Sri Venkateshwara Suprabhatam By MS Subbulakshmi

Any self respecting South Indian worth his salt, will know this early morning chant by heart. We are woken out of our sleepy stupors, with MS Subbulakshmi's comforting nasal twang playing loudly and persistently in the background. 

For six years I've woken up to this prayer, while watching my grandfather potter around with his electronic shaving kit. I would stare at him sleepily, as he slowly went about his morning rituals. Right before he would step into the shower, I would drift back into sleep only to be rudely awoken by my grandmother.

Breakfast comprised of delicious fluffy egg appams, steaming hot idiyappams or fresh out of the stove puttu and kadala. In hindsight, I wish I had spent some more time in the kitchen with my grandmother and her maids, instead of behaving like the jungle prince Mowgli. All that time I spent mucking around in the outdoors, could have been utilised instead, to learn some of her signature recipes because I miss home food so much now, that it breaks my heart.

By the time we were done with breakfast, MS Subbulakshmi's chanting would be replaced by other  sweet sounding malayalee bhajans. And my grandfather would be in the prayer room, bathed and ready to take me to school. I would bully him to speed up his prayers, so that I could reach school on time. 

The days I didn't reach on time, I would go home and give him a lecture on the importance of punctuality and keeping time. He would, like all grandfathers, listen to my inane chatter with utmost patience and a sage-like smile, as he slowly yet steadily demolished the contents of my school lunch box, which would drive me even more mad. If I didn't want to eat my lunch, would should he? And that would be our next tug of war for the day. 

My days were incomplete without MS Subbulakshmi, my grandmother's delicious meals and my grandfather dropping me to school. If any of these things were disrupted even for a day, I would be in a very foul mood. 

I relied on MS Subbulakshmi to wake me up every morning, my grandmother's meals to keep me going through the day and my grandfather's hand and handkerchief to wipe my tears and blow my nose into after reaching school. Having panic attacks, being a drama queen and vegetating at home are three personality traits/habits that haven't left me till date.  

I had my grandfather to deal with my meltdowns back then. And now, with him gone, I feel quite lost. 

Mumbai's Kaamwali Bais

Don't underestimate the power of the Kaamwali Bais in Mumbai. Their network is wider than Reliance Jio's and their word is law. If you're nice to your Kaamwali Bai, you have found yourself a friend for life. Be mean to them and no one will step foot inside your house ever. Their word-of-mouth publicity about your character, family history, background, eating habits and husband's behaviour spreads faster than the wildfire in the Amazon rainforests.

These smart saree-clad, tech-savy, Whatsapp dominating, Facebook-friend-request-sending women, trickle into various apartment complexes from 5am in the morning till 10pm at night. They work tirelessly with a perennial smile on their face. Ever-ready to help you and your family with any and every problem, these women are absolute life saviours.

I'm pretty sure the husband and I would have starved to death, if it hadn't been for my smart-mouthed, uber friendly cooking bai. I'm also quite certain we would've lived in a pigsty, had it not been for her network of soft-spoken cleaning bais. She is responsible for finding both my cleaning bais in record time. She didn't get along too well with the first one, therefore quite naturally, she wasted no time in finding another one who she could dominate easily. 

Often times I wonder who the bai is really. Her dominating nature is not just restricted to my cleaning bai, it also spills over to me. And I quietly obey. Afterall, who am I to oppose the maker of  yummy pasta, delicious aloo parathas and smooth as silk sabudana khichdi. 

She absolutely loves it, when either of the mothers decide to pay a visit. She finally finds herself a bakra to chat inanely with, as she simultaneously whips up delicious meals. She is as heartbroken as I am when they leave, as I'm not particularly fun company to be around, (especially not at 6am in the morning!). But her day begins early, she wakes up at 5am everyday, reaches my house by 6am, gives me a nasty stare for still being asleep at that time and then gets on with business. 

She hums a happy tune or two as she works seamlessly in the kitchen, chats endlessly with my other bai in rapid Marathi and before I can drift back into a dreamless sleep, both are out of the house. When I finally wake up by 7.30am, the house is sparkling clean and my breakfast, lunch and dinner are ready for the day.

