The racks of magazines run high along the wall, stacked beyond the brilliant diamond cut Murata glass panes. It is wonderful to know that Louise still cares to collect all the magazines and books that have my name printed anywhere in it. Thirty-seven years, and the woman still has the patience! Being a writer had always been my dream, and I had been successful through my childhood and college years, carving a niche for myself among the few avid readers who thought it worthwhile to go through the school magazine and the ‘University Endeavour’ later on. As I sit in my study, I still wonder if that evening of forty-four years ago, was really a flash of pre-ordained destiny that shaped me through the years…. “Nothing is worthwhile if it doesn’t have the little touch of love in it”. Getting acquainted with the highs and lows of cooking, the domestic and commercial scenario, understanding that some takeaways provide better food than renowned fine diners, except for the ambience; I feel all those piles of glossy covers losing their sheen. It's not that I disrespect culinary perfection; it almost is a chef's way of expressing himself on the plate, but the customer shouldn't feel stifled by the overwhelming stringency in maintaining set-patterns. I've known billionaires who wanted to be served an exquisite 'Lobster Frittata' on a golden platter, but wanted to stick their fingers into the omelette and feel the smoothness before it tickled their taste buds. I wouldn't want to name him, but a world-famous Film Director once told me that man always has this strange instinct to return to his primal state, and when he felt the urge, he found extreme comfort in dipping bagel in his champagne and eating it just like that! I was thirty-seven at the time and considered his notion not only disillusioning but murderous, but I can see my ancestors dipping their breads in ale and honey not more than three hundred years ago! What's astonishing is that I don't see any abnormality in that picture, though conformists might find it revolting.

There comes a point in the life when a man gets thoroughly tired of all innuendoes of self-admiration and finds his niche of personal solace in reminiscing. Ruminating on the life he has led, feeding on his inner proclivities that were lost along most part of his life, because he was in the mill to compete, earn, be respectable and be famous. The last two hardly come to most men but I was lucky, and it was through running along such worldly ways that I discovered that ‘The Mother’s Kitchen is the Best’, for no amount of Michelin Stars can overpower the flow of love that pours out there.

Ruminating…. Feeding…. My God! I’ve been so embroiled in my profession that I can hardly think of any words that aren’t associated with eating, much the same way as the hungry pauper by the sidewalk. I cannot but profoundly profess my adulation for Mahatma Gandhi who summed up the experiences of my life and that of most culinary connoisseurs, sommeliers and critics in his very simple words, “There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread”; and when they tear away at the food like animals, those actions are beyond confines of refinement and aristocracy, but replete with unsurpassable interest in 'the food'! Just it!

This is probably my last article and I might cause a giant uproar in the world of hospitality. Hence did I take the liberty of letting out the real ‘me’ at sixty-five, because it would be sad not to let the world know. Standards were set for the benefit of extracting the best out of everything, but conformance has subdued the emotional aspects of the ‘maker’ and the ‘receiver’, thus clouding the actual satisfaction that a youth returning home from war, finds in discovering everything that naturally came to him as a child, when he didn’t have standards to conform to. But more painful would it be if I didn’t substantiate my experiences with the story of Monsieur Busset…..

*

I was twenty-one and second year through my journalism. Mr. Jonas, a rich patron of our School had taken me as a protégé, and had decided that it was time to experience a little real world journalism. I must say on hindsight, that the old man had a tilt towards glorifying tragedy, because he said that a writer who didn’t write for a cause was better off dead. We were going to the 'Cuisine de l'amour' for Pierre Busset's own private party, and it sent a shiver through my spine. Pierre Busset had been the then biggest name in the hospitality business and the leading dailies often ran pictures of him, surrounded by the who's who of the city's elite circuit. He had been among the twentieth century pioneers who introduced 'fine dining' to Americans; not that the good Swiss hadn't already embarked on the noble venture long back, but the war had brought in a surge of dreamers to America, who had married the best of both worlds to create a mélange of newfound thinking and old world traditions. I was informed that it was his daughter's birthday, and his chain of restaurants took the opportunity to celebrate the occasion each year. I wondered why Busset had never been in news for these gala celebrations. 'Princess', he called his daughter; no wonder I thought.

