Culinary Pursuits

My roommate has moved away, and I officially live alone. One of the best parts of living alone is the independence of thought and planning - there's no chance of anyone even suggesting a course of action which is contrary to your own, even if you have none whatsoever. So after a whole spate of doing-everything-possible-in-Mumbai before A left, suspected flu, and another round of doing-everything-possible-in-Mumbai when A came back (quite similar to the first round, only with umbrellas), I spent what feels like the first Saturday in ages (1) Not working and (2) at home (3) not drinking, but that was only because my stash of Carlsberg was finished. The only productivity was thanks to my attempt at snacking before leaving for Dashavtaram with Bunny and Co., when I reached into my cheese box (30 cubes for 30 rupee discount) Who moved my cheese? Well, that didn't matter, but a trip to the Big Bazaar certainly was required. And I picked up a lof of exciting stir fry pastes from the Dollar Store, along with cold cuts, dressing, and a lot of other (discounted) goodies to experiment with at mealtimes.

Someone once expressed a lot of shock at the fact that I loved cooking and would cook for myself even when I lived alone, earlier.

"Isn't cooking for yourself boring?" she asked.

Of course it isn't. In fact, it leaves more scope for experimentation because there's only you to bear the results of your efforts. Also, there's no "other person" to think about - you may want to cook, your partner may be voraciously hungry, so ordering in is the most polite option, rather than have them hovering around you eating raw ingredients and hopping up and down. That's the sort of thing that brings out the worst in me (ask my sister). Also, as I am the least fussy eater I know (I eat anything that moves, and even stuff that doesn't), the widest variety of seasonal vegetables have made an entry into the kitchen pantry.

The painful bit is the preparing of the tiffin, not so much for the fact that I have to wake up early for that, but also because the tiffin is eaten in public view (office) and open to comments and questions from interested bystanders, basically, Pooh.

(You do remember Pooh, don't you?)

On one occasion where I chanced to bring ladyfinger (bhindi):

"What is that?"

"Bhindi"

"Oh God, why does it look like THAT?"

I was a little taken aback. Was there fungus on it?

"Huh?"

"Its in such small pieces!"

"Pooh, it cooks faster that way."

"Oh..."

Pooh prides herself on bringing sorry looking sabzis to office. Of course if you prompt her she will tell you this whole story about how she made her maid cut the vegetables but she didn't cut it properly, and so Pooh had to re-cut it, and make the sabzi along with another sabzi for dinner, and rotis, and so on, and how in the whole mess she missed the 9:00 Thane Mumbai AC Bus and then she had to take the 930 one, and that is why she made someone else rush to attend her matter at 11 at the Sessions Court. Despite all these efforts, her food tastes really crappy. For instance, she was so proud of a spinach curry which was so oversalted that I couldn't taste anything else.

All women who I know who make "dabbas" for their husbands/significant others complain about how much of an effort it is and how no one understands that. So I usually give them the option of the friendly neighbourhood dabbawaala, which they are not willing to discuss. Preparing a dabba for their loved one gives them a lot of pride, evidently. But, they still crib about it. The reason I feel the exact opposite (no pride, but no effort either) is because, I am convinced, that I am doing it for myself. I cook nice food to spoil myself. Where's the effort in that? There's no pride, because no one envies you for having yourself to cook for yourself. If nothing else, they feel sorry for you.

I stopped making myself a Dabba (I'd only carry a veggie, I'd buy rotis at a place near office) when my roommate moved in. There was no real issue in making one for her too - but it's not that simple. Anyway she had office catering, and then I'd just be cooking for myself, which was selfish, in an unexplainable kind of way.

Pooh once asked me what my roommate used to do when I'd be cooking.

"Nothing", I said after some thought.

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Well, most of the time she isn't home. If she is, well, she talks to me and all."

"I mean does she help you?"

"Well, she sets the table, and things like that, here and there."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

I hate that question, simply because it is evident from the previous conversation that the fact that she does not do anything has not even occurred to me, let alone cause me any anguish.

But there's another dimension to this.

