Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's Blog, page 74
February 12, 2018
Today in Photo
You are my Sonia. At the Political Party Party with @manasisubramaniam #themeparty #doppelganger
via Instagram
February 11, 2018
Today in Photo
"The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore: When you let him in, then he wants to be out; He's always on the wrong side of every door, And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about. He likes to lie in the bureau drawer, But he makes such a fuss if he can't get out. Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any use for you to doubt it: For he will do As he do do And there's no doing anything about it!" - Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats Happy anniversary to us, Squishy. We love your little douche-y ways. #catsagram #blackcatsofinstagram #practicalcats
via Instagram
February 9, 2018
Today in Photo
Cut all my hair off again so once more I look like a sentient chrysanthemum. I also no longer know how to take a good selfie. #bighairdontcare #curlsfordays
via Instagram
Today in Photo
You probably can't read the title because this copy of one of my all time favorite books in the whole WORLD is so beat up, held together by ancient pieces of sticky tape. But yes, eagle eyed reader, it IS The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Age 13 and 3/4ths. Plus two other volumes of his life. I forget when I got this. Definitely a birthday present, definitely early teens. I've read it a zillion times since, plus his later life which I didn't find half so funny. I think all geeky self important teens WERE Adrian Mole, so I couldn't laugh at him the first time round but on rereading now I also find it a little sad. Isn't that odd? #bookstagram #mrmbookclub #nowreading
via Instagram
February 7, 2018
Newsletter: What if we all spoke the same language?
I have just returned from Trivandrum--which has not changed much in many ways. The air, the buildings still smell the same. People still say, "Oh, we know your father" to me and ask if I speak Malayalam and when I say I don't, they turn to each other and let out strings of unintelligible words. At first I resisted, I tuned out whenever this happened to me--and it happened to me a lot, at the first of my panel discussions, the two male authors talked to each other and the audience only in Malayalam. I protested weakly, they turned to me, and said, "Yes, wait a minute, we will translate" but in the end, the language pulled them under and in, and there was a photo of the session the next day with my body neatly cropped out, I guess my expression was too miserable for them to use. I thought maybe if I leaned in to the language I might suddenly be able to understand it, like those Magic Eye pictures, where you have to unfocus your eyes in order to see. I forgot I was never any good at Magic Eye.
Sitting up there on that stage though--and then later, on a different panel, with only one Malayali author who nevertheless spoke only in Malayalam, with a few tossed asides to me and the other panelist--I started thinking about language chauvinism. Language is like a club, you admit people if they know your codes. In English, it's far more egalitarian, anyone can speak English regardless of where they are born, and so the rules of the club are much more varied. You'd be admitted to one set if you had the right vocabulary and the right accent, another set if you knew the right slang. But still we build these walls up around ourselves--we will only let you sit with us if you can speak this in this way. I know not all Hindi speakers find each other with such camaraderie--the Bihari accents won't be as comfortable with, say, the UP accents, as they are with each other. In many ways, it is a good thing that these clubs exist--in a city like Delhi, you can immediately find your tribe just by slipping into Tamil or Bengali or whatever, a signal, here I am, I am one of you, I am safe to know, because of these familiar words I am using. But it's also a way of exclusion, the audience and my fellow authors were so far away from me, locked behind walls I couldn't climb.
Besides mulling on the significance of the words we use, I had a marvelous time. I made some new friends, ate excellent food (if there's one part of me that is forever tied to Kerala and to Andhra Pradesh, it is my taste buds. The food there just tastes better than the food anywhere else. It unlocks some secret code in my brain, telling me yes, this is what you are meant to eat!) hung out with my mother, who was also a panelist (and did not have the same experience as I did at all, her panel only spoke in English). There were also some great parties, and we were all extremely well taken care of, and feted in the way you can only do at a smaller lit fest. I saw Sujatha Gidla's session, which I loved and also Ambarish Satwik's monologue on the medical nude which was great fun. Spoke to some interesting people as well--so all in all, it's one for the success column.
I will be going back to Kerala next week (!) for that half of our wedding reception, and from there, I fly to Bombay for the Gateway Lit Fest, which looks hugely exciting. Please come if you're around, this edition is all women writers, so there should be lots of inspiration to be had.
