I also like watching people look at art. I think one of the best things about it is the humanistic element.  It’s fascinating watching people’s reactions to pieces of art.

Once I stopped hyperventilating about being in the same space as an original Dali and Picasso, I walked around the India Art Fair. I watched as people stared at cracked mirrors and giant black concave installations with complete bemusement or squirmed uncomfortably in front of the overly sexual, more provocative pieces.

My exposure to art on such a mass scale has been limited to the Colombo Art Biennale and the annual Kala Pola so the art fair kind of blew my mind. It was visually exhausting moving from one piece to another rapidly in an effort to ‘do’ everything and despite this, I still missed out on an entire hall.  I fervently wished I had another day to come back and go through everything in my own time and pace.

I can’t lie. I didn’t understand a lot of it and I think my lack of aesthetic refinement might have hindered my art appreciation. Hopefully one day I will be able to gaze at a 15 minute video installation of a woman gnawing at a raw onion and have an epiphany. Till then, I’ll have to make do.

This chap remained absorbed by the TV journalist covering the fair.

This piece left quite a few people confused.

She took a liking to Tapas Sarkar's sculptures and insisted on saying bye to each and every one of them before she left.

A bit of context might be necessary here - the installation was one of two boxes which had knives sliding in and out of it, automatically

Pictures of people taking pictures of pictures

Ps: He probably won’t read this but thank you to Spanish artist, Gines Serran and his son, who took pity on a poor student and took me on a tour of his work and demystified some of the context and process. It was lovely getting insight from the inside.

Ps 2: I’m starting to realize that I may come off slightly stalker–like in this post.  I’m really not.

10 points to Hufflepuff if you can guess which books/authors these are from. 50 points if you write a book and dedicate it to me (My nine year old self would be over the moon)

Rediscovered Colombo while I was back. Some places, old, some, new.

McCallum Road

Was at McCallum road, browsing second hand books and was pleasantly surprised with the collection. Also, the second book stores at McCallum are where all Sweet Valley books go to die. Just saying.

The books there aren’t exactly cheap, but if you look hard enough you tend to unearth some gems. Found some interesting reads but didn’t buy anything. Kept telling myself that I’d go back but right now I’m sitting here in Delhi wearing four layers of clothing, a hot water bottle and a quilt draped over my legs so as you can guess, I didn’t have time to make that second trip. If you head there and spot a hardback copy of Carol Anne Duffy poems for 350 bucks, please buy it and keep it for me. Thanks in advance or as the cool kids say it – kthnxbai

Pettah

Was in Pettah searching for the elusive pair of perfect boots. Weirdly, found the perfect pair at Odel at half my allotted budget (I’m as surprised as you are) but alas, big feet equals big shoes so I’ve reconciled myself to be perpetually shod in sports shoes and converse for winter. Scored beautiful curtains and tie and dye material though. Pettah, not Odel.

Obviously, we had to stop for achcharu and faluda while in Pettah . The achcharu guy had upgraded his wares. Apart from the Rs. 50 ambarella/pineapple/veralu/mango in a polythene bag he now sells an assorted mixture of all the above in a plastic box.

I like the Pettah chaos and I like that each road is designated towards one main thing. Main Street is for all textile needs and readymade clothes, Maliban Street for stationary etc. I’ve bought the most random stuff from boxing bags to assorted beads from Pettah over the years.

Mount Lavinia Beach

..is terribly crowded. Best to avoid unless you want to

a)  be hit by a rugby ball

b) be hit by a cricket ball

c) bump into half of Colombo

d) be proposed to by a very old, very hairy ex-army officer from Pakistan.

Isolated beaches have become a rarity in Colombo. Galle Face is perpetually crowded, as is Mount, Wellawatte and Dehiwela.

Slave Island

Top left: Crabs at Yapane kade. Top middle: graffiti immortalized on the cement tables along the walk away. Top right: A bit of the walkway

Strolled around Slave Island with The Puppeteer and S. Checked out the Yaal kadey – Nothing very impressive there, despite their supposedly delicious food. Friendly staff though; which is nice but not very useful when you’re hungry. Found a well maintained, peaceful path by a part of the Beira Lake with cement benches and tables and all (I can’t remember where exactly this was but we were walking from Slave Island to Crescat)

Dutch Hospital

Token Dutch Hospital Picture

I’m really, really liking the renovation of the Dutch Hospital. I love that they’ve retained the original structure and the fact they’ve chosen to leave that solitary araliya tree outside instead of cutting it down.

