To all,
This is my review for one of our favourite restaurants - Barbeque Nation
Restaurant review: Barbeque Nation
It was in the middle of the week that the urge to try out a new restaurant hit the entire family en masse. As usual, reservations were my responsibility. Thank goodness for Google and online reservations! I was surprised to see the rates – Rs. 550 per head (plus taxes) for an all-you-can-eat buffet including unlimited starters. It seemed like terrific value for money. However, an inner voice, born from the experiences of ‘inexpensive’ restaurants, cautioned against expecting too much. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, shouted the opposing voice of adventure…
We reached there well in time, thanks to my mother’s penchant for shepherding the family at least half an hour early. The waiting area was filled with the lesser mortals called impromptu Saturday night diners. Our family of four – my parents, bratty younger brother and I – glided past them, silently pitying their lack of foresight. Already our stomachs were beginning to growl, helped in good measure by the scene before us. Sizzling and popping sounds emanated from the main barbeque area in one corner. Curling tendrils of smoke wafted and tickled our nostrils with the smoky, succulent odours of roasting meat and vegetables. At every table, people were stuffing themselves with various yummy looking starters. That inner voice of caution was starting to lose strength.
The pretty hostess showed us to our table. The lighting was soft enough to set a pleasant mood, yet bright enough to be able to read the menu and see the food. The décor was pleasant, understated, with wood tables and chairs, and a family corner with low slung tables and sofas, where our table was placed. The first thing I noticed was the square depression in the middle of the table, with grooves at its edges. My over-inquisitive brother immediately ducked under the table to investigate – and reported the discovery of a heating grill under the depression. The efficient waiter had already arrived, and was doing a commendable job of controlling his amusement at my brother’s antics.
The waiter explained the raison d’être of the depression, “Ma’am, at Barbeque Nation, we have developed a unique method of serving grilled food. Normally, the grilled pieces of meat and vegetables cool down before reaching the table, which lessens their taste and our patrons’ satisfaction. At our restaurant, the starters are cooked 90 percent at the main grill and brought to your table. The heater and the metal trough complete the remaining ten percent and you can enjoy your starters absolutely hot and fresh”.
The concept delighted and intrigued us, and we told the waiter to bring it on. He did, and how!! All four of us pride ourselves on being foodies, able to pack it in at every opportunity. That day, we were floored by the sheer range and taste of the starters there. It stared with the ubiquitous Chicken Tikka, which was elevated to an objet d’art by the use of excellent spices and the freshest, most succulent meat. Grilled Tiger Prawns, so large they couldn’t fit into one mouthful, were cooked to biteable consistency without the rubberiness that threatens this food item. The Fish Amritsari Tikka’s crisped skin revealed tender, flaky, exquisitely spiced meat inside like a loved one granting an unexpected favour. We are not very big fans of mutton; it’s difficult to cook at home and even more difficult to get a well cooked version outside. The Mutton Sheesh Kababs melted in the mouth and made us drool. Wonder what their preparation involved?
Vegetarians need not despair; the herbivorous offerings matched the carnivorous ones, if not surpassing them. Huge chunks of paneer marinated in the special in-house spice mix and cooked to golden perfection. Yummy button mushrooms stuffed with heavenly Parmesan cheese and grilled to melt-the-cheese and melt-in-the-mouth status. Stuffed capsicum – with nothing less than a cashew-based filling inside. Our family of confirmed meat-eaters too rejoiced in the taste of these vegetarian delights. The piece de resistance was Dahi ke Kabab – chunks of hung curd cooked in the barbeque method. The crisp breaded crust gave way on the first bite to yield a soft heart of delicately herbed yogurt. My mother made several attempts to get the recipe for that one, including using her ‘motherly’ (read: emotional blackmail) skills on the waiter and hostess, but was unsuccessful. The extensive wine menu made for good accompaniments to the starters.
After spending a good hour on these grilled delights, there was almost no room left for the main course – the key word being almost! Actually, the main course paled in front of the sheer splendour of the starters. There were 2-3 gravy based meat dishes, the too common Hakka Noodles and Chicken Manchurian, and some Pulaos. These people knew what to promote and how! Fortunately, my brother noticed the dessert buffet table before we spent valuable stomach space on the main courses. Now this table was filled with sinful delights guaranteed to take you straight to heaven; or hell, depending on your outlook towards desserts. The four of us went straight to chocolate and cream filled heaven.
