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Time of India
19-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Catch Me If You Can– New York Edition
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE Outside Krispy Kreme's flagship store in Times Square, as we waited for our coffee and doughnuts, a sudden commotion broke the buzz of the evening. A NYPD vehicle came hurtling down West 48th Street, its siren blaring, and an officer's voice echoed through the microphone, grabbing everyone's attention. In a flash, five or six tall Black men began hurriedly packing up their wares—an array of counterfeit branded goods like watches, wallets, and handbags neatly laid out on the pavement. They dashed around the corner in a well-practiced escape, vanishing into the crowd with practiced ease. For the untrained eye, their merchandise could have easily passed for the real thing, a testament to how convincing knock-offs can be. What struck me most was how swiftly the scene returned to normal. No sooner had the NYPD patrol car turned the corner than the same men reappeared, effortlessly laying out their goods once again on the pavement, as if nothing had happened. The entire routine seemed rehearsed, almost choreographed—a part of their daily hustle. It reminded me of similar scenes I had witnessed back in India. Years ago, while casually window shopping in the bustling street market of Sector 15, Chandigarh, I saw vendors suddenly scramble in all directions, hurriedly wrapping up their wares. Moments later, two police constables appeared, managing to seize a few sellers and their goods. The rest had already melted into the crowd, only to return once the threat had passed. The symmetry between the two episodes—different continents, same survival instinct—was striking. These scenes, miles apart, underline two fundamental truths. First, there would be no vendors if there were no buyers. The demand for cheap, easily accessible goods, especially imitations of high-end brands, stems from a widespread consumer desire to enjoy the appearance of luxury without bearing its cost. Branded products often remain out of reach for a large segment of the population, leading to a thriving parallel economy that fulfils these aspirations at a fraction of the price. For many buyers, the allure lies not just in affordability but in the social impression these lookalikes create, making them willing participants in this grey market. Second, such activities flourish in the spaces created by lapses in law enforcement. The cat-and-mouse routine with authorities continues because it's predictable, rarely resulting in lasting consequences. If policing were consistent and loophole-free, these sellers would find it harder to operate. Thus, this informal business is sustained not just by the resilience of the vendors but by the active participation of the consumers and the inconsistent application of rules. All three— the seller, the buyer, and the system—are entangled in this daily handshake. All said and done, I couldn't help but feel a mix of admiration and concern. On one hand, I was genuinely impressed by the swiftness and street-smart agility with which these vendors responded to the looming threat of law enforcement, handling the situation with practiced ease and remarkable composure. Yet, on the other hand, a sense of unease lingered. I couldn't stop thinking about the emotional and psychological toll their precarious existence must take. Living each day under the constant shadow of uncertainty, with the law hovering like the sword of Damocles, cannot be easy. Their grit is admirable, but the fragility of their livelihood reminds us of the harsh realities that define survival on the margins. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
11-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Brunch to bench: A walk through Central Park
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE New York, the sleepless marvel, the ceaseless engine of ambition and artistry, thrives in perpetual motion. Its grid of intersecting streets and avenues pulses with the choreography of humanity: a place where time walks briskly in stilettos and the economy breathes in ticker symbols. From the panoramic grandeur seen from the Edge to the ant's perspective from the footpaths, the city stands upright, unblinking, undeterred. Its soul echoes in a cacophony— the laughter spilling from rooftop bars, the hushed symphony of the underground, the siren-song of dreams chased and fates altered in real time. Morning stretches across the Brooklyn Bridge, golden and glorious; evening folds into the crevices of Manhattan's skyline with equal flair. Here, the city acknowledges neither triumph nor tragedy— it simply moves forward, relentless and indifferent. And yet, at its frenetic core lies a paradox— a sanctuary. Central Park, a green expanse etched into the concrete sprawl, offers the city's one true exhale. Here, the metropolis softens. The towering buildings recede, the noise hushes into birdsong, and time, for once, unclasps its hold. In this oasis, New York remembers how to breathe. Not to pause its rhythm, but to deepen