Two on Trail

Our Journey

Author: Oindrila Ghosh Page 2 of 3

The World’s Best Lasagna

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On December 25, 2018

In Articles

This post essentially marks the end of my first semester at UMBC.

H-u-r-r-a-y!! This, in itself calls for all the celebrations irrespective of all the festivities of this wintry season! The end of my first semester at UMBC has officially marked the end of a dreary six months. This year has not been easy with all the transfer of school and people around me. I have failed terribly to adjust to some situations while managed to live through few tougher ones!

At this point I am quite confused with my tenure as a graduate student. I often feel I am still in my first year, while the truth is that I am already half way through my second year. I guess, the major reason of this confusion roots back to my transfer of school from Texas A&M to UMBC this Fall. It often gets tricky to keep track of the amount of time spent at each school. So, if you see, I spent two semesters at Texas A&M and one at UMBC, which translates to the fact that I am just 6 months old to this school and this city. Having said that, I think this is also one of the reasons I still feel so fresh in this city, as if I just started.  However, this freshness is hard to feel when one is drowned in the web of assignments and mid-term examinations and troubles of life. But now that the semester is over, I feel great!

Throughout the last few weeks, which were presumably the toughest and busiest few days of this semester, we at our abode had given up cooking altogether. I was tired of the taste of food made by me and Aniruddha was busy with his submission deadlines. His deadlines ended and mine dropped in and this resulted in a pile of doordash and Papa-Johns pizza delivery bills stacked in the recycle bin. The sad and ludicrous characteristic of developing the habit of ordering food from restaurants and surviving on frozen meals is that eventually it turns you lazy. You tend to give up cooking as a choice rather than having to give up forcefully. However, Aniruddha insisted me on starting to cook again. And so we decided.

The best lasagna in the world. The recipe was looked up online at Allrecipes.com. They called it “World’s Best Lasagna”. The recipe looked a little ingredient heavy, but I bet you, it was all worth it. The day before the cooking is always the more important and tiring day, because that is when you hunt down the ingredients at a grocery store that has sausages on the east end and lasagna sheets on the west end. However, we did a good homework to jot down the list.

The night of 22nd, my dining table was overflowing with all the ingredients for the lasagna. That brings me to the enumeration of the ingredients which included:

  • 1lb sweet Italian sausage,
  • 0.75lb ground beef,
  • One large white onion (We used the whole onion minced even though it was mentioned in the recipe that we need only half a cup),
  • 3 garlic cloves (crushed even though the recipe mentioned 2 cloves needed)
  • 1 (6 ounce) cans of tomato paste
  • 2 (6.5 ounce) cans of tomato sauce.
  • White sugar and salt (It is always hard for me to give the exact amount of salt and sugar added, because I believe it is always up to you and the people you feed how salty-sugary you want the sauce to be. So, I would say add salt and sugar according to your taste preferences.)
  • 1 table spoon chopped basil leaves (In the recipe they mentioned 1.5 teaspoons of dried basil leaves. I however used fresh basil leaves to enhance the fresh taste)
  • 4 tablespoons of freshly chopped parsley
  • Total seasoning for cooking and grilling (I use the Lawry’s Casero Total Seasoning because it is a wholesome one including salt, onion, garlic, parsley, oregano and cilantro. I used this instead of the Italian seasoning mentioned in the recipe. It is also hard to mention the exact amount added. I added it according to my taste and would recommend you to do the same).
  • Chilli powder (This is my improvisation to the recipe. The chilli powder used here is available in any Asian store. I got it from the Catonsville branch of Lotte Plaza Market. The recipe uses ground black pepper. But I personally cannot take the spiciness of black pepper; hurts my throat. I used about 2 teaspoons of chilli powder because I like it spicy. You can use less than that if you prefer it less spicy)
  • 12 lasagna sheets
  • 16-ounce jar of ricotta cheese
  • 1 egg
  • 0.75 lb of sliced mozzarella cheese
  • 0.75 cups of grated parmesan cheese

I skipped the 28 ounces of crushed tomatoes. I felt we had enough tomato sauce and tomato paste to make up the meat sauce already. I also skipped adding fennel seeds because I am not a big fan of using it in my cooking unless the dish specifically requires the essence of them. I believe fennel seeds have a very characteristic smell and that should not be wasted in a hub of other contradicting stronger essences.

23rd morning at around 11am, Aniruddha was struggling to open the cans of the tomato paste and the tomato sauce and helped me mince the onion. This was the first time we were using the white onion, we are more used to the red ones. While he was at it, I defrosted the ground beef and the sausages. I would not say I was highly successful in cleanly peeling off the outer covering of the sausage, but I did alright in dismantling them.