Kaamwali bais are domesticated house fairies. What would we do without them and their endless Whatsapp forwards?

(Image Source : https://pakaamat.wordpress.com/2015/10/27/why-kaamwali-bai-rules-indian-homes/)

Rude or Friendly

We Indians love our neighbours, co-passengers, relatives, our neighbour's son's grandson, our uncle twice removed from our dad's side and even our dogs a bit too much. In our over-enthusiasm to get to know people, we pry a bit too much. My hairdresser wants to know why I don't have children yet, despite being married for close to 5 years. A bunch of Brahma Kumaris dressed in all white, with a white mask on their mouths, kept asking me insistently what degree I had earned from college and upon learning that I was an M.A in Public Relations, started giving me career advice.

A close friend of ours - supposedly modern, chic and hip, made fun of our decision to have children when she stumbled upon a bunch of particularly screechy kids. I was stunned. When our very own peer group behave like they are from the stone age, how can we expect the rest of the world to be civil?

Is this an Indian thing? Or is this typical human nature? We often fail to comprehend, or conveniently ignore the fact that we are being blatantly rude, while prying for personal information. Unless you are that person's mother, he/she owes you nothing. 

How much a person earns, what his/her current weight is, why he/she has chosen to work or not work post college, why a couple has chosen to have babies or not - none of this is your business. It's time to stick that nose elsewhere, otherwise be prepared to receive the stick. 

In India, this prying business is not just restricted to personal circles, it extends to workplaces as well. God bless you, if you're a woman looking for a job. It's no mean task! If you're unmarried, the recruiters want to know if you'll quit when you get married. If you're married, they want to know if you'll quit once you have a baby. And if you have a baby (gasp! unimaginable!), you're questioned about how you can juggle both. That's my great India for you.

Sadly, this passing of crude comments and prying starts at a very young age. When children ask adults questions on their appearance, their haircut, makeup, clothes and even personal information, all their parents and grandparents do is sit and laugh. It won't be so funny anymore when they grow up to become prying adults. The dirty habit has to be nipped in the bud. 

It's time to live and let live. Let's all try to be kinder, less nosy and less judgemental about people. No one's perfect. Unless you're God himself, you have no right to pass snide remarks, give advice or pry for personal information from anyone.

Peace out! 

The Magic of 90s Boy Bands

Any self-respecting girl-child, born in the late 80s would have heard of Westlife, Backstreet Boys and NSYNC. These bands not just shaped our childhoods, but also influenced major life decisions, such as, do I want my husband to be have a dimple on the cheek or not? And let's face it, these are important decisions. So while our parents presumed we were deeply absorbed in our Maths or History homework, in reality, we had our Walkmans on and had silent tears streaming down our face as Shane Filan, Markus Feehily, Kian Egan, Brian McFadden and Nicky Bryne crooned "An empty street, An empty house, A hole inside my heart, I'm all alone, The rooms are getting smaller" 

They got it. They just got it. They understood late 80s born teenagers, like no one else. They were our best friends. Their music was like balm to our broken souls and their voice, like honey on a scorching summer day. 

So what were our life problems as teenagers? Nothing really. But we loved the drama. We loved amplifying the bite of a mosquito on our raw skin and the taste of vanilla ice-cream on a wintry evening. And these men helped amplify those feelings.  

As I blared Backstreet Boys' "I want it that way" for the millionth time from my stereo system, oblivious to my mother's incessant pounding on my bedroom door, yelling at me to reduce the volume, I would find new layers to the song. Did Nick Carter have a breakup? Is that why they wrote this song? Was he single and ready to mingle? How can one man have such a perfectly blond mop of hair on his head? And that dimple. My oh my!

As my mind worked in overdrive, along came NSYNC with their cheeky "Bye Bye Bye" and that delightful video to go along with it, which showed the band members being strung like puppets, climbing over walls, over a train and just running all over the place, in general. That video and song, gave teenage girls everywhere an ego boost. We suddenly realised that we're apparently "players, in a game for two" and men don't want to become"fools for us". 

So from mopey teenagers, girls slowly transformed into rebellious teenagers who were suddenly too cool for school. This was also the time when Linkin Park was formed. So some of us girls, slowly began to cheat on our boy-band staple, with bad boy Chester Bennington. Here was a guy who was heartbroken as well, but with delightful rough edges, complemented by his million piercings and tattoos. There was pain and rebellion in his voice. What a deadly combination! 

