Da Vinci Da Dhaba, #HumorinDesiLife

  Da Vinci Da Dhaba

The late Shri Arun Jaitely was a connoisseur of the arts. He was also very knowledgeable and particular about food. He preferred purity in cuisines and from what I knew about him, detested fusion. Master chef Vikas Khanna once told me that his art took a turn from fusion towards authentic cuisine after discussion with Jaitley Sahib at a Buckingham Palace reception that Khanna had catered for. 

I’d had several opportunities to eat with him, and mostly agreed with his preferences—except for when he said that Amritsari fish fry was better than the Bengali fish curry in mustard. I resolved to change this (clearly flawed!) opinion by treating him to some authentic Bengali macher jhol but sadly, that day never came. 

In October 2015, Jaitley Sahib came to Lima, Peru for the World Bank/IMF Governors Meeting. I was then posted as ambassador to Peru and got to spend some time with him. For dinner, aware of his penchant for authentic food, our Bengali-Bihari combine decided to go in for Punjabi food—with butter chicken, palak paneer and baingan bharta as staple fare. Jaitleyji loved the baingan bharta and would reminisce about it several months later when he met me in New York. He opined he had had several preparations of the bharta, but somehow, the one he’d eaten in Lima lingered in his memory. It was food for thought for us, trying to recollect the exact recipe, but it gave us a clue about what to make for him at the next opportunity. 

In the autumn of 2017, as India’s finance minister, he travelled to New York, where I was then serving as the consul general. I was aware of his food preferences and tried my best to keep it simple and pure—no mixing of cuisines. 

From New York, we took the Acela Express to Boston for a day to meet with investors and for the minister's address at Harvard University. Some business persons from India were also accompanying him and suggested that we all go out for dinner together. I pointed out to them that if we couldn’t find an authentic place, it would be better to order room service at the Taj Boston, where we were staying. One senior industrialist and a president of one of India’s leading chambers told me that they had done a recce and found a genuine Italian restaurant by the name of Da Vinci. They said it would be nice if I could convince the minister to go to Da Vinci.

When I asked Jaitleyji if he would like to go out for dinner, he said: “Sandeep, we have had a long day, I'd rather stay back and order room service.” When I conveyed this to the proposers of the Da Vinci dinner, they insisted I convince the minister to reconsider. I asked them if it was worth the effort, fully aware of the potential risks of culinary disaster. They had asked around, they said, and insisted that the place was highly rated. I managed to convince the minister and we stepped out of the Taj Boston. The president of the chamber asked if he  could sit in the car with the minister, and I readily obliged. 

Da Vinci was an impressive restaurant—well appointed, on a prominent avenue with  classy furniture and decor. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling casting a mellow light on the tables covered with white tablecloths and gilt-edged maroon runners. On the tables were large wine goblets and flower arrangements, characteristic of fine dining. A long table had been laid out and everyone sat around the minister. 

The place gave me a good delicious feeling and I felt confident. I stood around for some time making sure all of us got a seat. As people settled down, the waiter went around asking for drink orders. Conversation around the table was crackling and luckily, there weren’t too many other diners that evening. Everything was good and I looked forward to a relaxing evening. 

Before I could sit down, I saw a big burly Punjabi with a funky, close-cropped hairstyle dash out of the kitchen’s swinging doors and come up to me. I was a bit startled by his sudden appearance from the inner bowels of the restaurant. He asked in chaste Punjabi- “Ai Jaitley Sahib haige, nahin?” (Isn’t he Mr Jaitley?). Growing up in the Punjabi-dominated neighbourhoods of Patel Nagar, Malviya Nagar and Vikaspuri in Delhi, I have a reasonably good understanding of spoken Punjabi, and replied in the affirmative. He followed up his question with a request. “Meri gal karwa do?”(Can you introduce us?). I agreed, and asked him “Tussi kaun?” (who are you?). He said he was the chef and went on to add: “Tussi Jaitley Sahib nu das do ki koi chinta di gal nahi. Assi unha vaste Indian style Italian banawange.” (Tell Mr Jaitley not to worry. For him I will make Indian style Italian food). The moment he said this I heard fire engine bells go off in my head. After some seconds of panic, I gathered my wits and told him that since Mr. Jaitley had come to Boston from India, he would prefer Boston food, and there was no need to make it taste “Indian”. He was undeterred and unshakeable. “Tussi chinta na karo. Assi butter chicken flavour da non veg, hor paneer butter masala flavour da vegetarian banwangey, ekdum desi style.” (Don’t worry I will make non-veg dishes with butter chicken flavour and vegetarian dishes with paneer butter masala flavour, totally in Indian style). Hearing this the acid in my stomach began to rise. This dinner was awaiting a buttery grave. 

