I think she made sweets not because ‘there is joy in giving etc. etc.’ but because she enjoyed making them. From tinting grated coconut a pink for what East Indians call ‘kordeaal’ to mashing dal for what she called ‘doll’ sweet., I know she got it right. Deep inside I believe we make sweets because along with the cards we receive from relatives we don’t know, twinkling ornaments and the gifts we plan excitedly but forget to give, it’s what makes Christmas more than just a day; a whole mushy season. And mostly because it would mean breaking your teeth on rock hard kulkuls you bought from the store.

Quite honestly we make sweets because it’s what we have. What we don’t have, is snow therefore no snowman to build and cotton to trim the tree. We kiss under fake mistletoe. And in a cynical age when we accept that Santa is a mixture of Saint Nicholas, pagan tradition and an advertising promo by Coca Cola this is one of the simple things we can rely on to give us joy, to bring and hold us together. To give us a whiff of the same magic we felt as kids when we opened a Christmas card and it turned into a pop-up crib. That, and the hope that somebody would’ve left a present for us under the Christmas tree.

And so we scribble the lists. Jujubes, star-shaped milk cream, fudge, Christmas pudding that we never attempt, nevrees – those half-moon shaped dough things pregnant with sweet filling, rose cookies that aren’t cookies but flower shaped crunchies, golden brown date biscuits stuffed with slivers of dates and cashew.

And of course Guava cheese – clearly the winner when it comes to building biceps. Everyone loves Guava cheese till you announce making it. ‘Boil guavas, mash guavas, stir continuously for hours. Keep bottle of iodex handy’. Yes, they forgot that in the recipe. Every year we take turns with a wooden stirrer huge enough to knock us out of action. Out of respect for doubtful results no one ever tried that strategy.

We could always buy sweets but then where would we get our jollies if not in trashing stingy Cecy who wouldn’t divulge the recipe that made milk-cream a delicate pink instead of a violent magenta. We’d lose the chance to catch up on each other’s lives or skip to memories stacked around Christmas past. To chuckle about the time Audrey placed the hot oven lid on the carpet creating a design that rivals Ikea. Or the year the cake sank like the Titanic.

Plums, candied fruit, wine… Mum’s cakes have lots of heaven in them. We’d watch them rise lazily as the house filled with the fat warm smell of baking. But that was after we’d finished with the serious part of cake making: licking the batter off our fingers, from the spoons and bowls, often wondering why you need to bake the cake at all.

Mum made Christmas sweets even when it meant rushing from work to wield the rolling pin late into the night. On a floor layered with newspaper we’d sit as if in a prayer circle crimping kulkuls, humming off key to ‘I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus’ interrupted only by “Pass the cutter you klutz”, “Stir or you’ll burn it” and “Mommy, she just ate some of the cherries.” All in consensus that if baby Jesus tasted these he’d leave the manger and come live with us.

The sweets were then hidden away. In tins cleverly labelled “Spices” or deep inside cupboards. She knew we’d find them. But that was part of the ritual. A ritual that adds to the sweetness of our lives. Like family and midnight mass it reassures us that in the face of change, in the face of wars and 9- 9 careers, superficial trends and fickle boyfriends some things stay rooted, secure.

(Published in the Times of India - For ‘Snapshot’, a column on Mumbai and it’s various cultures

They introduced themselves to me via 240 watt speakers belting out Elvis on a Sunday afternoon. I was eight. It wasn’t Christmas yet, but the new neighbours were whooping it up. Harold jived with Aunty Nattie who at 82, was quite a Helen, while bottles of rum emptied themselves into throats gone dry from singing and boisterous cheering “Hit it Nattie, yea aunty Nattie’.

Every weekend was a noisy one. The furniture in their living room was moved to create dance space. They celebrated everything. Ray passing his exams, Ray failing his exams, Cheryl’s new boyfriend or Alan’s new goatee. They brought home a turkey at Christmas even if it meant subsisting on Pepper Water – a spicy curry – for a week. Which they happen to like anyway. They grow up on it. That, and chilly fry and meat ball curry.

That’s where I got my first definition of Anglo: ‘To be Anglo, is to party.’

I didn’t know then, that they were a microscopic Indian community. That a ‘phirang’ name like Lee Bruce, Ryan Foxx, Caroline O’Connor, Robin Frantz didn’t necessarily mean you were a distant relative of Tom Alter. That somewhere down the line, they were half English, babies of colonisation.

In a strange way, the British are officially responsible for the 400 year old Anglo-Indian Community. Back in the 1700s, men of the East India Company, missed the companionship of women of their own kind. Delighted by our desi damsels and blessed in their mission by British powers-that-were, many formed ‘alliances’ (legitimate or otherwise) with Indian women. In the wink of an Englishman’s eye, the youngest of the Indian races was born.

Soon I realised it was just a corollary to a more earnestly cultivated philosophy: “Live for today”. It included dressing to Vogue, never mind the starving bank account. To quote my Anglo aunt “Yeah my bag’s a Gucci, now let’s find some cash to put in it.” The code is always Western. An Anglo woman wearing a sari is as likely as the British coming back. A frock it’s been. A frock it is. The older generation still trot out like the colonial British. Some grannies still wear braids around their hair, look-a-like Jennifer Kendalls in 36 Chowringhee Lane.

My second big enlightening on Anglos came soon. When my neighbour’s granny came to stay. When I heard sentence after sentence festooned with four letter words. Still in primary school, I began to believe that the ‘F word’ was actually an adjective, and was awe-struck by the its versatility. Now I know it’s a fundamental part of Anglo grammar. Along with ‘swine’ and ‘bitch’. Granny Cathy, she considerately saved “You pig fart” for polite conversation.

Like almost any other Anglo, her father was an Irish soldier who fought in Burma, now Myanmar. She refused to call it Myanmar, proud of the days of the Raj, when “we got our sodden selves a penny worth of respect’. She was light eyed, fair skinned, blond. That was another way to identify Anglos. Though some are dark, the times when a mutinous Indian gene bullied the English one into surrender.

Though their great grandfathers fought in the wars – under Clive at Arcot, in the front line at Plassey – many Anglos profess to be ‘lazy bustards’. Once, you would’ve found them working railway cantonments, army camps and police barracks or as secretaries and air-hostesses. ‘But honestly Joe, I’d rather hit the hay.’ They’d rather be the first ones on the dance floor or helping the nearest pub expand its profits.

I’ve heard warnings not to marry ‘The Spendthrifts’. But they have a family bond so tight-knit, you’d be warm and comfortable if you tangled in it. ‘Of the same stew’, they stand up for each other. Even half-cousins in Dublin who they’ll probably never know, but take in and share their last pint of ‘imported’ whisky hidden at the back of the cupboard. Speak ugly of another Anglo and they’ll shut you up with a creative stringing of four letter words to make your ears hum. I’m told they inherited these epithets from their forefathers, soldiers, who swore like soldiers often do.

Smiling in the face of the cussing though, is a lilting accent and an English wreathed in ‘please and thank yous’ and an eh? at the end of every question. An inflection picked up, most probably, from their Irish forefathers. Older folk have a quaint custom of addressing you as “my girl or my child” sweetly indifferent to the fact that you’re old enough to have your own. But it’s their Hindi that tickles, spoken like Englishmen would. An Anglo colleague, who orders her food from the corner Udipi, instructs quite sternly ’Humko oopar bhejo.” Which in Hindi does not mean “Send my food upstairs” but, loosely translated, “Send me up to my Maker.”

