and spires that reach the sky—bears testament to the fact that it inspired the designs for the town halls of Brussels and Ghent. 

Right across from it is a larger-than-life-sized couple passionately kissing in solid bronze. It is a symbol of the weddings that still take place at the hall, provided the couple are ready to embrace a long waiting list.

Music to my ears

The Basilica of the Holy Blood is a charcoal-grey star attraction, ornamented with small golden-plated statues, situated beside the City Hall. The building is divided into a chapel and museum, which is home to the alleged blood of Christ. It is believed that when the blood was first being brought to the city, it had begun to flow. Once in a year, this relic is taken around the city in an elaborate, theatrical procession where about 1,800 actors enact scenes from the Bible.

Bruges’ Bear

A little off Burg, a stone statue of a bear with a shield in his hand stands proud in the cavity of a white stone wall. Legend has it, when Baldwin 1, Count of Flanders first entered the city, the only living being he saw was a bear. Thus, The Bruges Bear is acknowledged as the oldest citizen of the city and is its symbol.  

By this time the bell-made music had gotten distinctly closer, and we could see where it was coming from. We decided to follow it through the nearest street, making our way past the languid notes of a cello and accordion that floated in the air from behind a group of tourists. At the end of the lane, we finally found ourselves in the heart of the city—The Markt—and right in front of The Belfry of Bruges.

Making our way to Belfort...

This 13^th century bell tower, also known as Belfort, leans a bit to the right and is the city’s most important landmark. Its carillon comprising of 47 bells makes it special. If you’re in the city over the weekend or during a festivity (like we were), the carillonneur will keep you entertained with a chime every 15 minutes. The 366 steps to the top of this tower are worth climbing for a vantage point of the city.

Blowing in the wind

Next, we were off to get our own bite of heaven. When the Rolling Stones came to Belgium, a chocolatier by the name of Dominique Persoone of the Chocolate Line thought of presenting them with something he knew they would truly appreciate. So, he specially designed for them a device that shoots decadent, flavoured chocolate powder straight to the user’s head—The Chocolate Shooter. As we discovered that afternoon, it’s a sure shot to happiness.

Oh, yes.

We stuck our faces to the window of his store, in awe, drooling at all the exotic chocolate on display in flavours such as lemongrass, ginger, wasabi, Bollywood curry and even sundried tomatoes! Besides the city’s various chocolate stores, a tour of the Chocolate Museum set up by Jacky Vergote is a lesson on all there is to know about this food.

The Other Flemish Passion

Apart from interestingly made chocolates, Belgium boasts more than 700 types of beers. It is home to a 100 odd breweries, 30 of which can be found in Bruges. Tours of most of these are open to tourists. If fruit beers take your fancy, then Kriek or cherry beer and Lindemans Pecheresse or peach nectar beer are must-tries! Apart from this, restaurants in Bruges offer three-, four- and five-course gourmet meals that are not only cooked in beer, but also served with ale that perfectly matches the food.

At midday, we were free to explore the city for ourselves. One of us headed to Kookeet, a food fair that was being held right outside Belfort, another made his way to the nearest brewery while the rest of us decided to hire bicycles.

Cycling in Bruges without getting run over: check!

Pigeons cooed and fluttered out of the way as we cycled past rows of antique stores and beer pubs cutting across narrow lanes, with the wind in our faces. Numerous canals run along the roads of this ‘Venice of the North’ that perpetually had me wanting to whip out the camera. During the last days of autumn, while the sun is still out, these canals are dotted with open-air cafés and restaurants that are adorned with colourful flowers.

A lot like love

Right before the city ends to the south lies a bright blue lake called Minnewater, Lake of Love. There are many stories around the origin of its name, but my favourite goes that a young maiden named Meena was in love with a boy who had to leave her behind to fight a war. While he was away, her father found out about them and banished her from the house. When her lover returned he searched her out by this lake, where she lived in dismal circumstances. A sickly Meena died in his arms.

Avenues of trees laden with golden leaves that looked ready to fall at the first call of winter led the way. We sped past peaceful lawns watching couples with picnic baskets soak in the sun, we slowed down on a narrow wooden bridge where children bantered while pointing at birds in the canal, and we walked with our bikes because the view that lay ahead commanded our attention.