In a desperate attempt to fix the situation, I asked him who the owner of Da Vinci was. He replied with elan: “Pai sahib main hi Da Vinci da malik hoon. Sada sarey Boston vich paanch-chey Italian restaurant hai, sabhi jagah Indian style Italian fusion milde hain, sarey bahut hit hain, tussi chinta na karo ji.” (Brother, I am the owner of Da Vinci. In the Boston area I have five-six Italian restaurants. In all of them, I serve Indian style Italian food— they are a big hit). My hopes crumbled like a crispy amaretti cookie.

Obviously fed up with me, he confidently strode towards the minister and greeted him in Punjabi. They both exchanged pleasantries in Punjabi and then Mr Da Vinci, dropped his masala spiced bomb. He repeated what he told me, that we were not to worry, his chefs make Italian food with masala which brings out the butter chicken flavour. The convivial atmosphere around the table suddenly changed and there was pin drop silence. Instead of opening up for the food, all the jaws dropped. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, so I went up to him and tried to discourage him from carrying out his plan. He took me aside and said “Koi nai, tussi chinta na karo.” (It’s okay, you need not worry). But my worries had just begun.  

We finally sat down to eat and the food started to come out of the kitchen—paneer topped pizzas, cannelloni and masala ravioli in tomato sauce (which tasted suspiciously like butter chicken gravy), and risotto that tasted like biryani. It was a mishmash of Italian dishes prepared with Indian condiments. We ate silently, with the only sounds being that of the cutlery against the crockery. It was one of the shortest meals ever. 

As we exited and walked towards our cars, I asked the president of the chamber to accompany the minister, as he had done on the onward journey. He snuck off, leaving me to accompany the minister on a ride that turned out to be largely silent. In my mind I was wretchedly recalling Da Vinci’s Last Supper. As we were crossing the Boston Common, Jaitleyji remarked “What an interesting character!” To my slightly shocked query about whom he was referring to, the minister smilingly replied: “This man, the owner of  Da Vinci da Dhaba!” I wanted to respond with an enthusiastic “Yes, minister!” but could only muster a weak nod as relief washed over me.

It was a marvellous lesson in wit, humour and compassion, and one for which I will always remember Shri Arun Jaitley with admiration.

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Case of the Missing Napkin

Case of the Missing Napkin

As Delhi's, winter sets in, out comes the woolens, stashed away out of sight in the lofts, bed boxes, under the beds and in suitcases. I think every family in India has to face this quandary of what to do with the woolens when summer sets in, where to keep them and how to protect them from mold and mites. As I took out my suits for dry cleaning, out came the napkins. Napkins? Yes, napkins!. I am not a kleptomaniac, but somehow I have this involuntary habit of putting napkins, both paper and cloth, in my pocket and bringing them home from buffet dinners, which are now the norm in India. More about buffet dinners later, but this napkin business is serious. I must have destroyed the napkin collection of many households by this unwitting habit of mine. 

While this year my purloined napkin collection has been put to good use only as dusters, other years have been more profitable. Sometimes, the napkins have been good to be recycled as hankies or even pocket squares. But I must concede those occasions have been rare, as mostly the napkins are of thick markin grey cloth or at best poplin kind of material material and have limited use, not even as napkins, as one cannot put up an assorted bunch of napkins on the table, even at buffet dinners. Yes buffet dinners, I do have something against them. 

   

Even as late as the 90s, although many Indians lived abroad, availability of Indian goods, shops and restaurants were few and far between. As a language trainee I tumbled along with my wife to Spain, sometime in August of 1998. Used to the hustle bustle of Delhi, an eerie Madrid greeted us. August is vacation time in Europe and more so in Spain, when almost everyone, who can afford, goes on vacation. The city and life in the city almost comes to a standstill. Shops are closed, offices are closed and only the penniless, aimless and the friendless stay back in the city. 

