the traveler

It was twilight when the cup was brought to him. He knew it was time for him to sip it. To end a story which was not his, but which he participated in.

It was always clear the shift in power would be bloody, brutal, but he never expected that it would be almost welcome, since it would mean death would follow with it.

As he held the goblet, he looked out at the sky. The desert sky kept no secrets. The stars seemed to be in the same position as the first time she first came to the fort.

There was never any doubt in his mind that every moment spent with her would be etched in his memory. There was never any doubt he would turn every moment with her into a memory. And yet it was always evident to him that she would never be paying too much attention.

He was warned by all who knew her she lived a lot within her mind. Every social interaction seemed to extract a price that seemed too high for her to pay. She sought out silent nooks, walked barefoot on the grass, gazed on the water of the lotus ponds, stared intently at sunsets, followed flights of birds across the sky. She wrote poems, played the tanpura and painted with prolonged and fierce concentration. She was in the moment, present and alive. And then once the song ended, the painting was done, the poem was composed she would walk away from it without any lingering attachment.

“Lucky for her she never had to work for a lving or she would starve.” When the old crone who was also the go to match maker mentioned this, he smothered a smile. He had realisd by then that wherever she went friends would appear to offer a meal, a helping hand, shelter would be easy to find and company on a long lonely road.

It made him uneasy thinking of that road. It seemed it was inevitable, for one who has seen that reality is a way to pass time and engagement with the world would only confuse a mind that’s made up, to want to leave it all behind and seek the solace of solitude.

Would he be able to stand it? What if she walked out some day and never turned back? What if she forgot him? Would her gilded cage and pampered life hold her back? Could her spirit be tamed by conformity, convention and comforts? Could she ever think of him as a friend, a shoulder to lean on but never to cling to, who would ask her for nothing in return?

She raised her eyes at him precisely when that thought ended all those years ago. She wore a hibiscus toned wedding outfit which he had specially commissioned. It was simple apart from the rice grain shaped tie and dye trailing over the borders. Her jewelry was made of flowers, not gems.In his mind, she was always a child of nature, which is why her emphatic response to his unspoken thoughts didn’t surprise him. It was just ‘yes’.

The years which followed were blissful for both of them. There was never possession between them. They both belonged to gods of their own choosing, both as devoted as they wanted to be to causes they found worthy and in that freedom of being single together they were whole.

Darkness had settled in when he looked back at the living space around him. Ten years ago, she walked out onto that road. He kept thinking she would come back, but not too hopefully, he knew her too well. At times when he camped in deserts while traveling, wandering minstrels sang her poems. He heard of all her soul and it’s experiences and marveled at the richness of it.

He lifted the goblet to his lips and took a sip…

Dream girl

The story of Shakuntala has been done and redone many times over. The story of Bharat, who became the king that had a country named after him, Bharat’s parents hold a unique place in history. They are known not for their amazing work as parents on their son but for the story of how he was born and their decision to have a relationship which was based on their personal decision to be together, to get intimate.

Obviously, I am referencing the many renditions of the Shakuntala story I have seen, heard, read and pored over, with great interest and attention. Why was I interested, I wonder? Because it seemed interesting that a woman born in extenuating circumstances was reared by ascetics and later found refuge in another hermitage, while her most worldly encounters disappointed her, cast her in the mould of an outsider and refused to acknowledge her decision to be a bride who chose her groom without any social interface.

The problem and basic foundation of the story is about integration and assimalation. As a Vankanya, or resident of the forest, Shakuntala isn’t worthy of the royal position she had inadvertently come upon. She was not of the proper lineage and the caste and class lines had been blurred majorly with her birth. Also since carnal love was taboo for ascetics, her parents’ very physical love and it’s manifestation would be subject for gossip. So, she was bound to be rejected. Although she was offered a Gandharv vivaah, it wasn’t high on the spectrum of the Hindu marriage menu. It wasn’t bonafide, it wasn’t acceptable, since it was exclusive to two parties and it didn’t call on any blessings or witnesses apart from the couple choosing to wed.