As the noises from my bedroom grew more and more violent and the pounding on my door became more and more incessant, I grew up. I slowly began to listen to heavier and heavier music. The posters of all my favourite British and white American men, were slowly being ripped down from my walls and being replaced with deadly looking posters of Slipknot, Metallica and Linkin Park. 

But I would be lying if I said I didn't go back every now and then, to "Seasons in the Sun" and "Backstreet's Back". Even rebellious teens, had their mopey days. We were allowed one delicious shot of familiar, comfort-music (the equivalent of ear Gaajar Halwa if you may), on the bleakest of days. 

Thank you for the stunning memories Westlife, Backstreet Boys and NSYNC. You've touched lives in more ways than you can fathom. If ever you re-unite and do one last concert, expect to see a whole bunch of women in their 30s along with their babies and husbands at your concerts. We probably married those men and had those babies, because of you. Take a bow! You've more than earned it.

(All images sourced from Google) 

Chocolate, The Elixir of Life

Chocolate, the reason to live. Chocolate, the mood enhancer. Chocolate, the stress buster. Chocolate, the saviour. Chocolate, dreamy chocolate. Creamy, gooey, molten, solid, dark, milk - whatever be it's form, the impact it has on the individual devouring it, remains the same. Pure undiluted joy. There can be no greater love, than the love for chocolate. Wars, marital disputes, familial disharmony, whatever be the problem, chocolate and only chocolate can save the day. 

There was a time (not too long ago) when my husband would not enter the house, sans a box of chocolate in hand. He would religiously buy a gigantic slice of white chocolate coated, red velvet cake and a bag of chocolate coated almonds from Starbucks. "For you my dearest", he would croon lovingly. I would go to sleep instantly with white chocolate dreams in my head, only to wake up to an empty icing ravaged box, stuffed unceremoniously in the fridge, the next morning.

Then there were mornings, I would wake up with a mad desire to drown my soul with copious amounts of molten, hot dark chocolate. We would head out the door, faster than lightening and drive for close to an hour, sometimes more, to reach Chocolateria San Churro in Bandra. We would invariably be the first and only customers so early in the morning. The server behind the counter, would give us a dubious stare, as we placed our orders for black coffee and hot chocolate at 10am in the morning. 

On one particular Friday night, the husband landed in Bombay at 10pm and wanted to head out immediately. I resisted at first, but he lured me with the promise of chocolate. He would soon eat his words, as we drove for close to 3 hours, to reach Sweetish House Mafia in Lower Parel. By the time we reached the joint, half their decadent cookies were over and the servers looked at us in astonishment, as we placed our cookie and coffee orders at 1 am in the morning. 

I celebrate Easter every year, just to gorge on a gigantic chocolate Easter egg. Not the marzipan one, the thick chocolate coated one, that can be broken in half. But of course I never broke it in half, I would always stuff the whole thing inside my mouth and then attempt to break it, with a  mighty crunch. One time I almost broke my teeth and dislocated my jaw, but it was absolutely worth it.

Is this normal behaviour? Without a speck of doubt in my mind, I'd say a resounding yes. All is fair in love, war and chocolate. If you don't eat that delicious looking piece of chocolate, someone else will. Embrace it, celebrate it, drown yourself in it. Chocolate is your best friend. Always was, always will be. 

Bad day at work? Stuff your face with some chocolate. Crazy fight with your better half? Grab that spoon of Nutella. Can’t loose weight? Eat some dark chocolate and then go for a run. Can’t wake up in the morning? Grab a piece of Ooty chocolate already with a steaming hot cup of black coffee and get moving!

(Image Source : https://www.google.co.in/search?q=chocolate&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwidwpWEvZ7bAhWBq48KHT_SAFYQ_AUICigB&biw=1280&bih=611#imgrc=1Y65lrutcwulvM:) 

Konna Poovu

There are certain aromas, food items, music and inanimate objects that have the magical ability to throw you right back into your childhood. Some of these memories are happy, some nostalgic and some bitter. The happy, nostalgic ones are the best. You're taken in back in time and your eyes instantly get that hazy, faraway look that most often, puzzles people.