Across a smaller bridge were flocks of ducks paddling beside majestic swans in a lake set against the backdrop of old-world, brown and grey brick houses. The swans dipped their heads deep into the water, as if in search of lost treasure, and flipped their long necks back up in one swift move. Others of these stark white birds waddled from under trees nearby and plopped themselves onto the lake. 

Lake of Love or what.

A gentle breeze began to blow as I sat by my cycle, watching the sun kiss the water, smoking a cognac-dipped cigar and thinking about peach beer. Somewhere in the distance, the bells began to ring.

Bruges is an hour away from Brussels by train or road. Though you can take a guided tour through it in a horse-drawn carriage or on a canal cruise, this small city is best experienced on foot or cycle. Most of Flanders is at its beautiful best between March and October.

Little Rascals

Like every girl secretly loves a bad boy, mothers love a crazy kid; they really do! Although I have no opinion on, or solution to, the best way to deal with a crazy kid, in the last post of the second series of ideas, here’s how I feel about growing up crazy: it’s like looking back at the four years of high school.

Situations that seemed like the end of the world back then are things we laugh our heads off at today—like that one time my best friend got pissed-drunk in the school auditorium, in broad daylight, in an Islamic country and slept through all of the classes. Fun times, now. Horrid times, then.

Would I like to go back and experience all of that again? No, thank you. I’ll pass. Some incidents are best experienced once and recounted loads of times. It just works best that way. I’m sure my mom will agree to this, in context of experiencing the sheer madness of bringing up three absolute brats, in their own right.

So with this I’d like to thank everyone who came to me with full gusto to recount some truly funny, and outrageously gory kiddy incidents. Let’s say a little pray so our kids don’t turn out to be anything like we were. I love you guys.

And, oh, let’s hope they aren’t too cute. ‘Cause how can you ever scream at anything that looks like this:

;)

What's in a name, anyway?

Rusti was born and brought up in a multilingual household. Gujarati was his first language but English took over on most occasions—and Hindi came into the picture by default.

When he was about seven or eight, Rusti was asked to write an essay about his daddy for Hindi class. So he began collating his thoughts and structuring his essay to the best of his linguistic abilities. After he was done, he marched up to his parents—rather pleased with his devanagari—and asked them to have a look at what he had penciled down.

The first few lines of the essay went something like this: mera pitaji mujhhe gamta hain, main uske saath ramta hain. (I like my daddy, I play with him). Though the intention behind the thought was extremely noble, Rusti had decided to ignore but a few small details—like the facts that gamta (to like) and ramta (to play) were Gujarati words that had no business appearing in his Hindi essay.

Remembering to bring these facts to his notice later, the parents continued to read the essay. Rusti finally decided to introduce his daddy’s name in the last line of the essay.

Mera pitaji ka naam hain Ketan.

But his daddy’s name is Cyrus! This confused the parents to no extent, and they confronted Rusti about what he meant by naming his daddy’s best friend as his father!

To which Rusi nonchalantly replied, “But daddy, your name is so difficult to write in Hindi. Ketan is so much easier!”

Crack-a-lackin!

My brothers were about eleven and nine when they moved to Bombay. Any thing intrigues kids that age, but everything in this new city was of interest to these two. My eldest brother often ran down the street from my granny’s house to go pet the cow by the garbage bin. For him, there could not be anything cooler than a live cow on the street, nonchalantly mooing and munching in the middle of all the chaos, completely oblivious to the world.

Later in the year, we moved to our new house, and then came Diwali. The festival of lights! Since it was going to be their first experience of an Indian festival, mum and dad decided to get them loads of crackers—rasi bombs, anars, chakras, phuljharis, the works. 

Evidently, their excitement knew no bounds; they ran from pillar to post screaming with delight. The night the festivities began, they lugged their huge bag-full-of things-to-blow-up down to where all the other building’s kids were. Out came the crackers and the madness began. 

After a while, my eldest brother picked an exceptionally long string of red crackers and looked at it with new-found interest. Though everyone spread those on the ground and were lighting 'em at a good one arm’s distance, what a silly conventional way of doing things that was! Completely not his style.

He called out to the second one to discuss a better way of lighting that string of awesome.  And then, like an epiphany, it happened. There it was, the shiny, brand new, double door to the D wing/bungalow of our building.

