tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74903423460107515862024-03-28T20:30:11.529-07:00peppercorns in my pocketPiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.comBlogger180125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-50526239764492739762023-05-27T23:05:00.007-07:002023-12-11T08:38:09.253-08:00Baba<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I haven't written anything on this blog in years. This, I write for my Baba. But where do I start? I don’t know how to neatly pack into a blog post a man as interesting and expansive as him. I could start by telling you that he’s not with us anymore, that he died on the last day of February this year, and that as of today we’ve been without him for three months—but that would not be true. He’s with me every day. He’s here right now, reading this over my shoulder, making sure the spellings and punctuation are in order. He’s not there in his physical body, but the shape of him is everywhere. Which is not enough, not nearly enough.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I miss his hugs. There were always hugs—even in our hardest times, especially in our hardest times—our home was never short on good, solid hugging. Both Baba and Ma. I come from parents who’re huggers. Baba’s hugs were unhurried, arms wrapping me close, the smell and feel of him cool, fresh, even on the warmest days, I don’t know how.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I miss his voice. So full of life! He didn’t just greet people, he <i>greeted</i> people, his voice rising, smile widening, eyes warm with pleasure that someone had called or that he’d bumped into them on his way to the bank, the post-office, the bazaar. Which seemed inexplicable to the teenaged me, who wanted only to walk down the driveway of our multistoried building without bumping into anyone. A building of 96 flats where Baba knew everyone, and not just the residents. The security guards, the drivers, cleaners, lift-man, the vegetable-wala; he didn’t just know them by name, he knew their lives. After he passed, for weeks and weeks the doorbell rang every other hour and the house filled up with people who simply wanted to talk to us about him, share stories, tell us of conversations they’d had with Baba that had meant something to them, things that he’d done to help, or simply make them laugh, make their day a little more interesting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7PhOpYS5zl6FRvawcLsSsdG6GPu2wvEurC_a7MymyTYGUOPf6JGoFI74htBUjvSeZcBw_zPyMtu0oJuBigPHWguSRuQpXtYvAV7DuTHCAJ0-luPOBx-7DmE-xZqghmgKi-YoDrIa7et0oeTAoJsnv2UOKE2rk9TYWnm-2ANFT84NNSNGTVtai5iMfdw/s2048/Image-1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7PhOpYS5zl6FRvawcLsSsdG6GPu2wvEurC_a7MymyTYGUOPf6JGoFI74htBUjvSeZcBw_zPyMtu0oJuBigPHWguSRuQpXtYvAV7DuTHCAJ0-luPOBx-7DmE-xZqghmgKi-YoDrIa7et0oeTAoJsnv2UOKE2rk9TYWnm-2ANFT84NNSNGTVtai5iMfdw/w640-h640/Image-1.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div></div><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">An interesting person, that’s what he was; still is, wherever he is. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was the youngest of ten children—that position in a household makes you work harder at being visible, being heard; it also inclines you to observe and be interested in the lives of others. He knew how to invite and hold the attention of those around him, and he did it by sharing stories. <i>Goppo, </i>as he’d say. He was a storyteller—though his stories, unlike mine, were planted in fact rather than fiction. His tellings were as unhurried as his hugs, his anecdotes pitched to perfection, his recounting of history, whether political or literary, liberally laced with humour, with quotes and excerpts of speeches and letters that had been rendered to memory. He knew how to work the room.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">This attention was not just something he was good at getting, but also good at giving. If I were to think of the best thing Baba ever gave us—me and my brother, and later D, when I met and married him—was his <i>attention</i>, his time. I sit here now, writing this, held by all the hours he gave to me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Baba teaching me yoga. Showing me how to keep my spine supple and breath slow, telling me what each asana was for (what a chore it seemed to me then, and how thankful my body and mind is for it now!). Baba leaving a notebook on the table every afternoon, three-four pages of mathematical problems he’d written for me to solve, which he’d later sit with me to check and explain. Baba helping me through my panicked last-minute cramming before every exam, because I was forever a last-minute crammer who refused to learn her lesson. Baba underlining a passage in his favourite weekly column—Manohar Malgonkar’s in The Statesman—to show me the beauty and precision of a sentence. Baba reminding me to drink my water sitting down, read my book in better light, keep my head covered when it rained.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: inherit;">With all the stresses and concerns life threw at him, how did he make himself so available? So <i>present</i> to us? How did each of us feel like we had his undivided attention? because when I sat with him, his world shrank to me. He always wanted to know everything about my day—my work, the ad campaign or brand I was working on, how I’d thought of an idea. When I started writing fiction, he read everything I wrote, every piece ever published. And despite my protests, and later strict injunctions, continued to make photocopies of my stories and essays to hand out to anyone who professed to be a reader.</span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">My brother and I grew up with this: Baba’s time and attention. And in equal measure his annoyance and anger and exasperation and all that comes with care, with giving a damn. This <i>care </i>that costs nothing and is the most expensive thing in the world.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9Uhu5xFK3jjhcIgvwQlj9ENZBgmZP4TaExNMgz1cBrq6q2ZZgffkDHUPRlPe-TgSLs4cDLJwpt_d_zpa8IjFPitOVmtb4EnnxHHrYsVIJaAw2JXdvY3ovHUNwKhUOiYuOqz6mSkqel25QQkYGJfgk4iUdIltRa7pLTF5NckYixoJX4-Ag9lSUZ3ngg/s2048/Image-1%202.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9Uhu5xFK3jjhcIgvwQlj9ENZBgmZP4TaExNMgz1cBrq6q2ZZgffkDHUPRlPe-TgSLs4cDLJwpt_d_zpa8IjFPitOVmtb4EnnxHHrYsVIJaAw2JXdvY3ovHUNwKhUOiYuOqz6mSkqel25QQkYGJfgk4iUdIltRa7pLTF5NckYixoJX4-Ag9lSUZ3ngg/w640-h640/Image-1%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span>He often talked about the care he received from his own parents—of his father writing essays for him, his mother saving him a piece of fish. He came from a large family of spare means, but care was something he’d known and passed on. Baba was young, around ten years old, when his parents were forced to leave their home in Dhaka’s Narayangunj and flee to Calcutta during the Partition. In the middle of the night. In the middle of riots—the horrific sights of which he never forgot—with only as much as they could carry. He did not have the easiest of childhoods or youth, but those years gave him a kind of resourcefulness and resilience and courage I’ve seen in very few people: he knew how to adjust and bounce back, how to turn Nos into Yeses; he believed change was possible at any age. In his mid-40s, when his friends were settled in their jobs and lives, he started studying, started from scratch because he did not find his work fulfilling, and took himself into uncharted territory.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span>A few years after D and I married, D sought to make a similar change and return to studying. It wouldn’t be easy, everyone voiced their doubts—why rock the boat when things are fine? Today, what D remembers most, and still talks about, is Baba’s steadfast encouragement, his unblinking faith in our decision during those years of utter flux.</span></span></p></div><div><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Even when we moved out of Calcutta, and eventually out of the country, Baba’s presence in our lives remained loud and clear. As loud as that sharp exclamation of joy, <i>Ahh! aamar chotto-ma!</i> whenever I called. Which in the last few years was everyday, often more than once, when we’d talk about nothing and everything: his walk and who he’d met (he was a come-rain-or-shine walker), his plans and engagements for the week (my parents’ social life was far busier than ours). Sometimes he called to report that he’d finished a set of exercises I asked him to do (because from Baba teaching me yoga, to me teaching him calisthenics, life had come full circle), or to give me a review of the food I’d Swiggy-ed to them. Sometimes, he’d call to read out something interesting to me or to D, depending on whose interest it aligned with. Often, he’d call because he wanted my opinion on something that was occupying his mind—that trust, I hold very close to my heart.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Once he’d gotten used to video-calls, audio-calls just didn’t cut it; he had to see our faces. If for some reason a video-call wasn’t possible, his voice would droop, <i>No point then</i>, he’d say, even if it was only to talk about what we ate for lunch. Because for him, no conversation was an ‘only’ anything. <i>So what did you put in the salad?</i> he wanted to know; never mind that his relationship with a kitchen began and ended with a pot of tea (he claimed to be able to make an omelette, but it remains largely legend). He’d repeat the ingredients of my salad like it was information of the greatest usefulness: <i>Broccoli. Parmigiano. Par-mi-jano? Okay. Olive oil—very healthy. Balsamic? Bal-sa-mic. I don’t know how you remember these names. And egg, good. No toast on the side? </i>He repeated words and information unfamiliar to him—unknown ingredients, new technologies, a new author I was reading—repeated them four, five times, and later checked back to see if he’d remembered it right.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTpCuBKUQ1Ru62QFs9857dluQZYyvktTAOyMeOh0I5mcu2_PJK7NfbR9hxJQZu9mrwDuxvxbnxdmVlTZGJ97tsKseXTFycZ3wBfhIr6gfXrzQ5pBbzjI7lE462cdWTzuHUHufxYEBx-XpKYd3GqlQ797cmNXVCEyCRPXuSyrI3HsVxa6gCrap32MQ2Q/s2048/Image-1%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTpCuBKUQ1Ru62QFs9857dluQZYyvktTAOyMeOh0I5mcu2_PJK7NfbR9hxJQZu9mrwDuxvxbnxdmVlTZGJ97tsKseXTFycZ3wBfhIr6gfXrzQ5pBbzjI7lE462cdWTzuHUHufxYEBx-XpKYd3GqlQ797cmNXVCEyCRPXuSyrI3HsVxa6gCrap32MQ2Q/w640-h640/Image-1%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></span></a></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It’s this incredible curiosity—a curiosity that stayed until the very end of his earthbound days—that made him so expansive. Made his life not just long, but <i>large</i>. And <i>loved</i>. And it is this curiosity, this energy, that makes me sense him now, reading this over my shoulder, so that I have to remind myself that he’s not back home reading his newspaper. Or doing his pranayam. Or standing at the window staring intently at trees because it's good for the eyes. That he’s moved away a little, like we did years ago. He’s moved out of his city, out of the country of his body, but is no less present to us who love him.</span></p><div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">:::</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">DR. TARUN KUMAR GHOSH</span></b></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i>who loved to look at the water and walk barefoot in the grass</i></span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i>and who never said no to ice-cream</i></span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">1937 — 2023</span></i></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">& on</span></i></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1398" data-original-width="1864" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjRI2IJLInhheCZkbrBWKaIVg0jB04OMBfp1Dks4RpSmXhf70cfbjqCJDVyssgYarUKZAD-VeFkFCLiqDwKSkZsPUKkLMAaJsS2tq29AXxT_8VXxZ-BE3nb1BCfh9jBRRHSD76UUuHi_0W-zCkI3iQAsoWQSNVURFeHyTFSuawy_JUSsU4E5qomYUeA/w640-h480/IMG_4116.JPG" width="640" /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">:::</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p></div></div>Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-42967689183449249982017-06-20T02:54:00.002-07:002017-06-20T02:55:51.795-07:00Dominoes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello, hello, ye all who're still here!<br />
