T is for Toast, Tavaa Toast #atozchallenge

Yes, the title of today's post is inspired by Bond, James Bond. If he's a man's man, then tavaa toast is a toast's toast, at least according to my taste buds.

Now that I've impressed you with all the tiresome Ts I've managed to thrust in the sentence above, let's move on.

To find out about tavaa toast, you'll have to travel back in time with me to the mid-1970s (when I was between 3 and 10) to Beji's (my grandmother) kitchen in Dehradun.

Double roti is how I was first introduced to sliced white bread that came wrapped in a clear plastic bag of shame.

Shame?

Bread?

Why?

Beji was the queen of her kitchen and my grandfather's heart. Her words were law and no one questioned her rules. She was petite and soft and never raised her voice, ever. I don't recall a single harsh word uttered by her. Yes, yes, I loved her, so I must be biased. But she ruled without force. Her way in the kitchen was the only way. No one complained. She was an amazing cook who was completely dedicated to feeding her family.

The firangi (foreign) double roti aka sliced, white bread had no place in her Punjabi kitchen.

"Shame on you for buying bread from a shop. Shame on you for buying any food that comes wrapped up in a plastic bag. How difficult is it to knead some flour, roll out a roti and raise it into a hot balloon on the tavaa? Huh? Why did God give us hands? " No, she never uttered those words. She just relayed the sentiments to us by her actions.

"Aye koi khaand dee cheez hai? Mareezan di roti?" (She had proclaimed sliced, white bread to be fit for consumption only by the sick or if your family had abandoned you and you were left without a kitchen--how else could one justify a food so lacking in taste and nutrients?)

Double Roti was contraband.

Time changed all that. Beji became older and weaker. Her son's wives gained more and more access to her  kitchen. Modern life with its modern rhythm introduced faster flavours and easier to prepare meals into our lives.

Then one day, my mother served us toast for breakfast, instead of paraanthas.

We didn't have a toaster then.

This is where the tavaa (flat pan on which we make rotis/chappatis) comes in.

Put the tavaa on a medium flame. Let it get hot enough for the thin slab of butter you're about to tip into it to melt. Then place your slice of bread on it. Scrape a few thickish shavings off the block of (Amul or home-made white) butter and spread them evenly on the side of  bread facing you. Make sure the edges get enough, too. When the air around you starts to fill up with buttery toast aroma, turn the side. If, like me, you like the edges kararaa (brown and well done) then wait a bit. You can always add a bit more butter by sliding it through the edges while the white slice is browning into a toast. Now slide the James Bond of all toasts onto your plate and enjoy. But,before you do, make sure that the bread is cooked.

Because, all through my childhood I was told that the white slices of bread that were sold at the bakers were kachaa (raw/uncooked/in need of proper cooking--Indian style).

"Aye haye kachee bread khaa littee...aye le...ajwaain khaa...sabar nahin bilkul ve ajkal de bachayaan noo."

If you were spotted eating white bread straight from the packet, chances are your mum or granny would take you to the doctors for you had just consumed raw, uncooked bread.

Don't ask me! I was a kid back then. How was I to know that the baker had baked the bread before wrapping it in a plastic bag? Baking wasn't done in my Beji's kitchen.  The oven, I knew and loved, was outside, in the veranda. It was called tandoor. 

I digress. Sorry.

My mouth is watering just typing the way my mom used to make tava toast for us. She would use ghee or Amul butter or home-made white butter, depending upon what was available or what one felt like having that day.

They are all superb. Yummy. And they all taste different. The ghee ones are kurkure (crumbly like pastry), the Amul ones are salty and the ones made with white butter are soft in the middle. You can crush some black pepper on top, or chilly flakes if you like, and Bob's your uncle.

When toasters came into our lives, we started toasting our kachaa slices of bread---white in the 90s, followed by brown and multi grain and then the gluten free kind.

Our trusted Tefal toaster sits like a king on our kitchen counter top. His courtiers stand in attention right next to him--bottled up and straight--honey, marmite, peanut butter and marmalade.