it. A summer walk through Central Park offers a quintessential tableau, where the relentless pulse of New York surrenders, momentarily, to a more languid rhythm. It is here, amid sun-dappled paths and whispering leaves, that one bears witness to the city's rare duality: the unyielding drive of ambition meeting the unhurried grace of repose. In this verdant sanctuary, the metropolis loosens its grip, allowing its hurried heart to slow, its noise to soften, and its spirit to stretch beneath the open sky. On a Sunday afternoon, following a leisurely lunch with my two daughters, my niece, and her family at a charming restaurant near Lincoln Centre, the suggestion to stroll through Central Park came like a gentle invitation. When my niece proposed the idea, I found it impossible to resist— a walk in the park felt like the perfect continuation to an already delightful day. As we stepped into its green embrace, with giant trees spreading their girth as well as shade to welcome everyone, I was instantly drawn into the gentle thrum of life unfolding around me. A little ahead, on the sloping landscape of Sheep Meadow, families picnicked on sunlit lawns, friends ambled arm in arm, lovers lazed on the grass gawking at the floating clouds overhead, or whispered over park benches, and solo runners traced graceful arcs along the winding paths. Young parents ambled by, gently pushing prams that cradled their tiny passengers— one cooing or drooling, the other wide-eyed with wonder. Solo cyclists zipped past like arrows in motion, while families rode together in harmony, their children's laughter rising like birdsong in the breeze, and dogs tugged eagerly at their leashes. The park thrummed with energy— and so did our little group, despite the yawning age gap between my grown-up daughters and my niece's sprightly, single-digit-aged sons. The two boys squealed with unfiltered joy, leaping and darting through splash puddles with the abandon only childhood allows, utterly oblivious to the world around them. My daughters, momentarily shedding their adult selves, chased after them with laughter bubbling from within, their delighted shrieks echoing those of the younger two. In that sun-drenched moment, time collapsed, and joy became ageless. Who would've thought that in a city sewn together with steel and ambition, nature could throw on its greenest garb and strut like it owned the place? And just as surprisingly, relationships long tucked away in the attic of time could dust themselves off and dance again, right in the middle of a sun-kissed park. As I took in the happy, unhurried faces around me, it struck me—concrete jungles aren't as barren as they seem. They can sprout trees, cradle moments of calm, and sometimes, offer a second chance to reconnect with others and with oneself. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
25-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Olfactory hijack: A journey through tiffins and tracks
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE The other evening, as my maid and I sipped our usual cup of tea, she recounted a charming anecdote from her train journey home, a few months ago. Seated opposite her in the compartment was an elderly couple who, having boarded earlier, already appeared quite settled. As soon as the train pulled out of a particular station, the woman opened her modest bag and took out a steel bowl, a knife, and two plump mangoes. With practiced ease, she began peeling and chopping the mangoes into neat cubes, dropping them into the bowl. She then added two green chillies, finely sliced, followed by a sprinkle of salt and a generous squeeze of lemon. The air inside the compartment was soon filled with the tangy, fruity aroma of this rustic mango salad. This simple yet flavourful mix was their accompaniment to a few stale rotis packed for the overnight journey. It wasn't a grand feast by any means, yet the couple relished every bite, their faces glowing with contentment. A few minutes later, another family opened their repurposed cold drink bottles, now filled with boiled Bengal grams. With practiced hands, they added chopped onions, a sprinkle of salt, and a dash of lemon juice. The tangy aroma wafted through the compartment as they mixed the contents and began to enjoy the simple yet delicious snack. What made the moment special was their generous spirit— they shared the dish not just among themselves but with fellow passengers, spreading warmth and camaraderie. What struck my maid, and stayed with me, was the quiet dignity and resourcefulness with which they made a humble meal feel whole. Meanwhile, other passengers looked on, their mouths watering, perhaps reminded of the simple joys that lie hidden in everyday moments. What's truly fascinating is how an ordinary, everyday meal, when shared, can outshine even the finest gourmet dishes served in upscale restaurants. Think of that one tiffin opened prematurely by a ravenous classmate before lunch break—the moment the aroma of mango pickle escaped, it tantalised every taste bud in the room. It's a reminder that food isn't just about flavour, but connection and nostalgia. Most