Pooh gets up and makes breakfast for hubby, and then makes lunch and dinner. Her Husband wakes up, reads the paper, drinks his tea, and leaves at 730am for work. He'll come back and help her heat stuff in the microwave. But that doesn't bother Pooh, because he is a MAN - and its OK for men not to help around the kitchen.

Girls, on the other hand, need to "slave around". One girl "slaving around" for another is not acceptable.

"Pooh, I don't know about you, but I find cooking very destressing".

[For the record, Pooh does not find cooking destressing. In fact, when she has lots of guests over and insists on cooking, she actually takes the next day off to recuperate.]

But yes, cooking is destressing to me, because in a lot of ways it is the exact opposite of my professional world. Between 11am to 5pm, my life is full of frustration and uncertainties. I have a matter, I prepare for it, I have the precedents, I'm clear on the law, I'm ready to rock. However - sometimes the other side isn't present, sometimes they are present and aren't ready to argue. Sometimes the Judge isn't present, sometimes he's not willing to take up the matter. Sometimes the other side is present and ready to go on, sometimes the Judge is present and is ready to hear the matter, but they can't find the case papers. Sometimes the other side is present and ready to go on, sometimes the Judge is present and is ready to hear the matter, and they have the papers and I argue but the Judge doesn't order in my favour because he doesn't like my face, or because he's been bought by the other side, or because he just doesn't see my point. Sometimes the Judge rules in my favour and I am thrilled but only to step outside the Court and find the Court peon sneak upto me and tell me to tell my Client that the Judge is waiting for his last and final installment.

In my kitchen, however, there are no uncertainties. I prepare myself by using the best ingredients and I know my recipe well. The bright flames of the gas leap up and embrace the kadai I place on it, after a good rinse. The water droplets sizzle and boil away, the pan is as hot as it can get and calls upon me to present my case. In goes a little oil, and some spice, some excitement. I work furiously, with my spoons and spatulas, and the art continues - colourful vegetables, succulent meats, some seasoning. I let the heat and the steam do its work, and I become the master - a little too long, and it will burn, and little too less, and it will be raw. There are no distractions, no adjournments. In the end, I turn into the Judge in my own case, and I bear the consequences of my actions. No stress, just Art.

Am wondering whether I can drive Pooh to early retirement by bringing a dabba of phad thai noodles, kimchi salad and salami and cheese roll ups.

The thought of that is more destressing than even cooking. Hmm.

Daddy Cool

Coincidence or otherwise, my Daily Dilbert email had a very interesting sidebar link. Usually I ignore such links the the fear that through my IP address my email address will get tracked down and then I will be spammed to death. Mentally, I am still in the year 2000 when I had a hotmail account which had a non-functional spam mechanism, which meant that I actually had to sift through Betty Crocker discount emails and advice on increasing penis size (I don't know why I keep getting spammed with that, and viagra on 81% discount either) to get to the few emails from people who really mattered, which also would end up to be "forward or die" emails.

Anyway.

This was a find though:

http://www.fatherhood.org/

Of course, since we have so many American men (and at one point of time, Ravi Shankar) running around the United States impregnating women and leaving them to fend for themselves and their children, what else can one do but put up banners and hoardings and sell CD ROMS telling people the difference between "fathering" and "father". So you have, among other things, a group of secret agents who pounce on unsuspecting men playing Frisbee with junior in the park and give them huge gift hampers to celebrate their doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing. Men getting gifts for not acting like jerks. Why didn't we think of this before?

Besides advising men (especially Army men) on how to become true Dads, the organization believes in starting early. The Boyz to Dads link provides for educative materials for

Dads, moms, educators, mentors, social workers, youth ministers, or any concerned adult can use this program to help prepare boys to make good choices on topics like relationships, sex, and peer pressure. Because boys learn best in a visual, interactive, hands-on environment, the Boyz 2 Dads™ interactive game format is the perfect way for you to capture their attention and then start a conversation on these important issues.

I have something to say about this, but it isn't quite forthcoming.

I was suddenly excited that maybe the US Government had programmes to improve men in every role possible - husbands, boyfriends - but to my disappointment, www.husband.org is all about links on finding our whether your husband is cheating on you or not, and www.boyfriend.org deals with shady lingerie. Wah wah.