There’re only about 200,000 of this jolly race left in India. Mostly in urban Calcutta, Bangalore and Bombay, in pockets like Byculla and Mazgaon. Many have married into other communities or migrated. Taking their pound parties and reunions with them.

Today, constitutionally, Anglo-Indian denotes being of British, or European and Indian parentage. To me, it still means ‘to party’.

(published in the Sunday Times Of India, in the column, ‘Communities’, a Sunday feature.

Castaway. The movie.
Man alone on an island.
Scary.

Instantly I gave thanks. For family, friends, nieces, sisters, boyfriends, bosses, neighbor. Yeah, even though she’s planning my marriage without my permission.

Of course we’re millenium women. With careers, independent minds and a hunger to achieve. But it’s relationships, the people we go home to, that make it all worthwhile.

True, they may nag and point out that your top makes you look too thin/ fat, but they also hold a towel for you when you come in from the rain.

And however dysfunctional, or loud their snoring, there’s a reason why – even if we don’t see it immediately – each one of them is in our lives. Each, like a different vitamin providing the emotional nutrition we need. Providing the balance to career, money, fame.

Let’s begin with the parents. Well, besides the obvious, they were given to us to argue with. A chance to voice our opinion, and sculpt out our identity. But below the surface drama of ‘Who changed my channel? and ‘You should eat more, sleep less, go out and meet some guys’ runs a lode of love and nurturing, structure and security. Advice that comes from experience they inherited from the beginning of time – Hell, my mum advised clove for a toothache long before I read it in any book.

Would we be able to pursue our careers without much interruption, make big-shot decisions if not for them handling the cooking, taking care of the baby? Guess not.

Boyfriends or husbands? Yup, they contribute to the Dept of Love, Sex and Teaching us patience – especially when they leave their clothes on the floor. But most importantly we should give thanks for the male point of view, for balancing your ying with his yang, for the massage, for when he appreciates your behind, for listening, or is just there for you – even if he’s just snoring sweetly on the couch.

Our kids bring blessings that would need a whole book. But hugs and innocence rate high, sustaining us, giving us hope. Of course, as they grow they challenge our perceptions, our pronunciation, our fashion sense. But you wouldn’t want to turn into a dinosaur, would you?

And if you need someone to take your 2 am phone call, there’s two kinds of people you can turn to. Siblings and friends. The shoulders to cry on and an ear when you need one, even if just for small talk. Of course, they’re also there to tell you that you look terrible in that skirt. But look at it the right way, and it’s an opportunity to learn to handle criticism. To look at our flaws in a ‘safe’ environment.

They’re the ones we can ask for a loan. The ones who will happily share recipes and clothes. And the ones who will point out that the man you’re in love with isn’t right for you and has a scar that’s unaccounted for. They’re there to baby-sit, and stand by you like angels at weddings protecting you from ‘When’s your turn?’

Every one of our relationships help us examine our lives. Sometimes showing us our imperfections in cinemascope-size reflections. Sometimes, like earthquakes, shaking up our comfort zones, to create new landscapes. Inspiring our successes, and applauding while we celebrate ours.

But it’s not just them being there for us that empowers us. It’s also the fact that we’re there for them. In being the daughter, sister, mother, wife, friend we become someone they can turn to. Putting us in a place of importance. Letting you be the one who manages their kids when they’re ill, or listen to their secrets, allowing you to learn from their experience. Giving you the opportunity to help, to teach them what you know.

In their health and their sickness you’re given the power and the chance (and therefore the satisfaction) of being able to nurture. The power to change, to mould, to affect their lives.

At the end of it all, every one of them give us the power to love and forgive, and options to be better women and human beings.

So yes, go out and conquer your Everest, but know that it puts a bigger grin on your face when you have your base camp waiting to welcome you back.

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(Essay published in Femina (March 2007).

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Through sickness and health. Through burping and farting. With bad friends and good. Through world cup football and otherwise. And then of course, till death do us part.” That‘s the way the vows go for many of us women.

Yes, it could be funny. But when you begin to give up the very essence of who you are; your very basic freedom in life, just because you’re in a relationship, that’s when the phrase ‘tying the knot’ becomes suffocatingly literal.

And sadly many of us slip into that fog easily. Giving up our identities. Buying into the V 2 R 1 concept. Letting social conditioning and many romance novels make us believe that the path to happiness is finding a man. That all we need to do is love him, and we’ll have nirvana. So we give up our freedom to go out with our friends. Give up thinking for ourselves. In some cases, don’t even tell anyone about the relationship, only because the man says so. Fooling ourselves all the time that it’s ok, so long as we are lucky to be in a relationship.

What is an even sadder fact is that many of us don’t even know what freedoms we are entitled to. Simply because, we’ve never cared to think about what we want. Of course, we may know one day when resentment festering invisibly like a wound under the skin erupts into confrontation.

But why wait till then. We are lucky to be in an age where many privileges come easy. Fought for and earned by women who’ve come before us. Who gifted us the vision of what we can have: The power to go out and earn and not be dependent on our partner. To wear what we want. To be able to define our own concepts of motherhood, of being a wife. To walk away or choose to stay in a relationship.

So yes, we should uphold them. And yes, you can have them without having to ask.

Freedom is what you give yourself. Once you declare yourself free, you are.

Truth is, before we ask for freedom in a relationship, we have to gain freedom from our own beliefs. The ones that say we aren’t good enough, don’t deserve this or that, that it’s wrong to want more.

So first, recognize what is important to you. And know that you deserve it, any of it, whether the freedom to be able to choose your friends, chew chicken to the bone at the dinner table, or to just have ‘me’ time.

And if you stay true to yourself, to what you want, all the time – whether within the room of your mind or at a presentation, you’ll have automatically given yourself the freedom to be you, in a relationship or otherwise.

The next step is easy. All you have to do is communicate what you want, clearly and compassionately. In most cases, your partner will respect you for it and nod. If he doesn’t, talk.

Talking -and listening- are vital to any relationship. And as necessary as love, understanding, respect, trust, and here’s a heavy one, responsibility.

As the head of any nation will tell you, freedom comes with enormous responsibility.

The freedom of speech gives you the space to say what’s on your mind, yet, not necessarily nag, be nasty or cruel. And ladies, it also comes with the freedom to think before you speak. Expressing ourselves does not mean flinging pots and pans.

Yes, it’s the 2000’s. But smoking and drinking come with the responsibility to take care of your health for the sake of the ones you love: you, your spouse, your kids. And earning and spending your own money is great, as long as you don’t incur distressing credit cards bills again and again, that will eat into the house loan.

Thing is, you can have any freedom you want, – even the freedom to meet your ex, now friend. But you have to trust yourself first, that you won’t abuse that freedom or your spouse’s faith.

How you own your freedom in a relationship demonstrates just how mature you are, and if abused, questions your right to have it. So let’s appreciate it, exercise it.

Like muscles, you need to exercise your freedom.

Today, thanks to progress, careers, our awareness of the importance of our roles as women and the resulting confidence, we have freedoms in our relationships that our mothers and grandmothers didn’t have: The freedom to build our careers, while our partner stays at home. To not cook and order out if we want. To chase our dreams, even if the income gets cut in half. The liberty to make decisions and have our partner’s support in whatever decision we take, whether it’s changing jobs, or buying a car.