In those days the Indian population in Madrid was very small. There were no Indian stores and not even a Bangladeshi store. Indian dals and masalas were not readily available. There was a sizable Indian population in the Canary Islands and in Barcelona, but these were far away. So we had to make do with jugaad when we invited foreigners home.

For our own meals, Spanish cuisine was a revelation with amazing elaboration and range. The length of the street between our house at Concha Espina and the Embassy at Pio XII was dotted with numerous eating joints, bars and restaurants. So on the way back in the evening we would try one pub or restaurant after the other, sometimes getting our fill from eating only Tapas. 

So eating out was not a problem if one knew a smattering of Spanish. However, when we invited guests home, the expectation was to serve Indian food, whether one could make it properly or not. For many of us, new to the service and newly married, cooking was a chore, as one hadn’t been doing so till then. So while we were learning on the job in the Embassy during the day, we were learning how to cook in the kitchen in the evenings. Somehow, entertaining guests outside in restaurants was frowned upon as we were required to give foreigners the taste of Indian cuisine, even if it was unpalatable. So we struggled and learnt how to dish up a decent meal with an assortment of vegetarian and non vegetarian dishes, mixing dishes from all Indian geographies. We knew very well that there is no one Indian cuisine but several Indian cuisines, but we behaved as if what we put on the table were all national dishes and it was food that all Indians routinely ate. 

Although as a junior officer or language trainee I was not expected to entertain too much at home, we did get invited to the homes of others. Mostly these dinners were buffet dinners, most certainly an Indian invention, like the harmonium, invented abroad but perfected and used only in India. At such meals, the practice was to make mountains of food and invite hordes of guests, with hardly any room to sit. The guests then sprawl into all available spaces and even bedrooms. Of course, when so many are invited, there was no chance of all sitting down to eat a meal at the table, which I believe is not a very ambitious expectation in an urban setting outside India. But alas, it is never to be.

Plates are piled up sky high on the table with napkins tucked in between them. Then the cutlery would be arranged next to the planes in skydiver or fighter aircraft formations. Some enterprising hosts even put out knives, forks and spoons. With one hand holding the plate and sometimes a glass of wine, the other hand can hold only one instrument. How on earth can one use two instruments to dissect the food without managing to spill it and soil the sofa or clothes of other guests. While most of us have now become expert jugglers, our skills are found wanting when the meat is not boneless. All of us have witnessed missiles being launched from plates and landing on expensive Kanjivarams silks. The saree gets soiled but simultaneously the dirt migrates to the face and dirty looks are exchanged. The worry crosses the mind about how to clean the stain as it is well nigh impossible to get sarees dry cleaned in Europe or America, at least in those days.  

While we had our stock of dals, masalas and basmati rice brought to us by the container, the one thing that was missed was paneer, the essential component for any self respecting Indian vegetarian meal, particularly if North Indians are either hosts or guests. But no paneer was available in Madrid. Some said Greek feta cheese is as good as paneer. We tried it but it was either too salty or crumbled at the frenetic mixing that goes on in the kadhai on high flame in an Indian kitchen. Cooked Tofu was like eating rubber eraser with curry. Finally, the consensus amongst the Embassy and the Indian community was that it is best to make paneer at home.

To make paneer at home, one needed three ingredients- good wholesome full cream milk, lemon and a fine muslin cloth to strain out the water after the milk curdled. While there was plenty of milk and lemon in the supermarkets of Madrid, the perfect cloth to strain the paneer was hard to find.  

All kinds of solutions were attempted including dupattas, my handkerchiefs, pocket squares, a frayed shirt or even perhaps a saree, but none was effective. The water from the casein lump had to drain out drop by drop over a period of time and it must not allow the paneer to dry too much as well. All trials failed and we were in the quest of finding the right piece of cloth to make the best paneer. Every time there was dinner at home, this existential question perplexed us. Relegated to the bottom of our priority list was the need to learn the foreign language or its culture. A less than perfect paneer was a recipe for a culinary disaster. 