The dessert table had Indian as well as ‘foreign’ desserts. My mother freaked out on the Gulab Jamuns and combined them with vanilla ice cream (it actually tastes good). My brother and I both could easily qualify for Chocoholics Anonymous after generous helpings of the Chocolate-Coffee Mousse and the Dutch Truffle pastries. The head of the family headed straight for the deep, rich Almond Walnut Chocolate Cake, its Vanilla cream icing adding a sweet edge to its robust taste. Bites from every plate were shared and stolen, no-one counted calories and three hours of sheer unadulterated family fun passed in a flash.
At the end of it all, we were more than happy to fill in glowing praises on the customer feedback cards provided by the ever-smiling and efficient waiting staff. The chef accepted our compliments with a huge smile and a surprisingly down-to-earth attitude. It was a sated and extremely happy family that made its way back home that night. Even the sight of our favourite Naturals ice cream parlour left us unmoved.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Story time!!
One of my assignments for the Creative Writing workshop I did last mont
THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE
“Good morning doctor!” The on duty nurse greeted me as I walked into the Ob-Gyn clinic. The stark white walls contrasted sharply with the dark green curtains on the windows. The harsh fluorescent lights and the strong smell of disinfectant almost succeeded in stealing away every human touch from the small room, but were beaten by the warm smile on the nurse’s face.
I smiled at her “Good morning Sister, how many patients today?”
“Not too many madam, only 10.”
In this clinic run only for underprivileged mothers, at least 25 patients per day was average. 10 was child’s play. It wouldn’t take me more than half an hour to finish the preliminary screening before Dr. Gayatri, the senior gynaecologist arrived to pass her final judgements. I liked working with her. There was a lot to learn, especially when she got into the practical details while examining each patient. Books were good, but Dr. Gayatri made those words and examination findings come alive. Plus, the care and compassion with which she treated even the poorest patient was inspiring.
Learning apart, the emotions on every to-be-mother’s face were touching to watch. The happiness of the husband and in-laws on discovering the pregnancy, the wonder on the mother’s face as she listened to the foetus’s heartbeats, were all unexpected bonuses of emotion in the middle of work. There were the occasional gripes of a mother-in-law expecting us to guarantee a male child, but these had gradually decreased over time.
I was just finishing up the last patient in line when a new case paper appeared in front of me on the table. It had just a name – Laxmi. I called out, and a girl walked into the room. She looked like a teenager, with large black eyes in a thin face. Her features were sweet, but twisted with a whole range of conflicting emotions. She just sat in the chair opposite me, wordlessly wringing her hands together. My brain on auto-pilot, I started with the preliminary details.
“Yes Laxmi, how old are you?”
“Nineteen”
“And how long ago were you married?”
That question brought her to an absolute standstill. There was no sound from her for a full minute. I repeated the question, my head still down. No answer the second time round too. Finally, irritated, I raised my head. And that was when I really saw her.
She did not have sindoor in the parting of her hair. She did not have a string of black beads – a mangalsutra – around her neck. And yet, I could make out the swell of her abdomen compared to her thin frame. My eyes saw the picture, yet my brain refused to process the information.
She saw me staring at her. Her eyes suddenly glistened and her head bowed down.
I stared at her for a never-ending minute. On one hand, my medical training was telling me that she needed care. She needed tests, medicines, antenatal supervision. My middle-class Indian mind was screaming “how can she be unmarried and pregnant!?”
She squirmed in her chair, pinned there by my gaze. How many others must have subjected her to the same look? I suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for her, along with an overwhelming curiosity to know how she came to be in this unfortunate situation. Being an unwed mother would haunt her all her life.
For a long moment I just looked at her. My expression must have conveyed what I couldn’t put into words; she drew a deep breath and began telling me her story. “Madam, I fell in love with a boy from my area. He was very nice at first. I felt he really liked me and we were very happy. He even promised to marry me as soon as his college was over. My parents did not know about us. I was very happy when he spoke about marriage. He reassured me that this……these relations happened before marriage too. I….got carried away.” A tear gathered weight at the edge of her lashes.
