On 4 Wheels And A Prayer

I know I signed up for this voluntarily. When I decided to shift jobs, I accepted the fact that my daily travel routine would be, on an average, 1.5 hours one way daily. The company-provided transport being the BMTC dabba-like-contraption that it is limps and crawls its way through Bangalore’s outer ring road, through traffic, the likes of which I have never seen in my 4 years here. The first one week, I ranted and cried so much to the hubby about my commute that he decided to shut me up by buying me a car. And has meekly agreed to teach me city driving. It was either that or hearing the good name of BMTC being mutilated daily. He’s a wise man.

But I have an inherent fear of driving that I doubt I will ever be able to shake off. It doesn’t help that when one drives, the mind recalls images of the day one almost drove one’s parents’ car into a nallah (after backing the car into a wall, then panicking and getting out of it and leaving the hand brake down on an incline, leaving the car rolling to said nallah). It took me a month to gather the courage to put hand to wheel and foot to pedal after that.

But for the sake of the hubby’s sanity and my own well-being, I must forge on. I have great regard for those gifted people who are not as challenged at eye-hand coordination, or such things as judging car-to-bumper spacing, or not-freaking-out-when-rabid-dog -zips-across-the-road. I envy them unfairly talented drivers who juggle effortlessly between choosing their favorite songs on the deck while cooing on the phone and maneuvering their way into the teeniest parking space simultaneously with just a touch of the wheel.

Parking a car takes a particular DNA make-up. Somehow the genes that are responsible for this fine art found their way into my sister through my parents (fine drivers that they all are), but did not so much as touch me with a barge pole. And so, unless the parking lot has enough space to land a plane, I choose to look elsewhere.

Having driven (or having got away with my kind of driving) in Goa for many years now, driving in Bangalore should not be a problem, right? Wrong, so wrong. Where Panjim has never felt the need for a flyover, Bangalore is the flyover capital of the country. Goa witnesses a traffic jam once a year – when the carnival is on, and Bangalore, oh where do I begin? So much for so-called city driving experience.

Anyways, lulled into a false sense of security, with the demons of my past behind me, I signed the papers last week. Now, if only the hubby could get me the 4-wheeler equivalent of bicycle training wheels!

Non-violent TV watching.. is there really such a thing?

If you are married or live with your significant other, then you will understand why the idea of non-violent TV viewing is actually a myth. The day optical fibers and coaxial cables brought with them a plethora of options in TV viewing, the almighty probably decreed that a man and woman can never agree on a single, mutually agreed upon TV show to watch.

This probably remains one of the biggest mysteries of all time, ranking up there with other unresolved enigmas such as what does Lady Gaga really look like underneath all that make-up? or how does Himesh's music really sell? or how does Victoria Beckham become a fashion icon by being anorexic and pouting for the camera? But lets not digress.

My biggest grouse really is when a seemingly intelligent young man who follows CNBC TV 18 like a religion and reads the Economic section of the TOI like the word of God, can also, in the same breath, watch with bated breath as Sly Stallone is beaten to pulp in a boxing ring, in a movie with a standard plot that can be summarized as: "Boxer is challenged by reigning champion of the time. Boxer accepts challenge. Boxer defeats champion in final showdown" repeat 6 times till boxer becomes a drug-abusing aging star. Or when said young man begins flipping channels and stops in awe at one where cars are flying and guns are blasting and there is general bloodshed, or if there is the presence of the timeless acting talents of either Bruce Willis or Nicholas Cage or the afore mentioned Sly.

Now, if you are a male and you haven't already shaken your fist at my blasphemous description, then I admire your constraint and will reward you with the view from the better half's side.

Now the better half is a very accommodating person. And believes in equality of the sexes and all that. But he doesn't fathom why I simply must find out who Rahul Mahajan chose to marry and why. And why, if I hate the show as much as I claim to do, must I still tune in sometimes to watch the vagaries in his wife-picking. Or why I must watch Carrie Bradshaw and her 40+ "girls" run around New York in heels. Or that the reason I watch this show is partly because of said heels (and clothes and bags).

If the above views do not apply to you, then you are probably in the courtship phase of your relationship or you fall in that wise 20% category of happy couples who have decided to avoid bloodshed by buying two TV sets for the home.

Food shows deconstructed (or why Nigella works)

Now who doesn't like a good food show ? (question not directed to audiences consisting of certain better halves who only watch CNBC TV 18 and consider Discovery Travel and Living a waste of time). Food shows have come a long way from the cookery shows of the 90's a-la Sanjeev Kapoor and Tarla Dalal's step by step precise instructions delivered in monotone over cable channels of yore.

Enter, for example Nigella's kitchen. Measuring cups be damned, this is a world of eye-balling ingredients and grabbing fist-fulls of the greenest greens, or the juiciest fruit, all of this enhanced by a camera lens that suitably contrasts food against a bokeh background. In short, your dream kitchen.

There is a subtle reference to Nigella in the book "Julie & Julia" where there is a description of a "chilly blonde kitchen dominatrix" with "soft-core images of the glossy haired author sinking her teeth into a juicy strawberry". Perfectly apt, and probably reason enough for certain male audiences to watch her show. But for certain female audiences with purely food-related proclivities, who after a generation of watching their mothers/neighborhood "aunties" jot down Tarla Dalal's instructions, "food porn" (as described by Anthony Bourdain) comes as a refreshing change.

