Raaga Kalyan of The Blue Caterpillar

She leaned forward and pressed her face to her window shield. Cloned tufts of clouds scatterred above - slightly curved ... a psychedelic reflection on the glass. The face curves in unision and it seemed like she was one with the sky. A slight dusk chill blew through the open windows - settling on one arm and slipping into her hair. The heater blowed warm air on her ankles and hands. It was a beautiful combination. A reminder of what life is all about. Thoda chill, thoda garm, and thoda ...... magic. All together. This was nirvana in a way, right there. She glazed her eyes a little bit - pretending the traffic stop was actually a concert hall. Pandit jasraj letting out his raaga kalyan like letting go of bales of silk.... bales of soft cottony silk .....

It just takes a moment to sense life. To float out of that body that pins us down, and spin around like a feathery soul. She imagined herself sometimes a mermaid of the sky. Bending that tail to simply glide over the dusky city. To merge with the purple sunset. To silenty swoop down and settle calmly on the roof of a skyscraper - staring at the dotted sky. Seeing stars. At night. At day. Seeing diamonds twinkle through day-time skies. Put your hand up and part your fingers. Do you see the diamonds glisten through the Vs? Can you imagine if just a couple were studded inside your palm? And only shined when you looked at them?

Palm clenced with the whispers of the hookah. Mushrooms from the blue caterpillar.

Sa. re. ma. dha. ni. sa.. Niii sa. Niii sa...

There's hot sun baking down. Hot and white. It's all white. And a mustard dupatta. and a mustard lehenga. a mustard dupatta billowing around. A red one joins it. Both billowing in unision. Each trying to outdo the other.

Like playfully warring kites. Faster and faster. One tires. the other slows. And then the gust bursts again...and so do they....And milky hot dusky desert heat settles them down..... cool.....baked in the days heat ..... giving in to the nightly coolness .... and the diamonds smile again ......

Saaaa......aaaaa............jab

see...maii......haa.....ri..i..i................

Mai haa..ari ....

Mai haa....ari .....

Mai ha...aa--aa---rii........

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My Mummy’s Soft Soft Tummy

The womb is actually a drama queen. She hogs all the glory just because of those meager nine months that she goes to work. Yes, the womb may be a heroine – but the real Mother India my friends is the lady standing guard outside the chambers of the theatrical queen. It’s that lady always decked in layers of silky smooth….plump…satin, exuding a warmth that goes straight to the core of your heart.

Sniff. Snuggle. Snugggggleeeee. Burrry my face. There’s a saree upon my eyes. and Underneath that saree lies the softest, the smoothest, the most wonderfully comforting place on earth. That most wonderful place is on my mummy. Rather her soft ….. soft …. tummy….

Memories?

None? Then you were probably a product of the 90s. And if so, read on kiddos on the true manna of motherhood.

My earliest memories of my mum are really those of her tummy. I don’t think much about having been inside of it – cos hello do I remember that? Nope. What I do remember is the feel of my cheek on the plump, springy, feminine tyres …. so refreshingly cool and warm at the same time … my tiny arms struggling to circle them. That’s the real bosom. That’s where the heart really lies. For when the cheek goes upon the tummy, the love comes pouring out of your mummy. The most loving hand caresses your hair, and the world … it’s just perfect again. All hurts are lost. All fears are gone. All hunger is filled. Your eyes flutter and slowly you are lost in the true rhythm of life. You can hear blood rushing under the skin. You can hear the heart pumping. And then a little gurgle of the tummy….a little hello from that forgotten womb. If a butterfly were to return to its cocoon – this would be how. And I know all those generations born to saree-clad Mothers will probably chime in agreement.

For every memory I have of running in the park, there’s one of me running back to her … lost in the folds of her saree as  I try to reach up to that tummy. A tummy hug….I want a tummy hug….

For every memory I have of sleeping in her bed, there’s one of slipping slowly down from the pillow to snuggle upon the God-given one. A tummy tuck …. I want a tummy tuck ….

For every memory I have of her singing me a lullaby, there’s one of her giving me one. My face on my happy place … riding with the waves …. the rise of that tummy…like the glide of the swing …. up … up … into another world I fly ….

