I am not sure when I first saw a diamond, or when I first felt the magic of that wonderful sparkle, but I know now that the spell was irreversible and is still as strong as ever today. My first diamonds came when I was 21, the traditional gift from parents to child, and I revelled in them, never mind that the earrings were too heavy and hurt my ears and the pendant was unmatchable in its beauty and amazingly innovative in its execution so it could rarely be worn without putting the jewel and its wearer at risk from everything from kidnap and robbery to the evil eye. The pieces stayed locked up in a safety deposit box for many years while I wore tiny studs that could barely be seen but for a glint, as I lived and studied away from home. Some time later, I got myself a second piercing in one ear and have worn a wee black diamond in there to ward off that aforementioned evil eye and keep me safe from harm of various physical and psychic forces. I am not sure that works, but it is an unusual piece and charmingly hidden by the birds nest of my hair.
Soon I started learning - and writing - about diamonds, those shiny stones that can bring so much joy to the owner. I discovered the various qualities that stores sold under the guise of top-notch jewels and laughed as I saw that many of the spectacular gems worn by the social elite were actually not even real! I scoffed cheerfully at the myriad brands of diamond jewellery so easily available at retail outlets and turned up my snob snub nose at the offerings of various kinds on festive occasions - everything from Valentine's Day to Diwali to whatever other reason anyone could have to celebrate by spending a lot of money for something that is barely worth its advertising budget.
But somewhere along the way, I became seriously addicted. I liked diamonds and they liked me. We had a fatal attraction to each other, like opposite poles of a very strong magnet. I found designs I really wanted and made one or two of my diamond dreams come true. But today, when I see new pieces and look at window displays - and yes, I still scoff - I think more practically to myself. What would I do with that, I wonder. Where would I wear it? And I wander off and look at shoes instead, some of them with a diamond or two strategically placed to glitter in just that perfect way....
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Screening process
(More published stuff...)
I recently read that hippo sweat--a deep red, viscous liquid--may be the best sunscreen ever. While I couldn’t possibly find it on store shelves, I did smile to myself when I stood at a beauty counter at the mall recently listening to a young woman’s spiel on SPF, sun-shield and more. I even found myself reading the list of ingredients on a tube of sunblock to see if it contained the miracle stuff, knowing full well that I would only see chemical names and never know where the molecules came from.
But I was only following my dermatologist’s advice. For years, like most brown-skinned Indian women, I never thought about shielding my skin from the sun, until the day I found myself burning while my white girlfriends basted in tanning oil glowed a gentle gold. Sun-sensitive, the dermatologist declared, mandating sunscreen at least, if sunblock (which has SPF 30 and more) was not close at hand. Use it even when you are working at the computer, the monitor is a source of ultraviolet rays that can dangerously harm your skin. Use at least 30 SPF (aka sun protection factor) and reapply it every couple of hours, more often when you are swimming or gymming or otherwise very sweaty. I do remember to follow the advice quite regularly, which explains why my skin has not aged as much as I have.
Which explains why I was shopping for sun protection. My favourite Clinique City Block was not available anywhere and I needed an alternative. I started at Beauty Centre, then trotted around the corner to Beauty Palace, both in Crawford Market. I gazed at the range of Banana Boat products, from SPF 15 to 60, and sniffed happily at the unguents that reminded me of the mixed fruit jams I relished when I was a child, the scents redolent with pineapple, coconut and sweet berries. Safe for children the tubes declared, but sensitive skin does not like strong smells, so I wandered away. The Lakme counter at a department store in Churchgate displayed a range that was packaged in attractive gold-orange containers, and the Lotus Herbals products were touted with as much enthusiasm, as were Vichy (for the very healthy budget), Ayur, Garnier, Shahnaz Herbal, Neutrogena, Fair and Lovely, Himalaya, Biotique, Nivea and VLCC.
Thoroughly confused and fleeing the attentions of all these salespeople at their counters, I headed for a well-known chemist store on Queen’s Road. The chappie in charge offered me Z-cote, a zinc oxide product that would give me the protection that the Australian cricketers used, he told me solemnly, without the odd appearance of the white mask usually seen in zinc or titanium oxide blocks. Or try Lumicare, he said, it is quite good, for sensitive skin. A little research told me that I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and sun exposure and called my friendly neighbourhood representative to get myself Avon, Oriflame or Aviance products. With all this, from the cheapest at about Rs 150, to the most expensive at about Rs 3,000, I could make my dermatologist and my skin very happy.
But I never found anything with hippo sweat in it. The miracle is yet to be made available!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Playing chicken
En route to the grocery store, Father and I stopped off at the new Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant this afternoon. That, in itself, was quite an achievement, since in all our years in various parts of the world we managed to quite successfully avoid the fast food chain for no real reason but that there was always something more interesting to sink our teeth into...literally. But since this was a new outlet, fairly clean and well lit, and it was on our way to where we were headed and it saved us from my cooking for a quick lunch, we walked in, ordered, watched and listened to the chaos behind the counter, sat down, ate, laughed, talked and then went on our way, feeling quite happy with our meal, even though it did not satisfy my usually stringent mandates on fibre and green veggies, low salt and no preservatives. But then a once-in-a-while junk food fest never hurt, did it? It may even make people appreciate my organic healthfood cuisine a little more!
