In the Eyes of the Beholder

This blog post goes out in public interest. To share a horrifying experience I recently had in Delhi. It takes me all my will to come out and write about it, but I know that out there, there have to be other girls, who have gone through the same nightmare as what I faced recently.

This is for all of you, just to let you know, you’re not alone.

The trauma of entering a beauty shop.

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with what most beauty shop set ups are like, at least the ones I’ve been to in Delhi Lajpat Nagar market and such. One shop, with a counter which extends straight inside, with salespersons (or in my horrifying case, all salesgirls) dedicated to different kinds of products, starting from shampoos to lip balms to cosmetics to finally the last counter: the rather embarrassing lingerie collection (where you can find everything from the stringiest thongs to the stretchiest tummy tuckers. But that’s another blog post some other time). What this store structure essentially means is, that you have a narrow passage way to navigate, cross all counters till you find the correct counter for your need, with only one door: the entrance, and more importantly, the exit.

Now on a usual day, these shops are packed to a suffocating hilt, with kids running around asking their mums about lipstick, women haggling over shampoos, and embarrassed husbands trying to keep their gaze away from that rather enigmatic last counter. Now these are the good days which simply require you to follow a simple process:

1. Breathe in
2. Enter shop
3. Locate correct counter and salesperson
4. Fight a few aunties, kick a few kids, reach the counter
5. Ask for product
6. Receive product
7. Thrust money at the counter
8. Get out
9. Breathe out and thank God for still being alive

And that’s the process I went over in my head before I entered the beauty shop near my home in Delhi, recently.

I took a deep breath and entered the store.

And it was empty.

And there were four saleswomen.

And in unison, their eyes suddenly rested on me.

I was sucked in before my brain could go from step 1 to 2.

“Yes Ma’am how can we help you?”

I…erm…wanted a kajal…

“Sure Ma’am, right here!”

I turned towards the three different counters which chimed up the last line.

Now I do not have a complete recollection of what happened next. It is but a blur. The doctor said something about selective memory as a defence mechanism of the brain against trauma.

I do vaguely remember my arms being pulled out on both sides. And then I remember feeling a lot of random liquids and brushes and pencils being tried out on my skin.

And suddenly, I found myself the subject of a group discussion, much like the ones I hated throughout my placement season in college. Now, if you have ever participated in a GD, you would realize that every GD eventually has certain kinds of people...

The one who starts the GD, and lays down the basic problem being dealt with:

“Ma’am, you have really oily skin!”

And then the one who isn’t really satisfied with the introduction, so he redefines the problem and tries to point out a new angle:

“Ma’am, so many pimples!!!”

And then the problem-solution guy. This is the person who will point out another problem altogether, and give a solution to the same. So he’s the all rounder you hope to recruit. He has a problem, and he has a solution, just not necessarily the one you wanted to discuss to begin with:

“Your hair are so frizzy, you need this leave in conditioner.”

And then the few who really don’t know what to say, and will try their best by piping in one or two not such important points and repeating earlier said points in the hope to get noticed:

“So many black heads on your nose!”

“But as I was saying, that’s because of oiliness.”

“Arre can’t you see all the pimples?”

And the concluder, who aims at getting the maximum points by summarily summarizing all points not necessarily his own:

“Yes, so in conclusion I would like to say, that a very pimply specimen with crazy frizzy curly hair has just walked into our shop. The root cause of her predicament seems to be oily skin, caused probably by bad food habits and an unhealthy lifestyle, or just a really really late attack of puberty. We have of course, by way of this highly unproductive and also a bit insulting discussion realized that the best course of action is to bombard her with a list of beauty products which will probably cause her skin to break and fall off by the time she is 30. Thank y…”

And finally, the one guy who never lets a discussion conclude peacefully, and always comes up with a point at the absolute last minute, causing the almost tamed discussion to go into a tizzy:

“Ma’am, some weight reduction lotion?”

That was the last straw. That was when I banged my bag down on their scratched glass counter and finally looked at them with a stare meant to murder, resuscitate, and murder even more cruelly all over again. My words cut through them like the knife of a brutal butcher who loves his work a little too much. By the end of my five minute monologue, there was fear, there were tears, there was enlightenment. The poor ignorant souls had been introduced to the concept of inner beauty, and their lives had been changed forever.