Wasn’t too taken up with the restaurants and the actual shops though. Who chooses these places, incidentally?

The food at Work In Progress was very average both times I’ve eaten there, Colombo Fort Cafe was closed most of the time (also, since it’s part of the Harpos chain, it rules out the halal factor) and the Heladiv Tea Centre, despite its beautiful interior, is rather underwhelming in terms of food. One thing I regret though is not being able to check out Ministry of Crab – tried getting a reservation but they were booked both times. Next time, hopefully. I’ve been hearing good things about the food there.

 Galle Face, Lighthouse and adjoining Temple

Bottom left: Temple. Top left: View from the temple Bottom right: Very crowded pier at Galle Face Middle: Prawn Kottu

Did you know there was a restaurant near the lighthouse on Galle Face? I didn’t. It’s called the Lighthouse Galley and its run by the Navy (I think). I can’t vouch for the food (it was completely full when we went and we were too hungry to wait) but the prices look decent enough and it’s a nice, little open air restaurant overlooking the lighthouse. Here’s their site.

If you walk further on past the lighthouse (you can’t take pictures of the lighthouse and the surrounding Navy quarters incidentally), you come across a temple about 11 stories high. It sounds cumbersome, but climbing to the top really isn’t too bad. The temple itself is quite ordinary but the view across the Colombo Harbour and around is amazing.

Galle Face was packed. The kottu was delish. Was too full for the usual isso vadai.

Beira Lake

The bridge leading to the little island in the middle is closed by 8. It’s a very random island actually – peppered with kids and canoodling couples. The bridge leading to it is a little rickety. If you shake it adequately enough, it’s like being on a suspension bridge.  Loved the seasonal lights draped all over the bridge and the island. One day, I will ride on a swan boat. One day.

It was nice revisiting parts of Colombo and wandering around. Wanted to check out the Dutch Museum (Or is it a church?) in Fort, more second hand book stores, the Yaal Kadey on Station Road and the National Museum (the last time I went was about 8 years back) but before I knew it, it was time to head back. Suggestions for new places next time will be very welcome

Ps: A little late, but happy new year to all of you. Make it a good one.

Happy Birthday, you. We’re lucky to have you in our lives.

I’ve been getting along better with animals than with people of late. I was at a friend’s place, we’d stumbled in late after a night out and settled down to study – we had a paper two days later – late into the night. I got acquainted with one of the dogs there and soon he curled up on my feet and promptly fell asleep – cutest thing ever.

 I’ve always wanted to have a dog. For the longest time as a kid, I had a pet balloon (in my head, he was a dog) which I would drag along on a piece of string all over the house. His name was Timmy (inspired by Famous Five. I was very original) But balloons burst and our garden was too small for a canine, so that was that.

 I think it began when a half starved, scrawny kitten landed in our garden, meowing piteously. My mum gave her a saucer of milk and this kitten adopted us and spawned the next few generations of cats which peppered our household. Kitten V.1.0 grew to be a magnificent, lofty creature who could hold her own anywhere, anytime. Our backyard used to be dotted with her vocal admirers. It used to get so bad that we weren’t able to sleep with all the caterwauling going on. But a quick jug of water fixed things.

 There was once a time when the cats outnumbered the humans in the household 3:1 (both mother and daughter became pregnant at the same time. We suspect a common father. So much scandal).  Sadly, we couldn’t keep all of them.  My allergies started acting up and my parent’s sanity and the furniture started to fray rapidly.

 So the cats came and went.  My favourite to date was Lilo. We named her Stitch initially, after the Disney movie but she refused to acknowledge her name.  I’ve always suspected that she was really a dog trapped in a cat’s body. I’m yet to see that kind of loyalty and affection in any cat. She was a cat among cats but she had two premature pregnancies and died during the second one. I was heartbroken and the cat population in the household dwindled to zero for a while because I didn’t have the heart to get attached to another feline all over again.

