Growing up as a child, my relationship with my sister evolved in a very different way from that of my brother. I spent time with them only till I was sixteen years of age and then I was packed off to a residential school. I would get to see them only during the holidays – a couple of times a year. Throughout those years though, my brother and I bonded very strongly. We were born five years apart, however, we have remained very close to each other. Even today, we talk to each other at least once a day. Some of them are simply pulse-checking calls asking “Everything ok?” and lasts no more than 15 seconds – but we make the call, anyways. Every time I am in India, he makes it a point to ensure we are together everyday – regardless of the location. And he will not allow me to rent a car. He has to accompany me and drive himself wherever we go.

On the other hand, my sister and I – and we were born less than two years apart – never bonded that strongly. First, we fought over the same toys and then I hated her friends (because they were girls 🙂 ) In school, I was always awkward with girls (yeah, I know, it is difficult to believe that today) and everytime her friends would come to our house, I would drag my brother out of our house from the backdoor and start playing outside. There has always been that awkward distance between us.

However, there was one thing that always brought us together – our love for music. My brother was never musically inclined. That was my moment with my sister. Three to four times a week we would sit down for an hour together and practice music. That, of course, fell by the wayside when we left home to pursue studies.

For the last couple of years, we have tried to reconnect to those days by sitting down to practice music whenever I come to India.

This time was no exception.

“I really don’t care. Order something”. That was my lackadaisical response to my brother’s query “What do you want to eat?” as we started settling down at our table at Pan Asian restaurant at ITC Sonar hotel. And therefore, that is what he did. The usual Bengali favorites of hakka noodles, fried rice, manchurian gobi and so on. I was more focused on spending time with him than what I was going to eat that evening.

Something curious happened in the next couple of minutes. Just as the waiter had started walking away, my brother called him back “Ektu salad diye jaaben?” (“Can you get us some salad?”). Very proud of my brother that he was eating his vegetables – and obviously caught in a location context warp as I realized later, I commended him for eating leaves and vegetables. Ever concerned of his health, I enquired about whether he was focusing on the proper dressing too (stay away from the creamy ones, you know).

He stared at me blankly. “Maaney?” (“What are you talking about?”). It took me a couple of seconds to recognize what had happened. You see, in India, “salad” really means a plate of condiments – usually comprising of sliced cucumbers, onions and tomatoes and sometimes carrots and even green chillies with salt sprinkled all over. The sophisticated places might even give you beet-salt.

Chuckling inside, I told him that he should try and eat green vegetables too.
“Knacha ghaas paata khabo?”, he asked indignantly. (“You want me to eat raw leaves and grass?”). I replied in the affirmative explaining how our digestive systems cannot digest cellulose and therefore those leaves are great as fiber for roughage and bowel movements. Other than the obvious source of vitamins.

Thoroughly unimpressed, he dismissed me saying “Amader deshe ogulo goru-tey khay”. (“Here in India, cows eat such stuff”).

“The health benefits of leaves and vegetable salads are well documented”, I persisted.

He gave it some consideration and then burst my balloon. “Toder deshe-r kota goru-r khub bhalo figure?”. (“How many cows in your country are proud of their figures?”).

I gave up and started digging into the salted cucumber and tomato slices that had arrived at our table. Ooh! They were very tasty 🙂

What the 6km run in 90%+ humidity and 90 degrees Fahrenheit giveth,
The Luchi-aloor-dum-begun-bhaja-aloo-bhaja-makhamaara-sondesh breakfast promptly taketh away.

If it is not deeply fried or dripping in sugar, we don’t serve it for breakfast at our house 🙂

The real irony? My dad thinks I should save my knees and stop running. This, from somebody who has had a heart attack and suffers from sugar and kidney issues!!!