When a book deals with issues like loneliness, childhood abuse, neglect and some degree of psychosis, the result definitely sounds like a very very depressing read. Something that you would run a mile away from, after a long and busy week. But what if the book is somehow like Rajkumar Hirani’s movies where difficult issues give rise to a compelling, heart warming tale with a feel good ending?
Loneliness is an emotion I often see in my everyday dealings with patients. People seem to be lonely in the midst of marriages, joint families, school, children and hectic careers. Loneliness has also been described as “social pain” – a psychological mechanism meant to motivate people to seek for friendships or a purpose in life. Most clients I work with are trying desperately to get out of this bog and hence sign up for counselling. But what if there is someone who is completely alone but does not necessarily feel bad about it?
“Eleanor Oliphant is completely fine” explores this theme and was one of the reasons that I picked the book. The protagonist of this novel Eleanor, is a woman in her thirties. She works in an office, doing mundane odd jobs. She has a strict obsessive routine which she follows through the week, and the weekends.She has no friends nor does she feel the need for any. She is the butt of a few office jokes due to her reclusiveness, but takes it in her stride. And feels completely fine.
Till one fine day, her life changes because of an accident involving an aged stranger. She ends up helping him to the hospital along with a colleague from work. And gets slowly drawn into a world filled with emotions, relationships and togetherness.
Gail Honeyman, the writer has beautifully etched out a character who is quirky but likable because of her extreme straightforwardness. Eleanor seems part autistic, part schizophrenic and part personality disordered, but is still endearing and funny. As the book unfolds, we get to know the reasons behind the heroine’s behavior. Though depressing, you end up marveling at the way she has handled her life through the misery.
I loved the book.
First of all because, the protagonist is someone who has flaws. Huge ones. But still has her own place under the sun. It makes flaws quite acceptable. Something not to be ashamed of. Just like how it should be for all of us. Most people are either oblivious of theirs or are excessive about getting rid of them. With Elanor, what you get is acceptance of the fact and not making a big deal out of it. And changing when the need arises.
Secondly, it challenges us to think change the way we think about people who are different in some way or mentally ill. It prods us to think about whether they have reasons which made them the way they are. I remember the time when I had to deal with an accident on my way back from tutions. The chain of my cycle gave way and I was left stranded on the road at night with rain threatening to pour. There was this boy in our class, who was mildly retarded (which I know now)and the butt of all our class jokes. I am ashamed to say, that I have laughed at a few of them too. This boy, with whom I had hardly spoken, helped me lift the cycle and repair the chain. Then, he politely said goodnight and disappeared. We hardly even talked after the incident and through school. I now wish that I had the good sense to get to know ,understand and be friends with him. Most of the time, I feel,we are too busy trying to fit in, than to extend a helping hand to those who are left out.
Thirdly, it gives an nuanced description of a person who would fall in the autistic spectrum. The lack of grace, the acceptance of facts at face value, the simple way of life and brutal honesty make you wonder whether we are normal or vice versa.
Finally, the fact that the book ends on a positive note and a fuzzy warm feeling, makes it the perfect read on a cold rainy weekend.
I have discovered something about writing. It has whims and fancies of its own. When you are in the practice of writing most days, the words flow easily, your thinking does not falter and sentences form fast,fluent and effortless. But when you have stopped for a while, for reasons beyond your control, it acts like a spoilt tantrum throwing brat. You have to really scratch your brain about that particular flash of inspiration which occurred yesterday, right in the middle of a busy opd, which evaporated miraculously like the whiff of an agarbatti smoke. It is as if your writing has gone into a huff, for not giving it enough time!
This is the state I found myself in last month. A month of busy, busy work days, the responsibilities that go with being an exam mother (by which I mean revising with your kid, subjects which you tried hard to avoid studying into adulthood), trying to teach my younger one to read by herself and the general business of keeping house – all of which allowed absolutely no vigour or brain space to open my laptop.
At the end of the day, the only energy I had was enough to flip the pages on my kindle, and so, that’s what I did. I read some amazing books- those that made me happy, sad, upset and in awe of things they spoke about.
