and this is what they thought on Vijay Dashmi....

Ofcourse it all began with Ramji , the seventh incarnation of  Vishnu - Vishnu   the all-pervading essence of all beings, the master of—and beyond—the past, present and future, one who supports, sustains and governs the Universe . Ramji picked up his bow and arrow to slay Ravana .This was his duty- to free his people from all evil forces , and this is what he had been doing in these fourteen years of exile . The final three had to be slayed and as he aimed the first of the three arrows he thought , and prayed, " let there always be someone to guide my people and protect them from the evil ones".  Through a smoke induced haze  a  blurred vision of a slight man, bespectacled , holding a
wooden stick swam before his eyes and vanished . Ramji relaxed and lazily shot the arrow. His prayers had been answered. For had not the man  been wearing  wooden slippers- kharaus - just like what he was wearing right now ?

Lakshmana , Rama's brother waited on the sidelines for his brother to do the final honours. What were his thoughts at this time ? None  actually. His was not to ask , or question, or speak. He had taken it on himself to only follow . He was the original follower of the original leader.

And Ravanna ? you would think that a man on the threshold of death would be praying for forgiveness - full of angst at the evil  that he had embodied coming to an end with his death ? Nah - Ravanna was full of beams , giving a high five to Meghnaad, and sharing a , ahem , dirty joke with Kumbhkaran. He knew what no one else knew till now - and that is that he would not die. Hold on - the story is not being distorted-   his body would die but his evil would not. He knew that where ever the ashes of his ten heads fell - evil would take root there . And when that evil was killed ,  a new stronger strain of the old would come up ...and the cycle would go on.

Today is Vijay Dashmi . The triumph of good over evil . The country's  top brass is at the Ramlila grounds . What are they thinking ? Why  are they looking so  uncomfortable ? They are looking at everyone but not at each other and certainly not at ' Ramji'. The symbol of peace - doves- are released . The 'Silent  One ' shoots the symbolic arrow. Before doing so he looks at  We know who . An imperceptible nod of the head. Permission is granted.  The evil ones are on fire - in a minute they have been burnt to ashes. Everyone claps. It is agreed that good has triumphed . Crackers light up the western sky. The tamasha over , everyone heads back home .

A slight breeze stirs. The smouldering ashes are lifted and carried . Where do they fall ? How does it matter ? It has stopped mattering . The man with the wooden stick has come and gone. For some years after him people talked of faith and service and nationalism.  But slowly , and slowly, all that became a memory. The ashes of Ravanna's ten heads had spread from Kashmir to Kanyakumari. The people , the mango people, know that whether it is  ' the hand' that rocks the cradle or the  saffron forming a brigade at the lord's janambhoomi , they are on their own- rudderless and clueless.

Happy Dussehra !

the secret diary of Digvijay Singh@ diggy raja

I turn the pages of the dictionary( Merriam Webster) feverishly . I am looking for smirk and sneer .  P Q  R   S ...smirk -' a  smile showing insolence , smugness ,scorn'. And  now  sneer -'A contemptous facial expression characterized by a slight raising of one corner of the upper lip'.  The  dictionary closes  with  a  thud. I  rush  to   the  mirror .I  am  looking  for    the smirk and the  sneer. My  face- my  honest    to God  face ,  looks  back   at  me . Alright  ,  there is  a slight  amused  twitch  to one corner of  the  lower lip, but  that  has been  with  me   since  ages ( infact to  let  you  in  on  a  little  known secret,  it was told to me that I entered the world chuckling , with the corner of my left upper lip sort of curled in amusement) .I  tell you  we  Indians  have  no  sense of humour and anybody who shows his humour by the curl of the left upper lift is said to be smirking and sneering . Bah ! No wonder damaadji was driven to call them ' the mango people'. Infact the aam junta should be touching madam's feet in gratitude that her damaad even deigned to talk about them . I tell you these Indians have no sense of duty - duty to worship madam. Did she not leave her Italian roots trailing  behind her  to attach herself  like a limpet to Rajeevji ? But history will be witness to the fact that I never lagged behind in doing my duty by the  Maino ,sorry,  Gandhi   family. My sole purpose in life is to glorify Madam and Rahul baba and I will keep doing it- even if my own partymen smirk and sneer behind me. Just this evening I was asked for a soundbyte on this Kejriwal fellow and while discussing him in my measured way I cleverly managed to bring in  madam's name and her views about the gentleman in question. And still the mango people, sorry , the aam junta keeps asking why Soniaji doesn't open her tightly clenched mouth. Arre baba ( no, no not Rahul baba -this is another baba ) why should she ? Am I not there ? To open  my mouth, that is. Never mind that many a times people are left with their mouths hanging open when I open mine. But enough of this open business. Let me shut the case by calling it a night. I have to wake up early tomorrow for the devi puja starting from tomorrow for the next nine days. Ofcourse , in my case the devi puja carries on 365 days a year.
Jai Sonia Maa