“One day, I realised I had not got my periods for more than three months. I was scared; I couldn’t tell my parents, they would kill me! But when I spoke to him, he refused to believe me. He said this child wasn’t his, I must have……been with someone else” The words came out sounding like they had been pulled from her mouth. “I swear there was no one else madam, I loved him, and I was only with him. But his cruel words hurt me so much! Now I want to teach him a lesson.”
I finally found my voice, “so…..do you want to…..abort the child?” I had used the colloquial Hindi expression ‘bachcha giraana hai?’
Her head whipped up, her eyes huge and the pupils dilated. “NO!! I cannot do that madam!! I want to have this child! I read about tests that can be done to find out who is the father. I want to do those tests; I want to prove that he is the father of this child! He cannot accuse me of being loose and get away with it!!” Her thin shoulders shook as she spoke, but were no longer weighed down. They were squared back to face the world. The transformation had occurred right in front of my eyes in the space of a few seconds.
“But do your parents know?” I asked. “Yes madam, I told them. It was going to be obvious in a few days anyway. They cried when I told them madam, I am their only child. We are poor, but they wanted good things for me” Her head drooped down again and a tear escaped the constraints of her lids to splash down on the table. “My father has a chai stall. He was saving up money for my dowry, but that will never happen now. I want to give birth to this child and make his father accept him”
“But do you want to marry him?” I couldn’t help asking; and was suitably chastised by the glower in her eyes.
“Bilkul nahi madam, I will NOT marry him! I will look after my child on my own! I know I am only 10th pass, but I will find a job and bring up my baby with love and respect. This child is mine! I will not give him up to anyone!”
As I took Laxmi to the examination table, I realised that the horizons of my mind had widened. It was very easy to feel like a mother under normal circumstances. The happy husband, the doting in laws, the equally happy parents of the mother; all coming together in a circle of warmth around the woman. But this slip of a girl, not even out of her teens, had worked up the courage to have a child even under such trying circumstances. She knew that she had made a mistake, but was facing the consequences with her dignity intact. She wanted to be a mother to her child, and loved it even before it was born. It was in Laxmi that I saw a glimpse of the amount of strength it takes to be a mother.
THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE
“Good morning doctor!” The on duty nurse greeted me as I walked into the Ob-Gyn clinic. The stark white walls contrasted sharply with the dark green curtains on the windows. The harsh fluorescent lights and the strong smell of disinfectant almost succeeded in stealing away every human touch from the small room, but were beaten by the warm smile on the nurse’s face.
I smiled at her “Good morning Sister, how many patients today?”
“Not too many madam, only 10.”
In this clinic run only for underprivileged mothers, at least 25 patients per day was average. 10 was child’s play. It wouldn’t take me more than half an hour to finish the preliminary screening before Dr. Gayatri, the senior gynaecologist arrived to pass her final judgements. I liked working with her. There was a lot to learn, especially when she got into the practical details while examining each patient. Books were good, but Dr. Gayatri made those words and examination findings come alive. Plus, the care and compassion with which she treated even the poorest patient was inspiring.
Learning apart, the emotions on every to-be-mother’s face were touching to watch. The happiness of the husband and in-laws on discovering the pregnancy, the wonder on the mother’s face as she listened to the foetus’s heartbeats, were all unexpected bonuses of emotion in the middle of work. There were the occasional gripes of a mother-in-law expecting us to guarantee a male child, but these had gradually decreased over time.
I was just finishing up the last patient in line when a new case paper appeared in front of me on the table. It had just a name – Laxmi. I called out, and a girl walked into the room. She looked like a teenager, with large black eyes in a thin face. Her features were sweet, but twisted with a whole range of conflicting emotions. She just sat in the chair opposite me, wordlessly wringing her hands together. My brain on auto-pilot, I started with the preliminary details.
“Yes Laxmi, how old are you?”
“Nineteen”
“And how long ago were you married?”
That question brought her to an absolute standstill. There was no sound from her for a full minute. I repeated the question, my head still down. No answer the second time round too. Finally, irritated, I raised my head. And that was when I really saw her.