So they simply marched over to the door, secured the long string of crackers to the door knocker, and lit the thing of fire. 

I’m going to leave what happened to that poor door to your imagination.

Well, as my mom says, something good did come out of that incident. After all the yelling, screaming and complaining had subsided, mum made her first building friend in the aunty who lives behind the door my brothers almost burned down. 

Aren’t they the cutest? *Heart*

Play by ear?

Anirudh spent most of his summer vacations in Coimbatore where he made merry with his numerous uncles, aunts and cousins. One day, during one such summer, his mum and aunties decided to do what women on holiday (or just generally too) like to do, and left one of his uncle’s in-charge of the kids. His uncle concluded that the best way to avoid bringing the ancestral house down was to keep the brats busy with some show of magic! So he did the disappearing thumb routine, fished out a coin from one of their hair and even put up a card act.

Towards the end, he showed them how when he slipped a pearl through one of his ears it came out the other! He also explained to them on a serious note that, the pearl, when pushed up the nose deftly, would come straight out the mouth. Now this uncle had Anirudh and his cousin sister’s full attention.

So after the assembly had dispersed to various parts of the house, and the mothers had returned to head straight for an afternoon nap, the two little ones got cracking. Anirudh convinced his cousin that she let him try the pearl trick, on her. Happy to be a muse, she obliged.

In went the pearl from one ear—but showed no sign of coming out the other. After some serious shoving, both of them got quite impatient and irritable, genuinely wondering which part of the magic wasn’t working. When the pearl didn’t come out even when pushed with the aid of a cotton bud, Anirudh decided it was best to accept defeat with the ears, and move to nose.

So he picked another pearl and asked his ever-so obliging cousin to tilt her head back so they could get on with some serious business. But as fate would have it, her mother woke up and decided to quiz them about what was going on. A little mumbling and few odd explanations later, they scurried to the courtyard leaving the confused woman behind.

But Anirudh could not wrap his head around what had gone wrong, and why the magic hadn’t worked—while his cousin sat under a tree pondering over the meaning of life, with the pearl safely ensconced in her ear. And he could only think of one person in the world who had the acumen to answer his questions—his Mommy.

On he marched to her room, and gently shook her out of her slumber. Then he narrated to his sleepy mom, step-by-step, what had happened that day—concluding with his harsh disappointment that the pearl continued to defy the simple laws of magic.

Needless to say, the mother was wide awake in seconds, and a lot of yelling and panic ensued. In short, the pearl was sucked out of the little one's ear after a less than three-hour 'operation'. I'm not allowed to use the cousin's name because this event is still a mystery to most of Anirudh's family. 

PS: No eardrums were damaged in the making of this event, except Anirudh's uncle's—who was compelled to forget all about his magic tricks.

A daddy's court-martial

Ishi’s daddy is an army man. When little Mr Ishi was all of two, his daddy was sent on a UN mission to The States for a year. The family didn’t see him through all that time. At the end of his work trip, Ishi’s parents planned to meet up in New York, holiday there for a while, and come back home.

Obviously, Ishi could not have been told his grandparents were going to take over because his parents wanted some alone time for three whole weeks. So to keep everyone happy, the story that was told to the little one was this: Mommy is going to get daddy back.

The year that his daddy was away, little Ishi had been spoiled rotten. His granny shielded his bratty behavior with the excuse that it was his way of coping. He just missed his daddy. So he went from one tender year to the other without really being checked for anything—a little strange since the parents, for obvious reasons, were otherwise strict disciplinarians.

His daddy, when he got back, was actually quite shocked to see what a little brat Ishi had become. So the first two times Ishi misbehaved, daddy let pass thinking his son was just acting out. And besides, he did feel guilty about missing important events in Ishi's life, like him starting pre-school and learning how to string complete sentences.  

But at the third, he decided it was time to take charge of the situation and reprimand his misbehaving beta. So down came the chides on little Ishi, to which the boy swiftly turned to his dad and said, “Mujhe kuch mat bolo, nahin toh Mummy ko boloonga…jahan se lekar aayi hai, wahin waapas chhod aayegi. Aur fir se lene bhi nahin aayegi!” 

