And a much awaited journey came to an end as I stepped out of the Emirates flight and immediately took off the fleece jacket that had saved me during the cold and windy days in Greece and Istanbul. Directing the cab driver to my apartment, telling him which 'deck' to stop at, and simply looking at the red-and-cream apartment buildings, simply felt weird. All I could think of was if I had really lived here before, gone to see some of the most beautiful places in the world, and actually returned. The mind was playing tricks, I was disoriented.

It's 1.30am now, and I'm wide awake, working on Spark, typing this and that, and looking at the photos from the 12 days I spent there, memories of roads made of cobbled stones, cafes and people watching, innumerable 'Hello ladies, are you from India?' questions, stuffed peppers, handsome European and Turkish men, 4-euros-for-half-a-litre housepour wines, of digging my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket to shield them from the freezing cold, and even thinking what kind of warmth holding a cigarette (and maybe taking a puff!) would bring. It's not fun to be jetlagged and thinking of what's gone by - and so quickly at that, I should add.

The ever optimist I am, though, I'm glad to have been there, done it - and to be back. Glad to be able to walk barefoot on the floor, wear shorts, not layer two tees to keep me warm, and weirdly, even craving to have my tau-guah noodle with chicken rice chilli and teh-c, to enjoy everything Singapore while I can. And I'm going to try to fall asleep, thinking of the Ayasofya ceiling, the awe-striking cliffs of Meteora, the Blue Mosque lit at night, the view of the Parthenon from every road, and the brilliant blue of Santorini's waters.

More on the trip, the sights, the people - weird, interesting, creepy, the food and everything else - hopefully coming soon!

Yesterday should have been a historical day in the life of the Chennai girl.

At 8.30 pm last evening, I was seized by a sudden urge to cook dinner. But what? The obvious starting point was vendekkai, okra, ladyfinger. That was enough; I grabbed my bag and walked to the supermarket.

It's not a good idea to go to the supermarket when you are hungry. You end up buying the most random things - simply everything looks appealing. After getting my shopping basket heavy with a bag of oats, kiwi, butter, Nuttella and such unnecessary stuff, I finally walked to the vegetables section. Potatoes looked good. Did we have onions? I don't know, why don't I throw them in anyway. Tomatoes, ah, yes.

The basket was too heavy to handle by now, so I decided to skip the cauliflower and capsicum. Struggling with three bags, I came home, turned the music on extremely loud so I can hear it in the kitchen all the way from my room. I had no idea what I was doing, but was elated for some reason. Turns out I did have onions, by the way. Never mind, chop them up. Blanch the tomatoes to make puree. Boil the potatoes in a microwave. And chop the baby okra.

I threw them into the cooking pot one by one, adding in spices as I wished. Pepper. Cumin. Coriander. Chilli. A generous helping of salt. Added some water. Dumped the potatoes and okra in, and closed the pot. My own recipe. And when I removed the lid to check it after five minutes, darn it, it smelled good. Quite good.

I was shocked. Really. This was the most I'd done in my life outside of those cook-vegetables-add-salt-chill-powder-and-coconut, and minor variations of the same recipe, the most I've deviated from this being for dal. Remember, I'm talking about cooking by myself here.

I gingerly opened the lid to the pot again. It still smelled good.

I did a little jig in joy. I can cook! And it's nothing, my mind reasoned in happiness. Cooking is totally overrated. If you have the interest, it's a cakewalk. I was immensely pleased. I was already thinking of what I could tell my mom on the phone later that evening. 'Yup, it was my invention!' I'd proudly say. And I knew that mum would be heaving a sigh of relief and laugh at my excitement.

I switched it off just when the okra was starting to turn squishy. Yup, just fine. Excited beyond words, I dunked a spoon in and tasted it. The thing was friggin' hot, obviously, and I couldn't taste a thing. Ah, it can't be bad - and so it went on a plate.

My first reaction upon eating was that it was, erm... missing something. It wasn't salt, I'd learnt to identify that some three years back. The spices were ok. Not that it tasted bad, but something was off. I was disappointed. I thought long and hard for five minutes, and finally decided it had to be the bloody tomatoes. Those awful orange tomato-thingies you get in Singapore. They were the cause for my rasam tasting like boiled water, and now they had ruined my precious dish. The more I ate my preparation, the more convinced I was that it was the tomatoes - yes, that weird, tangy taste from pulikkara tomatoes. Bummer.