The Konna Poovu (Cassia Fistula, in Malayalam) does this job for me. Each time I see a Konna Poovu in full bloom, my heart does a happy flip-flop and my brain goes into a nostalgia overdrive. I'm overcome with a mixture of happiness and sadness, all at the same time. I'm happy, because it reminds me of my ammumma (grandmother in malayalam) and the gorgeous Vishu Kani (Vishu arrangement) she would meticulously set up in the prayer room, every single Vishu season. I'm sad, because I can never be that carefree, overweight kid again. 

Vishu is the Malayalee new year. Every year on Vishu day, I would be woken up between 4 and 5 am, with a blind-fold on my eyes and only my grandmother's hands, to guide me into the prayer room. The minute I enter the prayer room, she would remove the blind-fold, whereby allowing me to feast my eyes, on the beautifully arranged Vishu Kani. A typical Vishu Kani, comprises of copious amounts of Konna Poovu, decorated imaginatively around the idols of the Gods, along with  offerings of fruits, flowers and money. 

When the start of the day is so beautiful, you just know that you're going to have a splendid day. The rest of the day, post the Vishu Kani goes by in a blur activity, comprising largely of eating a senseless amount of food and receiving clothes and money from all the elders in the house. A couple of visits to relatives are also squeezed in, depending on the amount of Sadhya (a large celebratory Kerala meal, typically eaten on a Banana leaf) you've thulped down. 

Each year on Vishu, I would roll around proudly with a large leather handbag, stuffed with notes of money. Just for that one day, I would feel like an important banker, who had the responsibility of safeguarding, collecting, counting and re-counting the notes, to ensure that no-one pinched anything from the precious bundle, each time I took a pee, lunch or siesta break. 

I would dream of all the burgers, medu vadas, Kerala fried chicken and Sharjah shakes I would devour with my Vishu loot. Unfortunately, that dream would only remain a dream, because my clever mother would lure me into her bedroom by nightfall and tempt me with shiny, jiggly coins. She would convince me that Re 1 equates to a Rs 100/- note. I readily believed her each year, because coins anyway had more weight than untidy, smelly notes. I would quickly shove the bag of notes towards her and greedily bring out my pink piggy bank, from the hiding spot in my closet. I would watch her like a hawk, to ensure that she puts me in the right number of Re 1 coins into my piggy bank. Rs 5000/- meant she had to put in fifty Re 1 coins and Rs 10,000 meant she had to put in a hundred Re 1 coins, and so on. After counting and re-counting the notes and coins, I would have a sound sleep with my piggy bag, placed next to my pillow.

Unfortunately all good things come to an end. So does Vishu. I would wake up the next morning, with my Vishu hangover blaring in full blast in my head, and try on all the clothes I would have received from my family, only to discover that they would all invariably be either too tight or too lose for me. Typical fat kid problems. Sigh! 

(Image Source : http://decodingeswari.blogspot.in/2018/04/blog-post_27.html)  

My Teddy Bear Dowry

I was 12 years old, when my mother brought home an adorable, teddy bear shaped, Salt and Pepper shaker set. The ceramic duo, looked like they had tumbled out of an Enid Blyton novel. Instead of sitting daintily, on a prim and proper British family's high tea table adorned with muffins and croissants, they were stuck in front of my dad, who was at present, viciously murdering a fluffy, vegetable stuffed omelette, with his fork and knife. I was appalled with the way he was vigorously shaking the teddies, for a generous dose of salt and pepper on his already sodium-overdosed, deep fried egg.

"I want these teddies to be sent along with me, as part of my dowry", I blurted out to my mother, without thinking. My father put down the shakers momentarily and gave me a dubious stare. My mother just ignored me, as always. "Mumma, I'm serious. I don't want them to be used until the day I get married and go to my new house", I persisted. "Don't be ridiculous, Gayu", she replied promptly and went back to sipping her morning coffee. 

