This blog is moving.......

Hello folks, 
I am moving this blog (and all future posts) to wordpress. 
I thought it would be a mite easier for me to manage as I already have another blog there.

Please visit https://smalltownmusing.wordpress.com
See you there.

There are guests and guests. Some make me feel like a wonderful host and an even better human being. They enjoy the conversation, love my cooking, insist on helping out and adjust easily. The house starts looking larger,airier and full of beauty. My few pots become a garden, there's a song in my heart and a smile on my lips.I feel giddy with happiness. But then there are those other guests--my welcome shrinks miserably at their monosyllabic condescension, their evident lack of interest in my home and company, their disdainful picking at the food I've laboured to prepare. The house looks smaller and darker, and a pall of unnerving coolness descends onto my hitherto happy home.

Strange, isn't it, that the same house can either feel like a palace or start closing in on you, because of another person's behaviour? I must admit that the latter category is not too common in my home. But there have been enough guests of that kind to make me appreciate the happy ones even more.

I realised a very long time ago that the quality of one's bringing up plays a very important role in shaping personalities, but I feel continually amazed at the intricate web of words, events, looks, connotations, attitudes that goes into the making of a person-- and then that person plays an important role in shaping another person, mainly the child at home. Thinking more about this makes me feel nervous-- have I passed on the right things? It also makes me feel grateful to my parents, my family, and all those things that have had a part in making me a person blessed with many loving people around me. 

Its not just what a person says that shapes another; its also what that person doesn't say, what she says but doesn't feel, or what she feels but doesn't say, whatever she does willingly or unwillingly....one casual word at a fleeting moment may turn out to be the life-boat that bobs up when needed, or the stone that leads to an early sinking. As a teacher I am acutely aware of the impact of a careless word, and hope my scoldings correct, but do not hurt, any student. ( Of course, it is impossible to tiptoe gingerly through life all the time. There are bound to be times when we hurt others or get hurt ourselves. So I guess the one quality that we have to develop in ourselves as well as our children is resilience. Each time life gives a downward shove, bounce back up.)

                                                             

 ----0000----

One of the things I enjoyed even as a child was poring over magazines. I didn't always understand what I read but all the same it was great fun. The Illustrated Weekly of India was one such magazine. I remember reading a story in it which surprised and even shook me up a little. A family driving through the ghat section stops to eat mangoes, a child tosses down a well sucked mango seed. It rolls down and lodges itself awkwardly among bushes growing in the side of the mountain. Soon the family drives away. 
Many years later another family is driving by. The driver loses control of the car and it rolls down the mountain- but gets caught in the branches of a mango tree growing at a strange angle! All are saved. So, the mango seed tossed so unthinkingly turned out to be a saviour!

I think this was the first time I grappled with the idea of one thing affecting another after a passage of time, and my 10 year old mind kept going back wonderingly to that story all through the summer.... Who knows or can fathom the impact of one's personality on the others? I can only hope that I prove to be that mango seed for others, more often than not. 

A scream a day?

I dont remember the last time I screamed-- an honest- to- goodness, from-the-stomach, face-turning-red scream, that left me weak and emptied of the anger, frustration or unhappiness within. Maybe when I was five? And lost some game.....or got scolded. But after that? Oh make no mistake-- it wasnt because I never felt upset after age five!

There are so many subtle restrictions placed on girls--this is not to be done, that just isnt done, what will others say-- and all by the well-meaning elders in the family. I get it. We all want our daughters to grow up well, to 'fit' everywhere they go, and so, while encouraging them to be individuals and winners, we also hammer a cover on feelings that are generally frowned upon. I have been no exception-Im sorry, sweetheart, for all the times Ive raised a warning finger and suppressed your 'outbursts'.

Many years ago, a 7 yr old girl said she wanted to dig a little pit for herself and sit in it. Sounded rather cute then but obviously there was something stressful going on in that young mind. And she had already learnt to hide her anger... no temper tantrums. In fact, I dont think any of us has the ability to scream any longer. Specially not alone. I wonder what I would do if I encountered something scary, scream-worthy....maybe just hush up; I find it hard even to imagine myself screaming. 

I am generally happy and do not think about shouting and screaming all the time. But every once in a while I realise how many rights I have lost during all these years of womanhood. 'Small' things that have 'girl' or 'woman' stamped on them, and that slowly drag us down giving us those stiff hard knots in our necks or stomachs or hearts. 

Why is it that we have any number of laughter clubs but no screaming club? Maybe men need to induce laughter; we women manage to laugh for myriad reasons, its the screaming we need. I have nothing against the laughter clubs. Every morning I see a lot of people laughing away under the green trees in the park and most of the times it brings a grin to my face. It is only when I remember the words of a regular there- an old lady living with her children- that I feel a screaming club would benefit her more. She told me once that that was the only time in the whole day she got to open her mouth.