I use my toaster to toast pitta, naan, bread and bagels. And they all come wrapped up in plastic bags. Beji must be tut-tutting from somewhere up there in ether.

*****
How do you like your toast? Do tell:)

I have to thank Barbara whose post about skillets drew my attention to the tavaa on my hob.

I feel I need to add a picture of the other 'T' I was toying with before I read Barbara's post. 

It's tota -- parrot in Hindi.(the t is soft--falls between t and th)

Tota (this sounds like it reads) is also a modern Punjabi slang for hot stuff--

of the female kind, not bread.

Ahmedabadi Tota:)

 U and I will meet again:)

Holi springs colour

Photo Courtesy: Google Images

Flowers of Jungle flame aka Tesu ke phool

I love colour. Therefore, I love Holi. It's my favourite festival. As a child, drenched in the innocence of small town India, I played Holi with abandon, gulaal (colour) and dhamaal (utter madness).

Gujjia (stuffed and sweet pastry) and pichkaaris (water pistols) and Tesu ke phool (flowers of Jungle flame) occupied my thoughts and senses for days leading  up to Holi.

My sister, brother and I, along with half a dozen kids from our neighbourhood, would fill water balloons -- their rubbery necks stretched around the spout of a tap attached to a tank or any tap that was free to use. It didn't matter whose house we were in. Almost organically, a band of bandits would form. I remember, as a seven year old, I would hang out with teenagers and toddlers and our jhund (band) of mismatched heights and ages would behave like one organism, safe in numbers, with only one goal in mind: to play Holi. Angry aunties whose water supply would be in serious danger of running dry couldn't dampen our enthusiastic balloon filling quest one bit. The entire mohalla (neighbourhood) tuned into a giant aangan (courtyard) filled with multi-coloured faces, white kurta pyjamas and shrieking kids.

70's turned into 80's in Dehradun. Economic progress came wrapped up in plastic. Metal pichkaaris which worked perfectly well were replaced by plastic ones which looked better than they worked. The effect was never the same. The plastic water pistols squirted a frustratingly feeble trickle compared to the roaring jet of the metal ones. The shiny plastic button that one had to press hard to release the jet of water would break within the first hour of purchase. We would then use the fiddly things as mere holders of coloured water and unscrew the top or the bottom to tip the water over friends/foes to play Holi.

The novelty of these toys would wear out quite quickly and in the excitement of all the colour that had yet to be smothered, the poor plastic pistols would lie orphaned and abandoned in some neighbour's garden or worse, in a naali (open drain) somewhere. Until, of course, the mothers and fathers yelled at the children to go look for such an expensive purchase. They would, sometimes softly and often hysterically loudly, explain to you in front of the entire mohalla (neighbourhood) that it was your fault this cheap contraption had been bought in the first place and that it was you who had pestered them to get it by saying your Holi would be incomplete without it. Before long, the neighbourhood would split into us (the children) and them (the parents). Long after we, the children, had forgotten the yelling, heads of parents would be seen shaking to each other to the tune of, "Yeh aajkal ke bachhe...paise ki kadra nahin jaante." Kids these days don't know the value of money.

Collective and public telling off would be followed by 'discipline' in the privacy of homes, after dinner and before bedtime, when the probability of a neighbour dropping in unannounced was almost zero: a bit of ear twisting or a serious sounding threat to never buy you another toy for as long as you live or a stinging slap or anything that was seen as appropriate punishment by the respective parent. It all depended on how strict or kind your parents were.

Don't worry, neither the children nor the parents will remember this next year and the entire episode described above will get repeated, only the plastic pistols will change as those would've been bought new, you see.

Back to the actual Holi -- so when all the blubbery balloon missiles had been used up and almost all the powder colour lay plastered on us or the streets, and none of the pichkaaris co-operated anymore, we'd  resort to the 'balti ka paani'...the murky water in the communal bucket where everyone and their khandaan (extended family) had mixed their colour to fill up their pichkaaris and gubbare (water balloons).

