Goodbye, cruel world

Tomorrow the world will end.

No, you say? It's all a misinterpretation, you say, by ghoulish doomsayers whose ambition in life is to go down with a placard saying, "I told you so!" The fact is, you say, that it is a very normal rolling over of a calendar. If the world didn't end on 31/12/1999 when the Gregorian calendar rolled over, or whichever dates the Hindu calendar, or the Sumerian, Vanuatuan, Martian, Andromedan, etc calendars rolled over, it's unlikely it will end tomorrow.

Sure, but come on, admit it. There is a tiny voice inside all of us that goes, "Ooh, but what if it is true? Wouldn't it be most exciting?! I'll get to see whether Hollywood does a decent job of forecasting human behaviour in a disaster situation. Will my neighbour look at my stricken face while time slows down all around us, wipe away a tear from my dust-caked face (look, we're all the same colour, Ma!), and risk a severed limb in order to pull my little one out from the nursery window?" (Real life scenario is probably more like this - "Damn, I forgot that my baby is stuck in the nursery! My neighbour legged it hours ago having shown me the finger when I asked for his help pulling out my prized Eames lounge chair from the collapsed house. Should I risk mutilating myself trying to pull out little Sassy? ... Ah, stuff it. The world is going to end anyway, and if not, I'm still fertile, I can produce many more Sassies if I save myself and keep my body fit and in working order." And with those misplaced priorities and that twisted logic you join the fleeing masses in no particular direction, cursing gravity for resolutely keeping you glued to the planet that is going to explode into smithereens any time now.)

Annyhoo, so if the world ends tomorrow, what would I like for my last meal? We don't give much importance to these things, but we should take a tip or two from the judiciaries around the world, who, unless it is an urban myth like Satan's tail and horns, allow prisoners with death sentences to have a last meal of their (the prisoner's not the judge's) choice.

If I was a foodie, I would have said, I'd eat a meal as follows -

Starters would be slow-roasted organic free-range plum tomatoes... (yes, you heard right. The society for prevention of dietary discrimination ruled that non-vegetarians cannot have monoploy over the term 'free range'. If you allow your tomato vines to grow as they wish without restricting them to the lattice in the corner of the garden, they can be certified free range. They taste better because they're free and happy.)

OK, where was I? Ah, yes, slow-roasted organic free-range plum tomatoes with mozzarella made from milk drawn gently from a 8-year-old Italian buffalo at dawn (it makes such a difference), and lightly seasoned with Lake Titicaca salt (quite a rarity as the lake is freshwater).

The main course would be mashed heritage potatoes, preferably from a seed bank in Peru, preferably a variety that is extinct outside the seed bank. Also, tri-coloured quinoa salad with goji berries, chia seeds, cultured vegetables, activated almonds (thanks for introducing me to that, Pete Evans!) and maca root. (Get it? The South American theme? My tribute to the Mayan prophets.)

For dessert, I would have creme brulee made from organic free-range eggs (which means the eggs are allowed to roam free in the farm, you numskull) and organic free-range milk and organic free-range sugar (you figure it out). The flame to caramelise the sugar also has to come from organic free-range fuel, of course.

And finally I will have siphon coffee made with beans grown on the southern slopes of the Andes, watered only at sunset with the urine of the one-eyed sloth. I know, I know, elephant dung coffee is all the rage now, but I find it a little too earthy for my taste. I like the bright tang of my sloth urine coffee better.

BUT...I'm not a foodie. What I will REALLY do for a last meal is charter a plane to Bombay right away. I won't give in to the temptation of eating at my childhood home because it will take weeks to eat my way through all my favourite dishes that Mother makes. Instead I'll have chaat at Matunga (Central, market), wada pav at Dadar (Central, near the circle), dahi misal at Dadar (West, Kelkar Rd), and finish off with ras malai at Wadala (West, near the station).

Then I can wait happily for the end of the world.

What happened today

Today I saw the fattest pigeon ever. Jesus, was it tubby, looked like it had just swallowed the fattest squirrel ever. It was like someone had stuffed an over-pumped football into a pigeon skin and zipped it up. I wonder if it has a weak heart and clogged arteries.

