Celebration Biryani

Today, I had the world's BEST mutton biryani. I really did. Call it hunger or the severe deprivation of good food, or what you may, but from the second it arrived to many more after I wistfully left my plate to the starving atmospheric organisms, I couldn't think about anything else. Not the server who was probably still laughing at how badly I couldn't speak Malayalam. Definitely not how many cockroaches lived behind the cardboard walls and the kitchen. And not the three text messages awaiting a reply on my phone.* Nope.

It was all me and my biryani.

On my way to south Delhi I found myself in what is probably going to be my favourite place to shop when I'm living this part of the city: INA Market. A name-it-they-have-it marketplace filled with everything you could possibly imagine. And more!

I headed straight for the biryani place, of course. Kerala Hotel. One of those "meals-guaranteed" places that never seem to close. Perfect for college students' untimely hunger pangs. And their wallets, too. But so crickety-crackety, you're never sure whether it's the last place you'll enter alive. While experiencing aforementioned college student hunger pangs late last night, I'd read an exceptionally glowing review of their mutton biryani, and decided I deserved to have a nice meal. Just because.

After a LOT of linguistic fumbling -- I spoke Hindi in a place that spoke Malayalam -- I thought I'd ordered a meal plate; vegetables, rice, the works. Biryani, they told me, would take twenty minutes. I waited. I tried not to look at the cockroaches climbing beside me. I tried not to think about the origins of the water I was very parchedly sipping. I tried not to be offended by the miniskirt-wearing advert girl printed onto their cardboard walls. I tried, I did.

And then it came. Barely five minutes after I'd ordered my vegetarian meal, I was handed a very welcome steaming plate of rice covering what looked like... mutton! Could it possibly be that they'd understood what I wanted to say? I looked up at the gods, and accepted their offerings. I understood. And if meditation is thinking one thought for twelve seconds or more, I meditated upon that dish till the entire thing was demolished. Every single grain of fragrant rice stuck to every single bony piece of mutton. True, it wasn't biryani so much as it was curry-rice. But oh my god, it was the most beautiful combination of mutton and rice I have ever eaten. Absolutely perfect. Like every morsel was made to be loved, not eaten. But eaten it was. With so much joy.

I almost don't want to come out of that feeling to talk about the rest of my time spent at the market. But I will (very briefly), because it made me happy.

Before today, I'd only ever ventured into the side near the main road, which is unusual for me, because I usually spend so much time walking around places. But today, a few soon-to-fade beams of light shone through the tiniest possible walkway, to show me I'd been missing the most interesting part entirely, the fish market! Very celestial, yes. But meat and vegetable markets are like heaven to some crazy people. Bok choy, chinese cabbage, iceberg lettuce, seaweed, baby corn, dried chinese mushrooms, fresh mushrooms, fat chilies; all the perfect ingredients for stir fry. In bundles so large you could almost dive into. And fish! And prawns! And crabs! And chickens! Of every conceivable colour and texture and flavour. I felt like a child let loose in the city. Eyes wide open, mouth in an 'O', soaking, observing, wanting everything around. My personal, static little bubble as the world moved in slow-motion around me.

I so need to go back.



*Sorry, R

Have Telephoto Lens, Will Use It

Scoping out Jewish men from really high rooftops is always fun, no matter what your mother tells you.

Little Kids Know More

"Do you know what butterflies' favourite food is?", my cute seven-year old cousin very seriously asked me when she saw the picture below.

"Uh, leaves?", I meekly ventured, embarrassed at not knowing more.

"Bananas!", she leapt up, like it was the most obvious thing. "If you want to attract a butterfly, just hold a banana close to it, and it'll come flying to you."

"Oh" was really all I could muster. Is there a factbook where kids learn this kind of stuff?

"I tried feeding one once. It was very sticky, so I shook it off." Cue, hand-shaking hula-hoop wiggle dance.

"Wait, which was sticky -- the banana or the butterfly?"

Pause. She wrinkled her nose. "Well, the banana was a little soggy, and the butterfly was a little sticky too."

Aww.

Thank you for your infinite patience, Pak-Man.

In July, I bought a Rubik's Cube. I promised myself that I would be able to solve one by the end of the year. After carrying it around with me for a month, I put it to rest in a shoe box at the bottom of my cupboard, where it has lain since.

Well, it's the first day of the last month of the year. And I can solve it.

I'm so proud.

