beingdesh

Author: beingdesh

  • [Food Documentary]: The Foods That Make Billions

    In the past few weeks I have gone through a wide-variety of food related documentaries. They have ranged across the typical Bourdainian browsing the food-cultures type to weird eating styles to those bashing the American Fast Food culture. I thought it will be worth sharing a few with my fellow food bloggers, readers and marketing enthusiasts.

    The Foods That Make Billions is a three part documentary created by BBC about food categories that have grown from simple commodities to multi-billion dollar brands. It is a stunning lesson for marketers and business students, giving them an opportunity to visualize the so often heard about “Value Addition” in practice. Also it showcases the stupid heights of capitalism, and its ability to change our habits and the way we live life. The documentary is slightly U.K. and U.S. focused, and few of these categories are still evolving in India, but it is definitely worth a watch.

    The first in series is on Cereals. It goes through the history of cereal development right from the early days of Kellogg’s, new product innovations in the category, how multinationals changed the way we had breakfast, the tough activism faced by the brands during the 70s and how the products reinvented themselves to suit the new environment.

    BBC Documentary: The Foods That Make Billions–Cereals

    The second one is on Yogurt. The story of taking a simple milk-based product to a fruit-flavored, sugar induced multi-billion dollar selling cocktail. The story traces the origin of Functional Foods from the days of Dr. Shiroto and Yakult, to Danone and Muller’s reinvention of the category. Given my recent interest in frozen yogurts, I enjoyed this one to the core.

    BBC Documentary: The Foods That Make Billions–Yogurt

    The third talks about a product which I believe embodies the heights of marketing success, Water. To take a product as fundamental as water and to create some of the most profitable brands in the world out of it is a marketer’s dream come true. I haven’t found a full link to the video, so listing all the three parts.

    BBC Documentary: The Foods That Make Billions–Water Part I

    BBC Documentary: The Foods That Make Billions–Water Part II

    BBC Documentary: The Foods That Make Billions–Water Part III

    Let me know your thoughts on these documentaries, planning to share a few others in the coming weeks.

    Note: I have just shared the links from Youtube, and have not uploaded or distributed these videos. I would have liked to see BBC upload such wonderful documentaries on their channel though. They have uploaded a few clips on their official website. In case someone has an issue, will pull them down.

  • Brain Freeze and Defrost, Gangtok Style

    Standing there, I was witnessing one of the most stunning visuals of my life. A semi-frozen lake, solid on the edges, and covered on the sides with ice-shavings. The breeze was light, and the Sun was just making a friendly appearance once in a while. Tsangu Lake can be amazingly beautiful. And that day, it surely was.

    Traveling with an entire extended family can be a pleasure, but equally a pain. Eating out on travel becomes frequent, and a lengthy process. So do the tea breaks. Some health concern always pops-up. Kids end up fighting. Women end up fighting with the local sari and shawl shops. Teenagers end up discussing their crushes and romances. And Men end up finding out ways to smuggle in a bottle of Whisky. Like all group travel experiences the entire group splits up into smaller groups. But the problem is, that you can never abuse. And an even bigger problem being a teenager from a Hardcore God-Fearing Brahmin Family is that you can’t drink!

    But at that moment I could only see Tsangu, all the fights in the background over tea cups, and lays packets was just secondary.

    That wasn’t the only visually satisfying experience from the day. I remember the drive and then the walk towards Nathula Pass, me and my cousins hugging the Chinese Army officials who spoke a very sweet version of Hindi, and the snow laden mountains around the area. Extreme whiteness reflected extreme purity, sadly corrupted by the impurities of a 1962 initiated conflict. But the experience was silky smooth, across the ancient silk route. But then, Murphy had to strike.

    Our driver drove us towards one of the countless snow point. This area had all the usual suspects. Beautiful looking girls selling Yak-Milk tea and coffee, along with sumptuous bowls of Maggi and trays of Momos; frivolous salesmen selling so-called Sikkim Handicraft; all-pervasive cameraman carrying a photo-album and a hardbound address book with a dusty shutterbox; Gum-Boot and protective clothing lenders and tyre-snow-ride fellows commonly found along the Himalayan belt, from Rohtang, here till Nathula. I along with my slightly nut-head cousin sister and my most notorious cousin brother walked past all these. We saw snow and we saw a spot at some height, we just started running towards it.

    On the way we exchanged volleys of snowballs, fell many a times on the soft snow bed, did some sliding Shammi Kapoor style, used an imaginary bottle of Roohafza to pour it all over a snowball and eat it, and did all the stupid little things. We reached the short peak, sat on the soft snowbed and felt really nice.