And while we ate, we shared a gentle giggle remembering our first and only time at the same fast food company, albeit a different outlet in a different country in what seems like a different life completely. It was some years ago in Beijing, China, on a trip that started with an international conference that Father was attending in that enigmatic country and ended with sensory exhaustion all around and the feeling that we had lived through a wondrous and unrepeatable time. we had a guide-translator who patiently and dutifully shepherded us through many of the landmarks that so spectacularly lit up the screen in the Last Emperor, and who told us stories about each place he took us to with much drama and heavy breathing through difficult syntax and a couple of misplaced 'r's and 'l's. He was a sweet man who worked very hard to please us. He fed us everything from dimsum of various sorts to the famed Peking duck at the famed Peking Duck Restaurant, converted currency and language for us at the souvenir shops and Friendship stores, woke us up on time for the bus and sent us to bed with full tummies and even fuller minds every evening and did all this and much much more with a huge smile and many often wildly chancy adjectives.
So one afternoon, when he told us he had a great treat planned for lunch, we were game for anything. It would be delicious and exotic, so don't as what's in it, just eat, was the general mood, upbeat and happy and anticipatory. The bus lumbered and blasted its way through the city traffic, dodging bicycles and people with a grace and agility I would never have expected of something so large and ponderous. But then, if you could pick up a stewed duck's foot with laquered chopsticks, you could manouvre anything, we collectively figured. And then the bus came to a slow and screeching halt just outside what seemed to be a strip mall. There were various small eateries along that stretch and I spotted a dumpling stall that belched fragrant wafts of steam and hot oil...but no, that was not it. Our guide got us all off the bus, gathered in a warm and hungry group at the foot of a small stairway. We go there, he pointed.
The big red and white sign was familiar. A couple of Americans in the group laughed. I looked, shut my eyes, looked again. The words on the sign did not have to be read, the image of an old man with a beard and glasses said it all: Kentucky Fried Chicken.
And while we ate, we shared a gentle giggle remembering our first and only time at the same fast food company, albeit a different outlet in a different country in what seems like a different life completely. It was some years ago in Beijing, China, on a trip that started with an international conference that Father was attending in that enigmatic country and ended with sensory exhaustion all around and the feeling that we had lived through a wondrous and unrepeatable time. we had a guide-translator who patiently and dutifully shepherded us through many of the landmarks that so spectacularly lit up the screen in the Last Emperor, and who told us stories about each place he took us to with much drama and heavy breathing through difficult syntax and a couple of misplaced 'r's and 'l's. He was a sweet man who worked very hard to please us. He fed us everything from dimsum of various sorts to the famed Peking duck at the famed Peking Duck Restaurant, converted currency and language for us at the souvenir shops and Friendship stores, woke us up on time for the bus and sent us to bed with full tummies and even fuller minds every evening and did all this and much much more with a huge smile and many often wildly chancy adjectives.
So one afternoon, when he told us he had a great treat planned for lunch, we were game for anything. It would be delicious and exotic, so don't as what's in it, just eat, was the general mood, upbeat and happy and anticipatory. The bus lumbered and blasted its way through the city traffic, dodging bicycles and people with a grace and agility I would never have expected of something so large and ponderous. But then, if you could pick up a stewed duck's foot with laquered chopsticks, you could manouvre anything, we collectively figured. And then the bus came to a slow and screeching halt just outside what seemed to be a strip mall. There were various small eateries along that stretch and I spotted a dumpling stall that belched fragrant wafts of steam and hot oil...but no, that was not it. Our guide got us all off the bus, gathered in a warm and hungry group at the foot of a small stairway. We go there, he pointed.
The big red and white sign was familiar. A couple of Americans in the group laughed. I looked, shut my eyes, looked again. The words on the sign did not have to be read, the image of an old man with a beard and glasses said it all: Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Jai ho!
Yeah, well, it had to come some day, even though I was consciously avoiding the use of anything to do with Slumdog Millionaire and the Oscars, just to be my own sweetly contrary self. But there came a moment last night that I really felt it had to be said, and this is about that moment.
What happened? I was watching the news and the launch of the new Nano, Ratan Tata's dream which finally came true - transport for the vast population of this country that does not look to buying a car with a multi-lakh price tag. Somewhere along the way, as the little vehicles edged their way on to that large stage, their headlights and fog lamps shining through the cloud and flash-glare of the media cameras, I felt like cheering, even as I felt a strange lump in the back of my throat. It was an ambition a man who will probably never drive the car in practical reality had for the people of the country he calls home and after more trials, tribulations and traumas that any one project deserves, it all came to that one point of fruition when, in a blaze of glitz and glamour, the cars were introduced to the public. Most had seen them before, when the prototype was shown off some months ago, but this was special. It is time now for people to actually start buying...or at least to plonk down some money, a tiny amount when compared to the huge sums needed to buy any of the fancy imports now so freely available. A dream is great stuff, but when it comes to the stage when other people can share it, can touch it, can take it home and coo over it, then it makes sense, it becomes more real.