 Somewhere down the line afterwards, a cat walked in into our house and deposited her trio of kittens . We’d never seen this cat before and we desperately tried to shoo her away but this eyesore of a cat (she was every conceivable colour possible) just looked at us placidly in utmost condescension as if to say, ‘Humans these days’. The thing with cats is that they do exactly as they please. All the cat blogs, memes and cartoons were right – you never own a cat. A cat owns you.

 Four years afterwards, one of the trio still remains with us.  He’s the only cat who’s stuck around with us this long and he’s the laziest, scrawniest cat you ever saw and he’s constantly getting into fights, coming home with patches of fur missing. Age hasn’t treated him very well. He’s deteriorated from a serial heart breaker to the pervy old man who hits on nubile young things in bars and airports. But he’s my old, scrawny cat and I miss him terribly.

His girlfriend lived with us and left us with a litter of kittens. I think she might have been abused as a kitten because she would get all jittery the moment anyone approached her or tried to pet her.

I returned home briefly a few months ago to visit my grandmother and during my visit he fell horribly sick. His leg had gotten infected (another cat-fight) and we took him to the vet for a shot. The vet, after a cursory glance gave him a shot and sent us away. What we didn’t know was that my cat wasn’t well and the shot the vet gave him resulted in an adverse reaction. He completely spazzed out and ran next door in a frenzy when we came home. From our balcony, we saw him on the next door neighbour’s doorstep having a series of fits and foaming at the mouth. After climbing over the neighbour’s gate we brought him back home in a blanket. His eyes were glazed, his thin body kept seizing violently every two minutes, peeing  and foaming constantly. With all our experience with cats, we’d never seen anything like this before. He was in so much pain, but we had no idea how to help him. I was in tears, my vet wasn’t answering my calls and everyone was freaking out. We honestly thought that he was going to die. The way he was foaming and seizing left us little hope.

 A quick tweet,  some frantic googling and responses from various people later (thanks so much to everyone who  directed me. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. Twitter can be a saviour sometimes) I called Pets V care and a mobile unit was on the way.

 The team arrived within an hour and were extremely thorough, they worked on the poor fellow for well over an hour and the foaming and the seizing finally stopped. They hooked him onto a drip and came back the next day for a follow up. On an aside, I would completely recommend their services. They’re a little on the steep side because you’re charged for the mileage but they’re well worth it. Here’s their site http://www.petsvcare.com/

 The thing is as soon as you begin with the words “So my cat was sick..” in a conversation, people begin smirking and you can almost see the neon ‘Aiyo. Another mad cat lady’ thought bubble flashing above their heads. Doting on dogs is deemed normal, but for some strange reason cat adoration conjures up images of this.

 I think that somewhere deep down buried in the cat hair settled in my body, I’m a secret dog person (they’re so gloriously needy and make you feel so wanted) but I’ve embraced the cat lady-ness now. Despite their self centeredness, cats like other animals, possess that innate sixth sense that we humans sorely lack. Whenever I would feel low, he would clumsily clamber on to my lap and fall asleep on my lap, purring quietly. Instant perk – me –up.

He was on the mend soon afterwards – completely pimped the bandage on his leg and perfected the survivor swagger.

He’s not a very domestic cat – his taste in food is primitive, he smells sometimes, he’s always out, deigning to come home for hugs, meals and the occasional nap – or we’re not very good pet owners. I don’t know, which. You can’t keep a cat cooped up in a house, just isn’t right. So we let him do what he needs to do and trust that he’ll come home every now and then – and he always does.

Sunrise, Trinco, a few years ago.

As a child, most of our holidays were spent in Trinco. Despite the war, the pull would be too great for my dad to resist. He was in his element only in Trinco, and holiday after holiday, to Trinco we went.

I have two pictures of Trinco embedded in my mind. One was near the harbour. We’d been out for a walk early morning. My grandfather looking curiously out of place in the backdrop of the sea, standing tall with a walking stick, woollen vest (he felt cold in the mornings) and hat; my sister, chubby and shiny eyed and I, young, bespectacled, awkward, grinning at the camera. I loved walking along the harbour. My grandfather would point out interesting sights and if we got up early enough, we’d be able to buy fresh fish as soon as the fishermen pulled into the harbour with their catch.