So why does the story affect me on so many levels, still? Basically, because it’s utilised all the tropes that Indian culture hides away beneath social norms, decorum and protocol. Shakuntala is the desirable flower which is pursued by a bumblebee and Dushyant defends her, only to give in to her charms later. He leaves and conveniently forgets his promise, because of a well timed curse by Durvasa, the sage who was literally anger manifested in human form. Why bother? He was a king and like the proverbial bumble bee probably encountered many flowers in his warpath. How many was he expected to remember and honor? So the onus of making the wrong choice falls on Shakuntala. She is left bereft of her own family’s support because she made up her own mind, and her own mistakess. She would not find any help from anyone connected to her. Quite like most people in regular social situations who are acceptable only in good times. The bad times are their own to handle, hidden from the limelight.

So back to another hermitage for Shakuntala. Only this time, she wasn’t the beloved foster child of a sage. She was a woman living in atonement, putting up with her lot since she had shamed her family and her punishment would be without redemption. Unless of course, her unlawfully wedded husband had a memory glitch and remembered seeing a ring which was swallowed by a fish. There are many versions of how the fish and the ring within came to the king’s notice. It’s not a problem. But see, that’s what happens with made up stories. You end up losing the plot at some time. Hence the ring and it’s murky path to the king…

So finally, for whatever reason, the king remembers he has exchanged vows with a young lady and she did come to meet him while pregnant. He then decides to search for her. Quite by chance, he meets her amazingly feisty, intelligent son who has tremendous kingly potential. He accepts Shakuntala back, takes her home and the curse story is brought up to explain his memory loss. Which apparently was caused by Shakuntala’s lack of attention to Durvasa Muni. If she hadn’t been mooning around about Dushyant this would have never happened. Again, she is the architect of her fate and now that she has been offered a place in the royal pantheon, she would be a suitable queen and mother figure to the subjects by Dushyant’s side.

The classics have a word for women who bring shame to their clan. Kulankasha. She who shames the clan. When the erudite man who explained this word and concept elaborated on it, I was traumatised. When asked what is a man who shames the clan called, he smiled smugly and said, men don’t bring shame to their clans. So it was with Bharat too. He brought pride to his clan, his parents and even his grandparents. He ended up legitimizing Vishwamitra and Menaka’s bond because of his magnificence. They would forever be known as his ancestors, as his parents would become the parents of Bharat, not the young couples who actually crossed caste and class lines and even atmospheric boundaries in Menaka’s case. They were relegated to being people whose mistakes worked out in the end. People who loved and lost, and lived lives of atonement.

The only story that interests me, is the one that Dushyant and Shakuntala shared behind closed doors after they were legally bound. Did it remain that? A legal bound sanctified by kingship and social permission? Or did it have the chance to continue along the lines of something real? I have a feeling they did their duty as parents. They carried on within the structure, made themselves useful to themselves and their people, kept it together for their son and were cordial and respectful, always a bit nostalgic for their past, but never losing sight of the goal, which was to consolidate a system which had proved to be too strong to beat in their case.

No more tears

A stash of medicines appears from the chemist. Some of it for the beloved pooch who has crossed the 100 human year mark and a lot of it for my beloved mother. It’s a mixed bag, really, what with BP meds for her and vitamins for the dog. But one thing has always appeared steadily on my mother’s medicine menu since the early 2000s. A bottle of lubricating eye drops…to compensate for the tears which dried up the year my grandpa died.

She mentioned it quite matter of factly, as one does with these things. I accepted it with mixed feelings, because honestly back then I wasn’t enough of a grown up to accept that my mother had cried herself out of tears. I spent my life around them, issuing from the eyes of various members of my family, not just her. They made me uncomfortable but my mother’s tears always mananged to put me in the deepest recesses of hell.

I would wonder if my deeds or lack of them was causing them. I wondered what someone had said to her about me to make her cry. I wondered if I could do anything to stop them. Could I maybe be a better version of me? Could I figure out what she needed and make it appear magically for her so she would have no reason to cry? Could…would…should…

And so it carried on, with my trying to hope she would have no reason to cry. But darn it, every year seemed to bring something along. Life should get easier with age, but somehow it seemed that it would bring disappointments, unfulfilled wishes, sorrow of immeasurable depths. Basically you get the drift.

I don’t remember the exact time I began to take her tears for granted. Or maybe they subsided enough to be unnoticeable. I just remember noticing them less. I found myself in situations which would induce tears many times but held them in check since I knew she would worry and wonder about my tears and try to wreck every sorrow and inconvenience in my life that was causing them.And I figured smiling was a better look for me, even if I looked quite dopey in the bargain.

