In the hidden creases of our minds...

In the Hidden Creases of our Minds…

Sometimes I feel like I'm sitting at a station and trains whiz past me without stopping. I can see the lights in the train windows, but not well enough to see who or what is inside. The next window has already claimed my attention. And then the next!

I have just updated the OS on my phone and there’s another update already! I overhear a PYT chatting on the phone, "So I finally cut my hair in the asymmetric fashion yesterday, and today I saw this swag hairstyle on Miranda Kerr that I wanna get!" Bathing soaps have gotten better, newly improved and are now endowed with even better fragrance. No time to blink, the next swanky model of car is already here. By the time I make up my mind to let my kid watch 'Transformers', he's already switched allegiance to ‘Arrow’!

The other day I was watching a TV programme about the 80s. There was a scene where they were using the chunky telephone; the ones that you had to stick your finger in the circle and dial. Then you have to wait for it to whirr back to position. It got me thinking. My generation has buried a multitude of things in the hidden creases of our minds simply because things got newer and better and then simply obsolete!

Remember the weighing machines at railway stations and movie theatres with colourful dials that spin away when you step on it? It used to be a tradition to check our weight on those machines every summer holiday. It would even tell your fortune in addition to your weight that you would meet your life partner or strike it rich with a lottery soon. 

Those days the flapping pages of calendars would remind us that days were passing by. Rolls of newly waxed and shiny paper would replace the old ones on that singe nail every January. It would have birthdays marked in bright colours. Gas cylinder bookings would be jotted down on the sides. Telephone numbers, milk money, exam schedules and shopping lists were scribbled on it. Calendars used to be a big part of our daily lives. Now calendars make the news only when Kingfisher is making them!

Can you remember the last time you held a fountain pen?! I was reminded recently when a friend gifted me one and said it’s a collectible not just because it’s not really used nowadays, but because it was a handmade one. I love the way a pen allows you the time to think and write. My personal opinion is that keyboards have a quality of unwarranted urgency to them. The damn cursor keeps blinking!

Telegrams! Those little scraps of paper used to scare the wits out of anybody as it was a popular medium to convey bad news. “Grandfather unwell. Take next train.” But that's being unfair to the memory of telegrams. They also brought news of job appointments and exam results. And now they are oh-so-redundant with the onslaught of emails, Facebook, Twitter, Whatsapp and Snapchat. Today you can post, “Achoo! My dog sneezed” and get 200 likes and address references of the nearest vet within a few seconds.

There are many things I can ramble on about just because I'm in the mood for nostalgia. The wood framed slate and chalk that was an integral part of our first day at school. The shiny plastic sticker bindi; not the felt ones; those are still sticking on! The film negatives; holding them up against the light and looking at the ghostly reversed images was a favourite past time. Then there's the growing list of things that will soon become part of our good-ole-days. Greeting cards, handwritten letters, phonebooks, cameras and books. I dread the day e-books will pull the plug out on the printed ones! I mourn the missing footsteps at the post office. I long for that coloured envelope bearing teddy bear pictures and happiness.

But in the meantime, I'm still at the station, waiting for the trains to stop or at least slow down; armed with a mobile phone that has the setting changed to ‘automatic update’! Have to keep up...iron out the creases!

-Anuradha Venkatnarayan 

   

Who's teaching? Who's learning!

My kid turns around and asks me, "Amma, what's my job?" I'm quickly searching for appropriate answers because parenting has a lot of rules now. You cannot demand too much from children. But you should not hide too much from children either! While I'm grappling with the right thing to say, he cheekily says, "To make you and Appa happy, what else?!" He's won over me hands down. Lesson learnt: Don't complicate.

Another day my other darling catches me clutching my head, nursing a headache. She promptly brings me the roll on balm and rubs it in for me. I melt in her warmth. It gets me thinking about how I react when she tells me she is hurt. Her eyes would be welling up with tears, ready to drop; and a tiny sympathetic word would start the deluge. So I would brush it away saying it's just a scratch. I have to teach her to be strong. But maybe all she wants is to be hugged and allowed to cry. Lesson learnt: A little love goes a long way. 

When did I stop enjoying the little things they did? Is it because they have grown up a little bit more and I have to teach them so many things. Why am I in a rush to make them model human beings? Can I not afford to let them learn at their pace? Lesson learnt: It's not about who's teaching and who's learning; it's about the willingness to learn. 

Tolerance testing...123!