The sausages, ground beef, minced onion and garlic cloves were cooked in a large pan over the stove on mild heat until the meat turned red to brown in color. The tomato paste and tomato sauce were stirred in with the seasonings of chopped basil and parsley, chilli powder, salt, sugar and total seasoning. A small amount of water was added to help the cooking, lest the spices stick to the pan and burn. The ingredients were left to get cooked with the lid placed over the pan. I kept checking the status of the sauce every 2 mins, sprinkling some water and stirring it well to prevent any sticking. After about cooking the ingredients for about 15 minutes, with the lid covered, it was cooked for about another 7-10 minutes with the lid open to let the water evaporate a little letting the sauce thicken in consistency.

Generally at this point I am interested in knowing if I am going in the right direction. It is almost like a puzzle. If you know that at least you are thinking straight, or seeing things through you will solve it. So, I summoned Aniruddha to the mission and accomplished the test results. He approached with the tasting spoon and took a sip of the meat sauce. I seemingly had passed the test of the right amounts of salt and sugar and seasonings without a doubt. Everything was in proportion, he said.

In the meantime, Aniruddha prepared the cheese dressing. The ricotta cheese, added to my famous yellow soup bowl was combined with the one egg and seasoned with a half teaspoon of salt and the remaining part of the chopped parsley. The yellow soup bowl is one which was bought with the motive of drinking soup from. However, the bowl turned out to be too shallow for the purpose. In spite of the failed motive of the bowl, I have managed to accomplish almost every task starting from whipping in a cake mix to drinking soup from, in it.

A separate large pot of lightly salted water was brought to boil. The lasagna sheets were cooked in this for 8-10 minutes. The water was then drained and the noodles rinsed in cold water to avoid sticking to each other. The lasagna was then assembled in a 9X13 inch baking tray with the first bottom layer of a 1.5 cups of meat sauce, followed by 6 overlapping lasagna sheets spread lengthwise. This was followed by a layer of the ricotta cheese dressing with a layer of sliced mozzarella cheese on top. The mozzarella cheese slices were then topped with 1.5 cups of meat sauce, the lasagna sheets, the cheese dressing and another layer of mozzarella one after the other just like before. Lastly, another 1.5 cups of the meat sauce was spread on top and the Parmesan cheese was sprinkled over it evenly. The baking tray was then covered with an aluminum foil sprayed with some cooking spray to prevent sticking of the cheese to the foil and transferred to a pre-heated oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit. It was baked for 25 minutes with the foil on, and 15 minutes with the foil taken off.

  • Layer 1
  • Layer 2
  • Layer 3
  • Layer 4
  • Layer 5

When Aniruddha took out the fully baked lasagna from the oven, it was smoky hot. Fortunately, the file alarm was still tolerant towards us.

After about 15 minutes, I cut out two slabs of the world’s best lasagna on two plates. We sat on the couch. Our matinee for the afternoon was Leon, The Professional. Aniruddha took a bite of the lasagna, looked at me and said, “It is hard to say that it is home-cooked.”

It was indeed the World’s Best Lasagna.

A Jazz Performance

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On November 12, 2018

In Articles

This article was written on 14th April, 2014 after the mesmerizing SPIC MACAY event hosted at Miranda House, University of Delhi.

  • Arild Anderson
  • Tommy Smith
  • Paolo Vinaccia

The fingers ran, the breath ran out..Lips pressed tight onto the hard metal tube. The hands clutched the sticks hard and struck with a boom on the tight skin of the drum. 

A perfect extravaganza of strength of a man’s muscles, an economic use of the air in the lungs, and the perfect way to touch the tight strings, as if running across the smooth skin of a feminine froth. That was the perfect three combo of musicians.
         The lights shone bright on their faces, sweat on cheeks and forehead sparkled. The odor of the sweat mingled with the arrogance of the stinking brass-the saxophone, the fragrance of the dry wood-the flute, the pungent fuzzy smell of the empty drum and the sultry audience, even on a spring morning. A jazz performance, by Arild Anderson, Tommy Smith and Paolo Vinaccia.