The morning after a night full of sedate revelry, we suddenly realized that though people around us are getting married left, right and centre, that even among people 5 years older than us, we couldn't name anyone (besides this one woman) who had moved from the recreation to the procreation stage. Do people not have the time? Do people (understandably)not have the inclination? Or have people actually been failing at attempts, which is mother's nature's way of telling us that 5 years of law school have made us incapable of bringing up a sane and happy child? Like a slow genocide?

Anyway - the moral of the National Fatherhood Initiative is to remember that "Have you been a Dad today?" is not a nice way of asking if you remembered to use protection.

Happy Father's Day.

Always the professional

(Note: this is a highly technical post and involves a lot of legal procedural bullshit. Avoid if possible)

I just got back from a gruelling day of Trial Court litigation, with a glow on my face and a grin that could put Jack Nicholson to shame. On paper, it was a sucessful day, but in actuality, it was kick ass.

Where do I begin?

Cut to many many months ago, when I was a struggling clueless junior without a friend beyond the souls that inhabited my chamber. I latched onto friends of friends (very Orkut) who were the most easily available and who I would be hanging out with most of the time anyway. One such "friend of friend" was CP, friend of the much admired SP. They had started their careers together and were professional buddies, often appearing for co-accused. That means that if one of them, say SP, is approached by a pair of Accused persons, he will make CP represent one of them. Having different lawyers gives an impression of there being no nexus between the two Accused, and if you've got a buddy defending the co-accused then you can even have heated arguments during the cross examination while trying to pin the blame on one of the persons. Which goes a lot like this:

"So you saw the guy who did it"

"Yes"

"Was it him?"

"Or was it him?"

"No, it was him."

"But that guy was tall. My Client isnt tall."

"No, he could have been short"

"Stop trying to pin the blame on my Client"

"YOU stop trying to pin the blame on MY Client"

JUDGE: Aargh. Adjourn, adjourn!

(Note: No Judge ever says Order, Order. Not even in restaurants.)

This is done rapidly and repeatedly until the Public Prosecutor has lost his mind and everyone is clear beyond the shadow of a (reasonable) doubt.

Anyway CP and I would catch up for a tea here, a coffee there, maybe lunch at the Sessions Court canteen, mostly with SP, but we had become friends - for me it was the kind of friendship where you don't really care about the other person's feelings or remember their birthday but you feel comfortable in the knowledge that you have a familiar face in your surroundings. One day, he asks me to go for lunch with him. I'm expecting Pritam da Dhaba, we end up at one of the most happening restaurants in Mumbai (at that time, now it serves 6 stale prawns on 6 pieces of stale bread for 400 bucks) on the pretext that he needs to pick up papers from the owner, his Client (the former partners are our Clients. Co-Accused, tra la la). Random chit chat, and then a mention about his daughter.

"You're married?" I asked. Yes, blog slasher, I know it's a stupid question. And I know it makes it sound like I was disappointed to find out that he was married. I wasn't. I just found the whole thing shady.

Not mentioning your marital status is shady behaviour, in my book. Of course this doesn't mean that married people need to walk around with yellow stars or tattoos which say "married to ...", but if you've met someone and had actual conversation with them on several occasions and they do not tell you that they are married, it's pretty shady.

Hmm. That doesn't sound quite right.

Okay. It's not like the person has to make a curtsy and say "Look, I'm married. Now, about last night's Croatia Germany match...". It can be a very subtle reference, like "my husband and I went to big bazaar last week" or "my wife is allergic to mushrooms" or "my father in law has a gun license". It's pretty weird if you don't mention something like that.

Especially when, after not mentioning his marital status for several months, CP then asks me to go out for lunch with him every day.

I admit that in the beginning I would oblige. I mean, married men are supposed to be safe. [I should point out here that CP is too desi and unattractive for me to want for him to hit on me.] Anyway, married men never hit on other women, at least that's what I thought when I was 23. Especially when the married man in question had a "love marriage".

"Well, it wasn't really love", said CP. "I decided to marry her."

"So why isn't that a love marriage?", I asked.

"Because love and passion are things I'd like to keep away from marriage," he smiled, and winked at me.

