Gujarati In-Flight Cuisine

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I guess I just was not prepared for a journey by train. I mean, gastronomically.
If you’re accustomed to flying and to cabin crew bringing out trays of waxen edibles, you forget that you must take food with you on a train.
It takes about a day, 24 hours, to get from Bangalore to Mumbai on the Udyan Express and there I was with a croissant, a packet of chips and two cans of Diet Coke.
Bangalore sailed by my window and greenery yielded to open fields and naturally, my thoughts drifted to the croissant, on which I would gorge to the envy of my fellow passengers — a substantial Gujarati family — and what’s more, I speak Gujarati fluently.
As it turned out they had the same idea. Someone said “food” in Gujarati and the cousins who debated the dropping of Saurav Ganguly fell respectfully silent.
In seconds newspapers were spread out across the compartment. I raised my legs to allow the Sports section to serve as a placemat for my immediate neighbour.
A huge basket was pulled from under a seat.
Plates emerged from nowhere.
Parathas followed dhokla followed pickle.
I replaced my croissant quietly. I silently twisted in envy and hunger.
“You there!” the matriarch said. I snapped to attention and saluted, “Ma’am.”
“Look at you. Thin and starving.” I preened at this compliment.
“Eat!” she barked.
I ate. I even beat the quarrelling cousins to helpings of thepla and mango pickle.
I ate till I could eat no more. And before the approving matriarch could offer my hand in marriage to a cousin, I fell asleep.
By the time we steamed into VT, I had bested the family at their own dinner and
I ate all their gulab jamun.
And then, I loosened my belt and saved the croissant for the long cab ride home.

Reporter's Diary

City Reporter

Reporter's Diary
My First Week In Bangalore

I am not going back home. It's barely been a week and I already love Bangalore. I didn't expect to.
Growing up in the economic hub of the country, I had always found life outside Mumbai slow. I first experienced the blues of sluggish life in Delhi, where I spent a long winter in a college internship. Things moved at a snail's pace; no hurry to go anywhere, neither any to arrive.
And Bangalore felt no different. It seemed dull; I saw no one rushing about in a hurry. Not even that first day when my train swept into the station, and as a welcome gift, the city thrust upon me its un-co-operative auto drivers. Dragging my bags alongside, one soul felt some pity and offered to help me out - for a little over the double fare!
My mind raced, while my eyes hunted for a landmark to locate my new nest. On my quest for home hunting, the auto rickshaw provided me the sights and sounds of the city. Everything was written in Kannada. Signboards appeared like a computer code, a string of 0s (guess that’s the Silicon Valley effect).
Now, I’m a week-old. And the first question that arises is: What’s with these one way roads? Driving 15 minutes to get across the street! Better than a stinky massage in the train every morning, I suppose.
As my week draws to a close, its dawned on me – Bangalore is far from laid-back. Things move swiftly and quietly, and hence efficiently. There is no jostling and pushing, but no one is working at a snail’s pace either.
They might speak a different tongue here, but unlike Mumbai, the people are not hostile. Witnessing a clueless traveller, some have even offered to walk me till my doorstep.
Each morning the RJ declares cloudy weather and showers. I stroll out of home each day looking expectantly at the sky. As I was getting out of office in the evening today, it began to pour. Leaves glistened. Water streamed down the roofed tiles. There was a sweet smell of moist soil. I stood still for a minute soaking it all in. It was a radically different experience from the mucky puddles and sticky windcheaters of Mumbai.
Acchhoo! I should have heed that advise about not getting caught in a shower. But I think its all worth it.

Marine Drive

Ariel acrobats. The Naval Parade. Mumbai Marathon. The Marine Drive has enchanted Mumbaikars and tourists alike. Proudly flaunted as the Queens Necklace, innumerable people head towards it after a back-breaking day at work to enjoy the steaming sun sizzle off into the depths of the Arabian Sea.

The panoramic view of the Marine Drive has fascinated me as long as I can remember. Awaking each morning, rushing to college was worth every bit for the sheer pleasure of a blissful drive across the Drive. But my fascination ran me into trouble one morning. As I gazed into the depths of the sea and rolling clouds above it, I failed to pay heed to the signal turning amber in time.

Brakes screeched. Rubber burnt. Managed to get a dent on the bumper and a swollen ankle. The driver right ahead of me had found a vent for his morning blues. I received a sound socking from him, though only verbal. Once he paused for a breath, I deftly pointed out that his vehicle hadn't received any blemishes. Speechless, he turned and drove away as I turned once again to soak in the sweet murmur of the rising tide.

Numerous memories have been etched at the Marine Drive. But this one never fails to amuse me.