(Don't say anything to me, or I'll tell Mummy...she'll leave you back to where she got you from. And she won't even come fetch you this time!")

Baby Ishi on the run

A choppy situation

As already established in the first post of this series, my eldest brother was an adventurous child. My second brother, on the other hand, was everything the first one was not. He was the obedient, silent, strong type. So if the first one, let’s say, dropped tea all over our new cordless phone, the second one would quickly dismantle it, wipe its innards clean and fix it right back, like nothing happened. Basically, they were as different as their hair types: tightly curled versus naturally straight.

Both of them spent the first ten years of their lives in Kuwait. Understandably, mum and dad always had a lot of dinners and gatherings at home over the weekends. Since the Indian community was much smaller then than it is now, everyone made an extra effort to meet over the holidays.    

So one such evening, the parents invited a couple over for dinner who they knew from Bombay. The kids always had strict instructions to stay in their room and play, while the guests and the parents chatted. They were promised good food as a fair trade, so more often than not they happily obliged.

Now my eldest brother can never sit still, especially when he is told that he must. While the second one continued to mind his own business and kept busy with his cars, the first one suddenly had a stroke of genius.

After a little chitter-chatter, mom decided it was time to lay out dinner. So she made her way to the kitchen, calling out to the boys as she passed their room. While she busied herself with the food, she heard their room’s door open. Then she heard them rush out to the hall, where daddy sat with the guests.

Then she heard the first one say this, “Look daddy! I gave him a haircut! It’s all nice and even now!” She decided it was best to abandon laying out the food, and rushed to where everyone was.

There, in the middle of the area surrounded by myriad expressions of shock, stood my eldest brother with a spray of Windex in his hand and a big smile. Beside him stood the second one, with a handkerchief tucked neatly in his tee, a sheepish look on his face and little hair left on his head.

For the want of a key...

Mister M is the third of four boys. If I had the chance to sit with his mother for longer, I’d have enough material for this series to last at least a year. 

Though he was generally a quiet kid, who liked to mind his own business, Mister M developed a love for shiny things at a young age—an obsession that still persists. His mother learned of this the hard way, one lazy afternoon.

Though she generally kept things out of the reach of her four boys, which meant everything was mostly shelved, could she have had a completely fool-proof plan against a child who had eyes only for the sparkly?

So that afternoon, as Mister M’s mom was going about her daily chores, she noticed that her third little one had been out of sight for quite some time. She decided to go look for him. After a little scouting about, she found that one of the bathrooms was shut tight. That was strange, she thought, as the father of the house was at work, and the boys were all very little to be locking doors. So she yanked at it but it didn’t yield.

Then one of her sons strolled along, and she asked him if he knew where his sibling was. That’s when he absently pointed at the door in front of them.

Mister M’s mom began beating down at the door pleading for him to come out. She couldn’t even hear if he was saying anything or calling out for help because the door was so huge and heavy.

Some time and tears later, she decided to call her husband. Heavy or not, that door had to go down.

About an hour later, two workers from Mister M’s daddy’s office arrived at the house to break down the door. They looked at it sceptically, and then went around the area looking for other possible ways to get the child out. Then they saw the bathroom’s window.

Using all their might and a few tools at hand, they unhinged the window, and this is what they saw: Mister M sitting in the basin, with the shiny bathroom key clenched tightly in his hand, and a rather confused look on his face.

If he could have spoken, he’d probably just ask all of them to chill—as he was.

Happy little Mister M

A room of one's own

One unassuming afternoon, Aditi set out on a shopping spree with her mother, grandmother and aunt for the latter’s impending wedding. The women were, as any group of women going shopping would be, extremely excited. They headed to this swanky, newly-renovated store in the heart of the city for some very serious purchasing.

All of three, Aditi was quickly mesmerised by the colours and sparkly fabrics on display. So she set out to explore the store and its offerings while the ladies began short-listing outfits for her aunt to try. After every nook and cranny of the shiny new store was explored, she returned to the three hyper ladies who were surrounded by yards and yards of materials.

It was then that something quite interesting caught her attention. Her aunt kept going into a little room in the corner, and whenever she got out, she was wearing something new! As her aunt modelled a pretty outfit for her mom and granny, Aditi marched to this magical room.

