Career choices

What do you want to be when you grow up? I still don’t know, even though I state very firmly to all those who doubt that I am all grown up now, thank you. Like every normal human being, at every stage of my life I have had different ambitions, each aiming at one focal point: to do what is fun.

For me, at six, fun was all about life around me. I made my share of mud pies, ate ants (or tried to before my horrified mother came to their rescue), fell out of trees, fought with my little friends and played with my toys. But there was one thing I really, really, really wanted to do: drive a road roller. Just outside the gates of the converted summer palace that was home to us, the streets were being repaved. A massive road roller, its enormous front wheel moving smoothly along the newly poured asphalt, clanked past at regular intervals. I watched, fascinated, along with a group of other small girls and boys, as the man driving it managed that beast so deftly, turning it just so, stopping just where the stretch of tar ended, flattening the spikes of rock under…err…wheel to create a nice, sleek roadway. It was an expression of power, of the triumph of man over machine, of…well, of something we all wanted very much to do ourselves. It felt like the ultimate in fantastical occupations. Even today, when I see and hear a road roller clank and grind its way through its job, I find myself sighing nostalgically for what might have been.

At 13, I wanted to be a potter. We were taken to a pottery workshop from school and given a chance to get down and very dirty indeed working on the wheel with wet clay. As spatters sprayed muddily over my protective apron, I felt that strange comfort that comes with holding and squeezing a soft, gooey substance, feeling it ooze, cool and moist through the fingers, smelling the minerals and the baking mud and the spiciness of hot paint. I made a clumsily lopsided ashtray for my mother, enjoying every second of the process, and wishing it would never end. Some years later, watching a master potter at work in his studio, seeing a piece grow and take exquisite shape under his experienced fingers, I found myself sighing nostalgically for what might have been.

At 15, I wanted to be a dancer. I was trained as one, with all the rigour and discipline that only Bharata Natyam of the purest style can provide. Each movement of every finger, casual and graceful and effortless as it seems, was an exercise in precision and perfection. And, much to my eternal satisfaction, it came so easily to me that I wanted that to be my life. I never bothered too much to hone my talent, but had a supreme confidence in it and in my own physical abilities. I knew that if I worked a little harder, I could be the best. Maybe that was my downfall – I didn’t value what I had, I was too sure of its power. Then, in a single, short, stunning moment, it was all gone, lost to injury and its repair. Doing dance critiques and helping others polish their skills was never quite the same, leaving me in tears of loss, despair and frustration. Today, when I watch younger dancers with my ever-critical eye, I find myself sighing nostalgically for what might have been.

At 21 I decided that being a chef was my goal. I researched Cordon Bleu courses, watched TV cooking shows and ate my way through various parts of the world. Along with my waistline, my need to cook grew. And I learned how, from the Frugal Gourmet, from Madhur Jaffrey, from my parents, from Granny’s old recipes, from friends, from anyone who could show me how. Today, with everything else I do and the current ambitions to be an editor and writer, I enjoy cooking even more, as a stressbuster, as a necessity, as a form of creative expression. I don’t sigh nostalgically any longer – I just go into my kitchen and grab my ladle…