I think the most moving part of the whole event for me was the fact that after all the problems that have dogged the project, and with the global economy being what it is, and the fact that the Tata group is perhaps the most respected industrial conglomerate in India today, all added to the general positive image of the man himself, Ratan Tata, that cute little car has a big smile on its face. Like the Beetle, the hood curves in a happy arc, the headlamps almost giggle with a pleased satisfaction and the overall roundness and smallness of the whole caboodle appeals to the little bit in all of us that approves of 'cute' even as we deny it. Somewhere along the way, it also feels good that a man who was hit so hard during the development of the project by politics, and very dirty politics at that, the same man whose iconic hotel was devastated by terrorists last year...that man found a new kind of success in a place where he will be, for millions who can now afford to drive, a hero.
I have made many jokes about the Nano, including how I can get a whole stable of the little cars to match all my fashion statements. Of course, the performance of the vehicle needs to be judged over time and what it actually does to the already mad traffic of the city in particular and the country as a whole remains to be seen. But for now, for Tata Motors, for Ratan Tata and his team, for the Nano, that tiny heart-stealer with a big smile, AR Rahman and co said it wonderfully: Jai ho!
What happened? I was watching the news and the launch of the new Nano, Ratan Tata's dream which finally came true - transport for the vast population of this country that does not look to buying a car with a multi-lakh price tag. Somewhere along the way, as the little vehicles edged their way on to that large stage, their headlights and fog lamps shining through the cloud and flash-glare of the media cameras, I felt like cheering, even as I felt a strange lump in the back of my throat. It was an ambition a man who will probably never drive the car in practical reality had for the people of the country he calls home and after more trials, tribulations and traumas that any one project deserves, it all came to that one point of fruition when, in a blaze of glitz and glamour, the cars were introduced to the public. Most had seen them before, when the prototype was shown off some months ago, but this was special. It is time now for people to actually start buying...or at least to plonk down some money, a tiny amount when compared to the huge sums needed to buy any of the fancy imports now so freely available. A dream is great stuff, but when it comes to the stage when other people can share it, can touch it, can take it home and coo over it, then it makes sense, it becomes more real.
I think the most moving part of the whole event for me was the fact that after all the problems that have dogged the project, and with the global economy being what it is, and the fact that the Tata group is perhaps the most respected industrial conglomerate in India today, all added to the general positive image of the man himself, Ratan Tata, that cute little car has a big smile on its face. Like the Beetle, the hood curves in a happy arc, the headlamps almost giggle with a pleased satisfaction and the overall roundness and smallness of the whole caboodle appeals to the little bit in all of us that approves of 'cute' even as we deny it. Somewhere along the way, it also feels good that a man who was hit so hard during the development of the project by politics, and very dirty politics at that, the same man whose iconic hotel was devastated by terrorists last year...that man found a new kind of success in a place where he will be, for millions who can now afford to drive, a hero.
I have made many jokes about the Nano, including how I can get a whole stable of the little cars to match all my fashion statements. Of course, the performance of the vehicle needs to be judged over time and what it actually does to the already mad traffic of the city in particular and the country as a whole remains to be seen. But for now, for Tata Motors, for Ratan Tata and his team, for the Nano, that tiny heart-stealer with a big smile, AR Rahman and co said it wonderfully: Jai ho!
Monday, March 16, 2009
Money money money, don’t be funny, honey!
(more...)
So it’s a bad time all over the world, for almost everyone, from the zillionaires who have slid down the rich-list to more ordinary folk who have chosen not to be rats in the everyday race to nab that necessary paycheck each month. Prices are down, inflation is down, the headlines say cheerfully one day, and the next they are talking about how many people have been axed from which company that is closing down operations in which country. India is no different, though there is a small degree of insulation against the very hard knocks and the government is in high gear making life easier in exchange for precious votes. Along the way, belts have been tightened, budgets have been cut and spending has slowed, to a great extent, on a very personal, individual level. That is not to say, of course, that people are not indulging themselves, crawling the malls, occasionally picking up bits and pieces that they don’t really need and burning plastic like they always did – only for now it is not as frequent as before. Saving for a rainy day seems to be the mantra, and with the rain just a couple of months away, and the global economy with a big black cloud hanging over it, all the extravagance feels like it was once a very distant dream.
But it’s not all gloom and doom, financially speaking. Women have always been good at adjusting to life and its circumstances. It’s called the ‘Lipstick effect’, according to an article in the Wall Street Journal, and has been seen every time there is an economic downturn, be it during the Great Depression in the United States from October 1929, after the catastrophe of 9/11 when grief and war clouds darkened the economy, or more recently in the current crisis. Since buying new wardrobes, new diamonds or new homes would be frowned upon by the financial pundits, women look for comfort in far smaller and inexpensive trifles, especially lipstick: red, for this time around, according to sales records. And trolling the city’s department stores or even just looking through the advertisements in glossy magazines available today, that seems to be a major must-spend right now, with special offers and sales galore.
Apart from the obvious pick-me-up that only a scarlet mouth can provide, women have other ways to fight the recession blues and make their fashion statements with their usual degree of élan, manage the home-work-self balance and still present a face that the world approves of and they themselves like to see in the mirror.