Sure. Or at least that’s the way I like to remember it.

What I did do was pretend to get a call and run out of the store.

Learnings:

1. There are some things that can manage to cause an even lower self esteem than Cosmopolitan magazine.
2. Multi-purpose chemists are rather awesome, specially the ones that sell kajal.
3. Pimples eventually do go away. I think.

The Week That Was...

In one week, I bought 2 dresses, 3 belts, 1 pair of pants, 1 shirt and new shoes. This was after I thought my shopping for the year was done and over with. You have to be a girl to understand the kind of pleasure that brings. Or maybe a closet shopaholic guy.

In one week, I travelled comfortably all the way across town to watch two movies.

In one week, I stayed as dry as possible and walked in the rain. By choice.

In one week, I’ve had chicken omelettes, sausages, juice, special scrambled eggs, innovative French toast, sautéed mushrooms, marmalade, cranberry, pineapple and mixed fruit juice, chicken barbeque steak, chicken curry, butter chicken, chicken biryani, pahadi chicken, Caesar’s salad, tequila chicken, pesto chicken, Philadelphia cheese cake, New York cheesecake, Merci, Toblerone, and extremely gooey chocolatey cake. This isn’t even the whole list. I know. Like wow.

In one week, I’ve worn my favourite pair of pants to work every day. Might sound gross, but it made me feel nice.

In one week, I’ve realized I’m comfortable, warm, nourished, the recipient of a lot of affection, have belief, a fragrant life and can now document all these memories ;)

In one week, I’ve realized just how special my friends are.

In one week, I have been happier than ever before.

In one week, I saw life just the way it should be. Always.

Words cannot possibly do justice to this one week.

Because that’s how super-amazingly-ass-kicking-awesome this one week was.

Thank you.


P.S. At the end of the week, through all the happiness, I somehow firmly believe that my flight got delayed yesterday cuz all my extra weight caused the jet to lag (getit?? getit???? Oh come on!)


P.P.S. Ok, fine, so I added the 'P.S.' just to try out my awesome joke. Hmph!!!

But it Rained.

Sometimes, just sometimes, it should rain.

Sometimes, just sometimes, you should get drenched to the bone.

As the rain hits your skin, little determined needles with just one passion in life,

To break you.

To break your resolve, your belief, your tough exterior.

Sometimes, you need the rain.

To take away the shock, to let you feel the pain.

To reach into the darkest side of you, and wrench it out in slow graceful moments.

To remind you, that suffering is important.

To make you understand, that at this very moment, you are alone.

In the dark.

In the rain.

And then to softly caress each part of you.

To tell you it will all be alright.

That you are not alone in the downpour.

That this is but a test, for everyone.

To wash away your tears, for they are but worthless in its sea

To show you, that there will be a sun.

That at the end of the road is a dry haven.

That you’re not a fool for believing.

To give you hope.

To let you love.

Fate

He came into this world

A little bundle of joy

He looked around impatiently

And waited for her to join

She came into this world

Farther this world round

She basked in his love

And waited to be found

They grew up in two corners

Knowing deep in their hearts

They were meant to be together

Existing far apart

Somehow they always knew

Somewhere they were meant to be

But in the name of growing up

Mature was he, and she

Years passed and so did dreams

Of destiny love and fate

They chanced upon each other

Too little, too late

Why did you take so long? She asked

Where were you when I cried?

I was waiting for you right here, he said

Waiting the entire time

Why didn’t you wait for me? He asked

Why did you give up?

You were a figment of my imagination, she said

It was time to grow up

As fate shone down upon them

Victims of their own belief

This world claimed many a cynics

And drowned them in its grief

But two souls brought into this world

Meant to be, meant to be

Lost faith and yet found each other

And made their own destiny.

Lost

There’s no other word for it. Because I can’t describe it. I just can’t. I’m feeling something, I don’t know if it’s an overload of something, or a void, suddenly cracked open, left for me to leak out of slowly, undetectable, unavoidable…

So here I am, using my blog for what it does best, to think. Here are the thoughts in my head, right now, at this very moment, and in the few moments that have led up to this moment:

Are you a hypocrite, if you have spent your entire life rebelling against control, and suddenly not only willingly succumb to it, accept it, but ask for it?

