Hello,
I am having a good creative flow this month, although I have not been publishing/ sharing them on social media as much. In the past, I have acknowledged my struggles with writing openly. Almost always making it seem apologetic to dream, and have a creative pursuit. Almost always equating writing creatively with wishful thinking. I would judge myself, often offering a narrative where I didn’t think my voice was important enough, that this story needed any telling.
I don’t do that anymore. Not consciously anyway.
Reading Corner
In our previous edition, we read about Irani Cafes, about food that is inspired by the local cuisine in India, and how we can reproduce them in our kitchens. One of the first immigrant experiences that I had was in trying to source my groceries that would help in cooking Indian cuisine. What was I going to do with an entire aisle of cheese? Where is all the fragrance of freshly-bought cilantro? Disappointing.
My taste buds had turned bland and I resorted to convenience over authenticity.
Finding literature about food is difficult because the history of food is mostly local and oral. This is changing in the recent past. One of the books that connect food to history has been Sonal Ved’s Whose Samosa is it Anyway? A book that beautifully traces the history of a lot of local eating habits providing cultural explanations, and is well-deserving of all of its appreciation. Reading it has been a family activity, and we have collectively binged on it!
Writing Corner
Cringe. Cringe. More Cringe. I had met this person through a mutual friend on a vacation, many years ago. We were following each other on social media out of politeness. Sheer Politeness. Why was I watching the preparations of his wedding unfold, thousands of miles away? Why was I being subjected to this CringeFest? I had not signed up for this.
But then I realized, this was not for me. The picture of him surrounded by people who cheered him on, as he danced, was for all of his friends from college who taunted him for having a hobby. The picture where he posed in front of that fancy-ass car was for the teacher who told him that he would grow up and amount to nothing. The picture where he and his wife seemed very much in love was for the one that got away. It was for a somebody, certainly not me. I double-tap with indifference. I passively participate in this Tamasha.
Learning Corner
Lounge Corner
Thank you all for reading!
Pratiksha