HOME: Maybe the glossies show you how to make over your home for a million dollars. It’s a bad time for money, remember? There is no million dollars to play with right now. Be practical: use flowers to brighten up corners, old dupattas work great as new cushion covers and children’s artwork is far more exclusive and appealing than that Husain or Kallat you covet.
WORK: Unless you are really exhausted and demotivated, your brain will always be ticking over. Find new ways to make old work fun, interesting, even impressive, by changing the way you approach an interview, the presentation you make for that dull toilet cleaner campaign, the pitch you use to sweet talk that new spending client into signing the contract, that loop you fit into the program you are working on to project the next quarter’s budget.
SELF: The best way to reinvent yourself is to exercise. The exertion released lots of good chemicals - including pain-killing endorphins to fight the fallout from that extra crunch you did – that bring the zing back, increasing the feel-good-ness of your day. And if it gets you into great shape, which will bring in the compliments, that beats the blues any which way! Apart from which, you feel terribly self-righteous, stop binging on that chocolate on which you spend too much money and put you back into those clothes that you had grown out of three seasons ago.
CLOTHES: The good thing about fashion is that it comes in cycles. Today you see saris with fancy designer tags on them that look amazingly like the stuff you inherited from your mother, who got them from her mother. If time has made the edges tattier than you would be comfortable with, a little cut-sew job will produce the perfect design effect, with an ingenuous combination of pattern, texture, fabric, ornamentation and weight. And vintage is always in, you know! Of course, you could also opt for the age-old paavadai-daavani (half-sari, chanya-choli, whatever) effect that is edging itself into centre-ramp these days. And if the saris don’t work for you any more, whatever you do to them, they will always make great curtains.
JEWELLERY: Vintage rules. If you feel that everyone has seen what you have many times over, do a little clever juggling and use that pendant as a brooch, stick that jhumka into your chignon, wind those pearls around your ankle, wiggle those rings over your toes.
MONEY: You may be careful with money right now, but while you save, how about checking out that new Tata FD interest rate? Get in touch with a reputed broker and find out what to invest in, reorganize your stock portfolio and figure out the intricacies of operating a demat account. Get smart with your finances.
In all this, there are so many options you can select to shrug off the blues. Adopt a kitten and giggle happily as you watch it grow up. Buy processed cheese instead of your usual gourmet fare and spend many good moments being nasty about its amazingly plastic texture and flavour. Pull out those ridiculous spike heels you bought on impulse and never wore and strut about the house in them. Do what you fondly imagine to be a belly dance. Plan what you will do with slush-money when the recession fades into better times and your increment actually materializes.
And slather on the red lipstick – it works best of all.
So it’s a bad time all over the world, for almost everyone, from the zillionaires who have slid down the rich-list to more ordinary folk who have chosen not to be rats in the everyday race to nab that necessary paycheck each month. Prices are down, inflation is down, the headlines say cheerfully one day, and the next they are talking about how many people have been axed from which company that is closing down operations in which country. India is no different, though there is a small degree of insulation against the very hard knocks and the government is in high gear making life easier in exchange for precious votes. Along the way, belts have been tightened, budgets have been cut and spending has slowed, to a great extent, on a very personal, individual level. That is not to say, of course, that people are not indulging themselves, crawling the malls, occasionally picking up bits and pieces that they don’t really need and burning plastic like they always did – only for now it is not as frequent as before. Saving for a rainy day seems to be the mantra, and with the rain just a couple of months away, and the global economy with a big black cloud hanging over it, all the extravagance feels like it was once a very distant dream.
But it’s not all gloom and doom, financially speaking. Women have always been good at adjusting to life and its circumstances. It’s called the ‘Lipstick effect’, according to an article in the Wall Street Journal, and has been seen every time there is an economic downturn, be it during the Great Depression in the United States from October 1929, after the catastrophe of 9/11 when grief and war clouds darkened the economy, or more recently in the current crisis. Since buying new wardrobes, new diamonds or new homes would be frowned upon by the financial pundits, women look for comfort in far smaller and inexpensive trifles, especially lipstick: red, for this time around, according to sales records. And trolling the city’s department stores or even just looking through the advertisements in glossy magazines available today, that seems to be a major must-spend right now, with special offers and sales galore.
Apart from the obvious pick-me-up that only a scarlet mouth can provide, women have other ways to fight the recession blues and make their fashion statements with their usual degree of élan, manage the home-work-self balance and still present a face that the world approves of and they themselves like to see in the mirror.
HOME: Maybe the glossies show you how to make over your home for a million dollars. It’s a bad time for money, remember? There is no million dollars to play with right now. Be practical: use flowers to brighten up corners, old dupattas work great as new cushion covers and children’s artwork is far more exclusive and appealing than that Husain or Kallat you covet.
WORK: Unless you are really exhausted and demotivated, your brain will always be ticking over. Find new ways to make old work fun, interesting, even impressive, by changing the way you approach an interview, the presentation you make for that dull toilet cleaner campaign, the pitch you use to sweet talk that new spending client into signing the contract, that loop you fit into the program you are working on to project the next quarter’s budget.