Then it was Bingo! One day as I was preparing to leave for office, I happened to put my hand in my pocket, out came a napkin. And what a napkin it was. Large, silken, muslin type cloth and it appeared to be goldilocks right for the paneer cloth, my home minister was yearning for. In place of going to the main door I rushed to my wife in the parlour and yelled in full fervour. Look! Look!, here is the perfect cloth that we have been looking for. Wife, who hardly ever agrees to any of my propositions, instantly agreed. A glee crossed her face and she jumped up in excitement spilling her cup of tea. The sofa was soiled, but that sorrow was easily drowned by the joy of finding this piece of cloth. 

  Thereafter it was a dream run as far as dinner parties were concerned. Our paneer was flawless, soft, creamy and could be neatly cut into cubes. It would last the fervent currying in the kadhai and shone like stars in the mutter paneer or butter paneer masala curries that we made. There was contentment in the Chakravorty household.

    While our paneer was exquisite, the same couldn’t be said about the state of the piece of cloth or the muslin napkin that we were using to make paneer. With frequent use, the white became off-colour and more alarmingly, the centre became like a bulge. A rather unsightly bulge. Clearly it had become a paneer cloth, much like the cloth we see being used by jalebi makers. It clearly couldn’t be put to any other use, but adorned a pride of place in our kitchen. 

After I finished my Spanish language training I was confirmed in service as a mighty Second Secretary. In a few months, as a colleague was transferred to another Embassy, I was asked to take over the charge of Head of Chancery. Although it sounds imperious, the Head of Chancery is a quintessential Babu, handling accounts and administration. However, in the scheme of things of the Embassy, it is an important post, as the HOC can, by denying routine privileges and facilities, cause grief to other colleagues.

In Madrid, our Head of Chancery lived in a rather big apartment, which had been with the Embassy for many years. It was located in a high rise building on a small hill on Arturo Soria with a good view of Chamartin Railway Station. We had been to the house for buffet dinners on many occasions and liked it. It had a big parlour and a dining room with a twelve seat dining table. At last we could host sit-down dinners. So as soon as the incumbent HOC left, we promptly moved into this apartment at Arturo Soria. 

After we settled in, it was time to entertain. Time to also show off that we could host sit-down dinners and not buffets. So the day of the dinner, one weekend, we started taking stock of the crockery, cutlery and napkins. Spanish homes are rented fully furnished and everything one needs is more or less available. When we moved into our first house in Concha Espina, upon arrival in Madrid, our landlady Antonia, had even provided us with a sewing kit and dental floss. Such is the attention to detail by house owners who rent out fully furnished houses.

As it was a 12 seater dining table and we had invited exactly twelve guests, we decided to take stock of the dining paraphernalia. We started counting the plates, bowls, the cutlery and the napkins. All were there to a dozen. 12 plates, 12 side plates, 12 forks, 12 knives, 12 spoons, 12 dessert spoons, 12 dessert plates and bowls, 11 napkins. Wait 11 napkins?. Where is the 12th napkin. We found it hanging with a bulge in the kitchen, all set for making of the paneer later in the day for the much awaited sit-down dinner. 

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No Hair, No Oil; #HumorinDesiLife

 

No Hair, No Oil

To put it diplomatically, I have scanty hair on my scalp. It is better than saying I have almost no hair. Alopecia is my family inheritance, passed on dutifully from generation to generation. At the best of times I have difficulty in keeping my hair in place. My hair style becomes precarious after hair cuts as every hair starts behaving like a disciplined soldier and stands up erect. To get them to take it easy, I need to apply either hair oil or gel. As I suspect hair gel or its earlier avatar brylcreem of having depleted my crop, I have taken to using coconut oil to bring some semblance of kempt to my hair.

In late autumn of 2021, I had a planned trip to Brussels for meetings with the EU. As I expected the weather to be cold and windy, I decided to take my black woolen cap to protect my exposed upper story. A concomitant concern was the effects of using a woolen cap on my hairdo. I was particularly worried about the consequences of taking off the cap before entering meetings. Obviously the hair would be all ruffled and standing. To mitigate this potentially disastrous outcome I decided to pack some coconut oil in a small bottle that I had, much like the one we get in airlines for moisturizer. In the kitchen I found two similar looking big bottles, one was of cold pressed coconut oil and the other was cold pressed groundnut oil. They had been presented by a friend who was launching a range of satvik products by the name of Haribol. I carefully poured the oil from the big bottle to the tiny one, taking care not to spill any oil.

