How to manage your husband Pahari-woman style (and other life tips)

This time around, I travelled alone in the hills. This not only meant that I did not need to share my bed with my colleague, but also gave me admission into the world that the women had carved out for themselves. I needed to seek it out, of course. Perhaps because I was travelling alone for work, I was treated in a masculine manner and told to sit in the parlour, kept away from women, etc. A little dodging around and wistfully peering into the kitchen enabled me to break that barrier.

And I am glad I did. The women of the household are mere shadows when in the company of their men, but among themselves, they blossom out into fun and laughing spirits. The kitchens are small, basic, warm, and cheerful. They sit together all- mothers, daughters, and daughters-in-law- to cook and chatter. They can not eat till after all the household has eaten, but no matter. They roast corn on the hearth and munch on that (without sharing with the men, of course). They trade recipes and excitedly gossip with this stranger in their midst. For most of them Dehradun (a six hour journey by bus) is impossibly far and exotic. After I told them of my life and of the city, they would ask me, "Who looks after your crops and your cattle when you travel?"

I called my Mian one night and told him that I'd caused a dozen women to fall in love with him.
'And what exactly did you tell them?', he asked cautiously.
'You don't want to know', I laughed.
 It wasn't much, actually. I was describing our evenings to them. How Mian and I cook together in the kitchen, how we then sit and eat together, how he makes my favourite treats for me. They were astounded at my naivete in gadding about alone and leaving such a prize catch unsupervised. And then they gave me tips too..'Do like we do and keep a lathi hidden in your pallu. Your Mian looks at another woman, use it on them both!' I just hope they meant it figuratively.

Unlike the men who were always full of complaints, the women were downright gleeful. And that is strange, because their troubles were far more than those of the men.

Though that might only have been my urban point of view. They were sorry for me because I do not adorn myself. The simple two strand mangalsutra around my neck does not count, they insisted. And so one afternoon, Samota Devi and her daughter and her daughter in law all dressed me up. They painted my nails, loaded (and I mean loaded) my arms with bangles, placed a bindi on my forehead and were out to pierce my nose when I managed to escape. I will string the bangles as lightcatchers now..a reminder of a most generous woman.

A man I met.

I heard a story last night of a couple who fell in love in Banethi Taluka in Sirmaur, Himachal Pradesh. She was a young bride of a scheduled caste in a remote village in Himachal, he was a travelling seller of shawls from Uttar Pradesh. I only heard the bare bones of the story, but it is easy to flesh it out. A young girl with no real choices before her, newly become a wife to a man she had never met before. She probably discovered that marriage meant the end of whatever little freedoms and joys she was allowed at her old home. Having spent the first one-and-a-half or two decades of her life in one village, she would now spend the next five in one house. And then a man came along, carrying warmth and softness on his back, with his tales of all the lands he had seen; she was enchanted. When he offered to take her with him, can we really blame her for accepting? Apparently, the good people of Himachal can. They hunted down the couple, beat the man to within an inch of his life, and returned the woman to a life now even more fettered and harsh.

I was told this story by T as we sat and talked on the roof of his house. As we looked over the valley, he also spoke of the forests he had lived his life in. When I asked him if he earned any money by selling pine resin, he told me that is a sinful way to earn money. 'It hurts us so much even when we are pricked by a thorn. Can you imagine cutting into a living tree? What agonies it must feel!' T is a handsome man belonging to one of the Thakur families of himachal, and only saved from pomposity by being the younger brother. Instead, he is full of the graceful courtesy that only hillmen seem to possess. He made up a bed for me to lie down in when he saw me flagging. He looked hard and long for a meswak tree when I said I had not seen one before. On my expressing an interest in butterbeans, he picked them for my dinner. Together, we picked over and prepped the beans on his roof by the light of a full moon.