The oneswhichhad adirect impact were Em and the Big Hoom by Jerry Pinto and the Book of Light.
On a day to day basis, I see a range of emotions (from anger to over protectiveness) shown by the relatives of my patients. Some are shocked to realize that their relatives are mentally ill, some refuse to acknowledge it and some firmly believe that their son or daughter is showing symptoms to cop out of some responsibility. When I am talking to the family about the actual nature of the illness which their closest of kin are suffering from, I usually discuss it with the adults, and the children are generally playing around in my consulting room. I surprisingly realized that I have never ever discussed the illness from the child’s point of view. A vibrant impressionable mind, which is in confusion about why their favorite adult is behaving somewhat differently and unpredictably from the rest.
Which is why I found Em and the Big Hoom a very interesting read. How would a child feel, when a parent is mentally ill? When the caretaking becomes a child’s responsibility instead of the other way round. When it is difficult to expect your parent to attend your school functions or pta meetings for the fear that he/she may do something embarrassing.
The story revolves around the author’s family whose the mother suffers from bipolar disorder. The book is written from a child’s point of view, and tries to address the concerns which are unique to such families. Have they inherited the illness? Will they become mentally ill like their parent? Or will it skip a generation and affect their children? Or are they, at the other end of the spectrum, accepting the adults as they are and ignoring the quirks?
Going through the book, gave me insight about a huge chunk of responsibility I was ignoring! As for many other mental health professionals, though time is tight, I promised myself that I would spend some time for these children henceforth.
Going on, I read another book, written on the same lines. The Book of Light, which is a collection of stories written by the relatives of the mentally ill about their experiences in life. There are very few books written about mental illness in the Indian context, and hence this book gives an idea as to how the people from different sections of society deal with the illness and the adjustments that go along with it.
If anything, I felt the need to do more, work harder. Not only to help those who are overtly ill, but also those who are silently suffering on the side.Or confused. Or slowly slipping into an illness themselves.
Only if there were more than twenty four hours in a day! (and no math exams!)
I have discovered something about writing. It has whims and fancies of its own. When you are in the practice of writing most days, the words flow easily, your thinking does not falter and sentences form fast,fluent and effortless. But when you have stopped for a while, for reasons beyond your control, it acts like a spoilt tantrum throwing brat. You have to really scratch your brain about that particular flash of inspiration which occurred yesterday, right in the middle of a busy opd, which evaporated miraculously like the whiff of an agarbatti smoke. It is as if your writing has gone into a huff, for not giving it enough time!
This is the state I found myself in last month. A month of busy, busy work days, the responsibilities that go with being an exam mother (by which I mean revising with your kid, subjects which you tried hard to avoid studying into adulthood), trying to teach my younger one to read by herself and the general business of keeping house – all of which allowed absolutely no vigour or brain space to open my laptop.
At the end of the day, the only energy I had was enough to flip the pages on my kindle, and so, that’s what I did. I read some amazing books- those that made me happy, sad, upset and in awe of things they spoke about.
The oneswhichhad adirect impact were Em and the Big Hoom by Jerry Pinto and the Book of Light.
On a day to day basis, I see a range of emotions (from anger to over protectiveness) shown by the relatives of my patients. Some are shocked to realize that their relatives are mentally ill, some refuse to acknowledge it and some firmly believe that their son or daughter is showing symptoms to cop out of some responsibility. When I am talking to the family about the actual nature of the illness which their closest of kin are suffering from, I usually discuss it with the adults, and the children are generally playing around in my consulting room. I surprisingly realized that I have never ever discussed the illness from the child’s point of view. A vibrant impressionable mind, which is in confusion about why their favorite adult is behaving somewhat differently and unpredictably from the rest.
Which is why I found Em and the Big Hoom a very interesting read. How would a child feel, when a parent is mentally ill? When the caretaking becomes a child’s responsibility instead of the other way round. When it is difficult to expect your parent to attend your school functions or pta meetings for the fear that he/she may do something embarrassing.
