Advisors Ltd.

 I was on my routine morning walk, music plugged in, smile on my face, wind in my hair, minding my own business, when suddenly a middle aged man sprang up out of nowhere. Indicating my earplugs he mumbled something. Most respectfully I took out the ear plugs and listened to what he had to say.” it’s not good for your health madam”. What? Wait, do I know you? I mean who even gave this man the right to interrupt my peace of mind? Who asked him for his advice? Who was this man?

I was at a social gathering the other day, trying to blend in, looking for some local chit-chat. It was then that I noticed that all the ladies around me were very seriously discussing something. On closer observation I realized that all they were doing was giving their inputs, with very serious tones, on what were their best solutions to problems such as good health, marriages, tackling in-laws, raising kids, raising dogs, training maids, achieving, nirvana and gaining moksha! Their solutions ranging from the humble flax-seed to lemon water concoctions, soups, chickpeas, keeping silence, jasmine tea, deep breathing, ‘The Secret’, warm coconut oil, The Art of Living, salt water gargling, Nirmal Baba! They strutted around in intricate plumes and vibrant colours, targeting meek creatures like myself. The avalanche of free advices cascading down buried me neck deep in the planet of doom and melancholy! Hold on, what qualifies them to be walking wiki-aunts? I mean who even needs their advice, did I ask for it? Most certainly not!

 

My hair-dresser is a compulsive talker. She doesn’t even stop in between sentences to catch a breath! And its solutions and advices all the way. She has the perfect cure for falling hair, thinning hair, greying hair, oily skin, dry skin, and the best part is I never even ask for the advice.

My bai the other day advised me to add kerosene to the poccha water, to get rid of ants. I had only mentioned the fact that there seems to be a lot of ants here. My neighbour advices me to turn vegetarian for purity of my soul, my child’s class-teacher advices me to switch to green tea for cleansing my body, my cousin twice-removed advises me to meditate for calming my mind. These pleasant natured folks are a determined lot, determined to brain wash me with their ‘superior’ intelligence and vast sea of experiences! But who gives them the authority to tell me what I want to do or not to do with my life? Who credits them to dole out advices? 

This breed of advisors can pounce on you anywhere. In public transport, parks, malls, temples, parties, Parent-teacher meetings, even at funerals. You got to be kidding me, escape? There is no escaping them. They are all over the place. You have to be firm. Being polite only adds to their zeal and they might bludgeon you more. They have their own unique styles, some give anecdotes to give authenticity to their advice, some may invite you over to tea to demonstrate, but don’t fall into that trap, they are out to kill your peace of mind. They will not spare you, till you finally give in and slowly one fine day you will turn out exactly like them. Now now, calm down, take a deep breath, don’t want that B.P going up, do we? Here is a bit of “advice” (I am infected too now, a zombie out looking for my prey) turn on that Wi-Fi, go on Google, get that ADVICE!!

The Visitor

All you poor “Migrant” people, who get transferred to places for work, those of you who shift to new cities for jobs, marriages etc, will identify with my feelings here.

Once you leave a city that has been your home for several years, you continue to identify it as “your city” but only till you revisit it. You may still have friends, relatives staying there. Some of you lucky ones may even own a house, yet when you revisit that city you are in its past, you are the visitor to that city, you never feel you belong there anymore.

On this thought I try as bravely as I can to pen down my feelings, an ode to the city of my past.

THE CITY OF MY PAST: I rushed into her arms, like a long separated lover, savoring her sights, sounds and smells. She seemed cold and distant, unyielding to me. My favorite haunts felt outlandish, brimming with strangers, cacophony of uncomprehending conversations, and then the deafening silence. I felt alienated by her changes, even though they were minor ones.  I was the observer, a clear glass window separating me from them. They belonged here, I didn't, I had a return ticket in my bag somewhere, and I had to leave.

MY CITY NOW: At first I was resentful of the move. Hated every moment of the shift. Grumbled, fumed and cursed my fate. She seemed to me shoddy, unworthy of my caliber. I mocked and jeered her for her eccentricities. Comparisons made things worse. I was an emotional wreak at this break off, it tore at my sensibilities, at my very existence.

36000 FEET ABOVE THE EARTH: The city fell back and I rose to greet the sky, my solace in the apathetic flight announcements and travel brochures. I longed for my home in the new city, where the comforting privacy of my pillow would allow me to vent out my emotions. The city had discarded me like bland  over-chewed gum.