On the KLM flight to Amsterdam enroute to Brussels, I found to my delight, a jar of hair gel in the aircraft toilet. Such is rarely the case in airline toilets. Normally one finds liquid soap, moisturizer and eau de toilette. This was different and certainly an auspicious omen. I made several trips to the bathroom to tidy my hair by applying hair gel, on the not so long flight from Delhi to the Dutch city. 

In Brussels we checked into the imposing BeauxArts style Steigenberger hotel, with impressive lobbies, hallways and guest rooms. In the washroom with gilded fittings, I confidently placed my small bottle of hair oil on the marble shelf alongside with the other custom made toiletries such hotels provide. I was ready to take on the force of the wind on my hair.  

Early next morning, after the ablutions of shave, shampoo and shower, I was ready for my well groomed look. I looked reassuringly at the mirror, poured oil out of the small bottle and applied it liberally on my head, conscious that I would need my hair to sit pretty on my head throughout the day, even if I had to use the cap. 

The oil slicked in nicely. I combed my hair and was all ready to get dressed when my nose sensed a strong smell emanating from close proximity. I sniffed around, not sure about the source. Soon I realised that it was coming from my hair, not the pleasing sweet smell of coconut oil but the cooking oil kind of smell of groundnut oil. I was smelling like a person who had fried samosas all day. I panicked!. I had bungled it by pouring the oil from the wrong bottle back home in Delhi. 

There wasn’t sufficient time to shampoo again. Instinctively, I looked around in desperation and my eyes settled on two bottles on the bathroom shelf, one the ubiquitous hand sanitizer and the other my travelling companion, a bottle of CK perfume. I decided this time the perfume would be a better choice, so instead of spraying it on my clothes and neck, I sprayed it profusely on my hair to mask the smell. 

Throughout the day in meetings my nose was on overdrive, sniffing. I wasn’t at all confident of the outcome of the potent chemical reaction of perfume with groundnut oil. Most likely the strict Covid protocol of social distancing and wearing masks worked in my favour and saw me through the day. 

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Om Suryay Namah

 Om Suryay Namah

The 47th business district in Manhattan, New York, is known as the jewellers district, for the gold, diamond and precious stone businesses that operate here. It is dominated by the Jewish community, Gujaratis (mostly in the diamond trade), and Rajasthanis, who manage the coloured stone business. One such businessman is Ashok Sancheti, who was also the president of the Indian Diamond and Colorstone Association, a trade body of the 47th street business district. I knew Mr Sancheti well because of his business, and his philanthropy and community work. He remains a big supporter of Jaipur Foot USA. 

When my mother passed away in 2012, I began wearing the gold chain that she used to have around her neck. I liked wearing it because through it, I felt the warmth of her presence. When I moved to the US, the airport security procedures (body scanners and frisking) forced me to take it off and keep it at home. 

One Friday, I woke up particularly missing my mother’s presence, and felt like putting the chain back on. I asked my wife if we had an ‘Om’ shaped pendant to add to the chain. We didn’t, she confirmed, but could get one made when we next travelled to India. I filed away the thought.

On the following Sunday, I was invited to Mr Sancheti’s granddaughter’s first birthday celebrations. As he is both well-to-do and admired by the community, it was a big affair, held in a banquet hall in New Jersey. I made it a point to attend. The setting was impressive, with many tables in a large hall and elaborate catering. The hall also had a stage where some performances were held. The arrangements were quite similar to that of  a desi wedding. 

As we all took our seats, there was a sudden hushed silence. The reason was a gentleman in silken robes, who was being accompanied to the stage by the Sancheti family. I was informed that the gentleman was Guruvadanji—a renowned guru, who was close to the Sancheti family. I remembered Mr Sancheti mentioning him to me and recalled that Guruvadanji was his friend, philosopher and guide.