4 Days In Kasauli

 

The Shatabdi Express chugs in at  Kalka station exactly on the dot, and this sort of sets the  tone of the holiday , which is  –‘ this holiday will work’.  Kalka station is like any other station acting as a feeder point to a hill station – small, quaint and giving a tantalizing hint of the promised mountains. We hire a cab to Kasauli and settle back in our seats in  anticipation of the drive . Writing this  article, one can almost feel the movement of the sharp curves of the road, inhale the smell of the pine trees , feel the caress of  the fresh mountain air  and hear the distinct chirrup of the  hill birds….  

Just after Kalka is Parwanoo,  and this is where the drive gets interesting . The hills are full of flowering shrubs and trees  and a lazy yellow   merges with a burst of  sharp orange. At one point we are almost eyeball to eyeball with the passengers of the  hill train and the eye contanct is  broken only when the train disappears inside a tunnel.   

Further along the road is the town of Dharampur, which is in two parts.  One road turns off towards Kasauli and another towards the famous Lawrence School, Sanawar. Both roads meet below the school at Garkhal.  Another  road  climbs steeply uphill towards Dagshai. Dharampur  is famous because of  its many dhabas , most notable ( and most crowded ) being Giani da dhaba. The food is uniformly good, the crowd is also, almost uniformly , good but what is great, nee mesmerizing, is the speed with which the food is served.

Burping delicately we get back inside the cab for   the last leg of the journey , from Garkhal to Kasauli. Now,  beautiful old british style bungalows   come into view, some of them dating to the time of the Raj. The houses within the confines of the Army cantonment cannot be changed structurally, so most of them retain their quaint charm along with their quaint, old fashioned  names like Cloud 9, The Raj Villa, The Pine View ….

( A few days into Kasauli , and a few long walks , are  enough for us to see , and envy,  the beautiful  summer homes of  the Kasauli elite. We also chance upon  writer and journalist Khushwant Singh’s villa. Pretty exteriors, well manicured , lawns and long driveways are the common features of the summer residences.)

 

 

How did we spend time in  Kasauli  ? We went for long, lazy  walks, absorbed the atmosphere of the British built bungalows, took  in the panoramic views , steered clear of numerous monkeys and langurs, and ate amazingly thin and beautifully served crepes at a local café, Rudra. At  Rudra  we also heard a lot of Bob Marley . Evenings were spent at the rooftop restaurant of the hotel we were staying in. Picture this : a room with glass walls which offer a ringside view of the twinkling lights of Sanawar , the only light inside the room  is provided by the    paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling , Sanju, the inhouse  vocalist cum guitarist, who also happens to be a music teacher in the local school ,crooning hits of the seventies and eighties  and a ponytailed guy, who we discovered is the owner/partner of the hotel , giving moral support to the singer by slapping his right thigh  repeatedly with his right hand  in tune to the music.  ( Incase anyone out there is wondering why the right hand was in overdrive , let me explain. Simply put, his left  hand was holding his drink and so was incapacitated). Also, and this was the best part, a couple of good looking  local school teachers ,fetchingly dressed in shorts and jumpsuits , dancing in synchronization to ‘Dum Maro Dum…’ Will we go back to the rooftop restaurant ? yes, we will. The waiters were the best I have seen in a long time !