If you lived in the 1930s, everyone and his cousin assumed that his wife was plain ecstatic just because she could cook his meals and wash his feet. Why would she want to do anything else. See a movie by herself for example.

Breathe happy because we have freedoms that many women in small towns and villages still don’t have. The space to travel to another country without our partner. To say what we want without being told to shut up. The freedom to stand up and not accept another woman or a second wife.

So let’s not take our freedoms for granted lest it erodes the love that builds our relationships.

True love and Freedom go hand in hand.

When you ask for freedom, you’re automatically making a pact that you’ll give your partner his. And you can only keep that handshake warm if you truly listen, love, stay compassionate and respect his needs and well as your own.

Psychiatrist M. Scott Peck in his best-selling book The Road Less Travelled, quite rightly says, “Freedom and discipline are handmaidens; without the discipline of genuine love, freedom is invariably non-loving and destructive.”

So then, dear people, freedom is also allowing the other to make mistakes, and the chance to make amends. My parents have been married over 30 years. They argue. They make up. And it’s because they choose their freedom to love over their right to stay simmering.

Kahlil Gibran puts it nicely, “Love each other, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.” Translation: Keep it fluid, like dance, like a waltz. You step back sometimes and sometimes he does. Find your own unique rhythm, by growing, by experimenting.

Now while we assert ourselves, in capital letters no less, sometimes we need to cut a little extra slack. Having made big strides over the last decades we are changing quickly, even for men who are trying to keep pace. Should they open the door for a woman? Offer to split the bill? And that’s only the small stuff.

So let’s use our freedom to take the high road, and let them pass now and then.

Aah, isn’t freedom empowering?

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(Published in Femina. Yes, a woman’s magazine.)

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‘Thou shalt drink. Thou shalt jive.’ If there were commandments requiring you to be a ‘katlic’ these would be first. ‘Vot to do man, bugger it comes with the genes.’

People are always exclaiming, “You don’t drink! What kind of catholic are you?” - As though the Pope decreed it. Then, as if the answer to the next question would redeem me they hastily ask “Do you jive?’ An affirmative nod saves my soul and I am admitted back into the fold.

By religion, we are Roman Catholic. Roman, because we are governed by the church in Rome, not because we have dual passports. By culture, katlic. Or ‘Mac’ as people refer to us after they’ve known us for two sentences. How can anyone miss the “Vot men? Or “kya man? ” where the ‘man’ comes free with every sentence quite oblivious to the fact that you’re a woman. Or other phonetic jewels like tree (three), aahks (ask), ‘doll’ (dal), dat (that), or the “faader – mudder” (father/mother) that I would like to believe is some dialect of German, but nein. It’s trademark ‘Mac’ talk.

Of the several theories that float around, one says Mac is a derivative of ‘macca pau’ (butter ‘n’ bread) because supposedly that’s what katlics eat.

The drinking of course, we’re sure of. “Michael daru peekay dhanda karta hai” from “Zameer” tells a small part of the story. We drink at Holy communions, christenings, at other festivals too: Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays…. You get the picture.

And of course we drink at those crazy carnivals called katlic weddings. Where you dress up, quaff wine, slip on confetti, stomp at the Wedding March like drunk soldiers, get sozzled, stuff face with potato chops, vindaloo, sorpotel, pork roast, let face fall forward involuntarily into plate of salad, do the mandatory birdie dance, throw the bouquet, wake the neighbours with off-key rendition of “He’s a jolly good fellow” as you zig zag home.

Katlics like to sing. Where there’s a Mac gathering, not counting funerals, there’s a ‘sing-song’ session. “My Bonnie lies over the ocean’, ‘When the saints go marching in’ and the quintessential ‘Annie’s Song’. No Mac party is complete without a guitar and one sloshed uncle who will be dragged home by the toes.

Katlics mourn with the same passion. Wearing black at funerals and for months after, and fasting with fervour at Good Friday. But as December knocks on their doors you‘ll find Crawford market besieged by katlics from ‘Maim’ (Mahim) to Marine lines taking home so much lace you’re not quite sure if it’s for the curtains or the dresses.

At Christmas katlics eat guava cheese and cake and drink (more) wine, go to midnight mass at 8.00 pm. because Jesus said ‘Never mind, keep the peace’ or similar, then in 27 degree heat wear jackets to Willingdon or Catholic Gym and jive the night away.

Though being a katlic may be more about cultural togetherness than going to mass every Sunday we religiously fulfil the requirements. To be a really good katlic you must go inside the church. They have a name for people who don’t “Outstanding catholics”. And if those black sheep did go in it would be a miracle close on the heels of Jesus’ turning water into wine.

If you’re katlic you subscribe to the Examiner where katlic girls search for katlic boys with sober habits and own accommodation.

Good katlics go to confession. When we were kids we knelt in the dark confessional and sincerely asked forgiveness. Standard sins were ‘I beat my sister’ for the boys and ‘I told lies in school’ for the girls. Of course when we grew up we either stopped going or told only the simple one and hoped god would get the others telepathically. We didn’t want to give old father Andrew a minor coronary. Besides, our idea of what constituted a sin had changed.

Hindi movies have katlic girls rushing tearfully to church to pray to Mother Mary for the safety of their threatened love. Maybe that’s why it’s believed that Catholic girls will anoint themselves after every four-letter word and, ‘The morning after her wedding night, she’ll go to confession.’ Katlic boys are in a different league altogether. They play hockey or football till they die and are very eloquent with words like ‘pasting’ (beating), loafer, bugger, as in ‘Vot you doing men, bugger?’

Now some katlics don’t drink or jive or play the piano or chase football, or sing off-key. To them I’d say ‘Come let’s wash away our sins, let’s have a beer. Cheers and Hic!

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(Published in the Communities column in the Sunday Times.)

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They must be two of the world’s best inventions, right alongside the light bulb: The online store Wish-list and the Wedding registry.

Surely they must’ve been the idea of some desperate woman who had had enough of receiving dessert bowls as gifts – one box for her birthday, another for her anniversary, and a third, prettily-wrapped – for Diwali.

I mean, imagine having received bowls three times in a row. Imagine your jaw going to plaster as you try to keep your smile. Imagine how you turn candidate for actress of the year as you sweetly coo, “Oh, how nice, thank you,” even while you want to let it fall to the floor ‘accidentally’.

Aah, yes, you’d take the Wish-list too – Letting people know clearly what you want and in what size and shape so you don’t have to spend twice as much returning it. That IS a good idea.

Yes, the Wish-List takes away the some of the surprise, but that’s better than the shock of opening a box that reveals a bamboo sparrow that peep-peeps to every sound in the vicinity. If ‘Made in China’ is bad for our economy, it’s particularly disastrous for the sanity of our people.

Think assembly lines carrying plastic mobile-phone holders (no, mobile phones can’t lie down by themselves), more plaster of Paris shepherdesses than you can accommodate in a meadow, vases that look like they’d survived Armageddon, frames that you wouldn’t put your dog’s picture in for fear of bad mojo.

Really, is it so tough to pick a gift that even Mensa minds and economists get it wrong? I mean, would you give a fish a walking stick?

All you have to do is think about your ‘target audience’. And ask questions. NOT her! What does she like? What TV programme gets her excited? Does she wear charms? Is she passionate about animation and movies? Or pottery and clayware? Or does she like bags in all shapes and sizes. Does she have a collection of Buddha statuettes you could add to? What’s her favorite color? Would she go sailing on a Sunday or read Rushdie in a window sill? As simple as that.