The other picture is at Fort Frederick. I’m posing with a deer and I’ve got the most delighted expression on my face (‘Maa! Look! I’m feeding a deer!’)

I’ve ‘done’ most of the touristy stuff ages ago so when the war ‘concluded’ years later, I was all ‘been there, done that, bought the t-shirt’ when everyone rushed to Trinco.

The Fort Frederick I remember was a solitary one with heavy security and lazy deer. Earlier they wouldn’t let vehicles in. So that long drive that vehicles take from the entrance to Koneswaram Temple? We had to walk it. Lovers leap fascinated me. There’s something morbidly beautiful about the sheer drop into turquoise waters, lined by rocks.

We’d been to the Hot Springs years ago, taken the ferry to Kinniya (the ferry has been discontinued now. There’s a bridge instead. Safe, but terribly boring. I miss clutching the edge of the railing, looking at the murky waters, thinking I’MGOINGTODIETODAAAY), eaten oysters in Kinniya, barfed out oysters in Kinniya, visited Muttur, wandered through old cemeteries and been to Nilawali.

When I went back home for the Summer, we returned to Trinco for a very overdue visit. We hadn’t visited Pigeon Island before, so that was priority on our agenda. We were also given a tour of the Prima Factory (we knew a guy who knew a guy).

View from the top of the Prima Factory. The little, obscure dots at the bottom are trucks.

Pigeon Island was beautiful but I was a little appalled at how crowded Nilaweli had become. The once pristine, isolated beaches had been taken over by grandmothers gallivanting in kaftans and bus loads of school boys.

Pigeon Island

Pigeon Island

Crowds at Nilaweli. Please note man chilling in the sand.

My dad casually mentioned that this was a good bathing spot which he used to frequent as a boy and we wanted to get away from the crowds, so we headed to Marble Beach. I don’t know if it was because we went on a weekday or if tourists haven’t caught onto it yet, but apart from three families the entire beach was deserted and the waters were absolutely heavenly. Think blue skies, perfectly still water, clean shores and coconut trees – the kind of stuff postcards are made of. I don’t have any good pictures, sadly (I was too excited about getting into the water).

Token picture. Marble Beach, Trincomalee

I’m a little curious as to how the name came about but Marble Beach is maintained by the Air force. You aren’t allowed to take any food beyond the car park and there aren’t any hotels in the vicinity so you’ll have to rough it out with sparse, open air shower areas.  The thing is, for all my love for the sea I *shuffles feet* can’t swim. And Marble beach is perfect for the aquatically challenged like me. The boys went snorkelling (the Air Force has instructors who supervise) but I was perfectly content floating along.

After we returned to Colombo I was told that the Air Force runs a beach resort here. They also have a site with a very long domain name.  I didn’t feel any ‘whispers of the wind’, but I can vouch for the sunburn. Listen to Baz Luhrmann. Wear sunscreen.

I wish I’d discovered this place a little sooner. Its tough finding nice, isolated beaches back at home this days – definitely heading back here the next time we head to Trinco.

I’m a little appalled at how dumbed down my writing has become. Sentences have become alarmingly staccato like and the content vacillates between touristy Delhi posts or ‘OMG. I miss home’ posts. So instead of griping about lost mojo,  I’ve forced myself to sit down, write whatever pops up into my head and try and get into the groove once again (I can’t believe I just used that phrase). I can’t promise that everything is going to make sense but at least I can get some of the thoughts festering in my head out there.

Also, the left side of my keyboard stopped working a few weeks back and I’m left to the mercies of the onscreen keyboard because I’ve been too chicken to battle the Hindi speaking computer guys at Nehru Place and too afraid of being ripped off.

My work is cut out for me.

*

I believe that everyone has a story to tell.

Some stories are meant to be shared over drinks and raucous laughter. Some are let slip hesitantly, over a rare, reckless moment of confidentiality, often regretted later. Others speak for themselves and remain etched on faces, on hands even.

Some stories remain blissful secrets – replayed in your head, a slow smile spreading over your face as you’re about to turn in for the night.  Others, cushioned in pain and denial and locked in the darkest corner of your mind, never to be let out.