Of late I keep hearing this warning over and over in my head - tolerance testing...1,2,3; tolerance testing...1,2,3.

Vishwaroopam releases; two shows later somebody who hears the same warning in their head, takes it really seriously and storms the screening and forces us to stop it. The voice in his head said 'I am upset that they are making money by making movies that shows muslims as terrorists'. We are sorry we lacked the imagination to show terrorists of another religion in a story that's set in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Nirbhaya gets raped, mutilated, thrown off a bus and left for dead. The many warning voices in many heads go off. Some are saying she should have begged for mercy. Some are asking what she was doing out so late. Some are pointing out that in a Hindu nation, women will be safe. We are sorry we lacked the decency to stay indoors. We are penitent that we brought out the animals in those men. We are sorry we lifted our heads and walked out.

Pictures of Hindu gods on a model sashaying down the ramp suddenly get called off. A persistent warning rings in some minds about disrespect, about irreverence. We are sorry we took it for granted that it will be accepted in the right sense since Hindu gods have always been colourfully shown on calendars, framed in pictures and splashed on walls. We are sorry we were creative.

The warning voice is repeating this over and over in my head - tolerance testing...1,2,3; tolerance testing...1,2,3. When will I lose my tolerance over such blatant abuse of personal freedom.

Maybe I should not publish this blog?!

Tolerance testing...1,2,3...

Kollath Hangover (Kollath is my dad's ancestral home)

Im back from spending a lovely 2 days at our 'home'. I have titled it a 'hangover' because, as is the case with alcohol, the kollath visit has given me some lovely moments and as it kicks in, I am left with some misgivings! I wanted to share it with the family and all those who would love to read about an old house filled with memories of many people.

The view from the karanavar's chair

The view from the karanavar's chair is the same...

Green at the end of the gate. The fields are a bit bare now that the harvest is over. But the trees bordering the hills at the end of the flat fields still green with memories of the good old days. I still got asked, "Evidathaya? Edhu veetilthaya?" My daughter, got to touch a goat as was her wish. The kids and I walked till Neyyuttil Ambalam and scared a man who was bathing in the Ambala Kolam! We sat on the little bridge where many of us have made decisions, gossiped and just simply sat drinking in the sounds of the brook running over the stones! There is no water now running beneath the bridge. When Nayna fell and scraped her knee on the Thottu Varambu I was happy(ironically!) she got to take back a bit of what our childhood was like! A lil keepsake!

The Moonaam Nela is devoid of any memories except an old Thottil and some termite eaten Aavana Palagas. Even some old photos are missing. The line of photos hanging in Thekkini was it's identity! The Guruvayur Kesavans (Painting on mats) guarding either side of our front door is down to one. Missing a partner! The old armchair's cloth is still rolled up in the night so dogs and cats cannot claim it as their bed !!

In the Pujamuri, all gods are intact, so are the little dagger, Achaachan's watch hanging on his photo; Valia Ammaama's belt hanging on a nail and the iron rod separating the pooja doer from the praying are all in place. But the room is filled with cobwebs that have missed the eyes of our 91 year old Murugamama.

In the bedroom upstairs Achamma used to lovingly line every available sq ft of floor with Kosari and make sure everyone had a pillow and clean sheets. This time we were scared to open out the matresses in case some pests jump out. The fans run with the same low voltage capacity as if they are stuck in those days when the reluctant electricity used to make electric bulbs shine like Chimmini Vilakku! and the fans used to gently mimic the Vishari's speed! But in the morning, the sight of trees swaying through the wooden windows is the same. The same orchestra of birds to wake you from your sleep. The same fresh air nudging you awake. It's only the things used by people that has worn away or been eaten by mites.

The kitchen and bathrooms have its share of wildlife. I saw a red and black 'marathavala' at the kitchen door unable to decide where to go. I knew where to go. I ran and asked Murugamama to drive it away! He resignedly ambled across, shooed it away and said, "Idhu njaan valarthunnaya"!! Not to forget the extra large spiders and cockroaches in the Kulimuris! Looks like the pests have decided they will take over since the number of people has dwindled. There was a time when there were many of us and few of them!

When I remember how the house used to be and see it in its orphaned stage, dirty, broken and eaten away, it hurts. Practically, I know how difficult it is to maintain the house. But to see the house losing its strength made me feel helpless.

Murugamama is carrying on with his customary spirit. But the failing eyesight and hearing is worrying. Its not easy for us to go stay there for a couple of days; and it certainly is not easy to stay there with limited faculties.