You want her to break into a big grin, jump around the room like a four year old, not stutter between ‘oh’ and ‘nice’.

Now people, hear me clearly. The line “It’s the thought that counts,” does not mean you have to have good intention. No, it means “Put some thought into it.” Ten minutes of grey matter invested equals to saving the world: less unused gifts taking up precious space in cupboards. Fewer grey boxes moving guiltily across the city from one home to another that doesn’t want it.

As an ongoing exercise you could ‘listen’. If someone points out a top or a pendant you’re wearing and says, “Nice where did you get that?” – and if it’s not her top you’re wearing – you just know something similar would make her happy. To make sure, check with her close friends. Of course, I mean womenkind.

Pay attention to what she’s been about recently. A friend got me the perfect thumb-sized Buddha statue – apparently he’d been listening to my passionate unending monologues on Buddhism. Another, knew I had Kerala on my travel-list, and gave me a book of paintings on the backwaters for inspiration.

Sometimes all you have to do is ask. “What d’you think about going to a Zakir Hussain concert?” If your target gushes, “Would love to,” you have your gift idea. Alternatively, you could go shopping with her. If she loves a skirt, step forward and buy it for her. You’ll get a hug right there in the store.

Well, if your birthday alarm goes off a day before the ‘day’, stick with the classic gift. The simple birthday card and two tickets to a movie. (One that the birthday girl would like to see) Or you could send a bunch of wildflowers. Oh yes, definitely not to that aunt who will sneeze till the neighborhood has vacated.

Or get a book. Those who know me well enough run to the bookstore as a last resort. And of course, they breathlessly ask the salesperson if it’s possible to have the book exchanged.

Which brings me to that Sacred Law of Gifting: Get an Exchange Slip. It saves relationships, the counselor said.

What would you do if a boyfriend gave you tea towels for Christmas. Of course mine mumbled they were for the family too. So there, that was justified. Then, in a wave of thoughtfulness, he pulled out another nicely wrapped gift – this one specially for me!! An imported highlighter and a Statue of Liberty paperweight. And no exchange slip. Thinking back now, that could’ve been one of the reasons he’s in the category called ‘ex.’

Of course, sisters sulk and mothers sniff when you mention the E word. But stop, don’t feel the guilt. Next time just write a wishlist.

Some folks suggest you just forget-about-it and give your sad gift to charity. Really? Take a moment and ask why a child in an orphanage would want dessert bowls, instead of a doll, or a tea set. A toy one!

Before I go, here’s something to announce at the dinner table: The perfect gift doesn’t need to be expensive. Something you painted (only if you’re more Klimt than Kindergarten art class), a CD compilation of favorite songs, a hand-knit stole could beat all the big gifts on the table. Of course, tell husband that if he sticks with thoughtful and expensive he’ll feel more loved.

Now, for all those who still feel nail-chewing desperation – especially having to gift someone who has everything – don’t worry, just smile as cockily as you can and slip them the gift voucher.

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(Published in Femina. Yes, a woman’s magazine.)

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Feel free to quote from this site without permission, staying within the normal fair-use conventions, as long as you do me the courtesy of linking back to the relevant permalink and also letting me know. (You can get the permanent link to a particular post by clicking the time stamp below the headline.)
If you’d like reprint rights, please mail me at huanita@yahoo.com

Surprised? Why? You work seven of seven days a week. You wear your toes off managing between husband, wailing baby and boss. Oh yes, let’s not forget the bai.

You deserve that prize. But well, since it ain’t coming for a while you should dig into the gooey layers of the black forest cake, cherries, cream and all. Lick your fingers, take another piece.

Yes, we’re suggesting, be a glutton. Oh, we know, gluttony is a sin. And that, at the mention of the word you see the image of a belly walking ahead of a man.

So how can we even think of preaching it? When all the world’s media is telling you to eat less, think thin, go on karela diets, be Kate Moss. But wait, we’re not saying turn into 200 pound blimps. No. We’re saying eat well. Eat goooooood.   

Women are working longer hours and squeezing in more meals away from home. Translate that as more convenience food: A dry sandwich, a tiny idli fry, 2-minute noodles. Funnily, as you’re earning better, you’re eating worse. Sigh.     

Which is why the crusade for gluttony.

It’s about craving the good things in life. An affirmation of pleasure and of passion. And you, woman, deserve exactly that.

Now, forgetting whatever anybody told you, indulging doesn’t mean you have to transform yourself into a sumo wrestler. You just have to eat nice. The European countries that eat the nicest food — Italy, Switzerland, and France — also have the lowest adult obesity rates, below 10 percent (International Obesity Task Force.)

Nobody calls them gluttons. No ma’am, they prefer the nicer term ‘gourmand’, which has come to mean someone who loves food and eats for pleasure.

So play up the epicurean side of gluttony, eating well, as opposed to eating excessively and greedily.

To begin with, taste what you eat. Really taste it. Not gobble. To be a glutton, is to enjoy your food fully. With all your senses. To let every flavor make love to every taste-bud, to feel the crunch of every salad and the juicy tenderness of every chicken leg.

Next bring home the ‘other’ woman. With your schedule, you barely have the energy or time to stir up anything. Yet, you have the right to eat tandoori pomfret when you feel like it. Solution: Have a woman come in and cook for you at least once a week. Alternatively, order a good wholesome dabba. And put your feet up.

Eliminate TV dinners. Ever had good sex while you had half your mind on the TV? ‘nuff said. 

Put the phone numbers of your fav restaurants and dessert cafes on speed dial. Just before your husband’s. Order something exotic, something you’ve never tried before.

Stock the fridge with cheese and olives and crackers and sauce from the gourmet store.

Nibble at the candyfloss at the fairground. Join the kids in getting their faces into a large ice-cream sundae. Don’t stay away from your friend’s BBQ just because you’re on a diet. You’re a responsible woman. You will go back to beans the next day, won’t you? 

Let go of the leftovers. We already deny ourselves too much. Held back by guilt and the need to be perfect mothers, wives, sisters, daughters. Besides, leftovers, eaten again and again, usually, have lost much of their nutrition anyway. Give them to the help the same day (or the next morning) and you’ll have cleaner floors.   

Deprive yourself, and you’ll go into tailspin, eating everything you see; the chips, the fries… Yes, we know comfort foods help, but it’s one thing to let them put their arm around you, hold you awhile, another thing to let them put the squeeze on your chest. Instead, consider the alternatives. The deliciousness of a spaghetti bolognaise, or a roast chicken and a glass of red wine (that my dear, contains anti-oxidants and is good for your heart).

Now since the characteristic of gluttons is being insatiable, you should immerse yourself in the good things, but… watch the clock. Even Cinderella’s chariot would’ve turned into a pumpkin.

Thank fully, because gluttony is generally a sin of the flesh, the flesh limits it. Consume too much and your body will let you know. So listen. Because as Orson Welles said: Gluttony is not a secret vice. And the evidence of this transgression – a round belly – is there for all to see.

The idea then, is to keep the balance. Don’t eliminate the food you love. Eat what you want, just quit before feeling like the turkey you stuffed. Or, here’s an example of what can happen: Shovel in too much strawberry ‘n’ cream at one go, and you’ll hate strawberry ‘n’ cream for a long time. (a similar treatment’s used to reform smokers.) You don’t want to renounce that pleasure, or shop for a swimsuit in size XXL, do you?