          Now was the time to head for a bash of the drum, the strains on the strings , the blow on the saxophone. The audience waited, few held their breath back, few didn’t care, few fidgety with the ‘Golden Trash Technology’ called ‘Mobile Phones’, and few engrossed in gossiping. And then, awestruck, the hall gave out a werewolf bay- ‘AWWOOOOOOOOO’..’AWWOOOOOOOO’, followed by the perfect succession of the air-pipe, which ushered upon the hall a scene of the forest. Music and picture seemed to blend at a precise junction. And then the strings gave out their buzz and suddenly a hard brush sprang across the plate- a stick struck another and that was from Paolo Vinaccia at the drums- a man, knowledgeable enough how to use the power of muscles on the hard drums that lay before him. They played ‘The Dream Horse’.
The music galloped all through..a wild white horse let free through the woods, showing in every move, the strength, power, the endurance, the virility, and the sexual prowess.
It was a day. It really was a day. Anxiety, put aside, peace entangled all worries.

When Dream Breaks

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On November 12, 2018

In Articles

It has been a week of rain now,

She saw her panes grow hazy.

A hundred new thoughts,

A thousand new words to shed –

Why is it everyone talks of ‘Love’?

She wanted to talk something new.

She came to you to feel anew and all she felt was lazy.

They said, you feel intoxicated,

She thought crazy they are! The lunatic lot!

The jealous crowd, the wrath stricken lot!


She painted her canvas red and blue and yellow and green

She hued her sky with all her colours,

Her city with all her hopes,

And then this rain-It washed away all,

It made her city the same colourless.

Four walls need not be home,

Four walls may not be rest,

Four walls mean an open roof-

It was that sky she saw everyday!

It was the rain of that sky she dreamt!

Yet it drenched her,

Made her wet all over…

She rose from her sleep,

Brought out a new canvas and gave a new streak on it.

The old wet canvas saw her back..

A night of Odissi

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On November 12, 2018

In Articles

To live in the midst of hills and open your eyes in the morning to hills, makes you inexplicably poetic and drives the poet in you to fall for everything you see around you. Here I am, a wretched soul with an explicit excitement bubbling every now and then in me to vent out a little more of the charm I feel all around, to radiate the positive vibe I gather all throughout the day. A day has no better destiny than to end with an art. 7th of August  2015 was such a day.

Dance is an explicit way of expression where, if the language not known, you seem to be a part of an unknown abstract world of fancy moves and grace.

The lights were switched off. There rose in my spine a rigid yet light bubble of excitement, by the sheer touch of skin on my skin. I realized it was my right palm resting upon my left. Such was the silence in the auditorium and the spell of the moment where the consciousness had no control over the actions of my limbs. A huge yellow light lit up the middle of the stage and a raga was played behind. And then she entered with all her grace lighting up the stage even more.

A yellow sari, bordered in red with a red bindi burning in the middle of her forehead. Her hair tied into a bun embroidered with flowers, orange and white. Her feet and palms made even more delicate with the tinge of red alta on the tips. And she flew into the stage with all her charm posing for her composition. And then flew the music, and she with the tune. And then she stopped with her mudra for a while and then with a shy swirl, she flew again. She was an angel dropped from heaven. She was the messenger of God, sent to mesmerize the mortals on the planet with her charm. Life is all we complain about always. But when life gives you all the reasons to appreciate, you suddenly realize how wrong you have been forever. When life makes you fall for the sheer existence of your being, you realize how beautiful and opportune your birth as a mortal was. Chance is all we live for. And here was my chance to live for the night.

She went on to explain the details of the Odissi dance form. How it originates from the state of Orissa and unlike Bharatnatyam, where we see stretches dominating the other moves, this form of dance has more of circular forms of movement. How some compositions are merely abstract and how the rest form a story, or depict another composition. She went further on , reciting and enacting one of Kalidasa’s compositions and another  that spoke of the first meet of Radha and Krishna, where Radha fell in love with him at his first sight. Radha’s sakhi teased Radha for the immense courage to fall in love with even the idea of Krishna.

Her depictions spoke. Her gestures connected every broken string of a lore. Her story telling was nothing but art.

She concluded with the depiction of the war of the inner self with the outer actions of a being. The music around, the call for wilderness, the call of nature inevitably makes you rise, run for braking the shackles. But the inner mind knows. The society , the expectations , the rules, entangle every bit of your being and forces you to stop being who you are. We know our capabilities, our skills. But the extravaganza of the skills remains shackled within us. The world never gets the hint of it. Until one day, when we gather the courage to break those walls and plunge into the ocean of life. And then the world knows who we are, what we hold within, what power we suppress, what energy comprises us.Grace is beauty. But grace without belief can never speak a language. She has built a language of her own, through her skill. She has spoken successfully. She has connected to the masses successfully. Mesmerized by her grace and her beauty and her skill, here runs my lore…


It is not her curves,

It is the smile she wears.

