Social etiquette precludes discussion on certain topics, and high on my list of thought provoking subjects that are seldom discussed is methods of cleaning up after, well, doing potty.
Indians, and I suppose, citizens of other so called less developed countries grow up using water for the clean-up after the big job. The delivery mechanisms vary, from the old fashioned and common “mug, hand and soap” approach, to the more recent hand held jet (my personal favourite) and the nozzle at the back of the seat that shoots a well directed spray into the cleaning area.
The hand held shower wins my vote as it achieves the twin objectives of using water to do the job, and does away with any need to touch the object of the cleaning exercise. Brief aside: the hand held shower evokes memories of a true life incident. One of the families in the Chennai apartment block where we lived a few years ago, referred to the device as “ass washer”. The lady of the house assumed that was the official term for the device. When they were shifting as tenants from one apartment in the building to another, the lady innocently asked the prospective landlord, a typical conservative Tamil Brahmin gentleman in his seventies, if the bathrooms in the house were fitted with ass-washers! I heard this anecdote from the lady’s husband, and would have loved to be there to see how the conversation proceeded after that.
One of the key adjustments for an Indian moving overseas is adaptation to alien cleaning techniques, i.e use of tissue instead of water. For some of us, this is unimaginable and something we can never quite reconcile to. [“Is it possible to have a bath with only a towel and no water? Then how can you possibly do this?!]. The use of water remains the preferred approach among the adult inhabitants of my home, although the toilet roll remains an available option for visitors who prefer “dry cleaning” and kids who are more culturally flexible.
There is nothing more fake than a five star hotel in India with only toilet rolls and no mug in the toilet. It beats me as to how the management of a hotel can be so staggeringly insensitive to local custom. They run the risk of fine crockery kept in the hotel room being employed for unintended purposes.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Joy of Sport
As one advances in years and indulgence in physical activity becomes increasingly rare, it is refreshing to be reminded of the joy of playing sports. One does not have to be accomplished at any form of sport to feel this way. In my formative years, more talented playmates outshone me in cricket, with the result that I gravitated towards football (aka soccer). There I found some sort of niche for myself as a dependable defender. Never good enough to get into any serious level such as the school/college team, I was still regarded with some of sort of respect among casual footballers, and could make it to the “class team” quite easily.
Over the years, football became my sport of choice, and I always looked forward to a game, for the satisfaction of a thundering kick well directed, the opposition pass intercepted, and the joy of nifty passes to my own teammates. During the college days, the evening game after a dreary run of classes became the highlight of my day. Many years later in Mumbai, as corporate life and family encroached on sporting pursuits, the Sunday morning game with other thirty plus inmates of the Cuffe Parade building became the highlight of my week.
Badminton has been another deeply satisfying sport, though I have played this infrequently and much less than football. My earliest memories of playing this sport go back to Hyderabad. I must have been around ten and my brother Murali a teenager. My father bought us 2 “Silver” rackets from a sports shop in Secunderabad, at something like forty rupees a piece, which seemed a big investment at the time. We strung a rope across two makeshift poles in the compound of my grandparents’ house, and played.
Many years later, while living in Chennai, badminton re-entered my life. The apartment complex where we lived had two indoor courts, and a doubles game in the evening after work became part of the daily routine. The games were keenly contested, and always satisfying. There is no better feeling than having one’s racket flukishly come in the way of an opponent’s powerfully hit smash and watch the shuttle drop innocently on the other side of the court.
Table tennis was another game I grew up with, although it was several years before I got to play on a real table. My first memories of the game are of playing it on the dining table of our apartment in Calcutta, with a row of paperbacks stood on their sides serving as our net. Murali used to beat me easily and I still remember the strange mix of joy and coming of age emotion I felt the first time I beat him, as a young teenager. We had a pair of red dimpled rackets, which were really more like plywood boards with thin rubber sheets pasted on. I had mine for several years, and used it to good effect in school to win some games against more fancied players. They attributed my victory to my “Fatta” racket, which they claimed negated all spin, and should be disallowed.
Unfortunately, sporting activity recedes in importance with the years. It is only now, with two little boys, one of whom is obsessed with it, that it is seeing a bit of a resurgence in my life. I had forgotten how good it feels, and look forward to the day the boys are a little older and we have an even contest.