Now think back to the last good meal you really enjoyed. Slurped, licked the plate, sat back with a satisfied sigh and a smile. Doing it again would be good, wouldn’t it? So ignore Pope Gregory the Great’s – he created the list of deadly sins – warnings of fire and brimstone, and indulge. We promise you’ll take off first-class to your own heaven.

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(Published in Femina, need I say.. a woman’s magazine

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“The sky is down.” A lollypop-smeared kindergarten kid stands on his head and laughs. I almost do a headstand, then stop. One, I might see the world upright. Two, it might get a picturesque view of my toned rear. But most importante, I don’t want to wake from this weird dream yet.

Where tea cups sit comfortably upside on mosaic studded ceilings and winding arcades cut from the hillside lead me to emerge under yet another cavernous ceiling, that would have me believe I’ve been taken through another shake of a kaleidoscope.

From the dizzy moment you say ‘Ola’ to a smiling dragon dressed in mosaic at the entrance to Park Guell, you are happily drawn into this story, that could be a sprawling set for a Walt Disney fairytale flick. Welcome to Barcelona’s biggest tourist attraction.

Strolling past avenues of columns and down twisted pathways cascading with little chattering children, I wonder about the man who was something of a rebel wonderkid now turned totemic artist.

One of Spain’s most famous architects he created fantastic modernist monuments and intricate fabulist sculptures. Led the artistic movement known as modernism, based on the use of natural forms.

Another eccentric artist, Dali described it best. ‘Gaudí has built one house from the forms of the sea, representing storm-tossed waves. Another house is made from the still water of a lake…all in pointillistic mosaic”

Call him eccentric, or visionary, Gaudi did in many ways capture the restlessness of Barcelona. In a style that resists being categorized just like the city itself.

Sophisticated, dignified yet loaded with the dangerous charm of a rake, Barcelona can never be brown-bagged with the other big cities of the world. Spain’s second city is hip, exuberant, passionate.

Lose yourself in the narrow winding streets of the Old City, and you will find the artistic little balconies draped with the yellow pennants that cheer for Barca – the local football team, an angry mama scolding her errant son in Catalan, a painter contemplating his easel in a balcony, lanes embroidered with little shops glittering with papier mache and smoke pipes, and maybe a rare blue umbrella in the style of Miro’s paintings, and the most unusual silver trinkets: at once bohemian and elegant. And sometimes, you may find an old Spaniard with way too much wino inside him. This one came wobbling at us, shouting in full baritone ‘Mi tigra. grr…Mi tigra..(I’m a

tiger)….That then, is the Barcelona that lives madly. The fiesta where Gaudi’s ideas took shape.

And while we sit under orange trees sipping fresh orange juice in Spanish sunshine I listen to a school teacher animatedly tell her students (who’d rather cowboy ride the mosaic dragon) the history of the park.

It was conceived and commissioned to be a garden city development, by Eusebe Guell – rich patron of the arts - to be a fashionable residential area, on a hill on the edge of the city. The wealthy of the time turned their noses up at Gaudi’s wilder ideas and eventually the estate was taken over by the city as a park.

Twisted pathways lined with palms lead me to a great esplanade, the highlight of the park – with an undulating bench covered in trencad’s, broken mosaic. Intricate, mind-bogglingly beautiful designs that snicker at our attempt to capture them on film.

The park is vast, meandering, yawning into the wooded hillside. Climbing to the top I spy, in the far distance, the spires of the Sagrada Familia reaching into the Barcelona sky. I wave back.

The metro that will take me to the Sagrada Familia is at the Las Ramblas. The focal point, the gut, the bubbling punch bowl of the city. A boulevard that runs all the way from one end of town to the other. From Plaça de Catalunya, the town centre to Port Vell (Old Harbour)and the sea.

As a human statue of Jesus, grimaces, flaps his hands to relieve the pain, adjusts his robes and then goes back to standing with his arms held out, I take my place in the hum of the streetside cafes dotting the stretch. Sipping endless cappuccinos I watch, what can be described as a carnival of humanity parade past, not really heading towards any place in particular. Unless it’s late evening. That’s when people come streaming out of the opera, make for the thrum and pound of the clubs, or the neon-flashing sex shops, or dally down the narrow cobble-stoned lanes that suddenly yawn into huge piazzas or squares, zeroing in on dinner.

You’ll find every one of God’s creatures here, from a couple of nuns, waddling penguin-like, their necks craning turning in every direction, to jugglers, violinists and colourful, rouged and plumaged transvestites that would send the nuns into full retreat.

Otherwise, unlike other big cities, Barcelona lets you sit back and watch life go by, not lifting you by the collar and hurrying you to the melee of progress. It lets you contemplate, grow. You shouldn’t be surprised that the most famous artists came from Barcelona. Picasso, Dali, Miro. All of whom have museums dedicated to them, in and around the city. And not visiting them would be a waste of an airline ticket, not to mention waste of a lifetime.

‘La Sagrada Familia’, the old porter at the hotel had told me very sternly, with a dramatic roll of the eyes and much waving of hands, - in chipped English – ‘iss verrrri high, grande.. grande. Verry steps. Much steps.’

As I looked down from the top of the spiral stairs of the 100m high towers, breathless and panting, I wished I hadn’t. I discovered vertigo. But in exchange for one blurring moment I was gifted a mind-shushing view of Barcelona bathing in light noon sunshine.

On the outside, the four magnificent spires of the unfinished cathedral imprinted themselves boldly against the sky with swelling outlines inspired by the holy mountain Montserrat.

This was Gaudi’s unfinished dream. A project he gave his life to, from the time he took up the project in 1883 until his death 34 years later. Truly awe-inspiring. And as audacious, as outre and detailed as his other work. Evident in the palm tree-shaped columns that rest on the back of turtles (on a church!)In the snails adorning the facade. Ana, our guide tells us they were cast from life, and then enlarged mechanically to 10 feet in diameter to creep decoratively round the moulding of an arch 50 feet up.

She points to the Virigin and Child on a donkey, also cast from life, magnified and deposited in the great rockery up there. In Gaudi’s own words “I found it (the donkey)at last in the cart of a woman who was selling scouring sand…. With much trouble, I persuaded its owner to bring it to me. And then, as it was copied, bit by bit, in plaster of Paris, she kept crying because she thought it would not escape with its life.”

The crypt is a piece of classic gothic architecture. Hermann Finsterlin (German Expressionist architect rightly says “The Sagrada Familia is for me one of the building-wonders of the world… no house of God, but a house of the Goddess, of his Goddess, his heavenly and therefore unhappy love. ”

The next day I woke up late. Maybe it was the sangria at the Placa Real, one of the more popular cobble-stoned piazzas in Barcelona, where the soulful looking Spaniard strummed the guitar and then, quite ironically, sang “Yesterday” by The Beatles.

Maybe it was the long walk into La Barceloneta – the old sailors’ quarter, and to the shores of the Mediterranean. I don’t know. But there was a note for me at the reception, scrawled on the back of an old envelope. “Take the metro and get off at Diagonal. Follow the green line. Huge building (U won’t miss it). Meet us there at 12.00.” It had all the makings of Casablanca. But I was in Barcelona and having missed the group and more importantly, breakfast, I have no choice but to gawk my route through the city. On my way I stop at a tapas bar in the St Josep Supermercat – the huge market where half a day can disappear as deliciously as my lunch of anchovies and calamari, sardines and wine. I gape at the blood-red strawberries, the sun yellow melons, orange fish and begin to believe it must’ve been the food that inspired Gaudi .