Today I also skidded on the frost while walking and nearly fell. But I didn't fall. Plus there was no one else on the road to point and laugh at me. Maybe that's why I didn't fall.

Another milestone

Yesterday I saw new snow for the first time in my life. The only snow I had seen so far was on the slopes of Kulu, a hill station in India. It was rather sad and grey as it was several days old.

Yesterday, when my husband woke up and went to the window, he looked at the thermometer and said, "Yes, my suspicion was right. The thermometer is broken. It shows 7 degrees even though there is snow outside."

I was still half asleep, and so did not actually jump out of bed, but groggily tried to process this bit of information. Say, what?! Snow? And he is talking about it as if he's discussing any old weather. Well, a bit of snow is any old weather for a Lithuanian, I'm sure. After all, they don't consider it to be a cold day if the mercury does not dip below -15 and anything less than a foot at least of snow in the front yard is just a piddling bit of moisture. But for me, it was a world event. As soon as my brain rose above the fumes of sleep, I came to the window and peeped out. It was not much, just a soft layer on the rooftops and cars, plus a light sprinkling on the grass. Nevertheless it was thrilling. There was a sparkle, either in the air or in my eyes.

It is a blessing to be able to experience things for the first time constantly. And an even greater blessing to feel the unsullied delight in these experiences.

The festive season in Dickens' land

I grew up witnessing one kind of Christmas in my real world, and conceiving another kind in the world of my imagination.

In Bombay, Christmas was perhaps not as festive as Diwali, because Christians are a minority. Besides, commercialism hadn't crept into festivals then. Only Valentine's Day was catching the attention of retailers, mainly greeting card shops (Archies was synonymous with friendship cards, little heart-shaped stickers and sentimentally worded keepsakes for teenagers. I should know - I was a major customer).

Christmas was like a gentler version of Diwali. The Catholic Colony in my neighbourhood would have star-shaped kandeels lit up in almost every home, as would homes here and there in the rest of the neighbourhood, including my upstairs neighbours, the Chars. Monginis and Birdys would have festive cakes. I didn't quite understand why some of them looked like a log of wood, but who cares when the log is so chocolatey? Then there were the home-made 'foreign' sweets made by my Christian friends' families, oh, and the home-made fruit wine. It was so exciting to share in a slightly dissimilar, yet mostly familiar celebration.

And then there was the Christmas I would read about, see or hear of. Charles Dickens' story, A Christmas Carol, was one of my earliest insights into Christmas in a foreign setting. The cold, the gloom, the roast and pudding, the fireplace, the fur and woolen coats - it was all so alien and so delicious to imagine! The movie Home Alone 2 was among the many Hollywood movies that further fed my imagination about Christmas in cold countries. Oh, the snow, the mittens, the ice-skating, the soaring cathedrals, the toys, the cakes and cookies, the twinkling fairy lights and shiny ornaments on giant Christmas trees!

When I moved to Australia, I had another new experience - some of the elements of a Western Christmas, but minus the cold and the snow. In fact, soon I got used to the fact that Christmas was not just warm as in India, but it was positively hot. Christmas got associated with heatwaves, barbecues, ice creams, beaches and Santa's cap alongside shorts and thongs (or flip flops if you're not Australian, or Hawaii chappals if you're Indian).

Now last Friday, we went to Central London. It was freezing cold. When I emerged from the Leicester Square station subway onto the street, a beautiful night welcomed me. The streets were lit with endless shimmering designs. People thronged the place, dressed up in warm, snug coats, hats, scarves and gloves. Some people were dressed in Santa costumes. The moon was playing hide-and-seek behind some wispy clouds. At last I was experiencing what I'd only heard about. It felt like my first Christmas once again.

When we were walking back home that night, I saw that the leaves fallen on the ground were glittering. It was below zero, and so the the leaves had frosted over. I just couldn't have enough of it. The street was lined with leaves encrusted with pinpoint diamonds. No Swarovski ornament could produce anywhere near the fine sparkle of the glittering frost.

I think Christmas this year is going to be anything but humbug.