And at least on that first day of the Screaming Club, we would have to gather on the outskirts of the town. Otherwise our screams would burn up the leaves, shrivel the buds and sear the trunks of the stately trees. They would pierce the ear-drums of the men walking around in their branded track-suits and maybe a few birds would fall down mid-flight. 

But what liberation! A scream a day-- to keep the doctor away.

You don’t want to try this.

With profound apologies to all the enthusiastic people who have been cooking and plating Lovely Food and also to those who hate write-ups before the recipe finally appears.

It all started with a request to the spouse - Would bhabhiji cook up a South Indian meal for three? Soon?

How soon?

Welll, tonight.

Tonight???? I’ve got answer sheets to check, deadlines to meet! Ohhh, okay...but nothing fancy. Rice, pumpkin sambaar and avial, with Kerala papads. Only. 

And then, that night, my poppet came down with fever, the lights in the whole colony blew out and---the mealwallahs never turned up. Just an abject phone call, sorry bhaisab,urgent kaam aa gaya.

The scene next morning: worried witless at the feverish little being following me wanly with her eyes, wondering how to manage the day, I came upon this big casserole with rice filled to the brim. Something snapped, fury and frustration seethed within; mother, teacher, housewife, all helplessly battling with each other. In a red haze I shook out the rice in a paraat, and vengefully mashed it into a mushy mass. Hardly aware of what I was doing, I threw in masalas, besan and went mash, mash, mash....Kept a pot of water to boil, mumbling  " I don’t know " to my husband's questioning gaze. I really didn’t know what I was doing. But suddenly the mashed mass became a dough.

I made rolls of that dough and dropped them into the boiling water, not really caring what happened to them. For all I knew it would turn into a mess which I would have to throw out guiltily.....

As the water boiled fast and furious, I calmed down, and the rolls cooked beautifully. Soon, I picked them out, sliced off a tiny bit to ensure it was cooked and let them cool. Meanwhile, the husband had decided to take leave and stay with the daughter. I decided to drop off the answer sheets a little late, and proceeded to slice the rolls, make a seasoning and toss the slices in it.

The three of us loved it and mental peace was restored. My colleagues clamoured for the 'recipe'. I just grinned and avoided saying much. This was the first time that extreme irritation-no, fury- had found its way into a dish of mine. 

This happened many years ago.

Yesterday I remembered it. I had some leftover rice too. Calm and relaxed, I hummed as I mashed it and added stuff. It became soggy, stuck to my fingers and it was with dismayed difficulty that I managed to make the rolls and do the rest. But alas! the slices seemed too soft and finally I decided to shallow fry them. The verdict? Good, but not as good as 'those'!

That's when I realised, fury is an important ingredient of this 'dish'. Believe me, you don't want to try this when you are not angry.

Still want to try it? OK, here goes:

SLICED FURY

Leftover rice   1 cup

Besan           1/2 cup approx(depending on the dryness of the rice) 

Jeera           1/4 tsp

Saunf           1/2 tsp

Chilli pdr to taste

Haldi pdr a pinch

Salt

Mash (vengefully) all the above ingredients except besan, and any other you may like to throw in. Add as much besan as necessary to make a dough that can be shaped into 4-5 short logs (like for gatte).

Boil 2 1/2 cups water and add the rolls one by one. Let the water boil continuously. Separate the rolls with a fork once in a while and let cook for around 5 minutes. 

Remove, drain, slice when cool.

Make a seasoning in1tbsp ghee with rai, hing, jeera,a medium sized onion thinly sliced(opt), chilli pdr/ green chillies and curry leaves. Add the slices and toss to coat them evenly. Let them heat through thoroughly to make them a little crisp. 

Serve with a sprinkling of salt and a dash of lemon juice; sauce or green chutney.

The husband wants internet and networks and wifi and things like that; the wife wants silence and a chance to read and sleep without the doorbell or phone ringing; the only child(no longer a child)wants to shop and dance and eat adventurously.

So where does a small nuclear family go for a holiday?

I am reminded of my childhood days when we used to gather at a friend's house to watch tv(yes!!). Her father would quickly point out--see? Switzerland! or Look,look, London! and then add-hmm. Now dont say your father never showed you foreign countries. It never failed to raise a laugh. But now I have begun to think that it is probably the only way to actually enjoy a 'holiday'.

So many hurdles in leaving home! Ask the neighbours to keep an eye/ear open for lurking strangers, take care of the water supply( 2/3 precious times a week). Then water plants plentifully to last our holiday, or coax/teach the neighbourettes to do the needful;also ask them to pick up the newspapers. Easier to stay at home......