The story revolves around the author’s family whose the mother suffers from bipolar disorder. The book is written from a child’s point of view, and tries to address the concerns which are unique to such families. Have they inherited the illness? Will they become mentally ill like their parent? Or will it skip a generation and affect their children? Or are they, at the other end of the spectrum, accepting the adults as they are and ignoring the quirks?
Going through the book, gave me insight about a huge chunk of responsibility I was ignoring! As for many other mental health professionals, though time is tight, I promised myself that I would spend some time for these children henceforth.
Going on, I read another book, written on the same lines. The Book of Light, which is a collection of stories written by the relatives of the mentally ill about their experiences in life. There are very few books written about mental illness in the Indian context, and hence this book gives an idea as to how the people from different sections of society deal with the illness and the adjustments that go along with it.
If anything, I felt the need to do more, work harder. Not only to help those who are overtly ill, but also those who are silently suffering on the side.Or confused. Or slowly slipping into an illness themselves.
Only if there were more than twenty four hours in a day! (and no math exams!)
Though the English left India 70 years ago, their language and its symbolization as superior and powerful has continued. It is a rare parent who does not beam with joy when his child speaks some English. Parents make sure they scrape their hard earned money to put their child through an English medium (which means elite in other words) school. Schools charge their students a fine if they are caught speaking their mother tongue on campus. Even parents of special children who come to my consultation room, coax their kids to “Say” in English, the answer to any question that I ask in kannada.
A knowledge of English is seen somewhat as a sign of superiority, a matter of pride and a way out of future poverty. Phew! So much burden for one language to carry! And I am sure that if English were a person, she would have crumbled under this intense pressure (which is probably more than what P.V.Sindhu faced on the eve of her final match at Rio) of millions of Indian parents for long long years. She would have probably scooted the country far before the British did. But she did not. And here we are –grappling with realities.
I love the fact that we live in a country with so many languages. Each language with its own flavor and essence. English, I love –because I studied in it for most part and knowing it, helped me expand my horizons. Kannada because it is the language of my land. I enjoy the strangeness of my mother tongue Konkani. I love the way Tamil and Marathi sound. Hindi seems to me, a way to understand tv, my North Indian patients and our prime minister’s ‘Man ki baat’! Though I worry about landing with a twisted tongue, I did learn quite a few sentences of Malayalam! I love the fact that we are a language potpourri. English words which have been Indianised and used ever so casually with an air of ownership. My daughter and son believe that “bussu”, “caru”, “traffic jamu” “hotelu” are essentially kannada!
So, it is not that I have anything against the language. I am not a language fanatic nor a grammar nazi. Nor am I a snob who believes that people who speak english incorrectly are imbeciles. I understand that it comes from learning with limited means and lack of practice. But I believe in people knowing their limitations. That they are fluent in a few languages and have to treat the others with caution. Or if they did want to use it conversationally, it would happen with hard work rather than over confidence.
Well, that does not seem to be the case with our poor English. Apart from being put on the podium as a status symbol, she is also tortured continuously and most times hilariously. A lot of it which I get to see in my hospital.
Starting from my internship. Along with my co intern, I had spent the night filling in patient information into files, when the hospital attendant announced that the head nurse wanted the “cassettes”. We looked back blank. “Which cassettes?”. “The ones you are filling.” Realization dawned. He meant the “case sheets”.
Or when the duty nurse sent me a note from the far flung recesses of the TB ward. The note read “Doctor, the patient in ward 9 has not passed urine or stools since two days. Please come and pass it”.
When in my residency, we were posted in a Government hospital whose cassette, sorry case sheet carried a mandatory question of finding out why the patient had landed in that particular hospital for treatment. Most patients would reply that they had come over for free “statement”-meaning “treatment”. “Please give my son good statement”, they would ask of us. And after the free statement was given, they would profusely say “TANK you” and leave us sufficiently tanked in their wake!
