Even today, before I leave home to return to Calcutta, my mother will ask me what food I will carry with me to eat on the train. I wouldn’t dare compare her culinary skills with that of those who serve plastic-ky somethings on India’s trains. But then every time this exchange takes place between mother and son, I am reminded of the relatively regal days at home that are to last no more. Alas! No more ready-made breakfast, no more nagging to eat lunch, and no unlimited snacks in the evening to go with a mug of coffee. Leaving home is depressing indeed!
I want to warn those who might be reading this that being a personal note and me not being much of a socialite, my experiences are mostly limited to the areas around where I’ve stayed and as a hosteler, highly constrained by finances.
I remember the desperation and purposelessness of the early days at Hindu Hostel, when every morning and every day would bring with it the renewed realisation of my distance from those I know and love. Despite the high of staying alone, I was the outsider among familiars, and the outsider among outsiders. I have vague remembrances of those days, and nothing exceptional. Every two weeks, my pockets would have enough for a meal at The Royal Indian Hotel on Rabindra Sarani. The menu card informed me the first time I went there regarding the history of the biryani. Continue reading
carvaan 