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Our summer is busier, buzzier that usual this year. My parents are here, and we've been traveling around Europe with them, and my brother. And Chotto-ma has been sandwiched between all the people she loves to be sandwiched between.<br />
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Summer is looking busier on the writing front too. I've just had a story called 'DOMINOES' published in the fabulous Lunch Ticket, a journal from Antioch University, Los Angeles. And there are couple of more stories slotted for publication soon.<br />
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If you're not on my Facebook, and missed my post about 'DOMINOES', do pop in and say 'hi'. I'd love to hear from you: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pia.ghoshroy">https://www.facebook.com/pia.ghoshroy</a><br />
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Or you can read the story here: <a href="http://lunchticket.org/dominoes/">http://lunchticket.org/dominoes/</a><br />
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Love,<br />
P</div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-87841811233758476352017-04-11T03:51:00.003-07:002017-04-11T05:19:30.269-07:00Make Hay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">They said it was going to be sunny and warm - in April that's not to be taken lightly in this country. So on Friday, we looked up some bed-and-breakfasts, found one we liked and packed a couple of small backpacks. Early on Saturday morning, we headed northwards to Wales. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hay-on-Wye<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">is a small town on the edge of the Brecon Beacons National Park. It's also known as The Town of <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Books, and</span> <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">i</span>s a place I'd wanted to visit <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">even</span> </span>before we'd thought of moving to the UK. <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>uch before I started writing fiction, or knew I’d write fiction. I wanted to come here not for the love of writing<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>or for its famous literary festival, but simply for the books. Because the thought of a hilly little Welsh village where the streets were lined with bookshelves made me go a bit mad. Shelves of books, on the street?! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RwPkV6zclo1Phac38_VwQjvGSoQLmCd2IdeQq5-y9-WXKqzkXY0GwsCLPRWG5qZzBQh9KSVsMHbrC0seS1Ebjt00hZ-XJES3yekQc549Xm8Jf-xVEjLhllZ9ZuLpNghEkq5BihPhCC-B/s1600/IMG_6900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RwPkV6zclo1Phac38_VwQjvGSoQLmCd2IdeQq5-y9-WXKqzkXY0GwsCLPRWG5qZzBQh9KSVsMHbrC0seS1Ebjt00hZ-XJES3yekQc549Xm8Jf-xVEjLhllZ9ZuLpNghEkq5BihPhCC-B/s640/IMG_6900.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I first read about it years ago, while sitting at the ad agency where I worked in Bombay. There was an article about Hay and the annual throng of authors who flew into this speck of a place from all over the world. And about Bill Clinton (I think) calling it ‘The Woodstock of the mind’. And about Richard Booth, the man who once upon a time declared himself ‘King of Hay’ and set about putting this dot of a village on the world literary map. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We spent hours in Richard Booth’s Bookshop the day we reached Hay. Two massive floors, and endless aisles, of books. Secondhand books and mint new books mixed together, and huge armchairs in which to read them. We walked out of the bookshop only to walk into another, and then yet another. Because the whole town is like a giant open-air library. Bookshops at every turn. And cafes. More cafes than there are streets. Which, as far as I’m concerned, is pretty much everything a town needs. Books and coffee. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOj6rr42SVY6EkNDIpT2AUipQfAAxM3F8IphkLYvz8nJZxwrcKQxek_iNoy3JVxiNhvn_Y56Wd_zAjEEs5TxXfJDEjRMsGXKX80DclMYGI1Jks6gdyyBdJ7hF7N07_2Cds7x8PwPG3-f3w/s1600/IMG_6910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOj6rr42SVY6EkNDIpT2AUipQfAAxM3F8IphkLYvz8nJZxwrcKQxek_iNoy3JVxiNhvn_Y56Wd_zAjEEs5TxXfJDEjRMsGXKX80DclMYGI1Jks6gdyyBdJ7hF7N07_2Cds7x8PwPG3-f3w/s640/IMG_6910.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkeZGryv2DJXwbXbDqQljcuBQHfVxU5KtLdFSRpfktQfI_gjr8ZPRrhVwfu387rmLVrjfHRd-gRers80wswt46c2nwuoK_JqTzjWhBeXSHzBwzyyIBTh4MxlG3GXMNtg98ytGc8PuC2Vp/s1600/IMG_6911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkeZGryv2DJXwbXbDqQljcuBQHfVxU5KtLdFSRpfktQfI_gjr8ZPRrhVwfu387rmLVrjfHRd-gRers80wswt46c2nwuoK_JqTzjWhBeXSHzBwzyyIBTh4MxlG3GXMNtg98ytGc8PuC2Vp/s640/IMG_6911.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In between all the books and the many cups of coffee, we did a few other things. We hiked up the hills of Brecon and drank from mountain streams and talked to horses. At night, after dinner, we walked back to our B&B through dark fields and over little bridges curving across streams. Everything lit only by moonlight, and echoing with hoots and howls. It was thrilling. Eerie and beautiful.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcX_HTk0A5IEX2ynd9BclgbgkQwxP3yhqbJsFuDzL_EebYZOOY46oxfp56jon9sHDBb_J20v7g7qvMJ8alHHY4LVEC3Im2rdr42Y75kSvbLpJnJQ3EOop9PQOti3dH6CJWc8IqagfHvz0a/s1600/IMG_7091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcX_HTk0A5IEX2ynd9BclgbgkQwxP3yhqbJsFuDzL_EebYZOOY46oxfp56jon9sHDBb_J20v7g7qvMJ8alHHY4LVEC3Im2rdr42Y75kSvbLpJnJQ3EOop9PQOti3dH6CJWc8IqagfHvz0a/s640/IMG_7091.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We left Hay yesterday and drove back to Cambridge with our head still full of hills, and our car stacked high with books. I’ll have to share the books with you. Once I’ve unpacked, you’ll find them in the usual places: #booksonthetiledtable on my Facebook and Instagram. I'll share more photos from our trip too.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">See you there :)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Love,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">PS: <b>Places to Eat & Drink in Hay</b> - thought it might be handy to mention a few of our favourite cafes and restaurants in the town.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u><a href="http://oldelectric.co.uk/" target="_blank">The Old Electric Shop</a></u> - cakes and coffee in a large warehouse-y space selling everything from candles to vintage clothes.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU83KIQSWTOsFskO5ZuGlea0JkRn1sIryo06oS5_VbcrdRiSZxpL8wIw6GNF565xsTBikEz-FZk_FKNAAXjRh0KUWvbO-W5c_CgBGtKsrONAww_J3xdQLxNNDn3EfSUdBNmkIzbhdiNnyt/s1600/IMG_6916.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU83KIQSWTOsFskO5ZuGlea0JkRn1sIryo06oS5_VbcrdRiSZxpL8wIw6GNF565xsTBikEz-FZk_FKNAAXjRh0KUWvbO-W5c_CgBGtKsrONAww_J3xdQLxNNDn3EfSUdBNmkIzbhdiNnyt/s640/IMG_6916.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiriLcHJcWGjEWNWkXfn-nypJ1337hBRA78JIWYkAH4EOOOAv3KX0hAjqJcTBzeIjLOFgrrmjPIWwoIqBda-KzmkSAtGlo9Y8q2uHWgEw-557tvkjWcMT2VtBS2uhUf9I1MkFv9Sk2O3ELx/s1600/IMG_6913.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiriLcHJcWGjEWNWkXfn-nypJ1337hBRA78JIWYkAH4EOOOAv3KX0hAjqJcTBzeIjLOFgrrmjPIWwoIqBda-KzmkSAtGlo9Y8q2uHWgEw-557tvkjWcMT2VtBS2uhUf9I1MkFv9Sk2O3ELx/s640/IMG_6913.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u><a href="http://www.haytomatitos.co.uk/" target="_blank">Tomatitos</a></u> - for really good tapas, and a very relaxed, friendly space. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKIaThOflmDej-Wwt3n2BNfMxw9ySRsDh2cfeSL4o5LBzjMxHxyHEsYi2WPo6hX7ubtHUxt2yEuu2P_5YU4qQy8KbapUXA7o6gwT2m8oNue3jYornnep6V0AaYAQHkgDH6eokGS7ivoMUY/s1600/IMG_6894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKIaThOflmDej-Wwt3n2BNfMxw9ySRsDh2cfeSL4o5LBzjMxHxyHEsYi2WPo6hX7ubtHUxt2yEuu2P_5YU4qQy8KbapUXA7o6gwT2m8oNue3jYornnep6V0AaYAQHkgDH6eokGS7ivoMUY/s640/IMG_6894.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u><a href="http://www.beerrevolution.co.uk/" target="_blank">Beer Revolution</a></u> - Cuban sandwiches, pizza and an endless choice of beers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b3omXfY4m20/WOyvwlCkmbI/AAAAAAACMlA/szBlJ3S6y2sA-iCstTBuLtjX4AXU5adZQCPcB/s1600/IMG_6949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b3omXfY4m20/WOyvwlCkmbI/AAAAAAACMlA/szBlJ3S6y2sA-iCstTBuLtjX4AXU5adZQCPcB/s640/IMG_6949.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u><a href="http://www.wyevalleycanoes.co.uk/river-cafe.html" target="_blank">The River Cafe</a></u> - great food, with or without the canoes they hire out. A location you can't beat. A menu full of fabulous flavours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpiJfKQEI_-s-VeLaR7I-kTjVXPIzWEUopYwEyHoU4v1MMRebff0fz1zBmrWFey6q_AUalOVOEbq4PBoeWOQFaHECYiUtQCVNkW77L6R-c9TI-RcNBZA0qScrl1CVRtLeYGEpM0ytPkAzY/s1600/IMG_7099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpiJfKQEI_-s-VeLaR7I-kTjVXPIzWEUopYwEyHoU4v1MMRebff0fz1zBmrWFey6q_AUalOVOEbq4PBoeWOQFaHECYiUtQCVNkW77L6R-c9TI-RcNBZA0qScrl1CVRtLeYGEpM0ytPkAzY/s640/IMG_7099.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-41131369789008258822017-02-09T09:10:00.002-08:002017-04-11T03:53:35.830-07:00Mature<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span data-offset-key="ch0tt-0-0"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A few days ago, Chotto-ma and I were talking about stuff like we do, and I said something about a person being 'mature'. We might've been talking about girls traveling solo, I forget. The only thing I remember is her question:</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="es2fv-0-0"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Ma, I know mature cheese. But what's a mature person?"</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3uudt-0-0"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> ---</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="38k6k-0-0"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So, yes, we definitely got the right baby back from hospital! Also right - in a perfectly corny kind of way - is that the conversation should occur on the day I was writing this post for Baked Sandesh, which involves cheese, and I needed some anecdotal serendipity. Or is it 'serendipitous anecdote'? I don't know, both are a mouthful.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For better mouthfuls, I suggest following recipe below. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b>
</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">---</span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Baked Sandesh</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Chotto-ma and I baked together last afternoon. (She did all the mixing
and baking - it's that easy - while I took the photographs.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'd shared the recipe on Facebook a while back, but I've tweaked it since. It's better in balance and texture now, and still takes all of 10 minutes to prepare.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwywM7AZBSJyyyyA3x8VantToV19frvExmFEAv91cv0tZyqs4bU4sUGs6SXMs28w3e3gJ6XJfavQ8Eg0rkr0yureMGZ9izWj3UqUCPPysBT_ppIfYXtqZDJzemI0qhqVBQ1N0bp_0F2Pg/s1600/DSC_0093.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwywM7AZBSJyyyyA3x8VantToV19frvExmFEAv91cv0tZyqs4bU4sUGs6SXMs28w3e3gJ6XJfavQ8Eg0rkr0yureMGZ9izWj3UqUCPPysBT_ppIfYXtqZDJzemI0qhqVBQ1N0bp_0F2Pg/s640/DSC_0093.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ingredients</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">500 gms ricotta (if no ricotta, homemade <i>chhana</i> is perfect - <a href="http://peppercornsinmypocket.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/gone-fishin.html" target="_blank">recipe here, from an earlier post</a>)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1/2 cup ground almonds / almond flour</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Can of condensed milk</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">2 pods of cardamom</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">2 tbsps soured cream or creme fraiche</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A pinch of saffron strands</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1/3 cup milk </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Pistachios or almonds, coarsely chopped</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolv7whi0Iq1KrzIm57M0rfb7vpe6baCGdBys_YxfzNE1uk4FL1VtaJD2foGKIgiVKxTVsWXAd0qRGEpShtAPLFvOmHS1J3sgQVTr6lYbqC5WtuYbIrIESWM4UpnsYm0e7IgZqNldKbZB4/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolv7whi0Iq1KrzIm57M0rfb7vpe6baCGdBys_YxfzNE1uk4FL1VtaJD2foGKIgiVKxTVsWXAd0qRGEpShtAPLFvOmHS1J3sgQVTr6lYbqC5WtuYbIrIESWM4UpnsYm0e7IgZqNldKbZB4/s640/DSC_0020.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJejLHh4tKGmWk298X_jQqikEOsftoA8QeR-VBqd5kMRnt8tLV2y8ZsUnvqNAjch1j1q8HPKIHXyddLtsF6GAA8t9117uSihYCQswMQvJRTFsFNxRGPpzwUDTvXx2IhVyJmFj3Hd5H8B9/s1600/DSC_0033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJejLHh4tKGmWk298X_jQqikEOsftoA8QeR-VBqd5kMRnt8tLV2y8ZsUnvqNAjch1j1q8HPKIHXyddLtsF6GAA8t9117uSihYCQswMQvJRTFsFNxRGPpzwUDTvXx2IhVyJmFj3Hd5H8B9/s640/DSC_0033.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In a bowl, mix ricotta, ground almonds, soured cream, and 4 tbsps of condensed