Dog-food

There's one thing you should know about my college. We love dogs. Stephens just wouldn't be the same without its usual smattering of canines, all very well-looked after, rolly-tumbly, dare-I-say-pampered little things with crazy metabolisms that keep them just the right amount of skinny to elicit our sympathy.

The looks they give you as you're about to dig into that deliciously warm chocolate chip muffin could melt Finland. All at once, you feel sympathy, responsibility, and generosity. Feed one hungry doggy, and you've fed the world. Right?

Wrong.

Everyone knows that feeding dogs chocolate kills them. Universal, elementary-school knowledge. Forget that one superdog you hear having survived all Diwali on chocolate. Chocolate is fatal to the canines. You can't feed it to humans in large quantities without them being very sick, forget dogs. Or, that's what you're thinking, anyway, when Chacko comes up to you to beg you for one, tiny morsel.

So you don't feed him.

But while you're thinking this insanely long stream of thoughts, and convincing your brain not to fall prey to the charms of the campus dogs yet again, the poor, starving, pouting doggy is still standing there endearingly. Unashamedly drooling, eyes wide open, a low moan starting to escape his lips. Raww-wwww. Quite the cutie. Your conscience, if you have any, bubbles up to your throat, threatening to make you implode. So you walk to the cafe, and buy the dog a meal. That's right. Toast and mutton mince patties to go. And a bottle of almond milk. Plain milk would just be un-classy.

And that's what Stephanian dogs eat.

As for the puppies? These pudgy, little furballs probably get the best of the lot. Yes, they're poked and coo-ed at since before they can open their eyes; yes, they're picked up and played with before they know what playing is; and yes, they're given the most nonsensical names ever (Waffles? Snowflake? Mojo-Jojo?). But they're also easily the most loved members on campus.

It's hard not to melt at the sight of these teensy cupcakes on legs. They're always falling over, or scampering off at speeds that make their stomachs bob along the floor, or lolling about on their backs in the winter sun, four legs up in the air. Sunning is their favourite thing to do, and reasonably so, because they can't walk very well; they just don't seem to understand that their legs have to move forward, not sideways. So if you call Puppy X towards you, make sure it's in an open field, because he'll run towards you, but end up bumping into the wall beside him, courtesy his leftward gait. Silly babies.

Most of campus gossip is centered around puppies:

"Did you see that new lot?"
"Yes, they're soooo cute! What should we call them?"
"Well, this one is called Tux, already. Maybe we should name the others Butterfly and Milky?"
"What? No way. Not Milky! Let's call him Rambo!"
And so, Rambo is christened.

Two months later...

"Aww, look-at-chyou! You're such a pwetty girl, aren't chyou?"
"What's her name?"
"This one? She's called Rambo."

(Someone obviously forgot to look somewhere important while naming her.)

But all that aside, they really are the cutest things ever. Flopsy, velveteen bundles. And on a sunny winter afternoon, there's nothing else you really love more about college than the puppy nestled in the nook of your arm.

Violet and Grey

Fireworks out my window,
flame-throwers in my head,
daydreams in the distance,
foreground well be dead.

Gateau et Moi

Tonight, I want cake!

Firelights and Sunshine

Happy belated Diwali, everyone!

(I wanted to call this post La Fete des Lumières, but I was laughing too hard to do it. Hopefully, the first entry when you search for that on Google will explain why.)

My little cousins and I watched Ramona and Beezus this evening. Thank you, Beverly Cleary, for Ramona. She has always been one of my favourite book characters. A spunky, imaginative exploratress who colours outside the lines and cuts her own hair (though not always intentionally). My role model!

The movie is the same happy explosion of sunshine Ramona is.

In the perfect span of time to keep a fidgety seven-year old and her easily distracted teenage cousin entertained, it safaris through the often exasperating intricacies of a nine-year old's relationship with the confounding adult world. Here is a girl who falls through ceilings, constructs herself a crown of burs, sets fire to her kitchen and accidentally spills nineteen varieties of paint on a vintage car. You start and end very much looking at the world through Ramona's unique, nine-year old fisheye view.

Ramona, I love you for reminding that I'm so much more the person I used to read about. Sunshine and happiness. Funner. And while I'm reflecting on that and the time I read Ramona, here's something from a cookbook I also received when I was six. And finally managed to make on Diwali morning, thirteen years later.

Sunny! Mashed potatoes and eggs in a basket.

Quit drooling, you.