    But just as I got my cousins spoiled the day for me. First my sister hurled a huge snowball towards me which hit my face and created a cold fusion reaction all over my head and eyes. Total Brain Freeze.

    As I was recovering from the blow, my cousin brother pulled my pants (they were loose) from behind and pushed heaps of snow behind. That was massive. As if a brain freeze wasn’t enough, I just had my first ass-freeze.

    To make matters worse I slipped and slid down the entire length of the snow track. All the memories of the Chinese smiles and the Tsangu beauty were long lost. I felt as if I will die soon, with half my body refusing to retain any sense of sense.

    The cold was so bad that I couldn’t even shout at my cousins, who were visibly quite scared. My uncles and aunts and cousins started coming towards me with all sorts of remedies. A bowl of Maggi, yak-milk tea, blanket, towel, a strip of crocin, a booklet of Hanuman Chalisa. Bloody, get me a brandy will you!

    Amongst all of this one of little cousin sister told, “Dada, why don’t you take a hot water bath!”. I felt it was a stupid idea. But then I realized what it can do to me. And yes there was hot water being prepared in drums by melting snow, being used to make Maggi, Tea and other stuff around. So I asked the cruel culprit cousin of mine to run and get a bucket of it.

    He came running back saying that the guy asked for Rs. 50. I asked my uncle to give him 60 and get the bucket soon. I started removing my clothes on the side, without feeling half my body. Although the brain was slowly returning back to normalcy.

    My cousin got me the bucket and I stood there with my briefs on, naked in that white gloomy snow-filled setting. The Sun at Tsangu didn’t happen that long back I thought. I used an old paint dabba and poured the first batch of hot water on myself. I felt a sudden rush of blood back in the body, it was as if all the old mills in Mumbai had all of a sudden started back in a single day, and were already producing at peak levels. It was a rush of energy, I loved the fact that I couldn’t have a brandy today, or I would have missed out on this. At that very moment, all my senses were alive.

    All the mistakes were forgotten, things were being laughed about, and for once even the Yak Milk turned tastier.

     

  • किम्कर्त्व्यविमुढ

    सब कुछ  था स्थिर, अविचलित, शांत सा,
    अचानक से इस दुविधा ने लाया एक बवंडर सा।

    क्या करे क्या ना करे के दोराहे पर मैं हु खड़ा,
    असमंजस से जूझता, पर इरादों पर अड़ा।

    इस पार है निराशा, उस पार आशा की किरण,
    बीच मझदार का सफ़र है, जिस पर तय होगा जीवन-मरण।

    -अभिषेक ‘देसी’ देशपांडे

  • The Shimla Affair – Chapter I

    I hadn’t realized how close we were to our hostel. I looked at my watch, it was around 7:30 PM, but it felt like it was 11 already. The Shiv Temple which stood brightly shining in the morning sunlight looked a bit dull now. The only shops which seemed busy were the two liquor stores selling Desi Liquor. Kasumpti tends to be this way, much more humbler compared to the happenings at the mall. And even colder. Actually the hunger made me feel extremely cold.

    I spotted a few eateries, a set of shady ones serving gas inducing pulses and cold flaky jalebis. I just entered one of them, followed sheepishly by my friend, who had been busy talking to a series of brain-dead girls since an hour, or so I assume.

    A stout-looking, grumpily smiling aunty welcomed us and asked us to take a seat. The place was empty, and dimly lit, with walls having those smoky oil spots with flaky distemper,  a trait common across so many small-town eateries. The tables were dirty-white, enhancing the grimness of the place. The grimness was equally reflected on aunty’s face, wrinkled around the edges, but still carrying that rose-tainted Himachali charm.

    I asked the clichéd question, “What’s there to eat?”, she came back with an equally clichéd response, “Dinner!!!”. I didn’t think much and asked her to layout dinner for two. My friend was still on phone, the hmms and long pauses quite indicative of his boredom. Talking on phone to girls has never been my thing. Never will be.

    She cleaned the table using a dirty rag, then using the same one to clean our compartmentalized steel plates. These plates reminded me of the plates used in langar, or my favorite plate at home as a kid. I used my T-Shirt to give my plates another decent wipe. T-Shirt had a coating of cold sweat on it, but atleast it was my own sweat.