The Kasauli Model

One hears of planeloads of babus going to foreign lands to study  models which can be implemented back home .What needs to be done pronto , to save the hill stations in India , is to study the Kasauli model and implement it.  In all the days we were there we did not come across any litter. There are no pestering  touts / tourist guides badgering one at every step. There are no ice cream parlours, restaurants serving Mughlai and Chinese and continental. No restaurants means absolutey none.  Infact we hunted high and low for a bakery but drew a blank. The town retains its old world charm precisely because of the absence of all these factors. Kasauli has a strong army presence and much to thank the army for. The greenery here has survived only due to the presence of the Army .The discipline enforced by it is clearly evident. A case in point is the walk to Sunset Point- a place of tourist attraction. No  vehicles are allowed about a kilometre  or so before Sunset Point. At  ground zero there are no shops selling chips, no jhoolas, no ice cream vendors – absolutely nothing .Only the people and the setting Sun.

 The town  has two main roads, the Upper Mall and the Lower Mall. Both have bungalows and cottages along them .  Simla lights are visible on clear nights from the Lower Mall. The Upper Mall faces both Chandigarh and Simla and gets beautiful morning and afternoon sunshine. Like all cantonment towns, Kasauli  has an old bazaar . Here we  bought some asafoetida and rock salt   ( the only  bit of shopping we did )from a wizened old lady  who looked as old as methuselah  .If someone had told us she was a remnant  from the time  Kasauli had been built we would have swallowed it, so old did she look.

We heard from the locals that there are two annual  social  events  in Kasauli. The first  is in the last week of June and is called Kasauli Week.  During this week a lot of parties and socials are organized by the Army and  by  the Kasauli Club.  A dance party is held at the Kasauli Club as the grand finale. The second event is during the Founders celebrations of Sanawar  held in the first week of October when parents and Old Sanawarians swamp  the town.

File Fact  :

 Kasauli is located at a height of 1927 metres  and is  an army cantonment  town established by the British in 1842. It is located in Solan district in Himachal Pradesh, about 77 km from Shimla.

 History

According to mythology, Kasauli came into existence after Lord Hanuman placed his feet here in order to get the Sanjeevani  herb. It is  also believed that the Rajputs of Rewari took refuge in the jungles of Kausal village during 17th century

Best time to visit

Kasauli can be visited any time of the year. However, April to November is the best time to visit.

Climate

Kasauli has a moderate climate. Winter temperature is approximately 2 degrees celsius, with Summer temperatures rarely exceeding 32 degrees celsius.

Places of Interest

Central Research Institute

The CRI works as a ‘Collaborating Centre’ of the World Health Organization, and as an immuno-biological laboratory producing vaccines for measles and polio and the DTP  group of vaccines.

The Parsonage

This  was built in 1850 for priests of the Anglican church.

Kasauli Brewery

The Kasauli Brewery and distillery, founded in the 1820s before the establishment of the Kasauli cantonment, is the oldest extant distillery for 'scotch whisky' in Asia.The brewery is also known as Mohan Meakins.

Kasauli Club

The Kasauli Club was established by the British  in 1880 as an accessible summer retreat. It is currently located within Indian Army premises and managed by a regular Indian Army Officer as 'Club Secretary', aided by civilian staff. Typical of hill architecture, the Club is constructed chiefly of wood.

Schools

Kasauli is synonymous with the Lawrence School , Sanawar . British official Henry Lawrence, who founded the Lawrence School at Sanawar, was one of the earliest inhabitants of the town. The cottage built by Lawrence still stands on the ridge. Other educational institutions,  in or near Kasauli , are the  Pinegrove School, St Mary’s Convent School   and the school at Kasauli's K.V. Air Force Station.

Christ Church and Baptist Church are amazing examples of classical Gothic style of architecture. Christ Church has beautiful stained glass windows, a common feature of churches built by the British during colonial area.

Flora and Fauna

Surrounded by dense forests, Kasuali is home to several species of Himalayan flora and fauna including endangered ones. Babblers, Red-billed Blue Magpie, Striated Prinias and Jungle Owlet can be spotted in Kasauli. Summer is the best time to visit Kasauli to watch the birds in the natural habitat.