Is hypocrisy bad?

If your priorities change in life, is it really that big a deal? Have you changed as a person? Or have you finally grown up?

The small brown round things in my oregano, are they some kind of seed, or dead bugs?

How long have they been in there?

Would it really have been so difficult to have spotted them before I polished off my generously garnished meal?

Why did I choke on my medicine?

Why do I find it impossible to hold down a thermometer using my tongue?

Why did I break the thermometer?

Why does something as poisonous as mercury look oh-so-pretty on the bathroom floor?

Why did the last five thoughts and events occur in a span of five minutes?

What has the maid been using to cook, when there seems to be no cooking oil in the house?

Why do I suddenly feel emotions? Why do I like it?

Why am I so happy? Then why do I feel so sad?

Why am I suddenly homesick?

Why does the ship feel lost without its Captain, even if it has been safely anchored?

Why do I actually know the answer to each of the above asked questions, and yet, still ask?

If you are in any remote way responsible or linked to any of the below mentioned things, it might be best to stay out of my face.

Yes, I know, I suddenly have a thing for awesomely long sentences as my post headings.

Whattodo.

Yes, it’s one of those days, where you want to be really really positive, you dress up nicely for office, slick down that one last strand of astray hair, and step out right into pouring rain, ankle deep muck, and no autos.

Yes, it’s one of those days.

And you’re the lucky person who clicked on my blog link.

So, if you are in any remote way responsible or linked to any of the below mentioned things, it might be best to stay out of my face. Just repeating the heading. For the slower ones. The following is a list of things I simply can’t stand:

• People who think asking questions is their birth right
• Stereotypes.
• People who believe in stereotypes.
• Bad grammar
• Gossip. Not the girl. She’s rather entertaining.
• People who see beauty in every freaking thing. I’m sorry, that puddle of stinky dirty water, is a puddle of stinky dirty water. And now that it’s all over your clothes…oh wait, it’s still a puddle of stinky dirty water.
• All sentences that end with 3 of these:    <3 <3 <3
• Dear people without brains, ssshhhhhhhhh!
• Dear Mumbai Autowala, while I won’t even try to go into trying to understand where in this city you might agree to go, please, a humble request from the soaked girl standing in the rain, don’t make a face when I tell you a certain place I need to go. It’s not that bad a place. It might not be as hot and happening as where you wanted to go…but…sorry...I didn’t meet your expectations. I’ll try harder next time.
• Dear Nosy people, sooner or later, you’ll catch a cold.
• Public loos.
• People who treat the world like their private loo.
• People who should’ve been born four centuries ago. And grown extinct.
• MCPs.
• Women who prove MCPs right.
• Back-stabbers.
• Dumb back-stabbers who get caught.
• Actually, I can live with the latter. They’re dumb. It’s not really their fault then, now is it?
• Being judged. Yes, I finally went past boredom on this one. I’m just plain annoyed now.
• Being used. Can’t remember when this happened last, but if it did, it would deserve to be on this list.
• Being replaceable. Hmm.

Actually, I don’t have that many things on my list anymore. This year is going rather well. The rain hasn’t bothered me as much. I love my work. I love the people around me. I have more support and love than I could ever imagine possible. I’m not half the cynic I used to be. I’m not a borderline depressant, and you don’t need to worry if something’s happened to me just because I didn’t blog for some time.

But it’s just…one of those days, you know?

Kthxbai!

 <3 <3 <3

Why Living Alone is a Must for Everyone at least Once in their Lives

Yes, the heading of this post is kinda long. And not very intelligent. I toyed with the idea of putting up a witty heading, a random heading, a completely vague heading, or a heading which throws you off track. But here it is. Exactly what I’m going to write about. Just the way it is in my head.