A few minutes later, when it was time for the aunt to try something new, everyone realised that the changing room’s door was locked, and that little Aditi was missing.

Suppressing panic, they knocked at the door. Aditi responded with a playful giggle, and their panic hit the roof. They began to cajole her into opening the latch and stepping out only to realise that, though she had managed to lock herself in, the three-year-old didn’t know how to get herself out.

Everyone at the store got involved; tears started streaming down Aditi and her mom’s face. Her granny demanded her daughter to be strong, and on hearing her voice, Aditi demanded her grandmother to sing her favourite song. So while some singing ensued to calm the nerves, the workers at the store got their grey cells working.

They decided to saw a circle on the ceiling right about the changing room, and rope the child out. The only problem was that it threatened to cave out and fall on Aditi. Armed with the little one’s favourite music, her grandmother talked her into hugging the door tight while ‘operation hole in the ceiling’ proceeded.

The drama lasted about three hours and at last, little Aditi was saved from the evil changing room. Her mother warned her not to squeal a word to her father, and though she agreed, Aditi couldn’t contain her excitement about her (mis)adventure when she saw her loving daddy’s face.

At the end of the tale, Aditi’s mom told me that when she had gone back to the store a few months later, they brought to her notice how the latch in the changing room was now secured safely on top, far from the reach of children. 

All I could manage to say was, “You went back!?”

Lots of Love

My eldest brother is one of the most loving people I know. If he loves you, he has to show it, mostly through hugs. Not the regular, pat-on-the-back kind but the rib-crushing, knocks-the-air-out-of-you kind. Now that we have this important fact in place, we can move on. 

One day, when he was very little, he decided he wanted to adopt a kitten. Now my mom is dead against anything that crawls and is not her kid. Don’t get this wrong, she loves other people’s kids. But that’s all the crawling she can process amicably. Any other crawly thing that crosses her path must a) die or b) be scared to death by her screams.

But my brother is anything but a conformist. He found this cute little kitten while he was playing one afternoon, and decided to dote all over her. First he bullied someone to give him milk so he could fed her, then he rubbed her belly, smiling happily. By this time, both of them had mom’s attention.

Skeptically, mom marched over to them to see what was up. It was one of those moments for her, I'm sure, when she just knew disaster awaited because her kid was so happy. On seeing her, my brother took it upon himself to convince her that he really loves this kitten, and that he should be allowed to keep her. So he lifted the baby kitten, now full of food, and gave her a nice, warm hug.

Yeah, he hugged the kitten so tight that she died. My mom quickly snatched her away from his outstretched hands and his big grin instantly began to subside. Before he could wrap his head around what was going on, she demanded that he continue to play indoors that instant.

My poor, sensitive mother was left to deal with a situation that was way beyond her control. That day, she was completely convinced that her aversion to animals was a good thing after all, and that's why we were never allowed a pet. (She always narrated this story when we demanded one!) 

Also, it was years before he learned what his 'power of love' had done. 

PS: My brother has a very handsome pit bull, and a cat finally adopted him. And as per my knowledge, all of them are aging rather gracefully. 

This is a happy kitty, quite unlike the kitty who met her rather ill fate in my brother.

Crazy things kids do

Kids are cute. When they are not hungry, wailing, speed-crawling over your favourite shoes (and then chewing on them), or generally getting on your last nerve, they are most adorable. I know several cute and adorable kids, who have grown up (in size) to stay the same.

One slow, weekday afternoon, we gathered on the mezzanine floor at the office for lunch. We’re one big, happy family when it comes to lunching. Everyone’s dabbas are up for grabs, lots of arms fly around, and one rarely leaves the table dissatisfied. But our animated banter is the only thing that comes close to the awesome food.  

So on that day, all of us randomly started discussing embarrassing things we did as kids. While some shared personal experiences, others told stories of their children – the kids of today. And then suddenly, in between fits of laughter, someone suggested that I blog about it.

I was a cute and adorable kid; and in most respects, I still am. (I’m only taking the liberty to say this because my mother couldn’t be bothered with this blog and you’ll never know what she has to say. Hah!). Today, as I look back at my years of tender innocence, I whole-heartedly blame my brothers for the slight traces of bratty behaviour.