                                    

THE CITY OF MY PAST: I see her sometimes, snippets of her beauty, in films, on TV, once overwhelming to me- now, just my yesterday, falling away like dried brown leaves. I had held on to her like you hold on to a single earring when the other half of the pair is lost. What good was that for? So I have decided to toss back the pebbles I had picked up at the beach, back into the sea, where it belongs.

MY CITY NOW: She welcomed me back with a demure expression, never questioning my loyalty. It was as if I had never left. I smiled at strangers, there was a quaintness about this place, I think I may start liking her after all. My home felt snug and secure, domestic chit chat and catching up no longer mundane. I felt so happy to be home, the plate of hot dal-chawl priceless in its value. I set my alarm for morning walk, the forests at Seminary Hills were calling. I think I fell asleep with a smile.

Annie's Story

The tin trunk with its sole occupant perched on it, looked forlorn in the deserted railway platform. She shifted nervously, twisted the handkerchief in her sweaty palms and thought,Where was Appachan?How could he leave her alone at such a place?

Annie (1st Child From The Left)

Annie was 19 years old, tall and slender, her hair tied in a single plait reached almost to her hips, but it was her eyes that people noticed first, when they looked at her, piercing, sharp and intelligent, they sparkled with intensity. It was her eyes for which her mother would often rebuke her, “Behave like a lady, look down and walk, sit with your knees together” And the last one which Annie detested the most “Go! Look after your younger siblings, you’ll not get anywhere by reading a book all day!”

Annie's House in Kaipattoor

Annie loved to read and solve maths (or was it the handsome Math teacher that made her so punctual at school? She blushed at the thought), and much against the wishes of her tyrannical mother, she completed the Intermediate level and was now hoping to do her medical studies from Madras. On the cover of her books she had often scribbled her name as: Dr.Annie Koshy, such was her determination to pursue the medical profession. Unfortunately she got jaundice and by the time she recovered, the admissions were over. Someone suggested Calcutta Medical College and her father agreed to take her there (against protests from his wife). As misfortune would have it, admissions to MBBS had just gotten over there too, and now her father and she were waiting in the deserted Howrah station for the train to take her back to Kerala.

Howrah Station

Dejected and lost in her own thoughts, it took a while for her to notice someone calling her name, she recognized him, it was a distant maternal uncle who had left his home many moons ago to work in the tea estate in some remote place. As they chatted, they realized that “that remote place” had a government medical college and after all, everything was not lost yet, she could still complete her medical studies and fulfill her dream of becoming a doctor. Armed with little knowledge of this new place she was going to, Annie arrived at Upper Assam and enrolled to become an MBBS doctor. This was India in 1956 and communications were very poor. Annie recalls how they had taken a ferry and crossed a mighty river, the widest she had ever seen, The Brahmaputra, changed trains twice and finally reached Dibrugarh.

Tea Garden in Assam

Annie shuddered at thoughts of her early days at this alien and remote land: the food at the hostel mess- everything cooked in pungent mustard oil, river fish, watered down yellow lentils and white rice; the dissections of animals and humans- the stench of rotting flesh and open wounds; and most of all the blabbering of a foreign tongue! She would cry some nights into her pillow, muffling her sobs so that her room mates couldn't hear. It was only her mother’s bitter last words stinging the back of her neck as she walked out of her 100 year old ancestral home that gave her strength to face each morning at medical college. “Don’t ever forget you belong to the most respected family in the village, your grandparents name must never be disgraced.”

Mar Thoma Syrian Church

And this is exactly what young Annie, daughter of Elizabeth and George, belonging to the oldest Mar Thoma Syrian Church Of Malabar did- disgraced her family by marrying her Hindu doctor colleague, the sports captain she met at the inter-university Athletic meet.

He was soft-spoken, kind and understanding. He followed her everywhere with his shy flirty eyes. On their journey back from Guwahati (where the event was held) they managed to get seats next to each other. They stayed up all night chatting in hushed tones, so no one could hear. Annie was amazed at how she could open up her soul to a complete stranger. She had never felt this way before. And from that day on till their 5 years of university was done, Annie and Aroon were shadows of each other. Everyone on campus knew that they would eventually marry, and so they did and had two lovely daughters.