Why living alone is a must for everyone at least once in their lives:

• You understand the concept of rent. Unless of course you’re one of those lucky spoilt brats, who happen to have a house in every city, or happen to have a rich uncle who happens to have a house in every city in the damned country. Or if you’re a gujju. Then the above is by default.
• You realize for the first time in your life just how bloody expensive cheese is.
• You fall for the Big Bazaar discount trap at least once. And you only realize it at the end of two hours, an overflowing shopping cart, and a slightly bugged cashier who just had to repeat your bill amount to you twice after seeing a big “Huh?!?” splashed in bright red colours across your face.
• Plumbers, electricians and maids suddenly become a very very important part of your life.
• You understand the entire point of a frost free fridge. Sadly you understand it only once it malfunctions. And floods your kitchen. And all the Big Bazaar food shopping of that week.
• Sodexho coupons become your secret love affair.
• The iron wala becomes this elusive fairytale character you always endeavour to catch, and mostly fail to lay your hands on.
• The house parties you were in love with in your student days, now come with an additional after party: the next day. This day is spent cleaning up spilt food, broken glass, random passed out people...
• Remember how your mom always asked you to clean your room? And you groaned and thought in your head “What’s the point? It’s going to be like this again soon! Plus, I know exactly where everything is”. Well, as it turns out, there is no threshold limit of dirtiness in your room. You can go on piling clothes on every horizontal surface humanly possible, until the cupboard is emptier than the room. But be warned, there will be a day, when you’re running late for office, with one of the most important meetings in your life early in the morning, and you will not, I repeat, will not be able to find any clean underwear.
• You finally understand why your mom encouraged you to buy clothes during sale season, and shut up the rest of the year.
• You finally understand why your dad got furious about leaving the lights and fans on in the house when they weren’t required.
• You suddenly discover the joy of Mc Donalds happy price menu.
• You eventually grow sick of Chicken McGrill.
• You cook.
• You get overjoyed by the edible mess on your plate. You wonder why people crib about cooking. This is the first time you tried, and you managed to make some pretty yummy mess.
• You cook again the next day.
• Then you skip a day, because well, its ok, every alternate day of cooking is still healthy.
• Ok, so every weekend you’ll make something good.
• Or once a month.
• And then you realize how hot it is in the kitchen.
• Hello maid!
• The oil suddenly starts getting consumed at a super fast speed, vegetables do tend to disappear, along with some chocolates from the fridge, and the food isn’t like home, but there’s food every day. You're happy.
• But then, you see the maid cutting your vegetables on the floor, because apparently it’s easier than using the chopping board, and the clean kitchen counter.
• Bye bye maid!
• You realize the paucity of good maids in your city.
• You realize what happens to bathrooms if not cleaned very regularly. Let’s not get into the details of this one.
• You know how there’s always a blob of icky hair on the drainage cover in the shower? You know how you always saw it at home, but did nothing about it? You know how if you did nothing long enough, it used to magically disappear? Well, guess what. It doesn’t any more.
• You find yourself organizing things in your head, figuring out timelines of the electrician, maid, plumber and Big Bazaar, draining out the fridge, restocking it with limited cheese, and cleaning your room, well, once in a while at least.
• You find yourself proudly showing off your home to your Dad.
• You find your Mom mentioning how she now knows you can survive on your own now.
• You grow up.
• Or...you find a flat mate who has gone through the above mentioned process and grown up.

A Walk in the Clouds

The rain

To hurt

The wind

To uproot

The clouds

To blur

The view

To daze

Your love

To live.

For the Love of Shoes

It’s funny how the smallest things in life can turn into ordeals for some. Shoe shopping for example, has always been something I look forward to, and something that makes me cry.

It’s almost impossible to find the perfect shoes that you set out to hunt for.

Kinda like men, dontcha think?

Oh well.