Once I started my practice, I realized the all encompassing power of the word “aunty”. There was once this eighty year old man who called me ‘aunty’ at the end of Each. And. Every. Sentence. Which was promptly followed up by his obedient wife, who was almost seventy and had only one single tobacco stained tooth in her mouth. The auntying got so severe that I caught myself unconsciously smoothing my hair to cover my grey strands for the next one hour!
The best was yet to come. There was once a concerned husband who hovered around after I finished counselling his wife. He then came over and whispered conspirationally, “Madam, can my wife try property?”.
I thought that he wanted to be sure that his depressed wife was lucid enough to make decisions about her finances and real estate.”Sure, no harm”, I replied. “She is smart enough to handle and plan her finances”.
He did not seem convinced. “But property?”, he insisted.
Now, this instantly made me suspicious. I wondered whether he was planning to cheat her and do away with her money.
“Why exactly are you asking me this?”, I queried.
He must have caught my tone of irritation.”Madam, I care about my wife and her health. We wanted to be sure to have a gap of three years between our kids”.
Now, I was confused. Family planning and real estate. No bells rang. I finally asked him to explain what exactly he meant.
He looked at me rather pityingly, at my lack of common medical knowledge. “Madam, you know that thing they use nowadays to prevent pregnancy-they insert it into the uterus- it is called property. Never mind. I will ask my wife’s gynecologist about it”
Turns out he meant “copper T”.
I rest my case.
We doctors, are suspended in a strange state of limbo. Gone are the days when consultants treated patients like minions who had to accept their judgment without questions. Also are bygone the days, when concoctions from bottles of various sizes were mixed together and passed on as panaceas for all ailments. The compounder who would dutifully carry the doctor’s bag and keep the clinic running like clockwork is also, now an extinct species.
We are now in an era where hospitals are treated like business with business models, plans, huge glassed buildings and air conditioned offices. The targets they have to meet to get such a huge gargantuan venture going, loom large in front of the doctors.
The reason we are in a limbo is probably this- that at heart we are still pompous old world people who believe in our skills and dealing with a patient who does not believe in it brings us crashing down to reality!
A lot of patients now behave as though they have come to a hospital for a business transaction. They give us money and we give them health. When the deal works well, everything is hunky dory, but when things go awry, the doctor bears the brunt of it. And how. He is beaten up, the hospital is ransacked and the staff are manhandled, before the good old police finally reach the scene.
In such a scenario, it is not strange that doctors develop a defensive attitude of not accepting our mistakes. And mistakes do happen. After all we are humans. Only, we deal with other humans!
Though treatment procedures have been standardized for years, first in the lab, then on hapless animals and then tried on humans to prevent any mishaps, we know that patients react differently to different drugs. At least 1 in 10 patients and their illness does not behave as obediently as we expect. According to a study in Australia, about 18000 deaths occur in a year due to medical errors! A lot of times the body plays tricks on us. Placing red herrings, leading us on a merry path to a destination, which is exactly at the opposite end of where we want to be. We have to start afresh then. Slightly more cautious and worried. And rarely, it does happen that we mess up bad. And it does end in the patient’s demise. A valuable but a very sad lesson.
Unfortunately, in our profession, accepting our mistake is taken as a sure fire sign of guilt. We only have the freedom to accept our mistakes when we are doing our residency, when the worst we have to face for this is the wrath of our teacher.
Therefore, when I read “Do No Harm”, by Henry Marsh, a neuro surgeon from Britain, I enjoyed it immensely.
First, because it acknowledges that we as doctors are human and need to get it into our head that failures do happen. He has portrayed himself as genuinely as possible. That, at times, he is guilty of losing his temper, sometimes his decisions have been made by how tired he was or how the weather was behaving! This admission according to me, was extraordinarily brave. l have made some purely selfish decisions, but till date ,have great difficulty in acknowledging it! It is always easier to defend myself. And hence, the greatness of this man, who has actually put it on paper.
Secondly, the book also gives us examples of the times when things do not go as expected. The moral being- catharte, accept, console, move on- but do not forget for next time!