Over the years, football became my sport of choice, and I always looked forward to a game, for the satisfaction of a thundering kick well directed, the opposition pass intercepted, and the joy of nifty passes to my own teammates. During the college days, the evening game after a dreary run of classes became the highlight of my day. Many years later in Mumbai, as corporate life and family encroached on sporting pursuits, the Sunday morning game with other thirty plus inmates of the Cuffe Parade building became the highlight of my week.
Badminton has been another deeply satisfying sport, though I have played this infrequently and much less than football. My earliest memories of playing this sport go back to Hyderabad. I must have been around ten and my brother Murali a teenager. My father bought us 2 “Silver” rackets from a sports shop in Secunderabad, at something like forty rupees a piece, which seemed a big investment at the time. We strung a rope across two makeshift poles in the compound of my grandparents’ house, and played.
Many years later, while living in Chennai, badminton re-entered my life. The apartment complex where we lived had two indoor courts, and a doubles game in the evening after work became part of the daily routine. The games were keenly contested, and always satisfying. There is no better feeling than having one’s racket flukishly come in the way of an opponent’s powerfully hit smash and watch the shuttle drop innocently on the other side of the court.
Table tennis was another game I grew up with, although it was several years before I got to play on a real table. My first memories of the game are of playing it on the dining table of our apartment in Calcutta, with a row of paperbacks stood on their sides serving as our net. Murali used to beat me easily and I still remember the strange mix of joy and coming of age emotion I felt the first time I beat him, as a young teenager. We had a pair of red dimpled rackets, which were really more like plywood boards with thin rubber sheets pasted on. I had mine for several years, and used it to good effect in school to win some games against more fancied players. They attributed my victory to my “Fatta” racket, which they claimed negated all spin, and should be disallowed.
Unfortunately, sporting activity recedes in importance with the years. It is only now, with two little boys, one of whom is obsessed with it, that it is seeing a bit of a resurgence in my life. I had forgotten how good it feels, and look forward to the day the boys are a little older and we have an even contest.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
What's your trip?
A couple of years ago, I read that an American, Po Bronson, had written a book titled “What should I do with my life?” What a fundamental question, I thought, and wondered why someone had not written something similar before. The book, which I have not read, follows the life journey of many individuals, and examines the underlying reasons for varied career choices that they make.
I have never particularly cared to understand the reasons for choices that people make, beyond assuming that their choices are a reflection of what they believe is good for them. One class of people always intrigues me, though. These are the perennial cribbers. They seldom speak without whining. Conversations centre around their many troubles. It is as though the gift of life is actually a terrible curse that has befallen them. They find a lot to complain about, and little to be thankful for. These are not poverty or disease stricken individuals. They are otherwise normal, well to do people. They just seem to have a very negative outlook of life in general.
When I come across such people, I wonder if they are for real, and I am forced to conclude that they are not. Their misery is a sham, an act to garner attention, some sort of play-acting. If life is truly so terrible, surely there is an easy way out available to all. So why don’t they go down that path? Because, despite all their woes, they really do think that life is still good enough to keep living and not give up on. So can they shut up or at least punctuate their pessimistic utterances with the occasional outpouring of sunny cheer that is more reflective of their genuine beliefs please?
Among all that “needs improvement” with humankind, one thing is certainly the absolute minority of people with some kind of life plan. Many of us in the corporate sector, spend much time debating and perfecting strategies, mission and vision statements for our organizations. How many have given even a few minutes in developing one such statement for ourselves? Would it not help us in our lives to define for ourselves the values dearest to us that we wish to remain anchored to? Identify what we really want to achieve, and the things we will not compromise on? Even step back and look at our existence as a detached outsider, to see if we are headed in the right direction?
Seems a better way to go about things than generally meandering through one’s days with a vague sense of “Just want to be a good citizen, give my family a comfortable life, etc”.
I have never particularly cared to understand the reasons for choices that people make, beyond assuming that their choices are a reflection of what they believe is good for them. One class of people always intrigues me, though. These are the perennial cribbers. They seldom speak without whining. Conversations centre around their many troubles. It is as though the gift of life is actually a terrible curse that has befallen them. They find a lot to complain about, and little to be thankful for. These are not poverty or disease stricken individuals. They are otherwise normal, well to do people. They just seem to have a very negative outlook of life in general.
When I come across such people, I wonder if they are for real, and I am forced to conclude that they are not. Their misery is a sham, an act to garner attention, some sort of play-acting. If life is truly so terrible, surely there is an easy way out available to all. So why don’t they go down that path? Because, despite all their woes, they really do think that life is still good enough to keep living and not give up on. So can they shut up or at least punctuate their pessimistic utterances with the occasional outpouring of sunny cheer that is more reflective of their genuine beliefs please?