This week in books and reading: Started reading N.K Jemisin's Broken Earth trilogy, recommended on Goodreads as a "fantasy series that is already finished" which is always great because then you don't have to keep waiting and waiting and WAITING and finally losing interest. (Yeah, you know who I'm talking about.) Anyway, The Fifth Season is FANTASTIC, especially if you loved Korra or The Last Airbender, because there's a lot of earth bending going on, and that's not a spoiler, it happens on the first few pages. I loved it, despite its slow start, and am about to begin on book two. I totally meant to document all the books I read on Instagram this year, but I keep forgetting, so eventually there will be one post with a zillion photos.
This week in travel hacks: The secret to light packing for a two or three day trip? A day pack. By which I mean a backpack that you carry along as your cabin baggage in which you cleverly pack your regular purse. This saved my life--so easy to carry around the airport, AND also the extra stuff from Trivandrum fit neatly into it. I may never NOT travel like this again.
Link list!
- It was a grave omission, not putting The Internet Personified on this list, but we'll forgive them because we like the rest.
Sitting up there on that stage though--and then later, on a different panel, with only one Malayali author who nevertheless spoke only in Malayalam, with a few tossed asides to me and the other panelist--I started thinking about language chauvinism. Language is like a club, you admit people if they know your codes. In English, it's far more egalitarian, anyone can speak English regardless of where they are born, and so the rules of the club are much more varied. You'd be admitted to one set if you had the right vocabulary and the right accent, another set if you knew the right slang. But still we build these walls up around ourselves--we will only let you sit with us if you can speak this in this way. I know not all Hindi speakers find each other with such camaraderie--the Bihari accents won't be as comfortable with, say, the UP accents, as they are with each other. In many ways, it is a good thing that these clubs exist--in a city like Delhi, you can immediately find your tribe just by slipping into Tamil or Bengali or whatever, a signal, here I am, I am one of you, I am safe to know, because of these familiar words I am using. But it's also a way of exclusion, the audience and my fellow authors were so far away from me, locked behind walls I couldn't climb.
Besides mulling on the significance of the words we use, I had a marvelous time. I made some new friends, ate excellent food (if there's one part of me that is forever tied to Kerala and to Andhra Pradesh, it is my taste buds. The food there just tastes better than the food anywhere else. It unlocks some secret code in my brain, telling me yes, this is what you are meant to eat!) hung out with my mother, who was also a panelist (and did not have the same experience as I did at all, her panel only spoke in English). There were also some great parties, and we were all extremely well taken care of, and feted in the way you can only do at a smaller lit fest. I saw Sujatha Gidla's session, which I loved and also Ambarish Satwik's monologue on the medical nude which was great fun. Spoke to some interesting people as well--so all in all, it's one for the success column.
I will be going back to Kerala next week (!) for that half of our wedding reception, and from there, I fly to Bombay for the Gateway Lit Fest, which looks hugely exciting. Please come if you're around, this edition is all women writers, so there should be lots of inspiration to be had.
This week in books and reading: Started reading N.K Jemisin's Broken Earth trilogy, recommended on Goodreads as a "fantasy series that is already finished" which is always great because then you don't have to keep waiting and waiting and WAITING and finally losing interest. (Yeah, you know who I'm talking about.) Anyway, The Fifth Season is FANTASTIC, especially if you loved Korra or The Last Airbender, because there's a lot of earth bending going on, and that's not a spoiler, it happens on the first few pages. I loved it, despite its slow start, and am about to begin on book two. I totally meant to document all the books I read on Instagram this year, but I keep forgetting, so eventually there will be one post with a zillion photos.
This week in travel hacks: The secret to light packing for a two or three day trip? A day pack. By which I mean a backpack that you carry along as your cabin baggage in which you cleverly pack your regular purse. This saved my life--so easy to carry around the airport, AND also the extra stuff from Trivandrum fit neatly into it. I may never NOT travel like this again.
Link list!
The writerly apartment in this fantasy is bare and minimal; the walls are unpainted plaster, or the wallpaper is peeling; the heat is faulty or not there; there are books stacked on the floor. It looks this way because it’s Paris struggling out of the deprivation and destruction of a world war, or New York soldiering on through the Depression, living in the wreckage of 1920s glamor. The writer spends hours in cafes, working and drinking, because the cafes are heated and the apartment is not. The aesthetic of this fantasy is permanently frozen in the first half of the 20th century, in the cities (and occasionally the beach resorts near cities) of Europe and the United States. The reason the fantasy writer lifestyle is set in such a particular time and place is that the interwar and postwar American writers who went to Europe for cheap rents have exerted a massive influence on the American idea of what literature is. Who casts a longer shadow across American fiction and curricula than Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Baldwin?- The fantasy of the writer's life.
