Appeasing the appetites

“Why am I born as a South Indian?” I hear my ten year old son’s soliloquy from the dining table as I stand in the kitchen salivating in front of a bowl of two fluffy Idlis floating in thick Sambar topped with a blob of ghee and chopped coriander leaves. I was graciously admiring my culinary achievements that morning and thinking of the hegemony enjoyed by idlis in the realm of delightful delicacies when I heard this frustrated monologue expressing his dislike of South Indian dishes.

Before the onset of the packet powder revolution, making traditional Kerala food demanded time and patience. There were no instant recipes then. Even the easiest breakfast menu; puttu with plaintains would need a day’s prior preparation. The rice need to be soaked and  ground coarsely before it is roasted and then made moist and filled into the puttu kutti. For Idlis the homework started the previous morning with soaking of rice and dal for grinding in the evening and then fermenting it through the night to make fluffy white Idlis in the morning. The same batter would turn into crispy Dosas the next day. The mouth watering made-in-heaven Appoms asked for the experienced talent of a mother or grandmother to come out soft or they ended up hard and dry.

Now, armed with Nirapara, Brahmins and a host of other brands anyone with a little patience can become a good cook. I did not have this luxury when I got married fifteen years before. Staying in a remote town in Punjab miles away from home I could only dream of eating those delicacies for which I had little regard when I had them easily available. I tried Idlis which turned out as hard as cricket balls and Appoms which were good to be used as fans in that heat.

I was distraught over the fact that my two sons never enjoy customary food habits but also knew that arguing and threatening never work. I decided not to defend my super soft Idlis. Instead, I fried some onions and potato strips in oil. Tossed some chopped carrots, chillies and beans in along with some split almonds. I mixed the white rice in with a generous helping of soya sauce. The kerfuffle that followed on seeing it was enough to make me forget the morning’s disappointment. May be someday, they would longingly recall the taste of homemade Idlis and Sambar. I will have my sweet revenge then.

A HAPPY HUSBAND

“I am not going. Would you like it if I force you to go to a place you dislike?” I was trying all variety of verbal intrigue just to make him sense my displeasure of ruining a peaceful day at home. He maintains a silence whenever I am annoyed which irritates me. That is a clever tactic men employ when they know they cannot win over an argument. But this time he had to answer. I had put a question to him. I waited.

“Well”, he said, “I would go for you, if you wanted it.”

I had expected that answer. He was trying to remind me of the innumerable number of times he had accompanied me to varied places of my interest. Still that was not a reason for persuading me to go alone to a place where I hardly knew anyone.

“So you want me to go.”  I persisted not wanting to let go of the argument that I had started. I knew I had to go for that official function in his organization anyway but I did not want to let him have his way that easily.

“Attend the function for me this time. Please.” There was no touch of male domination or assertion of authority in his voice. It had come down to plain pleading.

With the most possible facial contortion that I could feign, I said “Ok, I will go this time but do not force me the next time.”

“I won’t” he said firmly like a minister taking his oath. Once the oath taking is over, no one remembers the lines.

He has to catch his midday flight to Srinagar and I have to attend the Women’s Welfare Association meeting of his organization in the morning for him or rather for his sake. It was not for my welfare anyway.

It was past nine and there was no sign of the coach which was supposed to pick me up. With his vehicle to the airport waiting below he stood in the terrace with me, his hands tied behind his back. There was a palpable tension in his manner. With an occasional glance and a nod he would try to reassure me there was nothing to worry. “If the coach does not come you relax. No need to go.”

I gave him a stern look. “So do you mean that I draped a saree in the morning to sit at home?”

Sometimes, contrived or real, men can give such pathetic looks that would make even a rhinoceros shed tears. That look shut me up.

A frantic coach driver gave me a call. The coach was stuck in traffic and there was another car coming to pick me up. I could see the relief in his breath.

The car arrived. The relief in his face was immense now. Once I was inside the car and the door was shut I could feel the liberation in his voice too. “Take care” he said and I stretched my lips to smile.

I discovered that a sweet neighbor, whom I was meeting for the first time was accompanying. It doesn’t take much time for two lonely ladies to befriend each other. The auditorium was full by the time we reached but we quite enterprisingly found a couple of seats which were reserved for some ‘still not turned up guests’. The pageant was splendidly colourful and I found myself happily joining the splendor and familiarity of the atmosphere. The spirit of a group of talented women mingled with the demand of a certain occasion can produce a pleasingly prolific outcome. Moreover, I found myself in the company of some long lost friends laughing and embracing each other.

With eyes and stomach duly satisfied, for the snacks were as good as the programme presented, we returned with the joy of three hours merrily spent.  