Among all that “needs improvement” with humankind, one thing is certainly the absolute minority of people with some kind of life plan. Many of us in the corporate sector, spend much time debating and perfecting strategies, mission and vision statements for our organizations. How many have given even a few minutes in developing one such statement for ourselves? Would it not help us in our lives to define for ourselves the values dearest to us that we wish to remain anchored to? Identify what we really want to achieve, and the things we will not compromise on? Even step back and look at our existence as a detached outsider, to see if we are headed in the right direction?
Seems a better way to go about things than generally meandering through one’s days with a vague sense of “Just want to be a good citizen, give my family a comfortable life, etc”.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
That time of year
It is early November, and summer is in the air in Sydney. The shirts are coming off the backs of joggers in the CBD. Silly season is nigh, and one gradually succumbs to the general flippancy pervading the atmosphere.
One watershed event marking the onset of silly season is the Melbourne Cup, which happens on the first Tuesday of November. A newcomer to the country would probably regard his first experience of the event as a complete waste of time, but warm up to it by the time the second or third edition comes around.
For the uninitiated, Melbourne Cup is the biggest horse racing event in Australia (or as publicists may say, in the “Southern Hemisphere”!). The nation comes to a standstill to watch the race. It is officially a holiday in Victoria and ACT. Although a working day in Sydney (New South Wales), it is pretty much a holiday in spirit, with people departing their offices by noon and getting together with friends/colleagues in pubs/restaurants. The actual race happens at 3 pm and lasts for only a couple of minutes, but it is flanked on either side by food, drink, betting and banter.
Most pubs/restaurants run their own little side events to add to the fun, so one has prizes handed out for “Best Hat”, “Best dressed”, and so on. Women turn out in outfits invoking memories of TV serials depicting Victorian England, complete with hats of amazing variety. Some of the men are dashingly dressed too, and I wouldn’t be surprised to come across someone sporting a monocle, bow tie and top hat at one of these dos.
The race is beamed on large TV screens in these establishments, and for those couple of minutes, it is impossible not to share in the excitement of the audience egging on their favourites, carrying not only jockeys, but also hundreds of thousands of dollars placed in bets. There is something captivating in watching those superb thoroughbreds thundering the tracks, culminating in a moment of exploding cheers and air punching, as you try to figure out who actually won.
After the race, as people gradually troop out of these establishments, a few dollars poorer or richer (usually the former) and a few beers down the gullet, the inner glow of an afternoon well spent matches that of the warm November sun.
For the record, this year’s winner was an underdog aptly named “Shocking”, and I lost eight dollars in the office sweepstakes.
One watershed event marking the onset of silly season is the Melbourne Cup, which happens on the first Tuesday of November. A newcomer to the country would probably regard his first experience of the event as a complete waste of time, but warm up to it by the time the second or third edition comes around.
For the uninitiated, Melbourne Cup is the biggest horse racing event in Australia (or as publicists may say, in the “Southern Hemisphere”!). The nation comes to a standstill to watch the race. It is officially a holiday in Victoria and ACT. Although a working day in Sydney (New South Wales), it is pretty much a holiday in spirit, with people departing their offices by noon and getting together with friends/colleagues in pubs/restaurants. The actual race happens at 3 pm and lasts for only a couple of minutes, but it is flanked on either side by food, drink, betting and banter.
Most pubs/restaurants run their own little side events to add to the fun, so one has prizes handed out for “Best Hat”, “Best dressed”, and so on. Women turn out in outfits invoking memories of TV serials depicting Victorian England, complete with hats of amazing variety. Some of the men are dashingly dressed too, and I wouldn’t be surprised to come across someone sporting a monocle, bow tie and top hat at one of these dos.
The race is beamed on large TV screens in these establishments, and for those couple of minutes, it is impossible not to share in the excitement of the audience egging on their favourites, carrying not only jockeys, but also hundreds of thousands of dollars placed in bets. There is something captivating in watching those superb thoroughbreds thundering the tracks, culminating in a moment of exploding cheers and air punching, as you try to figure out who actually won.
After the race, as people gradually troop out of these establishments, a few dollars poorer or richer (usually the former) and a few beers down the gullet, the inner glow of an afternoon well spent matches that of the warm November sun.
