Bread Samosa

I was on a vacation in Hong Kong. We had spent the day walking. It was a very good and satisfying day. It was so good, that I had found my old appetite rumbling in my stomach. And that appetite brought this strong craving on my tongue: a strong want to eat India Chat. I had traveled down from India to explore this place, and yet this thing in me wanted to eat desi street food. But, I kept mum. Thinking this isn’t what he would like to eat. And yet, this man, to my great surprise and happiness asked, “Would you like to eat dahi puri?” I was wondering if he could read my brain waves.

There in Hong Kong, when we were eating the dahi puris with some addition of samosa chat, I got hit by this strong wave of nostalgia:

I would wait eagerly for my parents to come back home from work. I would be in the garden with my pupper. Waiting for them to walk inside the green gate, just to run close to whoever comes home first and ask, “Can we have bread samosa for dinner?” The day we would have it was like a picnic at home, but at night. Would be noisy, cosy and fun. Like some kind of celebration. The walk with my father to the shop to buy fresh out of wok samosas. Holding his fingers. Walk back home to eagerly eat the hot samosas, flattened and pressed firmly between two breads. And the satisfaction once the first bite was savoured…

I missed it.

Then today happened. We were out, my father, sister and my niece. While each ran their errand, I entered a small shop. One place which came close to making samosas like the samosa shop in the place I grew up. And I had the question in my head again. I turned around to find that my father had followed me in the shop with his cup of coffee. I asked the same question, “Can we have bread samosa for dinner?”

He smiled. Maybe the nostalgia had hit him too. And he answered saying he was just going to ask if he should get some bread for the night.

It was a celebration again. This time it was for my new job. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate.

Somehow, the mood was better. Like we had grip on something and that it wasn’t lost. I saw the old me. The old, easy bond I had with my father came back. He was happy. Genuinely happy. Happy to do this. Let his grown up be a child.

We were excited.

My mother was excited when I told her. It made me happy. Somehow the atmosphere felt familiar. It was warm, cosy and celebratory again. Though it was disastrous: the samosas were too spicy for our taste, yet it was the emotions that mattered.

It was about the simple pleasures. Most of the time works like a charm.

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About a Long Affair

As soon as the bus halts at my stop, I find myself rushing to cross the road. Forgetting my fear of crossing roads. Rushing like a mad woman to climb the three tiny steps and stand next to this jolly man with his hair parted in the centre. Just this. The man with the magical stall of wonder. My Pani Puri walla.

He nods his greeting and silently thrusts a small bowl made out of dried leaves in my hand. He puts on his gloves, takes a puri from the stacked heap, cracks it open, fills it with masala aloo, dips it in the spicy tangy paani and places it gently on my bowl. 

The first Puri, when it touches my tongue and cracks open in my mouth, the flavours explode! Melting away all the frustration and stress of the day. I feel comforted. Sometimes, this spicy beauty soothes my soul better than the saccharin words of my dearest friend.

The flavour brings out the vivid colours of the darkening night skies, and as it starts refreshing my soul I can finally hear things around me. Till then it’s just my Pani Puri walla filling my bowl with my beloved street food, comforting me silently, without understanding the chaos in my mind. 

By the end of maybe ‘one plate’ or even two, I don’t even feel guilty about my indulgence. 

Rather, I feel happy. Content. Comforted.

Always!

My Diwali Struggles

‘Tis the season of indulging in that calorie gaining delicacies and reaching the ultimate state of fatness.

‘Tis the season where the trainer will shake his head at my weakness and then growl “Breathe!” as I fall on the floor displaying my clumsiness.

Followed by his gruesome planks and crunches. And what not muscle killing sessions. He will punish me.

‘Tis that season again.

It’s worth it. All of it!

Happy Diwali! Happy eating!

Random Mumbles

Playful

The best thing about photography is, even if you have great memory, looking at a picture will flood millions of emotions. Even though it is too much for me to handle feelings, looking at my candid shots always makes me welcome them and smile.

Like this little girl here. I remembered everything about her when I started working with this year old picture.
She was a daddy’s girl. I assumed he was her dad. She was be playful, calm and happy whenever she was in his arms, and like a tornado if anyone else touched her. Had met her in Lalbaugh, flower show 2010. And I couldn’t help following her around for a while. Cutest smile!
——
Every girl’s dream:
1. Paint her nails blue.
2. Sport a messy hairdo.
3. Get referred as a dude, and literally.
4. Try and get callouses on her fingers.
——
I Am Free!