Tariq straddles the divide between the Pakistan that was and the Pakistan that may come to be, between the way society used to be—how women were seen, how kitchens were run—and a brave new world in which elderly figures like Tariq are open targets for mockery. She is a member of the elite and an idol for the middle-class; an elderly figure people can confide in, a stand-in for the mother who no longer lives next door. She is constantly in the background of urban Pakistani life, along with the constant litany of political crises that is the news. With her dyed hair and perfectly ironed sari, she really is Pakistan’s older sister, disapproving of a consumerist culture as she oversees her nation’s awkward struggle toward modernity.- On Pakistan's Martha Stewart
In his memoir about running, Murakami wrote, “What exactly do I think about when I'm running? I don't have a clue.” I, on the other hand, know exactly what I think about when I’m running: I think about how great it’d be if I stopped running. Still, I forced myself to complete the ten kilometers, which felt pretty good. Sadly, this elevated mood was only temporary. When I returned home, I reviewed the fruits of my work from earlier in the morning. It wasn’t much.- Copying the routines of famous writers isn't actually a great way of getting shit done.
The weekly newsletter helps discover new music through themes such as Songs for a Monday After a Sunday, Some Funks To Give, or Dancing Around the Kitchen with a Frying Pan as a Partner. “I associate songs with memories and places and since I was cooking on a Sunday, I made a playlist,” Bhatia says.
- It was a grave omission, not putting The Internet Personified on this list, but we'll forgive them because we like the rest.
- An argument for staying put
Travel has always had a sinister side. The Romans really got about. You’d think taking baths and running around on mosaic floors in Rome to the chimes of your tintinnabuli, with the occasional trek south for an orgy in Pompeii, would be enough for anybody. But no, those legions were always on the move, subduing, usurping, exploiting, and enslaving people; transporting wheat, papyrus, and gossip; and building walls to make Rome great again. But the thing is, when you’re away from home too much, things go to pot. If you’re not careful, you come back to find your colosseum’s cracking, and your civilization too.
- That Indo Anglian article everyone's talking about.
This leads me to think of two distinct ways to look at Indo-Anglians. One is to see them as casteless, or even as an example of a post-caste community, where the traditional caste identity is subsumed under the new Indo-Anglian identity. The alternate approach, which I prefer, is to look at them as a distinct ‘caste’ parallel to the upper castes, with its own unique cultural norms and practices. The key criteria for caste inclusion and endogamy being advanced English language skills.
Today in Photo
"I have a Gumbie Cat in mind Her name is Jennyanydots Her coat is of the tabby kind with tiger stripes and leopard spots All day she sits upon the stair or on the step or on the mat She sits and sits and sits and sits And that's what makes a Gumbie Cat That's what makes a Gumbie Cat!" - Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats #olgadapolga #catsagram #calicosofinstagram
via Instagram
February 4, 2018
Today in Photo
Mum and I had a great time in Trivandrum, thank you for asking. Can someone translate this caption? We're looking at my column by the way, which might explain my delighted doofy expression. #traveldiary
via Instagram
January 31, 2018
Newsletter: Feeling my age
Is it still January? My, how this month goes on. I just checked my calendar, thinking, okay surely we must be at the end of the month, and it is only the 29th. I don't know why I'm so desperate for January to get over, from March, as has been scientifically* proven (*not really) the year just tears by. Perhaps because February is a big travel month for me. I am off, firstly, to Trivandrum for the Mathrubhumi International Festival of Letters where I will be talking about all things Mahabharata for three days--well, ONE of the days I will be talking about the Mahabharata, the rest of the time I will be listening, and reading and writing in Kerala. I used to live in Trivandrum, you know, from age seven to age nine, we had this lovely house on the top of a hill and the back of beyond, with this sort of terraced garden, where the lowest level, furtherest away from the house was basically given over to wildlife since we had no gardener, and once I saw a pheasant emerge from the long grass and fly out, shrieking. Level two was where there was this large granite structure, which was apparently used to scrub clothes back in the day, and level one was the garden closest to the house, and sometimes snakes would come out of the grass and come inside the house to curl up next to the glass panes for warmth. Usually rat snakes but once a cobra, and while I was sitting on the back steps once I saw what I thought was a skipping rope in the leaves and bent down to pick it up but then it MOVED and I'm fairly sure it was a coral snake, Which is non-venomous if you get treated immediately, if not, it causes breathing problems. It's amazing how lucky I am to be alive a 36, when you think of how careless I was through my entire life.
