Moving Back

Is moving back actually moving forward?

Ten years ago, we moved from England to France when a terror attack in Glasgow airport brought back memories of 7/7 bombings in London and Gordon Brown replaced Tony Blair on the political throne. Terrorism remains a constant thorn in our sides and Brexit has added a new ingredient to the pot. Change is bound to happen. One can never go back to a former lover and expect the same. Both partners move on. As we prepare for our re-entry into Britain, I wonder what lies in store for us.

A decade in France and Netherlands has changed us in ways we don’t even recognise. Driving on the right-hand side of the road seems normal. Spending time in cafes, in pretty squares fenced in by historic buildings have become a way of life. We have eaten French tripe sausages and snails, Dutch bitterballens, krokets and pancakes. Dazzled by the range of cheeses and wines, we have allowed ourselves to become food snobs, quite unaware that when we order a wine we like to know the terroir. ‘Is the rose from the Camargue?’ I ask a baffled waiter in Nijmegen. He doesn’t know and has to ask the manager. I hesitantly order a kir, wondering if they’ll know to mix cassis and wine to make my favourite apero. Cheap red wines give me migraines, I hear myself say. I’m all right with a Chateauneuf du Pape.

The French may have haute cuisine but we have longed for English culinary goodies - steak and kidney pies, fish and chips and hot desserts like jam roly poly with lashings of yellow custard. House guests are asked to bring PG Tips teabags and Heinz salad cream. Indian spices are available widely but the love of English food – baked beans and Marmite I’m sorry to report is not something the Europeans share. In fact, the general opinion is that the English can’t cook, that over-boiled vegetables and bland meat constitute la cuisine anglaise. But we have been zealous champions of pies as much as curries and I do believe that the Europeans now have a better idea of the force of the fork across the Channel.

As I reflect on my time in mainland Europe I am pleased with my achievements. I have paraglided over an Alpine valley, taught English as a Foreign language, published my debut novel Under the Pipal Tree and typed The End to the first draft of my domestic noir, No Missed Call. I speak French and have achieved my ambition of reading the original versions of L’Etranger by Camus and Le Misanthrope by Moliere. I have a basic grasp of Dutch and am now learning German.

If this sounds to you like listing accomplishments and boasting on social media, it’s not meant to be. Rather, it’s reassuring myself that although I have not been in full-time employment, I have lived life to the full and pushed personal boundaries. Indeed, in life as on the roads, when you cross a border, the instant change of culture and environment hits you like a warm flannel on cold cheeks. In French, a border is a limit. I like the idea of a metaphorical road trip, of reaching the limit of a country, beyond which new adventures beckon.

From chaotic roads in southern France to disciplined pedestrian crossings in the Netherlands, it has been a journey full of wonder and ‘Ah’ moments. It’s a constant process of learning new things.

Therefore, I ask myself, is going back actually going forward?

We are moving back to England to live. I repeat this mantra as I pack ten years into boxes. Ca va aller, it’s going to be all right.

What would it be like? It’s the same house but different us. The children have grown up, the neighbours have retired. No more frantic school runs and chatting with other mums in the school playground. No more Sunday nights fretting over - are their uniforms clean, have they done their homework, have I got something clean, smart and ironed to wear for work? Who is taking them to the dentist? GCSEs, A levels, a thing of the past. We missed out on most of their university years. We were abroad, so they scarcely had the excuse of bringing home dirty laundry. They tried.

We are entering a new phase of life - semi retirement. In clearer terms, it’s working part-time to occupy ourselves while pursuing hobbies. My hobby of Writing, will continue to be my profession for this golden period when our duties are done: mortgage paid, children independent, leaving us free to renovate our house and re-invent ourselves.

That’s definitely a way forward, don’t you agree? Please leave comments below or share your experiences.

Prawn and courgette curry recipe

250 g prawns raw

1 courgette diced or green beans

1 small onion

2 cloves of garlic

1 inch ginger

1 small tin of coconut milk

1 tsp each of ground turmeric, chilli, cumin and coriander

1 small stick of cinnamon, few cloves and cardamom

Sliced green chillies

1 bay leaf

1 or 2 tablespoons of oil.

1 teaspoon sugar

I keep my cooking simple. If you haven’t got an ingredient, leave it out or replace. The main ingredients are good quality prawns, turmeric and coconut milk and of course the base for the sauce: onion, garlic and ginger. You can also make delicious prawn curry without coconut milk. Cook with confidence and your curry will be all the better for it. A curry is a bold dish and so it needs gusto. Act panicky in front of the pot and you’ll get a diluted version. The pot is a vessel for your emotions. It reads your thoughts and feels your emotions. Most of all, it knows you are nervous. Show the pot who is boss. My curries as a twenty-one-year-old-fresh-from-India-bride were weak. You get the picture.