milk to start with. Taste. Add more condensed, till you have the sweetness you want. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Take cardamom seeds out of one pod, and crush to powder. Mix into
ricotta. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Put mix into baking dish. A medium-sized dish, so the mix is not too thinly spread. (Should be about 2 inches thick.) Pat even. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Warm a bit of milk, and stir a few saffron strands in. Spoon this over
the ricotta, sprinkle with chopped pistachios or almonds, and bake in oven at 180 degrees C
for about 30 minutes or till lightly browned.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It might be wobbly when you take it out, but will set as it
cools. Serve slightly warm, or at room-temperature.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> Enjoy! </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"><br /></span></span>
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">PS. If you don't follow my Facebook goings-on, and missed the big news (!!) <b><a href="https://www.beloit.edu/bfj/news/?story_id=495011">click here</a>.</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">You can read my Facebook post with the judge's comment, which is gloriously generous, </span></span><b><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"><b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pia.ghoshroy" target="_blank">here</a></b></span></span></b><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g">.</span></span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"></span></span>Love,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">P </span></b></div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-56655682362805389512017-01-17T04:58:00.003-08:002023-04-25T01:11:22.329-07:00Tuscan Tables<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Our end-of-the-year was going to be nothing much. We were expecting to be at home looking out at fairly grey weather through Christmas and New Year's Day. But my friend <a href="https://www.instagram.com/anythingtuscan/" target="_blank">Katja Meier</a> who’s a bit of a magician (apart from being a wonderful writer and storyteller, an olive grower, a mother...and just a beautiful person!) waved her magic wand, and whisked us to the Tuscan hills.<br />
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Well, she asked if we’d like to stay in a house that sat in the middle of a vineyard overlooking a valley in the little village of Cinigiano. (What?) The house belonged to Katja’s friends, and we could have it to ourselves for the holidays in exchange for looking after their dog and cat while their owners visited family in Naples during the holidays. 'What?<i>' - </i>this time from Chotto-ma, who would pay to look after pets.<br />
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This was as good as magic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JoDvvPCO-G_2tacozk95rMdrgfXGFAntrBEwqdXNrk25boOmDgcqtuyK5kCVtEpC6jZepmEuRAg4UkGkQbM08ahvp53vFpxTmO9-rVrCTH-XM8j5gru8gQuKWLT7_6M9WrcIF6Ji0ngz/s1600/IMG_5702.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4JoDvvPCO-G_2tacozk95rMdrgfXGFAntrBEwqdXNrk25boOmDgcqtuyK5kCVtEpC6jZepmEuRAg4UkGkQbM08ahvp53vFpxTmO9-rVrCTH-XM8j5gru8gQuKWLT7_6M9WrcIF6Ji0ngz/s640/IMG_5702.jpg" width="640" /></a>So we packed our bags and flew to Perugia, from where we drove to Cinigiano. Katja, who did not trust the car’s navigator to find the house (and quite rightly so!) met us at the village square to guide us there. She didn’t just guide us there, but thinking of every little detail, armed us with a big bag of groceries to see us though the first few meals. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Place</span><br />
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We caught our first glimpse of the house as our car curved down towards its cypress-lined graveled driveway. To grab at cliches, it was a postcard of Tuscany come to life, only better. The row of cypress led us to a beautiful stone house that sits on top of a hill, looking down on a valley where the sun sets. The sun was setting when we arrived, and in all our travels, we have never seen the sun set as it did here. It was operatic, a fiery theatre of colour. We stood in awe till the chill of the evening air walked us inside. In the house, the fire was lit, there was a bottle of wine and a note to welcome us in, and Chotto-ma was given a very excited greeting by Tobia the dog and Titiana the cat.<br />
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The note was from the very generous <a href="http://basilessa.it/?lang=en" target="_blank">Basile family</a> (Giovan Battiste, his wife Illaria and their two boys) who’d left us their beautiful family-home to end the year in, and the wine was from the Basile vineyard, which we could see rolling down in acres from the glass-covered walls of the living-room. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Time</span><br />
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The days that followed were many hills away from ordinary. We watched the clouds come down to cover the valley below us every morning, and the stars - a chaos of stars - blanket the sky every night. We spent the occasional afternoon strolling around Cinigiano, excited by its hidden alleys, old doors, and the shelves of its local alimentari.<br />
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We took Tobia for walks, with Titiana following behind. D and Chotto-ma brought in firewood every morning to get the fire started and warm the house. We spent time with friends - in the village bar, on the beach, in their warm, big-hearted homes. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The People</span><br />
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It’s always the people that make a place and time special.<br />
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When I started writing this blog, I didn’t I know that it would bring many wonderful friendships my way. Words can connect people separated by geography, and forge a map of its very own. So that when you finally meet and sit around a table and share food and thoughts, you feel you’ve known each other a long time. Katja, is one such person. She’s the author of the soon-to-be-out ‘<a href="http://www.acrossthebigbluesea.com/about" target="_blank">Across the Big Blue Sea</a>', a candid and thought-provoking memoir about her work in an Italian refugee home for Nigerian women. It's a book about a large and difficult issue, but woven with her wonderful sense of humour. I had the privilege of reading the manuscript sometime last year, and discovering a very different side to Tuscany, a more complex side that the silent rolling countryside of postcards speak nothing of. And this time I had the pleasure of spending a lot of time with the person behind the book, and our families had the chance to get to know each other over raclette dinners in Katja's beautiful home and chats in <a href="https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/theviewfromthegrovetoday/" target="_blank">their olive grove</a>. <br />
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During our stay in Tuscany, I also had the pleasure of spending time with <a href="https://www.instagram.com/raffaellacova/" target="_blank">Raffaella Cova</a>, who some of you may know as the lady behind ‘<a href="https://lunchwithraffaella.com/about/" target="_blank">Lunch with Raffaella</a>’. Like me, she spent many years in advertising, before moving on to explore other things. In her case, food and cooking. And cooking in a house that is right out of a fairytale - a wonky old stone-cottage that sits on the edge of a forest inhabited by foxes, wild boars and bears. A house filled with paintings and books. And a wheelbarrow outside piled with wood and a roaring fire to grill meat on. We ate outside under a canopy of vines through which the sun streamed in. <br />
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So it wasn’t the grey December we’d been expecting to spend. Instead, we had Chotto-ma collecting shells on the beach in a pair of shorts, we had blue skies, and the warmth of good people.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My Indian Table in Tuscany</span><br />
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If you follow my goings-on in Facebook, you know about the Big Indian Dinner I cooked for a house full of Tuscan friends. It’s was a wonderful evening. And there’s nothing quite like introducing people to real Indian food, and wiping away every memory they had of over-spiced Chicken Masalas and flavourless vegetables, all covered in thick non-committal gravies. And there’s nothing like sharing in their pleasure of eating home-cooked Indian food, and their surprise that the natural flavour of ingredients are not smothered with every spice in the cupboard.<br />
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The menu that evening (which I also shared on Facebook) ended with a dessert that is the easiest, quickest Bengali sweet-dish that you can make - Baked Sandesh. A serving of this is always followed by friends asking for the recipe, so I thought I’d share it on the blog. However, in Tuscany, I forgot all about taking proper photos (except the one below), so I’ll post it as soon as I’ve cooked another batch in the coming week.<br />
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Till then, I'll leave you with the many Tuscan tables we started our year with :)<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
P<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-9134948997345625462016-12-18T02:23:00.003-08:002016-12-18T02:49:44.233-08:00Books On The Tiled Table #1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Our Christmas shopping is always simple. We gift each other books. We
usually go to the local bookshop together, and choose for each
other. We browse, discuss, eliminate, browse some more, till we have two
books each. I usually have my books chosen (quietly in my head) well
before we hit the shop, and am incredibly skilled at guiding D and
Chotto-ma into picking those two very books for me. (It's a special
power.)<br />
<br />
So here's our Christmas reading-loot this year, picked up from here and there.<br />
<br />
On the left is Chotto-ma's:<br />
Unnatural Creatures - Stories selected by Neil Gaiman<br />
The Diary of a Space Traveller & Other Stories by Satyajit Ray (we had to order this online)<br />
<br />
The middle is mine:<br />
A Manual for Cleaning Women by Lucia Berlin<br />
A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan<br />
<br />
And the last is D's (and what is his is mine, ha!):<br />
Known and Strange Things by Teju Cole<br />
The Road to San Giovanni by Italo Calvino<br />
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<br />
Many
of you who read the blog have asked me for book recommendations, so I
thought I'd start 'Books On The Tiled Table', where I share what I'm
reading. If you follow my Instagram, you'll know #onthetiledtable well.
