Warned by his grandmother against using curds with fish, the author tries just that
If you are a Bengali, it might be a good idea to stop reading. Read more
I am in a suitably mellow Bangalore frame of mind.
The entire family has spent the evening in the neighbourhood patch of green—Richards Park—listening to a band of the Madras Sappers under a canopy of stately rain trees in a pavilion that dates back to 1925. We tapped our feet, grinned at the group of rowdy 50-something women who excitedly snapped their fingers and tapped their toes when the poker-faced sappers played “Shalala in the evening, Shalala in the morning…” and later spent a peaceful evening with our neighbours as a light wind whispered through Richards Park and rain-tree blossoms fell at our feet. Read more
There’s nothing like returning home. I’m getting pampered by my parents, doing no work around the house—and rummaging in various trunks and drawers for old photos, memorabilia and, yes, recipes!
So, here I am in my parent’s new flat in Bangalore’s Richards Town. It’s a typically breezy Bangalore morning. There are birds chirping everywhere, and there’s a comforting wall of green outside every window, even the aggressive mango tree pushing at the balcony of the dining room. Read more