Annie and Aroon, 1960

Cut to 2014: Annie looked up from the book she was reading, Aroon had fallen asleep as usual in front of the TV, she shook him gently, “Come, its late, it’s been a long day, let’s go to bed.”

And so, as they have been doing for 52 long years, my dear loving mum and dad went to bed.

'Tis The Season To Be Jolly?

What do we rejoice about in the passing of this year? What is there to celebrate?

That we killed Democracy in India on 11/12/13 (SC passing Section 377) making criminals out of citizens who use their brains to choose their love partners unbiased on gender issues? Or should we celebrate the fact that we no longer have the fundamental right to choose whom to love? (My 12 years of bragging in Democratic Politics classes to 15 year olds about how wonderful democracy is just got flushed down the polluted Ganga!)

Okay, how about we celebrate freedom- the freedom enjoyed by the Indian women- as an equal citizen. She can go where ever she pleases (especially alone in local trains, mills and malls ); wear whatever she wants (especially jeans and t-shirt); take up any profession(especially journalism and law under able guidance of sex starved male bosses). What’s a few rapes, molestations, sexual favours groping, eve-teasing to stop the 21st Century ‘Nari’ in her new avatar! I feel so safe and secure just by belonging to this great Indian female tribe that I feel the warmth of the blessed season entering my cold lungs and chocking me!

 Now here is one good solid reason we have to celebrate- our country boasts of some really antiquated laws, makes me swell up in pride at this piece of information. It allows 17 year olds who brutally rape and kill on the streets of the capital go scot free but puts parents behind bars for “murdering” their 14-year-old daughter for lack of evidence? Applaud the Great Indian Judiciary, it’s an institution I feel so bright and hopeful about.

Speaking of pride, how do you feel about how we Indians are treated abroad by the arrogant U.S. Government and by all firangis for that matter? (Who cares if they snoop and eves drop on their own citizens?). We are insulated, humiliated, stripped- searched, whether it’s our diplomat Devyani Khobargade , former president of India, cabinet ministers, celebrities, students all alike, treated like the Taliban or the Al  Qaida.

Closer home, I feel the holiday cheer tickling my body silly while surfing the T.V channels where I am entertained to either cross-dressed stand-up comedy shows (what’s with cross-dressing and Indian comedy? ); Or endless animated discussions hosted by arrogant  anchors (read: Arnab Goswami) on topics such as “Indian Culture” or the recent Vidhan Sabha elections. People can’t seem to be able to gather enough balls and form a government at Dilli but insisted of shouting hoarse about “India against corruption” and then forming an Aam Admi party and then sitting around twiddling their thumbs saying ‘Pehle AAP’, while the tax-payer pays for another election tamasha?

Do we cheer for the upcoming  2014 Elections then, where our future lies in the hands of the rising star of Gujarat who personifies hypocrisy, intolerance, authoritarianism and regressive politics who insists he will lead India to “development” (read: lop-sided development ); or for the  imbecile son of the political scion  who gets into fits with his opinions  and then lapses   into  hibernation, it’s a choice between  the devil and the deep blue sea which I am so (not) looking forward to in the new year.

Yes we do seem to have a lot to be cheerful about this season, not even mentioning the onion price rise (will bring tears of joy!), the arrests of God-men and their sons, ( Muzaffarnagar) riots, sugar-cane farmers suicides, mission to Mars and such common every day happenings ! Yeah I am angry. Angry at what I was greeted with each morning of 2013!

And the next person who asks me “What are your New Year plans? How are you celebrating this end of the year season?” is going to get a bash on his head. Fa La La La! 

Club 60- Film Review

The Story: A doctor couple loses their only son to gun violence in the U.S and forfeits all reasons to carry on living, till they meet members of Club 60!  A beautifully woven tale of real life characters where “old” people find a reason to forget their personal grief and loss and enjoy every bit of their lives.

Club 60

My Review: Debutant director Sanjay Tripathy’s poignant story about how people’s expectations are often misplaced somewhere down the road and the house so carefully build with dreams and hopes come crashing down. The protagonist and his spouse, played by Farooque Sheikh and Sarika, were amazing in their performances .Their grief was so real, especially the balcony scene where Sarika tells her husband that she too has lost a son and her pain was equally intense. Her acting was so natural and the whole scene was on single take (new comers should learn from her how to emote naturally and not be over dramatic)! I couldn’t help drool over Sarika’s kurtis and sarees throughout the movie, they were so exquisite.

