I Left You at Nizamuddin

I think about you - often, and more so these days. I think about that endearing smile of yours, part playful, part mischievous, genuine and free. About your sheer confidence and shrewdness, the latter and how it bothered me for days, but which makes me proud of you - in an odd sense of the term. It was your freedom of spirit - the term, so often misused, but apt in your case - that drew me to you, that disengaged all my apprehensions of who you are, of what you are. I still remember the old women, the one that refused to let me capture her face but whose face remains etched in my mind, and her warnings about you. How I shouldn't let you watch me, or talk to me, or help me, how your family's trade would force you to harm me and that I would regret my decisions. But I didn't listen.

I think about you and your friend - yes the other one. The one that followed you around, that hung on your every word, that didn't even talk back at you when you accused him of lying. He was slower than you, not a natural leader like you. Unbelievably sweet, but without that charisma that you possess in excess.

I think about saying bye to you and wandering into the gullies of Nizamuddin. How I didn't expect to see you again, but how you waited for me and came to me and then spoke to me. How could I have not expected it? She had told me you would. But there was a part of me that didn't believe her. That didn't want to believe her. I still remember your high-pitched voice. I still wonder whether you had been trained, or whether it was natural. I remember you tapping on my arm, being disgusted at first, but then other instincts sinking in and wanting to do anything I could for you. Of fearing for your safety, of not wanting to be accosted like that time, 10 years ago, in a distant parking lot, at another sacred place. Of telling you to be quiet and to follow me and to wait, and promising. Of getting into the rickshaw. Of you not believing me. Of seeing the hurt in your eyes. Of telling you to come to the other side of the auto and giving you the note, telling you to use it well and to be safe. Of seeing you stare at the note - in some sort of amazement - of looking up, smiling, and running away. I hope you shared with your friend. I hope you bought food. I hope they didn't take it from you, or hurt you because of it.

I hope you're ok.

I wonder if I'll ever see you again.

Khuda Hafiz Ali,

Didi.

If Only My Thesis Were on Food

G'evening folks! Or, shall I say good night? Once again, I'm up during the wee hours of the night (well, wee-ish given my tendency to stay awake until 3/4am. It's only 1am right now), but this time without a paper deadline in sight - and no, my thesis proposal does not count. In fact, I've spent the past 2 hours procrastinating about my readings on Indira Gandhi and the Emergency by surfing through the wonderfulness that is Amazon. I'm still in the process of designing and decorating my new room, and have a couple walls and wall features that I'd love to accentuate. I've always had this fantasy of drawing on my walls, and I found a wonderful dry-erase decal that would fit perfectly on one.

Anyway. This post is not about my new-found-love-for-decorating. Rather, it is about food. Now that my kitchen is set-up and I have access to my pots and pans and spices and pantry and multiple beautiful knives and can actually eat (I went through a month-long phase during which I could barely eat anything), I've been trying to cook wholesome meals for myself. What, you may ask? Multiple types of frittatas, pasta with fresh tomato and red wine sauce (so yummy!), vegetarian fried rice, multiple types of salads and sandwiches (I found the most delicious za'atar the other day and can't stop using it) and so on. Today was supposed to be potato-vegetable patties with wilted greens and some yoghurt/dijon sauce, but two of my friends decided they wanted to go for dinner so I joined them.

Dinner was fun. The two are great people. But the food was ok. The tomatoes in my salad were pretty bad and the pasta was mediocre. I ordered the white mushroom pappardelle with truffle oil. I figured it would be good. It's a pasta that's hard to get wrong. The pappardelle has to be cooked until al dente, and the mushrooms need to be cut and sauteed. That part was fine, but the truffle oil. Sigh. When will chefs learn that truffle oil is heavy and a little goes a long way as far as taste is concerned? You only need a couple drops of that stuff - not a long drizzle. Anyway, I was pretty full after the salad and only ate a small part of my pasta. Which means that I can mend it tomorrow. The mushrooms and the pasta will stay. Excess oil will get washed down the drain. I'll throw some olive oil into my pan, add the pasta and mushrooms with some salt, maybe get some parsley, and enjoy mushroom pappardelle my way. The potato-veggie patties will just have to wait for Thursday...

Right - perhaps back to my readings, but probably to bed...

Night for now.

A Truce of Sorts

There are days, nay months and years, during which we keep on fighting. And then the day comes, suddenly, when we resign ourselves to our fates. The tears no longer flow and our insides no longer seem to spasm violently with every phrase.

It is at this time that we are our strongest. It is at this time that we are at our worst.

This isn't my battle. It's time you fought your own.