Ok, not so slight: I couldn’t stand Barbie dolls, I loved Lego and I spent most of my childhood under a bob cut. Thanks to this major identity crisis, bruised knees were my favourite accessories for the longest time.

By the time I was ten, I had fractured my ankle, managed to stick a pencil in my eye, broken my arm and ripped my chin open (and tried to blame it on someone else: Scarlett, I’m sorry. It wasn’t you, it was me). I was also tied to a bench in the 3^rd grade (Sister Angela, I will find you one day...), and had managed to stroll away with a stranger, mistaking him for dad, at Jogger’s Park. (In my defence, what a silly stranger! I did not look like his son! Oh wait, the bob cut...)

Anyway, I was my parents’ personal hell. But after that lunch conversation I realised that most kids are. And whether you like it or not, you were too. Kids are crazy and they do crazy things. This series of posts, which will be updated three times a week for the next three weeks, is a tribute to crazy kid stories. So share any funny/crazy story you have. The grosser the better!    

Love,

A crazy kid.

Does this child belong to anyone?

Day 21: Little wonders

As I had promised in the first post, I’ve shared some interesting things I learned over the past 20 days. In the last post of my first series of ideas, here’s what I have to say: Living alone is much like wearing white during the rains or getting your hair coloured orange.

Everybody feels empowered and sexy in the beginning—swagger and all. People are patting your back for the bravado and loving your style. But secretly, they just feel bad for you. (No, not to your face. Imagine someone walking up to you and saying, Pardon me, but I think your head is ablaze. That’s just rude.) Not to mention, you’re pretty paranoid through most of the experience too.

It’s also one of those things you have to experience—like a brain freeze or cake overdose. It may hurt a little but it’s so worth it. Because, you know, if you did things keeping everyone’s opinions in mind, then you wouldn’t get about doing much at all.

As for me, the last 20 posts cut a fair picture of how I got by living alone. Do I want to do more of it in the future? To that I’ll say, do I really have a choice? But at least my journey was fruitful. I now know which of my skills need honing, and what frozen foods last the longest. Experience, in my case, has been a kickass teacher. Most of all, I’ve learned the importance of self-reliance and a positive attitude when unceremoniously dumped by the help.

Anyhoo, mom came home this morning and I’ve been stuffing my face and lazing around all day. Just like my old, spoiled (for the want of a better adjective) self.

Also, one of the first things she did was check on her plants. And this is what she saw:

I feel pretty...

So what I’m really trying to say is:

1) If I can do it, so can you.

Day 20: Spring cleaning in summer

Today I decided to stay at home.

I slept for an extra hour, read the paper for a bit longer, and zoned out a little more too. But why I really skipped work is because mom is coming back tomorrow.

I requested my help and her mother, when they came on Monday, to show up on time today; a whole four days in advance. She vigorously nodded in the affirmative and, of course I should have seen this coming, didn’t turn up since then. She walked in with me after I got my back from the gym this morning. We had our breakfasts and geared up for some serious cleaning.

One of them took the kitchen, one the hall and I got cleaning with the rooms. We literally beat the dust out of everything. And then it happened: at about mid-afternoon, the house mysteriously looked brighter.

I slept for a bit before leaving for my dinner plans. I made about five friends in college and three of them decided to meet tonight—a reunion of sorts. So we met at this new joint in Andheri to laugh and eat our hearts out. I dragged them half way across the area for some ice-cream and they couldn’t have been happier about it.  

I’m now full of mashed potato, fish and lots of Gelato. And now, sleep is calling. 

So what I’m really trying to say is: 

1) Cleanliness is next to godliness, and also bloody therapeutic.

Day 19: Just clap already!

As this series is about to end, I’ve invited one of my best friends from high school to write for us today. Shivangi and I’ve known each other since we were 15 and we have a lot of lovely memories together. She’s one of those people I have so much to say about that I don’t know what to say at all. She grew up in Kuwait, went to university in Indiana, and will soon start working in New York City. Here’s what she has to say:

The good, the bad and the ugly

I’ll be honest—unlike most teenagers who dream of living alone, and having independent lifestyles with no one to lay down rules for them, I was perfectly content living at home with my parents.

 

I was always, what they call, a ‘mama’s baby.’ I needed my mom for every big and small decision. But I am ambitious too, and aspired to get an American degree from a good university. This dream forced me to leave home after high school and start living life all by myself in Bloomington, Indiana.