These stories have varying names – scars, baggage, anecdotes, issues, memories, snapshots.

Call it what you will, but everyone has a story to tell.

*

I think this was when I had gone back home for the summer. It had been a good evening. S and I were getting back home and had opted to share a tuk-tuk. There was a slight drizzle and I poked my head out under the cover to watch the cloudy skies as the driver weaved in and out of the evening traffic.

S had been having problems with her boyfriend and was vocalizing her worries throughout the entire ride. To be honest, I wasn’t paying too much attention. The weather was too beautiful and I was only listening half heartedly.

“You know what?” she turns to me emphatically “You’re so lucky”

“How come?” I turn to her in surprise.

“You don’t have anyone. You don’t have to deal with all of this crap. Life is so uncomplicated for you”

I stared at her and then turned away to gaze back at the drizzle and the cloudy skies. The rain had eased by now but the traffic had slowed down to a crawl.  S was gazing at me expectantly.

“Sure”

*

I love meeting new people. It’s not a popularity thing (I’m strangely anti social at times). I’m just constantly in search of kindred spirits. Kindred spirits are sadly far and few between so instead I now look for conversation chemistry – because there are conversations and then there are conversations.

While kindred spirits are in short supply, conversation chemistry can occur in the most unexpected places. Throw in a few interesting people and good atmosphere or even an email thread and decent spelling and the results are positively electric. Good chemistry is completely independent of the content and context of the conversation. The secret is in the people who partake in it and sometimes the most unexpected of people have the most to offer. I may not always be the most vocal in discussions but I love basking in the atmosphere of great conversation. Honestly, it’s positively intoxicating.

*

It’s easy to lose faith in a city like Delhi. It lacks warmth and any sense of intimacy and as I constantly keep reiterating – I’ve never felt safe in Delhi. This city leaves its mark on you – whether good or bad, is entirely dependent on your survival mechanism.

But at the same time, it’s a city which constantly surprises you. And I love that.

One of my favourite memories of Delhi so far is at a little cafe in Paharganj. M  hdn’t been to Paharganj, so I took her there. It was Ramazan and it was time to break fast. The owner of the cafe ushered us to a table. He asked if either of us were fasting (rohza, it’s called in Hindi) and upon hearing that I was fasting, insisted that we sit with him and break fast. He waved aside my protests firmly and I was pushed into an Ifthar banquet of sorts. Picture three tables pushed together and white bowls piled high with apples, grapes, pineapple, dates and oranges. Plates of pakoras and samosas, bottles of juice and even more  plates filled with exotic middle Eastern dishes I’d never seen before dotted the table.

The thing is, during Ramazan, I used to break fast with a cheese sandwich, dates and water. I don’t make a fuss about what I eat – I’m far too tired by the time the sun sets and I just grab some dinner later on. So when this stranger sat me down at his table and fed me this veritable fest I was so grateful I could weep.

Thank you sir, you may not have known it but you made a very tired, homesick girl’s day that evening.

Winter is around the corner and it basically boils down to thermal wear, comfy sweat shirts, hot chocolate, living in converse, huddling under my quilt and spectacularly over sleeping through my morning classes. It also means frozen noses and fingers, borrowing M’s hair dryer to warm ourselves and being left to the mercy of hot water bottles.

The advent of winter also means that I’ll be dreaming of an island in the sun a little more often.

Of shores dotted with palm trees.

Frothy waves,

Sunset skies,

Lazing on the sand

And beach getaways.

I’m a little more prepared for Delhi’s brutal (I’m an island person. Anything less than 18 Celsius chills my bones) winters. I’ve also made up my mind that I will battle the winter blues with lots of prawn fry, movies, books (Hello flipkart. Goodbye money) and making use of the weather by doing more exploring around the city.

Plus, on the upside, the lack of humidity really does wonders to my hair.  Let’s see how it goes, shall we?

I hate the word ‘expired’.

 It reminds me of food – Date of manufacture, date of expiry.

 It’s a cold, clinical word. Using it for warm, flesh and blood people seems so wrong.

 Being away from home when a death in the family occurs is a double edged sword.  The physical separation that geographical distance brings, allows you to regain a precarious sense of normalcy which would otherwise be impossible had you been at home, in the thick of things.