The smiles felt real in my teenage years. My mother’s tears were a rare occurence now. She had replaced them with a whacky sense of humour and repartee. I found myself laughing through tears at times at crazy things she said and always messed up the punchlines when I tried to recreate the same lines or spiel. Now, there were tears shed while watching moving scenes in the films, while listening to Barbara Streisand’s music when she sang “a woman in love” and there were tears while watching my mother’s parents hit the hospital circuit with a vengeance, but those were actually exhaustion and wishing they didn’t suffer so much.

So the last time I and my mother cried jubilantly was when my baby girl was born and I carried her out on a hospital guerney in triumph. I realise that we had a lot of tears between us because we didn’t know how to say what we really wanted to say to each other. We are difficult women. We don’t belong to communities or families, we belong to our own selves. That’s the biggest gut punch and when it’s clarified by life many times over, well, the tears will flow…and will end too. Ask my mother.

note to gentle reader: For the uninitiated, today is Mother’s Day. Cheers to the tears, everyone.

A dog’s life

The sun feels different to him.

He can sense the salt and the other stuff the sea is and may be composed of. He lifts his  head into the breeze, nostrils quivering as he senses rather than sees what is going on around him.

Sunset,  kids playing, a flag flapping in the wind, people calling out to each other from a distance,  the sound of smooching and heavy petting from way off, the waves and undercurrents creating a soothing whoosh.

His paws settle into the soft sand.

Today, it’s different and bears his heft with ease.

His footpads don’t sink in as they normally do.

Barely making an impression, he trots towards the water where he can see the

sunrays shimmering.

His breath is effortless, his step is light and jaunty.

A 1 year old Labrador gallops in the distance,

and chases a frisbee into the water. Leo wonders, why?

A crowd of dating couples comes up, making cooing sounds.

Leo receives them graciously. He knows his looks and temperment will gather admirers. He is gentle with the girls, specially attentive to those who seem scared of

dogs and yet does not linger. They are not the main attraction.

Moving on beyond the crowd, he sniffs at a Durga bust, which has been swept back by the sea. He is about to make his mark, when he hears a whistle. He turns back to see a crowd of beach dwelling dogs.

That’s another range of smells and sounds, which he thoroughly explores.

The sun goes down, he knows it before anyone else and heads back to the road.

Once Upon A Time – Chapter 1

The scene is set in the corridors of a college, slash boarding school, a place with lots of young people milling around. A top angle shot of the scene reveals a melee of young adults (YA for future reference, convenience and general taxonomical purposes.) streaming out of a gate, down a garden path, the OST soundtrack is David Bowie’s Golden Years  (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yygNdTxoHus).

The YA are dancing, really in tune with the song. Suddenly there is a message or notification tone, YA stop dancing, look at their mobile phones. They all start walking like automatons, left right, left right, in perfect, yet eerie co-ordination, more so since they are not looking at each other or trying to match steps with each other. It’s just one step following the other, head bent, fingers or rather thumbs flicking hard across the screen.

One  of the YA looks directly into camera. He has the glazed look of the undead in his eyes, as if he has just risen from a trance. He looks at the YA around him and speaks. (For the purposes of this chapter, he is the storyteller. The physicality is basically a lean person, who would love to eat a packet of samosas, but would rather cycle to the shop to get them first and then probably start reading a book on his online kindle, since the cycling high is buzzing through him/her/non binary YA.)

Storyteller: Once upon a time…(musing).

YA 1: Once upon a time, in Bollywood!

YA 2 :Once upon a time in Hollywood!

YA 3: Once upon a time in…Dobaara! (To his/her credit, he does search for the missing location).

Storyteller: (Draws a flyswatter from the back of his t-shirt in the manner of the Jedi knight pulling out his sword.) (https://youtu.be/0EWi2DnDoaI). Jaao re! Apne social media mein kho jaao, I am trying to tell a story here.

YA 4: So last century, I’m writing a story with 4 writers from 5 different countries.

Storytellers: How is that working out for you?

YA 4: I can’t talk right now, I may lose track of this conversation I am having with my co writers.

Storyteller: Hmm. So, let me get back to my story. Once upon a time…

YA 1: Are we going to shoot the sequel or the prequel?

Storyteller: No…but, say if we had to, which way would you go about it?

YA 1: I would start at the end, come back to the beginning and continue to the middle. (smiles smugly).