She did not have sindoor in the parting of her hair. She did not have a string of black beads – a mangalsutra – around her neck. And yet, I could make out the swell of her abdomen compared to her thin frame. My eyes saw the picture, yet my brain refused to process the information.
She saw me staring at her. Her eyes suddenly glistened and her head bowed down.
I stared at her for a never-ending minute. On one hand, my medical training was telling me that she needed care. She needed tests, medicines, antenatal supervision. My middle-class Indian mind was screaming “how can she be unmarried and pregnant!?”
She squirmed in her chair, pinned there by my gaze. How many others must have subjected her to the same look? I suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for her, along with an overwhelming curiosity to know how she came to be in this unfortunate situation. Being an unwed mother would haunt her all her life.
For a long moment I just looked at her. My expression must have conveyed what I couldn’t put into words; she drew a deep breath and began telling me her story. “Madam, I fell in love with a boy from my area. He was very nice at first. I felt he really liked me and we were very happy. He even promised to marry me as soon as his college was over. My parents did not know about us. I was very happy when he spoke about marriage. He reassured me that this……these relations happened before marriage too. I….got carried away.” A tear gathered weight at the edge of her lashes.
“One day, I realised I had not got my periods for more than three months. I was scared; I couldn’t tell my parents, they would kill me! But when I spoke to him, he refused to believe me. He said this child wasn’t his, I must have……been with someone else” The words came out sounding like they had been pulled from her mouth. “I swear there was no one else madam, I loved him, and I was only with him. But his cruel words hurt me so much! Now I want to teach him a lesson.”
I finally found my voice, “so…..do you want to…..abort the child?” I had used the colloquial Hindi expression ‘bachcha giraana hai?’
Her head whipped up, her eyes huge and the pupils dilated. “NO!! I cannot do that madam!! I want to have this child! I read about tests that can be done to find out who is the father. I want to do those tests; I want to prove that he is the father of this child! He cannot accuse me of being loose and get away with it!!” Her thin shoulders shook as she spoke, but were no longer weighed down. They were squared back to face the world. The transformation had occurred right in front of my eyes in the space of a few seconds.
“But do your parents know?” I asked. “Yes madam, I told them. It was going to be obvious in a few days anyway. They cried when I told them madam, I am their only child. We are poor, but they wanted good things for me” Her head drooped down again and a tear escaped the constraints of her lids to splash down on the table. “My father has a chai stall. He was saving up money for my dowry, but that will never happen now. I want to give birth to this child and make his father accept him”
“But do you want to marry him?” I couldn’t help asking; and was suitably chastised by the glower in her eyes.
“Bilkul nahi madam, I will NOT marry him! I will look after my child on my own! I know I am only 10th pass, but I will find a job and bring up my baby with love and respect. This child is mine! I will not give him up to anyone!”
As I took Laxmi to the examination table, I realised that the horizons of my mind had widened. It was very easy to feel like a mother under normal circumstances. The happy husband, the doting in laws, the equally happy parents of the mother; all coming together in a circle of warmth around the woman. But this slip of a girl, not even out of her teens, had worked up the courage to have a child even under such trying circumstances. She knew that she had made a mistake, but was facing the consequences with her dignity intact. She wanted to be a mother to her child, and loved it even before it was born. It was in Laxmi that I saw a glimpse of the amount of strength it takes to be a mother.
Story time!!
One of my assignments for the Creative Writing workshop I did last month.
THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE
“Good morning doctor!” The on duty nurse greeted me as I walked into the Ob-Gyn clinic. The stark white walls contrasted sharply with the dark green curtains on the windows. The harsh fluorescent lights and the strong smell of disinfectant almost succeeded in stealing away every human touch from the small room, but were beaten by the warm smile on the nurse’s face.
I smiled at her “Good morning Sister, how many patients today?”
“Not too many madam, only 10.”
In this clinic run only for underprivileged mothers, at least 25 patients per day was average. 10 was child’s play. It wouldn’t take me more than half an hour to finish the preliminary screening before Dr. Gayatri, the senior gynaecologist arrived to pass her final judgements. I liked working with her. There was a lot to learn, especially when she got into the practical details while examining each patient. Books were good, but Dr. Gayatri made those words and examination findings come alive. Plus, the care and compassion with which she treated even the poorest patient was inspiring.