It is not her hip-long hair,

It is the way she combs it.

It is not her breasts,

It is her eyes which welcomes you to her soul

It is the caring she cares to give

The passion that she can roll.

— My tribute to all lovers of art,
                        I pay my gratitude.

The Conspiracy- My tape was short!

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On November 12, 2018

In Articles

 ”   ”  There was a time, when creatures existed, similar to human beings, that had both the sex organs, one of the male and the other of female. The gods, after creation, realized, that these, were some among the few that existed, who had power more than the gods themselves- ‘these organisms could produce life’!! The alarm bell rang…The gods decided to break them, shatter them! And then the two sexes of so called human beings came into existence.        


 The tour of Adam and Eve to Earth, set the alarm even more loud! Human beings had learnt to reproduce yet again…Worse this time, because, they had learnt to go against the rules of heaven! They had learnt to taste the FORBIDDEN!        


 Forbidden, that Adam and Eve were, the earth had to become the place to survive… The water had to become the ultimate secret to life. And then they made love. A new ‘Life’ came into existence! They fed that life with the food they had- the same forbidden fruit, the water they lived upon! This new life learnt to call them ,its Mother and Father… It remained a LOVE CHILD, with the same scar of disloyalty to the gods…”—– The myth runs so.    


   “It learned to search for its Soulmate, the one like it, with the light on the left shoulder. And then it learned to look into the eyes and get a destination for the life ahead.”—– The myth says so.And thus the concept of Love took birth. We form a Forbidden Clan.. And yet we learn to believe people, to trust people, even when we know, that once, some day THE TWO had broken the belief of the gods! We form the Conspiracy.. Conspiracy against the gods.. Even a conspiracy, needs trust and belief! The same trust and belief that we had unitedly, as sperms and ovum, broken once!!We call ourselves THE GOOD, even if we know, what THE BAD consists of, and that, has its seeds implanted in US! That is why we just CALL ourselves good. The gods are afraid today… We had broken rules, and we are revealing the secrets of heaven gradually! We are trying to be instrumental in making the Universe BELIEVE that GOD DOES NOT EXIST! Mark you, the same universe that had once been created by a know-not-who! This  ‘Know-not-who’, is the title, the gods are afraid of…They love themselves being called, ‘The God’… until some day, some day, some day……..”…………….. and my cassette gets stuck there!

To Goblet -From Flora

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On November 12, 2018

In Articles

Suppose one day, you witness your morning cup of tea talking to your dish beneath it.. 
What would be your reaction?
Astonishment?
Surprise?
Unbelievable?
Nonsense?

I witness it… every day! Believe me…… EVERY SINGLE DAY!

Red liquor. A slim handle made silver. Floral patterns on the brim, with an intriguing tinge of blue and green. A white dish. The centre made silver, the same flora made at the peripheri.  
With a thump on the table, the dish rested.
The liquor made a trip, yet, bumped into place!
White smoky vapors skimmed the surface and made a way out in a swirl. 
I heard whispers after that!

Flora (The Dish):  I see you smoke everyday!


Goblet (The Cup):   Jealous, I presume?!


Flora: Oh! You really think so?


Goblet:  I see no reason not to think so… at least by the way you speak!


Flora: Be safe, is all I intended to mean!


Goblet: Safe? What is it you think is unsafe out there? (smirks)


Flora:  I saw you with Mr. Green yesterday…


Goblet:  Oh Flora, I witness you burn with envy!


Flora:  Be safe, is all……


Goblet:  …..You intended, you mean? Oh, darling! I had to go with him. You know, we match a lot, Mr. Green and I.They said we looked gorgeous together. Especially that silver rim that he wears! Doesn’t he look gorgeous with that? My silver hand and his silver rim! 


Flora: I saw you smoke yesterday too.


Goblet: Oh yeah! I was warm…


Flora:  Oh! Don’t you fear anything Goblet? 


Goblet: Afraid of what darling? Afraid of women who sip from me? Afraid of the men, who put the ashes in me after the cigar is burnt? Afraid of what? Anyway, I am always warm! And you know I enjoy that.


Flora: It is not that I am afraid of. It is something else. 


Goblet:  Something else?