But I can’t imagine what could’ve been the muse behind the tunnel-like arches of the Casa Milá, also called La Pedrera (the quarry). An ambitious apartment complex whose arcades on the upper floor have recently been restored and opened to the public.

Right in the middle of street, risking life and limb, I crane my neck backwards to be greeted by balconies girded in wrought iron, ribbon-twisted, blending with the curves of the uneven grey stone facade that ripples around a street corner. Like everywhere else in Barcelona, flowers burst in colourful ecstasy from the balconies.

On the roof, the phantom-like, chimney pots – a whole battalion of them - stare into the distance with fixed expressions. I turn to see what it is that has held their attention for decades. Within hugging distance stand oval arches pixilated in mosaic. And framed in them, the silhouette of Temple del Sagrat Cor, serene, atop the hills of Tibidabo in the background.

Barcelona sharpened my senses, all of them. And it helped me get a firm grasp on the language. I learnt two important phrases. The life saving, “No hablo Espanol.” I do not speak Spanish. And, ‘Hasta luego.’ See you later. Now, you can bet on that.

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Other works of Gaudi: The fountain complex in the middle of the Barrio Chine, the Parc de la Ciutadella, Casa Vicens, Palau Güell, located in the old town, just off the Ramblas, and the Casa Battló (pronounce ‘Baa-ttio’) at the Passeig de Gracia, perhaps Gaudís most beautiful art nouveau project.

How to get there: Many airlines don’t fly direct to Spain. Take a Mumbai-London direct. Connect with a cheap no-frills airline (I took easyjet with a good deal).

Accommodation Costs: Though hostels range from 17-20 E/ night, you can get a good deal at a mid-range hotel on a twin sharing basis for a little more. The Ramblas is lined with accommodation in every range. Check www.spainhotels.com. Plan for about 25-30 euro/night for accommodation. (mid range/single). Look up the net for some spectacular off-season deals.

Visas: The most sensible thing to do is get a schengen visa. That way you can also stop in several other European countries on your way back. Spanish visas take about ten days to process so keep that allowance. The Spanish Embassy is in New Delhi so if you live in Mumbai, talk to an agent.

Dining: There are several little places to eat in the lanes of Barcelona. Skip the ubiquitous McDonald’s for at the Café L’Opera glass of cava. Little cafes in the Mercat la Boqueria (the colourful market) are great value for money and a good way to look inside the lives of the locals. Los Caracoles, another great place comes steeped in history. Check out the slew of outdoor cafes in the Placa Reial.

Shopping: The Avinguda Diagonal has all the big names in fashion: Gucci, Armani, Max Mara. Zara is Spain’s own international label. Though you can buy kitschy souvenirs right on the Ramblas, the museum shops – Picasso, Miro, Dali – offer prints and off-beat gifts. Check out the crafts market in the Barri Gotic (Thu & Fri).

Tips: Though many locals speak English, learn a few basic phrases before you go. Especially if you want to shop in the local markets.

Walk as much as you can. It’s the best way to discover the intricately built city.

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(Published in India Today Travel Plus.)

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Feel free to quote from this site without permission, staying within the normal fair-use conventions, as long as you do me the courtesy of linking back to the relevant permalink and also letting me know. (You can get the permanent link to a particular post by clicking the time stamp below the headline.)
If you’d like reprint rights, please mail me at huanita@yahoo.com

A Tibetan monk sits across from me; with the traditional shaved head. Even as he puts a Coke to his lips, white Nike shoes peek from under his burgundy robes.

My spoon clatters on my plate of lemon cheesecake. The austere ancient culture going laid-back? The snow peaks of the Dauladhars with the wisdom of their years, are not surprised. They’ve seen it all. From the time the British parked their tush to when Mcleodganj got a taste of Hollywood.

Yes, Richard Gere visits. No, people don’t come here to see him. They, like him, are here hoping to taste a little heaven. And though His Holiness the Dalai Lama, would probably say that heaven is essentially a journey inward, Mcleodganj, sitting high in the clouds above the Kangra valley, could well be the take-off point. An immigration office that waves you in with colorful prayer flags flapping down the mountain side.

Immigration would be the right word. It is as if you’ve traveled to another nation. Please take a moment to see what I see. A mother in a baku – traditional Tibetan dress, her toddler strapped to her back, monks walking with prayer wheels in their hands lost in prayer, little kids with apple cheeks playing khopi in the street – a game of marbles and stones – I lost miserably to them in my days there, young Kashmiri Muslims swaggering near their trinket stalls in the knowledge of their good looks, young Tibetan men outfitted in leather, looking as if they’d just walked off campus in Boston. Y’see? It hasn’t been nicknamed Little Lhasa for nothing. And then against this backdrop you might find a tall bald Israeli haggling with the Paharis for a donkey he wants to ride all the way to Manali, and of course, foreigners, looking – for a hotel, a friend who’d promised to meet them by the second-hand bookshop, and enlightenment.

But temples are easier to find. Bang in the middle of the bustling market place, on your way to anywhere, one stands, with its massive prayer wheels; red cylinders with calligraphic gold inscription. A Harley stands parked against it, a telling metaphor for how an ancient culture is embracing the millennium.

At the other end of town, past lanes lined with daisies and rhododendron, past little girls shouting ‘toshi delek’ – good morning, past the monastery where a boy in a class of maroon robes and shaved heads sat cross legged at a wooden desk, lost in daydream, is the temple that houses the super-sized statues of the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara of whom the Dalai Lama is the incarnation. The Lotus-eyed One, looks down, an ornate figurine washed in gold with a serene expression you expect from the enlightened. But as much as I want to keep my eyes fixed on the statue, I’m hypnotized by the monk deep in meditation, and not the cross-legged kind. He joins his hands, swoops to the floor to lie flat on his stomach, slides up again in one graceful motion to stand straight with his hands joined in prayer. And he does this fluidly, a hundred times maybe. If you want to return home in one piece, I’d suggest you join the other monks and their murmur of Aum Mani Padme Hum, ‘Hail to Jewel in the Lotus’, in a simpler shut-eyed meditation.

Though many come here looking for a certain idea of spirituality, it can be found beyond the monasteries and chants.

So I discover it in the Tibetan nursery rhymes toddlers sing in the kindergarten compound. In the wind chimes hanging high from the roof of the Lama Khemtoo Rinpoche monastery, sending their prayer to the sky. In the muscle-building turning of prayer cylinders that makes a wizened Tibetan man stop and chuckle -it’s not easy to turn the small wheels either; one monk lent me his with a mischievous look in his eye, as I walked with him to the monastery. My wrist hurt for two days afterwards. The Tibetans however, believe that every turn of the wheel, every flap of the flags take their prayers heavenward faster than Fedex.

I found it in the magnanimous quiet of the mountains than let you sit and write bad poetry, in the trail of incense that plays hide n seek with you as you make your way through narrow lanes. In the pine-scented smoke from small wood-fires. And in the tiny tea stalls where the teasing drizzle that visits promptly everyday, drives all and sundry under its roofs.

Even crate-and-roof dukaans with wobbly wooden benches propped against the mountainsides serve up lemon, herbal or ginger tea and of course, masala chai. Conspicuously, the Tibetan jasmine tea with its ‘acquired taste’ is missing from the blackboard style menus outside the Paharis stalls. Though I didn’t get a chance to see the monks in theological discussion, it was in the stalls where I found myself amidst locals and tourists debating everything from world politics, to similarities between Italian and Hindi, Pink Floyd and for answers on ‘Hindooism’.