Storyteller presses a button on his phone and the scene changes to him sitting in front of an image of Lord Ganpati. This is a recyclable Ganesh, who is painted onto the wall every year. (https://www.picdove.net/media/BquW4DFg7Ya)

Animation sequence featuring the wall, using shadow puppetry, or stick puppets, or imagery along the lines of the Kadyavarcha Ganpati, or a pantomime by some YA who are dressed in ordinary clothes playing the protagonists.

(I am providing notes for pantomime sequence.) Pretty YA emerges from behind the Ganpati image on the wall.

Storyteller V/O: In an ironic twist, the Goddess of all creation was basically incapable of having any kids.

Pretty YA lifts up pregnancy stick and looks at it. She shakes her head and shrugs, tosses it over her shoulder. She then lifts up a pooch or cuddles a Labrador or golden retriever.

Storyteller V/O: But, then what are pets for, if not to help you have a child for life?  So she was quite happy. But, once, just by chance she was alone. Her significant other was out on a mission, her pet or rather pets had been sent out on various missions, and it was winter. She was freezing her divine butt off, but decided to be proactive and used the free time for a pamper day.

(With appropriate choreography to fit the voiceover.)

Which actually turned into years, really, since she didn’t stop at her face.

Pretty YA is seen swathed in multani mitti pack lying on a recliner. She slips on cucumber slices over her eyelids and switches on some music. (Tanpura app music is ideal).

Storyteller: Anyway, later she created a doll with the pack she used and while she was busy painting

her toenails…

Pretty YA hears a ping as if a microwave has gone off. She turns and finds an adorable little kid there.

They begin to play and she hugs him to her as the music plays and they dance. (https://youtu.be/p8IkOMrxcHs)

The song continues and we see Storyteller in the flesh, placing modaks on a plate while dancing to the same song. He pops one into his mouth. He is hit by a marigold flower, from out of frame and topples over. The camera follows him as he sits up spryly.

Storyteller: Well, rumour has it, when her significant other came back, he got into an argument with the little boy who was quite sassy mouthed. Dad lost his head, and baby boy lost his head too, courtesy dad’s trishul. (Look of mock horror on storyteller’s face.) But, it all worked out and the little baby boy got a big elephantine head, and all the benefits that come from it. He also became the opening act at every pooja or life event and made a lot of friends.

So, that’s my story for today. I know, all of you have taken something away from it, so let’s check out the comments section, shall we?

(Montage of comments sections, vox pop, whatsapp account msg screen shots.)

YA 1: Never use store bought face packs, always make your own!

YA 2: Always have a plan B! Why didn’t she have a replacement head ready to replace the one the baby lost?

YA 3: This story is racist, and filled with brutality to children, YA who had to wear a face pack, and marigold which was hurt during the filming of the story. I protest…

YA enter the frame and there is a general furor. There is sloganeering and incoherent yelling.

Shot of the Storyteller going for his fly swatter menacingly…dissolve to black.

 

PS: There are many stories floating about in the universe and the netscape. All of them are interesting to the one who wrote them. The best stories are written, celebrated. And some stories just don’t get told, remaining by the wayside, since it seems they are not significant enough  for the world.

This one is for stories that get told and the ones that don’t get told. It’s for stories we believe in and the ones we have forgotten. Most of all, it’s for the most important story of all which we lose track of at times. Our own.

From this year on, I would request anyone who is impressed with anything on this site to translate that appreciation into a deed. Donate to an animal shelter, or feeding programs, educational material and time for activities dedicated to tending to the world at large.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A series of confusing messages.

The scene begins on a street in Mumbai. A middle aged man pulls up at a traffic light. He is Kanha, the sutradhar of this particular piece. The Natya Shastra recommended one as a narrative device and he is usually bantering with gopis who are heading to the market or lake or home and flirts outrageously with them while pulling off some satirical punchlines and even dance moves. There is a group of gopis in shorts and tank tops, stylishly pouting at a cellphone and he is trying to get their attention.

Kanha: Girls! Gopis!

The gopis look at him and go back to texting furiously on their phones.

Kanha: Hello, ladies, gentlemen and all those who consider themselves human. I’m your sutradhar for this particular play and we are as you can see in Mumbai city, waiting for the red light to turn green. Now, I have just sent an online message to the gopis about an audition for a play, so you’ll get to see some banter soon enough.

Gopi 1: Hey there, I’m rap chick rea and I just got a call for an audition for ***, the best beer in town.