SELF: The best way to reinvent yourself is to exercise. The exertion released lots of good chemicals - including pain-killing endorphins to fight the fallout from that extra crunch you did – that bring the zing back, increasing the feel-good-ness of your day. And if it gets you into great shape, which will bring in the compliments, that beats the blues any which way! Apart from which, you feel terribly self-righteous, stop binging on that chocolate on which you spend too much money and put you back into those clothes that you had grown out of three seasons ago.
CLOTHES: The good thing about fashion is that it comes in cycles. Today you see saris with fancy designer tags on them that look amazingly like the stuff you inherited from your mother, who got them from her mother. If time has made the edges tattier than you would be comfortable with, a little cut-sew job will produce the perfect design effect, with an ingenuous combination of pattern, texture, fabric, ornamentation and weight. And vintage is always in, you know! Of course, you could also opt for the age-old paavadai-daavani (half-sari, chanya-choli, whatever) effect that is edging itself into centre-ramp these days. And if the saris don’t work for you any more, whatever you do to them, they will always make great curtains.
JEWELLERY: Vintage rules. If you feel that everyone has seen what you have many times over, do a little clever juggling and use that pendant as a brooch, stick that jhumka into your chignon, wind those pearls around your ankle, wiggle those rings over your toes.
MONEY: You may be careful with money right now, but while you save, how about checking out that new Tata FD interest rate? Get in touch with a reputed broker and find out what to invest in, reorganize your stock portfolio and figure out the intricacies of operating a demat account. Get smart with your finances.
In all this, there are so many options you can select to shrug off the blues. Adopt a kitten and giggle happily as you watch it grow up. Buy processed cheese instead of your usual gourmet fare and spend many good moments being nasty about its amazingly plastic texture and flavour. Pull out those ridiculous spike heels you bought on impulse and never wore and strut about the house in them. Do what you fondly imagine to be a belly dance. Plan what you will do with slush-money when the recession fades into better times and your increment actually materializes.
And slather on the red lipstick – it works best of all.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Sweet sensation
(More published work...)
It’s come at last. Medical specialists have finally agreed that chocolate is indeed a good thing. Women have known this for almost ever, since chocolate has helped them get through so many crises, from PMS to Bad Boss Days to break-ups to singed soufflés to jeans that don’t button up to hair that will not behave. And sometimes, to deal with situations of this kind, as a woman, I know you need to have a bite or four of something rather more special than the chocolate you can buy at any common garden grocery shop. Custom-made, special order, for that one moment that makes sense…chocolate has wandered off the shelf and into kitchens that belong to people who do not manufacture it on a huge commercial scale, but carefully hand-make it to suit specific tastes, for specific occasions. There are many who do this, with a few more added to the list every year, some who make it all a completely family operation, others who have professional helpers. And as tastes evolve, so do methods, packaging and sales techniques.
Thereza Gomes is someone who is always looking for adventure. So for her, making chocolate became a new kind of adventure, one that is fairly happy and, so far, profitable. The story started when a friend showed her how to make chocolate. Gomes tried it, and “It turned out okay. And I am always happy to be creative, especially since chocolate is a passion with me!” So she experiments, like every natural chef, adding a little here, a little there and finding the results to be not just delicious, but a hit with her test-tasters too. She is not a professional chocolate maker, in that the word about her culinary creativity is spread through friends, on the train into town every day as she commutes to work, at church, wherever she meets people who like eating. “I don’t advertise or push it too much, since I work fulltime and I can only do this when I have spare time,” says Gomes, “but I am willing to make it on a larger scale if I get really big orders.” Her sweets range from about Rs750 (plain chocolate) to about Rs1050 (with nuts), “but it depends on the prices of the ingredients today,” she explains.
Psychologist Alzeyne Dehnugara was once in a fairly high-pressure work situation. Today, her training takes a back seat as her passion takes over her life, becoming an all-consuming fervour: making chocolate. The magic ingredient is instinct, which directs her to play with flavour and proportion. Dehnugara started her chocolate making as an experiment, after a friend gave her simple instructions. “I am an absolute foodie,” she says, “and I tried various fillings and kinds of chocolate. My family and friends gave me very positive feedback and I started selling.” The orders have been coming in fairly easily and quickly, with corporate offers following a friend’s wedding. In fact, she spoke as she travelled back to Mumbai from Gujarat, focused on making chocolates for a Holi kit for a company. She prices her delicacies at about Rs500 for plain fudge to Rs550 plus for assorted nut chocolate to about Rs560 for the intriguing chocolate crumble.
Seema Abbott, whose family owns the Abbott Hotel in Vashi, has been making sweet treats for about nine years now. “It started as a hobby, time pass, with friends and relatives being my customers.” Today, she is registered on the Times Food Guide and takes corporate orders, apart from working on sweet treats for the hotel. “It took me about a year to develop a client list; profits were practically nil until then,” she recalls. Trained at the Catering College in Dadar, Abbott always liked “playing around with desserts. I polished up my skills with a course with a professional chef and paid more attention to presentation and, of course, quality control – after all, if it is appealing to the eye, people will want to eat it,” she knows. She has professional help, working out of the second flat she owns, which has been converted to a bakery-confectionary unit. She makes chocolates, fudge, brownies, cakes, biscuits and more, with prices starting at about Rs400, with a minimum order of 750 grams.