    Kadhi Pakoda and Maa Ki Daal were served first, along with some stale-looking chopped-yesterday kind off onion and green chillies  I took a spoon and started sampling stuff, the daal was hot and fresh, and minimal usage of Garlic provided a confirmatory evidence of its freshness. Kadhi felt stale, like really stale, with a strong whiff of Hing (Asafoetida) in it.

    I started looking around to kill time till the rotis arrived. There were pictures of gods and goddesses and few cut outs of Filmstars from the region’s favorite Punjab Kesari editions. There was huge blue drum next to an old creaky door, an off-color blue drum, the shades of the place giving it a rather Instagrammed feel.  Maybe it was used to store water. Maybe that’s where aunty stored this awful Kadhi, and recycled it for guests like us.

    To add insult to injury, she got some Pakodas made in evening and popped them in the Kadhi served on our dishes, as if that would help? I reminded her about the rotis. She asked me to wait for couple of minutes.

    I heard a slight creak of the door behind me, I felt someone entered the main eatery area and started walking towards us. I didn’t bother as all I had on my mind were the impending rotis. I felt a touch on my elbow, a touch of warmth on my cold elbow, a soft and special touch. I smelt a freshness in the air, it had replaced the Asafoetida smell, and all my tiredness had disappeared at that very moment. She stopped, I looked at her, and at that very moment things became exciting yet silent. The gaze of those rich brown eyes was superbly complemented with a sharp, rather pointy noise. Her complexion was clear, and the rosy Himachali sheen on her cheeks exuded freshness. Her faint green kurta and the deep blue head scarf just went so well with her beautiful face. That amazingly beautiful pahadi face.

    She walked towards the stove and started rolling the dough. Her long slender fingers rolled the dough and then divided it precisely into separate balls. She started rolling the dough balls and lighted the stove. I saw a few small drops of sweat flowing down her cold white face. It was all so beautiful. I wish I could have been a painter and captured that moment.

    The rolling seemed so seamless, and in a smooth action that dull off-white colored dough had transformed to a spotty white colored, hot air filled Roti. She piled on a 3-4 rotis in a basket and then dabbed a bit a of Ghee on it. The dab was accompanied with a smile, ghee does represent love in some way for sure. Aunty walked towards her probably to pick up the basket, but she shut the stove, picked the basket before aunty reached it and came towards our table. As I shamelessly watched her face, she served me  and my still talking-on-phone friend. How the hell can he miss this? In a way it was good that he was missing all this. I don’t think he could have appreciated it the way I did.

    The rotis kept on coming, the boring kadhi developed a lovely flavor, daal felt like the one from the Golden Temple at Amritsar, it is strange how love, or the thought of it can completely change your life. Or at least the flavors in it.

    Read part II here.

  • A Very Long Walk to Freedom

    There is a continuous buzz in my ear, but I neglect that and keep running. I see him clearly, the colors are crystal clear, Hi Definition, and beautifully bright, even in the pitch black darkness of night. I can see the rolling ball at his feet, about to leave them, but still hesitant, like a first-time school going kid. I can’t see him now, I can just see the ball as it starts curling towards me, wait curling away from me! I dive and snatch it out of the sweaty, seafood-smelling air. I stopped a certain goal. But now it is my head which is curling.

    I am high. I think I am on a beach. A few hours back I was on my campus writing my final examination. I can’t recollect events post that, but I can piece together a sequence of images- phone calls, a run towards Bandra Terminus, a ticket bought for Vapi, lots of beer and whisky picked up on the way, a bottle of beer breaking. Oh yes, I remember now. I am in Daman.

    It is new years eve and a group of football-loving, women-hating young men (or the so called losers) have accompanied each other on a short trip to Daman.

    And yes, I am on a beach. There is sand. There is a small shack cooking chicken and frying fish for us. There is a small campfire. There is music. There are a billion bottles of beer and a trillion empty pegs of whisky. There are people- my good friends, my acquaintances and few unknowns.

    But where the hell is water???

    All of a sudden I shudder. Am I actually on a beach? I am walking on a thin rope between the real and the surreal, and I am afraid of falling, just that I don’t want to be on either side.

    I do the normal checks by pinching myself. I go ahead and slap one of my friends and he abuses me back with his favorite abuse. Oh yes, maybe things are real. I am actually on a beach with no water. Is it possible?

    The clock is about to strike 12 and I am feeling awkward about things. I corner a couple of my friends and ask them have they thought about the no water on the beach thing yet? I see a look of negligence on their faces, maybe they have known it all throughout, even they are walking the same rope. Their look changes to one of curiosity, their eyes burning with inquisitiveness. We look at each other. Let’s go and find the bloody damn water!