For the record, this year’s winner was an underdog aptly named “Shocking”, and I lost eight dollars in the office sweepstakes.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Too desi for my good
This has been on my mind for a while now, so I might as well get it out of my system.
Having lived in India for the first 35 years of my life, I decided, a couple of years ago, to spend some time overseas. I took up a job in Australia, and moved there with wife and kids.
We have been in Australia for the last two years, and on the whole it’s been a very enjoyable experience. I get to spend more time with family. There are no work-related calls after business hours or on weekends. The kids actually look forward to going to school. Travelling to work on public transport does not leave you all sweaty. Driving can actually be a pleasure. In the initial months, we missed our friends back in India . Over time, we made some great new friends, and now we have our own little social circle. The government actually works and people take rules seriously. There is peace and order. People say hello and smile at you across the shop counter. Life is good.
Despite the above, it is not my intention to “settle” in Australia. In all likelihood, we will be going back to India in a couple of years. Chit-chat in social gatherings among Indians living in Australia usually veers around to talk of permanent residency/citizenship at some stage. On hearing of my plans, the reaction from the listener varies from a frank expression of surprise, to a polite “Oh, I see”, betrayed by a look in the eyes which conveys complete puzzlement. I can accept that a lot of people find the prospect of leaving one’s homeland and settling down in Australia, very attractive. On the other hand, I would expect people to concede to the possibility that it is not inconceivable for one to choose to lead most of one’s life in the country of origin. And it really riles me that the burden of an explanation is so squarely placed on people in the latter category.
The really important decisions in life, such as one’s profession, choosing a life partner, or deciding where to live are seldom based on a calm and rational analysis of various pros and cons. One simply knows which path to choose. Working backwards, one can possibly lay out a set of seemingly plausible explanations to rationalize one’s choice of a particular path. Here are a few thoughts on the subject.
Having lived in India for the first 35 years of my life, I decided, a couple of years ago, to spend some time overseas. I took up a job in Australia, and moved there with wife and kids.
We have been in Australia for the last two years, and on the whole it’s been a very enjoyable experience. I get to spend more time with family. There are no work-related calls after business hours or on weekends. The kids actually look forward to going to school. Travelling to work on public transport does not leave you all sweaty. Driving can actually be a pleasure. In the initial months, we missed our friends back in India . Over time, we made some great new friends, and now we have our own little social circle. The government actually works and people take rules seriously. There is peace and order. People say hello and smile at you across the shop counter. Life is good.
Despite the above, it is not my intention to “settle” in Australia. In all likelihood, we will be going back to India in a couple of years. Chit-chat in social gatherings among Indians living in Australia usually veers around to talk of permanent residency/citizenship at some stage. On hearing of my plans, the reaction from the listener varies from a frank expression of surprise, to a polite “Oh, I see”, betrayed by a look in the eyes which conveys complete puzzlement. I can accept that a lot of people find the prospect of leaving one’s homeland and settling down in Australia, very attractive. On the other hand, I would expect people to concede to the possibility that it is not inconceivable for one to choose to lead most of one’s life in the country of origin. And it really riles me that the burden of an explanation is so squarely placed on people in the latter category.
The really important decisions in life, such as one’s profession, choosing a life partner, or deciding where to live are seldom based on a calm and rational analysis of various pros and cons. One simply knows which path to choose. Working backwards, one can possibly lay out a set of seemingly plausible explanations to rationalize one’s choice of a particular path. Here are a few thoughts on the subject.
- Home is where the heart is. When I walk down a street in India, I feel like I am on home ground. The atmosphere, the people, the events are all elements of a stage production, of which I am an original cast member. When news happens there, I relate to it, much more than I can to parliamentary debate on climate change or the plight of asylum seekers in a developed nation. When the Rajdhani express is stopped by miscreants, or the education minister scraps Class X board exams, my consciousness responds at a deeper level, because I have been there, done that. In a foreign country, I am a bystander to common topics of discussion, with little personal involvement. Integration with the wider community does not happen overnight.
- Identity. Indianness is a large part of my personality. Having lived there 35 years, its culture, lifestyle, cinema, sporting lore, politics, etc have permeated my being. These are not easily shaken off. Citizenship is a particularly ticklish issue. Call me naïve, but renouncing one’s passport and becoming a citizen of another country, constitutes a switching of allegiance. I cannot see myself ever rooting for Australia in a cricket match against India . It troubles me that people can become citizens of a country in brain and body, but refuse to yield, in their hearts, to their adopted land. This reflects a level of convenience and opportunism that I would find rather difficult to handle.