Anyhoo…shoe shopping has ALWAYS been a task for me. Some simple things I wish salespersons would keep in mind:

• Am I looking for shoes? In a shoe store? Jeez! That’s a tough one. Let me take a moment to think about how to answer that in a correct and precise manner.
• No, you can’t help me. Because you can’t carry my feet around and push them into shoes, you know?
• No, just because you thrust that shoe almost up my nose, doesn’t mean I can appreciate its prettiness any more than when it was sitting on the stand looking ugly.
• I’m already 5’6”. Try not to make me over 6 feet tall, if possible.
• I know my feet are big. Pointing to the men’s section does not win you any brownie points. Well, you know what they say about men with big feet… Oh wait. That doesn’t apply here, does it?
• When I say I wear a size 39, try to trust me. Don’t get me a 36 and ask me to trust you. Especially when your plans for the next two minutes involve shoving my foot into a casket too small for it.
• The purpose of my shoes are to keep my feet comfortable. I don’t need to be able to see my reflection on them. That’s what mirrors in loos are for. Or up someone’s skirt. That’s what the Delhi perverts are for.
• Oh you think they’re perfect? Buy them then na.
• Try not to look at my bathroom slippers to judge whether I’m worth your time or not.
• Try to not frown because its 21:01 when I’m helping you meet your month’s target, ALDO bitch.

Yeah, ok, so I have a bone to pick with a certain ALDO saleswoman. But that still doesn’t change the fact that shoe shopping can be a pain.

But in my experience, you also happen to find the perfect pair when you least expect it. When you were just ambling along with a friend who’s going frantic looking for shoes. Or when there are two minutes left for the store to close, and the saleswoman is breathing down your neck. Or when Aliens attack, and in the last few moments of life, man’s most exquisite creation presents itself to you, in your size, and the colour you wanted…

But you do find them, when you least expect it.

Kinda like men, dontcha think?

Oh well.

Snippets

Mumbai monsoons. That damned season of the year. It’s back again. Early apparently. How sweet of it.

It’s raining cats and dogs outside right now. Cats and dogs. Funny phrase. I wonder what would actually happen if it rained cats and dogs. A lot of yelping and screeching, I think.

Saw the latest X Men last night. Oh speaking of superpowers and movies, I remember the time I went for the most boring movie on the planet with some friends and Morrison turned to me in a crucial scene and asked, “What’s your superpower?”. First time I met Morrison. And I didn’t know my superpower. Of course I also didn’t know that his name wasn’t Morrison till like a year later. I did find out that he could fly under water, though.

Oooooh, and I’m in love. With my new umbrella. It’s dark blue, with little white hearts, and a white frill at the end. No no, don’t adjust your glasses, lil nerd, or your lenses lil-nerd-in-hiding, you read right. A blue umbrella with hearts and a white frill. Yup. It’s the cutest gift ever. And it’s mine….my precious! <3

Did you know that if you find a fly in your food in Mainland China, and don’t make a fuss about it, you get a free starter? And a membership card? Next time I plan to swap the fly for a dessert. I'm sure the fly won't mind.

Ooooh, I could do with some nice dessert just about now.

I miss Nirula’s HCF. Gooey chocolatey bliss.

Blah, now I miss home.

In the past one month, I have had Iranian food, Kashmiri food, Mughlai, chopsuey, food cooked with love, and food cooked by me.

Ok, so I might have lied about the last one.

In the past one month, I have not looked at the weighing machine.

I forgot what I wanted to write about. I’m forgetting so much nowadays. Should start writing them down.

I want pweetty shoes.

Yes, I’m talking like a girl.

Yes, I’m restless and in a random mood.

Duh.

Congratulations, Einstein.

Blood Bath

Ever felt

Stabbed?

In the back?

Right through the heart?

Ever wondered

How it would feel?

Knowing

You sharpened the knife?

The Cho Cha!!! – Two in One

It’s been some time.

It’s been a few busy weeks.

It’s been two chopsueys.

Yes, I got lazy.

Here’s two in one.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The challenge is simple.

Mumbai.

Random tiny Chinese Restaurants.

One American Chopsuey.

Every week.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Location 1: Fat Kong (Santa Cruz)

Location 2: Ordered in, Gyoza Banjara (Andheri East)

Order: Chicken American Chopsuey

Disappointed.

One put too much of everything.

The other too little.

Too much tomato, too much ketchup, too much sugar.

No sugar. No ketchup. Nothing.

But both were enjoyed.

With company.

Because, while it does spice things up, prove theories, make you believe…

You have to admit,

Life isn’t just about chopsuey.

Strange Love.