Thirdly, that vice versa can also happen. Those whom we expect the worst to happen, go on to outlive their children and we end up being at the end of condescending glares and living room gossip. So to learn to communicate the truth, but not to give out ultimatums. Instead, to be gentle and as hopeful as possible.
Lastly, but most importantly, the book gives us insights about knowing when to stop our work and accept that nature has to take its course. As doctors we sometimes get carried away by the drama of keeping the patient alive by all means. But the consequences of such survival may be more of a burden than help. Like when the operation is a success, but the patient ends up in coma for years. The relatives are at a loss financially, emotionally and unable to take a decision about the future!
Do no harm is a book which deals with such difficult questions and circumstances which every doctor faces but is unable to voice out. It is honest, upsetting sometimes, but definitely re assuring for two reasons.
One because, it gives a sense of solace that the dilemmas shared by doctors all over, are not unique.
Two, because come what may, being honest with the patient and family, brings alive a bond akin to what was present eons ago- a sense of understanding, and a trust level which allows for acceptance even if we inadvertently harm their dear ones.
How I wish this book was a part of my medical school reading!
There are many cliches associated with being doctors. The near dictum that doctors are next to Gods. That practicing medicine is a noble, respectable, ideal profession. In the nineties, most children in India, I would safely say, grew up with an idea that their life would be made if they became doctors, or engineers. It was the rare parent that would allow his child to choose a profession apart from these two.
According to a recent study by the WHO, despite medical schools mushrooming all over India, we still are short of doctors. The state of a patient in rural India, who needs some form of emergency medicine is still abysmally bad. So,yes,we do need doctors.
But suddenly, it almost feels like doctors are everyone’s favorite punching bag. It is as if we are a group of individuals with dubious reputations, unscrupulous, unethical and those trying to make a buck out of the poor patient’s pocket.
It is therefore probably the right time to remind ourselves that medicine is, basically, just another profession. Yes, compassion is important, as well as a sense of responsibility. But then, those with an aptitude for both should not have difficulty in finding their way into this field, just as someone with good computing skills takes up computer engineering. To deglamorise, doctors study five and a half years for a degree which tells them how tackle certain ills in a scientific manner. We do not claim to be Gods, nor are we the devil reincarnate.
I do agree that there is a lot going wrong with the practice of medicine in India. But these wrongs mainly stem from a flawed, aged, system rather than the individual doctor.
Children as young as seventeen, I believe, rarely have the maturity to realize the seriousness of a profession like medicine. In the west, medical school would be an option to only those with an undergraduate degree under their belt. I personally know of kids who take up medicine because of the glamour associated with it or because of parental pressure. When you choose a profession for the wrong reasons, the outcome seems near obviously bad.
The presence of corruption in a system which deals with life itself. In conversation with one of vice chancellors of a medical school, I get to understand that the seat matrix in any medical school across India is decided by how many palms are greased rather than, how good the patient student ratio in the teaching hospital is. We see around us a number of med schools where professors exist only on office papers, and the teaching hospital needs to be filled with fake patients who are hired during MCI inspections. We PRACTICE MEDICINE. And where the practice of teaching is poor, the confidence of a doctor to handle a patient is obviously poor.
The weird attitude that once we choose to become doctors, we, as individuals, need to give up on material gains. The salaries of doctors in rural service is pathetically low for the amount of risk that they take. To quote Atul Gawande in his book, “Better” ,doctors in rural India are the most innovative and efficient. They need to work with patchy electricity, minus specialist help, have to work against unhealthy but traditional practices to the convince the family to get the patient treated. Hence, they learn to work with enormous amount of common sense. But, the rewards materialistically or otherwise are poor. They have poor roads, horrible infrastructure, no legal aid, their children have no good schools, due to which they would have to be sent away for their education. All the while, when media glaringly shows them, that their counterparts, with half the years of education, are earning fat sums, driving the newest eye candy, spending time in malls, living in penthouses, working in centrally air conditioned offices and sending their children to international schools. Who in their right mind would choose rural service?