(Like a friend said, my table is a celebrity.) It's where everything,
from a book to a cup of coffee, gets put down. So this is No. 1 of those
posts. #booksonthetiledtable<br />
<br />
I wish you all a very
happy Christmas! Have a wonderful holiday with family and friends, with
good food and much laughter, and books and warm blankets and mugs of hot
chocolate. I'll see you back in a shiny new year. Till then, love and
hugs!<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-85849881764571408902016-11-25T01:34:00.000-08:002016-11-25T08:15:25.176-08:00The Art of Autumn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span data-offset-key="3lpsl-0-0"><span data-text="true">Autumn
in Cambridge is like a Monet gone mad. Trees and earth and river move
around you, and through you, in swirls. You walk into this breathing
artwork every day. Nothing is static. </span></span><br />
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<span data-offset-key="6cs94-0-0"><span data-text="true">The leaves float down from tress brushing your arms, the river curves, light sieves in through cracks. The bird-man throws his grains in an arc making the gulls swoop down and up. A cocker spaniel runs after a ball. Next to you, moorhens plough ripples in the water. Cyclists peddle by. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4dbgo-0-0"><span data-text="true">And you walk on. You take everything in, you take nothing in.</span></span></div>
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... </div>
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-62562793349871305022016-11-15T13:46:00.000-08:002017-03-20T11:17:34.330-07:00A Postcard from Chotto-Ma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We have a ritual. Whenever we travel, we bring back a postcard on which the little girl writes a few words to go with the picture on the other side. Yesterday, I found the postcard we'd bought in Paris, and gave it to her. I asked her to go downstairs and write something while I finished some chores. It could be anything I said - a poem, a thought, a fact - but it had to fit into her postcard.<br />
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When I came back downstairs, she was standing there hiding the postcard behind her. She'd written a poem, she said, but that it wasn't any good. She stood there with all the doubts of anyone who'd ever written anything, and shut her eyes tight when I coaxed the postcard out of her fingers and began to read.<br />
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<span data-offset-key="bh209-0-0"><span data-text="true">I'm sorry, but I'll have to make you read it too, and drag you through my proud-Ma moment. Because her words surprised me, and made me smile for the rest of the day, and made me squish her many times. Thinking that she'd written something lovely and yet stood there so unsure. That she'd chosen every word and every comma with such care. That there were marks where she'd rubbed out a sentence and replaced it with another. (Three times, she later told me.) And that she'd thought all this with her little 8-year-old head.</span></span><br />
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...</div>
PS: November 20, 2016<br />
This was accepted for publication by SmokeLong Quarterly, so we now have a little published writer in the house (!) http://www.smokelong.com/fridge-flash-a-fox-in-paris/<br />
<br /></div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-44285372784705725972016-11-02T07:44:00.000-07:002016-11-02T11:53:55.209-07:00Know you<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I notice how the rhythm of this blog keeps changing as my life does. Now that I'm trying to edge a bit more time towards my fiction, while trying to work and live a life and get silly with Chotto-ma, I find less time to write to you. Okay, ramble to you. I miss that. (You better miss it too!)<br />
<br />
Blogs have their limitations, don't they? You get to know me better than I do you. But, if you've been on any length of this journey with me, it'd be nice to change that.<br />
<br />
I closed the Peppercorns Facebook page a couple of years ago. But my personal Facebook is there, and these days it seems easier to connect with people there, in little bursts, when I don't quite find the time to write longer posts. So if you've been reading what I write, and following this blog, please come along and find me on Facebook if you're on it. It's where I share bits of goings-on, in a fairly selfie-free, non-opinionated space. Haha. (No, really.)<br />
<br />
Of course, you can add me as a friend, or click 'Follow', depending on the boundaries of your privacy. But hopefully, it'll let me get to know you outside of this blog, where it's me doing most of the talking!<br />
<br />
Also: We just got back from Paris, and since I haven't had the time to sit down and put Paris into words, I'm doing Paris in photographs on FB in small daily doses.<br />
<br />
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pia.ghoshroy/media_set?set=a.10154097539092106.1073741848.632592105&type=3&pnref=story" target="_blank">You'll find it, and me, linked here.</a></b><br />
<br />
Come say 'hi'!<br />
<br />
<b> </b><br />
Sending you crunchy autumn leaves and hugs,<br />
Pia<b></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-45302868561379305302016-10-16T13:23:00.003-07:002016-10-30T06:11:55.253-07:00Wildling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One day, after an early morning walk by the river, I came back home with this photograph, and the unexpected urge to write a poem. I did write the poem, and today, it was published by Strands Publishers, making my grey and wet Sunday feel all bright and sunny. It's incidentally my first publication in India, which makes it even more special.<br />
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The poem is called 'Wildling', and it's there below the two feisty swans, and online at <a href="http://strandspublishers.weebly.com/lit-sphere">http://strandspublishers.weebly.com/lit-sphere/wildling</a></div>
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I hope you enjoy it, this piece of my river. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3mnUanF8BSBkPwPyjWCS0EPZz_qSDVPuJ6PSNLvNFVGaoXHMRl9gboSH-HtBaUYWiUtQXxqWapHhSGdXQ7fAuDen7L7TZTTkmC7Em4CkSxB1hE-qBW2FVyvTibYvWfs5F8kVA_gzi4LI/s1600/DSC_0815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3mnUanF8BSBkPwPyjWCS0EPZz_qSDVPuJ6PSNLvNFVGaoXHMRl9gboSH-HtBaUYWiUtQXxqWapHhSGdXQ7fAuDen7L7TZTTkmC7Em4CkSxB1hE-qBW2FVyvTibYvWfs5F8kVA_gzi4LI/s640/DSC_0815.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>Wildling</b></div>
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Morning has broken<br />
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open, bleeding into the river.<br />
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The streetlamps are still on.<br />
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Two swans float up in unhurried hunger<br />
<br />
for bread I do not have.<br />
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Twenty-two huddle farther up the river<br />
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asleep, their necks wrung<br />
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into their wings. A lull<br />
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of white feathers on which water does not stick.<br />
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Their river is always dry.<br />
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It is land.<br />
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<br />
My river runs by me<br />
<br />
reflecting runners, dreams and detritus.<br />
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A life of moorings and unmoorings,<br />
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a mirror of semi-truths -<br />
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where the light of a dog-pissed streetlamp<br />
<br />
looks like flecks of real gold.<br />
<br />
I stand still, very still. Watching<br />
<br />
my body ripple and quiver like a wildling.<br />
<br />
A swan passes by and I shatter into pixels.<br />
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But I can wait, I have nowhere I need to be.<br />
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The waters will calm, I will patch together again.</div>
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(Please
feel free to share the link on social media, or just with the person sitting
next to you - Strands is a wonderful independent publisher, and really deserves the support.)</div>
</div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-92205197649951617672016-10-07T03:18:00.002-07:002016-10-07T03:27:08.234-07:00Eight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
To Chotto-ma:<br />
<br />
You turned eight today. So I'm sitting here trying to draw you a phoenix because I know it'll make you squeal with joy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQv9B6839dJDdsakrgFhPYa36H4lphYhQTv3edKlejMhN2Q9n2yFlF4EZJ2rivyXX1Kj6qqzFPP-T6xUzorA1VXZXeSlUdxAVQeWnDbN740ulWV7HYt7lj5b0gWBRjQtffM2tuZZdWmDZE/s1600/IMG_3274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQv9B6839dJDdsakrgFhPYa36H4lphYhQTv3edKlejMhN2Q9n2yFlF4EZJ2rivyXX1Kj6qqzFPP-T6xUzorA1VXZXeSlUdxAVQeWnDbN740ulWV7HYt7lj5b0gWBRjQtffM2tuZZdWmDZE/s640/IMG_3274.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
As you grow older, I find myself less willing to write about you. Not about the books you love and the rocks you collect, but about the person you are. Your thoughts, your heart, the way you look at the world - the things that really matter, the things that make you the very unique eight-year-old you are. So if you're reading the blog some day, when you're as old as me, and see the silences here, know that I'm keeping you to myself. I'm keeping you to yourself.<br />
<br />
When we decide to leave our phones and cameras at home for the day, and then suddenly find ourselves living a moment - like you picking wildflowers in the sunset - and I wish I could take a photograph, you remind me of what I'd once told you, "Ma, we can take a photo with our memory."<br />
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So that's what we're doing, Ba and I. We're taking photos in the privacy of our memories. And telling you, every day, with words and squishes and the occasional phoenix, how much we love you.<br />
<br />
You make us believe in magic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbe-q1fX_tIJv37v-m_BThgPzZyxldW7vu0kbNNJDkq3tz5EYijaubqzrfKsVWbv9kCDlolejL2ZIlvnUkLeTcmXODkMqjP1dQmw4mJoV43ADAk5vttqSQm2JAZRhIJPqDVh6mCCZeCGee/s1600/IMG_3276.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbe-q1fX_tIJv37v-m_BThgPzZyxldW7vu0kbNNJDkq3tz5EYijaubqzrfKsVWbv9kCDlolejL2ZIlvnUkLeTcmXODkMqjP1dQmw4mJoV43ADAk5vttqSQm2JAZRhIJPqDVh6mCCZeCGee/s640/IMG_3276.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-35170864411926438612016-09-12T04:08:00.002-07:002016-09-12T05:21:10.483-07:00How the Hills Roll<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We ended August by driving out to the Lake District, and from there onto Scotland, and got back last week. But as usual, it's taken me longer to come back to this space. I quite enjoy keeping away from the laptop these days. As much as I enjoy coming back to catch up with those of you who are still here. I hope you've been well!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01DkVcKkDoSiN8IOFx6HSEi9IFRWjTHzgrXKgoY6FKwT_gWNnwKAoSxxcjcnop6pC171ABWT-fsFkaI6r3FfF4uFmYcRezp6Yl378n5HHe0aoQR-MJ2P-wJEjplvNHUFhPP3b0jGuXPHq/s1600/DSC_0058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01DkVcKkDoSiN8IOFx6HSEi9IFRWjTHzgrXKgoY6FKwT_gWNnwKAoSxxcjcnop6pC171ABWT-fsFkaI6r3FfF4uFmYcRezp6Yl378n5HHe0aoQR-MJ2P-wJEjplvNHUFhPP3b0jGuXPHq/s640/DSC_0058.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXhA1aj1GS5KiGpAimOo3UpDXpET8X8z4CfuOwDj9g5VEOeceXO27blSYM8RSFwvUH7ChS6Xy9RbAeZgyPw1WVYZbY74LvVgErv9Heji5wcWbwrD9r4gTZuYqBka9XK-jwyl7uBHccrk0/s1600/DSC_0008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXhA1aj1GS5KiGpAimOo3UpDXpET8X8z4CfuOwDj9g5VEOeceXO27blSYM8RSFwvUH7ChS6Xy9RbAeZgyPw1WVYZbY74LvVgErv9Heji5wcWbwrD9r4gTZuYqBka9XK-jwyl7uBHccrk0/s640/DSC_0008.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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When we reached the Lake District and our little, whitewashed B&B in the village of Near Sawrey, I looked at the hills and realised that I'd forgotten to pack my watercolours. For this, I'm thankful. I could never have done justice to the light and the land, to the greens that were at once opaque and translucent, the ferns that were delicate and raucous, and the dew-soaked smell of wild things.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8qFOlZPwu9ag47pZEYxZnJf-XrAypx2u-pTj7koBm4fmC8GAtJMOtdReLhaemcoD3iBvdvAiDKn20E8IDwwPDA_Z1RJJ90lN1PcJUj-MLupdHgZ-y3jtZ67zD0v-oBmQxXpo7mI2i1vL/s1600/DSC_0222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8qFOlZPwu9ag47pZEYxZnJf-XrAypx2u-pTj7koBm4fmC8GAtJMOtdReLhaemcoD3iBvdvAiDKn20E8IDwwPDA_Z1RJJ90lN1PcJUj-MLupdHgZ-y3jtZ67zD0v-oBmQxXpo7mI2i1vL/s640/DSC_0222.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TZKkB-PB_wrHKxeznSOKwziw8mVOrnY2BryVjm3zaEEiHbmK-JWr_Jpo3ne6YDJ9wwF2Cgo7fsKyCoeMcB1ev1Y1Mya6uJlOfV1lBKLCCbPs1FbillUIuw42jbrGHBy1GZbdn-c4Puhk/s1600/DSC_0192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TZKkB-PB_wrHKxeznSOKwziw8mVOrnY2BryVjm3zaEEiHbmK-JWr_Jpo3ne6YDJ9wwF2Cgo7fsKyCoeMcB1ev1Y1Mya6uJlOfV1lBKLCCbPs1FbillUIuw42jbrGHBy1GZbdn-c4Puhk/s640/DSC_0192.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I could not have captured the trickle of the brook, the scores of
tiny snails clinging onto half-eaten leaves, or the smile of the woman
who invited us into her garden for freshly-picked runner beans.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5WWrAlS-PRNQG6j0okqoQ0lQ6EzvhlI0yN_rSrhGudJxVJw-H1-muqHCXVxZkl0EaPerLXHkx6tV0zxJKAY2vLpIFSLjo9tG8gWWL_3MZIVzuEFpavIDMihMkBjwE39duqAGyBRtqzbl/s1600/DSC_0040.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5WWrAlS-PRNQG6j0okqoQ0lQ6EzvhlI0yN_rSrhGudJxVJw-H1-muqHCXVxZkl0EaPerLXHkx6tV0zxJKAY2vLpIFSLjo9tG8gWWL_3MZIVzuEFpavIDMihMkBjwE39duqAGyBRtqzbl/s640/DSC_0040.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I would not have known how to paint the din of the village pub, the warmth
of strangers with whom we had many long conversations as we sat with
our pints in the evening, nor the wisps of smoke that rose from our coil
of Cumberland sausage. </div>
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This was the same pub that Beatrix Potter had painted in her Peter
Rabbit books a century-and-a-half ago. And much like the pub and her paintings, her hills haven't changed. They speak straight to your soul, they slow
down your thoughts, they inspire poems, and roll on as gently as they
always have. </div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZDjqw7GJILEbe2Qrytc13dRhUE51BEhHBvvEY9s2nPzJE6rbAfrzc1LTAglSUnDcVeVtmg1mAFkdSn1XOp7vgiTBTQJK3HWUOK_WqL_sD6k015dhxU_vj85OBPoISiIl_J2ONXkIdH-z/s1600/DSC_0337.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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We walked up the hills and down, we met people who told us stories of
how their great-grandfathers had built their houses, grown their gardens
and died with a love of The Lakes in their heart. We stopped to pick
blackberries. They'd been washed shiny from the rains of the night
before. We ate the blackberries standing by the road. The bushes were
prickly, the fruits sweet and tart. They stained our fingers the same