We knew instinctively that once this 'balti ka paani' was over, our mothers would call us  back in to get cleaned up and become human again. In other words, Holi would be shown its 'THE END' slide as soon as the 'balti ka paani'  finished. Magically, the bucket never emptied.

"Bunty, enough! Come in NOW!" some neighbour would call out to her son/daughter.

"Abhi balti ka paani khatam nahin hua Mummy!" The bucket is not yet empty Mum!

Dehradun lost its innocence almost as soon as I turned twelve. Suddenly. Holi came with its own instruction manual. Do this, Don't do this. Go there, but not there. Don't mix with those people. Avoid boys at all costs if they were not from your family or neighbourhood.

For the first time, I was warned to look beyond the vibrant haze of Holi ke rang (colours) and take notice of the filth that may linger in the minds of humans dressed in pure white kurta pyjamas wearing colourful smiles.

Words like chhedd-chhadd (eve- teasing) and sexual harassment cropped up like weeds and took root, deep and damaging.

Back then, the burden of growing up was gifted exclusively to girls, innocently wrapped up in tameez (etiquette) and sanskaar (values)

 "Girls should play Holi sensibly beta... Mundya da ki hai (What of boys?)"

This rhetorical question bothered me! What of boys? Why were they never asked to be careful when they turned twelve? What made them different?

Hormones, tameez (etiquette) and riwaaz (traditions) muted the colours of Holi and for a good many years I played the censored version, called insanon wali Holi (the way humans play Holi). It wasn't bad but the rebel in me would look at all the gangs of boys hanging out on the chaurahas (intersections) without any curfews or restrictions and wonder why?

When I got married, my license to play 'jhallon wali Holi' (mad aka fun Holi) was renewed. My husband became my bodyguard and I'd go and play with abandon and dance like Amitabh Bachchan till my feet hurt and still carry on. My husband would hold his glass of thandai or beer and stand near me, not too close but close enough (he's not so keen on dancing). This way I'd be able to have my fun and not get hassled by eager or drunk revelers! Perfect!

The fact that I need a man (my husband) to feel safe among other men when playing Holi says a lot about this land of  Shakti and Kali and Rani Laxmibai and Sita and Meera and Durga.

Although I miss my bhachpan ki (childhood) Holi, to tell you the truth, these days I don't need balloons or colour or pichkaari or thandai to feel its abundant joy. Grateful to be alive, I like to relish the gift of a new day when I open my eyes in the morning to witness another day unfold, another flower bloom, another blade of grass kiss drops of dew, listen to birds sing a new tune or even an old one, watch the sky fold its cover of day and spread the sheets of night, speckled with stars. Everyday is a celebration of colour.

Every now and then, I do get sidetracked by the mundane busyness of the day to day ('functioning as a human' as my yoga teacher calls it) and then some unknown force makes me click on Sadhguru's video and I hear him say how one must smile when one gets up in the morning for it's a precious gift, this life we live.

"Notice the things that you are drawn to." says Anusha when we, her students, look up to her in wide eyed wonderment and some sprinkling of doubt on our quest to find who the real 'us' is.

I pay closer attention to my day. Paying attention brings up even more to be grateful for and even more to be joyful about. Holi no longer comes in a plastic packet of synthetic colour.

Spring sprinkles his colours and shows me the way. I follow with a smile.

Come and feast your eyes on the colours that a patch of green has yielded this spring. It doesn't get more blissful than this:)

Group shot:Onion, neem, cabbage, cualiflower, spinach, fenugreek, mulberry, basil and papaya

Ripe mulberry (almost ready to eat) Shehtoot

 Waiting their turn...the young ones.

Baingan ka phool aka Eggplant Flower

This shiny gem was made into a yummy baingan aaloo ki sabzi by my mother-in-law today.

Velvet and butter...the pretty pansies.

Blooming onion

Tomato flower

and tomatoes

Problem in paradise!

These two are not on talking terms: each waiting for the other to say 'sorry' first!

Yup..they're a couple.