- No reason to quit. As per various reports published by the UN and other agencies from time to time, India is apparently a crappy country, ranking below hundred in the league tables on various human development indices. This is probably true for the millions of economically disadvantaged people in India, but I am fortunate enough not to belong to that category. I had well-to-do parents, who gave me a decent upbringing and access to a decent education. With no particular connections or assets other than an academic inclination and willingness to put in the hours, I was rewarded with admission to the country’s best schools and colleges, and well placed to compete for the most sought after jobs. For me at least, the system worked. Our opinions are shaped by our experience, and mine has, on the whole, been good.
- Parents. We should be near enough to our folks to support them in their old age. This is just one of those non-negotiable aspects of life. It’s gotta be done.
- Kids. “But what about your kids? Isn’t it much better for them here?” Perhaps. Time will tell. School is definitely less stressful here. But it is not as though kids lead deprived lives in India . In any case, they have their lives ahead of them. When they come of age, they can choose where they want to live.
These are my reasons. I can understand others may have entirely different views. To each his own.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Many hometowns
We returned from our India trip last week. It was brilliantly hectic. Over three weeks we travelled 6 places. Delhi, Jaipur, Bangalore, Mysore, Kabini (Nagarhole National Park) and Chennai.
India did not disappoint. The traffic, pollution, crowds and noise were as bad as ever. And I loved it as much as ever.
Not being rooted to any particular city in India, it has always been a bit of a challenge to nominate one place as a hometown. My parents having settled in Bangalore in 1991, it became my "permanent address" and since then officially my hometown. Bangalore beats any other major Indian city hands down on the climate factor. However not having spent my formative years there has meant that my affinity for the city is probably not as strong as a true local.
I would not choose to live in Delhi for reasons of serious cultural wavelength mismatch with its typical inhabitants. But there is a certain something about its iconic landmarks (especially the area around India Gate), wonderful schooltime memories and old friendships which combine to make being in that city a real feel good experience. Also, my mother in law lives there and she is a superb host.
Chennai is nice for its sedate pace, and generally pleasant people (except for autodrivers). People whinge about the climate, but it is only a shade worse than other cities like Mumbai and arguably better than Delhi in summer. Winter is ok. My lack of comfort in the local language though (which doesn't seem that much of a handicap in Bangalore) will probably prevent me from ever adopting Chennai as my hometown.
Mumbai is probably the city I am culturally most in sync with. I like it's live and let live attitude, and work ethic. It is a city of opportunity, where millions run the rat race every day to earn their living. They pick themselves up and hit the road day after day, come high water or terrorist attack. But there is a certain desperation to this lifestyle, and why would anyone choose to be a rat if he/she had a choice?
Kolkata - The city where I have spent the most time. 11 years, to the age of 14. But it seems a distant memory now. I went back there to do my MBA and still had a great fondness for the city. But the fondness was like the affection for an old uncle, whom one may want to meet every few years, to relive memories and listen to wonderful stories, but not really want to stay with for too long. The world is moving on and we have only so much time for nostalgia.
I was born in Hyderabad, and that is where I spent some truly memorable summer vacations in my childhood. My last surviving grandparent lived there and she passed away a few years back. Nothing draws me there now.
India did not disappoint. The traffic, pollution, crowds and noise were as bad as ever. And I loved it as much as ever.
Not being rooted to any particular city in India, it has always been a bit of a challenge to nominate one place as a hometown. My parents having settled in Bangalore in 1991, it became my "permanent address" and since then officially my hometown. Bangalore beats any other major Indian city hands down on the climate factor. However not having spent my formative years there has meant that my affinity for the city is probably not as strong as a true local.
I would not choose to live in Delhi for reasons of serious cultural wavelength mismatch with its typical inhabitants. But there is a certain something about its iconic landmarks (especially the area around India Gate), wonderful schooltime memories and old friendships which combine to make being in that city a real feel good experience. Also, my mother in law lives there and she is a superb host.
Chennai is nice for its sedate pace, and generally pleasant people (except for autodrivers). People whinge about the climate, but it is only a shade worse than other cities like Mumbai and arguably better than Delhi in summer. Winter is ok. My lack of comfort in the local language though (which doesn't seem that much of a handicap in Bangalore) will probably prevent me from ever adopting Chennai as my hometown.