Kanha: Very nice! If this were a real audition you would be the next beer girl for all of 5 minutes.

Rap chick rea: Five minutes? Too long, dude. These days time is in micro second parcels. BTW, what are we shooting here? I mean where’s the crew?

Kanha: No crew, just me and camera placed in that traffic signal. We are shooting a beer commercial as I told you and this is your stage.

Rap chick rea: No offense, bro, but this is a beat up jeep with huge ass Tyres. That is weird.

Kanha : Just a sand blaster. You can drive with it on the beach.

Rasp chick rea: Wait a micro second. Beach? No, no, no, you didn’t mention beach in the audition call. I can’t be at the beach without anti frizz hair serum and sunscreen. Not cool!

Kanha: Chill, we are shooting right here. No beach, but we need more babes. So can you tweet up some friends?

Rap chick rea: That is going into my itemized bill, you know. It’s so unprofessional! Okay and now I must concentrate.

Kanha : Sure, you have exactly two microseconds. (to the audience). For those of you who did not fall asleep during that bit of banter, I’m luring the gopis/bearers of various social media handles in with an audition call.

The scene is to be staged right here. At a traffic intersection in the midst of the Mumbai mid morning rush. Our play characters are, Terry, a lifestyle blogger, Anu, an elderly virgin, Benny, her gay BFF and Anu’s mom, though she only appears in texts. Thank God.

Rap chick rea: You’ll alienate the atheists and agnostics if you talk like that.

Kanha: Really? Tell me the difference between them, I dare you.

Rap chick rea: Why should I? Google it. So last century, asking questions and expecting human beings to answer them!

Kanha looks at audience quizzically. He snaps his finger and we are now in the cab Terry is traveling in. It is a special cab and is done up to resemble a lounge with all kinds of gizmos. Terry is being driven by a young woman, Sneha who moonlights as a dog groomer as well. She is in the process of setting up her catering company and specializes in starters. Terry begins to shoot her vlog in the back of the cab.

Terry: Okay, so this week we are meeting millennials who are creating their own brand and supporting their enterprises with day jobs. Sneha here is a prime example. Sneha, can we speak for a bit?

Sneha: Sure. This traffic jam won’t let up soon.

Terry: So when and how did you think of creating your starters only catering?

Sneha: Guess all the buffets and banquets I ate at provided inspiration. You eventually ended up eating only the starters and the tastier they were, the better. The main course often got neglected. Besides, I think it’s so much better to experiment with a few ingredients and create the perfect little bite.

Terry: Which is incidentally also the name of your startup, right? Now since Sneha is in setup mode, she is looking for investors and would love a chance to showcase her skills to you. So please do let her starters steal the show at your next party, gig or even a private bash. And remember you heard about her on Terry live. So, I will call it a day now. Muaahhh!

Sneha : Thanks, Terry. I’m going to get us out of here quickly so you can get to your shoot early.

Terry : Great. The traffic is supposed to be moving fast and there doesn’t seem to be much of an issue. Oh no, what just happened?

Sneha :Pile up. Someone seems to have stopped suddenly and caused the vehicles behind to crash into each other. I’m going to stay clear of this.

Terry text: Hey, S, running late. Pile up on the highway.

S text: Yes, someone just tweeted about it. Part of the road caved in.

Terry: Sneha, bad news, the road caved in.

Sutradhar : Now, this is the age of instant news and instant action so no one was going to ignore such a message. A flurry of movement began and as you can see behind me the vehicles at the back have done a turnaround. Let’s ask my solo gopi her thoughts on this situation.

Gopi : Are we shooting already? No, you just want my opinion about this? I think it’s outrageous how the taxpayer is taken for granted. I mean this is just not done!

Sutradhar (gently) : Do you pay taxes, gopi?

Gopi: Me? No! But my parents do and, you know I feel their burden.

Sutradhar: And yet you live at home with them. Sounds like you are aware of their burdens. Okay! Don’t glare at me. Now, while the traffic piled up there was a flurry of messages,tweets,facebook posts. And as is expected in such situations,soon there were opinions, for and against, angst against the system that causes a road to cave in,conspiracy theorists calling it the work of a foreign hand and in some cases ,people bemoaning staying on in this godforsaken country, etc. But in all the noise, I hear a long lost theme. Is it….the star trek theme?