Bippity Bopp

Wake up: With my phone alarm

Shower: With a mirror

Breakfast: With a newspaper

Office: With a laptop

Conversations: With a messenger

Thoughts: With a blog

Food: With a weighing machine

Exercise: With a video

Interact: With a busy messenger icon

Enquire: With Google

Find your way: With GPS

Lose it: With a whim.

When all Life needs is a series of beeps.

When human interaction is redundant.

When all you need is a touch.

And you get it.

Life’s good.

The Cho Cha!!! - Part 3

The challenge is simple.

Mumbai.

Random tiny Chinese Restaurants.

One American Chopsuey.

Every week.

Week 3

Location: Stomach II (7 Bungalows, Andheri West)

Order: Chicken Schezwan, Chicken American Chopsuey, Fresh Lime Soda, Iced Tea

I know, Stomach??? Doesn’t sound too appealing by its nomenclature now does it? But my suggestion…swallow all critical raised eyebrows and step into this place. It is absolutely completely worth it.

The restaurant is lively, to say the least. They were running at full capacity on a Monday night. The place is small, but colorful, with no dingy lights or dragons hanging anywhere. No pseudo chinki waiters, no pseudo chinki uniforms, nothing to remind you that you’re sitting in a supposedly authentic Chinese restaurant. It’s as Indian and normal as it gets, with no pretenses, and well, a few chinki jokes on their menu thrown in. Oh well, what to do. We are Indians. We are like that wonly.

So when the Captain suggested the restaurant, I was rather skeptical at first. Oh wait, I haven’t introduced Captain till now, now have I? Dammit… *drum rolls* Captain is the original, pure and better form of Shreya. The supposed non-screwed up form, but that is still to be verified over time. I’ve known him forever. In fact, Captain deserves much more space on this blog and a dedicated post, but that will come with time. Till then, ladies and gentlemen, kindly put your hands together for the debut appearance of Captain on this blog! *holds Applause cue card*.

Haan, so where was I? Oh ya…I was skeptical. Not to mention tired after a really long day. BUT…The schezwan chicken was good. The fresh lime soda, perfect…not over or under saturated with sugar. And the iced tea…it was….wait for it…..actually tasting of tea!!! I’m sorry, but a place which actually makes its own iced tea, and doesn’t use Nestea powder, definitely gets brownie points from me!

Which brings us to the main stuff. The chicken American Chopsuey. IT-WAS-GOOD.

• Sweet, but not in excess
• Right amount of gravy-noodle ratio
• Right thickness of noodles
• No pieces of tomato
• Right amount of vegetables
• Non-sunny egg
• Perfect quantity
• Heavenly

Oh, that’s another thing, you can choose between small and regular quantities. Small of everything was absolutely perfect for us. And cheap too.

So my final words of wisdom for Week 3:

• Not everything is the way it looks
• Sometimes Indian aint that ghastly
• Pretense usually is though
• Originality and flexibility count like hell loads in my head
• Food always does manage to set the mood for the day ahead
• A better version of me is possible
• The Captain knows best

Oh well…until next week!

P.S. Plan to step out of Andheri next week for the challenge. Any suggestions?

American Chopsuey trivia of the day: Chopsuey comes from the Cantonese term 'shap sui' literally meaning 'mixed small bits' or 'odds and ends'. 

The Cho Cha - Part 2!!!

The challenge is simple.

Mumbai.

Random tiny Chinese Restaurants.

One American Chopsuey.

Every week.

Week 2

Location: The Golden Fork (Oshiwara)

Order: Chicken sweet corn soup, American Chopsuey, fresh lime soda, Thums Up

So now this place looked tiny and dingy from the outside, making it the ideal next stop for the Chopsuey Challenge. On entering though, it seemed like a pretty decently done up restaurant with nice little lampshades (highly tempting to steal for home), and two waiters. I should probably not include the furnishing and the waiters in one sentence, but believe me, there was good enough reason to do that.

The order was taken fast enough. We were starving and thirsty, and specially asked for the drinks to be brought in immediately.

We waited. And waited. The hunger made the wait seem longer, but I do think they were on time with the food.

But that’s the problem.

They got the soup.

No drinks.