Even today, that’s my happy place. When all seems hopeless – I just close my eyes and imagine the little me wrapping my arms around her and blowing fish bubbles on her tummy. The symbol of her lush love. That omnipresent warmth. Blowing fish bubbles ….kissing the satiny lady who staunchly protected me whilst I was being moulded by the drama queen, and let go of her sleek beauty for the cause of the umbilical.

The day the moms shed their sarees for the salwar kameez was a sad day indeed. The end of an era.

The butterflies lost their cocoons.

The drama queen fell silent.

What remains is a legend.

The true legend of a mummy.

The legend of my mummy’s soft soft tummy.

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Narratives of the Food Casanova

A true food lover possesses a Shakespearean passion for food. A secretive hot and heavy relationship that sizzles in the dark of the night. Floats in the light of the day. And offers that entire mix of temptations, indulgences, and even a spiritual liberation when you just want to drop to your knees and prostrate to the almighty in fervent thanks for this heavenly pleasure on earth.

Food is just not food.

It’s art. It’s music. It’s nature. It’s balinese massages. It’s all that the senses need to come alive.

Only a true food Casanova can understand the passion that it evokes. The nuances of this torrid affair. The ones who eat because it’s a necessary part of life – they are on a completely different wavelength. They cannot comprehend the emotion. They cannot comprehend the tears that well up at the end of a wonderful meal that makes up for all the wrongs that have been committed against you in life or perhaps just on that day. It may just appear to be melodrama. But oh what glorious melodrama. Oh what joy there is when something wonderfully tasty lands on your thirsty tongue and the juices in your mouth just jump in joy to hug their long lost friend. Might be that spicy fried chicken or that mushy chocolate mousse or just that single morsel of hot soft rice drenched in dal and dipped in ghee.It’s a big fat magic pill. It’s the hug of a hundred mothers. Hush my little baby. It shall be okay. It shall all be okay. Just eat and sleep and heal.

Yes amma … Yes..amma ….. ..

Loving food has little to do with the stomach and more to do with the mouth. Ok that sounds a little gross so I am just going to refer to the oral equipment involved as the Littles. The Lips, The Tongue, and The Teeth. All of the Littles have their opinion on what they like and what they don’t. At any given point any of the Littles can start pleading for a treat. And as a food lover you know that if you ignore their pleas for long – they react like children. Turning stubborn and demanding until the only way out is to get them what they want. And you might have to upturn a lot of things to get them what they want. I am sure tons of memories sprung to life right now. Sure did with me. The midnight Seven Eleven runs for that  one ball of Ferrero Rocher. The one hour train ride to get to the supermarket that carried the brand of beef I liked. The waits to fly to a destination and go straight to that restaurant that steamed the fish just the right way and garnished it with the right amount of green chillies sliced just to the right thinness. Oh – I have million such experiences. And fellow food casanovas – I am sure you have too.

But pay heed to my warning if you are a recently turned food casanova (perhaps due to a hormonal change or a recently change in state of affluence)- Learn to keep them in check. By them I mean the Littles. If  you don’t master  them, they will master you. Promise.

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The Lips

The Lips usually yearn for the soft soft cool cool smooth smooth stuff. Bear in mind that it’s the inner lip that’s active. You know that soft part that rests against your teeth? Now these are the Lips that crave. The outer ones are utilitarian. When a craving hits the Lips, it comes slow. Very leisurely. Like that little breeze that sneaks out of the corners of the trees on a warm day. That little breeze slowly but steadily turns into lots of little breezes. Dancing about like Aishwarya Rai’s extras in a Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s song. And if you don’t satisfy it soon enough, Salman Khans of the mouth ooze out from the point where the Lips meet the teeth. Filling up the swirling space between them with their teasing movements. And if you still continue to ignore the Lips, the mouth Salman Khan will start signalling his army which will start dancing around the white pillars that grace the palace of the Littles. Juicy mango. Cool chocolate mousse. Hot chocolate fudge. Ghee dripping rasagulla. Amma’s homemade pudding. Thinly sliced Kiwi. Rasperry sorbet. Just give it. Give it what it wants before the the little Salman starts tearing his shirt off!