.Where to stay

In Kasauli  most of the  resorts are located at the top of the hill. These  offer a  panoramic view of the surrounding areas. Budget hotels are located near the foot of the hill. There is a Himachal Pradesh tourist hotel ( very lost and forlorn ) and a few private ones (Alasia Hotel , Kasauli Resorts, Kasauli Regency , Baikunth Resorts etc), but the best place to stay in  is The Kasauli Club. It is a members-only club but visitors can get temporary membership for a few days and use the club facilities. One can also check out the few cottages which take in guests.

 

 

A quick and easy recipe for Gnocchi in Tomato sauce

    

                   

 

I  first  made Gnocchi  about  10-12 years  back. Ten years back we, in India, were  just  waking  up to  food beyond  pav-bhaji  and chowmein . My son was six months old and it seemed to me that all that I was doing was feeding him and ensuring that he burped and then again feeding him and ensuring … In a fit of inspiration , born mainly from a bout of rebellion , I started grooming and cooking classes aimed at the young woman – the girl on the threshold of marriage. The classes turned out to be a huge success and lasted well beyond my rebellion did !

 

Well, to cut a lonnng story short I taught many cuisines- Indian, Mexican, Chinese, Italian etc. The commonality  was that all the dishes were vegetarian and ,  more importantly, easy to make . One of the dishes that featured in the Italian section  was Gnocchi and in the process of teaching the dish it became a personal favourite ,  coming just after Lasagne and a light pasta salad that I learnt on the job.

Coming to the present , yesterday I made Gnocchi ( after a long gap) and it turned out good enough to inspire me to post the recipe.

 

So here goes :

This recipe  serves  4-6

 Ingredients

 

350 gms potatoes  freshly boiled and  peeled

75 gms self raising flour ( maida)

2 tsp dried oregano

2 tbsp oil

1 large onion  chopped fine

2 garlic cloves ( optional- I hadn’t used them )

400gms chopped tomatoes

2tbsp basil leaves, shredded ( tulsi will work fine)

salt and pepper to taste

 approx ½ cup Parmesan cheese, grated

 For the Gnocchi

 1. Mash the potatoes. Add the flour, salt , pepper and oregano .

Mix with hands to form a  dough.

 2. Make balls of the dough. Press the balls lightly .

 3. Bring a large saucepan of water to boil and cook the Gnocchi  ,in batches,  for 2-3 minutes. Drain well and arrange them on a greased baking dish.

 For the Sauce

n a pan put 2 tbsp oil ( I used olive oil  but any cooking oil will do) and cook the onions and garlic for a minute. Add the tomatoes, ½ cup water, salt and pepper and cook uncoverd for 10 minutes –or till it achieves sauce consistency. Add the basil leaves.

To Serve

Pour the sauce over the Gnocchi. Sprinkle the cheese and bake for about 10 minutes at 180degreesC or till the cheese melts.

 Serve warm.

 

 

Ritu Dalmia’s Diva Piccola

                      

 Till Saturday I had never been to Diva! There - my guilty secret is out. O.K , lemme correct that - one of my guilty secrets is out. Living in Delhi and admitting that one has never seen the inside of Ritu Dalmia’s  original Diva at Hauz Khas Village is like committing social harakiri . So , of course , one had never done it – admitted, that is . But come Saturday, we sailed majestically to the cafe –only to be brought up short by one of life’s inescapable truths, which is, in Diva the door is not opened to the outside. It has to be pushed to the  inside. But the good thing is that even if one does do it, open to the outside , one is not looked condescendingly at . Nah !  Ritu’s battery of   ‘Servers’ ( ‘waiters’ would be blasphemy) are God’s own angels . They smile understandingly and   unobtrusively  open the door to the inside to let you know what you hadn’t known till then and then seat you at one of the three tables for four. The other three tables are for two . Cozy is an understatement and I smile at the adorable tot dangling over the back of the husband’s chair.

