Hello, Winter

Winter is slowly creeping into Delhi. I know because when Panda jumps on the bed and tries to pull the covers off me, I grumble at him and snuggle deeper. I know because driving in the nights, you can see the fog, like wisps of chilly smoke, swirling before the car's headlights. And I know because I've developed a deep craving for rice pudding.
It was a couple of nights ago; only the dog and I were at home. He had been fed and walked and now with his cold nose digging into my palm I was left with the delicious conundrum of what to make for dinner. I was tired and sleepy and wanted something warm and soft, that I could ideally cradle in a bowl while reading. So bloomed the idea of rice pudding. I defy you to find food more comforting. I began with a handful of rice and cooked it risotto style as the rice thirstily absorbed more milk that I had thought possible. Panda distracted me for a few minutes, nibbling the tassels off a cushion and I had to descend upon him to exact vengeance. By the time I returned to my stove it was smoking ominously and the sides of my pristinely white pudding were burnt brown. Now I belong to the school of thought that insists that rice pudding must remain white, white as snow. Rather than discarding my entire pot, a gesture that seemed excessive, I sought to disguise my mistake. Hence, the chocolate. I stirred in a tablespoon of cocoa and made the whole pudding brown. I grated in nutmeg, to add a different spicy dimension to the depth of the cocoa. I sang as my pot bubbled merrily, and Panda came sniffing at the kitchen doorway; he knew good things were cooking. When my pudding was finally done, it was thick and creamy and the rice still had a bit of a chew. The raisins inside had plumped up nicely and they stayed hidden inside the brown hued pudding, like the best surprises.
And I ate it, a whole bowlful all by myself, with my feet tucked under a wriggly dog and my fingers wrapped around a warm bowl, and winter seemed quite jolly.
Chocolate rice pudding
Milk: 4 cups
Rice: 2 tbsp
Sugar: 3 tbsp
Unsweetened cocoa powder: 1 tbsp
Raisins: a handful
nutmeg: 1/2 tsp
Be warned, this is a time consuming recipe, albeit very simple so long as your house isn't ruled by a mischievous dog. Begin with two cups of milk and add the rice. Boil the mixture until most of the liquid is absorbed, stirring continuously. Add the remaining milk, half a cup at a time, stirring very often. Check the rice time and again, to see it it's cooked. Cooking time will vary with the type of rice you use. Before you pour in the last half cup of rice, stir in the cocoa, sugar, nutmeg and raisins. Pour in the last half cup and check the rice for doneness. For me, this took about 40 minutes. Once the rice is cooked, give it a final boil and turn off the heat. Serve warm, but not too hot.

The colour of sunshine

Starting from now on, I've decided to make Colours a food blog. You see, I began my other blog "In Pursuit of Happiness" thinking that I could write the same sort of miniature epiphanies and happenings there and that the two wouldn't overlap. Time proved me wrong. So from now on, I think I'll save most of my musings for the other blog and focus here, on the food. Do excuse my photography, I'm really not very good at it. I do try though.
Yesterday, Amma and Appa threw a lunch party. I, of course, threw myself into the preparations; I do love entertaining. The dessert course was my sole responsibility and I decided to experiment upon our hapless guests. This here, isn't ice cream. It's frozen yogurt. And as I learnt, the sooner I stopped expecting it to taste like ice cream, the better I could appreciate it for what it was. And it sure was delicious. Yogurt is a combination of curds and water, and mine was the pure thing, with no additives. Also, I didn't have an ice cream maker, so there was no way my concoction was going to be silky or smooth. It was however robust, with minuscule ice crystals that rubbed up against the tongue and melted, leaving behind a slightly sour tang. I flavoured it with saffron, which gave it it's sunshiny hue and gussied it up with some honey, which added a floral kick. Here's the recipe if you want to try it at home.
Saffron flavoured frozen yogurt
Yogurt: 1ltr
Powdered sugar: 1 cup
Saffron: 1 large pinch
Milk: 2 tbsp
Chill the yogurt in your freezer until it sets along the sides of the bowl and only the centre is still soft. Boil the two tablespoons of milk and add the saffron, to release its flavour. Add the milk and sugar to the yogurt and beat, either with a whisk, or a blender, till the entire mixture looks thick and homogeneous. Freeze for about two hours. Repeat the beating, to break up the ice crystals. Freeze for another two hours, then serve.