Another nice thing about the Trivandrum house was the slope-y roof, we used to climb up there and sit and watch the sunset. It was fairly lonely, not many children, and my school was too far away to invite anyone home comfortably, so I lived a solitary existence with my dog Bobo, named for Boris Becker, and the sometimes company of Bipin and Bindya, two very unsatisfactory playmates who lived next door but had zero imagination, and kept all their toys and games locked up in a "showpiece cupboard" so we had to ask their mother for permission each time we wanted to play, which sort of ruined it. Bipin was also this stolid little boy, very into rules and being proper, and he chaperoned his little sister very strictly, even leading her away when he thought I was a bad influence. I remember him saying to me, "You are a bad girl" as he took Bindya by the hand and steered her home. I could never stay angry with them too long though, because they were the only children I knew, but I did neglect them each time better company came along--my cousins visited or the lady next door had her grandson come to stay.
I liked the lady next door though, even though her dogs were two toy pomeranians who had to be shut away from Bobo's incessant need to get at them. Her house always smelt musty and sweet, there was too much furniture in an interesting sort of way, something to look at each time you went inside, and she lent me Rupert books, which are these poetry-stories of a bear who is always good and doing good deeds, but he's a bear, so it's less irritating.
Trivandrum also had a fantastic library, the children's section was well stocked and smelt also nicely satisfactory of old books, with large wooden shelves that you had to stare up, up, up at. Reading Matilda by Roald Dahl later, I pictured that library each time I read about hers. I used to borrow these retellings of biographies of famous people as children, of which I remember nothing, except the fact that they existed. I wonder if that library is still there--it must be, and yet, I don't think I'm going to visit only to find that it wasn't as big or as beautiful as I remember. Some things are better when you remember them from a child's perspective--how full of wonder the world was, how you felt small and dwarfed by the infinite world, how a skipping rope could magically turn into a snake, how when you played at "restaurants," you could serve bacon by putting some water on a dried leaf and tilting your head a little to see the resemblance.
Ah, but that was almost thirty years ago.
This week in books and reading: I didn't know very much about MFK Fisher except that she was a food writer, and her writing looked really good, so I put The Gastronomical Me into my Amazon Wishlist and finally bought it recently. Short essays about her life in food, especially Dijon where she moved with her young husband and lived for a bit. Most people talking about food is very boring, but if it's done right, like Fisher does it, you are transported. Putting it into my books column this week, and highly recommend to you all.
This week in socialising: One of those ordinary extraordinary weeks, where you can't really say where you've been and what you've been doing, but you managed to catch up with so many friends, and you feel refreshed and happy and at peace with the world. Many drinks and confessions, one child's birthday party in a park, sitting around dining tables, shining warmly at the people across from you, your third glass of wine... nothing to specifically recommend, except all of it. Call your friends. Have an impromptu (or promptu!) dinner party where no one is in a hurry to go anywhere and your phones are forgotten in your bags, and the last of winter blows outside.
Monday link list!
When Mr Ahmed told the hospital superintendent about his wife's suspicion, she told him that his wife was mentally ill and needed psychiatric help. Mr Ahmed then filed a right to information petition, seeking details of all the babies born around 07:00 that day in the hospital.- This story about babies switched at birth in Assam has a happy-ish ending, but this particular paragraph was horrifying. Imagine being told you're INSANE for suspecting your baby isn't your own. What if her husband hadn't been supportive?
Why didn’t you enjoy your childhood?Since I've been reading Ann Patchett AND the archives of The Hairpin which was just shut down last week, this interview with her IN the Hairpin is excellent.
I don’t think I enjoyed childhood. I wasn’t child material.
You just felt disenfranchised by the whole experience of being a child.
I was like a short adult waiting to get to the other side of the party. I never wanted to play. I can remember being really small, like 4 or 5. And those horses outside the grocery store that you put a nickel in, you know what I’m talking about? And my mother would always say, “Oh, do you want to ride the horse?” And I would always think, “That would be so mortifying!” I thought that when I was five, that seems really weird to me. I wasn’t natural as a child. Whereas I think as I get older… I think at eighty…I will be fabulous at eighty.