Guruvadanji, who appeared to be from north India, is based in an ashram in Tirupati. Amazingly, he is proficient in several languages including south Indian languages. Mr Sancheti spoke about how his guru had positively influenced his life. He narrated an anecdote about the birth of his granddaughter. He had hoped that she would be born by natural delivery, but then got a call from the hospital saying that his daughter-in-law was being moved to the OT for a cesarean section. Mr Sancheti called Guruvadanji, who told him not to worry. When he reached the hospital, he found that the attending doctor had been replaced by another one. The new doctor, after examining the would-be mother, felt it was a fit case for a natural delivery. Mr Sancheti’s granddaughter was born the natural way. He then went on to narrate several other anecdotes about Guruvadanji’s remarkable clairvoyance.  

Guruvadanji then took the stage. His speech expounded on the power of chanting, particularly the syllable Om and the Gayatri mantra. I was a bit startled by the coincidence, given the recent conversation with my wife about the Om pendant. Soon, the formal function ended and we were invited to start lunch. As I was heading to the lunch buffet, Mr Sancheti took me aside and told me that Guruvadanji wanted to meet me. 

As I approached him, I could feel the warmth of his amiable nature. He held my hand, smiled, and said that he’d heard about me, and that the people he had met were happy with me. It’s always a good feeling to know that you are appreciated, so I bowed respectfully and thanked him for his kind words.

Guruvadanji then asked me which day of the week was my favourite. Having no favourites as such, I said “Sunday”, just because it happened to be a Sunday that day. Guruvadanji held my right hand, took something out of his pocket, placed it in my palm and closed my hand. I couldn’t see or sense what it was. Then, with one finger, he drew the Om symbol on the back of my clenched fist and asked me to open my hand. To my utter surprise and disbelief, when I did, I found a pendant shaped like the sun, with an Om symbol in the middle of it. “May you always shine like the Sun”, he said.

My mother’s chain found the pendant it needed, and I have been wearing it ever since, feeling both the warmth of her presence and Guruvadanji’s blessings. Om Suryay Namah. 

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Chasing a Jet Plane, Not Only Diplomacy

 Chasing a Jet Plane

My wife grew up in Nigeria in the 80s. She has very fond memories of Port Harcourt, and our dinner conversations have on many occasions been about her pastimes, play times and friends from those years. Her childhood stories of staying in a compound with many friends of the same age group fascinated me, as I did not have such a childhood and I perhaps yearned for it. Her childhood stories filled in the gap in mine, and over the years I have got to know and befriend many of my wife’s childhood friends. 

Once, all of a sudden, an opportunity arose for me to travel to Nigeria. I used to be a press officer in the Ministry of External Affairs of India and the Prime Minister of India was to travel to Abuja, the capital of Nigeria, for the Commonwealth Summit. As a press officer in the MEA, I was supposed to be part of the advance recce team to tie up arrangements. I had heard so much about Nigeria, that I decided to go a few days in advance of my colleagues and visit my father-in-law, who continued to live and work in a Birla enterprise in Port Harcourt. There was a great deal of excitement and nostalgia amongst my in-laws’ family when they learnt I was going to visit pa-in-law in Nigeria. Apparently, I was the first family-member-by-marriage to travel to Nigeria. 

I reached Port Harcourt after changing from the Emirates aircraft to a Virgin Nigeria Embraer at Lagos airport. In an hour or so, flying over the emerald green Niger Delta, I reached Port Harcourt in Rivers State. I spent a weekend with my pa-in-law visiting his factory and friends. I also visited the house in which my wife grew up, and saw the trees and plants that my mother-in-law had planted back then in the compound where they used to stay.  While the compound was well kept, the road leading to it was potholed and bumpy. When I asked my father-in-law the name of the road, he said that the locals called it “Man must walk road”—in obvious reference to its being a potential graveyard for motor vehicles. While being dismayed at the state of the road, I marvelled at the Nigerian sense of humour. 