When I came back home from school the next day, I observed that mom had washed and put away the shakers in her kitchen cabinet. I hurriedly opened the cabinet doors and smelt the shakers, to ensure that it was thoroughly clean. Satisfied with the odour that wafted up my nostrils, I walked into my parents bedroom and planted my mother with a huge sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek. "For rescuing the teddies", I explained, while she stared at me quizzically and tried her best to wriggle out of my iron grip.

Fast forward to present day, I'm much married and have set up a house of my own. The very first curio set I put up in my house, were the teddy bear shakers. There is almost always, a single tear drop, that fills up inadvertently in the corner of my eye, each time I clean them.

My sofa cushions, eerily resemble my mother's. I'm endlessly wiping and dusting my house from top to bottom, all day, everyday. And my kitchen counters, sparkle like diamonds. If you stare at them long enough, you can see your face reflecting right back at you. While I made fun of my mother's obsessive cleaning my entire life, I realize I've become just like her. 

I've always been the most punctual person in my class, office and among my group of friends. I deliver promises, even before I can make them. Once I've made up my mind, on getting a task done, I'll do it faster than spandex wearing superhero Flash. My punctuality annoys people. My habit of getting things done, faster than I can think about it, irritates my husband. But I can't help it, I am my father's daughter. I'm a stickler for routine. I'm in bed by 9pm everyday, out of the house by 7am latest for a jog/walk/run/swim or a quick workout in the gym. We're restless beings, my father and I, but we're disciplined, restless beings. There is always a method to our calculated madness. 

Our parents try their best to inculcate in us, excellent habits. So the question is, are we ready to face the world, all by ourselves with these values ingrained within us, subconsciously? I would like to believe, yes (with a generous dose of "occasional" babying from mom and dad of course). 

Judgy McJudgerson

Ever had that hair-raising, goosebumpy feeling, of having two eyes pierce down your soul? And just when you turn around, to catch their gaze, they look away? But it begins again in less than 5 seconds? Welcome to the world of Judgy McJudgerson. 

Married but don't wear a mangalsutra? Hawwww! Coloured and cut your hair so short? Hawwwww! Wearing dresses with sneakers? Hawww! It's time for the "Hawww" to STOP! My body, my choice!

Just because a woman is married, doesn't mean she has to look like a Christmas tree everyday. She can keep her hair as long as Rapunzel or as short as Peter Pan. Her choice! She is a girly-girl and a tomboy, so she can wear dresses with sneakers or saree with sneakers if she wants to. Her damn choice!

It's time for all the Judgy McJudgersons in the world, to snap out of it and grow the hell up. While women demand equal rights at workplaces, do they treat their own kind with dignity? I'm afraid not. It is women who put down other women everywhere. And I mean, literally everywhere! Be it at home, at work, at beauty parlours and even in the 2 second ride up the elevator. 

You don't have to squeeze out personal information from a person, however close he/she is to you. If someone wants to talk to you, they will. Poking and prodding incessantly, just makes you less approachable to them. When will people understand this?

I've never been clingy. I never call my husband during the week, even if all hell breaks loose. I don't understand clingy people. When people ask, "Oh no Gayu, how will you manage without Raj for the next two months?", or "Don't you feel lonely, with Raj in another city altogether", my response is, "Firstly, I'm not two years old. Secondly, if my mother in her early 20s could live all by herself in god-forsaken hill stations, plagued with panthers that too, had no clue about when my father would return or even where he was, I think I can survive in a metropolitan city." 

Being independent and staying in a positive frame of mind, is all in your hands. Man comes alone in this world and goes back to his creator alone. So, you could have 20 children and 5 husbands if you like, but you are alone in this world. And that, is completely okay. 

Stop judging, stop criticizing, stop prodding for information and most importantly stop with the incessant staring. It's not cool. NOT. COOL. 

Poetry In A Ceramic Mug

Four years since I discovered the bliss of sipping on thick, molten hot chocolate. My life has never been the same since that fateful, sweltering hot afternoon in Mumbai. Whoever says hot chocolate should only be had in freezing winters, should be shot in the head and punched on the face, twice, by Hulk.

Chocolate by itself is a divine thing. Imagine it being melted just the right amount, to give it that beautiful, thick, slurpy consistency which of course must be relished slowly and deliberately, in a pretty looking, thick, ceramic mug. I shiver just thinking about it. There’s nothing a well-made cup of hot chocolate can’t solve.

