Last night Pavan and I were listening to old film songs. Somewhere in the middle of getting lost in the melancholy of Kahin door jab din dhal jaaye, I realised something; both of us are growing up. Music has that effect on me – it sort of shakes me up and makes me stare into the reality of life. Sometimes I don’t like what I see and sometimes I do.
Tag Archives: whole milk
I think I’ve declared my unconditional love for French pâtisserie time and again and well, it’s also all over my blog, but I don’t get tired saying it again – I love French pâtisserie! Every cake or pastry has a little story behind it, boulangeries are so culturally significant in France and the French have their respective bakers from whom they’ve been buying bread and pastries for years.
I’ve been thinking about my grandmother a lot these days. Funny thing, this memory – one cue from the past and it all comes back to you so organically, like it happened yesterday. Pavan and I were watching this film Mera Naam Joker the other day on TV and I remembered of all those summery afternoons my grandmother and I spent watching old Tamil and Hindi films after a comforting lunch. She was crazy about movies, my grand mom, and she had an eye for the good ones. She would tell me stories about how she would beg her father for 50 paisa to go watch a matinee show at the erstwhile Gaiety Theatre (Madras) all by herself, how she never went to sleep without listening to Rafi on Vividh Bharti or how she went on several movie dates with my grandfather in Bahrain and the ones that paired Dilip Kumar and Vyjayanthimala were her favourite; she loved their chemistry. If she were magically alive today she’d probably say how films made these days are a terrible scourge to Indian cinema.
I am sitting in front of my laptop and staring at an empty word document, not knowing where to begin; it is one of those times, when my mind is overwhelmed with myriad memories, of beautiful mountains, snow flecked pine trees, glorious food (will get to it in detail soon) and several cups of piping hot ginger tea – it was funny how the steam was so vivid, almost tangible, but the tea was just about tepid as I drank it , pardon my fascination, I was a winter virgin. This was my first escapade to the North of India, at winter that too, so I was excited about snow, woolens, boots, bonfires and um, making little heart doodles on a misty window.