Speaking out my thoughts aloud, I realized that Mr. Jonas had a wry smile pasted on his lips. He said that Princess was rightfully called so, because each day she had a party thrown to her, and the gala ones on her birthday. The old man then whispered into my ear that it was going to be an evening I would cherish forever. I wonder if such accurate predictions were the side effects of a head full of silver hair.

*

‘Buena venue’, the doorman in his white and red uniform with golden edges nodded politely. I could see that the sign read ‘Closed’ outside; it was indeed a private party for a select few. We were ushered in by a portly gentleman with pink cheeks, and the ambience spoke of general festivity with festoons doing their rounds high up along the mahogany lined walls and confetti flowing in abundance. It was beautiful, as we were led to our table, I whispered into Mr. Jonas’ ear: “Looks like we are the only guests to have arrived”. He led an assuring hand on my shoulder and spoke about the virtue of patience. I looked around to see that none of the tables except ours had been laid; no cutlery, no glasses and no fine China. Strange, it seemed, nevertheless, I was an amateur trying to assess the depths and finesse of French hospitality....

The musicians were poised on their regal perches up the curving balconies on both sides of the majestic staircase that ran beside the two inconspicuous elevator doors that led up to the private dining rooms and conference halls. I had heard that Monsieur Busset’s vision had elevated the 'Cuisine de l'amour' to have a terrace swimming pool and the best open air bar in the world, besides having an adjoining golf course and a full backyard bistro outlet. Busset had created this restaurant according to his own vision of mixing the apex fine dining options with the best possible entertainment. He had thought of every possible option which one of the guests might feel like indulging in, besides having his ‘food’. The renowned critics who admired him for his ‘legendary outlook’ had been the ones to bitterly denounce his ‘eccentricity’ not more than two decades back. Nevertheless, I was drawn out of my reverie by the arrival of our host, Monsieur Busset. He was his usual self, no tuxedo, not even a dinner jacket; just his white shirt, and the linen trouser held up by steel suspenders.

Monsieur Busset let himself into one of the chairs and the Garçon hovered in like an Angel with his quintessential gold plated tray, ready to deliver the finest of alcoholic beverages at our behest. Being a novice that I was at the time, I haven’t been able to remember Monsieur Busset’s recommendation, but I would say that the taste of the brilliant red liquid lingers on to my senses even after the passage of four decades. Mr. Jonas seemed to be on extremely amiable terms with him, and I decided that the two of them should be left off for a little private tête-à-tête. I sought excuse and found my way out into the gardens, towards the golf course and would never know how much time I had spent admiring Monsieur Busset’s resources, but our portly usher tugged at my arm suddenly. The guests had arrived. I was instantly taken with the anxiety of looking shabby among all those finely decked celebrities, but was taken aback upon seeing many little heads, mostly dwarfed amid the high backed dining chairs. Along the far walls, sat more than thirty old people, some hardly comprehending their surroundings and a few hardly moving in their wheelchairs. We were the best dressed guests for the evening! My eyes searched for Mr. Jonas, but I found Monsieur Busset smiling at me.

*

The orchestra struck on its chord, embarking on a royal prelude. It was ‘service à la russe’ for our table whereas ‘á la française’ for the rest tables. Each of the elderly people was being attended upon by individual attendants, who pulled little carts laden with steaming bowls and little cloches. I was left open-eyed at the scene around me; lots of questions were swimming in my mind, with no answers; nevertheless, it did little to mar my interests in the amuse bouche of Sevruga Caviar topped on a golden triangle of herbed Bruschetta. What came next was a wonderful concoction so exquisite in its appearance and flavour that it was the first thing I researched on, after exiting the restaurant that night. I came to know that it was cold borscht blended with sour cream and chives. The entry of an exotic pan seared timbale hurled me into the close-eyed stage of gastronomic admiration. What it was stuffed of, I later learnt was the most tender turtle meat, stewed in onions, bacon and cayenne pepper. The courses that followed shall be vague to my memory because I hadn’t yet started on my journey of honing the palette or remembering complicated French terms, but the dinner must have consisted of at least twenty-one courses, none offering anything less than the very best. What keeps on lingering in my memory are my taste buds getting tingled by the perfect little serving of sirloin, the pâté de Foie Gras, the intervention of wonderful sorbets, the oversized portion of Waldorf Pudding, and watching Monsieur Busset steering himself through the maze of his unusual assortment of guests. What sticks vividly to my grey cells though, is my memory of the old and infirm people spreading drool all over the place, the children digging into the food with their little fingers, and all the happy chirping.