When my parents left Bloomington after helping me move into my dorm, I realised life alone was in fact harder than I had imagined. My first week of classes was the first time I had to wake up with an alarm instead of my mom’s loving screams. The fear that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning kept me up through the first week of classes. Then came many other disastrous first experiences—grocery shopping, laundry and ironing. 

I remember one night in mid November—winter had set in and it was really chilly and windy. At 11 pm, I realised that there was no milk for my morning coffee—one thing I can’t start my day without. So I rushed out in the cold to fetch milk at 11pm! And that taught me an important life lesson—refrigerators never automatically restock themselves.

But all in all living alone, for the last 5 years through my college education, has helped me become independent and self-reliant.

I still, of course, jump at every opportunity to go home but I know that I can survive in any part of the world. I think the most valuable lesson I learnt through these years is that planning ahead is very important: be it for bills, grocery, insurance or banking. Leaving things ad hoc can have disastrous consequences.

I am now preparing to start life on my own in New York City. But this time around, although I’m going to be in a much bigger and busier city, I feel prepared and ready for the challenge.

Day 18: A delicious beginning

My chicken was very well received at work, by everyone’s tummies.

Today I’ve decided to talk about the first meal of the day. I love breakfast. Like everybody, I get really crabby if I haven’t eaten—more so if I’ve missed breakfast. Mom taught me how to whip up an omelette when I was 10. 

Sadly, I decided to stay in the same cooking grade ever since. So after one of my signature omelettes—it mostly involves whatever I can get my hands on from the crisper—I geared up for an interesting day at work. By the way, this is what regular breakfast looks like:

Happy fat cells and all

We invited a CEO to office today to discuss the magazine and work-life in general, over pizza. It’s always nice to gain perspective and ideate aloud. I’m exceptionally tired today but have great plans for the next three nights. I can’t believe three weeks are going to be up so soon! Bah. So after a lot of washing, organising and agonising, I’m ready for bed.

So what I’m really trying to say is:

 1) Have a happy time of day. Make the most of it.    

Day 17: The Gates of Heaven (a.k.a Kitchen door)

Before I write about what you really want to read, I have to tell you: I finished reading the funniest book today! The Gates (of Hell are About to Open. Mind the Gap.) by John Connolly is exactly about what the full title gives away. The back cover reads: “...The fate of humanity lies in the hands of one small boy, an even smaller dog, and a very unlucky demon...”

Here’s a paragraph from it: (Ref: Since it’s about Hell’s gates opening and all, the book is obviously full of diabolic demons, human-insects flying around, and people coming back from the dead.)

“Bishop Bernard had never been a handsome man. He had, to be honest, been uglier than a wart on a toad’s bum, and the centuries spent buried beneath the church had done nothing to improve his looks...”

You get the drift. Though I borrowed this book, I can’t wait to buy my own copy. It’s just one of those books. I also prompted e-ordered another one of Connolly’s works, it’s called The Book of Lost Things. It'll be a week before I can get started on that, thanks to Flipkart.

Now, about the chicken; I was very excited throughout the day, and told anyone who would listen about my dinner plans. I walked into the house and head straight for the marinade. I placed it on the kitchen counter, to thaw—and wanted to stand there and watch it, but went about my usual business instead.

About 15 minutes later, I heated a non-stick vessel with a wee-bit of oil in it. I tipped the marinade in, added a little water and let the magic begin. Everyone I’d spoken to about cooking chicken estimated it to be done in about 20-25 minutes. They asked me to poke it around and check on it every 10 minutes.

This chicken took a little under an hour. I let it sit on a very slow flame throughout, and seriously, I don’t remember the last time I was this patient. All in all, this is what it looks like:

Yum hogaya

If I may say so myself, you should really try some. No worry, I’ll make it again for you, soon.  

I’m surrounded by the most amazing people who helped me out with this. So here’s a big shout out and thanks to them (and marthastewart.com). Lastly, I’ve saved some of it for mom. I’m sure, in her eyes, this is a bigger achievement than all my biggest achievements combined.

So what I'm really trying to say is:

1) Success smells and tastes spicy too. You just have to get the ingredients right!