Far from the deadlines

Last Monday morning found me miserable. I had to decide — writhe in pain or go the Tom Sawyer way and allow the doc to pull out my tooth. Probably no one likes the idea of sitting on a dentist’s chair. This fear is so strong most of the time that it could be defined surely as a phobia. I have never experienced more irrational fear than that connected to visiting a dentist. Ogden Nash once rightly said, “Some tortures are physical, some are mental, but the one that is both is dental.” After two-three visits to him, I realised that I do not fear my dentist (a handsome man) as a person. I quiver when I think of sitting in that horrendous chair and seeing the torture tools — squeezers, dentures, forceps, spray guns, syringes, pluckers, cotton swabs and other equipment. I shudder to think that someone would drill my teeth. The idea of someone doing something with my teeth scares the devil out of me. “The filling for the upper right tooth has come off,” Mr Dentist had told me on my last visi

For Kashmiris scattered all over the globe, it carries the nip of a lost homeland. But for others like me who come across the real taste of it occasionally, this fragrant tea is a seed of solace. Kahwa, also called “mogil chay”, a vino-coloured tea topped with almond parings, has helped Kashmiris beat the winter chill. Though I had it several times at my residence in the city, far from my homeland, it lacked that typical aroma that might be left in the lanes of long-lost Kashmir when made in a not-so-typical way. My family, which is from Kashmir, first introduced me to its typical taste in the last vacations in Jammu. I relished it at the residence of my mum’s aunt. It was there that I wrapped my shawl around the piping glass, holding it traditionally as is done by the good-old ladies of Kashmir, and took a careful sip. It was there that I conned the prowess of making and serving this honeyed and zesty blend. In gladder times, there was no home in Kashmir that did not have a samavar, a

Aam meethe hon aur bahut se hon,” said Ghalib while describing this succulent fruit. As children we never understood why we gorged on them just once a year, but were happy to be able to pounce on them. The aromatic alphonsos, the green dasheris, the luscious chausas and the golden-skinned langdas, sparkling in their red, yellow and dark green tones, had a magical spell on us. During summers there was seldom a day when we did not have a mango. This irresistible fruit not only makes hot summer days tolerable, but also stirs in a whole lot of memories. Mangoes are here today, gone tomorrow. So mom found ways to keep them as long as she could. Though I have forgotten the names of endless dishes she used to make, the taste lingers. Decades later, mango still has such a charismatic hold. To get that heavenly juice spurting all over one’s chin reminds one of carefree childhood days. One of my mango memories includes the endless wait for a gush of wind to waggle the branches laden with mangoes

As kids, we may have appeared to be arch-enemies, but as we matured, the attachment became as strong as the love between us. I consider myself to be very blessed for having, apart from warm and loving parents, a brother, who entered my life a year after I was born. Being the first child, I was usually the one who had to take heed of all parenting advice before my brother was old enough to take a stand. From pesky little brother to wise best friend  As we got into our teens, our relationship began to improve somewhat. I liked to play big sister to him and raised pettifogging objections as well. I protected and teased him at the same time. Although our relationship has been through a whole slew of ups and downs, now that we both belong to the adult group of the family, I consider my brother to be one of the most caring and wise individuals I know. The evolution of a sibling relationship I catch myself often traveling back in time and remembering with nostalgia those instances when we fel

Years back I decided to become a journalist with the full support of my mother, I had decided that whenever I would write my first article it would be on her. I wished to tell the world about a woman who had selflessly done so many things for her kids; her struggles in life and for a better life for her children; her efforts to pursue the house help, so that she agrees to educate her daughter; to persuade the people of our neighborhood to help keep the surroundings clean; her efforts to check monkey menace in my home town; her personality; her beauty, her charming behavior and high spirit in life; her will power and presence of mind, when all the aunties would get confused due to the chaos after an accident and she would be the first one to call the doctor and do the first aid... A well-educated and knowledgeable woman. Little did I know that by the time I was ready to join the profession, she would have been attacked by the deadly disease, giving a different direction to my first

As soon as you take it inside your mouth, it bursts. There is far more juice than you would assume the hollow of a well-bloomed puri could contain. You grin and try not to allow even a few drops of that tasty ‘pani’ go waste. To ensure that, you place your dish below your mouth in case it does. Does it require an express mention that what’s being relished is the undoubted empress of the chaat world, the redoubtable golgappa? For a dyed-in-the-wool golgappa admirer like me, it is an absolute pleasure to crunch this small world of incredible refreshment. There is no street food which is more street food than golgappa. If Barbara Cartland had had an opportunity to taste this marvel, she would have surely written a romantic novel on it. Since she did not, I decided to write on it. ‘Bhaiya jara ek plate golgappa dena’, is never an unsafe bet. The little sphere, a few chunks of potatoes, chickpeas floating in the hot-sweet water and that craving to have it as soon as the vendor puts it on th

I have  had a thing for window seats for a long time. If I walk into a room and there is a seat next to a window, I am heading straight for it. It’s one of those things that are just impossible to resist. I always wish to see the countryside moving along and the views as the vehicles zap by. I remember once I had to travel by bus and I asked a passenger, who was sitting alone: “Excuse me, would you consider moving over here?” I asked pointing to the empty seat on the other side of the bus. “I’m travelling with my brother and we’d like to sit together.” She turned from her dazed state and looked at me straight into the eyes, “No. I’m not giving up the window seat.” Her abruptness caught me off guard and instantly angered me. I wanted to hurl some nasty comment back at her, but decided to take the high road and find a more productive solution to our seating dilemma. Being a Kashmiri, I would often find my brother and me on a bus to visit my home state for the holidays. There would alway