Why I liked the movie was it was non-judgemental and didn’t give sermons on morals on “Indian Values”, which irritates me a lot in most Bollywood films. It also had a very positive note throughout.

What spoils the movie’s smooth story-telling was its length and one song too many. I feel Raghubir Yadav was a misfit in his role as a Gujarati Mumbaikar as his accent would sometimes switch to a rustic U.P village bum.

But overall it was an emotional journey I undertook with the characters. Watch it for some fine acting, crisp storytelling and great direction. These are movie for which we love the celluloid.

A Still From The Movie

Don’t miss it!

An Affair To Remember

My sweet short romance with the island city of Mumbai started just after a year of living there. It began in secret (as most affairs do). It crept into my life slowly, took over my very existence and now heart racing I recall my rendezvous, in the tree lined Altamont Road; in gorgeous buildings of Ballard pier and Fort; in grand Neo-Gothic buildings of Victoria Terminus; Mumbai High Court and University; in the easily accessible vintage Fiat cabs  with drivers ranging from amicable, crude to boorish;  the breath-taking view from the flyover at Marine Drive at twilight; the crowded and energetic Kalbadevi and Bhulleshwar; the turning from Babulnath temple towards Walkeshwar (takes my breath away each time); the view  from Kamla Nehru Park; racing downhill  towards Kemps corner from Malabar Hill; the crashing waves at Priyadarshani Park; the silhouette of lovers at sunset in Girgaun Chowpatti slowly working  its magic into me.

Victoria Terminus

Some of the simple reasons why I fell in love: The Mumbaikar- Functional, hardworking, unpretentious and practical- here is where I learned to appreciate life. The high energy outside local stations, the hardships and the struggles of the working classes, their long commuting hours, their lack of space and privacy inspires you to live life to the fullest. People let you be what you want to be.

Sunset At Marine Drive

Then it is the extremities of this city- Five star housing apartments with chawls for company, vada pau selling next to fine dining restaurants, MNC CEOs travelling next to the neighbourhood plumber! The list is endless and i have never experienced this anywhere in India.The other reason why I love Mumbai is for its weather- when it rains, it’s the most amorous thing I have ever experienced, the waves in the Arabian Sea swell up in the high tide and crash into the shores (near Haji Ali) and transfix you with their mystery and majesty! You don’t need layers in winter and the summers are tolerable.

Haji Ali

Mumbai has to be experienced during festivals to get a feel of the exuberance that brings out the spirit of the city (culminating in the mad frenzy of Ganpati Visarjan witnessed from the Kennedy Bridge)!

Flora Fountain

I love Mumbai because I feel safe here, it is the only city in India where a woman can safely take a cab at midnight and take the BEST buses without being pinched or gawked at; Can walk at marine drive at 1am and my teenage daughter has the freedom to take public transport and reach her college without feeling intimidated! How many cities in India can boost of this?

Ballard Estate

In Mumbai I feel free, free to go where I please, do what I want, wear what I want, with nobody judging me on my social class, gender or where I come from.

Read the following in a book on Mumbai, “The city is like a mistress- mysterious and engulfing. You can never understand her, and perhaps that is why you may never want to leave her side”

But I did have to leave- With hope that someday, one day, we shall meet again. Au Revoir.

Priyadarshini Park

(Photo Credits: My trusty Samsung phone)

Inter-caste marriages and such other issues

My marriage to a handsome young boy from Bihar in the summer of '92 cannot be called an Inter-caste marriage in the true sense. It can however be called an Inter-cultural, inter-caste marriage. I being born in the Brahmaputra valley speaking Assamese, raised in a hybrid cultural assimilation and he to traditional rural North Indian culture at the banks of the Gandak (tributary of the Ganga).

My mother’s marriage to my father can’t be called an Inter-caste, inter-cultural marriage either. She being a Malayali Syrian-Christian from the southernmost state of India and my ‘Hindu’ father from the land of black magic and the famous Kamakhya Temple. Theirs was an Inter-caste, Inter-cultural, Inter-faith marriage in the real sense.
Explaining the intricacies of my lineage takes up many a social chit chats. Most people respond in startled surprise at my frankness. In a nation where almost 80% marriages are arranged by the parents and elders, my confessions seem too brash.
My relations with my in-law’s culture went through stages: childlike obsession bordering at infatuation for all things Bihari, to learning their cultural ethos, then frustration at the clash of social etiquettes and customs and finally adaptation to a convenient lifestyle and acceptance.
Now I understand, after celebrating 22 years of wedlock, it had been a long struggle from both our sides but love and patience triumphs in the end.

