Clouds in the valley...

So, the rule is not to roam as a tourist, but to stay as a resident - that alone gives you the right to actually claim the badge of ‘seeing’ a place. Cosmetic tripadvisor-ed tourism is like eating the first starter course - okay, you have seen the Eiffel Tower and its golden spangles at night-time, and have clicked the must-have selfie in front of the Mona Lisa - but ask yourself, have you actually walked on Parisian streets late at night and seen snowflakes of winter descend to start the first strokes of a white heaven? Besides the tick mark on the Louvre, could you actually go to that old rundown yet delectable house of a Rodin or a Delacroix and imagine the artists bubbling in their creativity ages back? If no, then you have seen but a fleeting glimpse of her veiled face, you have not even brushed her hand, forget about the passionate lip-lock. There is just so much more hidden in the jeweled box of every city that a fast paced week-long stay does little justice - yet, in the timele...

I garnish my spicy mutton kasha with a generous sprinkle of chopped shallot and coriander - having accomplished the magnum opus in bengali non-vegetarian, non-pescatarian cuisine, I have earned my stripes as a genuine Bhojohari Manna (the non-pescatarian disclaimer above is required as nothing comes above bhapa ilish, no not even koraishutir kochuri or a cold winter morning). I must admit, despite my usual modesty, that I have genuinely honed my skills as a chef - it takes me less than half an hour these days to whip up a teriyaki chicken or a pan fried salmon. I guess, with commitment, care and sometimes, a bit of compulsion, one can perfect any work of life. Many of my foodie-fans have often asked me where I learned the finer art of balancing the spices. Indeed, when I look back at where it started, now that is some story to narrate. I did happen to help my mum as an errand-boy in the  kitchen since I was a kid, but the real story starts not in the land of luchi and cholar dal, b...

It was very untypical of us to visit a capital city such as Amsterdam, and yet not bother scratching off the must-dos and should-dos from our typically unending list. No, no tulip gardens, no windmills, no celebration of Rembrandt or salutation for Anne Frank - we had decided to visit our old friend Prashant.  In our 3 month long exchange program in Europe, while we were busy criss-crossing the continent, capturing images in the gigabytes, and literally wearing our soles off by traipsing across tinsel-towns, Prashant had, like a monk, found his mountain top. It was located in a small room on the third floor of a quiet building overlooking a canal not very far from the Rijksmuseum. Having invited him on countless occasions to join us in our sojourns, and after being politely declined in his unreplicable singsong voice, we had decided that if the mountain would not come to Muhammad…So there we were, Nishant and me, on a crisp October evening, meeting our friend after weeks with baglo...