weekdays, I find myself in a 1 pm class—right when hunger strikes hardest, and post-lunch drowsiness begins to creep in, making concentration an uphill task. My standing instructions to students in these post-lunch classes are simple: feel free to sip water or sneak a bite from your tiffin— no permission needed. After all, who am I to stand between a hungry soul and their paratha? But I must admit, the real test of willpower begins when those lunch boxes pop open. One whiff of achar or tadka, and my own stomach starts grumbling in protest, while my olfactory nerves do a little hip hop. It's a daily battle between decorum and digestive envy! All said and done, the message is clear— Food is far more than sustenance. Food doesn't just nourish the body; it stirs the soul and weaves stories. Each dish carries a memory, a tradition, or a slice of someone's life. A train ride becomes unforgettable because of a shared bowl of mango salad. A classroom moment becomes a cherished anecdote thanks to the aroma of someone's lunch. Recipes are passed down like heirlooms, and meals mark celebrations, comfort losses, and anchor friendships. In sharing food, we also share stories of where we come from, who we are, and what we hold dear. In essence, food is storytelling served on a plate. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
18-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Xeroxed Struggles and Unxeroxed Lives: Lessons outside the lecture hall
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE 'Don't! Don't you dare pick up that lauki!' my husband hissed dramatically, as if I were about to defuse a bomb instead of choosing a vegetable. We were standing by the local vegetable cart one pleasant evening, amid tomatoes, bhindi, and the occasional buzzing fly. I held up a plump, soft lauki with reverence, admiring its pale green sheen like it was a trophy cucumber. 'Be quiet,' I muttered, elbowing him gently, and dropped it triumphantly into our basket. The teenage girl at the cart watched us with barely disguised amusement, clearly enjoying the free entertainment. 'See? She's always bossing me around,' my husband turned to her with the exaggerated misery of a soap opera hero. The poor girl tried to maintain a serious face, but a giggle escaped, like steam from a pressure cooker. 'Who even eats lauki?' he continued, as if he were launching a national debate. 'Do you like it?' he asked her, carrying forth his nautanki, not only to escape the dire fate of eating bottle-gourd but also for the entertainment of the young girl. 'I like it,' the girl said shyly, her impish smile fading. 'I like all vegetables,' she added, her tone softening as she quietly weighed the items in my basket and slipped them into a polybag. The shift in her expression didn't escape me. 'Do you go to school?' I asked gently. She nodded, eyes lowered. 'Which class?' 'Ninth,' she murmured, just as another customer asked the price of ladyfinger. In that brief moment, the playful banter gave way to something quieter—an unspoken glimpse into her world, where vegetables and textbooks seemed to jostle for space in a single day. We paid and walked away, but the young girl's subdued expression lingered in my thoughts. As a college teacher, I interact with young boys and girls every day. Some are there simply to pass time, their fees effortlessly paid by indulgent parents. Others, however, battle real odds just to stay enrolled, juggling part-time jobs, family responsibilities, and financial stress. That girl, quietly manning a vegetable cart and still attending school, reminded me of the stark contrasts I witness daily—of privilege and perseverance, of those who drift through education and those who cling to it like a lifeline. I will never forget the day I asked a student during one of my lectures why she hadn't xeroxed the text I had assigned. Her response was sharp, almost defiant: 'I had problems.' 'Would you care to explain after class?' I asked a bit sternly. 'Sure, ma'am,' she replied, with quiet rebellion. Later, when she came to see me, I was curious, almost impatient for an explanation. 'I didn't have the money to get the text xeroxed,' she said, her voice faltering as she fought back tears. 'You didn't have ten rupees for just five pages?' I asked, unable to hide my disbelief. 'My father is no more,' she said quietly. 'My mother works at the Anganwadi. She hasn't received her salary in three months.' Her words hit me like a thunderclap. The triviality of the Xerox faded in that instant. 'How are you managing?' I asked gently. 'We're just getting by. We don't buy milk for tea anymore. I come to college only when my mother can spare the bus fare.' Her honesty, her quiet strength, and the dignity with which she bore her struggle moved me deeply. It was a moment of awakening—a reminder that not all battles are visible. I blinked back the tears threatening to spill and turned my gaze toward her friend, who stood silently beside her, disbelief written all over her face. 'How could you not know what your friend was going through?' I asked gently, but firmly. 'What kind of friend are you, if you never noticed her struggles?' A little while later, the two walked away together, smiling as they disappeared down the corridor. What I did to support the young girl is not something I need to share— it isn't the point of the story. What matters is that the very next day, she walked into my class, holding her text close as if it were a prized possession. And from that day onward, she never missed another lecture. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