As doctors we ultimately deal with lives. And people. And people with a million different personalities. And these personalities, when they are under stress of illness. But nowhere in medical schools are we taught the importance of good communication, on dealing with grief, on being calm during periods of stress or emergency. It is as if we are expected to magically source this information from some place in the universe and imbibe it. The art of counseling, is not hereditary. It needs to be taught. And as my dean in med school, Prof. Dr.B.M.Hegde would quote, doctors, needed to be trained to “cure rarely, care often and comfort always”. Poor counseling skills, automatically translates to poor patient care.
Law concerning self protection, medical insurance and negligence are alien subjects when we study medicine. We only get to hear these terms when we land, slap bang in the middle of a controversy. We do make mistakes. We are human. But, mostly the health of our egos and our bank balance depend on the good health of our patients. The pleasure we get when we see a critically ill patient walk back home with a smile on his face, is probably what keeps most of my fellow doctors in the profession, despite the grueling hours and non existant social life. Hence, if we were to be taught what to do when we err, we would definitely tread with more caution, rather be caught on tv appearing like a petty criminal.
If we are a society concerned with health, then we have to understand that we have an individual responsibility towards our health. Poor lifestyle habits, not following the doctor’s advice and skipping doses, and then blaming the doctor for poor health despite taking expensive medicines is simply playing the blame game. Not acceptable.
To summarize, we need a multi pronged approach to start a change in most of these areas. Able law makers,thinkers, senior doctors and the public at large who should first understand the flawed but totteringly functional system completely. And then attempt change. Only then, we can hope for the health of the country as well as its doctors. Till then, still happy to be a doctor and enjoying it despite the hurdles!
To call myself a foodie would be an understatement. My love affair with food began quite early. Even as a child, I was somehow drawn to food the way sugar draws ants. In a way, my obsession with food and books have a mutually common base and an intensely satisfying connection with each other!
By virtue of being a painfully shy kid, I was always happy hiding behind books, which acted as my comfort zone. My earliest memories of reading go back to when I was 7, and when I was given an Enid Blyton book of a circus girl, Carlotta, and her adventures. For someone who had a secret appetite for adventure, her life almost seemed magical. More awe inspiring though, were the different kinds of food described in the book. I must say, Enid Blyton was a master in making the most drab of foods seem so gourmet like, that I grew up on fantasized versions of Ginger beer, sandwiches, lemonade (which I later discovered was a fancy name for nimbu pani!), boiled eggs, fresh fruits, jam, pickles, midnight feasts and picnics over the hillside. These were the dreams that my childhood was made of. I would almost smell the mountain air, feel the texture of the sandwich and hallucinate the taste of ginger beer. Through Malory towers, Famous five and Five find outers, unconsciously I became a fan of food.
My make believe games involved getting some food from the bakery, putting it in a basket, laying it out and having imaginary picnics with myself, and of course my books for company! Over the years, my love for food diversified from street food and chaat to food from north Indian restaurants(which in the 80s were the only alternative cuisine available in Shimoga) and later a fetish for Chinese. Even as my memory for other important things fails me at that most crucial of times, like names of people whom I am definitely supposed to be knowing; food memories never deny me that favor. I still remember the taste of Hakka noodles made by a small Chinese joint in Shimoga which shut shop a few months later due to lack of regular patrons (other than me, of course!).
Over the years, my love for books and food grew in equal measure, both competing for the first spot. My college days in Mangalore opened new avenues to explore, the best of both worlds. I think I must be the only person who spent all her pocket money on food and the library. I am sure though, that I am the only person in the whole world who read loads of crappy mills and boons only to enjoy the description of food which is described in it rather than the romance! I was introduced to fancy names, french food, Hors d’ oeuvres(which by the way, I still do not know how to pronounce), wine and the mouth watering deserts like Crepe Suzette which I enjoyed by proxy, through these books.
Back then, the only kind of food writing that I knew of were cook books, which describe cooking in a really dull, drab way, measuring each ingredient in great detail, and eventually spoiling the spontaneity of it all! Which is why, I love the way Nigella Lawson cooks. Just by instinct- a handful of this, a sprinkle of that, a bunch of coriander torn right out of the garden, whisk it all together, and viola! You have a drool worthy dish in front of you! Any ways, I’m digressing, which usually happens when I am talking food.