My measurements are approximate. For example, I took out a few handfuls from a bag of frozen prawns. It looked like 250 g, but that is just an estimation. I didn't get my weighing scales out as I didn't think I would be blogging about it. I'm a regular cook not one trying to be Nigella. Don’t be religious about measurements. Indian cooks use andaz which translates to guessing or estimating. Each curry varies according to the cook’s personality, family recipes, the region he or she comes from, the time of the month and most importantly mood. Beware, your curry will be hotter if you are cooking angry. That is not a bad thing.

If you are cooking prawns, you are clearly not a shellfish phobe. Black tiger prawns are the best but the ones with heads and shells on do need a bit of a clean. Keep the heads in the curry of you wish for a more delicious gravy. Juicy brains, need I say more? Faint hearted souls - buy clean, shelled ones. Heads need to be trimmed – whiskers, eyes, out. Peel off shell and devein – which means slit the back and take out black thread. If you don’t know what that is, I’m not going to tell you. Some things are better left unexplained. This is not a biology lesson.

Wash the prawns and sprinkle with salt and turmeric. Massage and leave for half an hour.

Chop or blitz onions to a paste in a food processor. Chop or grate garlic. Grate ginger. You can put all three in the food processor and cook together. No one will know.

Heat oil and add a teaspoon of Indian butter/ghee, if you’re feeling generous and that diet isn’t working. Add the prawns and fry quickly until pink. Take out and leave in a dish. Add a touch more oil and stir in bay leaf, whole cloves, cardamoms, cinnamon sticks. Fry the onion, garlic and ginger paste until golden and mushy and the raw smell has gone. Add the courgette pieces and fry for a few minutes. Add the ground spices and stir quickly making sure the pan isn’t dry. You do not want your spices to burn, That is the one rule in a curry. Add a little bit of oil to help the frying process. Add salt and a small tin of coconut or half a large one. You can add some water to dilute the sauce at this stage enabling the courgette to cook. If you are not adding any vegetables you don’t need to add much water. The sauce should be thick. Add sliced green chillies, sugar and salt to taste. Cover and cook for ten minutes or until the vegetables are nearly cooked. Add prawns and cook for a further five minutes. Garnish with coriander leaves and serve with rice.

Good luck! Experiment and change the recipe until you are happy with your version. This is mine. I will be adding recipes from dishes I have mentioned in my novel Under the Pipal Tree, like pea pancakes and coconut dal (lentils). I'm more a writer than a cook but I like to share my laid back style of cooking from time to time. 

Under the Pipal Tree is available from Amazon and Cinnamon Press.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B06XJ2HSBH/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1491589672&sr=1-1&keywords=Under+the+Pipal+Tree

http://www.cinnamonpress.com/index.php/hikashop-menu-for-products-listing/fiction/product/241-under-the-pipal-tree-anjana-chowdhury

A strange sickness

There is a strange sickness in the world. A new virus, for which there is no immediate cure, has taken tenacious hold in the psyche of some. Our threat, X, holds a reign of terror while we scuttle like frightened rabbits searching shelter. Air strikes fill my heart with fear of repercussions and yet we cannot stand by helpless. We must act. I wish I could believe there is a God who is watching over us all. In the meantime, we must do our bit in a universal show of togetherness just as a previous generation stood united during the World Wars. Only a few decades ago, the young fought in the frontline. Watching old documentaries I used to feel relieved knowing we are in a period of Peace. No more. Our young men and women, as well as the rest of us are going to war every day − taking the underground or going to see a concert. You never know when they'll strike. But let us live with courage and hope that good sense will prevail and we will find a cure to this sickness.

Migrants

Migrants: Such a loaded word right now. In history at one point or another we’ve all been migrants. How far back do we go? If Anthropological theories are to be believed then the ancient man migrated from Africa to other continents. English Pilgrims fled to America, the Germanic tribes moved from the Continent to Britain creating the Anglo-Saxons, and in my home land, in India, thousands were displaced during the Partition. We have moved countries for economic reasons, war and religious persecution before, so why is Europe astounded by this now? We all agree that housing such a large number of people in any country is a problem and a pressure on resources but on a humanitarian basis surely we must pull together and share.