T was also part of the group that beat up the seller of shawls. When asked about the number of children he has, he says two, meaning only the two sons. His first born, his daughter, is not worthy of being counted. He prefers women not to be tej (sharp/fierce/assertive).  As he saw me safely on my bus, he placed a small bundle of beans in my bag.

This is a sad and complex world.

The Scented Forest

I am no forest-wallah, so please do take all that I say with a pinch of salt.

Now that the disclaimer is over with, I can start theorizing.

The pine trees in Uttarakhand confuse me to no end. The very first time I traveled in the mountains, I gasped in delight as I saw the pine forests. And they ARE beautiful. The forest floor is covered with needles that form a smooth red carpet. From this carpet rise the straight trunks- also red and with markings resembling those on a giraffe. The tree then forms a neat head of long deep green needles that glow silver in the sun. 'There are few things more beautiful.' I enthused. I was censoriously harumphed at by my colleague. 'There is nothing more terrible' he corrected me.

And that largely sums it up. All the villagers and development workers I have spoken to have informed me that Pine is a ruthless invader, first brought by the Britishers and then propagated by the Forest department. It ignites and burns their land, takes over productive oak forests, covers the soil with an impenetrable cloak of needles, and adds nothing to the local economy whatsoever. The only use they admit to is for firewood, and needles for bedding cattle. It would be hard for them to deny the lopping for firewood, because it is difficult to find a pine tree that has not been pruned till it resembles a mangy paintbrush but they will not admit to any other use. Pine forests are now the battlefield between the Govt and the villages. Google 'chir pine' though, and the first sentence informs you that chir pine (pinus roxburghii) is 'one of the most useful trees in the region'.

I dont know which story is true. Perhaps they both are. One thing though is that pine trees are exploited to within an inch of their lives. In addition to the  lopping I mentioned earlier, they are also tapped for resin. Each tree is scarified and  fixed with a little pot to collect the aromatic sap. 

Over time and with repeated harvestings, the tree becomes a mass of scars

I understand that forests need to be used, and that this can be done sustainably. I also understand that communities depend on natural resources for their survival and that this harvesting of resin generates revenue which enables the protection of forests. I do believe that fortress conservation is a Bad Thing.  But there is also something called carrying capacity. And I fear that we have long ago exceeded that.

And leaving conservation-speak aside, the child in me still believes in dryads and living trees. Those wounds must be painful.

Wanting more.

He is here, my Mian is.

Travelling to Delhi despite jetlag just because I needed to go and we weren't prepared to be separated again. Gravely agreeing with me that the mould on the walls does add a certain decorative something. Good humouredly jumping headlong into the Great Game of stalking and appropriating our newspaper before the landlords 'borrow' it. Sharing with me the wonderful joy of a morning coffee while watching the world wake up. Eating a hastily made dahi-rice as if it was the most splendid thing ever.

And instead of wholeheartedly enjoying this, I am grumpy because he leaves in a fortnight. Somewhere inside me is the ability to be thankful for the now, to not let tomorrow spoil today. I need to find it, that's all.

Water and onions

The two are tangled up in my mind. And the reason has nothing to do with the water requirements of onions, or with the fact that Maharashtrian farmers boast of water sufficiency by saying 'we can even grow onions here!'

The reason is a little more basic. When I first started working in watershed management, I was under Kamthe Sir's wing. Before teaching me soil and water conservation, he taught me survival. 'Water and onions', he said. 'Make sure you have plenty of those two things. Carry enough with you, and dont feel shy to ask for either in the villages'. He had a point. Onions are cooling, hydrating, and add zest to a dry meal. I am not entirely sure if the ones I love are entirely happy with my love for crunching raw onions with nearly every meal, but I am.

I was thinking about him because it has been a very long time since I have gone off to plan water conservation in a watershed..the last time was in 2004, I think. And that is why I welcomed my trip to Himachal Pradesh.
That, and the things I was looking forward to seeing there:

Well maintained and lovingly preserved non intrusive water harvesting structures. These are designed to tap the springs' natural flow, as opposed to tube wells which pump out water and deplete aquifers.