*

As I sat lounging in one of the private rooms upstairs, still relishing this memorable dinner, I wondered where Princess was. My naiveté and eagerness to indulge in gastronomic endeavours had completely erased the fact from my mind that I had never once seen or heard of her. I ventured out to find Mr. Jonas standing by the empty seats of the musicians, a rueful expression pasted on his countenance. I followed the direction of his eyes and found Monsieur Busset standing by a wheelchair bound woman, a serving cart pulled close to the duo. He was feeding spoonfuls of some bland soupy concoction, speaking softly to the woman, who stared vacantly at the remains of the party that had taken place. Much of what she was being fed dribbled down her chin, and Monsieur Busset gently wiped it off her collar and front. Mr. Jonas indicated me not to break the silence.

*

When we had emerged out into the world beyond the culinary doors, Mr. Jonas began recounting a story that I have remembered. Pierre Busset had been drafted into the War that had left millions shattered, and he among them. Marie, his wife, the woman we had seen, was pregnant at the time, with their first child, and her husband had been relieved when he was discharged due to war injuries to come home before his wife’s delivery. What he didn’t know was that the Germans had already been there, robbing every granary on their way, setting fire to what they couldn’t take. When he arrived, the women told him that Marie was already into labour since the last two days; it was one of the most difficult labours that ever were to be. She had gone into premature labour having been starved for most part of the last fortnight, and had been delirious speaking about some grand feast, that never was to come. She had never been the same after the incident, her brains all addled up with oxygen deprivation.

“But what of Princess?” I asked.

“Busset never became a father; the little princess was still-born. Deprived of nutrition, the midwife said. In due course the war ended, and being from nobility, the Bussets were given back much of their estate and property, but he didn’t want to stay back there. Moved into America, and set upon arranging grand feasts for everyone, each day. Thus begun his journey into hospitality; but each day he feeds all those orphans and old people, celebrating his Princess’ ‘Birthday’ each year within a close circuit of friends. No publicity; just for Marie, as long as she keeps on hanging to life in her illusionary world”.

The words suddenly cut through the stillness of the night, “Nothing is worthwhile if it doesn’t have the little touch of love in it”. Monsieur Busset had toppled all orthodoxy to pour in feelings into his profession, and the Michelin Stars had followed him. It was not his quest for perfection; it was his quest for ‘Happiness’.

*

Marie died a few months later, and Busset followed her shortly; the chain of restaurants were taken over by other ‘Star’ aspirants, but this one evening had shaped my life by bringing forth my actual passion, the form of writing I would love to do, writing about food and analyzing the amount of love I felt over the endeavour of perfection each time I visited some restaurant, and I shall remember a small one on the corner of a street in Delhi’s Chandni Chowk, that sells excellent street food. I hope my article would help etch out the passion in at least another youth, and would help all the best restaurateurs be more tolerant of love and fingers over cutlery and Bone China.

Soaring, fast in flight,

feathers as pale as snow white,

doves fly to the clouds...

22.6.2020

I told myself I was going to stop liking you.

That I was going to move on and get rid of this feelings that bubble in my chest.

But I can’t seem to keep the smile off my face when our eyes meet.

You make me happy without having a reason

And you make me want to hold on the warmth I feel

Whenever you’re around.

You stood next to me today, side by side, arms touching

And I felt the same warmth spread throughout my body.

I looked you in the eyes, captivated by how the greens, blues, and browns spiraled like a million galaxies.

I wanted the warmth to last a little longer

For our gazes to be shared for one more second

For your body to press against mine for another moment.

But then you pulled away and it was all gone.

Why do I keep falling for you?

He bent down and placed the bouquet of golden flowers on her grave. How he wished he could tell her how much he missed her.

The sound of a sneeze made him lose track of his thoughts of her. He sighed and turned to look for the source of the disturbance.

He looked around, but his eyes had spotted no one around the graveyard.

‘‘Who’s there?’’