Learning apart, the emotions on every to-be-mother’s face were touching to watch. The happiness of the husband and in-laws on discovering the pregnancy, the wonder on the mother’s face as she listened to the foetus’s heartbeats, were all unexpected bonuses of emotion in the middle of work. There were the occasional gripes of a mother-in-law expecting us to guarantee a male child, but these had gradually decreased over time.
I was just finishing up the last patient in line when a new case paper appeared in front of me on the table. It had just a name – Laxmi. I called out, and a girl walked into the room. She looked like a teenager, with large black eyes in a thin face. Her features were sweet, but twisted with a whole range of conflicting emotions. She just sat in the chair opposite me, wordlessly wringing her hands together. My brain on auto-pilot, I started with the preliminary details.
“Yes Laxmi, how old are you?”
“Nineteen”
“And how long ago were you married?”
That question brought her to an absolute standstill. There was no sound from her for a full minute. I repeated the question, my head still down. No answer the second time round too. Finally, irritated, I raised my head. And that was when I really saw her.
She did not have sindoor in the parting of her hair. She did not have a string of black beads – a mangalsutra – around her neck. And yet, I could make out the swell of her abdomen compared to her thin frame. My eyes saw the picture, yet my brain refused to process the information.
She saw me staring at her. Her eyes suddenly glistened and her head bowed down.
I stared at her for a never-ending minute. On one hand, my medical training was telling me that she needed care. She needed tests, medicines, antenatal supervision. My middle-class Indian mind was screaming “how can she be unmarried and pregnant!?”
She squirmed in her chair, pinned there by my gaze. How many others must have subjected her to the same look? I suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for her, along with an overwhelming curiosity to know how she came to be in this unfortunate situation. Being an unwed mother would haunt her all her life.
For a long moment I just looked at her. My expression must have conveyed what I couldn’t put into words; she drew a deep breath and began telling me her story. “Madam, I fell in love with a boy from my area. He was very nice at first. I felt he really liked me and we were very happy. He even promised to marry me as soon as his college was over. My parents did not know about us. I was very happy when he spoke about marriage. He reassured me that this……these relations happened before marriage too. I….got carried away.” A tear gathered weight at the edge of her lashes.
“One day, I realised I had not got my periods for more than three months. I was scared; I couldn’t tell my parents, they would kill me! But when I spoke to him, he refused to believe me. He said this child wasn’t his, I must have……been with someone else” The words came out sounding like they had been pulled from her mouth. “I swear there was no one else madam, I loved him, and I was only with him. But his cruel words hurt me so much! Now I want to teach him a lesson.”
I finally found my voice, “so…..do you want to…..abort the child?” I had used the colloquial Hindi expression ‘bachcha giraana hai?’
Her head whipped up, her eyes huge and the pupils dilated. “NO!! I cannot do that madam!! I want to have this child! I read about tests that can be done to find out who is the father. I want to do those tests; I want to prove that he is the father of this child! He cannot accuse me of being loose and get away with it!!” Her thin shoulders shook as she spoke, but were no longer weighed down. They were squared back to face the world. The transformation had occurred right in front of my eyes in the space of a few seconds.
“But do your parents know?” I asked. “Yes madam, I told them. It was going to be obvious in a few days anyway. They cried when I told them madam, I am their only child. We are poor, but they wanted good things for me” Her head drooped down again and a tear escaped the constraints of her lids to splash down on the table. “My father has a chai stall. He was saving up money for my dowry, but that will never happen now. I want to give birth to this child and make his father accept him”
“But do you want to marry him?” I couldn’t help asking; and was suitably chastised by the glower in her eyes.
“Bilkul nahi madam, I will NOT marry him! I will look after my child on my own! I know I am only 10th pass, but I will find a job and bring up my baby with love and respect. This child is mine! I will not give him up to anyone!”
As I took Laxmi to the examination table, I realised that the horizons of my mind had widened. It was very easy to feel like a mother under normal circumstances. The happy husband, the doting in laws, the equally happy parents of the mother; all coming together in a circle of warmth around the woman. But this slip of a girl, not even out of her teens, had worked up the courage to have a child even under such trying circumstances. She knew that she had made a mistake, but was facing the consequences with her dignity intact. She wanted to be a mother to her child, and loved it even before it was born. It was in Laxmi that I saw a glimpse of the amount of strength it takes to be a mother.
THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE
“Good morning doctor!” The on duty nurse greeted me as I walked into the Ob-Gyn clinic. The stark white walls contrasted sharply with the dark green curtains on the windows. The harsh fluorescent lights and the strong smell of disinfectant almost succeeded in stealing away every human touch from the small room, but were beaten by the warm smile on the nurse’s face.
I smiled at her “Good morning Sister, how many patients today?”
“Not too many madam, only 10.”
In this clinic run only for underprivileged mothers, at least 25 patients per day was average. 10 was child’s play. It wouldn’t take me more than half an hour to finish the preliminary screening before Dr. Gayatri, the senior gynaecologist arrived to pass her final judgements. I liked working with her. There was a lot to learn, especially when she got into the practical details while examining each patient. Books were good, but Dr. Gayatri made those words and examination findings come alive. Plus, the care and compassion with which she treated even the poorest patient was inspiring.
Learning apart, the emotions on every to-be-mother’s face were touching to watch. The happiness of the husband and in-laws on discovering the pregnancy, the wonder on the mother’s face as she listened to the foetus’s heartbeats, were all unexpected bonuses of emotion in the middle of work. There were the occasional gripes of a mother-in-law expecting us to guarantee a male child, but these had gradually decreased over time.
I was just finishing up the last patient in line when a new case paper appeared in front of me on the table. It had just a name – Laxmi. I called out, and a girl walked into the room. She looked like a teenager, with large black eyes in a thin face. Her features were sweet, but twisted with a whole range of conflicting emotions. She just sat in the chair opposite me, wordlessly wringing her hands together. My brain on auto-pilot, I started with the preliminary details.
“Yes Laxmi, how old are you?”
“Nineteen”
“And how long ago were you married?”
That question brought her to an absolute standstill. There was no sound from her for a full minute. I repeated the question, my head still down. No answer the second time round too. Finally, irritated, I raised my head. And that was when I really saw her.
She did not have sindoor in the parting of her hair. She did not have a string of black beads – a mangalsutra – around her neck. And yet, I could make out the swell of her abdomen compared to her thin frame. My eyes saw the picture, yet my brain refused to process the information.
She saw me staring at her. Her eyes suddenly glistened and her head bowed down.
I stared at her for a never-ending minute. On one hand, my medical training was telling me that she needed care. She needed tests, medicines, antenatal supervision. My middle-class Indian mind was screaming “how can she be unmarried and pregnant!?”
She squirmed in her chair, pinned there by my gaze. How many others must have subjected her to the same look? I suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for her, along with an overwhelming curiosity to know how she came to be in this unfortunate situation. Being an unwed mother would haunt her all her life.
For a long moment I just looked at her. My expression must have conveyed what I couldn’t put into words; she drew a deep breath and began telling me her story. “Madam, I fell in love with a boy from my area. He was very nice at first. I felt he really liked me and we were very happy. He even promised to marry me as soon as his college was over. My parents did not know about us. I was very happy when he spoke about marriage. He reassured me that this……these relations happened before marriage too. I….got carried away.” A tear gathered weight at the edge of her lashes.
“One day, I realised I had not got my periods for more than three months. I was scared; I couldn’t tell my parents, they would kill me! But when I spoke to him, he refused to believe me. He said this child wasn’t his, I must have……been with someone else” The words came out sounding like they had been pulled from her mouth. “I swear there was no one else madam, I loved him, and I was only with him. But his cruel words hurt me so much! Now I want to teach him a lesson.”
I finally found my voice, “so…..do you want to…..abort the child?” I had used the colloquial Hindi expression ‘bachcha giraana hai?’
Her head whipped up, her eyes huge and the pupils dilated. “NO!! I cannot do that madam!! I want to have this child! I read about tests that can be done to find out who is the father. I want to do those tests; I want to prove that he is the father of this child! He cannot accuse me of being loose and get away with it!!” Her thin shoulders shook as she spoke, but were no longer weighed down. They were squared back to face the world. The transformation had occurred right in front of my eyes in the space of a few seconds.