The Tongue

I love indulging the Tongue. Because it’s the most mysterious. It’s the poet of the Littles’ Palace. The wandering Sufi. The meditating Saint. It lives in its own world. It’s own realm. I sometimes tend to think that the Tongue reflects the yearnings of the heart. It never thinks of something concrete. It just wants – something sweet – something sour – something soursweet – something liquid – something spicy – something sweetnspicy – something hard – something soft – something ….. something. It’s always a something. And not all of the Tongue speaks at once. Sometimes it’s the right underside that craves the sweet. Sometimes it’s the root that craves the spicy fried. Sometimes it’s the top that craves that sweet liquid. Or Sometimes it’s the way back that craves the sweet and sour and tangy. And it’s the bang center that shouts for the salt. Some of you just had the “Oh Yeahhh” moment right? If you are a true Casanova – you would already be attuned to these nuances. The tongue would be your favourite mistress to indulge. Because she keeps you guessing and never fails to bring that smile on your face with her reactions. And with the tongue – it’s always leisurely. It’s always a stroll in the palace. You take your time. Savour everything. Enjoy - every. little bit. And if you don’t indulge her – there are no tantrums – just a quiet sadness that sinks a well in your heart. And in time you’ll make up for what you denied her.

The Teeth

The Teeth – well what can be said about the Food Casanova’s teeth? I am sure you find them coming alive fellow casanova when Mel Gibson energy is bursting out of you. When the Teeth want – there is no denying them. No sir. No ma’am. You can’t do nothing to keep them in check. When they grind for that pound of flesh or that crunch of nuts or just that tearing and slicing into something tough – bow down before their will or they will go on a rampage – chomping on anything and everything that comes their way. And tragically they may not even injest it. Just chew and spit until the right stuff finds its way home. Steak. Deep Fried Chicken. Sugarcane. Find one of these three. If you are desperate – then just hunt for some carrot. It will calm them down for a while. But just for a while. But head straight for the tough ones or you will surely end up pulp yourself. Or someone else around you. Hey, the rule in my book is that if my boss is craving some chicken. I order it some chicken. Because I know if it doesn’t get some chicken – I’ll  be it. The harried hen in the pen.

Sometimes all the Littles get hyper. Clamouring for attention. There are some foods that are complete foods for all the Littles. Like Ferrero Rocher. Biting through one is like biting through earth itself. The grainy top layer that gives way to the soft clay-like encasing that paves way for that molten heavenly chocolate with a surprise hazelnut in waiting. Aaaah …..

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No life as a food Casanova is complete without those explicit tales of food. Recounting each little detail like it’s your dream wedding or a hostage rescue in the Sea. It always easy to spot true blue-blooded food Casanovas. No, don’t go by size. Remember it’s all about the palace of the Littles? Casanovas eat to indulge the Littles not the tummy. So some of them may eat lots – but in variety. Not in quantity. You’ll know a food  Casanova when food comes up in the first three conversations you have with them. You know a certified Casanova when they suggest a restaurant not because its good, but it’s got this something particular that tastes something particular, and blows their mind something particular, and you just have to have it or they just have to have it. And you’ll know a food Casanova with a PHD when they will spend twenty minutes telling you what they are planning to eat for dinner. The precise combination and quantity. Their eyes will light up, their faces will beam, and their voices will gurgle with an excitement that one usually experiences only when they are setting out to do something for the first time. Like sail. Or jump off a cliff. Or feed a crocodile.

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Life as a food Casanova is exhilarating for me and I could write a thesis on my trysts with food. But for now this will do.

Of all the passions in my life – my passion for food is the most consistent. Most faithful. I don’t know if I am the mistress or if it is the master.

All I know is that I am crazy in love.

Always have been.

Always will be.

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Nude Awakening

Perhaps it is the apathy of people like me, who have the ability to speak out, that just makes it easier for idiots to randomly pronounce and proclaim so authoritatively about a community. And is it any wonder that over time, reiteration of skewed views by the media, slowly becomes the defacto opinion of the larger society?