 But at what price?

Death and the grief that follows is something painfully personal and being away from people who are going through the same thing that you are, almost hurts physically. Add a tinge of loneliness, guilt and the knowledge that you’re not back home to share the burden with everyone else and you have a recipe for disaster.

When I heard the doctor’s verdict, I tried reaching home in time but getting a flight was impossible. I pleaded with customer service agents and when I finally located a flight on an obscure travel site, it slipped through my fingers within minutes (fuck you very much HSBC.  I’m not letting this one go very easily) I went to asleep exhausted, having futilely argued with airport officials and bank agents.

When I first heard the news, I couldn’t take it in. I was half asleep when nangi called me early morning the next day. She didn’t say a word, but her stifled sobs in the background were enough to jolt me awake.

We have our funerals as soon as possible and within a few hours, everything was done. It was only when I saw the body on Skype and saw a glimpse of my grandmother garbed in white that things began to sink in.

I remember the last time I spoke to my grandfather clearly. I said goodbye, hugged him and was already back at home when my cousin called me, saying that my grandfather had started crying and was asking for me. I went back again and he was unusually emotional and was almost childlike in his pleadings, asking me to stay, constantly reiterating that I was too young to be away from the country alone.

I remember finding this a little strange – I’ve been back home a few times before and he’d never been like that. In a twisted way, I did get to say my goodbye well before, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make peace with the fact that I wasn’t there for the final rites.  Being the oldest grandchild, I feel like I should have been there.  I don’t know. It’s a little hard to explain why.

It’s been a week now. The first few days were horrible. I attended classes in a stupor, didn’t want to talk anyone and avoided all calls. It seemed supremely insensitive going around normally knowing that back at home my family was struggling to regain normalcy.

M didn’t say a word but instead hugged me as I sobbed my way through the first day. Others sympathized with me and that was that. They’d moved on with their lives, they expected me to do the same.

Extending my autumn break and am heading back home for a bit, soonish.

Had travel plans for October but the thought of going back home only in December to see my grandmother was unbearable. I’m tired of forcing a smile on my face and explaining exactly why I really, really don’t want to go out for a movie tonight, thank you very much.

Being swamped with work and assignments definitely helps, though. I’m taking the denial and avoidance route – it’s what I do best. There are lapses in-between every now and then, but for the most part it gets me through the day.

Honestly, I’m a little nervous wondering what kind of state the family is in. Every time I talk to my mum, she sounds stranger and at times, even incoherent and my dad, so tired that his voice is hardly audible over the phone. With so many people traipsing in and out of the house, complete with stock phrases of condolences, asking meaningless questions and discussing my grandfather’s death in detail, things have started getting a little tense. Calls back home now leave me with a cloud of despair over my head.

 I’m not good at speaking to people and even if I were, I feel strange discussing something like this with people IRL. I’ve tried staying away from personal stuff but I needed to get this off my chest and once in a while, sifting through the chaos raging through my head and compressing bits of it into a post, cuts it.

Note: To everyone who called, messsaged and dropped in at home – Thank you.

Filed under: family, life Tagged: family, loss ]]> http://alifeofsaturdays.wordpress.com/2011/09/12/765/feed/ 0 alifeofsaturdays http://alifeofsaturdays.wordpress.com/2011/08/31/eid-at-home/ http://alifeofsaturdays.wordpress.com/2011/08/31/eid-at-home/#comments Wed, 31 Aug 2011 12:19:45 +0000 Gutterflower http://alifeofsaturdays.wordpress.com/?p=759 ]]> At this time back home, our house will be brimming with activity. The 27^th night of Ramazan as always is spent in prayer but afterwards, there’s a sense of anticipation which blurs the final days of fasting.

 Every year, a week before the festival, my mum will announce that she won’t be making too many food items for the table. Each year we nod and agree knowing well enough that when Eid dawns, our table will be creaking under the weight of all our favourite food items. Each year, we tell my dad firmly in uppercase that the day will be spent with FAMILY ONLY. Each year, he nods and acquiesces but the night before, he would sidle up to my mum and casually mention that X uncle might drop in at night and do we have enough food to go around. My mum (armed with years of foresight to keep the freezer well stocked) would sigh and feign impatience and say yes, yes, we just might have enough food. Oh brilliant, my dad would sigh in relief. Then, he would wait till we get back to our work and hurriedly mumble that therewasachancethatafewmorepeoplemightdropin and then swiftly make his exit before either of us could register what he said.