    We start walking towards the pitch black horizon. It is a moonless cloudy night, with minimal tinges of shiny sprinkles on the pitch black sky. So there is no reflection on the seabed. We do feel the wet sand touching our feet after walking some distance, but there is water yet. No sound of tides. No boat on the distant horizon. I still think we all are dreaming.

    Three of us have left our friends far behind, the sounds have died, the fire we had lighted on the beach is slowly smoldering now, it’s all in the past. We are standing in the middle of nowhere with a wet feel on our feet, and see a sea of nothingness in front of us. My ear is still buzzing. I think it’s the alcohol. But I hear water. I look towards my friends, and even they heard it. We start running towards nothingness.

    Splash.

    One of my friends falls tripping over a small puddle of water. We have found some water and there is hope to find much more ahead. We keep running. We have left everything behind, our friends, our fears, our inhibitions, and maybe ourselves.

    A few seconds later our feet start touching the foamy beginnings of the sea, and we are there, in between the saltiness, and gushiness of sea-water. We jump into it. All three of us. The water is cold, cold enough to take the heat of alcohol from our brains and the buzz from my ear. A sense of freedom creeps in, a freedom for all what we feared of. I know it is all real.

    After regaining some sense we know it was a low tide day and the water had receded quite far away from the shore. As we are sitting in water, we can listen to the sounds of our friends rejoicing, few fireworks go up in the air. It is the start of a new year. It is a new beginning.

    As we begin our long walk back towards the shore laughing at ourselves, we leave behind the darkness and move towards a bright, hopeful new year.

  • A Touch of Faith, a Sprinkle of Hope, and a Dash of Guilt

    Faith

    My relationship with God is slightly unexplored. I will be honest here and point out that I do remember God at times, in a rather selfish way when I am in trouble. And it is almost always a give and take relationship, in a “I will do this if you do that” kind of a way. But I am certain of an energy driving me. Maybe its God? Oh yes it is God!!! How can it be God?

    I don’t disapprove God’s existence, and do worship God in some way or another. But it took Oh My Good by Paresh Rawal to help me reconnect back with my faith, in a slightly comical but extremely effective way.

    Hope

    I think in Hindi. Most of us do think in our mother tongues and there is nothing new about it. But I know a set of people who think in English. The way they express themselves (in English) is so much better than what I can do. Needless to say, I am jealous of their confident English usage. Not having an extraordinary control over English has never been an impediment in my life but still there is a bit of inferiority complex induced, somewhere.

    English Vinglish was not only about overcoming the challenges of language, it stood for a simple person overcoming her hesitations and limitations. And yes with or without surgeries, Sridevi looked every bit a superstar, and provided me hope, in a fun-filled feel good way.

    Guilt

    I am quite used to downgrading the new generation, or the so called Alia Bhatt kind of generation. I feel they lack the basic mannerisms in life, have limited knowledge of the country they live in and have partially lost it. In the past I have loved the cinema of Karan Johar, and observed the maturity curve of Shahrukh Khan in his movies from Kuch Kuch Hota Hai to My Name is Khan. So when he chose to represent the much despised “new generation” into his cinema, I was quite dismissive of the movie, and abused it whole-heartedly on Twitter.

    But then I secretly walked into a Cinema Hall last week with my equally cynical friend, and to our surprise we thoroughly enjoyed Student of The Year. Takes me back to an age-old lesson learned in school, never have any pre-conceived notion about anything. There was a guilt within, that of being overtly judgemental, about cinema, about an entire new generation.

  • The Healing Chill of Hebbe Falls

    A chill runs through my body, crossing my spine, and within touching distance of my brain. I can only feel the cold water massaging my bruises, playfully interacting with platelets busy constructing a clot. I can sense a relieving burn crawl over my scratches, and it is extremely refreshing. Suddenly all the tiredness faces an existential threat. I feel a rush of energy pass through my body. Water can do that to you. Chilled water can do it better. A super chilled waterfall after an injury-laden trek tops it all. It can pump life in you within seconds and make you feel alive.

    A couple of hours back…

    Ah, the beautiful landscapes around Kemmangundi (Karnataka), and the soothing winds blowing on this hilltop. Why should we leave all this and go for a trek? Down-treks are easier these guys tell me. I have never been a trekking person – up or down – nothing excites me. I am just going on this one to keep my friends happy. I have been told about this particularly scenic Hebbe falls some 8-10 Kms down the trek. Waterfall!!! So much pain and trouble just to see a waterfall. I am not the kind of person who would trade relaxation for effort on a holiday. Or maybe I am?