shade as the sky at sunset, when the last light dipped behind the hills.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWcTfIAEKclIQrkpNP4U6i7ZHDKew-cx4u5tCgq1tbG6wd0PgUpM9BDATB5naZRT0b9oNUxBtVgnD_3Zs1DfqlDm0Vf4z9DrfxpxeNgnL7LkFS6VYBl3rVijZMA8YoTwJdNzQqzRqPQac/s1600/DSC_0345.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWcTfIAEKclIQrkpNP4U6i7ZHDKew-cx4u5tCgq1tbG6wd0PgUpM9BDATB5naZRT0b9oNUxBtVgnD_3Zs1DfqlDm0Vf4z9DrfxpxeNgnL7LkFS6VYBl3rVijZMA8YoTwJdNzQqzRqPQac/s640/DSC_0345.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<b>Blackberry-Picking</b></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>by Seamus Heaney</i><br />
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Late August, given heavy rain and sun </div>
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For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. </div>
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At first, just one, a glossy purple clot </div>
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Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. </div>
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You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet </div>
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Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it </div>
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Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for </div>
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Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger </div>
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Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots </div>
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Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. </div>
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Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills </div>
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We trekked and picked until the cans were full, </div>
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Until the tinkling bottom had been covered </div>
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With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned </div>
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Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered </div>
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With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. </div>
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We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. </div>
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But when the bath was filled we found a fur, </div>
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A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. </div>
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The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush </div>
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The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. </div>
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I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair </div>
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That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. </div>
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.<br />
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... </h4>
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-53597810412064806662016-07-23T05:27:00.004-07:002016-07-24T14:59:32.125-07:0040 and Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="_6a _43_1 _4f-9 _nws" id="u_jsonp_2_z">
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</div>
I turned 40 yesterday - and it turns out, 40 is a ridiculously good thing to be.<br />
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It started with an email the day before my birthday. The subject said
'Fiction Commission' and was from an editor in New Zealand who'd read my
fiction online, and wanted to commission a story for her journal. I
sent her a story called 'Dugdugee' which I’d whittled and tweaked for
over a year, and within hours it was signed off, sold, and slotted for <span class="text_exposed_show">publication in September. </span><br />
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THEN, I get another email from the lovely editor of <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=205233959519462" href="https://www.facebook.com/berfrois/">Berfrois</a>,
a magazine I absolutely love, saying that they’d be publishing my story
‘Driving North’. The story was published yesterday. On my birthday! (I
told you it was ridiculous.<br />
<br />
AND finally, I got to wake up in Copenhagen with D and Chotto-Ma and a hundred sweet messages and
phonecalls from all over.<br />
<br />
And I thought, damn. I should've turned forty years ago.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5iLTde7JDKHyredWKImtegkaXKm6WOs7dTi22RnThxJIxDMgUyg8DfhmPZy5lXwVP4ZDqTZCFJAFy0r22-3l5kwT7Y-wzS9KMZPLOv97uS7Lb48WWUT9V2srq6WH_K2tXECOlmYOd4fe/s1600/IMG_2379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5iLTde7JDKHyredWKImtegkaXKm6WOs7dTi22RnThxJIxDMgUyg8DfhmPZy5lXwVP4ZDqTZCFJAFy0r22-3l5kwT7Y-wzS9KMZPLOv97uS7Lb48WWUT9V2srq6WH_K2tXECOlmYOd4fe/s640/IMG_2379.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
PS. Here's<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"> my desk today. A strip of green called Sonder Boulevard in the
Vestebro area of Copenhagen. This city is so my kind of place! Next to
me, D and Raya are on their fourth game of chess.</span></span><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.berfrois.com/2016/07/driving-north-by-pia-ghosh-roy/"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">And </span></span>here's 'Driving North' on Berfrois</a>.
This story surprised me with it's journey - it was longlisted for the
Bath Short Story Award and shortlisted for the Brighton Prize last year.
It was subsequently published in Rattle Tales 4, a print anthology. And
now, in this great new home. <br />
<br />
Of course, you have to be nice and read it because it's my birthday. Let me know what you think!<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
P<br />
<br />
<br />
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-36683499409166597112016-07-06T01:41:00.000-07:002016-07-06T05:05:12.901-07:00The Day Harry Potter Came Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Every day, Chotto-ma eats breakfast, lunch and dinner, and a fourth meal which consists of devouring pages and pages of J.K. Rowling's imagination. The Harry Potter books have been Daily Dietary Requirement for the past year-and-a-half when they first came home. She started book one on her sixth birthday, and I saw her world shift a little. She has been eating steadily through them since. She reads them, re-reads them and then goes back to the first book and starts all over again. Oh there are other authors in between. And there's a book on Greek mythology weighing as much as she does, which she <i>loves</i> (she can tell you intricate details about every god, from Hera to Cronus, and their dark and twisted lives). But even gods don't wield the same power as J.K. Rowling.<br />
<br />
We tried to space out the Harry Potter books, googled them for age-appropriateness, but after finishing each book, Chotto-ma would sit in front of the bookshelf, quietly, looking up at the set with the mournful eyes of a cocker spaniel. "Wait till you're eight" was obviously not going to work.<br />
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She has the final book left - we've managed to keep it for the school summer holidays, which means an excruciating wait of another fifteen days. This holiday incidentally includes a road trip through Scotland and ends with Edinburgh, where we're going to do the Harry-Potter-walking-tour, and visit the cafe where J. K. Rowling wrote. The seven-year-old goes on her first pilgrimage.<br />
<br />
While she waits this Excruciating Wait for the final book, she has decided to redesign the Harry Potter book covers since she doesn't like the ones they come in. So the books have now been covered with white paper, and yesterday, she finished illustrating the first one - 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.'<br />
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For the Muggles amongst you, the cover shows The Forbidden Forest, with a dead unicorn lying on the forest floor dripping silver unicorn blood.<br />
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Here it is, from Chotto-ma, to share with you. It made me awfully proud.<br />
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-4628357991571868062016-05-25T03:44:00.002-07:002016-05-26T10:30:03.338-07:00A Week in Pessoa's City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lisboa. Pessoa. They rhyme. They're related too. Fernando Pessoa is Lisbon's favourite son. A writer who lived, breathed and wrote the city. You will find bits of Pessoa everywhere you walk in Lisbon. The silhouette of his thin, sharp profile, hat on the head, is the face of the city - it's on posters and tea-towels, on the canvases of roadside artists, on t-shirts and old trams.<br />
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Pessoa was born in a fourth-floor apartment in the area of Chiado in Lisbon. Our apartment, through no crafty planning, was also in Chiado; and on the fourth floor. We were obviously following the right footsteps.<br />
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The apartment's long balcony looked down on Largo do Camoes, a patterned square that seems to frame life in the city. It's where people sit with their morning newspapers or hurry across to their day jobs, it's where Tram 28 curves on it's way to neighbouring hoods, where students lounge on stairs, an old woman feeds pigeons and where we ate our breakfast every morning; a breakfast of coffee and warm Pastel de Natas. We did not have a choice really, not when the best little bakery in Lisbon, Manteigaria, sat beneath our apartment and woke us up with the smell of it's famed tarts early in the morning.<br />
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Tram 28. It is an old, yellow, iconic box, trundling up and down Lisbon, on which we hop on after breakfast. It's oozing people - people going to work, ladies with coiffured hair and tall umbrellas that get in the way, toddlers throwing tantrums, mothers saying <i>shhh</i>. It's just right. Not a tram that's been relegated to tourist entertainment, but one that runs like a vein through the heart of Lisbon, taking its people where they need to be.<br />
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Lisbon is a city full of sharp inclines, with steep streets that dip and rise. The tram winds up these narrow lanes and takes us to my favourite area of Lisbon. Alfama.<br />
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Alfama is Lisbon's oldest quarter. A Moorish patch that sits on the hill looking out to sea. It's the old city, it's where Lisbon was born before it trickled down the hill and spread into the city it is today. Alfama with its old houses of thick walls was one of the few pieces of Lisbon that survived the great earthquake of 1755. And with it, survived its character, colour and soul. Once the neighbourhood of the poor, it is today full of artists and musicians - you can find a little shop tucked in the alleys where a lady called Maria sits and paints tiles with crushed minerals, you can browse the flea market of Feira de Ladra on a Tuesday or Saturday and walk past antique toys and handpainted ceramics, or you can step into one of Alfama's little restaurants in the evening to listen to the haunting sounds of Fado where musicians sit by your table singing tales of life and lament.<br />
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When you climb down from Alfama, you walk back into that part of Lisbon at level with the waters next to which it sits; at the open mouth between two curves of land where the Atlantic flows in and forms the Tagus River. Here, by the river, the city throbs with a different rhythm. Young, modern. Broad pavements and promenades, the chic food market of Ribeira, shops and restaurants, tourists and tricksters.<br />
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There's much to explore in Lisbon: Chiado, Baixo, Bairro Alto, and farther away, Belem with it's formal gardens, mansions and monastery. You'll have your favourite, just as we did.<br />
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Fernando Pessoa had an intrinsic similarity with the city he so loved. Pessoa was known as much for his poetry and existential musings as he was for a particular 'quirk' of his writing life: He did not write only as Fernando Pessoa, he created more than seventy versions of himself. He refused to call then pseudonyms - after all, a pseudonym is just a different name an author chooses to write under - Pessoa called his avatars heteronyms, for they were personalities in their own right. Each of these writers, which extended from Pessoa himself, were distinct in their character, appearance, even life and livelihood. In fact, his heteronyms often had views and opinions diametrically opposite to Pessoa's own.<br />
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Just as Fernando Pessoa was many writers, Lisboa is many cities. And each part, each district, has a different voice. As you traverse the city on tram and foot, one of these voices will speak to you directly, and that will be the place where you sit down, sip a drink and watch the sun go down.<br />
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<b>Places to eat</b><br />
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These were four of our favourites in Lisbon:<br />
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<a href="http://www.timeout.com/city-guides/time-out-mercado-da-ribeira-lisbon/">Mercado da Ribeira</a> A food hall with a difference, where some of the top restaurants and chefs of the city come together. Modern, relaxed and with the most tempting, confusing array of stalls and choices.<br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/CantinhoAziz/">Cantinho do Aziz</a> This family-run Mozambique restaurant tucked away in the alleys of Alfama gave us one of the best meals of our stay. Portugal's long liaison with Mozambique has given its food a unique richness and flavour that you won't find anywhere else.<br />
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<a href="http://www.cervejariaramiro.pt/">Ramiro</a> You might've watched Anthony Bourdain digging into his seafood here. It lives up to every hype, and serves everyone from local groups of grannies to some of the top chefs in the city who come here to get their seafood fix.<br />
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<a href="https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Restaurant_Review-g3874225-d6957429-Reviews-Manteigaria-Lisbon_District_Central_Portugal.html">Manteigaria</a> Forget about going all the way to Belem for the best Pastel de Natas. It's overrated. But what is not, is this little shop in Chiado, which rings a brass bell early in the morning when their first batch of Natas is baked. It's perfect.<br />
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-35805973014647506872016-04-20T14:48:00.001-07:002016-07-17T02:31:16.117-07:00Following the Swallows<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="color: #76a5af;">We've been away.</span> </span></span>Not very far - just a few hours' flight across the continent - but when you live without phones, laptops and wi-fi passwords for a couple of weeks, you go farther away than the miles you travel, and take longer to come back. You switch off, become absent, but find yourself more present than before. Portugal is a country that rewards you for that; for being present, not just physically, but with all your senses undistracted and available. For this country is a feast for the eyes and ears and nose, for the touch and the taste.<br />
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In his novel 'Blindness' Portuguese writer and Nobel laureate José
Saramago writes of an epidemic where people start going blind.