 I am no authority to comment on the advantages or disadvantages of such marriages vis-a-vis the parental arranged ones but being a parent of a daughter, I know that   when she chooses a boy to wed, I will ask for information on his family background, his education and his occupation but finally, give my blessings as she, being an adult by then, would have seen all of these herself and I trust her innate wisdom.

We live in the 21st century; our children freely interact with each other, why can’t they be trusted to find their own life partner?
I salute my parents and my In-laws for accepting this change a long time ago. God Bless them.

The House Behind My House

There is a bungalow behind my house. It may have been built around 100 years ago.

No one lives there anymore. I always imagine what its residents would have been like. The man of the house may have been an Imperial Civil Service officer (Popularly called the British Indian Civil Services).

He would have come all the way from his cold and wet island, schooled at Eton and Cambridge, poor chap. At first he may have lived alone but subsequently his wife and children may have joined him. She wouldn’t have liked this place too much. Always complained of the heat, the dust, and the mosquitoes!

Sometimes at night I hear the Memsahib call for the Ayah to take the “Baba” for a stroll. Sometimes jazz music floats out from the empty hall.

 There is a cemetery down the hill that I often pass on my way back home. I sometimes stop and read the names on the tombstones; maybe my neighbours live there now!

Finding A Small Reason To Be Happy

Circa 1980- Flashback: Watering my garden

Early winter morning 2013: Watering my garden

The water hose spray the dust away from the leaves and left them shimmering in the soft morning light. They glittered like emerald. Suddenly a couple of butterflies choose my garden to dance in and birds started a chirpy song somewhere in the shade of the tree overhead.

Why was I feeling so pleased with myself? Why did I suddenly feel I was back in my childhood home doing what I used to do so often, as if the years didn’t exist in between! The morning went by with a smile on my face and I was happy!

That’s the point of living: Finding a reason in our daily life to be happy. It may be a call or a text from a friend, a smile from another, a good book, a song over the radio, a dish you made for your family. But this small reason can give us  enough happiness for the rest of the day. 

 Have a good day!

When In Rome

Our first posting was in New Delhi in 1994 we lived there till 2003. Incidentally I have lived in this city and done my post-graduation before that, so I can claim to be familiar with its nuances and moods, but here I am talking of just the dressing of its female denizen. The women in the streets are smartly attired and well groomed. They wear the latest in Desi fashion whether it is the Patiala salwar, salwar kameez, churidar-kurta. These days jeans and kurti and western wear is popular too. It’s like committing hara-kiri to turn out in grumpy clothes and dishevelled hair. The ‘Bibijis’ mostly  wear tailored to fit. The thing about Delhi is the area speaks of the class of people you are going to bump into. Khan Market and G.K will be high in Fashion Quotient while Rajori Garden and Pritampura may be less. But everyone on every street turns out well. And  New Delhi parties come with a warning- attend only if you have fortune to shell out because the checking you will be subjected to is akin to immigrations at JFK! After all, Delhi is the fashion capital of India, Bhaiya!

(Delhi women are always well turned out)

                                               

Punjab is similar to Delhi in ladies fashion, but a notch higher on glitz! The ladies of Punjab love Kitty Parties and I, talking about Punjabi kitty party gear will be like me talking about Bombay Stock Exchange!! But this much I know that each party will have a theme (animal print, floral, a specific colour, western outback, animation!!!)  You need to shell out big bucks to wear a designer garb each time! Or you could take help from “www.kittypartiesthemes.com” a website actually exists)! Moral of the story: Oye Chak De Phatte!!

(Women of Ludhiana, Punjab)

Mumbai is a whole different ball game! Everyone wakes up, throws on some clothes (accessories optional) sits on the local and goes to work. The dress is crushed and very ordinary, picked off the rack; no thought goes into the hair or the face. The SOBO college kids (a small hand full of exceptions) may sport the latest Indi-fashion, but that’s that. I have been a Towner and I have no knowledge of the suburbs, sorry. In Mumbai you get to save on your beauty treatments and designer boutiques because  everyone is buying BIBA, Lifestyle or Pantaloons. In some pockets of this Metropolis you will even find “Nightie”clad women roaming the streets doing their daily chores! The Gujju ladies can however be easily spotted; they will be the most colourful and the most vibrant lot! Dressing well is a minuscule minority here. Motto is dress as you please! Sab Kuch Chalta Hai Yaar! 