The photograph below this shows the exterior of the same structure, and also the trough to accumulate the runoff from the spring, so that the animals can drink too.

And I looked forward to walking on farm paths.

And the mountains

And always, the people. no, this is not my sleuth grandpa. This is a much younger man who worked under the NREGA scheme. We had gone up to where they were working, and he had quietly taken charge, calling the women over, pointing out a woman who was a widow and needed assistance, and offering us all (me included) a beedi before lighting one himself.

The people I met in Nahan

I was there for a little less than a week, and in that time enjoyed the hospitality of and learned from several people in the villages of Nihog, Garson, and Rahaur (Taluka: Nahan, District: Sirmaur, State: Himachal).

Since I started visiting villages for work (in 2003), I have been amazed by the warmth and ease with which people have hosted me in a variety of circumstances . In Rahaur, my (male) colleague and I blushingly shared a king-sized bed complete with a crimson damask cover. More often, I've lain down on a mattress with all the women in the family. And I hope that if I am ever confronted with a casual acquaintance with a backpack and no shelter, then irrespective of the state of my house, I'll be able to say 'of course you'll be staying with me.'

Not all encounters were perfectly good. At one place, I was sharing a room with the mistress of the house. After quizzing me about the exact particulars of my caste and origin, she asked me how many brothers I have. Not the number of siblings, the bhai-behen, I might have. She was only interested in the brothers. "Not one", I cheerfully replied.
"you are alone?"
"no, I have a sister."
"What? Just one sister? How can that be?" she asked, causing me to formulate and regretfully discard a number of replies invoking the birds and the bees. I settled for a smile and a shrug.
The topic then moved to my sister's children.
"My sister has one daughter" I said, my voice warm with pride as I thought of my spunky, book-devouring, piano playing niece. She tut-tutted in commiseration. I tried half-heartedly to challenge her stand, to make her think instead of reacting by rote. Not too strenuously though- I was a guest after all, and I was already saddened by all that I had seen that day.

The grandpa who trekked up the mountain at 7:30 in the morning to meet the two strangers visiting the village  had far more serious matters on his mind. He quizzed us at length about our organization, work, and whether permission from the village headman had been obtained. Our answers apparently satisfied him, because he then explained that he thought we were spies- from Pakistan, of course. Once he had satisfied himself that we were not a threat to the nation, he was free to do some recreational interrogation.

Grandpa: 'how many children do you have?'
Me: 'Zilch'
G: 'Oh. What exactly is wrong there?' (Indicating area where his womb would be- if he had one)
M: 'eh? oh, oh..nothing's wrong. We haven't been married long, haven't had time'
(G looks at me as if he would dearly like to give me The Talk, but mercifully lights a cigarette instead)

And below are photos of a place we stayed at(the crimson damask one). The dangling glass thingies are probably cymbals, and the water heater is wonderful for its utilization of pressure as an operating mechanism.

Forlorn

Also hungry, tired, soaked, utterly lost,a wee bit scared, and wanting their mothers..

Two intrepid engineers out to plan rainwater harvesting programmes find the intrepidity being leached out of them.

Independence Day

Nothing has caused more grief for less gain. For hundreds of years, it has caused bloodshed and unhappiness. Today, this artificial idea with no validity in the natural scheme of things remains the only generally acceptable excuse for rape, murder and looting. I am talking of the concept of a nation-state of course.

In a world where xenophobia is a hated word, where it is increasingly unacceptable to ask a person for his or her race or caste, it is okay to exclude people because of their nationality. Environmental laws are increasingly stringent, except where they 'threaten national security'. Running amok with a bomb is criminal, except when done in the name of the nation.

Despite this, my mother, my sister and I cook a sweet every Independence Day. The nation has nothing to do with it.  The people we have loved are the reason we celebrate. For me, Narvekar Aaji is the reason I will be making kheer today.