Only, their blindness is not dark, but a stark, brilliant white. Towards the end of the novel, Saramago writes "I think we are blind, Blind
but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see." He could have been writing about us, struck blind by the white glows of our screens, riders of another epidemic. Travel is my way of switching off and breathing, and only being in one place at a time.<br />
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All you need is a map, an instinct, and a few conversations. Strangers will show you the way, give you their time and their kindness, they will warn you of dangers, give little gifts to your child wherever she goes, they will point you to a tiny restaurant, barely a restaurant, where for ridiculously little money you will eat a meal you will not forget.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #76a5af;"><span style="font-size: large;">Our journey</span></span> starts in Porto. A city crisscrossed with tramlines that weave their way around old balconied houses. From our high-ceilinged, sun-filled room, roads slope up and down walking us to the city's oldest bookstore, quietest church, busiest streets and most famous pork-stuffed sandwiches. But what charms us about Porto are its people. They surprise us. It's a big city with a small-town openness, a sense of generosity you don't expect in such bustling streets. We walk into a shop that is about to close for the day, we buy something for Chotto-ma, the man wraps it up, crouches down and gives to her, then brushes away the money we hold out. "I gift her," he says, "no pay."<br />
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That's how Portugal starts off, and continues.<br />
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From Porto, we take a train eastwards, deeper into the country, to a little town called Lamego. The train track often runs so close to the waters of the Duoro River we feel we're afloat: we're on a train, oh we're on a boat, a train, a boat! says Chotto-ma.<br />
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When we reach Lamego, we find a town lazing in the afternoon sun, it's benches busy with the gossip of town-elders, its fountains rimmed with children, and it's backdrop rising in tiers of holy drama in the form of a 600-stair cathedral. We take our cue from the town and pass our time sitting in outdoor cafes, reading, watching life go by, and learning new Portuguese words from people we meet.<br />
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And we climb. The 600 stairs to the cathedral. My muscles scream. Our climb to each tier is relieved by fountains of sweet,
quenching water, and the shade of camellia trees bursting pink with
flowers. And finally, when we reach the top, the view is glorious. You look down on rooftops and mountains and
clouds lying beneath like a painting.<br />
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In Lamego, we meet more wonderful
people, Chotto-ma walks out of places holding more gifts, we eat one of
our best meals in a restaurant filled with locals, where no one speaks
English and we point to other tables to show them what we want. We talk with our hands and our smiles, and everyone understands each other perfectly.<br />
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From Lamego, we make our way to the midst of the Duoro Valley, to gentle, terraced hills, green from the rains, cut through by the Duoro River. It is breathtaking. As our car curves through the gates of the quinta which will be our home for the next few days, we know this is going to be something special. <br />
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A quinta is a traditional country house, and ours is so rich in
history that every room has a story to tell. And no-one to tell it better
than its owner Maria Manuel Cyrne, Viscountess of all she surveys, and a woman
of warmth and spirit. As a young girl, Maria grew up in this house, surrounded by
beautiful things, running free amongst vineyards and olive trees. But
her family lost the house and land when Portugal rose in revolution.
They moved out, though the memories stayed. Maria spent her youth and
adult life dreaming of returning to the life she remembered.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc02a8hX-KYIlt8IIAl8ZVMistVWoiIz608lkI5mCAMV-wOUI4wcN20P9ZisKhMBurSYfdRDGiH5yAfwECE4kVocWuE3wLfCrNPD6GoD0x0SLsK4EZ2iiLvP-ZuzsdCejNDGfx-4XDjc82/s1600/DSC_0362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgjRYpyt91MefCZxyb-CQ8hnurtzC3xCmU7p_yoELKpfZZPWQqKCZn4WEvzNIdmsujqD7ZaF-Bqi45j4PDw7Dpqe3JH8gUdSCb2uTA4P7d0L55kC-soThygjvH6kXwbTaMAgWrzO1ZU0Q/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgjRYpyt91MefCZxyb-CQ8hnurtzC3xCmU7p_yoELKpfZZPWQqKCZn4WEvzNIdmsujqD7ZaF-Bqi45j4PDw7Dpqe3JH8gUdSCb2uTA4P7d0L55kC-soThygjvH6kXwbTaMAgWrzO1ZU0Q/s640/DSC_0035.JPG" width="640" /></a><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc02a8hX-KYIlt8IIAl8ZVMistVWoiIz608lkI5mCAMV-wOUI4wcN20P9ZisKhMBurSYfdRDGiH5yAfwECE4kVocWuE3wLfCrNPD6GoD0x0SLsK4EZ2iiLvP-ZuzsdCejNDGfx-4XDjc82/s640/DSC_0362.JPG" width="640" /><br />
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Finally in her fifties, she bought the house back, though most of its rooms had been destroyed, and of the intricately carved ceilings, only one remained. After painstaking work, the quinta now stands beautifully restored; it is home to Maria's immediate and extended family who live and work here. We had acres to explore, and crackling fires and sumptuous meals to come back to. And like in the rest of Portugal, for a price one cannot imagine anywhere else in Europe.<br />
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From the north, we take the train to the very rural south, to Alentejo, a region still without the smudges of tourism, where you can walk miles along a searing blue coastline without meeting a soul, and only occasionally the odd hiker. The landscape couldn't be more different from the valleys of the north. Here, the eye roams over long, flat stretches of rugged bush scattered with cork oaks and pines and olive trees and a coastline with craggy ochre cliffs rising out of the wild froth of the sea. The cliffs cup tiny coves and the beaches are empty except for a local walking his dog or a lone surfer cresting a wave. Along a beach, you discover a small family-run restaurant looking out to the sea, serving fresh fish grilled to perfection.<br />
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<br />
In Alentejo, we stay in a rural quinta in the middle of
fields of yellow flowers, its whitewashed walls bordered with the
region's traditional stripe of cobalt blue. A beautiful house originally
built in 1826, inviting you in with old books, board games and hearty
breakfasts; a restoring stop for hikers. We spend our days cycling for
miles around, on rocky country roads lined with bush and sea, broken
only by the sounds of cowbells and the chaotic chirping of nesting
swallows. At midday, hot and hungry, we stop at the small town of
Zambujeira Do Mar for a lunch of grilled dourada, or rice cooked with
monkfish and shrimps, served with a pitcher of Alentejo's wonderful
wine.<br />
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From Alentejo we take the train to our last stop. Lisbon, or Lisboa, or 'a boa-constrictor called Liz' as Chotto-ma likes to think of it. And like a boa-constrictor, the city is not easily squeezed into a paragraph, so I'll leave Lisboa for the next post. I hope you'll come back; take a walk with me in one of the most interesting cities in Europe. Until then, here's to birdsong, fields of yellow flowers, and to switching off!<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">...</span></div>
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<br /></div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-30752260833287958622016-03-08T23:43:00.002-08:002016-03-09T02:12:04.102-08:00Sing, ring, ping.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Spin, grin. Sip, gin. Nip. The words you can scramble out of the six
alphabets of Spring seem to fit the season so perfectly.<br />
<br />
I
stare at this new blue sky and smile and take in a deep breath.
Everything is birthing. Things are coming out of burrows, tearing out of
buds. If I didn't hate ostentatious little phrases, I might've said
they were leaving winter's womb. I've just said it though haven't I?
Strange how you have to say something in order to say that you won't say
it. Suddenly it exists simply because you thought it should not, and in
thinking so, brought it into existence.<br />
<br />
Sorry, the season does go to the head a little. The air smells raw, like new leaves. <br />
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<br />
<br />
I
felt like drawing. This feeling always comes in spurts, and I go
hunting for paper and paint. Drawing, like photography, helps my writing; even if it's only by letting me procrastinate better.
It fills the space in between writing and not-writing. It takes me out of my comfort zone - I'm much less confident telling a story with a paintbrush than I am with a pen. Every time I draw, I'm like a child learning to walk, and that is liberating in many ways; I don't expect much from myself. There's nothing more beautiful than creating something without any purpose, without expectations.<br />
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<br />
I don't like the outlines on the
finished leaves; I wish I'd left them blurred. But I can't change it now
- I committed to the black ink as soon as I put it on paper. But I
will, yet again, live and learn. And be reminded of how freeing writing
is in that sense. You can rewrite a sentence till it's as sharp or as
blurred as you want it to be.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
We all tell stories in our own ways - we might paint them, write
them, freeze them on photographs, tell them aloud in a room, sing them in the
shower. If you had to choose one, which one would you choose?<br />
<br />
Did
I tell you I started working on my first novel? I'm two chapters in,
into what looks like a five-year plan. Do give me a virtual kick on the
backside now and then, remind me that it won't get written if I don't
sit the hell down and write. <br />
<br />
Love and springtime to you my friends,<br />
Pia<br />
<br /></div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-59077408073387715052016-02-15T06:23:00.000-08:002016-02-15T06:27:42.423-08:00Goa!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Warm sea rolls in. Each wave inhales and exhales like a yogi, swells up and out of the waters, stretches towards us in a powerful arch, then flattens itself at out feet in pliant froth. Chotto-ma shrieks with a glee that does not ebb, not even at the hundredth wave.<br />
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<br />
Our mornings in Goa always started like this. We woke up at dark, and walked out at dawn, out of the old Portuguese casa we were renting in Candolim. Bhupen, the casa's gardener and Man Friday, always armed us with a long stick to keep stray dogs at bay. <br />
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<br />
Three days after landing in Kolkata, D, Chotto-ma and I took a flight
to Goa with my parents in tow. My brother flew in from New York. And
suddenly we were all together after a very long time. In a beautiful,
whitewashed villa, spending days lazing in the pool, taking walks on
the beach, eating seafood at the shacks with our toes in the sand, and
ending our days with beers and cocktails in candlelight watching ships
bob and twinkle in the inky Arabian.<br />
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Goa is not a
place. It's a way of life. It's the patch of India that most knows how
to live and let live. It's a place D and I return to time and again.