Flora:  It is harsh the way the way they grab you. The way they hold you. Oh Goblet, I have seen Green. I know Green! You sit too enclosed on him. U hurt your stand. I have seen. He grabs you hard. And the men out there! They hold you by your neck. They do not hold your hand! The women…. They keep nails for show! They prick at you every time. I and you..we enjoy warmth, cause I share your warmth that they pour into you. Green is not your pair Goblet! You don’t sit on him comfortably! I have seen that. 


Goblet:  Flora! You sound vulgar by that!


Flora:  I just ‘sound’ vulgar, dear. You ‘look’ vulgar when you go out with Green!


Goblet:  In that case, you should stop looking at me!


Flora: And put you to even more danger, you mean? You are safe with me, ONLY ME!


Goblet: In that case, I should go round alone!


Flora: Don’t you dare say that Goblet! Look down to me! I rest you on my silver throne. I have made you my queen. I am ready to share every bit with you. We were made together! To stay together! You go round alone there, I’ll break myself here. It is just the both of us together or simply no one! 


Goblet: Oh Flora, do not think me weak. Do not insult me to be a ‘no one’ without you! I have an identity! An identity of my own! I know to dwell by my ownself!


Flora:  Sure! That, even I have. They’ll pour cold wine into you then! Those humans out there will make you cold like themselves. They force women to sit on men, they rip two legs apart, they kill, they drink blood, they are a thirsty breed. Oh Goblet, do not go out into the world alone!
Goblet: Even you force me to sit on you! How are you different?


Dish: ………………………………………………………………………………………………
Dish:  I wish you hadn’t said this! I just ‘asked’ you to be with me.

The platter slipped from my hand. It fell on the marble floor. I managed to hold back the cup. The dish….. well! 
The servant broomed 23 pieces into the dustbin.

The Journey

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On November 12, 2018

In Articles

This article was published in the 2015 issue of The Chemical Society Magazine, Miranda House, Delhi.

5th April,2015. An awfully quiet evening that had often stirred the vivid emotions of all kinds. And with all the worries beginning to crowd my mind every now and then it becomes increasingly difficult to remember the past happy college life that I had already lived and of which I had only a month and a half left to live. In the rat race of life how it becomes incredibly difficult to actually focus on the optimistic glories of the present in order to just grab a space for the far tuned future! In the rat race of life how we lose every memory of the reasons of why we are in a place that we are, and tend to lament over all the not achieved ruthless goals that seem divine only for few moments in our life cycle!

Is it worth living this way?

Maybe we forget to appreciate what we already have, what we already have had. Maybe people and society influence us too much to think in a way we were never tuned to think when we first started the whole process of learning. Learning was always a two way process in childhood. When a father taught the child how to spell a word, the child taught the father an incredible way to teach and be patient till the very end. And here we are now, when all we need to get is a bit ahead in life than others, in no matter what way we achieve that. Achieving has become the soul goal of life and the theory behind the result bears no resemblance to the traditional ways of achieving excellence.

The first day of college was a day that started in a laboratory. My life away from home had had its first chance of tasting adventure in its own way.A life away from parents, a life away from the chitter chatter of typical Bengali families who had nothing other than ‘career options in life for their wards’ as a topic of discussion on their hit-list, a life away from my calm city of Durgapur which was often flooded with storm of fly ash every now and then driving us crazy. It was a life worth getting. Here was a new city I got to explore. A new set of dreadfully dressed classmates among whom I was the only wretched person found in baggy tshirts and a pair of dirty jeans. I did miss my school friends, but who didn’t? Acceptance had become the mulmantra of life. But it was not bad. The lovely landscape of the college premises coupled with the ‘dressing factor’ in everyone made it a charming place all over! Classes were too regular to start with, because over the years I had got a pretty different image of life in college at least from what  I used to hear about, often from my seniors in colleges of Kolkata! Heaven bless them! And heaven bless our incredible state of West Bengal! However I kept missing my language, my home, my culture, bangla songs and everything. That was when I thought of joining the Music Society of Miranda, Geetanjali. I went for the auditions only to realize there was rat race even there. People had to pass three stages of auditions to sing!

Incredible, isn’t it?

Here there were people who had nurtured their voice and grammar of music since adolescence and were humming and tuning their flawless strands of notes on every bench. Initially I had to search for a bench to sit, because it seemed I had nothing to stand for. I was someone who wanted to join the club just because I missed home, and the culture of music at home. I had no training in classical music to start of. And my degrees in Rabindrasangeet had left me in no condition to compete with such fine skills in the audition room. Somehow that day I managed to pass the first round. The next stage I passed with lower chances of passing, and then I got kicked off at the third round quite obviously. I lost my chance.