We called the waiter and reminded him about the drinks. Now here’s a problem I seem to face with a lot of waiters. They start nodding halfway through your sentence, and suddenly their eyes are glazed and concentrating on the kitchen door or a table on the other side of the room, and you know you’ve lost them. So while the waiter heard “Fresh lime and Thums Up”, I’m really not sure whether he heard what to do with them.

So we waited.

The soup was removed.

No drinks.

We called waiter number 2. Who nodded after the first two words itself, and headed back to the main door. Not his table. Not his headache. Clearly.

The food came.

No drinks.

We concentrated on the couple behind us who were trying to concentrate on each other waiting for their food and drinks. We wondered if he was aerating the drinks himself, however gross that sounds.

And then he emerged, victorious, our knight in shining armour, with a tray full of drinks for all the tables.  A collective sigh of relief went through the restaurant. The supposed bar was finally open. The fresh lime was placed in front of us. The Thums Up was shown to us, then slid out from right under our noses and displayed on top of the cupboard, for us to drool over, while he served fresh lime everywhere else. I could half imagine Akshay Kumar doing a super dive across the restaurant for it, but alas, us mere mortals, sat there and waited in-stead.

The sweet corn soup was standard, so was good. The chopsuey itself, I don’t really feel like writing about. It just wasn’t right this time. The noodles were a little too thick. So eventually, in-stead of the tangy-sweet taste of the sauce, all that was left was the floury aftertaste of the noodles. As for the sauce itself, it wasn’t sweet, and that turned me off completely. Just a few things that I wish Chinese restaurants would keep in mind when making American Chopsuey:

• It is supposed to be sweet. Sugar is one of the ingredients.
• It is not supposed to have chunks of tomato in it.
• An omelette on top is usually a better topping than a sunny side up egg, specially when the yolk starts leaking all over the chopsuey. But that’s more of a personal preference, so I don’t hold that against anyone.

Overall, the chopsuey wasn’t to my liking.

But that’s ok, not all chopsueys can match up to perfection now, can they?

American Chopsuey trivia of the week: Did you know that you’ll barely ever find American chopsuey in the Chinese restaurants in America? 

The Life Boat

As I lay here

In front of you

I bare all

In its truest form

O Captain of my ship

The master of my fate

Rescue me.

Slow Down, Speed Up

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always known one thing for sure. One day, I want to be really successful and rich. I want to be the CEO of a company. I want to have enough money to bore myself into the state of zero temptation altogether. Sure, every other person has such a goal. Sure, people laugh. It somehow never mattered. It somehow was never that far-fetched.

Over the years, it took better shape in my head. I knew what I liked, what I wanted. I knew how and when it would be. And it wasn’t forced. I could see it. A profession I loved, was genuinely interested in, was naturally keen to grow and live in. Every decision in life somehow eventually logically traced itself back to that.

Logic.

That word that I live for. That omnipotent factor in my life.

Perhaps this would be a good time to mention that I wasn’t living in some dream world where I would be happy and rich and loved. There was always a trade off. And I was very clearly aware of it. You don’t just become a CEO by getting married and staying at home. You don’t have time to cook and look after your family. Popping kids isn’t a priority in your life anymore. I was always painfully aware of it. Just that it didn’t seem like too big a sacrifice to me. I never was interested in any of them to begin with. These things were always just ‘To-do’s’ to be ticked off somewhere in the long list of life. Technicalities. Hygiene factors.

And then things changed.

I somehow popped the bubble I was living in.

I decided to grow up.

I decided to actually give myself a chance.

I decided to believe in the Chopsuey Theory.

I want to be home now. I want to have a happy personal life. I want to have a family, and I want to love them and be loved in return. I want to cook for them. I want to do everything in my power to protect them. From the world. From the idiotic child that used to reside in me.

I smile now. All the time. Like a complete idiot.

I want it to stay that way, forever.

I know I’ll still do well in life. I know I still won’t sit at home popping lil babies all over the place.

But I also know.

That I’ll be happy.

That I’ll live.

And not just exist.

The Cho Cha!!!

For all those people who either actually know me, or have actually read my blog in the past (Hugs!!!), there is one thing that might, just might, be a teensy weensy bit apparent by now.