The newspaper reported about Sila Sahin today. She’s a Turkish-German who posed nude for playboy. Good for her. But the report went on to state that she is “a glowing example of how a modern Muslim girl should behave in a multicultural society.”

I can’t even begin to list all the things that are wrong with that sentence. 

Perhaps it’s just irresponsible journalism, but underlying it is the collective understanding of a society. Some of you see it. Some of you don’t. But here's what I think it suggests. Somehow ‘progressive’ and ‘modern’ are  directly proportionate to the amount of skin shown. So, people emerging from clothes-friendly societies are probably still on their way to ‘modernism’. And girls from such communities (particularly Muslim) could do well by laying themselves bare to millions of ogling men and set a 'glowing example' of how to adjust in multi-cultural societies. Men who have so far driven themselves crazy wondering what’s behind that veil. If not it’s likely that such girls just have to accept the random questions about the harems they have graced and the terrorists they are hiding underneath their burqas.

I often don’t bother commenting or reacting to such obvious ignorance and idiocy on part of the random public. Because well - it seems like pointless intellectual hullabaloo (like on news channels). But perhaps it is the apathy of people like me, who have the ability to speak out, that just makes it easier for the idiots to randomly pronounce and proclaim so authoritatively about a community. And is it any wonder that over time, reiteration of skewed views by the media, slowly becomes the defacto opinion of the larger society?

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In a lighter vein, let’s backtrack a little. Ok let’s backtrack a lot. To when God dropped human beings on this earth or when they sprung from the water (whatever you believe). I understand that the point of clothing yourself was to protect yourself from the elements of the earth?

Except the melanin granted to equatorial people to prevent getting toasted, our creator chose to not give the humans any other form of protection. He probably said, dear sons and daughters of Adam, I am giving you brains, and I am giving you opposable thumbs. Now put them to good use. Let me see what you come up with. So sons and daughters of Adam, first came up with Tools, then they came up with ideas to use the tools to make themselves some clothes. Then they started realizing that tigersaurous skin looked prettier than rhinosaurus. And so man being man, he troubled Vanity to rear her head and give a glorious birth to Fashion.

But now I think Vanity wants Fashion back, so she’s released a nude nerve gas into this world. Going by the afore-recounted statement, in a few decades or centuries, as the ‘multi-cultural’ society ‘progresses’, clothes will be done away with altogether. If God-willing I live to see my great-grandchildren, like all grand-mothers I shall tell them tales of how in my times there existed something called ‘clothes’ and something called ‘fashion’.  And oh what glorious times they were. Fabrics, and colours, and cuts, and shapes, and embroideries, and prints, and sequins and crystals, and God-sent lycra and denim. Probably a decade earlier the garment industry would have collapsed, and I can recount those troubled times as well to them. The Great Garment Suppression.  The largest economic collapse the world had ever witnessed. Millions left jobless and hungry.  Or so I think :).

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Hey, I am not an anti-nudist per se. I have always believed in the adage of to each his own. As long as your actions don’t harm others they are your actions. I don’t have to believe or agree with them, but I respect your right to have them. And just as long as you don’t slink over and start impressing yourself upon my guy, I am fine with your nudity. But I can’t be the only one who is bothered by this obsessively retarded belief that many people in the world, and particularly in India seem to hold. Tighter, shorter, clothes make you ‘modern’.  So if a girl’s wardrobe largely comprises salwar-kameezes, by and large she’s a ‘behenji’. And until she happily dons a cocktail dress or shows off assets in corsets, she’s probably ‘old-fashioned’ and ‘conservative’. ‘Cool’, ‘hot’, ‘modern’ are not terms you will find associated with salwar-kameez girls. And really, does a salwar-kameez girl fit into your image of a ‘babe’? Kinda hard for a lot of you right? There are always exceptions, but I am talking about the rule here. An unfortunate rule. That’s just the way it goes and it’s not something I am going to damage my tonsils over.

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But perhaps I should stretch my tonsils a little. If baring skin is a social response to repression and seen as a freedom of expression, then it should find its own podium. Trampling over someone else’s expressive right to cover themselves can’t be the way to liberation.

