silly mind, silly stomach

Monthly dread

Little independent globules of fat floating in body, finding each other. Fusing. Bobbing happily towards top-left corner of body.
Flashes of being rushed in horizontal position to George Cloony in green pajamas (or McDreamy in blue). Oh joy. But Red Cross nurse rams metallic shock things into chest (mine), barking panicky orders in mallu-accented Greek to note-taking minions.
White flash.
Suresh Oberoi in white-lab-coat touches my father’s shoulder. Looks down. Takes off rimless spectacles.

So do something about it

A great bright morning. Early. Aunties walk, trying to unhinge their arms from their torsos. Uncles laugh loudly in groups at parks. Girls jog in matching trackpants*, boys lift impressive weights. Ah, the fitness loving world. Beautiful, determined, guilty.
Not today.
We wear our helmets. Breathe in the clean air. Head to Nizamuddin’s little lanes. Crowded even at dawn. A hysterical beggar demands her biscuit breakfast. A muslim family runs en masse towards a shrieking car alarm. (“Damn goats!”)
In the passageway to the dargah are little holes in the wall. Against the still-clearing morning fog, tea brews, paratha sizzles, nihari simmers. Nihari of the thigh meat, and myriad secret masalas. Of the old Delhi Muslim. Nihari, of the fresh, cool morning. With naan, of course.
Oil gliding, only half-touching over the brown broth. A piece of oh-so-tender beef anchors the bunch of ginger slits in the middle of the bowl. A tall glass of sugary tea on the side.
Fat globules are welcome.

*Why do fitness clothes seem like they're only made for already fit people? Wonder if I can ever find a loose pair of trackpants. You think the fitness people know "loose"?

Also please to watch this ambience-full video of The Search for Nihari in Karachi. Courtesy YouTube.

first impressions

So now, Delhi. Incredibly beautiful, sprawling and breezy. But the shade of brown-green in trees here irritates me. Makes me nostalgic for the wet, healthy green of south India. The roads are wide, but honk-ful nonetheless. The house comes with two balconies from which we can feel grateful about the brown-greeness of a well-maintained Welfare Association garden. There are security guards we have to soon ask to not salute us. There are two maids who arrive everyday at 8 a.m. sharp, speaking in an outrageous blend of loud Tamil, Telugu and Hindi. There is a Khanna for water cans, a Jasmeet for garbage bags, and an eager Pandey for anything else we would have to lift a finger for. We want none of them, but they keep offering themselves. Because Dilli mein there’s a ‘ladka’ for everything.

The vegetable buying, fridge filling, dish washing has “settled” written all over it. It was all done before as independents, but now it’s done for two. Which means it invites “All domesticated, eh?” jibes from friends who’re not sure how much anything has changed, if at all. Anyway, the electric wire coils and ready-to-make mixes peeping out of corners and constantly moving furniture, betray unsettlement.

But when the smug IAS officer Mr. Arora from upstairs said, “In north India, no one will understand if you both have different surnames. I’m Mr. Arora, so she (points to beautifully graying, disapproving wife) is automatically Mrs. Arora. It works like that. You have no choice.” Mrs. Arora sipped her chai, “He doesn’t know anything. You both are wonderful children. You don’t want to change anything from before? You absolutely need not.”

We’ve taken Mrs. Arora’s advice very seriously.