What actually caused me to sit and wonder what the fuck was going on, were the shady (shady is as shady does) messages that I began to get:

"I miss you every time I don't see you."

"I'm depressed - I haven't seen you all week."

The Ick-o-meter was running amok. I gently tried to show my "I don't think I'm really comfortable" face to him, and he said it was "just a little harmless flirting". Alrighty!

And then, on New Year's:
"Last night I had the most wonderful dream - I dreamt that I was on a deserted island with you."

It was time to pull the plug. And strangely enough, I wound up feeling guilty about this, about being the "other woman" who a (presumably) happily married man finds no qualm about flirting with or dreaming about being on a deserted island with. Can't any normal guy want to be with me? And other similar whines.

Time went on, and I realized that I was no villain - CP, and many many other men that I encountered in Mumbai, were all suffering from the same asshole disease.

I've been handling a matter in the Magistrate's Court at Mazgaon, involving a case dating back to 1986, in which my Client, along with his wife and landlady, were accused of forgery by my Client's own cousin. In the last 22 years, my Client's wife and his landlady both expired. In 2006, my Client's cousin, the Complainant, also expired. Normally, in cases initiated by the Complainant before a Magistrate, if the Complainant dies, the case abates, unless you can find strong reasons supporting the Complainant being replaced. The Original Complainant's younger brother made an application to be substituted, and thereafter never turned up for 2 years. Family gossip says that the young boy, who was only 12 at the time of the alleged offence, had gone mad after an accident and does not recognize anyone. Be that as it may, for about 10 hearings no one turned up on the part of the wannabe substituted Complainant until yours truly went there and kicked up a royal fuss until a final notice was sent to cousin fruitcake.

I walk into court and ask to see the original court papers, when I hear a voice asking for the papers of my case. I whirl around.

I won't even ask you to guess who it was.

"CP, you are appearing in this?"

"Arre, you are there in this matter?"

Arre indeed.

Two questions later I realize that CP has no idea what he's getting into, and I also realize that though I thought I despised him beyond belief, I was actually okay, now, with CP.

"This is really something," he said, looking at the 2 ft pile of papers, known as the case file.

And just when I thought things had gotten better:

"I think we should take... a date." The last two words were whispered so close to my ear that I had to wipe my earlobes after jumping out of my chair.

Goes to show you, pigs is pigs.

Luckily the Judge walked in just then.

I was hopping mad about everything by then - the random flirting, the making me feel bad about myself, the unnecessary display of intimacy, and now, above it all, the fact that he was using all that to completely take me for granted and make a quick escape from the proceedings.

One should never let personal equations hamper legal practice. All the while, I only had my Client's interests at stake, I swear.

The Judge pulled out my application for dismissal. She asked CP to give his "say".

CP took out his pen and scribbled half a page. "Read it", he said, and I had to bear him coming closer to me so that I could read.

"The proposed Complainant has been attending the Court regularly and has been very diligent in dealing with the case".

I smiled. "CP, are you sure you want to keep this line in?"

CP gave me a very confident sidelong glance. "It's a standard reply."

I shrugged.

Our turn came around again, and the Judge asked if I was ready to argue.

After laying down the basic legal mumbo jumbo, I attacked the reply.

"First of all, the Advocate of this so called proposed complainant is making a clear misrepresentation to the court. While he says that his Client has been attending the Court regularly, the record of the Court will show that for the past 11 dates, neither the proposed complainant nor his advocate have been turning up for the hearings, whereas my Client, a senior citizen has not defaulted even once. If anyone is to be termed..." I pretended to relook at the reply "...diligent, it should be the Accused, and not this person."

The Judge snooped through the roznama and glared at CP.

CP took a break from asking me to adjourn the matter in whispers to make a legal point.

"My lady, the law on substitution is very clear."

"Is it?", I asked.

"My lady in case of the death of the Complainant his next of kin or other aggrieved person can step into his shoes and carry on the proceedings."

"My lady, I submit that this depends on which stage of the proceedings we are in"

So saying, I looked at CP for his reply. He had none, because he didn't know what stage this matter was on anyway.

I wasn't quite done yet.