You can say ‘seeking’ is what threads the beads of everyone’s lives together here, even when looking for entertainment. Some, like me, find it in a classroom. In a tiny 12*15 ft space. Seated on school benches, eyes fixed on a TV high on a shelf, monks, backpackers of every nationality, Kashmiris, and a few Himachalis watched a Hollywood flick, ‘Dead Man Walking’. The blackboard outside also announced a screening of Babe and a ‘letest Hindi movie’.

Another night we hurried up mountain slopes in the chilly twilight along with several Tibetans, to a dance recital at TIPA (Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts). The clang of cymbals, the beat of the damaru, the call of the reedy trumpets; and the passion and beauty of that performance, make you sharply aware of the Tibetan people’s desire to keep their culture alive.

It’s clear that the life here has been tinted by tourists, by commerce and need. Peculiarities you surely wouldn’t find in Tibet: The raves that take place in the forest on full moon night. The Pehelwan Da Dhaba that’s run by an ex-wrestler – it’s such childish pleasure to scoff hot aloo parathas and chai on the steps of his shop while watching the sun come up over the valley. The menus of the little Tibetan restaurants: In the dim of the low beamed Shambala I see Humus, falafel, peanut butter sandwich, lemon pudding listed next to thukpa, garlic cheese noodles and tofu fried momos – traditional Tibetan food. Richard Gere and the Dalai Lama look down from the wall at my perplexed expression. Mcleod gets a huge influx of young Israelis. Looking for a process to peace perhaps?

Well, they’ve only followed in the steps of the British who came here during the colonial years, to escape from heat and hustle-bustle of the plains. When Dharamsala became the administrative capital of Kangra District in 1852.

Now, a stroll away from the town and hidden among pines, the church of St John in the Wilderness, is one of the few Gothic structures that archive the British past.

Standing within its cobble-stoned semidarkness that’s illuminated by sunlight shafting through stained glass windows is a prayer by itself.

Mcleodganj – named for a former Governor of the Punjab, Allen Macleod – became a popular hill station for the British. So much that they even wanted to be buried here. Lord Elgin, the late 19th century British Viceroy, lies in the graveyard behind the church, because the region reminded him of his native Scotland.

The British, however, left the hill station when it was rocked by an earthquake in the early 1900s. But Mcleodganj became news again when the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan people were driven into exile, and I’m sure if you ask him now, he’ll agree he couldn’t have been gifted a better place.

But if you want an afternoon of stories on Mcleodganj walk down to Nowrojee & Sons near the bus-stand. The 140 year old store is like a museum to the time when British ladies shut their delicate parasols and came in for groceries.

In the cool dim interior are large glass jars from the early 20th century. An old German petromax lamp hangs above, while the shelves are lined with advertising posters dating back to the early 1900s that collectors would die for.

If Mcleodganj is invigorating for soul, it’s as kick-starting for the body. How often will you find lonely paths in the city shaded by sweet smelling pine. How often will you get to meet a Nobel peace prize winner on a walk? We were blessed by His Holiness even as his entourage slowed down on the sloping path to Norbulingka. To think that people have to make an appointment months in advance.

How often will you hear the sweet sound of monks shouting angrily? Sitting on the grassy slope that surrounds the Tibetan children’s village playground (TCV) after a face-lifting walk, we watched a football tournament between Tibetan teams from around India. Seeing monks, young and old, shout names at their home team for missing a goal felt like being in the making of The Cup, the giggle-inspiring movie on Tibetan life.

How often is a waterfall a backdrop for the tunes of Bob Marley? At the food stall high up at Bhagsunag, a Pahari nodded to ‘Songs of freedom’. Strangely, and though he never meant it, it could just be another chant of support for the Tibetan people. A people who do not really let on that they’re a people in exile, except in the red and blue sun-rayed posters that appear here and there, calling for rangzen, freedom. Who, with their laughter, their grace and most importantly, their sense of hope make this such a special place.

Now you may not meet His Holiness or Gere, but Mcleodganj teaches you to find bliss in the small things. I suggest you start with the lemon cheesecake.

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SIDEBARS

PLACES TO SEE:

Norbulingka Institute

Named after the summer residence of the Dalai lama in Tibet, the institute is dedicated to preserving Tibetan literature and visual crafts. 4 kms from Dharamsala. Find here shady paths, wooden bridges, small streams and waterfalls. The skills preserved and passed on at Norbulingka include statue making, thangka painting, appliqué and tailoring, woodcarving, carpentry and metal craft.

Kangra Art Museum

The Kangra Art Museum displays an excellent collection of Kangra Valley arts, and crafts, some that date back to the 5th century! The museum also includes a gallery of Kangra’s famous miniature paintings and a collection of sculpture, pottery, and anthropological items.

Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts

Dal Lake
About 11 km from Dharamsala. Go picnic at the lake surrounded by deodars.

War Memorial
At the very start of town, landscaped lawns and a web of narrow paths fill a pine grove where a monument has been raised to commemorate the post independence war heroes of Himachal Pradesh.

Bhagsunag
Close to Dal lake is the shrine of Bhagsunag, an easy walk from the Macleodganj Bazaar. Must do: The waterfall. (11 Km/7 Mile)

Tushita : This is where you’ll find the Vipassana Centre for Meditation.

ACTIVITIES:

Dharamsala also serves as a base camp for several trekking expeditions across the Dhauladhar Range. There are some excellent treks from here to Triund, (3,350 m or 10,991 ft), Inderhara Pass (4,300 m or 14,108 ft).

SHOPPING:

Down Jogibara road you’ll find little stalls, manned by Kashmiris and Tibetans where you can buy Buddha heads in wood and bronze, carpets, woven woolen scarves, papier mache trinkets to Tibetan singing bowls and prayer wheels, silver jewelry. And a tutung, the Tibetan shirt. The store owner insisted Jackie Shroff had bought one from his store.

The Green Shop at Bhagsu Road sells recycled cards and other such stationery. Though they turn shy and giggly, they let you watch them as they make the paper by hand. It is quite a colorful experience and just one of the little industries that help sustain them and the cause. McLeod Ganj also harbors several organizations dedicated to raising funds for the Tibetan people and promoting and preserving Buddhist culture.

Among these is the Government-in-Exile’s administration complex, or Gangchen Kyishong, where you’ll find the fascinating Library of Tibetan Works and Archives

Getting there:

RAIL:

The nearest rail head (broad gauge) is at Pathankot. You can take privately operated taxis or luxury coaches from there. Non-local buses usually arrive at and depart from the New Bus Stand in Lower Dharamsala.

AIR:

The nearest airport is Kangra airport at Gaggal, located 15 km. from Dharamsala. Get a connecting flight from Delhi airport.

Indian Airlines operates flights between Delhi-Gaggal, and Gaggal-Delhi three times a week – Mon, Wed & Fridays. The plane leaves Delhi at 13.15 arriving Gaggal at 14.40. It departs Gaggal on the same day at 15.00 arriving in Delhi 16.25.

If you can’t get to Gaggal, you could try taking a Jagson Airlines flight to Kullu. Mon – Sat. Dep (Delhi); 10.am. Arrv (Kullu): 11.20 am. Dep (Kullu: 10.20 am. Arr (Delhi): 11.40 am ) And a taxi or bus from there.