    We start the trek as a cheerful, semi-drunk, happy high sort of a group. Few beers had been gulped with an afternoon barbecue featuring my Ajwain Flavored Paneer Tikkas, but it’s the sights and sounds around which have made me high, or so I think. As with most treks in India, this one starts as a dusty and dry trail. Being a down trek we had already started slipping and losing control over the trek.

    A few minutes into the trek and I start laughing rather unsympathetically over a friend slipping. Before I realize I trip and start rolling down the hill. A chill runs through my body, full of fear, of injury, or even death, and I close my eyes. Darkness. Till Infinity.

    As I open my eyes caught in a thorny shrub, with distant voices of my friends falling on ears and prickly and intense pain running through my body I realize it isn’t that bad. My friends come rushing on and apply their healing dosage of Water, Antiseptic, and a healthy serving of trekking gyaan.

    Right now I feel terrible. Ashamed. Dead-like. Tired. Fail. Stupid. Maybe a mix of everything.

    And a few moments back…

    I am slowly realizing the extent of damage- a number of scratches, a couple of cuts on knees and elbows, and countless small bruises all over my body. But somehow I know I am walking towards something special. I don’t know what it is, but the afternoon heat metamorphosing to the pre-evening chill, and the dusty lanes transforming to Hulk-Green surroundings are giving me signs of things to come. All of a sudden through those green leaves I spot Hebbe Falls. I can smell the wet scent of earth, and hear the profound sounds of a waterfall. I had lost sense of all my senses sometime back. But as I stand in front of the waterfall, I have regained them, feeling every bit of the waterfall. I throw my bag and jump in.

  • अमृतसरी प्रेम कहानी, जो हो न सकी…

    निकला था मैं देश देखने,
    खाने पीने, और कुछ अच्छा लिखने.
    क्या पता था यह सफ़र मेरा दिल तोड़ देगा,
    ग़म भरे मोड़ पर ला कर मुझे छोड़ देगा.

    भरवान दा ढाबा के वोह करारे कुलचे
    मदमस्त चने और खिलखिलाती लस्सी.
    फिरनी जैसी आपने कभी न खायी,
    नरम पनीर की बाहों में संतुष्टी पायी.

    चटोरेपन का अध्याय पूर्ण कर,
    जब निकल रहा था उदर से डकारो का स्वर.
    तभी आई पीछे से एक मधुर वाणी
    “Excuse Me”

    सुन के लगा यह तो है कोई अपनी,
    कानो में घुल सी गयी जैसे फिर वही मलाईदार फिरनी.
    लम्बा कद, गोरा रंग, हलके हरे नयन,
    पहली नज़र में ही मेरे दिल ने कर लिया उसका चयन.

    उत्सुकता से भरी, हलकी सकपकाई, हलकी चकराई,
    करना चाहती थी भारतीय खाने की पढाई.
    मैंने कहा मैं समझाता आपको क्या मक्खन क्या मलाई,
    मन ही मन कहा वाह कन्या तूने क्या किस्मत है पायी.

    बातो ही बातो में पता पड़ा घूम रही वोह अपना ७१वा देश,
    थी पत्रकार, करती खबरों से प्यार और गर्मी से क्लेष.
    वार्तालाप आगे बढ़ा, जन्मा प्रेम का नवंकुर,
    उन आँखों में भी दिखा बढ़ता लगाव क्षणभंगुर.

    उसने कहा कल कल दिन “साथ” करीबी गाँव है घूमते,
    अमृतसर की गलियों के स्वादों को चखते.
    दिल गया धड़क और बढ़ी मेरी आशा,
    पर पेट में हो रही थी गुडगुड और सिर में घनघोर तमाशा.

    इन सबके ऊपर आधे घंटे में थी मेरी बस,
    प्रेम और पेट के बीच हुआ मैं बेबस.
    मैंने सोचा यही थी अपनी कहानी,
    अलविदा कहते हुए आखों में आ गया पानी.

    जाते जाते मिला मुझे एक दोस्ताना आलिंगन,
    जिसकी यादो के सहारे कटेगा मेरा जीवन.
    माहौल तो पका, पर प्यार की फिरनी न पक सकी,
    अमृतसरी प्रेम कहानी, जो हो न सकी, जो हो न सकी…

    -अभिषेक ‘देसी’ देशपांडे

  • Spicy Hot Summer, Served With Buffalo Dip

    There are summers, and then there is that idiotic summer.