“But do your parents know?” I asked. “Yes madam, I told them. It was going to be obvious in a few days anyway. They cried when I told them madam, I am their only child. We are poor, but they wanted good things for me” Her head drooped down again and a tear escaped the constraints of her lids to splash down on the table. “My father has a chai stall. He was saving up money for my dowry, but that will never happen now. I want to give birth to this child and make his father accept him”
“But do you want to marry him?” I couldn’t help asking; and was suitably chastised by the glower in her eyes.
“Bilkul nahi madam, I will NOT marry him! I will look after my child on my own! I know I am only 10th pass, but I will find a job and bring up my baby with love and respect. This child is mine! I will not give him up to anyone!”
As I took Laxmi to the examination table, I realised that the horizons of my mind had widened. It was very easy to feel like a mother under normal circumstances. The happy husband, the doting in laws, the equally happy parents of the mother; all coming together in a circle of warmth around the woman. But this slip of a girl, not even out of her teens, had worked up the courage to have a child even under such trying circumstances. She knew that she had made a mistake, but was facing the consequences with her dignity intact. She wanted to be a mother to her child, and loved it even before it was born. It was in Laxmi that I saw a glimpse of the amount of strength it takes to be a mother.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Singapore musings contd.......
The last time I bored everyone (NOT!! I hope :P) with the process of preparing to travel. This time around, I would like to share my impressions of Singapore. I know many of you have been to Singapore and loved the place. But I like to flatter myself that I had a slightly different perspective.
I stayed there for a total of 8 days, travelling not included. It was fun doing the exact opposite of what most people would do. No packaged tours, no tour guides, just a few internet references and occasional directions from the locals (one of the benefits of being a girl – we ask for and get directions very easily). Taking the local bus tours and using public transport not only saved me a lot of money, but also allowed me to take a close look at the people and their ways.
Singapore – and her people – both are extremely efficient and organized, which made travelling a pleasure. The weather is as pathetically hot and sticky as Mumbai at her summer worst, but the air is SO much cleaner. I didn’t find a layer of grime on me at the end of the day like I usually do in Mumbai. Being close to the equator, Singapore is prone to sudden showers though. And, as my life is governed totally by Murphy’s law, it rained on the only day I forgot to carry my umbrella.
Planning my sightseeing in Singapore was very easy, thanks to a little known gem called www.gothere.sg. It is a boon for the traveller on a shoestring budget, or any kind of budget for that matter. It tells you how to get from point A to point B in all possible ways. Bus, train, taxi, even the roads to take if you are driving a private vehicle. I used public transport, of course, but this precious site told me everything right down to how far I needed to walk before I found the right bus stop!! I swear if such a site is set up with Mumbai in mind, it will be a major boon.
The public transport system in Singapore is, quite simply, awesome. The trains, buses and taxis are air-conditioned, most processes are electronically managed and timings are precise down to the second. Of course, my own is my own – I missed hanging out of the door of the Virar local like I usually do; and there were no cheeky-faced street kids selling earrings and other sundry things on those air-conditioned marvels.
I loved it that Singapore and Mumbai are similar in so many ways. Both are melting pots where diverse cultures co-exist. I am almost afraid to add the word peacefully because it is a word that doesn’t seem to apply to Mumbai anymore. BUT, there are enough people to talk on what needs to be corrected. I of the rose-tinted glasses prefer to dwell on the positive things in life.
As I mentioned earlier, Singapore is very organized and efficient, but there are certain areas in the city where cultural chaos is evident. Chinatown was one such place. Smack bang in the middle of the city, it is a colourful assembly of shanties selling all things Chinese – most of which I couldn’t identify! Bright red decorations everywhere heralded the impending Lunar New Year. There were sweet stalls; typical Chinese desserts that looked like jelly mixed with Holi colours and made of God knows what. I didn’t have the courage to taste any. What I did have (and love) were Thai coconuts. Unbelievably sweet and refreshing, they were the highlight of the place for me. There were other things, aloe vera and wheatgrass juice, crabcakes etc etc. No more food mentioned here…..I plan to devote an entire chapter to that later.