Some of the photographic moments that will stay with me about this trip are the rolicking bath at the pump set used to water the arecanut trees. The kids had a brilliant time in the cold and gushing water. We had a lovely sighting of regal peacock walking across the fields. The family had quiet, undisturbed siesta on the Umarpadis. And we got a lot of lovely moments to take back after the holiday!

Help with some malayalam words:
• Karanavar - the elder in the family
•"Evidathaya? Edhu veetilthaya?" - this is the standard query from all people working in the fields when they spot a new person. Translated, it means, "Where are you from? Which house do you belong to?"
• Ambalam - temple
• Ambala Kolam - temple pond
• Thottu Varambu - the raised walkways between fields
• Moonaam Nela - third floor/ attic
• Thottil - cradle
• Aavana palaga - the spade shaped wooden low stool used for puja
• Thekkini - the hall
• Guruvayur Kesavan - the name of the elephant that carried the lord's idol for many years.
• Pujamuri - puja room
• Achaachan - dad's dad
• Valia ammaama - dad's eldest brother
• Murugamama - our home's caretaker, single-handedly running the show; who's become one of the family now
• Achamma - dad's mum
• Kosari - mattress
• Chimmini Vilakku - hurricane lamp
• Vishari - hand fan made of palm leaf
• Marathavala - tree frog
• "Idhu njaan valarthunnaya" - loosely translated it means, "this is my pet"
• Kulimuri - bathroom
• Umarpadi - the platform running along the front of the house, wide enough to sit and even catch a few hours of sleep

I WAS RIGHT

I said the sun is rising from behind my friend's house,
Amma said it is not actually there but really far away.

"I will wear my new pink frock to go play,"I stomped,
Amma didn't say a word while stitching up the big tear in the frock.

"I would love to be a doctor, a model, an astronaut..."
Amma said, "Follow your heart and follow it up with your head."

"I swear he's just a friend, Amma."
"Trust me, he wants more than that," she said.

"I hate him, I could kill him," I ranted.
"Let it go my darling," she reasoned.

I shed tears when I left home, heaved down with garlands
Amma blessed me, "Hold your head up high and be happy."

"I have to go to her," I cried when I got the call,
"I had to see you before I go," said Amma to me weakly.

I said "I love you more than anything Amma,"
Amma closed her eyes, smiled and said, "I love you more than that."

I knew that was true. I was finally right.

Anuradha venkatnarayan
--------------------------------

KIDS… or Knowledgeable Individuals with Drastic Superiority

 

It’s hard work to be a kid today.

By the time you celebrate your 6th birthday, you are expected to know at least one martial art, one performing art and you should have taken part in a minimum of one of those brain mapping tests that will pronounce you to be a future mathematician or budding scientist. This is apart from the weekly assessments of academic performance, wherein you are allowed to secure only grades above ‘B’.

“What do you mean by saying you don’t know the names of all the moons of Jupiter?!”

“How did you get this multiplication exercise wrong? It’s only a 4 digit number multiplied by a 3 digit number!”

“I had to look up the difference between a ‘homonym’ and a ‘homophone’ on Google. Don't you remember we played that ‘Spot the homonyms’ game on the Internet?!”

We parents have a supremely demanding obligation to fulfil. Mind you, we are bringing up Knowledgeable Individuals with Drastic Superiority, not kids!

Our parenting skills are judged on how well our children have done in the prelims to the International spelling bee contest. We are good parents only if we provide them the opportunity to take part in the robotics camp. And our annual judgement day is when the kids go on stage for their annual day to showcase their acting, dancing and singing skills. Slip up and you will have to hear snide remarks like, “Oh, your child does not know how to play chess?! Isn’t he 6 years old?”

I am a misfit. And I feel strangely unburdened that my kids are not professionally trained in anything. And no, I am not looking for a teacher to tutor them to play in the sand after they finish their clay modelling classes!

I want my kids to look at beggars and ask me why they don’t have enough clothes. I don’t want them to talk profusely about the economic disparity in India.

I wish my kids would scrape their elbows while climbing trees and come running to me for a bandage. I don’t want them to give me a list of the disadvantages of climbing trees.

I would love it if my kids simply call their grandparents and tell them about what happened in school. I don’t want them to know things like range on a cell phone or posting on the Facebook wall already.

I would love to bring up kids. I don't want to bring up stunted adults.

Cooking up flavours!