 The day before Eid is chaos. I’d run around in a rare mode of domesticity dusting this and washing that. My sister would help my mum in the kitchen and my dad would be sent out no fewer than five times on varied errands.  The cat would lounge about everywhere, gazing at us languidly and tripping everyone over. I remember as a kid how my mum, aunt, grandmother and our faithful domestic who used to work for us before she became a nun (that’s another story) would get together and make sweetmeats weeks before. My grandmother would bring out all her utensils which her mother had used and our domestic would be coaxed into the daunting task of stirring the sticky, sweet mixture. I say daunting, because the mixture for muscat is incredibly heavy and has to be mixed by hand. Mixing it required immense upper body strength, fortitude and alarming amounts of patience. My favourite though, was making palaharam. The dough was made, rolled out and then cut into minute squares. Once they were cut, we would sit around the table, catch up on general chit chat and twist the squares into dainty shapes. Once the dough was ready, they were fried and coated in sugar syrup – A homemade recipe for a heart attack, if there ever was one. The food during Eid was fantastic. Our table would be filled with thakbir, date cake, donuts, marshmallows, cutlets, nuggets, cheese rolls, samosas, egg shaped moss jellies and cupcakes for all the visitors who came throughout the day.

On Eid itself, we would be woken up at an ungodly hour. I would wake up only when my mum would storm into my room yelling at me for sleeping while everyone else had been up for hours (Every. Single. Year. I kid you not) I would, as usual be the last to bathe and saunter to the breakfast table in my pyjamas while everyone else was squeaky clean and attired in their new clothes.

The first thing that pops to my mind when I think of Eid is the abundance of family (no, it’s not all about the food).  The mosque is, as can be expected, overflowing with people of all shapes and sizes. Relatives I haven’t seen for months would troop into our house (and we, into theirs) as we wish each other for the season. Thankfully, most of the extended family has migrated abroad so the list of houses we visit isn’t too extensive but it can be an overkill sometimes. There’s only so many times you can politely answer that you’re not going to get married just yet and make small talk about the weather before you start yearning to throw objects at someone. But I usually avoid family functions and gatherings the rest of the year, so I suppose one day doesn’t really hurt.

The loot definitely helps ease any mental trauma. I used to get the funniest gifts. The loot ranged from money, cosmetics, clothes to the slightly more eccentric ones like chopping boards, digestive biscuits and underwear. Earlier, my parents would go out of their way to buy personalized gifts for the kids who come visiting but as the years went by the kids became harder to please so instead every kid who comes home now leaves with a handful of crisp notes and a mercenary smile on their faces.

Lunch is always a family affair at my grandparents. Biriyani, achcharu, green pea and cashew curry, tandoori chicken, raitha and of course the crowning glory – the watalapan. I love watalapan and I don’t know if its a Sri Lankan thing, but I haven’t been able to find it anywhere over here! The afternoon is usually a food-filled stupor with a bevy of uncles, aunts and cousins and after a quick breather, the evenings are spent entertaining the guests who come over.

There’s an uncle who always, always comes over just when we’ve called it a day. Every year, after we dust away the vestiges of the day and gratefully slip into the comfort of our ‘regular’ clothes and are about to turn in, the doorbell rings. We’d look at each other in almost comical dismay and groan audibly. Happens like clockwork every year. I couldn’t make this stuff up even if I tried.

So that’s a snapshot of Eid back at home. I’ve glossed over some details, but here’s the gist of it –prayers, family, friends and food. I used to crib about the visiting, the food and bustle while I was back at home but absence really does make the heart grow fonder – I guess that’s why I was seized with a sudden desire to document it.

Eid Mubarak everyone

Filed under: Colombo, family, food, memories, reflections Tagged: Eid, family, home, nostalgia, Ramazan ]]> http://alifeofsaturdays.wordpress.com/2011/08/31/eid-at-home/feed/ 8 alifeofsaturdays