(Women shopping at Colaba, Mumbai)

Nagpur: Wow! what do we see here on the streets, well we don’t! The girls are all covered up in scarves and dupattas and only their eyes are visible!!! The Taliban will love this place. I thought it was the heat but they are still all covered up and it’s November for Christ’s sake!! Don’t ask, I have done the research; some say pollution, some say it’s to avoid stares, some just shrug their covered shoulders and shake their covered necks!! Poor dears!!

So can we safely declare our national dress as THE SALWAR KAMEEZ!? It’s overtaken the sari (which I think looks gorgeous when well tied) and all other regional dresses. So all Indian ladies on the road in ill fitted ugly salwar suits, Now that’s like a scene from a zombie movie! And I too am one of them cause I believe in the phrase “When in Rome, do as the Romans do". Sigh!

Death

The corpse,
Naked and forlorn
Sans desires
Sans longing,
Waiting for the final consummation.
Wishes laying wasted
Dreams abandoned
Like the fading twilight.
To the all-enveloping darkness.
Time like a shroud
meaningless now.
Seasons changing,
Lover's tears,
Words of endearment
Just futile and empty they fall.
Trapped in my wants and wishes
I bid farewell to the ghosts from my past.

On Being Unladylike

I have a confession to make. I’m going to ignore the fact that this is a lousy place to make a confession. I think I don’t have a single ladylike bone (if there is such a thing) in me. I realized this many many summers ago. My earliest memory (now isn’t memory a fickle thing) is of this very gawky teenager dropping her big sister’s nail polish bottle and staring at the ugly spill on the floor. Why i picked up the bottle in the first place beats me, because I never knew what it was for anyway. I used to wear my sister’s hand me downs or her “designed” dresses. Yeah we are old; we belong to the era before readymade clothes. I remember staring at women’s magazines and wondering how they managed to look so pretty, totally ignorant about such things as make-up, hair style, waxing and what have you till almost my late 20s. These days I see girls who are in their single digit age discussing ombre hair and nail art (who ever thought of such atrocious things?).

When I got married and set up house, my dear hubby(God bless him), set up the kitchen, brought all the knick-knacks  and even taught me to make tea, cook daal, rice and a basic meal. The rest I learnt (literally) from around the country where ever we went on postings and had friendly neighbours (they are a rare thing, let me tell you).

 Embroidery is like Latin and Greek to me, i can’t seem to be able to even thread a needle. When i was in school and we had needle and craft classes, all my final products for submission looked so good (with 100% contributions from mother and sister) that my teacher never believed they were mine inspite of my eye lash batting looks!!! These days bad eye sight is a good excuse, but imagine me as a new bride in my in-laws house, when my extremely talented sister-in-law starts filling a whole bed cover with intricate creepers and flowers! And when my mom-in-law tells me to knead the flour for chappatis (I fibbed a stomach pain and disappeared into the toilet till the coast was clear!)

When we invite guests over for dinner i stick to safe dishes like Paneer, Chicken, Dal, rice or order dinner from outside. Wait, isn’t a get together with friends suppose to be fun and not a platform to show off your cooking skills? Then i die of guilt when we go over to exotic Moroccan or Malaysian dinner spread  and the hostess proudly  announces  “I made all the food myself!” and I practice my fake awe look and polish off a  few more hors-d’oeuvre!

I am so useless with art skills (painting, sketching, photography, paper cutting, even drawing a straight line) that when my daughter gets projects from school, no marks for guessing where i run to. She now has all the skills to handle those scary projects all on her own.

Now, being unladylike comes with a lot of disadvantages, especially since i am a mother of a very ladylike girl- she even has a blog called “All That Estrogen”! But i have an advantage- my better half (now that’s the reason why we call them that) is highly skilled in cooking. He loves to cook! The more exotic, the taster the dish he turns out. He loves buying the weekly vegetables, fruits and non-veg. He loves to plan the menu and has green fingers in our garden. My daughter and he sit and plan the furniture and other stuff when we move into a new house, choose the curtains and the paint for the walls. Thank heaven my daughter is quite ladylike and yes she bakes cup-cakes and does her own French manicure!

(Brownies my daughter baked yesterday!)