This time, for the first time, we had family with us. And a little girl who had to be introduced to a place we've loved for long. She was in her
element in Goa: salty-haired, playing with the dogs who followed her
faithfully, collecting shells, reading Harry Potter all afternoon,
drinking tall glasses of watermelon juice, or begging for five minutes,
just five more minutes, in the pool.<br />
<br />
We traipsed around
Panjim, we sat in empty, little-known churches with its cool, carved
beauty arching around us into sun-dappled domes. We browsed markets and
haggled over skirts cut out of old silk sarees. We watched fishermen
stand by their boats in the early morning light, plucking off little
silvery fish off their nets. We ate Xacuti, and chatted with the locals
boys who worked in the beach shacks. We noticed how hard they worked,
and how little tourists did to help them - leaving the sands strewn with
empty bottles and cans and remnants of their night's wildness. Each day at
dawn, the boys would clean the beach with resigned patience, then
smoothen the sand in painstaking strips with what looked like a wooden
plough.<br />
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There's much about Goa that has changed in
the last decade. On the more popular beaches in North Goa, most shop-signs and restaurant menus are in Russian. Signs of
how much we concede for commerce, flexing so far that we run the risk of
losing ourselves. But for those who take the time to
walk away from the madding crowd, there's still the Goa of cashew trees, rickety bamboo bridges over thin rivers, calm sands, a single shack with good Goan food and moonlight falling like a
beam of thick torchlight on black waters.<br />
<br />
And there, you can sit in the dark,
with nothing but sounds of the briny sea, and a sky screaming with stars.<br />
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<b>Where To Stay</b><br />
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If you want an old Portuguese villa all to yourself, you can't do better than <a href="http://casamayagoa.com/">Casa Maya</a>, where we stayed. Gorgeous interiors, stone floors, white walls, dark wood and Andy Warhol prints. A gardener and cook. And a pool.<br />
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<b>Where To Eat</b><br />
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Everyone has their favourites in Goa, ones they go back to, the shack on the beach they have breakfast in. These places are best found by yourself, traipsing aimlessly on foot or in your rented Vespa. But if you're looking for a special restaurant for a really good meal, here are our top three.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.bomras.com/index.html">Bomras in Candolim</a><br />
The best Burmese food I've had in a while, and absolutely flawlessly done. Try the 'Tea Leaf Salad' for a starter. Each of us took a different main course, and not one failed. The desserts are seasonal, and pretty sensational - I had the 'Coconut and Passion Fruit Pannacotta'.<br />
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<a href="http://www.fodors.com/world/asia/india/goa/restaurants/reviews/la-plage-587687">La Plage in Ashvem</a><br />
The most chic beach 'shack' you'll find in Goa, and on an endless stretch of sand that is still unspoilt. It serves fresh French-Mediterranean food with a local touch, and had us going back and back. (In fact, it was the only restaurant we repeated.)<br />
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<a href="http://www.mumskitchengoa.com/">Mum's Kitchen in Panjim</a><br />
Authentic, traditional Goan food in a beautiful, quiet area in Panjim. Fiery, coconut-y curries served with plump rice or sweet, fermented breads fresh out of the oven. Their desserts too are to die for. The restaurant's garden has a fish pond with a little bridge to cross, which charmed Chotto-Ma.<br />
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And finally! After months, I managed to photograph something out of my kitchen. So, here's a recipe for a very Goan dish (with a tiny twist), made with sausages (the Goan version of chorizo), that we brought back all the way to cold, grey England.</div>
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<b>Goan Sausage, Fennel & Parsley Pilau</b><br />
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A bulb of fennel, chopped<br />
1 white onion, chopped<br />
A pack of Goan sausages (or chorizo if that's what's available)<br />
1 tsp coarsely pounded black pepper<br />
A generous cupful of chopped flat-leave parsley<br />
Cooked rice (perfect if it's a day old and out of the fridge)<br />
2 tbsp olive oil<br />
Salt<br />
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<i>(Note: I haven't given measurements for the sausage and rice because
it's better if you tweak that according to taste - the sausage has a
strong flavour, so, if the flavour is too strong for you, add more rice. And if it's a flavour you love, add more sausage.)</i><br />
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Start with the sausage: snip open the encasing skin and take the meat out. It'll come out in coarsely cut chunks, which is perfect for the pilau. If you're using chorizo, just chop up the sausage in uneven chunks and pound them a little bit using a mortar and pestle.<br />
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Heat the oil in a pan. Add the onion, fennel and black pepper in together. Stir on medium heat for a few seconds, then add the sausage. Stir for a minute or so - the sausage with let out oil and a lovely smell of garlic and spices. Add the rice, and salt. Mix well till the rice is evenly coloured with the sausages. Take it off the heat.<br />
Add half of the parsley, mix and cover with a lid for a few minutes. Before serving, garnish with the rest of the parsley.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHa0xb7rjwODiS3xhYUuzoKlTHGccwm0yAcncW__CfYBLLw2peKVm7EARW9D5hXUYoMSQvRmavLJDii2OmMYloS3fXGyHJm2_o8uOmL9aaH2MK3vFuwNZ-9PMFzbo-LkbDCh9Js5J_HEmW/s1600/DSC_0893.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHa0xb7rjwODiS3xhYUuzoKlTHGccwm0yAcncW__CfYBLLw2peKVm7EARW9D5hXUYoMSQvRmavLJDii2OmMYloS3fXGyHJm2_o8uOmL9aaH2MK3vFuwNZ-9PMFzbo-LkbDCh9Js5J_HEmW/s640/DSC_0893.JPG" width="640" /></a> <br />
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Enjoy!<br />
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-57003619659231796642016-01-16T14:22:00.001-08:002016-01-18T14:36:38.549-08:00White Christmas Brown<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We spent December in Goa - and I promise to tell you all about that. But here's something first:<br />
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I’ve just had my non-fiction <i>'White Christmas Brown' </i>published in the rather fine Irish journal <b>The Bohemyth</b>. It's a personal piece that travels from my school in Kolkata to life in England. It’s about identity (and what the hell that even means). And, it’s about being brown in a British Christmas.<br />
<b><a href="http://thebohemyth.com/2016/01/15/pia-ghosh-roy/"><br /></a></b><br />
I'd love for you to read it:<br />
<b><a href="http://thebohemyth.com/2016/01/15/pia-ghosh-roy/">http://thebohemyth.com/2016/01/15/pia-ghosh-roy/</a></b><br />
<br />
As always, I look forward to your comments and thoughts. Have a wonderful year, my friends! Here's to more days of sharing
this crazy, old space with you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-66382869883515172402015-12-03T02:11:00.003-08:002016-01-15T06:40:16.735-08:00Dancing in the Drawing Room / Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
Hi, everyone!<br />
<br />
Remember Structo - the lovely journal where my short story was published a few months ago? Well, the issue is now online and free to read, so here's me giving you a shout as promised!<br />
<br />
It's a story about a single evening, a fraction of a moment, about secrets. (Don't keep your thoughts on it a secret, though! Drop me a note, tell me know what you think.)<br />
<br />
Here's the link to the story:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://issuu.com/structo/docs/structo14/90" target="_blank">Dancing in the Drawing Room</a> <br />
<br />
I hope you enjoy reading it!<br />
Much love,<br />
P<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>PS: In case you missed the earlier post on the Structo publication and my reading, and are wondering what I'm talking about, <a href="http://peppercornsinmypocket.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/structo.html" target="_blank">here's a rewind</a>.</i><br />
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-26901216889563294382015-11-16T04:25:00.001-08:002015-12-02T11:12:50.374-08:00Tolerance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Soon after we moved to the UK, I started working with an ad agency where
I was commissioned to write a limited-edition book, to be
produced and published by a high-end brand. They wanted a book that would embrace
people, celebrate individuality and differences. <br />
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James
Stroud photographed the project, and I was left to respond to each
image as I wanted - with a single word, a sentence, a page, an instinct. The
photographs were stark, intense portraits of people. I worked from
home: shut myself in a room with the photographs strewn all over the
floor, and
just wrote. Ma and Baba were visiting us that summer, and I remember Ma
knocking on my door, putting a cup of coffee by me and slipping
out again. I love that memory.<br />
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<br />
Last
week Chotto-ma was sitting and
flipping through the book and it made me think of how, since that time,
so much, and so little, has changed. We became parents, I left my
job to mother a little person who consumed my
thoughts, we traveled, made friends, I wrote the <a href="http://peppercornsinmypocket.blogspot.co.uk/2011/05/first.html" target="_blank">first blog post</a>, opened my <a href="https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/PeppercornInMyPocket?ref=hdr_shop_menu" target="_blank">Etsy shop</a>, Chotto-ma started school, I
started writing fiction, went back to
work. Life expanded in directions I had not foreseen.<br />
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<br />
<br />
But there was something that, unfortunately, has not changed:
the need for a book that urges people to accept others, to live and let
live. In fact, there seems to be an even greater need for it today. It's heartbreaking,
it's frightening, yet it spreads on and on. This cancerous intolerance
everywhere you turn, in every newspaper you open. Sometimes subtle and
under the skin, sometimes searingly overt. People dying for being
different, being shot for the colour of their skin, or cursed for the religion
they follow. Last month, a man was lynched to death in India for eating beef. <i>What's holy for me must be holy for you. What I know to be right can't be wrong. </i>On Friday night, so many innocent lives were lost in Paris, lives ended in a single evening<i>. </i>And days before that in Beirut. Baghdad, Kenya, India, what does geography matter? It seems
like the darkest of times in many ways.<br />
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<br />
My heart has been heavy. And I've wondered many times this weekend what we're unleashing, and leaving for our children.<br />
<br />
I
had written a poem for that book seven years ago. A book more commercial than literary, but with truths that still hold. And I thought I'd share it with you today.<br />
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<br />
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<br />
<br />
TOLERANCE<br />
<br />
<br />
I see you.<br />
You're foreign<br />
Yet strangely familiar.<br />
I may not understand you<br />
I accept that, I accept you.<br />
<br />
You are interesting<br />
Because you're different.<br />
You have your own truth,<br />
Sing your own anthem,<br />
Follow your own tribe.<br />
<br />
But our roads meet<br />
Our stories merge.<br />
We dance the same dance<br />
Laugh the same laugh<br />
Die the same death.<br />
<br />
It seems so simple,<br />
This thing called tolerance.<br />
Funny how there isn't more of it<br />
On the street, in the shops<br />
In our sitting rooms,<br />
in our blood. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
© Pia Ghosh-Roy<br />
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-31223796904979197522015-10-07T05:26:00.002-07:002016-07-31T13:13:24.571-07:00You at Seven<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I can see the three of us standing under the horse-chestnut by the river. The leaves are brown. They float down softly on our heads and toes, they tickle a little. Above us, squirrels leap from branch to branch making conkers fall around us like stars. And as we stand on the crunchy floor of rusted leaves, you jump, and turn seven.<br />
<br />
Seven. Today. <br />
<br />
Seasons are easy to sum up, but not you at seven. I often see your thoughts whirling round and up and up like leaves in the wind. My autumn child. Not summer, not winter, but the in-between. You're the in-between. There are two of you, so many of you. One, for the people you love: goofy and loving, nonstop-talking. Another for the rest of the world, in which you hold back, observe, keep your thoughts to yourself. I took out my paintbrushes and tried to draw your world today, you at seven, but I didn't draw your eyes; I can never do them justice. They say so much. You're deeply independent, unflinchingly honest. You can be positive about the greyest cloud. Never conflicted about what you feel. And when your questions come, they're as sharp and clear as raindrops on blades of grass.<br />
<br />
"Ma, why does extraordinary mean something really special when it's extra + ordinary?" you asked yesterday.<br />
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<br />
Happy birthday, our Chotto-ma! You're <i>seven</i>. That's seven whole years of making our lives a little less ordinary. We love you more than all the leaves that fall in autumn.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-6417193108981593962015-09-03T03:32:00.001-07:002015-09-13T14:04:56.527-07:00A dark pint of Dublin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's a city of song; at every turn, buskers sing their souls into upturned hats. It's a city of writers and poets. Of bridges over water, and history scribbled all over. It's a city of men with boyish eyes and thick beards. Of quiet humour and a laidback energy. It's a city that likes to brunch. Where food comes in hearty portions. Smiles too.<br />
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Dublin stands sure in its skin - old and modern and uncomplicated. Its parks very green, its art very edgy. Its buildings are often painted a deep red, a screaming pink, clover green, old-lady-purple.<br />
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There's a certain New-Yorkness to this wee city, especially when you zoom in through the lens of a camera. Parts of it reminded me of Williamsburg in Brooklyn: the red-brown bricks and art-splattered streets, the large loft-like spaces converted into cafes, derelict buildings with funky shops, feet in clean canvas shoes.<br />
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With all it's history hugged tightly to its chest, Dublin seems to have marched headlong into the Now. You could walk into a 12th-century pub for a glass of Guinness and some beef stew, or lunch at a restaurant where modern Irish cooking bends expectations, often blending fresh local ingredients with Middle-Eastern flavours.<br />
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And if you're lucky (as we were), you could be sitting in an old, old pub with your dark, dark pint, when suddenly, a group in the corner takes out their guitars and breaks into unprepared song. Strong and clear. Their acoustics bouncing off the wood-lined walls. And everyone cheers and claps and they sing one more song, and then another. And you leave Dublin humming the city like a well-worn tune.<br />
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<h3 style="text-align: left;">
The Nitty Gritties: where we slept and ate and drank, and the places we loved in Dublin. </h3>
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Where we stayed:<br />
<a href="http://deanhoteldublin.ie/" target="_blank">The Dean Hotel</a>. Very retro-chic, complete with vinyls in the room. And a rooftop restaurant and bar that's hard to beat.<br />
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<br />
Where we ate and drank:<br />
We tried lots of lovely places, but there were some clear winners. I've put them together in one perfect day of eating and drinking.<br />
<br />
<u>Morning</u><br />
<br />
<a href="http://thefumbally.ie/" target="_blank">The Fumbally</a>. It was one of our favourite places in Dublin; try their fantastic brunch, and enjoy the gorgeously haphazard space!<br />
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<u>Noon</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
<a href="http://www.odonoghues.ie/" target="_blank">O'Donaghue's</a>. A pint of Guinness at this pub, amidst that impromtu jam of guitar and song, was one of my best afternoons in Dublin, and one that I'll remember for a long time.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.thepigsear.com/our-food-wine/" target="_blank">The Pig's Ear</a>.