Snap of fingers and we follow the star trek theme into a cab which has Anu,an installation art curator, as well as avid trekker. Her photos of landscapes are quite popular and her circle of friends is tight enough to make her feel confident about publishing them.

Anu(in a cab): Hi, Benny. What’s kicking around in your sick mind,today?

Benny(on phone): You will have to be really candid…ew! What is that vile music?

Anu: The star trek theme,darling. Doesn’t it take you back to your long lost youth?

Benny: Stop being a queen bitch to the queen dowager of bitches. Please answer that call,so I don’t have to hear that ring tone.

Anu: Fine. Later.

Anu (on phone to her mother Vrinda): Hi, mom. How are you today?

Welcome to zombieland.

I’m running in my dream, probably the only place where I still can. I am literally flying through the grass which is knee high, spring green and lush. My feet know this path as I’ve hurtled down this mountain many times before. I know I won’t trip or lose my balance on a chance loose stone or get bitten by any creature that lives in the grass. I just know this place and I know myself here.

The mountain begins a shallow descent and the grass gets sparser. It turns a faded green before going completely straw colored. By the time I reach the bottom to the even plain, the straw has given way to Rocky debris, sandy soil, and very sparse grass, if any. There is no way to tell that this is the lush grassland which once was seemingly never ending.

It’s not as if this journey hasn’t changed me physically. My heart which was as steady as a metronome, is beating an erratic, wildly out of tune tattoo. My lungs are working to their maximum and yet can’t keep up. My head is pounding and I can feel a nagging pain in my shoulders and back. My spine feels as if it’s being pulled down by gravity and my feet are suffering the weight of a corpus that is suddenly not too sure of its center of gravity.

I come to a halt at an enormous gate above which is the legend, welcome to zombieland. There are medicine bottles lying all around and medical bills flying all over the place. Blood pressure pills, diabetes pills, pills for thyroid, x rays, cat scans, MRIs, and so on.

Besides these, there are clothes for the elderly, oversize or plus couture, orthopedic shoes, adult diapers, wheelchairs, walking sticks.

Next up are the schemes for investing in health and pension plans. The documents fly thick and fast. Now my had is spinning although I am not running.

I breathe in deep and look back the top sof the mountain. I remember a time when I was 12 when food was fun, work was something to look forward to, walking and climbing mountains gave me real peace and bliss. I remember drawing artlessly and making friends without any hidden agendas.

I look back at the entry to zombieland. I lift up the bottle of pills at my feet and hurl it into the gate. It vanishes just as I could in a pharmaceutical induced haze. I turn around and retie my sneaker laces. I walk back up the mountain.

I’m heading to a time and place in my mind and body when I felt most like myself.

Zombieland can wait forever.

The shortest route to bliss.

“This is delicious, Teju. How? Were you paying attention?”

The young woman who asks me this with perfect inflection, arch humor and admirable timing is built like Juno and has the appeal of Sophia Loren. I am intrigued at once by this statement of hers, since cooking has always been based on instinct, mood and the circumstances around me. It’s never been planned or conscious or pre-mediated in any way. And therein, I believe is the problem.

No dish I ever make tastes the same the next time around. In fact, when I make a dish really well, I’m left with the sinking feeling that someone will love it and ask me to replicate it later, in which case I’ll be in trouble since I did not follow any particular recipe or standard set of measures.

I suppose that comes with the fact of being a home cook. Baking is a different story and once when I’d tried baking and been cavalier with ingredients and process, it pretty much was a flop, literally and metaphorically.

But when cooking something like sindhi kadi, for example, I can shut down my mind and just feel my way through the recipe. The ultimate comfort food, sindhi kadi is a one dish meal to be eaten with long grained jeera rice and papad and sliced onions with lime squeezed on it. You eat it during the rains, the dead of winter, or every day if you are in the mountains. Another thing to remember is, don’t drink water while eating or for an hour after the meal or the bloat will keep you from eating the next two days.

Now for the actual recipe. What do you put into a sindhi kadi? Well, my induction program in making it taught me to use yellow lentils and chickpea flour. There are other variations, using only tomato puree and chickpea flour. Once you are an expert, most sindhi kadi cooks can and do play around with the recipe.

So, the roux is made of chickpea flour, roasted a perfect biscuit brown. You have to be sure it is the colour of a Parle g biscuit, by the way.

The kadi has a load of veggies swimming around in it. These are in descending order potatoes, bottle gourd, okra and aubergines.