Bandra-based Marzia Ramzanali also works out of her home, with professional help. And her repertoire is as varied, ranging from plain chocolate (Rs500 per kilo) through chocolates with butterscotch and nougat (Rs600) to dry fruits (Rs700) and liquor fillings. She also caters to children, with chocolate alphabets (Rs5 apiece), cartoon characters (Rs10), biscuits (Rs15), lollipops and more. “In 1999 I took a course in the subject and what I made impressed my family with its taste and presentation,” she reports. It may have begun as a hobby, but today her client list is indeed impressive, her resume including treats for the wedding of Bollywood actor Aamir Khan and Kiran Rao, and for Helen Khan, apart from corporate and special orders and exclusive gifts. “It has come with word of mouth and my website,” Ramzanali says, “and I am quite happy working from home.” She would like to start a store, but outlets in the area where she lives are not doing roaring business, rents are prohibitive and her way of functioning works well for the newly married chocolatier.
Packaging and presentation is as much part of the desserts business as the sweets themselves. Abbott, like the others, looks for wrapping paraphernalia herself, since only she can spot that special foil or that perfect bow that she wants for a gift order. Ramzanali says that while friends and relatives do tell her when they see something interesting, she has to choose the wrapping for herself. Vashi-based Gomes gets her supplies from the city, with a little help from her “wrapping machine called Leo Gomes (her husband),” who also doubles as dish washer and general helper. But, for all these chocolatiers with a passion for the craft, like all their customers who have an equal passion for the sweet brown stuff they create, as Gomes says, “chocolate is chocolate, the ultimate food!”
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Woman hood
I was at the mall with Father yesterday in the afternoon and was stopped at regular intervals by eager and beaming young people asking me to fill in forms for a Women’s Day raffle of sorts. I never did find out what I could win, partly because I had not bought anything yet and so had no bills to use to enter the draw, but also because since I never ever win anything, I was not especially interested in finding out what I could possibly win if I entered. But somewhere along the way, the age-old truism made its presence felt in my mind once again: Why does there have to be a special day to celebrate being a woman? Isn’t being a woman enough celebration?
But then again, perhaps not. Almost every day I see instances of how being a woman makes you, somehow, for reasons I never understood, less able, less deserving, less everything. In this country, at least, the great and glorious nation that is Hamara Bharat Mahan. Many many many generations ago, womanhood was exalted, given a status that was equal to or higher than that of men. This was in a more enlightened time, when the Vedas were the tenet by which life was lived. There is apparently evidence to show that in ancient times being a woman meant that you were in a way a more evolved, more aware, more privileged form of life. And then things went to hell and woman was reviled, cast to a position far lower than her male counterpart. Today, surprisingly, even the most educated and liberal man will, at some level, see women as being a little less equal, a little less capable, a little less worthy. I see a lot of it, I get some of it and I don’t like any of it.
Some years ago, I opened an account in the bank near where I live. When I filled in the forms – something I have always hated doing, since I tend to hit a glorious blank when asked deep and searching questions like ‘Do you have an account with this bank?’ or ‘What is your income tax folio number?’ – I had to write in my father’s name. Without that, I could not start banking with that institution, I was told by a greasily smiling manager when I asked why they needed that information. At which point I threw a bit of a tantrum, which could be why the bank manager still peeks warily and sideways at me whenever I go in there. I was a legal adult, I had my own source of income, the account would be in my name, so why did they need to know who my father was? Why didn’t they ever ask who my mother was, or something less gender-biased like that? I have no idea why I was so annoyed, since I am usually far more accepting and understanding of my own country and its modern culture, but I was. Be all that as it may, the account was opened, albeit with a little intervention from the aforementioned male parent, who came in and soothed every ruffled feather and fluff in the building, or so it seemed.
Today, when someone looks at me leeringly and implies that because I am a woman, and a fairly pulchritudinous one at that – though what looks have to do with anything, I do not know – I cannot possible do what a man can, I smile tolerantly and go ahead and do exactly what I want to. After much trial and error, anger and some unwanted unwonted stress, I know what I am capable of and firmly believe that those who see me as a somehow lower form of life are just plain ignorant. And I show more teeth and defeat them at their own game.
Which is the best course of action, don’t you think?
But then again, perhaps not. Almost every day I see instances of how being a woman makes you, somehow, for reasons I never understood, less able, less deserving, less everything. In this country, at least, the great and glorious nation that is Hamara Bharat Mahan. Many many many generations ago, womanhood was exalted, given a status that was equal to or higher than that of men. This was in a more enlightened time, when the Vedas were the tenet by which life was lived. There is apparently evidence to show that in ancient times being a woman meant that you were in a way a more evolved, more aware, more privileged form of life. And then things went to hell and woman was reviled, cast to a position far lower than her male counterpart. Today, surprisingly, even the most educated and liberal man will, at some level, see women as being a little less equal, a little less capable, a little less worthy. I see a lot of it, I get some of it and I don’t like any of it.
