INDIRA LAISRAM

Yesterday while watching Masterchef, young Emma was hysterical, almost, as she was pitted against her favourite Ben (my favourite too) in the elimination round. But watching season four of this hit show has for me been less about food and more about emotions. Every contestant plates out a dish and with it they also serve dollops of tears. Either the food reminds them of the loved ones they cooked for - a grandmother, a long lost friend, a sweetheart, a  child et al., or they are fraught with too many emotions when making a pie, a cake or a curry. And then they miss their family so much. You would think they were confined in Siberia.  Watching Emma who almost refused to cook against Ben, who she called her brother and mentor, I thought she should be in a crying show. Her tears just did not stop even when she was cooking in the very intense final round. But wry as I may sound, I must admit I was part of the whole emotional drama playing out on the idiot box. The tears were welling

I am alone at home right now and my thoughts like my dreams travel to every corner – from the absurd to the ludicrous to the bizarre. I know the day is nearly over and you are on your way. I know how you look forward to coming home, to seeing me, to playing your guitar, to slipping into your comfortable clothing and whinge and laugh about the past eight hours of the day. In turn I do love to open the door and feel the cold tip of your nose. Five years is a good run. But if I could turn the clock of my life, I could have done without all my ex-es and had you alone in my life. We were so meant to be together. You found love and did not want to wait. Yes, there is sweetness in waiting but you were never the long distance types, you were so sure of the power and strength of your love that you travelled the distance to be with me and I travelled the distance to begin a new life with you. For life, we discovered, is a series of moments lived together, not years of waiting. And you pro

Virginia and Lalitha – two distinct women.  It’s almost going to be a week since I met them and I have been trying to figure out how to tell their story.  It was a cold and foggy 8 degree Melbourne last week when I went for the usual Thursday morning walk from the gym which is always followed by light step classes and stretches. I enjoy this one as the walking is fun and there are generally so many of us. After my long holidays it took me a while to get my ass on the gym, unlike my enthusiastic Lolo who these days is also busy brushing up his guitar skills. Besides it is so cold nowadays. I was a bit disappointed that there were just two of us for the walk. But Virginia was as pepped up as me, I found out later she had just enrolled. I see every new member in the gym begin with such fervour. Some like me get slack with time. I feel I have no time for the gym! We crossed the pedestrian light and walked towards the park. I had to tell her my ankle was just recovering from a b

They say what you remember is not the same as what you witnessed. But I am hoping the reels of my memory are still as sharp as a camera’s. Mcleodganj, a little, busy town surrounded by snow capped Himalayas, rich pine trees and gurgling waterfalls and a few lakes has been home to Tibetan refugees for many years. The story goes that Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama fled here in 1959 after a failed uprising against Communist China. Since then, many Tibetans have found refuge here. At the Himalayan Yoga Centre right up in Dharamkot where we had gone for a small retreat after five weeks of roaming around India, I found myself among a group of mainly western tourists for whom spiritual India was beckoning at these foothills of the Himalayas. There were people of all ages suffering different ailments -- acute backaches, short arm arising out of a surgery, knee injuries, etc. I felt my ankle sprain was a dot in this sea of injuries. But I was here to see how yoga heals.  Part of me