    I was interning with an organization studying tribal arts in the Rathwa tribe dominated Chota Udaipur region of Gujarat. In a constantly sweltering Sun, which was seldom in mood to bend itself below 45 odd degrees, we roamed across villages exploring styles of Pithora Paintings and scouting opportunities to work on other tribal art forms.

    There are summers, and then there is that romantic summer.

    I remember squeezing out time to go through multiple books at the same time. I fell in love with Arwen from Lord of the Rings and the landscapes of Shire as described by Tolkien, before the book eventually consumed me. I fell in love with villages, with the way Indians lived, took pride in our deep heritage and diverse art forms, and developed a significant admiration for tribal women with their shiny skin and confident demeanor.

    There are summers, and then there is that delicious summer.

    From the 10 year old kid who took me behind his hut at night to mix Gin for me in a earthen pot, to the old uncle who showed me the distillation process for Mahua made liquor, I discovered the existence of Alcohol. I remember taking the first sip, and it was hot, as hot as the Sun on top, it burned my food pipe for a second, but left a deliciously hot aftertaste. Then there was my new found addiction for soft-drinks (the one I always regretted), to unbelievably and brightly colorful Re. 1 shaved-ice candies, popularly termed Jaundice flavored candies by my Professor. But the taste which stayed for me forever was having Huge Makai Rotlas (Maize-Flour Bread, almost 10 inches in diameter), served with spicy hot red-chili garlic dry chutney.

    There are summers, and there is the one that comes alive.

    “You look like a Yamraj”, my friend shouted.

    “I am one, bwhahahaha”, I replied.

    Here I was on one of those idiotic summer days sitting comfortably on a buffalo-back, rekindling my romance with my sense of freedom, with a couple of delicious drops of water flying from the pond and vaporizing of my parched tongue.

    Earlier in the day we had helped our host in the village with some clean-up of his house and then offered to help him take his buffalos for a cleanup. But as I cleaned the buffalos in the village nahar, I slowly soaked in the mood, and didn’t even realize when it became a little adventure involving me and my friend, our host’s son, his friends and the friendly buffalos. We all took a dip in the small pool which had formed at the side of the village stream, saving ourselves from the occasional burst of energy by the head banging buffalos. It was even better with them laying in pool with us climbing on backs, playing “desi” cowboys, or enacting Yamraj and feeling awesome about acting stupidly.

    And suddenly in that one moment everything I did that summer came together, all those images of intense summer heat, beautiful paintings, the earthen pot distillation unit, that spicy chili garlic chutney. And my summer came to life, with a bit of spice, and lovely Buffalo dip.

    ————————————————————————————————————————————————–

    Have you ever gone dipping with Buffaloes in a village pond? Or Elephants, maybe?

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  • A Walk through Misty-cal Shimla

    It is still early in the morning and Shimla is slowly waking up to the misty morning chill and steaming tea vessels. The bus stop seems quite unprepared for 7AM in the morning, with newspaper vendors still unwrapping the Punjab Kesaris, and the bus windows being cleaned of dried vomit from yesterday’s torrid journeys. I walk towards a stall and ask for a cup of tea, sweetness much more than the heat of the first sip hits me. But I guess I require a sugar rush, for the long and tiring walk ahead.

    Walking through Shimla is as much an exercise as it’s an experience. I climb towards the mall, the city center so beautifully built by the British that you tend to forget the puffed up breath and tiredness. There is beauty all over, the old Victorian structures and wooden buildings, the cutest of school kids in their bright uniforms and toned blazers, beautiful people with an amazing Himachali sheen on their skin, and above all the mist filled scenery one can enjoy all year-round.

    Its around 8 AM now and the shops have started cleaning up for another day, I chuck the shops, shoo away the monkeys and walk towards the ridge after crossing scandal point. I buy a newspaper and sit on the old colonial style benches. Slowly the town seems to be waking up from its sleep. There is an extra-tone of brightness the sun has added to it, discussions are picking up all around, school kids are flocking the ridge area, and travel agents have started chasing the few tourists around.

    I walk down towards the Indian Coffee House, a century old institution serving Filter Coffee and breakfast to the mall’s flockers. I enter the coffee house, take a window view and order a coffee. As I look out of the window I feel a sense of completeness, it has been a morning well spent, observing people, being on the sidelines of active discussions, and just soaking in the fresh air. Well a lot of calories have been burnt, time to eat something now!