Modern Irish cooking at it's best, and a short walk from O'Donaghue's.
The restaurant also sits near the National Gallery of Ireland where we
really enjoyed the Sean Scully exhibition. <br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Evening</u><br />
<br />
<a href="http://sophies.ie/" target="_blank">Sophie's at The Dean</a>. That's the rooftop restaurant I mentioned earlier. Have a cocktail by the wall of glass and look down at the city and the mountains beyond as the sun sets. You can't do better. The pizzas are great, as is the rest of the food.<br />
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<br />
<a href="http://www.coppingerrow.com/" target="_blank">Coppinger Row</a>. A Mediterranean restaurant in the hub of Dublin. Our
meal here was faultless, fresh and full of flavour, and all whipped out
of a busy, open kitchen. (Oh, Beyonc<span class="st">é</span> and Jay Z <a href="http://beyonce-legion.com/news/beyonce-jay-z-leave-coppinger-row-restaurant-in-dublin-mar-10-2014" target="_blank">dined here</a>, if that counts!)<br />
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<br />
Dublin for kids:<br />
<br />
Dublin is very child-friendly. People would bend down to have one-to-one conversations with Chotto-ma as if she were a solo traveller, and we weren't there at all!<br />
<br />
There are great galleries and museums to keep kids interested, to learn a bit about Ireland and the influences of other cultures that passed through this island country. Chotto-ma loved these -<br />
<a href="http://www.nationalgallery.ie/" target="_blank">The National Gallery of Ireland</a><br />
<a href="http://www.cbl.ie/" target="_blank">The Chester Beatty Library</a> <br />
<a href="http://www.museum.ie/en/intro/archaeology-and-ethnography-museum.aspx" target="_blank">National Museum of Ireland – Archaeology</a><br />
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In good weather (which we amazingly had almost everyday of our stay) head to - <br />
<a href="http://www.heritageireland.ie/en/dublin/ststephensgreen/" target="_blank">St Stephen's Green</a> is one of the loveliest city parks, with a duck-filled pond, fountains, gazebos and nooks and cranies to explore.<br />
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<a href="http://merrionsquare.ie/" target="_blank">Merrion Square</a> has a wonderful playground themed on The Selfish Giant. Chotto-ma had finished reading Oscar Wilde's <i>The Happy Prince and Other Stories</i> just before the holiday, and had loved The Selfish Giant, so she especially enjoyed this park. (It's also very close to the National Gallery of Ireland).<br />
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***</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<i>(None of the places mentioned above have sponsored this post. They're just
mentions of things we enjoyed, so others might enjoy them too. I don't do reviews on the blog.)</i><br />
<br /></div>
Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-74079703612455038702015-08-19T07:57:00.001-07:002015-08-19T10:59:32.135-07:00It's own timbre<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday, the sky was a flat-packed grey. Under it, wet roofs, wet roads, damp brick walls, damp people in damp socks, the neighbour's cat with a sweet squirrel in his mouth. Bleak stuff. It's August, the prime of summer, but the sky is British you see, it can't comment on summer. So what if the rest of Europe is laid out on their beach towels like strips of bacon in a frying pan? We'll just take the old umbrella out for a walk.<br />
<br />
Still, the weather doesn't irk me like it used to. Maybe it has something to do with a little girl who goes <i>'Yay, rain!'</i> every time it rains. I mean, who says <i>'Yay, rain!'</i> in this country?! She can be positive about anything, this one. A couple of days ago, she hopped and grinned and danced around me saying "Ma, I'm really, really excited about nothing!" So yeah, it could be her; she makes me notice the grey less. <br />
<br />
There's something else I like about days like these. The silver light. Like a snail's trail that has dried on the ground in slow, shiny loops. This light, even through a bare window, is diffused, discreet. It's incredible how a land's people mirror its weather.<br />
<br />
I was writing this post when I looked up and saw Chotto-ma engrossed in her book, and realised how utterly quiet the house was. Only the rustle of a page turning, and her foot softly kicking the arm of the sofa, <i>thup thup thup</i>. I picked up my phone quietly and took this photo. Of her and the light and the quiet. There's a special kind of silence on grey days. It's different from the silence of a sunny day. Like the difference between synonyms - each with it's own timbre, its own use.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaodW-Trvj6JakQ2ig4GMlHHFg9s7McEJ3L3HR0AB10RaylL447nPfnSCzesv9-zPJFOvLkCPwa199z8jau-IoPpfyWi9vqy9QT730k14FVFLjavpoXYAxJ46D441eGQnstCRljDDSSnXg/s1600/IMG_9902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaodW-Trvj6JakQ2ig4GMlHHFg9s7McEJ3L3HR0AB10RaylL447nPfnSCzesv9-zPJFOvLkCPwa199z8jau-IoPpfyWi9vqy9QT730k14FVFLjavpoXYAxJ46D441eGQnstCRljDDSSnXg/s640/IMG_9902.JPG" width="640" /></a> <br />
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I've been meaning to share a recipe for weeks. It's for a plum cake that has been baked, eaten, baked in a loop recently. It's beautiful; soft, sweet, tart and almondy. I'd <a href="https://instagram.com/piaghoshroy/" target="_blank">Instagrammed</a> it, just out of the oven, and now here it is. These photographs are off my phone camera too, because I forget to do any better when this cake is sitting on the table making our rainy-day house smell all kinds of wonderful.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<b>Almond, Plum & Brown Sugar Cake</b><br />
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Ingredients<br />
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1 cup plain flour<br />
1 cup ground almond<br />
2 tsp baking powder<br />
3/4 cup coarse demerara (you can use white sugar too, but this gives the cake a rich, roasty flavour) <br />
2 eggs<br />
1 tsp vanilla essence<br />
1 heaped tbsp of butter<br />
1/2 cup oil<br />
1/2 - 3/4 cup milk (as needed)<br />
4-5 plums, halved, then sliced (with peel on)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmkrIn9mjayvRSQBlfdpD6eVXNh0RDmURQUgllVSKlJaU-jw564TpJOr-u-3Plslcb8AvSDw17zw6Z5mA_hRZq87VmvB0azGI5h_bCn0N4f6Xm85T2fGMiqsl5c1pyaqJAERh9T-LJ6le/s1600/Desktop1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmkrIn9mjayvRSQBlfdpD6eVXNh0RDmURQUgllVSKlJaU-jw564TpJOr-u-3Plslcb8AvSDw17zw6Z5mA_hRZq87VmvB0azGI5h_bCn0N4f6Xm85T2fGMiqsl5c1pyaqJAERh9T-LJ6le/s640/Desktop1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Preheat oven to 160 degrees C (320 degrees F).<br />
Grease a rectangular baking dish (or a cake tin of your choice) with butter, keep aside. <br />
Mix the dry ingredients together in a large bowl - flour, ground almond, baking powder and sugar.<br />
Make a well in the middle. Crack in the eggs. Add the vanilla essence, the butter and oil.<br />
Start mixing it in a circular motion. Pour the milk a bit at a
time as you mix, till you get a nice smooth batter, easy to stir.<br />
Pour batter into cake tin. Top the batter with the sliced plum, laying them on with a gentle hand so they settle into the batter a tiny bit, but not sink in.<br />
Bake for 40 minutes if the baking dish is flat and rectangular, and about 45-50 minutes if it's deep and round. Slide a knife
in to check if done.<br />
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7490342346010751586.post-89092475439717792142015-08-03T12:25:00.000-07:002015-08-03T13:11:38.318-07:00The smell of old books<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-Ca8iLP9ffCg-Qi5VCS6WZAJOCuKnk6HSGQpjGSXxRcttPZElLLEgEz3nk32jvumYveB6Xam4ZiuJlcY3Lssu7gTD31Ut9poEIWpX4YgWJK1qCVcqcHzyMIY2N1_g3JGqZ1LkCS5F8Zp/s1600/DSC_0379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-Ca8iLP9ffCg-Qi5VCS6WZAJOCuKnk6HSGQpjGSXxRcttPZElLLEgEz3nk32jvumYveB6Xam4ZiuJlcY3Lssu7gTD31Ut9poEIWpX4YgWJK1qCVcqcHzyMIY2N1_g3JGqZ1LkCS5F8Zp/s640/DSC_0379.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I wrote a short, short piece, which was published today on <a href="http://www.riverteethjournal.com/" target="_blank">River Teeth</a>, a US-based journal of narrative nonfiction. Only some of you will know the shops in Calcutta I talk about, but all of you will know the smell of old books.</div>
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<a href="http://www.riverteethjournal.com/blog/2015/08/03/the-smell-of-old-books" target="_blank">You can read it here.</a></div>
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I'd love to know what it makes you think of - leave me your thoughts here, or on the River Teeth website when you get there. I'll give you a bunch of sunflowers and wild leaves in return.</div>
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Piahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03933646544634162981noreply@blogger.com15