Other airports with a regular service are: Jammu 200 km., Amritsar 210 km. and Chandigarh 260 km. Luxury buses and private taxis operate from all these airports.

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(Published in India Today Travel Plus magazine.)

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Feel free to quote from this site without permission, staying within the normal fair-use conventions, as long as you do me the courtesy of linking back to the relevant permalink and also letting me know. (You can get the permanent link to a particular post by clicking the time stamp below the headline.)
If you’d like reprint rights, please mail me at huanita@yahoo.com

Hitler would have hiccups and spin in his grave at the same time if he knew. He’d commissioned this car – or rather its daddy – for the fatherland. To be the ‘people’s car’. But this laptop-generation hippie is light years from what the Fuhrer would ever imagine, enough to give him a mild seizure right in the middle of his Mein Kampf.

How should I describe it? Let’s see, if you put Peter Pan, Einstein and Moby in a room together, this is what you’d get. A car with the self-possessed cool of an IMac, the buzz of a rock star and design that a spaceship would envy.

You can put those jaws together now. There is no doubt about it. This is the wunderkar, the new Volkswagen Beetle. The car to trade the Merc when the weekend hits. At a whopping 14 lakhs and climbing, a car for the fat of wallet and swanky in taste, a collectors item. A car for the non-conformist, and a mascot of change.

Hitler would bark, he certainly would, if he knew that the economy car that first trundled out of Germany is now a prize possession, the toy of the yuppies and technobiz billionaires. But nearly seven years ago, this was the definitive quirky car that blew minds all over car-crazy America. And it’s now set to clear traffic down Marine Drive. Or create a traffic jam, whichever way you look at it. And even though I can just about afford the rear fender, I’m excited.

I know this is the kind of car Andy Warhol would’ve driven, if not immortalised, making it a pop art hero. But then, the new Beetle is already part of legend.

Its forefather – the Classic Beetle was pulled out of Nazi grimness and adopted by the Flower Power generation. And then celebrated in the pot-smoking days of free love, idealism, starry eyes and rock n roll. Take a chair now – Five million beetles were sold between 1949 and 1979, and most of them in the Summer of Love.

But where the Classic Beetle starred in Hollywood movie ‘Lovebug’, and was chauffeured by loveniks, flared jeans, kurta and rastafarian braids to Woodstock in the 1960s, the new Beetle now transports gel spiked hair, and sharp duds and honours driveways in snobnosed Nottinghill, garages off Central park and the inclines of San Francisco. And to think it once used to be driven by old Parsis.

While the classic Beetle draws nostalgia, the new one evokes envy. A case in point.

The place: The highway ribboning to downtown Chicago. A SUV (Standard Utility Vehicle ) tears up tar behind us. Then, it spies the small silver smiling bug singing to the wind. The SUV sidles in slyly for a closer look. Notice, the driver in the SUV is not concentrating on the road. Two seconds, and the SUV has to pull his way out of an oncoming Mac truck. Advantage Beetle!

I’ve heard it invite a lot of complimentary adjectives, “oh!?” “er..” “and “whoa” being the commonest. But even if I am a crusader for its drive and a sucker for its looks, the new VW Beetle has its share of evil.

People stare. Curiously, unabashedly. Like you’ve just stopped over from Mars – antennae et al, or have your fly open or have forgotten your clothes at home. Be burdened with the attention heaped on a movie star. Prepare to be accosted by complete strangers. From paanwallahs to old Parsi women, who will tap you on your starched shoulder and ask questions. From an wide-eyed “What is this?” to a smug “How much did it cost?” And of course, wiping off fingerprints every time you go back to your parked car will become a necessary ritual.

But, then, smile when you consider the upside: how the female species especially the young nubile variety – for whom you were invisible man till date, suddenly become an intricate part of your universe. Just be careful where you go. It’s the curse of the VW beetle. Everyone will know where you’ve been.

All things considered, I’d still say its greatest talent is that it can make even the most road-hardened trucker, who’s been at the wheel all the way from Haryana to Bombay non-stop, crack a greasy grin.

True to its roots – and its advertising “If you sold your soul in the 60’s here’s your chance to buy it back” it brings people together.

Sitting inside a Chicago deli I saw a couple stop in the middle of an argument as a Beetle slid into a parking space and then together turn and ask the driver about the car. Which is why it doesn’t really surprise me that along with the hippies’ VW micro bus it became an icon of flower power, of love. It was well-deserved.

The new beetle is cleverly retro, not severing its umbilical cord, sticking only with the features that made it an icon.

And yet it fits perfectly into this palmtop life and almost non-existent parking space. Pack your driving worries into the ample space in the trunk, this bug has been built to shimmy its way through traffic, with happy demeanour. And though it may be named after the insect family Coleopteria for its compact and intelligent design, at 60 miles per hr. it has all the growl of a tiger.

The design however takes a bit of a toll on headroom. But if the average American can emerge unscathed, exhibiting no bump on his head then an Indian should have no room to complain. Speaking of which, it doesn’t have the legroom of first class, but is definitely and comfortably spacious thanks to a truly deep dashtop. And though the black or grey interior, luxury and leather packages are standard, I’d ask you forget about trying anything other than sitting on the backseat.

Underneath the skin, the new Beetle is thoroughly modern, the engine, the transmission brakes and suspension borrowed from the Volkswagen Golf which is a very good car.

Front wheeled engine and front wheeled drive as opposed to the Classic Beetle’s rear-engine and rear wheel drive, water cooled where air and oil once kept the engine at sane temperatures, the new car has almost nothing in common with the old. Except its shape. Which I suppose is the feature its popularity is most based on – going from the fact that it speaks to mommies and clubbers, war veterans and hippies alike.

Even its most basic form it boasts more than twice the grunt of the old one. The hoarding you pass quite rightly announces “Less flower. More power.” Acceleration is brisk, and for all its gentle disposition it won’t hesitate to shame a Japanese small car on the road.

Now if the tech specs don’t get you maybe the bud vase will. A tribute to flower power? Who knows, but its sits there on the elegant, minimalistic, curving dashboard that can be bathed in a blue light at the flick of a switch further propagating the mind-bending vibe of the sixties.

It doesn’t take long to fix your heart on a Beetle, but believe me you have to get the colour right. And deciding that, can successfully turn your hair a fine shade of grey. The Beetle flaunts colours more psychedelic than the free love generation could ever have visualised, even after ten pulls on a pipe. You could put your finger on the Vortex that the brochure says is ‘a blue on ten cups of coffee’. Or on Reflex, almost a blazing sunflower yellow. Or maybe the Lime. Looking back, it’s easier to hand over the 14 lakhs.

Now to those who plan to show-off a Bug in their driveway, there’s three laws you should follow. One: Don’t embarrass it with a bumper sticker that says ‘My other car is a Merc.” It has too much dignity for that. Two: Don’t make any enemies. Three: Unbutton those cuffs. Lose the stiff lip. And gain some patience for all the raised eyebrows. And yes, you’d better book now. Import is being limited to just 100 units per year.

What would Hitler say? Well, who cares. Give thanks Hitler is dead. Give thanks it’s the 2000s and you can flaunt your eccentricity down the road. But once, just for a tiniest fraction of a second – and even if the politically correct flog me for it – for the car he gifted to the world, Heil Hitler.

(Published in the Sunday Times supplement)

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