"I don't blame my colleague for making such an error - I don't think he has been properly briefed. As it is, he is neither or record nor has he been instructed by the Advocate on record..."

The Judge glared even more and shuffled the papers for the Vakalatnama, CP was honest enough to admit that he had just been orally instructed and not formally authorized.

"Then?" asked the Judge, clearly irritated.

"My lady, a date may be given?", whimpered CP.

The Judge grunted and began to dictate the day's proceedings.

"The matter is adjourned for arguments on the application."

"Last chance?" I suggested.

"Yes Yes. 'The last chance is given to the Advocate for the proposed complainant to argue the matter.' " She looked at me thoughtfully. "With proper authorization".

CP muttered something while digging out his calendar. "Shall we take a date in September?"

"I'm okay with anything she says", I said, nonchalantly.

"Next date", announced the Judge.

"My lady, September..."

"July 1st!" roared the Judge.

CP bowed down and cringed at the case file.

"Much obliged", we chanted in unison.

I stepped into the corridor to appraise my Client of what exactly happened there, he isn't very good with english but he figured something had clicked for us. CP rushed past me after a quick "bye". I walked down with my Client and as I walked into the compound, I saw CP's balding head turn towards me. He was talking to a young girl, who I recognized to be the trembling intern who was trying to keep her Senior's matter back earlier that morning. When our matter was called out for the second time, I had to go find CP, and he had been in a corner of the corridor chatting with this same girl.

CP gave me a smile - not "a" smile, but "the" smile, a smile I don't think he would have given me even if he won the case we were arguing. As far as he was concerned, CP had won his case, and he was very happy about it.

I still can't wipe the smirk off my face.

Class of '99

I finally had a long overdue school friends reunion, but it was under the worst circumstances possible - a friend got into an accident with his young wife, in which she expired. Incidentally we found out only when one of us called him up on his cell to fix the venue of our sixteenth (planned) reunion. His brother picked up and gave him the tragic details. And so, I called my sofawalla in the morning so that we could all meet up and visit Rahul that evening.

I’ve been for very few condolence visits before. As for funerals, I avoid them whenever possible – stemming from my fear of death, I suppose. Condolence visits were just an extension of that – you had to talk about death, it was all around you, Someone would be around to give you the whole details – when it happened, how they tried to help, how it almost didn’t happen – but then it did. Talking about the person very rarely happens on such occasions, besides an occasional comment on how nice the person is. If s/he was so nice, then why did they die? Because God takes those who he loves the most. And some other clichés like so. And on top of this, this was for the death of someone I didn’t even know – the wife of a school classmate who I hadn’t spoken to since Class IX with the exception of a few random Orkut Scraps. As I left the scene of my upholstery work I scanned my cupboard for something to wear. I eyed my whites, but then thought it was too filmi – white salwar, followed by a white dupatta over my head and topped with dark glasses to complete the ensemble. Anyway it had been a week since the funeral. I toyed with the sleeve of a black kurta, but rejected it on the grounds of being labelled as someone who had been watching too much of Star TV since childhood and was under the mistaken impression that Black was the colour of mourning. I settled on a Olive Green FabIndia Kurta teamed with a new black churidar. The FabIndia Kurta betrayed my ever expanding beer belly, while the waistband of the churidar cut into my midriff. I put up with it because despite all this, I looked the part.
An hour later, new sofas snugly placed on the chair, I met up with my estranged classmates at Andheri, and after commenting on how much weight I had put on, they informed me that they didn’t remember where our friend lived.
“We could Just Dial his Dad, maybe?” suggested one.
I raised one badly-in-need-of-threading eyebrow at him.
“Or then maybe we could call GS?”
GS was the one friend of ours who had been to his place, but pleaded memory loss. Suzy looked at me. “Could you call him, please?”
Both eyebrows this time. “What?”
“Well there’s no other way to find out, is there?”
I walked to the side of the building that we were standing at and dialed the number. My heart sank when the phone connected, and almost stopped when it was picked up. Surprisingly, there was a lady on the line. I introduced myself as a classmate, and told her that we wanted to see him. She explained a very complicated set of directions to us, but five minutes later, we were right outside his doorstep.
As we entered, I saw the familiar faces of his father (“Hello Uncle”), and his sister, our Senior in school, now betraying her Punjabi genetics by becoming a plump member of the “aunty” species, and I specifically noted that she was wearing a very pink salwar kameez. She noted that I had “changed completely” (glasses, no braces and a swanky haircut) and we sat down to wait. The sister looked a little forlorn, and told us that they were trying to “cheer him up” but nothing seemed to be working. From well wishers we were now supposed to be entertainers.
Rahul walked out of the bathroom, limping, having just washed his bruises. He looked at us and nodded politely, and I thought to myself, this is it, he’s just going to walk on and not talk to us and sulk in his bedroom. But a split second later, he came back in with the embarrassed smile that was is trademark in school, and then we settled in to talk. I did not ask about “what happened” – I didn’t want to know, and nothing could change the fact that he was a widower now, knowing whether she died of a head injury or internal bleeding would make no difference to my life. So we talked about school - of the good times, of whose pant ripped during PT and who was given that embarrassing name by his teachers. And then we talked about the present, but just in terms of statistics: where X was working, where Y was studying. By the end of it, Rahul was laughing and we had even nudged him into accepting a school friends meet on the first weekend in June.