Old Home New Spirit

Eight years ago almost to the day we moved to France. Our English home had been rented out until last week when we took possession of the keys to the house to add a bit of love and care. The builders have arrived today and all that needs to be done is to watch the old home being transformed one bit at a time.

It feels strange sitting here on the bay window, with nothing to do, just look out and reminisce. What had passed and what would take place next. The arbour looks tired, the windows drab. New frames will add a sparkle. The whole house is redolent with memories. The same us, older and in a different place in life – middle aged empty nesters with a French spirit, missing the mountains, the baguette, the cheese, the wine, the customary closures of shops. What had seemed an annoyance in France seems normal – the long hours of shops being open in England appears vulgar in comparison - an insult to hearth and home. The need for earning money and commercial success at the cost of quality of life sickens me – the very same person who had complained endlessly about random shop opening times on French soil. Are we so hard to please as customers? As people?

It’s a cool summer day, the temperature dropping to 19 degrees. What happened to the sun? The promised heat? Who changed the roads while we were away?

It’s such a mixture of feelings, this going back into an old life, temporarily. I feel dissatisfied and unsettled – part of me wants it back as it was, part of me wants to stay where I am now, knowing it would never be the same. Something has changed. We have changed. Our children have grown up and no longer dwell under our giant wings protecting them from every hurt. They call a different city a home.

Who am I then, if not the provider of home? What is my new role? I think about these things. Within weeks a new family would live here - where our children played football, where they fought their nightly bedtime battles. The grown up children look back with fondness but don’t want to go back to the past. They are always moving forward, to another time, to another future, their future. It is I who is left behind, cradling memories.

It is time to let go.

I hear my mother saying, ‘It’s all just bricks and mortar. Don’t hang on to anything.’
She is right.

The Pen Always Wins

It’s not the first time the pen has faced violence. It won’t be the last. It’s a cowardly act of unfathomable depth when you fight a pen with a gun. Don’t you know the pen always wins? The tragic deaths at Charlie Hebdo were not in vain. We have fought hard for Freedom of Expression. We will not be silenced now. Je suis Charlie. RIP fallen friends.

A Winter Promise

It's a cold fresh day in January. Outside my windows, snow covered Alps bathed in sunshine stand against a glorious azure sky. If you're in the southern hemisphere, the latter half of the sentence applies. If you are in England, the garden is drenched in rain. The Christmas pudding sits stodgily in your belly, the tangy taste of Tanqueray and tonic is faint on your tongue. You feel reflective.

This time of year it is customary to make New Year Resolutions and equally predictably break them as the year passes. There is no earthly reason not to make promises at any other time of the year – they are equally valid I’m sure. But it’s something about a whole year before us, a brand new section of time in our Gregorian calendar that spurs us on to make a promise to ourselves to achieve special goals. I am reminded of crisp new exercise books at the beginning of a school year (which in my days was January), of pages that stuck until gently teased open to reveal a white sheet, unwritten, quivering with excitement at what that first word would be. Quite prosaically it was the first day of term. 

Imagine then, without a date - what would your first written word be this year? Creatively. I don’t count endless Facebook entries which would have inevitably started with ‘Happy’ New Year. I want to use a fabulously enriching word – Serendipity, Epiphany, Gossamer, Elixir (in my case a shot of Bailey’s)

And yet, Happy is not a bad choice at all. Why not start the New Year wishing happiness to all?

Happy - A good solid word. Unimaginative. Succinct. Selfless. 

In our selfie taking days it feels good to turn the focus on others. So I wish everybody a Happy New Year and mean it from the bottom of my heart. 

Here, again, I have a problem. Why bottom of the heart and not brain when it’s the brain that encases our emotions? Who decided the heart must be delegated to be the receptacle of love – beating away our time on this earth? If you google it, I’m sure you’ll find all sorts of theories but I’m not going to. This year my goal is to spend less time less googling and more time thinking and figuring it out.* 

So here are my resolutions for 2015:-

1.      Publish my book - Under the Pipal Tree (set in India, it’s a tale of identity)

2.      Progress with my new writing blog –Soliloquy (Link and snippets of my novels to follow)

3.      Finish my next novel – No Missed Calls (Psychological thriller. Anyone know a murdering psychopath I could interview? Seriously. Email)

4.      Google less (see above)*

5.      Wish for World Peace (sounding like a Beauty Queen)

Peace and love to all inhabitants of this earth - except the ones who are trying to destroy it.

PS: Leave any good words in the English language you know and love in the Comments box.