In the meantime a basket of bruschetta and the menu cards have been placed in front of us and we eat the bread and  pore over the menu . We look up to confabulate but by then one of the angels has floated over to us and is smiling beatifically. “Ready to  place your order”. A devil whispers in my ear –“ that is being super efficient “ but I push the devil away and , returning the smile- albeit not so beatifically- simper- “what do you recommend?” The angel is very firm about the penne pasta with eggplant but here I get slightly distracted. M , by now we know his name,  looks one of us alright but hey he doesn’t talk like someone from Lajpat Nagar ( don’t ask me why Lajpat ). He talks like one of them.Maybe a crash course in  ‘speaking English the Italian Way’ is mandatory for everyone at Diva ? 

 

We order a pizza margherita, a risotto and the penne pasta with eggplant. A very attractive girl catches my  eye and by the time I finish checking out what she is wearing – beige trousers with a white shirt that is not tucked in but  belted to emphasize the tiniest of waists- the pizza arrives. It is rectangilish /ovalish in shape and extremely good. Next to come is the risotto. Here I pause because I must confess that the risotto left me with mixed feelings. Firstly - but maybe this one is because of all the episodes of last season’s   Master Chef I had watched ,where the presentation was as good , if not better than Gordon Ramsay’s scowl – because it looked exactly like what my dishes look at home when there are no guests but only family. You know , very comsi comsa. Secondly, it made me promise to myself that I must do some research on what is a perfect risotto. What I am trying to  say is that it was nice  –  but that it wasn’t perfect.

How was the pasta ? entirely forgettable and , though pride is one of the seven deadly sins, better pastas have been dished out from my kitchen .

But then the angel brought me back to earth. How? By placing before us the dessert-the  best ever chocolate cake . It came on a wooden platter with a floating candle on one end  and  thin geometric lines of chocolate sauce at the other. The cake was served with vanilla sauce . Mmmm

 

We get up to exit. I open the door. Ooops. Did it again .This time I pushed it open forgetting that now it had to be pulled in. From the corner of my eye I could see one of ‘them’ rushing to do it  the  right way.

The more things change the more they remain the same

I had heard a lot about her from the family grapevine before I actually met her . All good things – that she was the ideal  bahu , an excellent cook ,  educated to just  the right degree-  enough to read and write but not enough to give her businessman husband a complex etc. etc  We finally met at a family wedding  spread over three days .  From the very first day she slipped effortlessly , and cheerfully , into the role of the  chief organizer/ worker / co host . What struck  me the most about her  was not her indefatigable energy  but the fact that  here was a girl from some one horse town in the hinterlands of Uttar Pradesh who was holding her own at a relative’s very cosmopolitan wedding. Spunky was my verdict of her and  the image I carried with me was of a smiling face with a determined tilt to it.  Many years went by and, living in different cities as we were , we didn’t meet . From the faithful  family grapevine I heard about the birth of her son , the marriage of her husband’s younger brother and other  tit bits .

 Roughly ten  years  rushed  by before I met her again .  We hugged and drew back to look at each other . She was the same  - her smile and warmth had not changed - and yet so different . Always  thin , she was now gaunt . The shine in her eyes had dulled   and she seemed to be doing everything expected of her  as a matter of duty and not of joy . Was this the person I had called spunky ten years back ?  Nah. That seemed to be another lifetime.   I wanted to ask her  if everything was alright but   somehow didn’t . Ah  !  the do’s and don’ts of social etiquettes .

 

 We don’t meet again   . The phone at my house rings in the twenty third year of her marriage- or is it the twenty fourth ?  " There is something to tell you ( a premonition had me sitting up straight), Dolly ( not her real name , of course)  is no more".  " That's  terrible. How ?  When did..?"  I am interrupted.  " She committed suicide".  My hands are clammy and my heart seems to be thumping too loudly. I keep the phone down.

 

A  day  goes by. The wayward  heart has been  brought under control but there is no peace for the mind . There are too many questions to be  answered . They have to be answered if I am to get any peace  . I turn to the family grapevine. What I discover  is shocking . I find that  the rot  that we , ensconced in our  ivory towers of education and globalization , have long forgotten    is still   deeply entrenched  in the social morass  of the middle class  Indian.