If only Adolf Hitler had been served hot chocolate during World War I and II, if only Ed Gein was given a cozy cuppa split seconds before he committed those heinous murders and closer to home, if only the Stoneman or even Gandhi Ji had one sip of hot, heady cocoa, countless lives could have been saved, wars could have ended and the history of mankind as we know it today, could have been re-written. Who knows! 

A well-made cup of hot chocolate, is potent. It lingers in your mouth and lives on as a happy memory, long after you’ve consumed it. You could even call it a beautiful dream, which you wish never ended. But end it does, unfortunately, like most things dreamy and too good to be true, in this cruel, unforgiving world. And all you can do, is wait helplessly for your next cup of steaming, hot, molten cocoa.

I’d like to believe, hot chocolate is 100% fat free, because it has zero carbohydrates. It’s always best to drink your calories, than to gulp it down, because then the fat flows straight out of your body, as opposed to accumulating in god-awful nooks and crannies, you didn’t even know existed. This is what I tell myself, each time, I drink a sinful mug. 

Whoever invented this glorious dessert, deserves nothing less than a global recognition. If ever mankind ceases to exist, hot chocolate is what we should be remembered by. This is our legacy to the world. 

Life Lessons from Beauty and the Beast

As little girls, we were continuously spoon fed, larger than life, syrupy fairy tale romances that almost always had a happy ending. Then how can you blame us, when we grow up and want the same in real life? Each fairy tale, taught us that prince charming was head over heels in love with the not so financially stable girl. He fought against the world for this girl and he changed completely for her, sometimes from a beast to a man. And we lapped it all up, with absolute glee.

If we look at relationships in the real world, it's sadly a whole different story. The girl is expected to sacrifice her entire identity, starting with her name, her lifestyle, her home, her likes and her dislikes. Suddenly, there's an overbearing man in her life who doesn't want to change the way he lives. Why should he, he is the breadwinner and the man of the house, correct? (Indian logic!) 

The little girl is suddenly told to "adjust", "give in", "sacrifice" and "blend in", while her whole life she has been reading stories about prince charming who will and can be changed. While the Beast doesn't exist in the real world, I think he is symbolic to ego, selfishness, being stubborn and self-centered. For a relationship to work (any relationship - be it friendship, family or with work colleagues) one has to let go of these wonderful beastly characteristics. 

Before we talk about equality at work, let's re-look at the equality in our own homes. Let's raise feminist sons and all rounded daughters, who have the empathy to play ball from both sides of the gender. After we achieve that, we can talk about catching up with Japan and truly stepping into the 21st century as a broad minded, technologically advanced nation. 

(Image Source : http://movies.disney.com/beauty-and-the-beast)

Farewell Sridevi

24th February 2018, was a dark day for cinema lovers. India's dream girl Sridevi passed away due to a massive cardiac arrest. She was India's most successful multilingual, multi-generational actress. She broke the North-South divide with absolute ease. The notion that all South Indians are short, curly-haired, dark and unattractive was broken down by her with multiple, swift whiplashing strokes (imagine that crazy whipping scene from Chaalbaaz right about now)

While much has been written about her success in the movies, let's talk about Sridevi, the mother. How could she possibly give up such a well established place in the movies, just to raise two children? That's called the power of motherhood. Even the thought of becoming a mother or having a desire to have children, brings out in you, your most protective instincts. If you thought, you're a killer at work, try being a mother. You will stand up against the whole world, for your child. 

So coming back to that question, of how she could give up her entire life for her children, it's simple. It's called love. Unconditional, undying love a mother has for her flesh and blood. 

Her death felt personal. I felt a dull ache in my chest, that lasted for 48 hours straight, after reading and re-reading all the pieces of news that kept pouring in about her final moments. I felt sad knowing that I'll never see that raw, versatile talent, lighting up my television screen again. I cried along with her in English Vinglish, when her on-screen daughter made fun of her broken English and watched with eyes wide open, her suggestive "I love you" number. 

Sexy yet innocent. A helpless mentally challenged child one minute and hilariously funny, the next.  A meek, ready to be dominated upon doormat and an opinionated, head-strong fighter of injustice, all in one frame.  There has to be a better word than "versatile" to describe her effortless, flair for acting. 