There was a time when breakfast was a standard fare of  idli and dosa. My address at that time was, needless to guess, Chennai! During my school days, Idli and Dosa were consumed with ghee and sugar. Jam was only for special occasions! Then, as tolerance grew to include spiciness, chutney, sambar and idli podi were all brought forth to the table. Chutney could be the chaste coconut and green chilli variety or the more adventurous type that had onions ground with coconut and red chillies. The other chutney that lingered on my tongue was the one I tasted at my aunt’s that had a sliver of ginger added to the coconut and green chillies to bring that zing. The other chutney that we were crazy about was the ‘ulli sammandhi’. This was a coarsely ground chutney of lightly fried sambar onions, tomatoes, red chillies, curry leaves and a generous drizzle of coconut oil. The onions would almost be raw but the flavours were aplenty. My dad’s favourite was the same chutney minus the tomato. It was more a relish than a chutney and it went beautifully with steamed tapioca.

My Kerala roots added coconut and coconut oil to almost everything! Even sambar was made with coconut browned along with coriander seeds and a few sambar onions. This would then be ground to a fine paste and added to the vegetables cooking in tamarind juice. Even though I make the ‘podi’ sambar (you just add the sambar powder to the boiling tamarind juice) for convenience, I sometimes just have to give in to the ‘aracha sambar’ (Ground masala sambar) temptation.

Puttu-kadala curry, aappam-mutta curry, idiappam-stew were all saved for special breakfasts. They meant a bit more work than idli and dosa! Then came a time when adai and aval upma became a part of the breakfast menu. That was when the Brahmin influence entered my life. Until then I didn’t even know that there were so many types of rasam! Tomato rasam, milagu(pepper) rasam, Poondu(garlic) rasam, paruppu rasam…you name it! For us Nairs, rasam meant a wholesome hash of pepper, jeeragam, garlic and tomato boiled in tamarind juice till your cold vanishes! After my marriage to an Iyer boy, I became an expert in making all types of ‘kalandha saadham’ (mixed rice). I could make lemon rice, coconut rice, tamarind rice, pudina rice and even ellu (til) rice. Oh and curd rice, of course! I learnt the trick of mashing the rice with milk and salt and then adding just a little curd to it. This allows the milk to turn to curd along with the rice in it ensuring the freshest curd rice ever, nit too sour, not too milky. The tadka of mustard seeds and mor molaga (chillies soaked in salted buttermilk and sun dried, which is then fried in oil to a deep brown) adds the colour and flavour to the otherwise plain curd rice.

In London, the cold weather permeates everything; even food. I was aghast that people actually relished cold meat, cold salads, even cold sandwiches! But to be fair, the British do have an extensive culinary history, like any other country. Although for an Indian who is used to dousing food with flavours and not flinching while throwing those spices and chillies into what they are cooking, the British cooking will appear absolutely bland. The British pride themselves on their reserve. They show this reserve even when they cook. Spice is added to bring flavour, not to kill the germs in what they are cooking. They even baulk at our tea, while asking politely, why is it that we are stewing our tea?! We do believe in cooking things till they become a slave of the spices added.

I learnt what the potato tasted like when I tasted my first jacket potato (Whole potato baked with its skin on). Until then I had only tasted the turmeric, chilli powder and the mustard in the urulai podimas and the jeera, garam masala and coriander powder in the aloo jeera. I had never tasted the potato till then!

Armed with knowledge of how an artichoke looks, what a petit-pois is and that white wine goes brilliantly with fish, I moved back to India. This time my address was Hyderabad. The land of biriyani and haleem was a “zor ka jhatka”. But now I can eat guthuvankaya (stuffed brinjals cooked in a thick gravy of dry coconut, peanuts, tamarind, garlic and sesame seeds among other things) without breaking into a sweat. I can cook it too. I do like the biriyani and mirchi ka salan combination, although I still believe that the Malabar fish biriyani is the queen of all biriyanis.

Somewhere along the way, Marathi and Mangalorean influences have crept into my cooking, from the numerous dinner and lunch invites from my friends. I can make a mean sabudana khichdi (which is supposed to be vrat ka khana, but is a sinfully addictive dish) and know that each neer dosa has to be lacy thin and soft in order to complement the spicy mangalorean chicken curry.

While the flavours of the North and the South are abundant on what appears on my dining table, the East and the West are not so well represented. Bengali cooking and Gujarati cooking eludes me. I think it is time to make some Gujarati and Bengali friends…!