Mumbai is probably the city I am culturally most in sync with. I like it's live and let live attitude, and work ethic. It is a city of opportunity, where millions run the rat race every day to earn their living. They pick themselves up and hit the road day after day, come high water or terrorist attack. But there is a certain desperation to this lifestyle, and why would anyone choose to be a rat if he/she had a choice?
Kolkata - The city where I have spent the most time. 11 years, to the age of 14. But it seems a distant memory now. I went back there to do my MBA and still had a great fondness for the city. But the fondness was like the affection for an old uncle, whom one may want to meet every few years, to relive memories and listen to wonderful stories, but not really want to stay with for too long. The world is moving on and we have only so much time for nostalgia.
I was born in Hyderabad, and that is where I spent some truly memorable summer vacations in my childhood. My last surviving grandparent lived there and she passed away a few years back. Nothing draws me there now.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A load of crab
While lunching at the Kashi restaurant in Annangrove a couple of weeks back, I overheard an interesting conversation between a patron and the owner. The patron, obviously a sea food lover, ordered his choice of crab, and then beckoning the owner with a somewhat embarrassed look, asked, "If you don't mind my asking, how do you kill the crab?"
The owner, quite generous in sharing his knowledge on the subject, nonchalantly replied, "We freeze them. Earlier, people used to put them in hot water, but that's not legal anymore. So we just get the crabs, and put them in the freezer. They die, and then we take them out and do the rest of the cooking."
The patron, his face shining with this newly gained wisdom, nodded his thanks. "Thank you so much. I bought crabs once, to cook at home. But I wasn't sure how to kill them. Now I know what to do."
What happened to those lucky crabs, I wonder. Are they out there somewhere crawling along, blissfully unaware of their good fortune, which postponed the inevitable?
The interesting point in all this is the notion that there is a more humane way to kill. Who decides that freezing a living being to death is a gentler way of killing than dunking it in piping hot water? I mean, you are killing the poor thing, anyway, so why the token show of consideration for the creature's feelings? "Sorry, old boy, you gotta go, because I would like to eat you. But don't worry, I will kill you in a way that doesn't hurt too bad."
It must comfort the crabs to know that we do actually care for them.
The owner, quite generous in sharing his knowledge on the subject, nonchalantly replied, "We freeze them. Earlier, people used to put them in hot water, but that's not legal anymore. So we just get the crabs, and put them in the freezer. They die, and then we take them out and do the rest of the cooking."
The patron, his face shining with this newly gained wisdom, nodded his thanks. "Thank you so much. I bought crabs once, to cook at home. But I wasn't sure how to kill them. Now I know what to do."
What happened to those lucky crabs, I wonder. Are they out there somewhere crawling along, blissfully unaware of their good fortune, which postponed the inevitable?
The interesting point in all this is the notion that there is a more humane way to kill. Who decides that freezing a living being to death is a gentler way of killing than dunking it in piping hot water? I mean, you are killing the poor thing, anyway, so why the token show of consideration for the creature's feelings? "Sorry, old boy, you gotta go, because I would like to eat you. But don't worry, I will kill you in a way that doesn't hurt too bad."
It must comfort the crabs to know that we do actually care for them.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
My favourite Indian restaurant in Sydney
Yesterday the family went to Kashi, an Indian restaurant in Annangrove, that my boss Sridhar recommended last week. The initial attraction lay in the knowledge that the place offers Jhal Muri - that delectable variant of bhel puri, spiked with a dash of mustard oil that any sometime resident of Calcutta would know well.
The place seemed aptly named, for driving there was a mini Kashi Yatra. Kashi is about 21 km from our home in Carlingford, nestled deep inside Sydney's Hills District, and one has to drive through miles of deserted road flanked by huge farmhouses in Kenthurst and Annangrove to get there.
The first impression on stepping inside is a very favourable one. The place is expansive with lots of room to spare. The theme is earthy and the settings dominated by hues of brown and rust. Strains of a 70s Kishore Kumar song in the air, and a few strategically placed Indian artefacts complete the desi mood. We were there on a Saturday afternoon, and it was quite empty, but I guess the place must be a lot busier at dinner. On Sunday nights, they have live music on as well.
The kids had chicken tikka, which they loved. Their more discerning parents noted that the tikka pieces were of that familiar reddish orange colour that most Indian restaurants seem to favour. It is a mystery to us as to why desi restaurants are so generous in colouring their tikkas. In our experience, only Billus in Epping seems to exercise any restraint with colour. Their tikkas are a more seemingly healthy off-white colour, and (I believe) taste as good, if not better.
