Slouchy Sunday

I don't know about you guys, but a blissed out sunday for me involves a faded caftan, oiled hair, an afternoon siesta , newspapers, and an hour long massage. Babita (no, not Bebo's mother), is the friendly, neighbourhood maalishwali whose magic fingers knead away the week's accumulated stress and tension. It is a wordless hour....but oh, how it relaxes me. I think of every possible solution to world issues while Babita works on my tired muscles. This evening I found the answer to the nuclear treaty impasse, and India's sliding economy. I wanted to phone Karan Thapar with the brilliant insights but thought better of it. Just as I was exulting in my own genius, I recalled the joy of enjoying a smoked beetroot salad at Indigo last night. And the delicately flavoured cucumber broth in which floated the perfect salmon ravioli. Unfortunately, the portions were so pitiful, I got home hungry and attacked a slab of dark chocolate. Indigo remains a top favourite, but with rising prices, the chefs have decided to shrink the dishes to bite- sized teasers that tantalise but do not satisfy the appetite. I believe it is called the 'coitus interruptus moment' in fine dining. Other than that grouse, it was a great evening (the chilled Sauvignon Blanc definitely helped), and the place was pleasantly full but not hectic. Inflation rears its ugly head??Oh hell, slouchy sunday followed by manic monday. Babita.... where are you???