Some years ago, I opened an account in the bank near where I live. When I filled in the forms – something I have always hated doing, since I tend to hit a glorious blank when asked deep and searching questions like ‘Do you have an account with this bank?’ or ‘What is your income tax folio number?’ – I had to write in my father’s name. Without that, I could not start banking with that institution, I was told by a greasily smiling manager when I asked why they needed that information. At which point I threw a bit of a tantrum, which could be why the bank manager still peeks warily and sideways at me whenever I go in there. I was a legal adult, I had my own source of income, the account would be in my name, so why did they need to know who my father was? Why didn’t they ever ask who my mother was, or something less gender-biased like that? I have no idea why I was so annoyed, since I am usually far more accepting and understanding of my own country and its modern culture, but I was. Be all that as it may, the account was opened, albeit with a little intervention from the aforementioned male parent, who came in and soothed every ruffled feather and fluff in the building, or so it seemed.
Today, when someone looks at me leeringly and implies that because I am a woman, and a fairly pulchritudinous one at that – though what looks have to do with anything, I do not know – I cannot possible do what a man can, I smile tolerantly and go ahead and do exactly what I want to. After much trial and error, anger and some unwanted unwonted stress, I know what I am capable of and firmly believe that those who see me as a somehow lower form of life are just plain ignorant. And I show more teeth and defeat them at their own game.
Which is the best course of action, don’t you think?
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Across the line
First off, what happened yesterday was horrific. I am talking about the attack on the Sri Lankan cricket team in Lahore as they drove to the stadium. Some of them were injured, though not seriously, while a number of Pakistani policemen who were part of the team's security detail were killed. At this point, there is a lot of finger-pointing going on and many of my own countrymen, Indians, are doing the told-you-so thing, once again labelling the people of Pakistan, collectively and otherwise, as the villains of this - and every other - piece. I do not agree with that; after all, one bad apple does not mean that the whole orchard was rotten, but who is going to stop and think hard enough to see how true that is, at this time? Everyone just needs a scapegoat and our neighbours across the way just happen to be it...for now. No one has stopped to think that so many of the "baddies" were killed, innocent guards doing their job. And I have another question: Why the Sri Lankans? I thought the Indians and the Americans were the prime targets for the nasty Pakistanis, all of whom carry machine guns in their hands and hatred in their eyes, especially for us, the nice, loving, caring, sharing folk who live in a world on the other side of a thin line.
What a crock of you-know-what! Baddies are baddies, of any shape, colour, size, nationality, religion or any other distinction. If you are going to kill, if you are a killer, you will destroy lives and spread darkness. If you are trained to do so, you will, because it has become your job and, with prolonged indoctrination, your way of living. If you are on the wrong side, which a lot of people unfortunately are, you will be coloured with the same bucket of paint, just because you happen to be standing in the same general area when it splashed. Mud sticks. And in this case, the mud just happens to be in the form of a group of people who have adopted a twisted ideology and who are, by chance or circumstance, part of a nation that has plenty to be proud of, in spite of its small faction that believe in guns, fanaticism and blood-lust.
Of course, with all this, the media finally has something to sink its teeth into. I was once part of that small community that thrives on readership (or viewership) and I now watch it with a certain interest. Journalists have a rather distressing tendency to take a fact and weave myths around it, making it out to be a great deal more than it is actually worth, be it the villainly of a whole country because of the deeds of a few, or the fact that a popular actress had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction under the full glare of the flashbulbs. It all makes for rising TRPs and eyeballs, the more attention that a story attracts, the better, being the ethos. Along the way, no one has spoken of why the Sri Lankans, of all people, were attacked, how a prolonged video grab of the attacks could have been done - a time period that could have brought the security forces out to nab the bad guys, perhaps? - and how so many men could have come together, with so much weaponry, to attack one small target with no one having any clue about its happening.
So many issues to think about. And one more: Is Pakistan always and inevitably the villain of any piece of this kind? Or is there someone else responsible? Who? And why?
What a crock of you-know-what! Baddies are baddies, of any shape, colour, size, nationality, religion or any other distinction. If you are going to kill, if you are a killer, you will destroy lives and spread darkness. If you are trained to do so, you will, because it has become your job and, with prolonged indoctrination, your way of living. If you are on the wrong side, which a lot of people unfortunately are, you will be coloured with the same bucket of paint, just because you happen to be standing in the same general area when it splashed. Mud sticks. And in this case, the mud just happens to be in the form of a group of people who have adopted a twisted ideology and who are, by chance or circumstance, part of a nation that has plenty to be proud of, in spite of its small faction that believe in guns, fanaticism and blood-lust.
Of course, with all this, the media finally has something to sink its teeth into. I was once part of that small community that thrives on readership (or viewership) and I now watch it with a certain interest. Journalists have a rather distressing tendency to take a fact and weave myths around it, making it out to be a great deal more than it is actually worth, be it the villainly of a whole country because of the deeds of a few, or the fact that a popular actress had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction under the full glare of the flashbulbs. It all makes for rising TRPs and eyeballs, the more attention that a story attracts, the better, being the ethos. Along the way, no one has spoken of why the Sri Lankans, of all people, were attacked, how a prolonged video grab of the attacks could have been done - a time period that could have brought the security forces out to nab the bad guys, perhaps? - and how so many men could have come together, with so much weaponry, to attack one small target with no one having any clue about its happening.