It was then that I started writing in class. With a little encouragement from my English teacher, Dr. Gupta, I flourished. He asked me to write everyday. He asked me to vent out everything to him in the form of essays. I took to writing. Every now and then I came up with a new topic to write. Those were the glorious days of my college life when every English class seemed to be the only time I breathed. One fine day I gave him the notebook I used to write in. After reading it through and pointing out flaws here and there, he invited me to the English department staff room and asked me to join the Literary Society of Miranda House. And then my old streaks of fear bubbled up in me, the fear of passing tests to join some society. I let him know about the suppressed phobia in me to join any society in college. He and his friend then suggested me to join and go to every workshop that took place no matter what. So here I joined the society surreptitiously. I attended some workshops just for the mere idea of learning. He was the only person in my entire college life who helped me learning, who encouraged me to learn. He pointed out to me, that learning is not always about passing tests. It is the zeal within one’s soul that helped.

When I came back the next semester, Dr. Gupta was gone to some other college. Apparently his colleagues were not very happy with him, he vented out later in his texts to me. I had lost another person who could help me out figuring things out in my life. I gave up writing. I took to camera.Taking photographs and capturing moments became my new passion. I gave up my hope of joining societies. I did things for my ownself. Classes and labs got kept me more busy than ususal. Dr. Gupta kept inviting me to join him to different music concerts all over Delhi, and I started declining them one by one. My schedule left me with no leisure time for my passion. It was hard out there in the society to pass tests in fields I was interested in. And it was hard to get appreciation in a field I was assigned to.So then my last attempt was to write something that would stay in the college maybe for some years, in the papers. I managed to pass the test of impressing the editors in charge of the college Editorial Board and joined the Editorial Board. I got my article published in the college magazine about the #Hokkolorob protest that the people of Bangla launched against the Jadavpur University assault.

I had spent the whole time in the college missing my state, my people, my culture. And now when I was few days away from leaving Delhi, I realized how much I have gained from everything that I went through. How much I would miss this city. How much I would miss the independence I enjoyed. The energy to brush off my knees every time I failed and stand up to fight again, the courage to travel at night all by myself on a rickshaw to roam the streets and click the nightlife of Delhi, the carefree shrug that I give when I have got no supporters for me, the boldness to live by myself ! Delhi gave me everything!

Honey Chocolate Cake gone Haywire

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On November 12, 2018

In Uncategorized

Recipes are often described as a cakewalk. More often than not they turn out to be anything but an easy turn of events that smoothly give you the exact piece of delight that you have been expecting. The path of cooking, and more so baking, is never a smooth path free of doubts and dilemma. This I say, with my brief experience of six years of baking.

Recipes are often described as a cakewalk. More often than not they turn out to be anything but an easy turn of events that smoothly give you the exact piece of delight that you have been expecting. The path of cooking, and more so baking, is never a smooth path free of doubts and dilemma. This I say, with my brief experience of six years of baking.

My granmom is a specialist in cakes. Much unlike my mother she would never rush into a cake recipe. She would wait for the perfect rat-tat-tat in her heart that would impulsively and spontaneously urge her to bake on some easy and lazy day, when there is no hurry and enough time to bring in tasty innovations into her recipe. On other days, when she is not baking or cooking something impulsively, she would describe to me the little tricks of how a little cinnamon (dalchini) can enhance the flavour of a fruit cake. She would often explain how in her times, which was an era technically and chemically challenged to synthesize easy-to-use essenced liquids, an extra degree of art and passion was required to actually bring in those flavours in a cake. An orange cake could be baked only during winters, when the oranges in the market would be bright orange and the peels fleshy enough to squeeze into an orange pulp. The pulp could then be used for baking the cake and if the baking was proper, oh boy, the neighbourhood would know. A Jam Cake; oh yes, my granmom was cool enough to name it that way! A Jam Cake would be more like a tart that would have a checkerboard made on top with different flavoured jams in each of the checkers.

Well, that’s where I started. With a baking history like that, I could never get deviated. I started with the innocent whipping of cake ingredients into a batter, where the ingredients would be improvised by mother or granmom occasionally. I was interested in doing the tiring muscular job of mixing the batter without pay, only because I was promised that when the batter was shifted to the baking tray, I could lick the bowl with some left over batter in it. I could cling on to it as long as I could. Honestly, and I say this even today, the batter tastes way better than the cake!

