Spot On

On an unusually listless Friday morning, a friend's enthusiastic Tweet prompts me to engage in some NPR trolling, and I stumble across an interview entitled, "When Cultures Collide." It's a collision I'm always intrigued by, so with a cup of strong mint and lemongrass chai by my side, I proceed to listen, undisturbed, for the entire, seventeen minute segment, as the band "Goldspot" is profiled. I'm somewhat charmed by the curious melodies crooned by the lead singer, Sid Khosla. Named for the effervescent and syrupy orange soda, exclusively available in India, Goldspot combines dreamy, Bollywood strings (you practically want to dash through a field of marigolds) and a Beatles-inspired commitment to effortlessly hummable tunes, evident in their second album, "And The Elephant is Dancing." In short, happy music.

3 days later, I still have the album on repeat, and I'm baffled by my own obsession. What's with me? A little bit of soul-searching leads me to believe that Goldspot, in all its fused glory, has managed to evoke something in me that I thought wouldn't surface for decades to come: nostalgia.

Khosla's infectious lilt, which at times is inspired by the legendary Bollywood serenader, Kishore Kumar, coaxes me to remember childhood afternoons, when my mother, an accomplished multi tasker, would regularly load up my sister and I in the car. She'd slip in a KK mix tape to accompany us as we expertly whizzed through downtown Kobe. Despite the occasional raised eyebrows we'd receive from some of the locals (ever heard the man yodel?) we'd cross off her exhaustive to-do list, stop by stop, with our trustee tapes blaring. These were the songs that lulled us to sleep and the ones that served as audible mood indicators, letting us in on whether it was an opportune moment to ask for our favorite dinner dish.

In college, surrounded by fellow B&W Bollywood devotees, I distinctly remember when the songs of my childhood unassumingly crossed the cool threshold (in my mind, anyway) as they composed the background score to many a house party, more romantic than rowdy.

As for The Beatles, I'm an ardent fan thanks to my father, who regularly belted out "We Can Work it Out" and "A Hard Day's Night" during family karaoke nights. He'd tell us about stocking up on records as a child, and memorizing the words without the help of the lyric pamphlet we grew so accustomed to, inserted alongside our CDs. There is little else that compares to being stuffed in a room the size of a matchbox with your loved ones, watching them go euphoric (however off key) over a song.

The trouble is, despite being tangled in precious memories, my fascination for sepia-toned Bollywood tunes and The Red Album always felt a little borrowed. So I'm grateful for the existence of a band like Goldspot, which reconstitutes tried-and-tested tunes, pays homage to the legends, all while managing to inject something fresh and spunky along the way. Rather than forcing me to choose between my many worlds--past and present--Goldspot melodiously reassures me that I can, in fact, listen to everything at once.

Under Pressure

If there’s a sound that catapults me back to childhood, it’s the rattle of a pressure cooker. I would watch in awe as the star soloist in my mother's kitchen ballet performed. A silver nozzle engaged in dizzy pirouettes, swirling maniacally, until a whistle marked its aromatic finale. Out came other worldly meals: fluffy pulao, silken dal, and potatoes, gracefully bordering steamy and soft.

Intimidated (who isn't petrified of prying it open a few milliseconds too soon, only to face an eruption that would probably put that volcano in Iceland to shame?) I never envisioned possessing a stainless steel gadget of my own, until I was provided one by my mother-in-law last fall, a warm nudge encouraging me to replicate the gastronomical traditions of Gujarat, the northwestern Indian state that both our families call home. It sat in the desolate corner of a cabinet for months, as I airily assured myself that there would always be time to go the languid, slow boil route. But watching lentils cook is right up there in the entertainment category with paint drying, and I soon relented.

I’d like to think I’m solely upholding heritage but my reasons for perusing the vessel are far more utilitarian: it whittles down an otherwise sluggish ordeal, docks dollars off the energy bill and hardly takes up real estate in my microscopic, metropolitan kitchen. Vinod, as I have not-so-creatively christened my cooker, thanks to the letters emblazoned across his shiny midsection, marks my first--albeit, reluctant--foray into the world of Indian cooking. We'll see where I go with it. For the moment, I face a looming graduation date, a myriad of half-written job applications, a dreary employment market and the occasional bout of homesickness. When it all gets a little overwhelming, I am comforted by the fact that a fragrant, hot meal is just a few screeching whistles away. So along with my cooker, I blow off some steam.

This post is dedicated to my friend, Sima Thakkar, who just launched a brave new website for those who approach tradition with a healthy dose of trepidation, just like me.