11-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
No filter, just flavour: My Vadodara jam
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE If you truly wish to taste the soul of a city, don't chase guidebooks— chase aromas wafting from smoky stalls and sizzling pans. The real magic simmers not on menus but in alleys known only to those who call the city home. Befriend a local, and they'll lead you to secret corners where samosas sing and jalebis swirl like golden dreams. They know where spices dance, where stories simmer, where hunger is not just fed, but enchanted. For every city speaks through its street food. And the natives? They are its poets, translating flavour into memory, one bite at a time. During a recent trip to Vadodara, I left no stone unturned, or menu unread, in my culinary quest. From swanky gourmet restaurants and chic multicuisine cafes to hyped-up Instagram spots and celebrity-endorsed bistros, I explored the city's entire gastronomic spectrum. But it was on my second night that the real surprise unfolded. A friend and his wife took us to a modest, almost hidden gem called Mirch Masala. The name, admittedly a tad overused, didn't inspire much excitement, and I braced myself for a predictable, run-of-the-mill meal. Tucked away in a semi-basement, the restaurant seemed unremarkable at first glance. But as we descended from the main road and into the space, we were taken aback— not by the crowd, but by the décor. We were greeted at the entrance by a thirty-minute wait. Clearly, something extraordinary was simmering inside this unassuming little place. By now, I was intrigued and just a little more hopeful. What I encountered was far beyond what I had imagined. The space exuded warmth without any extravagant décor— just an inviting, nostalgic charm. It was furnished with simple, old-style tables and chairs, surrounded by relics from our grandparents' era: oil lanterns, cast iron canisters, kettles, vintage radios, faded calendars, sturdy sandookchis, and even a lone chhikoo dangling from the rafters. One wall evoked fond memories of the postal era, proudly announcing, 'Stamps available here' and 'Money orders can be placed here.' The remaining walls transported visitors into the world of classic Bollywood, adorned with vibrant murals of iconic scenes— Gabbar Singh perched on a boulder, Amitabh Bachchan in his Coolie avatar, Kareena Kapoor as the spirited Geet from Jab We Met, and many more. The entire place felt like a beautiful pause in time— a tribute to cherished memories and cinematic nostalgia, blending the simplicity of the past with the magic of movies. No doubt the food was good, but the quaint charm of the place was the cherry on the cake! A few days later, while strolling through the neighbourhood market, we bumped into some friends. As we caught up, the couple warmly insisted that we join them for an ice cream before heading home. It was early evening, and we were torn. Was ice cream an after-meal dessert or an evening snack? Giving in to their gentle persuasion, we agreed to share a scoop from a nearby ice cream parlour. I was initially hesitant, unsure about trying dairy from a local market stall. Still, I decided to go with the flow and opted for their fig-flavoured ice cream. To my surprise, it turned out to be quite delightful—smooth, flavourful, and refreshingly satisfying. In fact, it far exceeded our expectations and was surprisingly better than what we had tasted the night before at one of India's premium ice cream chains known for their 'natural' offerings. The couple shared, with a hint of pride, that they belonged to a close-knit group of fifteen neighbourhood friends who had turned evening strolls into a cherished ritual. Every night, around 8 PM, they would wander out of their homes and gather on the steps of local shops—just to indulge in some light-hearted banter and a comforting scoop of ice cream. As we joined their easy camaraderie, the ice cream parlour owner, clearly sensing that we were not locals, walked over with a mysterious scoop of blush-pink ice cream, which he simply called jamfal. Curiosity piqued, I took a spoonful—and was instantly ambushed by a tangy-sweet explosion of flavour. It took a second to place it, but then it hit me: pink guava. That unassuming scoop didn't just wake up my taste buds—it ushered me right into the heart of Vadodara's everyday magic. A scoop of ice cream and a few off-the-map hangouts later, I had my epiphany: not everything that sparkles on social media is worth chasing. Sometimes, it's the low-key, no-filter neighbourhood nooks that serve up the real flavour—and the sweetest plot twists. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