Traffic, rather, traffic jams in Nigeria, are legendary. Unlike in other parts of the English speaking world where traffic congestions are known as ‘jams’, in Nigeria, they are known as ‘go slow’. It is clearly a misnomer, as there is nothing slow about them—they are a dead stop. When I had to catch the flight on Monday morning, at almost mid-day, my father-in-law reminded me of the ‘go slows’, and said that we needed to leave early in the morning to avoid traffic snarls and catch the flight. I had to travel to Lagos and then to Abuja, to meet my team who had arrived the night before. As it was related to a PM visit, I was anxious and readily agreed to leave early in the morning. 

We were either too early or very lucky and we reached the airport in a breeze. I checked in and handed over my suitcase, and with our boarding cards in hand, we found that we had many hours to kill before the flight’s departure. I called my wife in Delhi and gave her a detailed account of my visit to the town where she grew up. I must have earned several brownie points then. She asked me what my plans were. I said we would kill time in the airport as we’d arrived very early. Then she came up with a killer suggestion: the Federal Government Girls’ College Abuloma (her former school) was close to the airport—why not visit it and take some pictures? After she left Nigeria for India, she hadn’t been back to her school and had many fond memories of it. Not to lose out on this opportunity of staying on her right side, I readily agreed. Being a small town airport, there were few security restrictions and with boarding cards and time in hand, we set off to see the FGGCA. 

We zipped out of the airport and within minutes crawled into a ‘go slow’. There was a total standstill. The only movement was the hawkers selling their wares. My anxiety levels started rising and I asked the driver about the prospects of being able to reach the school. He just muttered “wahala,” (Nigerian pidgin for trouble). I asked my father-in-law whether we needed to abort the plan as the bank of time we had was rapidly evaporating. Pa-in-law seemed like a sea of tranquility but I could sense the turmoil within him, obviously divided between parental love for his daughter, and his responsibility to see his son-in-law on the plane. However, when the ‘go slow’ soon turned into a “no go”, he took the decision of aborting the Abuloma mission and returning to the airport. Luckily there was not much traffic on the other carriageway and we were able to reach the airport in time for the flight. 

When I entered the departure lounge, I found several people calling my name out loud. K-leg (very suspicious)! I didn’t know I was so popular in Nigeria, and on a first time visit, that too! Visibly surprised, I went up to one of them and presented myself. He was aghast, rather furious, and demanded to know where I had been. I told him that since there was so much time for the flight I was hanging around. His reply? “Oga, your flight don go! See the tarmac, there it goes!” What!!! I rushed to the door, saw the Virgin Nigeria plane taxiing away, and panicked. If I did not get on this plane, I would miss the connecting flight to Abuja, and the important prime ministerial mission. Without thinking, I darted out of the terminal building and ran after the plane. This was certainly a big security breach. Soon, many well-built security personnel and airline staff came running after me and held me, restraining me from going ahead. It simply couldn’t be done. They were angry. I saw that the aircraft was now taxiing on the runway. Suddenly I had a brainwave. I told the guys holding on to me that it was fine if they wouldn’t let me get on the plane, but my suitcase was on it. Which led to a series of disbelieving cries of “Wetin!!” (Nigerian pidgin for “What!!”). That was an even bigger security breach, so it was decided that we would run to catch the plane. This time, rather than just me running after the plane, I had a phalanx of fitter companions, running much faster than I could and waving the pilot down. Luckily the aircraft had to taxi to the end of the runway and then turn to take off, and we caught it somewhere in the middle of the runway. The pilot stopped, opened the window and asked what the matter was. “Sir, his suitcase is in the plane!” The gentlemen with me said. The pilot replied saying that in that case, I’d better be on it too. 

I was lucky. It was a small jet with built-in stairs on the door, which the stewardess kindly lowered for me to climb in. I was a bit worried about how the passengers would react to me. But in true Nigeria style I was greeted with a round of applause. Notin spoil, as they say. All was well!

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Office-Office, Not Only Diplomacy, #HumorinDesiLife

Office-Office     

After undergoing training in Mussoorie and the Foreign Service Institute in New Delhi, my batchmate Puneet and I joined a territorial division in the Ministry of External Affairs, South Block for our desk attachment. It began in around January, in 1998, and continued till about August of the same year, after which we left for our language postings. Puneet went to Cairo to learn Arabic and I went to Spain for Spanish. 