When I took my cell phone in my hands; I saw the message “Landed in Jammu”. I pressed the call button. “Hello” came his voice. “I am back.” I mumbled.

“How was it?” I could make out that he had recognized traces of the excitement of the last three hours in my voice.

“It was ok.”  I said.  “Call from Srinagar.”

I had the reward of good day out compromising a comfortable day at home but I believed I earned it.

Husbands feel and depict themselves as victims with no choice in the family drama. On the contrary they are clever aspirants of a peaceful family life. They always win with their seemingly giving in performances. 

Good fences make good neighbors

"Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence." 

"He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'."

It’s anyone’s wish to have a good neighbor. In a dire situation one would always run to one’s neighbor irrespective of whether he is a friend or a foe.

A good neighbor can make your stay at any place an unforgettable experience. I have enough friends whom I keep troubling any time of the day or at night with my ravings. But unfortunately, I never had reassuring neighbors except in three places of our nomadic life.

When we moved to the capital city I was well briefed by my friends about the hostility of the city and its people. When someone asserts that a thing is bad, I have this odd habit of wanting them to be proven wrong. I was keen on making friends. So, even when there was no sign of my neighbor, after three days of our moving in, I went and pressed their door bell. My fair, plump, bespectacled and ‘colorfully’ middle aged neighbor was all smiles and promptly offered all help along with coffee which I never let her make.

After that once in a while she would ring my door bell with a bowl or plate in hand filled with one of her gastronomic researches. After tasting her cooking once or twice, my elder son concluded that she was trying on us what her family was refusing to eat. Still, she was a sweet soul, always prompt in offering help.

When we shifted to the new house, I was hopeful, but my hopes turned soggy when I saw that my beautiful neighbor would jerk and retract every time she saw me. I heard they were moving out and thought that she did not want to make any new friends as they were to shift soon. I crisped up my hopes again.

I waited with anticipation for an amicable neighbor. The day arrived. I saw three gorgeous looking young girls in the house and was excited. Their mother would definitely be an elegant woman and would make a very good neighbor. I waited and waited to have a glimpse of the lady of the house so that I can befriend her. I could not see her and wondered whether she wasn't alive. Finally I saw her after a month’s expectation.

It is painful to see estranged parents fight for the custody of their hapless children; I saw it today, when I opened my door hearing loud admonishments in front of my neighbor’s door.

Good fences make good neighbors. Sensitivity and expectations don’t. I closed my door.

GEORGE EVEREST HOUSE

In the Museum in Thimphu, Bhutan, I had seen the model of a typical mountain house with the ground floor dedicated to the animals and the first floor to the family. The inhabitants spend most of their time around the fire in the kitchen to keep themselves warm. There were granaries for grains and also meat cut in the form of ribbons and dried in the sun stored for the harsh winter months.

It took almost an hour and a half for us to trek from the foot of the mountain in Musoorie to the top to George Everest House. It stood at an altitude of 6500 feet. The town of Musoorie lay at 500 feet below. I saw an old woman gazing at us from one side of the mountain. She was dressed in a Tibetan Chuba, their traditional dress. I waved at her and she waved back. I wanted to go and meet her but my enthusiastic guide who was keen to get me to the top promised me to take me back to her on our way back. Unfortunately, she disappeared when we came back.

I was surprised to find the board of a tea stall on reaching the top. It is in front of a small hut. A middle aged couple live there. They make a living by keeping cows, goats and some hens. Unlike the house I saw in Thimphu, here the animals live alongside their owners. The limited region of the fence surrounding their house is their area for cultivation. They sell Paranthas, Tea ,Cold drinks and of course Maggi to the lone trekkers who came up to the George Everest House. They have no water or electricity there. Water has to be fetched from a well almost one kilometre down.

Internet says that George Everest was Welsh and the Surveyor-General of India from 1830 to 1843. He owned the house in Musoorie for some time. For a building of that age, the house is still in good condition. The cliff is steep on one side. There are wooden frames on the ceiling and well built fireplaces. 

The bath rooms at the rear end have tiles which give evidence of some recent renovation attempted in the house. Interiors of the house is badly littered with animal dung, used plates etc.

 The walls are 'bedecked' with names and vain declarations of love.  We could meet a couple of love birds out there who must have sneaked away from the buzz of the town. A cow greeted us from inside one of the rooms.

The mountain top offers the view of the Doon valley on one side and the Aglar valley on the other. Life looks pleasantly enticing from there. I am reminded of a short story by Guy Maupassant which I read sometime back. It is about a couple who elopes to an uninhabited island of Corsica and lives there happily together ripe into their old age. It would be wonderful to spend life only with the people whom you love around you without the hassle of worldly temptations in such isolated places.

 





For the masked urban eyes, though it may seem a living away from reality, it is indeed a living in reality.