The potatoes will appear in almost every ladle full, that’s the idea. So you can add in about a kilo of them. Par boil them since they have to be soft, flaky and receptive to the kadi.

The bottle gourd is cut in long strips and par boiled too. Reserve the liquid or you can steam them too. The gourd must not have big ass seeds. That’s just unpleasant.

The okra is put in whole. You need to get about a dozen of them, the size and width of your index finger, lop off the top and bottom bit and fry the okra till cooked all through. But, and this is tricky, don’t let it go brown. It must be edible all through and still retain its green shade.

The aubergines are the long slim so called Japanese brinjals which are purple. Don’t buy the green ones, not for this dish anyway. Treat them the same way as the okra. Cook through but don’t lose the purple tint or the creamy inner colour.

Now since this is a recipe from before smartphones, at least for me, a few words of caution.

You are going to need both hands, so forget the coofie. (selfie while cooking).

Focus on the process as things can go wrong very quickly.

Get all ingredients together prior to the next step.

This would be mixing the roux and the yellow lentils together. Now as I said, you make the roux by roasting chickpea flour in oil till biscuit brown. This is key. You have to keep the flame medium and stir the roux constantly so it doesn’t take or stick to the bottom of the pan. Use generous amounts of the chickpea flour and oil. Usually the roux has two big ladles of chickpea flour. You need enough oil to coat all of it and turn it into the Kadhi base.

When it is ready, the roux is the exact shade of a Parle g biscuit. I know they are not considered human food anymore but you can keep the reference in mind.

While this is going on, you have already boiled the lentils, about a cup and half of it. Cook with enough water. Blend into a very fine puree with no lumps at all. Strain through a sieve and keep it slightly thin by adding extra water. Bring to a boil and keep on simmer. When the roux is ready add mustard seeds, cumin seeds, turmeric, asafoetida and fenugreek seeds. Just be sparing with the fenugreek seeds, it turns bitter very fast. A good pinch is enough. Let the tempering splutter in the cooked roux, and then add a bowl of water. Step back and lower the flame since the roux will go ballistic on you. Wait till it stops seething and then transfer this mix into the hot lentil soup and stir quickly but steadily.

When this is done, add salt, ginger juliennes made from a 2 inch thick ginger piece and 4 slit green chilies.

Once the kadi is boiling hard add the veggies, and let it simmer for an hour and a half. Keep adjusting salt, add red chilli powder and water to keep it at spoon coating consistency.

When it’s ready, the Kadhi is a silken mustard color soup and the vegetables are coated with it yet floating languidly. The potatoes are soft and flake at once and taste of kadhi.

The final touch is tamarind water, medium thick consistency with a good hearty sambar Masala mixed in. Let it boil once in the kadhi, turn off the gas and cover with a lid.

Now, you could and probably would eat all the kadhi alone, but that is just sad. With this cauldron of kadhi on your table, you can feed at least eight people. So do that, make it for family and friends and if anyone bails on you, go out and invite other folks just to help finish it.

Basically, kadhi is about community.

Inspired by all great home cooks, the beautiful kanwal k, and Jerry pinto’s article about making siyaal phulka, published in the last century.

A twist of tradition, bond of blood.

I walk into the house to a loud argument. For the past five years, that had been the rule rather than the exception. Invariably, it’s my mom in full battleship mode with someone, usually the folks she terms the help in her mind. She would never say it out loud, since she’s socially sophisticated enough to realize that word went out with buckram underskirts. Yet, it lingers in her mind.

So it started with the movers who broke her precious Noritake ceramic plate while transporting it, the cleaner who cleaned her new residence was hauled over the coals for not meeting her standards, the watchman was scolded for not sending up the courier with her bank documents and so on. I wonder what this day will bring as I consider her situation too.

In a reverse migration, my seventy plus mom moved from Pune to Mumbai. She gave up a sprawling 5 bedroom Bungalow to live in an apartment complex in a Mumbai suburb. She also gave up the rights to being a cranky punekar since those who know understand you can never make a Punekar happy. They are constantly searching to improve life while the Mumbaikar takes life as it comes and does not expect anything from anybody.

However, there are two things even the most staunch Mumbaikar is wary of and those are leakage and pests in the house. Termites, wood borers and silverfish are perhaps the biggest demons of the city and treated brutally to eradicate them.