I'm not sure what these flowers are called. I've always referred to them as local larkspurs.

 Zinnia

Lantana

I bought this sapling from a local nursery because I like the shape and colour of the leaves. 

Please enlighten me with its name, if you know this shrub.

Wabi Sabi

 Newly born neem leaves tickling the fluffy sky. 

Purple Basil in fragrant bloom

 Aparajita or Butterfly pea

Lit up and lighting up -- I love sunflowers:)

May I know how to nourish the seeds of joy in myself every day. May I be able to live fresh, solid, and free. May I be free from attachment and aversion, but not be indifferent.

— Thich Nhat Hanh

Thank you Archana for posting this beautiful quote.

One LAST offering: A ghazal written by Faiz 

sung by Tanya Wells.

Enjoy:)

Thanks Anu for sharing this gem.

Karwachauth: tradition, superstition or kitty party?

picture courtesy: Google images.

Superstition runs deep in my veins. I can't help it. Call it conditioning, or just plain sanskar (values) passed on by my grandmother and mother.

Beji, my grandmother, was superstitious about everything: from not using soap to bathe on Thursdays to not eating onions on Tuesdays to not drinking water just before she stepped out to go anywhere. The list goes on and on. My mother, however, was slightly more liberal and chose to let only a few superstitions creep into her daily life.

I hated them all. Even now, you will find me relishing eggs on Tuesdays. There's a rebel clock inside me that makes me crave eggs on the one day you are not supposed to eat them if you are a Khatri (Punjabi). And before you enlist all the cholesterol driven health benefits of abstaining from eggs, let me put your protest to bed-- I don't even like eggs that much.

At 45, I'm a concoction of my grandmother's compulsive kitchen cleaning, some of her superstitions, almost all of my mother's housekeeping standards and a lot of family traditions that look suspiciously like superstition to me.

Take Karwachauth for example. This is a very North Indian price one has to pay to remain suhagan (married). It's a killer fast observed by married women for the long life and prosperity of their husbands. It falls on the fourth day after Full Moon around this time of the year.
(in the Hindu lunisolar calendar month of Kartik, according to wikipedia)

Karwachauth  Rules in 4 simple steps :
1. Wake up before sunrise, get dressed and eat a beautiful feast prepared by you or your minions, as the case may be.
2. DO NOT consume any food or water till you've spotted the moon.
3. Sit with other fasters and do the pooja (prayers) before sunset and generally rejoice as a group, patiently waiting for the moon.
4. Spot the moon, feel grateful that your husband is there to bless you with love and financial stability and break your fast.

the end

The Reality of Karwachauth in my household (especially when I was working and living in London)

1. Set the alarm for 10 minutes before sunrise. Get out of bed half asleep. Wash face. Brush teeth. Put the kettle on. Drink gallons of water. Watch the lightening sky while sipping second cup of tea. Eat a banana and munch on some nuts. Set the alarm for usual wake up time and hit the bed.

2. No food-- no problem. No water --- will manage. No tea -- DO NOT mess with me! You've been warned!

3. Working and married and fasting? Turn on one of the million whatsap videos of the pooja while driving back home because the sun's gonna set before you reach that front door. Somehow reach the sofa in your living room and plop.

4. Keep sending husband, son, daughter (in turns) out to check the status of the moon while getting more and more irritated with that pesky headache because you haven't had your fix of tea ALL day.

When the moon does show up, after the sieve ritual, take that first sip of water! Go aah! Put the kettle on. Sip the tea. Watch the headache dissolve and become human again.

Why do I do it? Why do I put myself through it?

Three reasons:

1. I'm just too scared not to. This belies logic, I know. But it's my truth. Yes, I can see it's entangled in the web of superstition woven by my ancestors, but I'm too chicken to break free, just yet. You see, the popular belief is that messing up this fast can have a direct impact on the husband's health and well being
2. To check my will power and by default to hopefully lose 200 - 500 grams in one day!
3. I get to dress up.