Maybe one should just lock the home kitchen. Get the meal of each one's choice from the market(no home delivery here); switch off the phone and sleep/ watch movies/grab the Kindle... But ahh! where does that leave the child's idea of a holiday? So we are back to square one. Take a friend along? Naah! Conducted tour? No way!...

And another year passes by.

 That day, that age, has arrived!

When I was young I was amused and sometimes irritated at the ‘good old days’ conversation that ensued whenever my uncles and aunts gathered. Children were more ‘decently’ dressed, songs were not ‘vulgar’, films were meaningful, everything in the market was cheaper, neighbours were more helpful, studies made sense, the rupee could s-t-r-e-t-c-h……..

Copy, paste to the present! Only, now the conversation is not between my aunts and uncles, but is more and more the fervent discussion between friends and yours truly! ‘That’ age has arrived. We are able to say- 40 or 45 years ago this happened or that happened. How did this happen? Didn’t we always say that we would never talk like ‘them’? That we would never have a generation gap problem with our kids? That we wouldn’t mind our kids’ manners and dresses and language? Ha!

But….maybe in some ways we are different. We aren’t thaaat shocked, we have a sneaking or not so sneaking admiration for the directness and decisiveness of our children, we support their views more often or more easily……Still, I must admit that those remembered-and-hated words ‘wait till you have kids of your own’ need to be bitten back more and more these days!

Hmmm…so we are these fairly modern, educated, broad-minded mothers of 20-something daughters. We have had more exposure than the earlier generation of mothers. Things are going to be different with us surely?

So what do I do with this thought that suddenly jumped into my mind today? As mothers we may be different but as grandmothers?? Will we be able to match our mothers, the earlier generation, with their complete loving dedication to their grandchildren, their immediate fulfillment of each little wish the grandchild whispers? Will we be our grandchildren’s confidantes and share their secrets, and laugh together? Or are we, the mod mothers, going to be in a limbo- neither totally grandmas nor considered mod enough by an even newer generation?!

Just yesterday when my husband came back home in the evening, a number of children were playing outside our house. Not one of them thought of opening the gate for him. He was balancing some packages on the bike and waited for me to come out and throw open the gate. A few years back this wouldn’t have happened- two or three or all the children would have run to open the gate, racquets in hand and ‘namastey uncle’ accompanying the big grins on their faces.

So why this change? These are nice, normal children who balance their studies and play and tv. It may sound strange but I’m convinced that the way language is used nowadays is responsible for the deterioration in the respect and regard for older people which was so evident, at least in small towns, till recently.

Top on my list of wrongly used words and phrases is ‘I and my friend’. That people all over the world have accepted this usage pains me. I do not believe I am saying anything far-fetched. How do we expect our children to be considerate or respectful when we do not teach them to put their ego on hold? I remember one English teacher during my school days always exhorting us to ‘put the donkey last’. We did it. We put ‘I’ behind all the rest. Now I realize how many things that one little rule achieved. It taught us good language, good manners and the fact that one really doesn’t need to be self-centered!

With each reality show, the standard of ‘awesome’ seems to fall more and more. I always thought the usage of this word was limited to two or three times in a lifetime. But now every so-called singer, every mediocre novel, every barely satisfactory meal is ‘awsum’. What’s wrong with saying ‘Can do better’ or ‘Better luck next time’? Why put young people on a pedestal that will definitely crumble, and soon? Surely adults realize that the false ‘awesome’ will never let the recipient develop her potential? Why have we started feeling that our youth are so namby-pamby that they can’t deal with setbacks or failure? I’ve seen girls who were scolded for not studying enough develop into great professionals and mothers. Would they have done that if their lives had been peppered(I use the word purposely) with ‘awsum’s? I wonder.

I have always been allergic to words like ‘sacrifice’ and ‘vocation’ because they are used lightly and too often. People who do the former and live the latter shouldn’t feel the need to talk about it. One doesn’t talk of sacrifice in the context of TV and pizza! Nowadays I realize how much responsibility lies on the shoulders of our generation. We need to choose our words very carefully so that our youngsters know everything doesn’t begin and end with them. Yes, the language that is used today is upsetting.

Last year a little fellow, all of seven, came to me with some grammar problems. He opened his bag and said, “Oh shit! I don’t have my book”. Dropped his pencil and picked it up with a ‘Shitt!’ Startled, I told him tersely that he was not to use that word since shit belonged in the toilet. He looked surprised and unconvinced but mumbled ‘ok’ and we proceeded with the lesson. When he was packing up he almost said the word again. Exasperated, I said, “ Where did you pick up this word?” and was dumbstruck to hear that his class-teacher used it often. Next day he was careful not to use the word. But soon, with a thoughtful frown, he ventured to say, “I think there must be two kinds of shit. One that you told me about yesterday. And the other one that my teacher says all the time.” Oh teacher!