Five Years

Having felt the beginning twinges of nostalgia, I'm loth to let go. So this week, I plan to devote Colours to an outpouring of sentiment, memories of my five years here in IIT, that as I scan the archives, I notice I've written precious little about.
So I'm set to embark upon this entirely selfish enterprise now: to chronicle, disjointedly, memories of my time here. It is to be the written equivalent of looking through a box of snapshots, some are bent at the edges, some lack proper focus, but they all tell a story.

Nostalgia

Of late, I've worried myself quite a bit. I'm now in the last four months of my stay at IIT, this place where I've spent suck a large chunk of my life. Yet, try as I might, I haven't been able to scare up so much as a hint of nostalgia for my years here. I got a trifle emotional when some of my friends left last year, but IIT itself, events like the last 'Surbahar' or the last 'MI' passed by and left me quite cold. But last night, my nostalgia finally rose from a rather unlikely source.
I had a keen interest in western music when I first came here, it seemed so much cooler than my Karnatic swaras. So I attended the semester's first meeting of our western music club, 'Staccato,' determined to be pleased. I listened mouth agape as they discussed Iron Maiden and guitar riffs, using a profusion of four lettered words, and returned that night with a firm crush on the club convener.It's funny how many decisions I made that year, just because I liked a boy.
I determined to sing in 'Unplugged', the first major Staccato event of the year, and to become the best club member I could be. As a freshman, I was selected to be a backup singer for a Corrs' song and I was humbly proud. The night before the event was spent doing publi: painting a giant cutout that advertised IITB Unplugged in giant blue-black letters. I smeared my jeans with paint, giggled whenever my convener spoke and so, blissfully spent my first nightout at IIT.
The big night came. I'd been thinking of it all day, scarcely listening to a word that was spoken in class. The stage was a pool of light, before which the seats of the theatre rose. When my turn came, I went down there and tried to peer beyond the harsh light and recognize the shadowy forms of my friends. They were all there, to cheer me on. I don't remember much of that performance; I know I stumbled through my part, forgetting half of my carefully figured harmonies, with a curious sense of unreality. I remember trembling so much, my earrings kept hitting my cheeks.
Performance done, I accepted the kind comments of my friends rather numbly and sat there watching as the next band took the stage. My friends left soon, they had only come to see me, but I sat there in the darkness, watching people make music below me, in a circle of light. I sat there till the final piece ended and the slightly-off-key voice of the final singer faded. I watched the floodlights come on, banishing the shadows from where I was seated, causing me to blink in confusion. We posed together for a photograph, about twenty of us, standing in two rows. Then we carried the instruments back into the music room and called out our goodbyes.

Last night, I sang at 'Unplugged' for the final time. Since that first year, I haven't been much of a member of Staccato. I'd discovered in the interval that Indian music suited me better, and that writing was even more fun than music. But when some wonderfully talented juniors asked me to perform with them, I agreed, without much thought of last times or nostalgia. We did one song, rather rough around the edges. I sang the lead this time. Then I sat back in the shadows again and  watched other people playing in that circle of light. It was a pleasant night and I thought back to my first Unplugged without much sentiment. But then quite suddenly, something inside me seemed to shift. For a second, the people sitting there last night seemed inexpressibly dear to me, as if they were a part of something I didn't quite want to let go of yet.
Perhaps I've just been numb all these months, but last night was a little like an awakening. Five years is the longest I've ever spent in a single place and as they come to a close, I'm finding myself quite restless. But I can't just walk out of here, without any parting words. These five years have been among the best in my life.
So now, I'm only just beginning to say goodbye.

The best of '09

Shop where you spent most of your money.

Shallow as it sounds, I think it'll have to be on shoes. This year I discovered the shoe stores of Bandra and Irla and went at them with a vengeance. I even blogged about them effusively here. But aren't shoes just marvelous? The look pretty, their designs can be incredibly inventive and I for one, can spend hours effusing on them.

The best of '09

A word that encapsulates your year.

Restless

Rush

I did a few adventurous things this year. I got dumped in the ocean in Goa and had to be rescued. I climbed mountains and stepped on a snake. But the biggest rush I got was when I stood before an audience of poets and writers and recited my hastily cobbled verse.
It was at the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, in February. The event was called Poetry Slam and we had to recite our poems. One girl acted her poem ouy, while wearing her collar mike. Another guy recited a haiku that had me clapping till my hands stung. Then it was my turn. I could see the sheet of paper I held trembling as I took the mike and butterflies were fluttering about frantically in my stomach. I took a deep breath and recited my tepid verse. Somehow, the moment I began, my voice magically firmed, my hand stilled and I felt eerily out of my body.
I didn't win that day, but it didn't matter. The poets that did were far better. For me, getting on that stage was enough.