The first time I Karwachauthed, I wasn't yet married to him, just newly engaged. I think that was the only time I truly believed in it. It was my coming of age ritual. I'd seen all my married aunts, my grandmother and my mother observe it. So when I took my first steps towards marital life, this fast marked being accepted into the 'married women's' club. It felt special.

Then followed a decade or so of fasting on an auto pilot. Busy with job and young children, I never pondered on why I fasted. I just did.

The story of the fast is like any other legend that has become so deep rooted in the everyday life of a community or the people that it has morphed into superstition disguised as tradition. I know it sounds silly but I don't want my husband to get a tummy ache just because I couldn't go without food for one day. There, I've said it. The only reason I fast is because I'm a superstitious coward.

These days even husbands fast to show their solidarity or I guess it's just easier this way; they don't have to worry about fixing their own dinner.

Jokes aside, why do we (liberal, educated, progressive) women continue to practise these rituals?

I've been  feeling  all churned up since the Full Moon. Why should I do this? No one's forcing me to. I almost feel like a fraud feminist. How can I talk about gender equality if I continue to shackle myself in these rituals? A ritual that reeks of women's dependence on their husbands to provide for them. Hence, fasting for the husband to ensure he lives a long and prosperous life seems crucial for the woman to enjoy financial security and stability. It sounds like a good business practice for an era when women didn't go out to earn their livelihood. So why continue with an archaic practice?

Then two things happened and I found the answer to my whys:

First, I went for a mehendi (henna) party where the host had put in a huge amount of effort to recreate India in Doha. The food, the henna, the chatter, the laughter-- her house resonated with wonderful sounds of womanhood -- bindaas (carefree) and beautiful. It was a 'women only' affair: single, married, divorced, widowed, henna lovers, henna haters, big eaters, small eaters, Hindu, Sikh, Muslim, Turkish, Syrian, Indian and British-- yes, it was party time. Why not? I thought. Why not?

The second moment of awareness came during the pooja (prayers): sitting in a circle with twelve other women dressed in red, pink, purple, gold, maroon and coral -- beautiful hues worn in traditional outfits from different parts of India, some friends and some strangers, some newly-wed, some married for more than thirty years, some shy, some bold, some early and some late to the venue, but all sitting around in a circle in a veranda under the late afternoon sky, listening to an ancient story played on an I-phone. The words of the song that accompany the katha (tale) tell you that on the day of Karwachauth you don't cook, clean, sew or do any chores whatsoever.

Scenes of my aunts and grandmother and mother flash before my eyes. Before Mother's day invaded India, this was the day when they were treated like royalty. No chores and no cooking. The focus of the day was getting ready for the pooja.

That's pretty much what I did. I didn't have to go to work, so I rested, made and applied my yohgurt and turmeric face mask, chose which saree and jewellery I'd wear, got dressed, took a few selfies and climbed into a friend's car to reach the pooja venue. Why not?

And once the pooja was over, and the prayers had been sung enlisting the virtues of  goddesses, our collective voices ringing out into a blushing sky, we went around hugging and congratulating each other. Why not? I thought. How beautiful and unassuming is this celebration of the female form?

Some of the fasters had a cup of tea after the pooja while others posed for more pictures, exchanged compliments and fashion/shopping tips, shared stories about how the rituals are done in their part of India-- all slightly different and all immensely interesting.

I'm aware of all the 'eat the patriarchy' stuff that's hot at the moment. By all means, STOP the forced fasting. No one should be made to feel guilty or harassed to do anything, least of all go hungry and thirsty. And if this practice is another stick to beat women with, then I'm totally against it.

You know why I do it, right? Because I'm a coward and I've established that fact early on.

But the reason I enjoy this day is because being away from my country of birth, I get to feel a part of it when I sit in a circle and pass my thali (plate) to the mother/daughter/wife sitting next to me. At times like these, I think of my mother who always made an effort to dress up no matter how ill she was. She's no more but the gota in her red dupatta sparkles with me when I sit in a circle and listen to the katha while my Beji's pink pure chiffon one says, 'Jyonde raho puttar, sada suhagan raho.' live a long and happily married life.