Coming back to the point, I only got to know that there was a genre’ called food writing when I discovered a book at a sale. The book called “Endless feasts”, edited by Ruth Reichl, is a collection of articles that various food journalists in Europe and America. The book describes delicious traditional breakfasts of Maine, the grandiose dinners at Ritz in Paris, and stories of how Italian home food is made. Though being a vegetarian meant that I could not even try most of what was described, the descriptions were enough to make my mouth water! From then on, I was hooked! Every book shop I went to, I would scour in the cooking section for hidden gems like these. They are really difficult to find, and when I did chance upon one, they would be quite harsh on my purse! Nevertheless, over the years I have managed to make up my very own small yet tasty food library! In fact, these are the only books which I return to again and again, when I am in distress. They are my therapists!
For those of you who dig books like these, a list of my favorites:
1. Eating India, by Chitrita Banerjee — which describes the different cuisines of India elaborately along with the history attached to each kind of food. For example, the culinary mastery of chef Pir Ali, who delighted the Nizam of Lucknow’s English guests by presenting a pie which contained tiny live birds which flew away when the crust was opened! Maybe, some connection to the English rhyme, sing a song of six pence….. Such anecdotes makes each dish interesting and each cuisine worth exploring. Different cuisines of India are thoroughly explored and tasted, leaving you slightly full and satiated, by the time you put the book down.
2. Kheer,Korma and Kismet, by Pamela Timms — who is a Scottish Journalist, living in Delhi. This book describes the yummy street food(my favorite kind) of Delhi in vivid detail, down to romantic gully names like Hauz Qazi Chowk,Ballimaran and Chawri Bazaar which elevate the food from the streets to something more exotic and something for which you want to catch the next train to Delhi in a tearing hurry. Daulat ka chaat, phirni, chana bathura,kheer… I’m coming!
Hot tea across India, by engineer turned writer Rishad Saam Mehta. I have always been a lover of coffee, but this book converted me. The book describes the author’s tryst with different types of tea all over India and anecdotes built around it. It describes a journey he took on his bike and how he encountered diverse people, simple meals, different but tasty versions of tea. Definitely my cup of tea!(pun intended)
3. Choclat, by Joanne Harris . Though this book is about a bigger something, with a moral behind the story and all that, the main attraction remains … yes,the chocolate. Believe me, when you read this book, you can actually smell the warm smells of bread and hot chocolate emanating out of the book. Pralines, marzipans, pastries, hot chocolate and bonbons creep into your dreams and give you a feeling of fuzzy happiness.
4. It is said that Delhi is a city which has been rebuilt eight times! Each time it got looted and destroyed, it rose again like a phoenix from the ashes. For someone who has gone through so much gore, the city looked calm and composed when we visited it in the winter.
5. Eat, pray love, by Elizabeth Gilbert . Well, to be more specific, the EAT part of the book. That someone could travel to an unknown place, just to experience eating made me feel as if I was reading about a kindred spirit! I would soo do it, if I could just brush my other responsibilities under the carpet! And to go to Italy, would be icing on the cake, but I would be happy just about anywhere! After this book, I don’t feel so weird anymore for being in love with food.
6.The temporary bride by Jennifer Klinec. This book is a non vegetarians delight. It describes the various kinds of food prepared in Iran, and how two people fell in love while exploring food. Some of the food described slightly grossed me out, but nevertheless, I would certainly recommend it for the lovely description of the food given.
There are many more such books which describe food with the love and attention that it deserves on my wish list. With instagram, good reads and tv shows, my ongiong love affair with food has reached new proportions. But, how much ever these tempt me, there is nothing like the comfort you get when you are curled up with a good book, a cup of chai, a plateful of pakodas, or a bar of dairy milk crackle, or a bag of kurkure, or french fries, or paneer chilli or…hmmmm… the list goes on.