I’m interested in food. Like… it does hold a bit of importance in my life. Like…my life might just revolve around it, you know…just a teensy weensy lil bit.

So the food I have does tend to alter and determine my moods, my actions, and sometimes life altering decisions.

So there happen to be a few rules, a few theories revolving around different food items in my life. The Chopsuey Theory is one very important one among them. Now I can’t go into details about it…its really top secret, and I am still waiting for the patent to come in…but it has held true these past twenty three years, and deserves due respect. And recently, to pay my respects, I have embarked upon a Chopsuey Challenge.

The challenge is simple.

Mumbai.

Random tiny Chinese restaurants.

One American Chopsuey.

Every week.

And so it began.

Week 1.

Location: Celebration (Authentic Chinese Restaurant, Lokhandwala Market)

Order: Pepper Chicken, American Chopsuey, Pepsi

Time Taken: Torturous

And I kid you not. I thought my watch had stopped. All time and matter stood still, not even a slight ruffle in the chicken’s feathers as it faced its last few moments in a kitchen somewhere. That’s how long it took. But there was a very valid explanation for it, as I will soon let you know.

The place was nice, the way a Chinese restaurant should be. Because in my experience, the best Chinese is not the Bercos, Golden Dragons and Five Spices of the world…even though I love all those as well. There’s something about sitting in a small, brightly lit chinki* family run restaurant, with one Chinese fan adorned on the wall to make it look more authentic and a little stained menu with at least two price revisions scratched out with a pen…it just makes the experience…well…an experience. And the food’s usually good, to boot.

So I placed my order, and waited with bated breath.  And waited. And waited some more. Just when all the oxygen of my before mentioned bated breath had run out and stars were popping before my eyes, I spotted the reason for the delay. Some ten packets of home delivery.

Hmph.

Oh well, the food came.

I tasted the chopsuey. The crunchy sweet orangy chopsuey. I opened my mouth to comment on the taste, but the conversation on the next table proved to be rather distracting.

Two women with extremely painted and botoxed faces (I swear they couldn’t smile even if they wanted to) walked in and were greeted rather warmly by the waiter.

“Ok, show us the photos.”

The waiter eagerly bowed, ran in and came back with his fancy phone. He then showed them some photos in a rather conspiratory manner. They nodded at each other and smiled (or at least I think that’s what the frozen face muscles were trying to do).

“Oh, they’re cute!”

More nods.

“They have been with me since they were babies. I have taken really good care of them.”

Awww…his little adopted chinki kids.

“They’ll adjust to our home well.”

Huh? Suddenly my full attention was with them. Lil cute chinki slave traders.

“So once we take them, do we need to give them cooked food? Or just raw food would do?”

Huh??

“No no…don’t bother cooking. Just make sure you give them enough water throughout the day. That’s enough for them.”

Wtf…inhuman ^%&$*!!

“So your final price is 8000? Nothing less?”

Nods. Looks exchanged. Handshake.

The price of a lil cute chinki kid = Rs. 8000 wonly.

“Don’t worry…they’re very well trained. They won’t take flight.”

Hmph.

“Yes…I really love pets…and I think birds are perfect.”

Ok…so you knew what that conversation was about right from the beginning. But believe you me, when you’re sitting in that tiny restaurant, starved by the wait, hogging away on crunchy chopsuey, your mind does take you in weird random directions.

Oh…the chopsuey!!

It was…perfect.

Well, it did come late. And for some weird reason there was no egg on it. But it was perfect.

It was just the right amount of crispy.

It was just the right amount of sweetness.

It adhered to the right gravy to noodles ratio.

And the noodles were broken just the right size.

It was really worth the wait.

23 years.

P.S. It might be important to mention here that the birdie negotiations were being handled by the waiter…erm…the sole waiter. So for half an hour, all orders, all payments and all requests of each and every person in that restaurant (read: three tables) came to a standstill. After all, the raw food eating birds’ futures were at stake.

P.P.S. 8000 bucks for birds? Really??? You know the amount I can shop in that much?!?

*I hate the word ‘chinki’.  I know its racist and derogatory. But I’m hoping I’ll be excused here on the pretext of creative liberties.