Me and Me!

There is something magical and ethereal about the river. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved going to the riverside. Especially the ganges, in kolkata. Other rivers which flow past alien cities do not hold the same charm and the same nonchalance which the ganges does. It is frothy and exuberant, cheekily lapping against the banks, with gay abandon, answering their stolidity with quicksilver charm. And yet possessing unfathomable depth and a serene stillness, a grace and a certain reserve, a quiet shyness in the way it calmly flows on in tandem with time. Standing on the bank, staring, we are mere spectators. Sailing on a boat, with a canopy of twinkling diamonds overhead, we can feel the blueness of the water slip through our fingers, but not hold it for long. The fisherman on the nauka can only gauge its exuberant surface, and the fish which lie on its bottom, only its depth. It is , for me, a hazy dream. Elusive in its entirety, the river, is dreamt by both the fisherman and the fish, but realized only by the sea, its ultimate destination. I went to the riverside with my friends the other day as someone, I think it was Anarkali, had wanted to go to Scoop, the icecream parlour, which stands on the banks. We saw and walked past couples, children, old people, hawkers, balloon-sellers, and boatmen, for hours, talking , till the moon peeped out from a tuft of clouds, and R-fish, a friend of mine, said that it reminded her of a song (I forget which) from a Bengali classic. The river, and the moon seen through the veil of a tree’s dark branches, she said. I said it reminded me of Vikram Seth. And someone else suddenly started talking about Milind Soman, I don’t really know why. The river has different effects on different people, I guess; bringing up impressions and memories of times past . We soon left for home after that.

Talking of home, I have painted my room in shades of yellow and I think my brother is going to have a fit when he sees it. Somehow he’s got the idea that yellow equals fluorescent. Considering that my cousin, D, had suggested writing graphiti on one whole wall, and my friend R-fish suggested painting it ‘like a picture of , say, the African serengeti’ , I think that I took the wise path. Yellow looks good. I like yellow.

In other news, I have also turned out to be a surprisingly good cook and revised the phrase ‘necessity is the mother of invention’ to ‘necessity is the key to cultivating culinary skills.’ I should actually thank my mother’s genes for this, because she is the best-est cook in the whole wide world. Relatives and friends from near and far ring her up to beg her into revealing her secret recipes. Which ranges from succulent roast chicken in a smooth spicy gravy to milky-white creamy firni, which melts in your mouth. My father, on the other hand, will not be able to boil an egg, even if you put a gun to his head. He is most likely to say ‘Ofcourse I can do it!’ and then shout twice; once for someone to go get him an egg, and the next time to find someone who can drop it in a pot of water. He is the original Uncle Podger. His Uncle Podgeriness has however not stopped him from becoming a very strict judge when it comes to food and he ranges from ‘I don’t think I’ll have lunch today’ (which is zero) to ‘not bad’ (which is ten) on a scale of 0-10. I have been consistently getting a nonchalant ‘it’s ok’ which is like 9 out of 10 , everyday for the past two months. Enough to establish my credentials as the true janasheen, of the culinary department of the Azim khandaan. So, till another river trip or till I cook up something more interesting than this, ciao.