It turns out my mom’s latest battle is with the exterminator. I wince at the loud arguments and can tell from the home grown accent of the exterminator that he is from the Maharashtra rural belt, and won’t take any prisoners while my mom always shoots first and then asks questions. This could take long.

To say that my generation has been oppressed by both our parents and our children is not an overstatement. However it’s not an excuse for spineless behavior. I get into the fray, ignoring the fact that their decibel level is way beyond normal or civilized and offer water or tea all around. I’m waved off impatiently. Somehow they both discover during their conversation that she has a dog living in the house and that changes the tone of the talk. They begin discussing ticks and add that onto the list of pests to be controlled.

It seems ticks are not to be squashed. You nuke them with chemicals. Squashing them releases their blood and they regenerate from it. I joke about mahishasur the demon who was also called raktbeej and the exterminator says, the demons got to stay on earth as the blood parasites.

Sobered by the thought that the gods have left the human domain but the demons stay behind, I now find that the brief truce has been called off. They are now haggling over price.

In the middle of a heated statement the exterminator stops and asks my mom, “who painted that?” my mom points to me. It’s a recreation of vermeer’s girl with a pearl earring and I painted it while my daughter was in her nappies and I wanted to feel like something other than a human udder.

While looking at the painting, they both agree on the price and the deal is done before tea is served.

Next, I help my mom rig up a temporary tray outside her window. The following day is the day she feeds her ancestors and her tray of food has every possible delicacy her dead relatives could want to munch on in heaven. Capsicum bhajji for my grandma, kheer for my grandpa, mung Dal for my aunt. And of course pumpkin and cluster beans for the priests who recommend the standard platter.

On the actual day, I know the family dog will bark and drive the crows away and my mom will fret that her ancestors are going to starve in heaven, hell or purgatory or wherever she has sent them. Crows are famously associated with death rites and every community stuffs their beaks on the all souls day.

The dog would love to help, but apparently you feed dogs to get friends who are loyal, not convey food to the departed. So we court the crows and wait till they are done before we attack the holy meal.

For every story and rumor I hear of seniors being left alone, mistreated, brutalized even, all I can say is only a wearer knows where a shoe pinches. We put up with a buttload of crap from our kids who are old souls, hoping for spiritual growth and other paybacks and attempt to please our infantile parents hoping to earn human and divine goodwill. But we seem to forget that the young and the old are willful and willing to battle the odds to get what they want. It is we the middle aged whose lives have sagged out of shape and want some peace.

Which will come eventually even in the midst of heated arguments and chaotic interludes. The key is to just enjoy the ride, I guess.

Dedicated to the very young and the very old. Though you all can be major pains, we love you to the moon and beyond.

Standard issue.

In a scene From Ankhon Dekhi, babu ji the protagonist of the movie decides he needs to know what it is like to hear a tiger roar. Consequently, he and his band of disciples land up in the zoo to experience the tiger roaring first hand. The tiger roars and babu ji pees his pants. Sometimes, our reaction to an experience can surprise us.

It is precisely that impulse of letting life and the world surprise him that sets off babu ji onto a very different tangent than the track his life has been so far. His life was pretty much standard issue for an Indian and a resident of New Delhi in particular where the lines between urban and rural are blurred and making it invariably involves beating, kicking and slapping down anyone who gets in the way. Add to that a crippling lack of privacy and social ridicule lurking everywhere, even one’s own home and you get the picture.

Which suddenly changed when babu ji decided to question all the givens in life, the assumptions that humans are smug about and decided to see if life, the world and relationships are truly what we imagine them to be or do we need to probe further and more crucially, does it offer us what we want?

The changes his attitude brings about change the order of his existence as it were. Apart from the upheaval in his family where his authority has so far been accepted, he now finds that he can’t take social norms for granted and begins to make decisions based on his knowledge and experience of situations.

As with all those who think for themselves and carve their own furrow in the fields of time, babu ji finds himself being called insane by some and a savant by others. He loses the support of significant people and finds supporters in the unlikliest places.

Human life is to be prized as per all the holy texts of every religion, since it’s the complete package and the most important perk it offers is free will. We are what we choose to be and our lives reflect those choices. That is the sobering takeaway for me from the film.

Dedicated to Sanjay Mishra, the leading man of Ankhon Dekhi, the stellar cast of the film who took their cues from director Rajit Kapur and a cinematic gem which hopefully will be remembered by the mostly discerning audience.