I remembered our big plan just a few days before the date. My first instinct was to pretend like it never happened - like how you say "I'll call" or something as vague and never mean it. But I needed to keep my moral high ground as the charming ever ready hostess, and so I messaged the lot, hoping for a round of "Can't we do this next weekend?"s. But all I got was confirmations, a few "I'll be late but I'll be there"s and even a drop in from a Delhi based school mate who was in town. Oh boy.

I chided myself for being lazy, especially with there being so little to do - my living room was clean (since my roommate left, the living space was now confined to the bedroom), the fridge could be stocked easily enough, and the boys insisted that I not cook, but we'll all just order in. Then it dawned upon me. I wasn't lazy, or anti social - I was just scared. I was throwing a party and inviting over people who, just a few weeks ago, were mourning the loss of the wife of our friend. And I was inviting the same friend as well. True to my habit of staging my worst apprehensions about an event in my head, I visualized a breakdown, his getting emotional whenever we mentioned marriage or settling down or future plans, perhaps he would lock himself in my bedroom to cry, perhaps he would leave early so as not to make a nuisance of himself. Well, it was too late (or too early, even) to angst about all that. I ordered 6 bottles of Carlsberg (this was a party, after all), picked up snacks, and settled in with the first arrivals.

Then Rahul came in, and I braced myself for the climate change. But there was none. The stories continued in full flow, as did the beer (reinforcements were called for), and we were a group of smiley happy people. The random anecdotes came tumbling out of our memories, as did gossip and speculations about the unfortunate classmates who weren't present with us. All of us were transported back to a time where even crushes were platonic, where competition was only about marks, where you would gasp dramatically if anyone would say "fuck", when you weren't fat, when years of smoking hadn't hampered your ability to run like crazy, when you could buy Pepsi sticks for 50 paise, and when the worst thing that could ever happen to you was a DeMerit Card. And of course, a time when you would never imagine sitting around with these blokes in some other city drinking copious amounts of alcohol.

While serving dinner, I remembered a follow up that I needed to give on something I had appraised a few friends of mine on.

"Guys, the parents meeting was completely successful!"

"See, all fingers and toes intact" said Q, who was a guest of honour for the evening.

This brought a round of cheers from the folks. It was then suddenly that a doubt creeped into my beer high that maybe this was not the time for such an announcement. But just then, I heard a voice.

"When's the wedding?" asked Rahul, excitedly.

I think all of us did a double take at that one.

We had, amongst us, one of the youngest guys in our batch, easily the most soft spoken of them all, who had gotten married when he just turned 21, and was now a widower. He had his wife's name painted on his bike and had her picture on his phone screen. He had removed his plaster but he was still hurting, it was obvious. But he was now getting visibly excited about attending someone else's wedding, while I had, all this while, been expecting a total break down in my living room. And from the looks of everyone else in the room, it was quite a common expectation.

We may have wound up shooting tequila shots like kids, but I think we all grew up a little bit that night.