Cat, enough of your greedy whiningand your small pink bumhole.Off my face! You’re the life principle,more or less, so get goingon a little optimism around here.Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.- This from February by Margaret Atwood and MORE poems for cat people.
Without a plan, I kept going to New Vasantashram every day. I’d go at different times of the day so my staff couldn’t guess when I was coming and I could find out what was actually going on. I learned about the business just by observing. We had fixed check-in and check-out times, but our guests didn’t adhere to that. The first change I made was adding another column to our register with the time they actually left. This simple change stirred things up. My staff realized that I was pushing for more accountability and that they would have to pick up the slack. I made it clear that I’m the boss.- I would watch a movie based on this article about a woman who took over her father's guest lodge in Crawford Market and turned it into something trendy and still true to its roots.
The majority of Instapoetry [...] is almost exclusively a banal vessel of self-care, equivalent to an affirmation, designed for young women of a certain privileged position and disposition, one that is entirely self-absorbed. The genre’s batheticisms remove specificity, to avoid alienation, supplanting them with the sort of platitude you find on a department store tea towel. Because this is what Instapoetry is—it is not art, it is a good to be sold, or, less, regrammed. Its value is quantity not quality.- This link is for my mother who went up to Rupi Kaur at JLF and said, "Oh my daughter is a huge fan!" and then couldn't understand why I was all "OH MY GOD YOU DIDN'T."
January 29, 2018
Hello, Khaan E Khaaaaas?
(This appeared in The City Story a while ago)(Here's another post (sorta) about Khaan e Khaas as well)
I've always been a Delhi-ite by fate and geography. A “Delhicacy” if you will. I never had my year abroad like all my friends seemed to do straight from undergrad to a post-graduate degree somewhere cold, where they learned life skills and how to speak precisely when they wanted something. I stayed fluttering and vague, making long jazz hands mixed with ballet arms when I couldn't correctly express what I wanted to convey. Delhi was where I moved to at three weeks old, after having been born in my mother's hometown in Hyderabad, and Delhi was where I stayed ever since—till the time I was twenty five.
And then I moved to Bombay on a whim. This was my “year abroad,” as foreign a place to me as Warwick or Hamburg or New York were to my friends. I entered the city with my eyes wide, gazing up at the big buildings where someone's light was always on, no matter what time of night. I learned to navigate a system completely alien to the one I knew. I was only one thousand three hundred and eighty four kilometres away from home, but it felt as new to me as it must have done for Vasco Da Gama arriving south of where I was a few centuries ago.
Of course I loved it. What 25 year old woman wouldn't? I was free, anonymous and cavorting about the city at a rate that belied my rapidly dwindling finances. (Turns out journalism isn't the kind of job that lets you not only live without roommates but also eat in fancy places, so Carrie Bradshaw lied to us all.) However, I had moments of abject loneliness. I dreamt real estate dreams—where one of the rooms of my tiny shared flat had a hidden door, and when I opened it, I saw more rooms, more space. Sometimes, I ordered kaali daal three days in a row, just for that Delhi feeling, only to get a Gujju, Maharashtrian or foreigner-spiceless version of it. I wanted the food I had grown up with, because sometimes you long for comfort food, and the only thing that can ease your homesickness is a kebab roll without a whole lot of masala in it—just a smear of green chutney, onions on the side, thanks.
It was one of those Sunday afternoons, on a particularly blue Missing Delhi day that I discovered Khaan-e-Khaas. Maybe “discovered” is the wrong word, after all, friends had been feeding me their prawn biryani in the middle of the night for several months. What I wanted though was a Sunday afternoon feeling, and how do you translate that into a menu? Turns out you can. While perusing the dishes on offer (long before Zomato, I used the paper version that came with a bag of home delivery) I found Punjabi mutton curry. Two years of finding kari-patta in all my curries, whether North, South or Chinese had made me wary, but I decided to give it a go anyway.
Reader, I married it. Okay, not quite literally, but this, thiswas what my soul and my stomach had been crying out for. It was so authentic, I had probably only eaten versions at friends homes, it came with hot steamed basmati rice, and plump potatos cooked in the gravy, the mutton so tender, it fell off the bone. I ate a big lunch, all on my own, and then napped all afternoon, the humid air outside feeling almost like I was in the middle of a Delhi summer with a water cooler rumbling in the corner of the room, the evocative smell of khus making dreams even sweeter.