This will be my all time favorite amateur shot of mine. This will always remind me of how we were when we were kids:

Unbound, innocent and free. Carefree nature. And this, makes me feel that. I had written a short poem called Unbounded, which now when I think of it, fits this picture perfectly.
I had thought, and was made believe that this is a phase, that poem of mine. But now when I think of it, it is was not a phase. It was what I wanted. And it is how exactly I am existing right now.
Being a cynic is ok. But being cynic to the extent of destroying everything within yourself and others, I suggest please shoot yourself.
Fine, destroy whatever you want within yourself, but let others be. Just because you are depressed and dead inside, doesn’t mean you’ll make others believe they are too.
And yes, all this blabber talk comes out something. Make me believe that I do not want to belive this. Make me feel that, this is not what I’m feeling. I stupidly nodding to everything, like a person with no spine. And then morphing to be all that to be your pretty wife. And that is what is exactly called as being bounded.
Kids are beautiful. Remind us of so many things which eventually even they will forget as they grow up. Like that kid. And sometimes it is really amazing that, how you can actually feel what the other is feeling, if intensly. Like it is infectious.
——
The most frustratingly exhausting feeling is feeling empty. I find it weird to call empty as a feeling. Feeling nothing is a feeling. WTF.
The most irritating feeling is wanting something badly but failing to understand what that something is.
And suggestion I get to clear my head, “Go poop.” For better understanding.
Funny my dear Dove, but WTF!

I really have awesome set of close friends.

——
Best feeling ever?
Craving for cheese pizza at midnight, or anything with cheese. Why? Because I’m hungry!
Get up next morning. And guess what’s for breakfast?
Cheese sandwich. πŸ˜€
Yea, I made it happen. Made it myself.
Mom’s not gonna like it. πŸ˜€ πŸ˜€
——
And then, after I started ignoring my craving, I suddenly remembered my pen pals. One was from states. Other had moved from Britain to SA, Kenya. The one in Kenya apparently resembled to Daniel Radcliffe. And the one in states, she had 13 siblings! Ignoring that, they really were very interesting people. Whatever made me delete the contacts. Kenya friend was on my FB list. Then again, what made me delete that contact again…
Hmm. Lets see:
I was 17. (Surprised that it lasted from when I was 12 to say about 15!!)
He was too British for me (?!?) But definitely very very interesting person.
Back then, I simply wanted to know how different they are. And to my surprise, they were full of feelings and emotions! Great sense of humor. Friendship was a big deal to them. Friends were someone they could talk to. And being in a different country, it was easier for them to share their lives. Or probably those two were like that. As we say, the growing teen age phase. Who knows, might have turned up like me. πŸ˜›
Yes, I do remember their names. Aden and Catylin. If they do remember me, and if something happens in this small world and we miraculously find each other again, I would really like to know how they are doing. Because, in the end back then I was like them too.
——
—..

Inked!

Got the permission from papa to do it, but after two months. πŸ˜€

And the suggestions I’m getting is woaah! Skull, dragon breathing fire, daggers, what! I sound/appear/act oh so violent and all that blah to my friends? (Trying to apply something as eye liner which turned out to be lip liner something wasn’t enough for trying?) Butterfly? Buha ha ha ha.

Then again, I might just surprise them again. I sorta enjoy doing that. πŸ™‚

Yea, right. Needles. I first need to get over those, to get inked.
Shame!! I’m a doc’s daughter. Needles are supposed to be nothing. But such a pain in my ..

Only nice memories needles give me is running around in our house when I was a kid, mom behind me with the tetanus shot demanding me to stop running and that she’s getting late for her job. And I demanding for dad to be there when I get it, but he had already left for his office. What a kid. πŸ˜€
When back then, where to get the shot was such a pain taking choice (compared to making choices now)

Anyways, a reminder for future me. Who knows, I might surprise myself πŸ˜€
—..
Needles, needles, needles, noodles, noodles, nooooodles!

Bake a cake: tick

One breezy evening when I was waking out of Mantri with a friend, while talking I realized that we almost always end up doing whatever we wish to do or want to do. Most of the times they are those small things which matter the most. We wish for it, wait for it and forget about it. If you note it down and read it few years later, you’ll notice that you have done at least 70 percent of it. And that is a great feeling.
Most of the times we just forget the significance of small things.

And today, I finally did one of the things in my to do list. I made this cake “Kakaolu Kek”. I had to settle making a cake without brandy (the ones I wanted to make required that πŸ˜€ ) because apparently Papa thinks I can buy it myself few months later.

Yea right.

Anyways, my first attempt. My chocolate cake πŸ™‚
And cute star shaped cup cakes πŸ˜€

Mistake 1: Added sugar in crystal form. Yea. Dumb me.
Mistake 2: Made disgusted noise when I touched raw egg for some time, was awarded with a nice glare from mom followed by a small KaBOOOOM πŸ˜€
Lesson learnt : “Give thy thoughts no tongue” At least to specific ones when in company πŸ˜€
Shakespeare you were wise.
—..