I'll say this for Kashi - the food comes across as freshly prepared. It is not the standard out of a frozen tin can and into a hot saucepan fare that one gets at many a desi joint. I liked the yellow dal and the Aloo Dum, which were both tasty, although the latter was a trifle oily. The rotis and Nans were soft, although again helped along with a bit of grease. The tamatar ada chatni (tomato ginger chutney) was good too, although I seem to remember the chatni from my childhood Durga Poojos as being more dense and intensely tangy. The Gur Payas (a kheer with rice and date jaggery) was tops.
Overall, the Kashi experience was rewarding, and definitely recommended. I must go back someday for the Jhal Muri, which I missed this time.
About the service: It was very efficient and unfailingly polite.
P.S: During my meal at Kashi, I overheard this engaging conversation between the restaurateur and a patron, about the recommended mode of killing a crab. More on this in another post.
The place seemed aptly named, for driving there was a mini Kashi Yatra. Kashi is about 21 km from our home in Carlingford, nestled deep inside Sydney's Hills District, and one has to drive through miles of deserted road flanked by huge farmhouses in Kenthurst and Annangrove to get there.
The first impression on stepping inside is a very favourable one. The place is expansive with lots of room to spare. The theme is earthy and the settings dominated by hues of brown and rust. Strains of a 70s Kishore Kumar song in the air, and a few strategically placed Indian artefacts complete the desi mood. We were there on a Saturday afternoon, and it was quite empty, but I guess the place must be a lot busier at dinner. On Sunday nights, they have live music on as well.
The kids had chicken tikka, which they loved. Their more discerning parents noted that the tikka pieces were of that familiar reddish orange colour that most Indian restaurants seem to favour. It is a mystery to us as to why desi restaurants are so generous in colouring their tikkas. In our experience, only Billus in Epping seems to exercise any restraint with colour. Their tikkas are a more seemingly healthy off-white colour, and (I believe) taste as good, if not better.
I'll say this for Kashi - the food comes across as freshly prepared. It is not the standard out of a frozen tin can and into a hot saucepan fare that one gets at many a desi joint. I liked the yellow dal and the Aloo Dum, which were both tasty, although the latter was a trifle oily. The rotis and Nans were soft, although again helped along with a bit of grease. The tamatar ada chatni (tomato ginger chutney) was good too, although I seem to remember the chatni from my childhood Durga Poojos as being more dense and intensely tangy. The Gur Payas (a kheer with rice and date jaggery) was tops.
Overall, the Kashi experience was rewarding, and definitely recommended. I must go back someday for the Jhal Muri, which I missed this time.
About the service: It was very efficient and unfailingly polite.
P.S: During my meal at Kashi, I overheard this engaging conversation between the restaurateur and a patron, about the recommended mode of killing a crab. More on this in another post.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Here and there
I guess all Indians who have left their motherland and lived overseas for a while, reflect on the many differences between living back home and out here. The usual suspects include cleanliness, pollution, corruption, stress in day to day living, traffic, law and order, etc.
If I were to choose one word that best desribes the difference between India and Australia (the only first world living experience I have had), it would be complexity. Everything in India is so damned more complex.
It is an interesting quirk of this world that there is only one way to be born, but innumerable ways to die. Here again, the complexity and great variety of India shines through. Contemplating possible modes of death other than natural causes in Australia, one is restricted to transport related accidents (road/air). Hardly anything else comes to mind.
In India, though, apart from vehicular accidents there is a whole palette to choose from: terrorist attack, building collapse, flood related drowning, electrocution by sagging wires, communal violence, and more.
Just one more way in which India offers so much more variety to its inhabitants.
If I were to choose one word that best desribes the difference between India and Australia (the only first world living experience I have had), it would be complexity. Everything in India is so damned more complex.
It is an interesting quirk of this world that there is only one way to be born, but innumerable ways to die. Here again, the complexity and great variety of India shines through. Contemplating possible modes of death other than natural causes in Australia, one is restricted to transport related accidents (road/air). Hardly anything else comes to mind.
In India, though, apart from vehicular accidents there is a whole palette to choose from: terrorist attack, building collapse, flood related drowning, electrocution by sagging wires, communal violence, and more.
Just one more way in which India offers so much more variety to its inhabitants.
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