I was only six years ago that I started improvising the ingredients in the cake recipe on my own. And since then I haven’t stopped. But by then I had left home. I had gone to Delhi for finishing my graduation. Whenever I came home, every occasion called for a little baking. Sometimes baking itself called for some genuine and gentle meet-ups. My birthdays were no more for mother or granmom to experiment their cake recipes with. My birthdays were meant for my friends in Delhi who never failed to surprise me with the richest and most delicious of cakes from the finest of bakeries in Delhi. In the midst of all the glistening icing and the decorative choco chip or butterscotch dressings, the flavour of cinnamon fruit cakes, vanilla sponge cakes, orange flavoured cakes or jam cakes were falling dull. However, I started missing the dullness altogether. Home was the perfect place that let me celebrate on the dull and boring cakes. My granmom was old now and even mother had fewer guests. Their enthusiasm had suffered slacks. Somebody had to pull up the lost glory, right? I was terrible the first time. The first two inches of the burnt crust was neatly sliced out and the next two inches were devoured to the last morsel like it was the best piece of dessert ever.  I gained a little confidence when I first prepared the hot chocolate brownie. It had the prefect moistness and the perfect texture. Only I burnt the hot chocolate a little that gave the cake, as my father said, a nameless roasted feel.

In the midst of all the false appreciations, just to keep my spirits high, baking became a hobby for me. It could make me happy, release my stress and surprise people on their birthdays when I could improvise new recipes for them.


The summer of 2017. After a long time spent for studies, in the city of Delhi and the town of Rajgir, I have come home for a little break from all the reckless monotonous schedule of research and academics. After a planning of about 5 years, my father has finally got me a proper microwave baking oven. The first of the baking recipes I planned in the new oven was a Honey-Chocolate Cake Recipe.

I started my preparations late at 9 in the night. It was an odd hour of the day to start a new project of baking. I call it a project because, the process genuinely is a detailed arrangement starting from gathering the dishes and bowls and the ingredients to the dish-washing and putting them back into place. So, it takes a lot of mental planning to actually carry out the baking. Once decided, the dry ingredients including 2 cups of flour, one teaspoon of baking powder and half a cup of cocoa powder were mixed in a washed and dried bowl and kept aside. A separate microwave-proof bowl was taken and some milk chocolate slabs were melted in the oven for 2 minutes. A large separate bowl was washed and dried and kept ready for mixing the wet ingredients. A cup of melted butter, one and a half cup of white sugar and the melted chocolate were mixed thoroughly in this bowl. Once the mix becomes smooth and fluffy, half a cup of condensed milk could be used for bringing a smooth texture and proper consistency of the batter. However, at this late hour, I realized that we had run out of condensed milk. So instead, I boiled about a cup of milk to half its volume until it became a little thick in consistency and added this to the mixture. Once the wet ingredients were ready, about a tea-spoon of honey should have been added. So with this, I come to the most interesting aspect of this blog, where I intend not to write the exact recipes that would give us the dishes we expect. I rather choose to write about the grievous faults I made while carrying out the recipes that turned them into burning mishaps.

Now, to explain why I did what I did, let me tell you that honey is one ingredient that never tires me. I can have spoonfulls of honey in one go. So, once I took the bottle of honey, I could see it pouring into the bowl of mix with its beautiful golden flow and I just went on seeing it. I could feel pricks at the back of my tongue and the saliva striving to come forth and it was too late when I realized that I had emptied about half of a100grams bottle of honey into the mix. Wonderfully aware of this and happy that my cake is going to be rich in honey and chocolate, I poured the dry mix into the wet one. The entire batter was mixed thoroughly and set into the greased micro-wave proof baking dish inside the oven. The batter in the dish was microwaved at 900 W for 5 mins. I went back to licking the batter bowl, as usual.

By 5 mins of baking, the kitchen and the rooms were overflowing with the beautiful smell of baked flour and cocoa. However the batter in the dish inside didn’t seem well baked still. So I put it back into the oven and baked it for 5 more minutes. The entire surface of the cake gave out little ripples of volcanoes and was literally boiling, I saw through the oven window. But even after five more minutes, the cake didn’t seem fully baked. I baked it for 5 more minutes and then pulled it out of the oven and placed it under the fan on the table to cool down. I was not happy with the baking still. I felt it was too moist. Moreover, the baking powder did not seem to have had any effect on the cake. It lay close to the bottom of the dish not allowing the cake to rise at all. I kept wondering what went wrong.