Another sound reached his ears. This time it was a quick and strong burst of laughter.

There surely was something out there, just watching him. He clasped his hands ready to say a little prayer.

Then he screamed when he saw a head pass through the headstone of his beloved. He hoped that it was not coming to steal his body. It smiled and asked him what he was doing all by himself at the graveyard.

He took a deep breath. And slowly smiled while wiping away some tears that rolled down his face.

It waited for his response and moved closer to him. He felt better seeing that the head still had a body attached to it.

The being sat criss cross by his side. He pointed to the name on the tombstone & read the name on it— as if he was praying to his guardian angel.

‘‘Daisy Kalolo.’’

He sighed- and bowed his head. The being watched him and looked at the name. It moved its hand pointing at Daisy’s name and said, ‘‘Is that a flower’s name?’’

This made him laugh. He had asked her the same thing. Daisy had introduced him to the world of flowers. Before he had met her he could not tell the difference between gardenias, chrysanthemums, or petunias.

Thanks to Daisy he was somewhat of an intermediate flower expert. Not only could he tell you the different flowers that he knows, he could now also share how to take care of various types of flowers.

‘‘Yes.’’

The being pointed at the flowers and asked, ‘‘Are they daisies?’’

He shook his head, ‘‘No. These are her favorite flowers known as tulips. They are also known as wild tulips.’’

‘‘They’re pretty.’’

‘‘Thanks. That they are.’’

The being sighed.

‘‘What’s wrong?’’

‘‘I have never received flowers from anyone that pays me a visit.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ he said as he pulled a wild tulip from the bouquet & handed it to his new pal.

The being opened it’s hands and happily exclaimed, ‘‘thank you!’’

‘‘From me...and Daisy..’’

He closed his eyes and his mind wandered to the moment that he met Daisy. She had this nature of adventure that he adored. It was like she still had a connection with her inner child.

At that thought he opened his eyes and felt less grief. He realized who he had been talking to.

#ReposeEnPaix

#ProseChallengeOfTheWeek~ #Peace

Her lips missed his although she’d never tasted them before.

She felt the loss so deeply though he never once was hers.

She recollected memories that they did not create.

How curious it is to miss what never was.

This week has been one of those where I constantly remind myself that one day I’m going to die

There will be no news coverage or ballads sung of my great deeds

I won’t have a big cosmic moment where the sky turns red with anger and the earth shakes with my soul

Instead I imagine that it’ll be like the early spring

Snow silently melting off the evergreen pines leaving no trace of myself behind but perhaps a silver puddle and one solitary flower

A dandelion perhaps

Growing in a place where it probably shouldn’t

Heavy looms the evening that ends with sunset’s final rays

for in this eternity of rising and falling

all colors bleed

to black.

Hollow be the glow of stars that burn like embers

for theirs is a death seen from eons away

beneath the endless sea

of space.

I am holding a prayer inside my palms that echoes like a whisper

spoken in a deep and narrow canyon

the meaning clear

even when the words don’t reach.

If the rivers were to stop their roaming

and the clouds were to cease in moving across open sky

I would run to you again

as I have always done.

There is a steadiness here, in the space between your breaths

and I find myself shaping the words I say

around the hollow points

of your shoulders.

I have found a spot between your ribs

where I can rest my head till morning

and hear the beating of our hearts

synchronize to one.

Chaos roams the streets as though she owns them

her long fingers curled around the loose ends of my errant thoughts,

but when your smile lands against my lips,

I no longer know her name.

Wistful is the way I walk beside you

our hands clasped together like the iron rungs of a gate

that will not open, the secrets of our love

held forever within.

I do not fear the last of sunlight’s rays

nor the dead stars or driftless clouds above our heads,

for I am not alone beneath their heavy gaze and I am looking

only at you.

Live your life in Love and Truth.

Let your walking be the Proof.

Let your talk be laced with grace.

Wear His joy upon your face.

Even through sorrow. Even through pain.

Be thankful for sun. Be thankful for rain.

Wish His best for every single soul;

For those close to you, and those you do not know.

Answer all their questions with a sincere heart.

Ask the Holy Spirit- wisdom to impart.

And when there's nothing more to say,

Learn to simply walk away.

Learn to walk away and pray.