.
Why did it happen ? Do things like this happen to people like us? It is now clear that they do. What makes an educated woman , married for more than 23 years take her life ? Well, many factors are at play but the main is the TINA factor. Yes, simply put ,it is that she feels there is no alternative. She has been the favourite punching bag of the family for too long. Family ? A father-in-law who spends his time acting out his celluloid ambitions of the archtype of the autocratic patriarch in real life ; a mother in law who is only a mother in law- not a woman ; a husband who spends his time between work and friends ; husbands brother whose importance lies in the fact that he marries a girl whose family is rich enough to send a regular supply of laddoos and kaju ki katlis. She suffers silently all those long years because her father is not alive and mother not rich enough to send the goodies. She lives the life of a second class citizen.

 Why didn’t Dolly turn to anyone for help ?  I  don’t know if she did . But let us presume that she did . O.K .  Let me take that further and  hypothetically suppose that she had turned to me . What would my  advice  have  been ?  And , more importantly, would I have given her any advice or sympathetically looked in her eyes , maybe squeezed her hands  ( and a few tears from my eyes ) come back home , looked at the familiar walls and faces , vowed to count my blessings and got back ,energized,  to  the business of  living . Yes,  the same thing we feel when we go to pay our condolences – the feeling of ‘ thank God it’s not happening / happened to me’

Here I stop. I have no more answers. What actually transpires in the heart and mind in those last few minutes , when the person is teetering between sanity and an insane desire to be free ? What tilts the scales either ways? No easy answers . But what is certain is that what we call suicide is actually murder. Murder of a person's dreams and hopes; of love and life; of laughter and  emotions. Trial by Jury, anyone?

An  image  of a smiling face with a determined tilt to it floats before my eyes  .

 I close them.

hundred @facebook

Those days , the days before Azharuddin, before match fixing, before Preity Zinta and Nita Ambani  -  those days of Sharjah and of India Pakistan  matches played out in the true spirit of the game  ( which was the spirit of 'holy war'  and only war ) ; those days when one watched cricket with the heart in the mouth feeling and did not change seats because superstition did not allow one to ; those days one would start rooting for the batsman inching towards his century. That century would become the fulcrum of the game and everything else would fade into the long on...

Well, the days of  the Sheikhs and Sharjah and Sunil G are now passe but the magic of the 100 still holds. Consider this : I signed up on Facebook two years back with the only honest intention of connecting with friends I had been close to in school and college. That happened and one was happy and contented. Then a couple of friend requests came my way and one was even more happy and contented. Then a couple of friend requests made from my side were accepted and the happiness and contentment quotient grew more. The proverbial cup was full to the brim and threatening to overflow. And then the green eyed monster- the serpent in Adam and Eve's garden raised its head. The monster , called Dissatisfaction, drew my attention to the fact that all my FB 'friends' had more 'friends' than I had . Not just a teeny weeny bit  more but atleast a hundred more ! Hundred now became the number I had to achieve. I send 'friend requests' by the droves- not only to school and college friends but also to friends of the school and college friends and  to the friends of the friends of the school and college friends. Acceptances started trickling in and the numbers started increasing- 24 on Monday became 35 by Tuesday and Wednesday saw it go upto 50. But friday (the 13th ) proved to be the best- I now had 88 friends ( the daughter and son had finally  relented and accepted my request and in the bargain some of their friends- the ones who had eaten my chocolate cake- send me requests).

The next few days were cropless- I was clueless on whom to tap next. The brainwave struck when the husband was  holding forth on the perils of FB ( being a stickler for not breaking stereotypes- this one being that the husband is always the last to know- one had ensured that the 'race for 100' was kept  a secret from him). The brainwave was so brilliant that my face lit up with glee and a tiny chortle escaped from my mouth  causing the husband  to look questioningly. Presence of mind saved the day and the next few minutes were spent   nodding in agreement  and gasping in horror- the latter at a particularly horrifying example of the aforementioned perils. Fifteen minutes later I was on FB , executing  the deed.

Now I not only know about what my school and college friends did last summer but I also know what my colleagues did on their weekly off- I happen to be 'friends' with them all.

And yes, now my cup doth truly overflow- the 100 has been crossed!