But isn’t that the tone of the world events? To liberate one, another is oppressed. Yet another form of dictatorship. Why is it that people think that for them to be right, someone else has to be wrong? It’s not always mutually exclusive. I wonder if anyone will dare report an Orthodox Jewish or Catholic girl on a playboy cover as a ‘glowing example of modern behavior’. Or for that matter any girl from any background. It simply appears that the words ‘muslim’ ‘naked’ and ‘girl’ just jumped out at the reporter and he reacted in glee. Such knee-jerk reactions are nothing new. I suppose any Muslim breaking away from a Muslim norm must be glorified as a hero because of course all the billions of Muslims are crazed fanatic idiots who don’t know nothing about living a progressive life. I am not exaggerating. Just read the raging discussions and debates on online articles related to Muslims and Muslim practices and you will see that's pretty much what the majority believes.

But then such people perhaps don’t notice what really excites them about a Muslim girl gone nude. It’s the fact that suddenly she becomes one of them. The fact that beneath all those clothes you and I. We are all the same. Sons and daughters of Adam or cellular organisms of the waterworld (whatever you believe).

Perhaps that - should be the nude awakening of a multi-cultural society.

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Aching Green

When I started GreeNiche, it took many people by surprise. Plants?? Gardening?? Really?? It was not an entirely unexpected response. Plants hold no fashion quotient in today’s world. And gardening has become such an archaic concept - relegated to mummies and grandpas.

Growing up in a house with a sprawling courtyard was the best experience of my life. We had so many trees and plants – always singing, always calling me out to play with them. And I did. I spent my free time grooming them, caressing them with motherly affection, watering them like they were my thirsty little babies. And it was always a very soothing experience. When I was wrought with angst, I would dig my hands through the mud, weeding out the pestering stones, creating pathways and aalas to give them a better bed in which to sleep. When I was troubled, I would scrape my hands on the rough barks of the coconut or champa tree. Feeling each grain against my palms. Seeking answers. Imploring upon their wisdom. Many a Rabia they had seen grow up. Many a Rabia had they soothed and breathed new life into. And there are those moments when it all wells up in you but refuses to find its way out. All it takes is a slight caress from a rain-wet leaf, and it turns into those big fleshy soft arms that hold you until the storm has passed by.

Wet green. That’s my happy place. That always helps me calm down until I can find my way out. From wherever that may be. When I find someone with a broken or disturbed heart, I always suggest a getaway to a really green place. Green has the power to heal. Spiritually. Oceans are too turbulent. They are like lovers. They will take you to peaks of sparkling thrill and canyons of sadness within a few heartbeats. But greens … they are like your mother-figures - forgiving, and nourishing.

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If you haven’t experienced the power of green – you are missing out on something special. Try it.

You don’t have to get all sappy about it. Just try it. Try walking into a green alcove anywhere near you. If you have a garden - try walking in it. Touch the plants. Run your fingers through the leaves. Ruffle the ones you can. Smile at the flowers. They will smile back. They can see you. You don’t have to talk to them. But know that it’s another world, that exists around you. A world you are mostly oblivious to, but it exists and breathes and sighs and laughs and cries just like yours. And it’s there for you when you can’t find anything else to accompany you in your quiet times. The oceans are too far away, the clubs are too crowded, but the greens are always there.

And if it has rained – don’t stay in. You really just have to walk out and breathe in the happiness of the trees around you. Laugh with them. Gaze at them. Feel their wet skin on your face. Shake your head and let them tickle you. And if you wait for a bit, they will shower a flower upon you in blessing.

If you live near a lake, don't ignore it. Walk down to it. Find a spot where the trees are leaning down into the still water. Reflecting their affection. Smiling with the lake the way long-together couples do. Meditate upon that green. Liquid or otherwise. Focus on the fresh scent. The slight coolness you will feel without fail. And if you try hard enough you will hear the whispers. If music stirs you then just plug in your ipod. Absorb all the greenness you can, close your eyes, and lose yourself in it all.

It’s that easy to go on a vacation.

It's that easy to heal.

You can always go back to your cynicism later.

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