So many issues to think about. And one more: Is Pakistan always and inevitably the villain of any piece of this kind? Or is there someone else responsible? Who? And why?
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Always a woman
A very long time ago, a friend of mine sang the Billy Joel classic She's always a woman to me for me. It said everything I always believed a woman was all about, from her sense of humour to her tantrums, her whimsies and her madness. And somewhere along the way, I saw a lot of it in me, taken with a rather oversized pinch of salt, of course, since it was, after all, just a song.
Today, at the gym, I saw those same qualities in a lot of women who were sweating their way through exercise routines. They were of various sizes and shapes, in form and out of it, happy about themselves and obviously not. But they all seemed to know - as all women instinctively do - that they had a special power. They were strong and resilient and determined, some of the best qualities in any human being. And, considering the way so many men in this country treat women, it seems that these same qualities are so necessary for survival of any woman today.
A friend of mine, a woman of my mother's generation, always told me to use my femininity as an additional qualification to get whatever I needed to do, done. Another friend, a little younger, once told me that it was a matter of pride to be a 'babe', however pejorative it may sound when used by the average male human. And I find that there is a way in which a feminine voice, a smile, a sweep of a set of nicely mascaraed eyelashes, gets the job done faster, better and easier than if I was a macho type who marched in and demanded whatever it is.
Is that some strange form of sexism, chauvinism, selling of the self, all that is nasty and negative about using your gender to smooth the path? Not at all. Not in my mind, at least. After all, today it is all about war and occasionally about love, especially in a professional situation. And, as they say, all's fair...isn't it?
Today, at the gym, I saw those same qualities in a lot of women who were sweating their way through exercise routines. They were of various sizes and shapes, in form and out of it, happy about themselves and obviously not. But they all seemed to know - as all women instinctively do - that they had a special power. They were strong and resilient and determined, some of the best qualities in any human being. And, considering the way so many men in this country treat women, it seems that these same qualities are so necessary for survival of any woman today.
A friend of mine, a woman of my mother's generation, always told me to use my femininity as an additional qualification to get whatever I needed to do, done. Another friend, a little younger, once told me that it was a matter of pride to be a 'babe', however pejorative it may sound when used by the average male human. And I find that there is a way in which a feminine voice, a smile, a sweep of a set of nicely mascaraed eyelashes, gets the job done faster, better and easier than if I was a macho type who marched in and demanded whatever it is.
Is that some strange form of sexism, chauvinism, selling of the self, all that is nasty and negative about using your gender to smooth the path? Not at all. Not in my mind, at least. After all, today it is all about war and occasionally about love, especially in a professional situation. And, as they say, all's fair...isn't it?
Monday, March 02, 2009
Thinking into the box
(Again, this becomes a record of published work!)
It’s that time of year when advice floods the headlines. Parents are told how to treat children who have been made fragile by an overload of schoolwork, studying and pre-examination pressures. Children are told how to behave when parents push them, when they need to finish revision of impossibly sized coursework portions, when they don’t think they have done enough to top a class or a college or even a state list. And everyone has ideas on what to eat, what to avoid, what to moderate and what to focus on.
Along the way, food becomes all important. Nutritionists and dieticians have all sorts of suggestions: high protein, low fat, low-carbs, no carbs, extra carbs…a kitchen manager’s nightmare. But once the food is put together and ready to be packed, a strange problem arises. With the plethora of plastics available today and the sturdy and die-hard metals that were so ubiquitous in naani’s time, what does the modern mother – or father, since the nicely-trained-in-housework daddy is the man to watch these days – use to stash her baby’s carefully balanced meal in? Aluminum foil is handy, but expensive; plastic wrap is not easy to handle when you are in a hurry; neither is eco-friendly. The old favourite tiffin dabba is passé, its multi-tiered compactness generally limited to lunches delivered by the dabbawalla or seen in more modern avatars as individual containers within an insulated box. But those are more adult-use food-ware, carried primarily by the busy executive commuting by train, or by a driver taking the boss lunch to the office.
Today plastic reigns. It is easy to use, convenient to wash, comes in bright colours and interesting shapes appealing to any child and is light and inexpensive, no devastating loss if it is lost at school, left on the bus or broken during a session of breaktime roughhousing. In fact, plastic boxes for children’s snacks or mini-meals come in all sorts of forms, from the dabbas available on the street in Crawford Market (about Rs25-150 for a set) to more fancy versions in Gala Stores in Breach Candy, Hypercity in the Inorbit Mall, Asiatic Stores in Churchgate, Akbarally’s and elsewhere, with prices going up to about Rs650 for all the bells and whistles, higher for a foreign make). Brands include Pearlpet, Cello, Ajanta, Lunchmate and others. The American import Tupperware is considerably more expensive, available only from the friendly neighbourhood sales representative, with a tag of about Rs745 for the executive lunch box set which comes in a smart insulated bag to Rs255 for a single internally divided box.
All delicious ways to store a healthy lunch that will surely add to a child’s energy and enthusiasm during a stressful time.
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