After about half an hour of cooling, the cake was sliced out of the dish and cut into pieces. I took out a piece to try out the taste. To my expected astonishment, as I dug my teeth into the slab, I couldn’t pull them out; it was that sticky and hard. I realized, the extra honey had turned the cake into a crystal that was extra-hard instead of extra-rich. The intense sticky property of the honey makes honey one of my favorite sweeteners. However, it was this property of honey that had ruined my rich honey-chocolate cake.

I saw my mother take out a piece of the cake and put in her mouth. I thought I should confess before she dug her teeth into it. I ran to her and was just starting to explain when she said, ‘How beautiful you make them!’ as she reached out for another piece. My father..well, he is a perfectionist. He took a bite and analysed the faults I could have made in the process, never forgetting to say, “Well, I still like it!”


Now that’s the beauty of a family..

Unveiling a Masked

By

On November 12, 2018

In Uncategorized

“Has it always been so hard?”, he asked.

“Well, it hasn’t been this hard. No.” said she.

“Then why now,  of late?”

“Well maybe I was too happy… I had more friends than foes.” Laughed she.

“That isn’t so bad”

“Oh it is, doesn’t allow you think, doesn’t allow you sit.

Happiness tires you.

Happiness frustrates you.

You sit with a pen and paper out of habit and you end up leaving it blank.” Said she

“Have I hurt you today?”


“I do not know.I am not sure.But you’ve let me speak today“, smiled she.

She rose from the chair, twirled on her toes,

Fixed her eyes on him and bent close.

“Have you ever laughed in the middle of a song?Or sneezed in the middle of a speech?”
“Not that I can remember of?”

“Shhhh… Tonight you let me speak.

Have you been interrupted in the middle of a final act,

An act you have been imagining to deliver without a flaw?

Or tried painting with a bruised thumb?

Or left a painting incomplete?

Tore off a sheet with a verse,

Just because you didn’t like the nuisance you poured on it?

Have you tumbled into a pool?

Got up,

And have you wanted to tumble into it again?


I have dreamt wildly colorful dreams,

I knew not where the colors came from.

A nameless rainbow after the storms  brought to me a nameless cloud.

The cloud ran dry with all the running around,

The bottles lay empty now.

The colors that lit up new dreams for me,

Lay dried in the bottles.

The canvas with an unfinished figure made.

I had the brush and the canvas and the bottles in front.

But the colors didn’t rise in my brush now.

The moisture in them lost.

And then one day, that storm came again,

Drenched me and my bottles of hues.

The rainbow was not the same one.It had different shades of orange and blues.


The figure on the canvas grew a new wing.

The figure on the canvas could now sing.

The dreams I dreamt never came back.

The storm brought to me a new cloud.

This one doesn’t shed often,

But when it does ,I see my dreams peeking

And I hear my dreams shrieking

From a distant nameless cloud.

A cloud that had once come to me,

Lost its name and never came back.


Here you sit, listening to me,

Like a dumb puppet you stare.

I have always been this lunatic, I have always had imaginations,

Your distant love made me numb.

I had words that boiled inside

Only to get frozen on my lips,

The foolish pleasures numbed my fingers and my pen’s nibs.

Here you sit, staring as if you never knew the real me..

Maybe you did,

Maybe it was this insanity you fell for

And then you lost me like that nameless cloud I lost”


“Have I hurt you terribly today?”, after a long pause he asked.


She sighed gently, sat down, looked at him and said,
“Thank you for unveiling a masked.”

To Fall For a Cause

By

On November 12, 2018

In Uncategorized

To those innumerable moments when people gave me chance to breathe…

To those innumerable moments when people took that breath away…

To those ominous moments when I have tried to break off…

To those miserable moments when people made me sway..


To make it all work ..

To make it all fall apart..

To make it all fall for a cause…

I tried to pull through…

I forced to pass through…

It never made sense to the world

It never will.

The world sees only the destination,never the path.

The world is too busy to appreciate quick success,

The world is too busy to praise the already famous.

The world is too busy ignoring the rest.

 

There has been times when the world was never generous to some..

And too generous to me.

Those weren’t happy times.

I knew the pain,

I saw the pain.

I tried to talk it out.

But ignorance made the perfect mask,

A mask of smiles,

A mask of perfect restlessness..

And when times gave these times back to me,I failed my masks…

I failed my ways…

Is it right to just let go?

Is it right to let in ?

Is it right to enjoy the shallow appraisal of the world?

Is it the right time to begin?

Maybe it is not.

For, the role reversal would be painful.

Enough painful to let go.

Enough painful to let in.

And the impervious crust would again be a mystery for a lover.

A mystery to fall for.A love to fall for.

All to fall for a cause.

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