In this world of war and hatred, is it such a bad thing to keep some of these traditions alive? Why Not? I say. Why the hell not? 

Y is for Yoghurt bath #AtoZChallenge

When we were little, my mother used to bathe my sister and me with yoghurt. Ewwww! You say.

Precisely!

Courtesy: Google Images

The whole tamasha (fiasco) used to take place in the open. My grandfather's house, where we lived till I was eight, had a big rectangular cement water tank in the garden. It was tucked in a corner, almost next to the metal gate that we used to swing on and get told off for on a daily basis. Spiky fronds of ginger foliaged to the right of this grey water tank. A stubby pomegranate tree stood behind it. It flowered beautifully but its fruit was pitiful; the seeds never managed to plump up. I jumped off this tank once because a boy dared me to and landed on the balls of my feet so hard that I thought I saw stars (like in comic books) for a few seconds.

So, come Sunday morning, usually once a month, a medium sized steel bowl (katora) full of yoghurt (dahi in Hindi) would appear with a couple of drops of mustard oil in my mother's hand. The two of us would be ordered to march ourselves to the water tank (paani ki tunkee) clad only in our cotton kuchhees (underwear).

Even before my mother sat down on the low wooden stool (chowki) and even before she removed her dupatta (scarf) to settle down to get to her business, the pungent smell of mustard oil would hit my nostrils. I would've done anything to escape the ordeal.

Mummy would scoop out a dollop of curd with her fingers, place it on her palm, rub her palms together and she was ready to go. First stop: the arms, starting at the shoulders, she would rub the yoghurt into our arms, tut-tutting at the dry elbows. Discovering dry patches on our little bodies always renewed my mother's vigour to rub in the yoghurt with added pressure. Legs followed arms, then the toes and the spaces in between the toes that always tickled and the heels, then the back and then the tummy. AND THEN the bit I HATED the most: the face and the hair! Ewww! Ewww!  Her four gold bangles would jingle-jangle as the dreaded mustard oil smell came closer and closer to my nostrils: the cheeks, forehead and chin, the neck, behind the ears and then the hair.

We were washed down with warm water and patted dry. Rajma chawal (Kidney beans and rice) was our Sunday meal. By the time we got dressed, my grandfather would be getting ready to eat his lunch outdoors, under the big mulberry tree and we would hear him call out our names to hurry up and get our ghirais (morsels). You see, back then, humans at home started lunch after a chapati had been set aside for the cow (who'd wander up to the metal gate at precisely lunch time) and another for stray street dogs. That was my grandmother's routine. My grandfather ate his lunch after he had fed the first couple of  morsels to his two granddaughters, my sister and I and then my brother when he was born. He used to say that his food tasted better after we'd taken 'bhog' (offering). Those morsels are what I'm looking forward to when I meet him in my next life.

Once we moved out of my grandfather's house, bathing with yoghurt stopped. Maybe we were getting old or maybe my mother's depression was getting worse. I don't know.

For a long time, I kept yoghurt bathing a secret I was ashamed of. I didn't want anyone to find out that we had yoghurt baths on Sundays when we were kids; beats me why I thought like that. Because, your skin feels like silk after a yoghurt scrub. Try it, if you don't believe me. Word of caution: the hair smells yoghurty afterward, but it feels so velvety.

Many years later, I came across a short story in Hindi (I think it was grade 7 or 8) called Usne Kaha Tha by Chandradhar Sharma Guleri (1883- 1922).

It's considered to be the first short story in Hindi by some. It's certainly an amazingly written one. I read it when I was 12 or 13, but I remember the character, Lehna Singh and his question to the girl, 'Teri kudmayi ho gayee?' (Are you engaged?) as if I read it only last year.

In this story, Lehna Singh (the protagonist) is asked to fetch yoghurt from the bazaar for his uncle who wants to wash his hair. 

That day, I felt normal. 

'There's comfort in numbers', a friend recently wrote on facebook. I certainly felt it that day.