I was disappointed only for five minutes. Mum called soon after and I excitedly told her about the dish. 'Vendekkai and potatoes?!' she asked. 'Uh-huh. And it doesn't taste bad, except the tomatoes ruined the taste a bit,' I said. 'Err... ok!' she concluded, and went on to discuss how the pulikaachal she'd given me was doing. As long as it's not Maggi, mum is happy with whatever I cook. I guess she's just happy I'm getting my fingers burnt. The daughter who used to run away from the kitchen if the mixer was on or if mom was spluttering mustard seeds, has grown up.

And so you realize why yesterday should have been a historic day, and yet didn't quite turn out to be one. But of course, as with anything else, I move on.The biggest take-away from yesterday's incident was that it reaffirmed my delayed realization that cooking isn't that difficult at all. A little interest and involvement, and you're there already. Now, it's time to build that interest and involvement. For right now, any interest only stems from not wanting to eat anything else that's already out there (no Subway, no MOS, no Sticky Rice - ok, let me cook!)

P.S.: How do you like the new template? I spent over an hour going blind searching for the perfect one (not girly, not Manga, not grunge-rock, nothing too artsy, nothing too simple - I know, I'm a nightmare), only to choose the first one I'd seen and bookmarked. I realized with horror that my basic HTML skills have gone down the drain, and stared at the 60 pages (on Word) of code before giving up trying to edit it.

I first saw her on my way home from work and stopped dead on my tracks. Bright, big and beautiful, she was shimmering in the night. It was captivating. Without any hesitation, I decided to go in pursuit of her.

Of course, she wouldn’t give in that easily. She felt mischievous, and hid behind trees, turned into buildings, and sometimes, vanished into thin air, till I’d stop again and looked wildly about, for she could have gone anywhere. And then, I found her.

She grinned at me from between the trees, and I realized how silly I was to have gone looking for her in just one direction.


Lost in my thoughts, I lost her again. I walked aimlessly, forgetting my way home and forgetting where I was. My shoes were pinching my toes and I winced in pain with every step.

Finally, I found her again. Her shine made me find her, and I fished my bag for my cellphone to get a picture of her. Alas, it was of no use – nothing could capture her glow, the sheer intensity with which she radiated her happiness, and I was forced to just give up and stare at the beauty. Rich, creamy, surprisingly, even spotless. Kaise Mujhe playing in the iPod was the perfect accompaniment to the out-of-the-earth feeling, as I stood stunned at the wondrous capabilities of God – how could He make the moon, dripping with radiance akin to that of a gushing, happy bride? How did He know of Music?


I came back, wishing to talk to no one, just wanting to savour every bit of those few wonderful moments, and reliving them by playing the song, longing to be able to float in a dark pool with the song playing and the moon shining brightly up a dark sky.

P.S.: I know the pictures are quite awful, but that's the best my old camera could do.

P.P.S.: While gushing over the moon is quite normal for me any Pournami, apparently, today's moon is/was the brightest and biggest in some 50-over years.

Kaise Mujhe was the most beautiful thing in the movie - my love for the song has only gone up exponentially since watching the movie. Brilliance from all angles - A R Rahman, Benny Dayal, Shreya Ghoshal, Aamir Khan, Asin and even the guys behind the movie for giving it the whole out-of-the-earth-floating feel. Just closing my eyes to the song and remembering flashes of the song from the movie chokes me - hardly any other moment in the movie touched me so. So beautiful, so poignant, so moving, so sincere and genuine... oh, 'if music be the food of love, play on', for life without music is ill-spent.

It's Friday and I'm desperately trying to churn out some fluff writing at work for an event. I realize, with horror, that it turns out to be more difficult than I thought. Nevertheless, I chug on, with extreme happiness that a week with long hours at work is finally coming to an end.

What contributes more to the tempo and enthu in which I'm doing everything is the song I'm listening - Elay! It's cute, funny, fast, interesting and enjoyable! And it's got everything I like - acoustic guitar, a violin that's on a frenzy, Naresh Iyer [;)], pace and interesting and understandable lyrics. And the part of the song I love the most (for reasons I really cannot follow) is the way the song grinds to a halt in the end, with the sudden halt of beats, the chords that still play on and the voice and the words - 'Kaadhal station vandhiruchu vaa...'

I feel like an idiot getting so excited for (of all things), the ending of the song, but.. it's..

Awesome!

Randomness reigns supreme in Vani's life.

How often is it that you come across a book that deeply, and very strongly, touches you? When you feel like falling to your knees in wet grass and crying out to God, tears streaming down your face, thanking Him for the power of words, of language? When you feel outrageous pity for the people who do not give themselves this gift of experiencing something so powerful, yet delivered simply through words? God bless language. God bless words. God bless the people who have the power to write, and God bless those who can do a brilliant job of it.