I stayed there for a total of 8 days, travelling not included. It was fun doing the exact opposite of what most people would do. No packaged tours, no tour guides, just a few internet references and occasional directions from the locals (one of the benefits of being a girl – we ask for and get directions very easily). Taking the local bus tours and using public transport not only saved me a lot of money, but also allowed me to take a close look at the people and their ways.
Singapore – and her people – both are extremely efficient and organized, which made travelling a pleasure. The weather is as pathetically hot and sticky as Mumbai at her summer worst, but the air is SO much cleaner. I didn’t find a layer of grime on me at the end of the day like I usually do in Mumbai. Being close to the equator, Singapore is prone to sudden showers though. And, as my life is governed totally by Murphy’s law, it rained on the only day I forgot to carry my umbrella.
Planning my sightseeing in Singapore was very easy, thanks to a little known gem called www.gothere.sg. It is a boon for the traveller on a shoestring budget, or any kind of budget for that matter. It tells you how to get from point A to point B in all possible ways. Bus, train, taxi, even the roads to take if you are driving a private vehicle. I used public transport, of course, but this precious site told me everything right down to how far I needed to walk before I found the right bus stop!! I swear if such a site is set up with Mumbai in mind, it will be a major boon.
The public transport system in Singapore is, quite simply, awesome. The trains, buses and taxis are air-conditioned, most processes are electronically managed and timings are precise down to the second. Of course, my own is my own – I missed hanging out of the door of the Virar local like I usually do; and there were no cheeky-faced street kids selling earrings and other sundry things on those air-conditioned marvels.
I loved it that Singapore and Mumbai are similar in so many ways. Both are melting pots where diverse cultures co-exist. I am almost afraid to add the word peacefully because it is a word that doesn’t seem to apply to Mumbai anymore. BUT, there are enough people to talk on what needs to be corrected. I of the rose-tinted glasses prefer to dwell on the positive things in life.
As I mentioned earlier, Singapore is very organized and efficient, but there are certain areas in the city where cultural chaos is evident. Chinatown was one such place. Smack bang in the middle of the city, it is a colourful assembly of shanties selling all things Chinese – most of which I couldn’t identify! Bright red decorations everywhere heralded the impending Lunar New Year. There were sweet stalls; typical Chinese desserts that looked like jelly mixed with Holi colours and made of God knows what. I didn’t have the courage to taste any. What I did have (and love) were Thai coconuts. Unbelievably sweet and refreshing, they were the highlight of the place for me. There were other things, aloe vera and wheatgrass juice, crabcakes etc etc. No more food mentioned here…..I plan to devote an entire chapter to that later.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I figured I didn’t want to let this chance go. Third time lucky and all that. What am I talking about? I am talking about the chance to write about the experiences I had during my trip to
My first trip abroad was
I still don’t know why, but the idea of taking a trip alone had been brewing in my mind for a very long time. I wanted to take off alone, and get to explore a place without the restraints of family, friends, or a tour guide. Maybe I was influenced by ‘The Lonely Traveller’ type of series, or maybe I just wanted to feel independent. At first, I thought of planning a trip to the
It’s quite convenient to sign up for one of those packaged tours, pay the amount and let them take care of everything. I had a lot of fun running around for the visa and the tickets, arranging the foreign exchange (and getting slightly fleeced in the process!). Call it masochism or whatever, its something I wanted to do. Thankfully, the visa came through without much difficulty. The funniest part was when I had to apply for a bank statement – as proof that I had sufficient funds for the journey!! The expression on the bank official’s face when I told him I would be traveling alone was enough. Come to think of it, a lot of people expressed surprise that I was taking this trip alone.
The usual conversation would proceed like this:
“Oh, so you are going to
“Yes”
“Family holiday?”
“No, I’m going alone”
“Oh…..which tour company have you joined then?”
“None……I am planning this trip by myself”
…………..Surprised silence………….
It bugged me a little……..and I think it was the fact that a girl was planning this trip alone was what struck most people as strange. A colleague even asked me “So I suppose you had to fight a lot with your parents to get permission for this trip?” Funnily enough, my parents were the most chilled out about this whole thing. Well, part of the reason may have been the fact that I was going to be staying at my uncle’s place.
More on this later.......
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)