I don't bathe with yoghurt any more, maybe I should start. But, I do mix up a face pack with yoghurt that I apply at least once a week. This recipe is the result of many years of applying home-made face packs. This one works for me.

Mix all the ingredients listed below. Apply on face. When it's dry to touch (20-30 minutes), wash with lukewarm water. Pat dry. Smile.
Warning! DO NOT get the door with the mask on--it looks pretty ewww when it's on the face.

Yoghurt: 1 or 2 teaspoons
Instant coffee granules: 1 teaspoon
Turmeric powder: 1/4 teaspoon (if you have fresh turmeric, then grate it and a few drops of its juice should do)
Honey: 1/2 teaspoon
Lemon Juice: 2 drops.

Play around with the consistency and see what suits you best. 

Have a glowing Saturday :)

*********

If you are fond of reading short stories in Hindi, here's Usne Kaha tha in Hindi.

W is for Wedding day, Walks and Wall art

Kudiyan waangan chal, puttar. Kon vyaah karega tere naal?

"Walk like a girl, my child, how will you ever find a husband?" my sweet grandmother often asked me this question when I was a teenager.

Whenever I was asked to fetch a glass of water, or run any errands around the house, I did just that. I ran. I thought I was walking; apparently not!

Luckily, Beji, my grandmother, lived to see me wed my husband! Phew!

On my wedding day, the photographer kept hissing under his breath, 'Don't smile so much, look shy, like a bride.'

I wasn't planning to listen to him. I was bursting with joy and I was going to show it.

At the time of 'Vidaai' (this is when the bride leaves her father's house), tradition dictates that the bride should holler and sob. The minimum requirement to qualify as a demure Indian bride is to shed a few tears, at least, and look like you mean it. It didn't happen to me. Not a tear was in sight. I was just so thrilled to be his wife, I couldn't stop grinning. The photographer must have blamed his karma for getting this assignment. He had to resort to videoing my back while I was hugging my grandmother, who was crying, of course. Job done! Tears at vidaai- tick.

Thanks to the heavy saree I was wearing, I was forced to take tiny steps, so at least I walked like a bride. If I had my way, I would've loved to skip to the mandap.

My friends from work are familiar with my gait. It's fast, purposeful, open-chested and similar to the mawaalis' (goons') you see in films. I'd describe it as Bindaas Badshah Chaal (BBC for short). In other words, it's carefree with a hint of cocky, and not at all ladylike. The tea boys at work had a nickname for me; some villainous female character from a popular TV show. I had no idea who she was because my Indian TV viewing is rather limited, but they told me I reminded them of her. I tried not to take offence in the spirit of keeping them entertained while they made awesome cups of karak (tea) to keep us all energized.

The long and the short of it is that I always scrunched up a generous portion of my abaya fabric (the long black garment I had to wear to work) in my left hand so that I could hoist it about six inches above ground, to march down corridors, right hand swinging to the beat of my gait. This is NOT what abayas are designed for. They are designed to make the wearer glide, take dreamlike steps gracefully, like a lady.

Baadhh kahaan aayee hai aaj?

"Where is it flooding today?" A cheeky colleague of mine often asked me whenever he spotted me whizzing past in my black abaya.

I like walking fast. Strangely, slowing down tires me. Brisker the better. I feel reborn after a long walk at a good pace. A lot of my writing ideas take shape while I'm walking. Walks are my go to therapy when I'm feeling out of sorts. Walks clear my head and soothe my heart when I'm feeling ruffled.

However, my walking style changes dramatically when I'm with my camera, especially when I'm exploring a new place. Then it goes like this: Stop. Click. Stop. Click. Ponder. Click. Drive the family NUTS! Click. Ignore their huffing and puffing. Click.

My recent trip to Budapest was no exception. We walked and we walked. It was delightful--for all of us--really:) Are you ready for a tour?

Hop on and enjoy the walls of Budapest with me:

An eclectic mix of posters and signs, 

a few murals

and 

anything else that caught my eye...

I think this says A to Z:

Please correct me if I'm wrong.