    For trainee officers to undergo desk attachment in those days, the infrastructural and logistical arrangements were scanty at best. We were basically asked to hang around and make ourselves available. We made a deal with the then Under Secretary of our Division for sharing her room. The understanding was that we would sit on her sofa, and in return, we would run her errands—from answering calls to emails. The deal was perfect and we were the envy of the entire batch for having a room to ourselves. 

    As there was not much to do, both Puneet and I would spend hours rummaging through the holy bibles of the MEA: the Civil List and the History of Services. These two manuals documented the career details of Indian diplomats. One fine day, Puneet said, “Sandeep, don’t bring lunch tomorrow! There will be a party in the Division!” When asked about the occasion, he said it was a rare occurrence—the Joint Secretary (Head of Division) and the Director had their birthdays on the same day. So it was obvious that they would host a party and we would be invited. In those days, with our paltry salaries, parties and free lunches were music to our ears and I happily agreed to Puneet's suggestion. 

The next day we both put on our finest shirts and promptly went to wish our boss a happy birthday. Puneet even informed him about the coincidence of it also being the Director’s birthday. While he happily accepted our wishes, there were a few moments of awkward silence, which we hoped he would fill with an invite—sadly, none was forthcoming. We left his room and headed to the Director’s. We warmly greeted her and enlightened her about the remarkable coincidence of it being the Joint Secretary’s birthday as well. Here too, no invites as far the eye could see. Still, we optimistically soldiered on. Puneet decided that we needed to rush back to our room and stay put there, since the phone might ring with an invitation for the party at any time.

    Normally, for us, lunch was at 1:00 p.m. and we waited  anxiously well beyond it. As I was getting jittery with hunger, I reminded Puneet that if the call didn’t come, the canteen in South Block would also run out of food, and we needed a backup plan. Puneet shot down the idea. The wait seemed interminable and at the end of it, there was no phone call. The canteen too had run out of food. So we sadly decided to step out of South Block and go and eat somewhere else. 

    As we walked towards the second floor elevator, on the way we crossed many seemingly well-fed and happy colleagues. When the second floor elevator arrived, we saw a staff member of the Director’s office walk out of it with several boxes of pizza. Bingo! At last, the food had arrived and it was going to be a big pizza party! Puneet and I rushed back to our room to ensure we did not miss the phone call inviting us. We waited and waited, but alas, no phone call came, even this time. I vaguely remember having to go without food that day. 

    Hurt, hungry and dejected, we additionally had to digest the humiliation of not being invited for the Division party. The next day we went up to the Director's staff and summoned up the courage to ask him why we hadn’t been invited to the party hosted by the Director. “What party?” he said. “There was no party! It was the staff that was treating the Director.” 

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Case of the Disappearing Momos, #HumorinDesiLife

 

    

    Not exactly an example of good neighbourly relations. My Foreign Service batchmate Puneet shifted into the flat below us the day before. 

    Yesterday morning gripped by hunger pangs, I was rummaging through the fridge and saw in a green tiffin box some chicken momos. Was slightly miffed with my wife, Taruna, for not letting me know about their existence. Promptly poured them out into a plate and heated them in the micro. Being a chilli buff contemplated for a second on which chilli sauce to pour on top and settled for the red hot chilli paste which one gets in the Indian-Chinese restaurants. With characteristic flourish I polished them off. 

    Seeing my intensive surgical strike on the momos, Taruna gave me a bewildering look, almost quizzing me as to where I got them from. My return look was full of avenge-  like first you hid them from me and now you don't like that I got hold of them. Loved the delicious momos!! Luckily I didn't have to share them with her, as she is vegetarian. Somehow and I don't know why, Indian-Chinese leftovers always taste better the next day. 

    I had left the green tiffin box on the kitchen table. Soon thereafter Taruna shrieked from the kitchen. Oh my god!!, those momos were part of the food Ronnie, Puneet's wife, had kept for safekeeping in our fridge as their fridge is yet to arrive. Got a earful of invectives from Taruna, luckily I was able to stomach them thanks to the good momos inside me. 

    Sorry Puneet. Will make it up with good scotch soon. Your food may not be safe with us, but as jewellery and cash are not edible, please feel free to keep them with us, safely!

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