We will miss you and your big expressive eyes, Ms Hawa Hawai. Women everywhere have lost a  beautiful, strong role model. But like you rightly said, "Jeevan ke kis modh pe, kab koi mil jaaye, kaun keh sakta hai?" So, hoping to catch you in the afterlife. Rest in peace, India's forever Chandni. 

(Image Source : http://www.rediff.com/movies/special/sridevi-the-10-best-songs/20180225.htm) 

My Husband, The Musician

I've always liked musicians, especially guitarists (along with the entire female population across the globe).  I will marry a "long haired rocker dude", I would emphatically tell my family while busily thulping down on some sinful number. "But first lose some weight", would come the reply. 

Luckily for me, I did lose weight, a whole lot of it. Ten kilos to be exact. While looks don't matter and so on, at 21 everyone was shallow. The more weight I lost, the more confident I became. It was during this time, that I decided to pursue my writing dreams and shift to Mumbai on a whim. 

So, with nothing but a head full of dreams and one too many clothes (with matching accessories and shoes), I relocated. I soon realized, that I was barely making enough money to pay for my paying guest accomodation, let alone buy a decent meal. I quickly packed my bags and ran back home to mommy and daddy. 

Despite the hardships (of being broke, living alone and pissing off my parents), I met quite a few interesting people during my short stint. One among them was my husband (which of course I didn't know at the time). My first assignment as a reporter was to interview an upcoming humour metal band from the city. My husband was the lead guitarist of the band. He was a happy-go lucky, bindaas college student, who had ample time on his hands to pursue his musical dreams. He had formed multiple college bands over the years, had met fellow musicians from the Mumbai "metal scene" during his college festivals and managed to form bands, even outside his college circuit.

Over the years, I've seen this young man record, mix, compose and perform live. He along with his bands have created full length albums, band T-shirts, posters, badges and what have you. The glitz and the glamour you see on-stage takes a lot of effort, man-hours and hardcore practice. They put in their sweat, blood and sometimes even money to sell their music. 

In the past decade, the biggest constant in his life has been his love for music. From a carefree college kid, he has morphed into a responsible family man. He manages to play shows in multiple cities despite his hectic work schedule. And while I say hectic work schedule, I don't mean 9am-6pm. He works 24 hours, Monday through Sunday, flies to multiple cities during the week and still finds time to meet his bands, make new music and record them. 

I've heard him play his guitar, at all odd hours of the day and night. He constantly invests in valuable musical equipment, to improve his craft. And the happiest I've ever seen him, is on the days he goes to meet his bands for jams. 

While I don't align with his musical preferences, his dedication and commitment to create better music everyday is something I truly admire. Salute, to you and all your band members who lead this gruelling dual life. If this isn't raw passion, I don't know what is. 

My Everyday Superheroes

While I'd like to believe that Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman exist in the real world, the reality is that we deal with some everyday superheroes, who look less glamorous, are more sweaty and toil in the sun, day in and day out. I'm talking about those men and women, who fill our dreary, monotonous lives with some colour and excitement. 

My idli anna and naariyal paani bhaiyya top this list. Not a day goes by when they don't greet me with a warm smile. They've allowed me to buy food on credit, given me change for Rs 2000 notes (not a mere feat in post demonitisation India) and even served me first, despite their long line of customers. 

One smile and a packet of warm idli-chutney-medu wada from my idli anna is all it takes, to warm both my stomach and my heart. It also helps that he speaks in Tamil now and then, whereby making me feel right at home. I could hug him, but he might stop serving me his delicious, fluffy idlis.

My naariyal paani bhaiyya on the other hand, is most likely a caped crusader by night and vigorous coconut cutter by day. Why I say this, is because he senses me hovering around him , even before I come in clear sight of his eyes. And before I can utter the words, "Bhaiyya ek paani wala dena", he viciously chops open a juicy looking coconut, making the paani spill around him in a crazy 360 degree angle and while I nurse my paani clogged eye, bhaiyya would've placed a fat naariyal in my hands. 