I held that mutton curry as a secret weapon when Bombay got too much, and if you've lived there for a long time, you know the too muchI refer to. I grew to love the sound of the male voice on the other end of the phone when I called to order, “Hello Khaan-e-Khaas?” saying it almost musically. My friends stuck to the rolls and the biryani, and I didn't think that mutton curry was for sharing anyway. It belonged to my own personal private store of memories, home food when you're away from home, a South Indian lady with Punjabi cravings in Maharashtra.
I've always been a Delhi-ite by fate and geography. A “Delhicacy” if you will. I never had my year abroad like all my friends seemed to do straight from undergrad to a post-graduate degree somewhere cold, where they learned life skills and how to speak precisely when they wanted something. I stayed fluttering and vague, making long jazz hands mixed with ballet arms when I couldn't correctly express what I wanted to convey. Delhi was where I moved to at three weeks old, after having been born in my mother's hometown in Hyderabad, and Delhi was where I stayed ever since—till the time I was twenty five.
And then I moved to Bombay on a whim. This was my “year abroad,” as foreign a place to me as Warwick or Hamburg or New York were to my friends. I entered the city with my eyes wide, gazing up at the big buildings where someone's light was always on, no matter what time of night. I learned to navigate a system completely alien to the one I knew. I was only one thousand three hundred and eighty four kilometres away from home, but it felt as new to me as it must have done for Vasco Da Gama arriving south of where I was a few centuries ago.
Of course I loved it. What 25 year old woman wouldn't? I was free, anonymous and cavorting about the city at a rate that belied my rapidly dwindling finances. (Turns out journalism isn't the kind of job that lets you not only live without roommates but also eat in fancy places, so Carrie Bradshaw lied to us all.) However, I had moments of abject loneliness. I dreamt real estate dreams—where one of the rooms of my tiny shared flat had a hidden door, and when I opened it, I saw more rooms, more space. Sometimes, I ordered kaali daal three days in a row, just for that Delhi feeling, only to get a Gujju, Maharashtrian or foreigner-spiceless version of it. I wanted the food I had grown up with, because sometimes you long for comfort food, and the only thing that can ease your homesickness is a kebab roll without a whole lot of masala in it—just a smear of green chutney, onions on the side, thanks.
It was one of those Sunday afternoons, on a particularly blue Missing Delhi day that I discovered Khaan-e-Khaas. Maybe “discovered” is the wrong word, after all, friends had been feeding me their prawn biryani in the middle of the night for several months. What I wanted though was a Sunday afternoon feeling, and how do you translate that into a menu? Turns out you can. While perusing the dishes on offer (long before Zomato, I used the paper version that came with a bag of home delivery) I found Punjabi mutton curry. Two years of finding kari-patta in all my curries, whether North, South or Chinese had made me wary, but I decided to give it a go anyway.
Reader, I married it. Okay, not quite literally, but this, thiswas what my soul and my stomach had been crying out for. It was so authentic, I had probably only eaten versions at friends homes, it came with hot steamed basmati rice, and plump potatos cooked in the gravy, the mutton so tender, it fell off the bone. I ate a big lunch, all on my own, and then napped all afternoon, the humid air outside feeling almost like I was in the middle of a Delhi summer with a water cooler rumbling in the corner of the room, the evocative smell of khus making dreams even sweeter.
I held that mutton curry as a secret weapon when Bombay got too much, and if you've lived there for a long time, you know the too muchI refer to. I grew to love the sound of the male voice on the other end of the phone when I called to order, “Hello Khaan-e-Khaas?” saying it almost musically. My friends stuck to the rolls and the biryani, and I didn't think that mutton curry was for sharing anyway. It belonged to my own personal private store of memories, home food when you're away from home, a South Indian lady with Punjabi cravings in Maharashtra.
January 28, 2018
Today in Photo
Today was at the birthday party of a four year old friend and I saw this bench from a distance and thought it was dedicated to a beloved wife or father or what have you and then I went closer and saw what it said and I hope you're barking up by the rainbow bridge despite your terrible name Hustler, because I thought of you today. #parksandrec #petstagram #memorials
via Instagram