For Indian audiences with no access to Food Network or other TV channels that we watch in the hope of inspiring the budding chefs within us, shows like Nigella's Kitchen, Rachel Allen's Bake, and the like have more than made up for that latent need. And how could you not root for Nigella when she throws all caution to the wind and douses her chicken with sticks of butter, or when she guilt-lessly gets up in the middle of the night and raids the fridge for a midnight snack? Not really what the doctor ordered, but ohh so so enviable.

Now a special mention of that baap of all travel shows, Highway On My Plate. From roadside dhabas to culinary meccas like Karim's in New Delhi, food is profiled with honesty and enthusiasm. No great camera work here, and no air-brushing. Here are two "healthy" men, not exactly crusaders of good health and low fat, eating their way through idlis in Chennai and biryani in Lucknow, and in the process, managing to give humble street food the respect it rightly deserves. Why count the calories when you can have a deep fried kachori dripping with ghee?

From kitchen goddesses to highway foodies, food and travel shows have come to stay. Say goodbye to Tarla and the gang, and welcome Rocky, Mayur, Nigella and the brigade.

Statutory warning: Food shows are conducive to weight gain. Rocky claims that between Mayur and himself, the two have to have "gained 45 pounds or 20 kilos since we started shooting for Highway on my plate"

Pondicherry revisited

August 7th 2010: The hubby and I packed our bags and headed south-east towards that one place with a blend Tamil culture with French influences set alongside the choppy waters of the Bay of Bengal. The trip was meant to be a celebration of sorts of my current unemployed status, this wonderful period between jobs. Not sure when I would ever get free time like this again, we seized the opportunity with both hands.

The beauty about Pondicherry lies in its serenity and architecture. This does not mean that it has any architectural wonders that warrant whole afternoons of sight-seeing. It just means that this city has the kind of cobbled streets, french windows and wrought iron balconies reminiscent of those small alleys in Fontainhas, in amche Goa. Well, if you have been to European towns, these these should probably remind of of them, but in my case, having never been to said towns, they remind me simply of beautiful Goa.

As we walked around the French Quarters (the area with a predominant French influence, that contains the sea-facing promenade), we passed by a park with wind-chimes up in its trees, the sea breeze gently drawing out tunes from it. The use of wind chines in public areas is something i'v noticed only in Pondicherry. Auroville also had a similar 4 ft. tall wind chime up a tree.

The beach front, called the Promenade (its namesake, the Promenade hotel, owned by the Hidesign group, is also along the sea shore, and charms you with its clean angles and white facade) is something like the Bandstand at Bandra. Rocks line the shore. We came across a charming cafe on the beachfront, and having had our food just a while before, we did not stop to eat, although the scones and granitas being served up looked tempting.

 

The hotel we were put in - De l' Orient is in Rue Rolland street, a 2 minute walk from the beachfront. A heritage hotel, restored and operated by the Neemrana group, comes highly recommended. Now, "heritage hotels" are tricky to trust, and a "charming antique four poster bed" described on the website might have just turned out to be an excuse for moth-eaten old furniture that has been given a coat of varnish. But charming it really was. A spacious courtyard doubles up as the out-door restaurant. Each of the 10 rooms are different and are named after south Indian cities (ours was the Madurai - tariff Rs 3000 inclusive of breakfast) are a pleasant change from rooms that are cardboard cut-outs of each other.



Two reasons why we chose Pondicherry - the laid-back beautiful city and the appeal of fresh seafood. Full marks for the former but the experience of the latter was very disappointing. The idea of having "Creole food" as peddled by 75% of the restaurants/eateries/cafes was unappealing to us since it would take a more refined tongue than us to appreciate food whose second name is blandness itself (apologies to all you French connoisseurs). Now I love a well made croissant like any one else would but give me my prawn recheido over a greek salad any day. Still, Creole food non-withstanding, we did have high hopes for seafood. Our planned dinner at Le-Dupleix (Rue Suffern street) where we had eaten on our last trip, didn't happen due to a sudden rain shower. We ate at the hotel itself. Though the set-up was in itself very good (a live band played Nirvana and Guns and Roses!), the prawns in garlic and pepper and the French Onion soup were a disappointment. A lot of sauces and spices were used to camouflage the fish (which lacked in flavor) in the Orintal fish curry that we ordered.

Our opinion about the food did not change when we had lunch the next day at Rendezvous, a popular roof top restaurant, well known for sea food. The crabmeat was overdosed with turmeric and coconut and served up as Crab pepper fry. The only saving grace was the malabar fish curry (tangy and mildly sweet) and rice.


And now for the one thing that tipped the scales in favor of Pondicherry (at least for me)...shopping baby! The birthplace of Hidesign (they have a Hidesign factory outlet for pete's sake), the epicenter of pottery crafts, junk jewellery, hand-made paper... I should stop now, the drool is practically on my keyboard now.

Its just one of those quirky things I must do, like doing a pad-yathra to Mannat (if you don't know who lives here then you wouldn't care to know anyway) when i'm in Bombay, or like I simply must browse a Hidesign store if i'm in a 50 mt radius even if i'm not buying anything (read as can't afford any more - eyes spot price-tag, swoon, whoosh, thud!).



So that was my Pondicherry for you ... a big thumbs-up for the senses and a big thumbs down for the palate. And oh yes, do not forget the sun-screen.