Their bindaas attitude about giving customers credit is something that amazes me everyday. Their tiresome jobs might earn them a few thousands, with which they would be feeding more than one mouth. Then how are they so warm in person and so casual about giving credit?

Hats off to you idli anna and naariyal paani bhaiyya, I am a fan. A lifelong fan. 

(Image Source : http://www.theplayfulindian.com/index.php?route=product/product&product_id=275 and https://www.shutterstock.com/image-vector/coconut-water-cartoon-207717748)

Hong Kong Hopping

Hong Kong, a bustling metropolitan city, with busy people and roaring businesses. No one has the time to look up from their smartphones or even stand still, on their quick as lightening MTR escalators/walkators. Hong Kong comprises of multiple islands namely Kowloon, Lantau, Cheung Chau, Peng Chau, Lamma and of course Hong Kong island. The MTR or the Mass Transit Railway makes travelling inside Hong Kong a complete dream. 

Five days is all you need to discover this intriguing city, filled with shopping, entertainment and relaxation. We stayed at the IBIS hotel located at Hong Kong Central and Sheung Wan, which was a one minute walk away from the MTR station. 

On day 1, we explored the immediate neighbourhood of our hotel, which comprised of a variety of meat markets. Dried and fresh meat ranging from seafood to red meats, were hung enticingly for potential customers. We even stumbled upon a local bakery, that had Hong Kong's famous Egg Tart, Pineapple Bun, Wife Cake, Moon Cake, Sausage Roll, Baked Cheese Tart and Swiss Bun. The breads on both the sweet and the savoury items had a generous hint of sugar. At night, we stepped out again and explored the Harbour City area which comprises of office complexes, a large shopping mall and of course the futuristic skyline of Hong Kong, that one can gape at for hours.

On day 2, we hopped onboard the MTR and headed straight to Victoria Peak. Similar to India's history, even Hong Kong was under the British regime as late as 1997. The cold-loving Britishers, decided to build a steep Tram line, right on the dangerous mountainous terrain of the Peak, just so that they could go up and down as they pleased. Riding this Tram, is a thrill in itself as it goes up and down a dangerous slope. The lush green view of the picturesque looking Peak, will drive all your vertigo fears away, as you ride on the Tram. Next, we headed to the Ladies Market, where I had a whale of a time, shopping for face packs, body lotions and even a cute looking, bright red dog eared muffler. The husband entertained himself, by gorging on the local street food comprising of vanilla egg bubble waffles, curry fish balls, octopus tentacles and noodles in a bag, while I shopped to my heart's content.

On day 3 or as I'd like to call it, "the happiest day of my life", we headed to Disneyland which is located on Lantau Island. The entire experience, starting with the Disney train which had Disney shaped windows, Disney shaped hand holders for passengers standing afoot and rich looking Disney figurines (which was probably made of Teak), was a magical experience. The child in you, will thank you a million times, for posing with and hugging the iconic Disney duo - Mickey and Minnie, chowing down Mickey shaped waffles, taking a 5D ride with Iron Man with the help of his "Stark Vision Glasses", walking up Tarzan's tree house, strolling through a magical Disney forest, taking a scary Grizzly Gulch ride and much more. I shopped extensively at the Disney gift store, to forever remember these happy, innocent moments. 

On day 4, we visited Times Square, which is loosely modeled around the Times Square in New York. It is one of the largest shopping hubs of Hong Kong. You can pick up clothes, shoes and bags for all budget ranges. At night, we headed to Temple Street, Night Market to pick up trinkets for family and friends comprising of Hong Kong fridge magnets, curios, ladies handbags and jewellery. Haggling is the name of the game here. Be a bargain pro or go home, empty handed.

On day 5, we headed to Man Mo temple, to pay our respects to the God of Literature (Man) and the God of War (Mo), both of whom were worshipped by ambitious students, who hoped to succeed in their civil exams of Imperial China. We ended our religious sojourn, by thulping down on some delicious momos, which the Man Mo temple street area is famous for. 

Visit Hong Kong, if you are an experimental foodie, an enthusiastic shopaholic or a hardcore fan of Disney. 

How to get there : Mumbai to Hong Kong by Jet Airways takes you exactly 6 hours

Hotel to stay in : IBIS Hong Kong Central and Sheung Wan