She was not my blood grandmother, but a friend of my parents. However, she was the main grandparent for me for much of my childhood. Fierce to the point of aggression, she was capable of loving with the same intensity. Her husband, Bappa Narvekar, was a gentler soul but equally loving. They loved India with the same unquestioning tenderness that they showered on us children, and in the same manner.


They would celebrate India's birthday just as they would celebrate ours- by making and distributing sweets. On Aug 15, we would visit to eat the kheer or the halwa she had made. And that was not the only time they gave us sweets either. At the beginning of term, my sis would catch the 6:45 am bus to the town her college was in. Bappa would be at the bus stand, holding a parcel of jalebis- her favourite sweet.

The photograph? I thought of putting one up of the tri-colour. But this man represents my India. He is a jalebi-maker in the little village of Sulibhanjan where I worked for about 2 years. He made a living and took care of his family despite infinite odds. He was unfailingly kind, courteous, always retained that broad smile and delighted in life. And he makes wonderful hot, syrupy, crunchy jalebis.

happily ever after

Being married for seven months makes me an old hand at this marriage thing now. However, my theory that marriage is an unnecessary blot on society remains.

Make no mistake, meeting Mian was the most fortunate thing that ever happened to me. Not a day goes by that I do not fervently thank all the gods, universities, friends, and airlines that made it possible for us to meet. Rather than my options closing after marriage, Mian has opened up possibilities I did not know existed, and taught me to aim further than I had ever dared to. Rather than increasing stress and negotiations, Mian is a place of refuge for me.

But that is him, not the institution of marriage. I am lucky enough to not have a TV at home, and so was shielded from the new phenomenon that is sweeping India- Reality show marriages. These are shows where a group of women compete for the attentions of a man. They are put through tests, evaluated, and exhibited like so many succulent steaks. The man on the other hand, shows off his fancy house. In the last series, the would-be groom had a history of domestic violence. Despite that, otherwise sane women fought on television to marry him with the blessings of their proud parents. Four months down the line, the ‘lucky winner’ is displaying her bruises to the media.

This is an extreme case. But ‘normal life’ is not so different. Too many of my friends- intelligent engineers all- have had their faces bleached, their teeth straightened, their cooking skills tweaked. And the lies and the grovelling! I went through the matrimonials for a short while, to make my family happy. The day I put my foot down and refused to play along was the day I overheard my mother apologizing for me. I forget what it was she was apologising for- either my salary or my language skills. But that was the last straw.

And today, I am glad. The thought of where I would have been today had I played along terrifies me. Continually apologising for my existence, suppressing all that makes me Chicu. Telling myself ‘love does not matter. Atleast he does not beat me’ as I’ve heard my friends tell themselves. Structuring my life in such a way that I minimize contact with the man who is my husband. Lying. Cheating.

The heavens bless this man I am with. He is loving, considerate, fun, supportive. And he would have been even if I were not married to him.

I am still mystified by the importance marriage is given. It is not the goal. The goal is to spend one’s life with someone you love so much you cannot imagine not being together. If we find someone like that, it is wonderful. If we don’t, living alone is better than putting up with someone odious just for the sake of public appearances.

Thanksgiving

It's over, my period of penury is now over. I had been living the last fortnight with a self-imposed tightened belt. When I say self-imposed by the way, I am not implying a stunt of some sort, but merely referring to the combination of too little financial planning and too much misplaced pride that left me with Rs. 240/- for fifteen days. This requires considerable ingenuity, but if I have been able to do it at all, it was because of those that love me rather than because of any thought on my part. There were many things I could not do, but I was not hungry. I might have eyed the cooking oil anxiously dreading the time it ran out, but the putting of meals on the table was not just possible, but pleasurable.

And this is where my loved ones come in. Not that they gave me emergency packages, but I benefited from the continuous loving concern and giving that I am blessed with. I have not really had to buy too much food in this period. My mum had, over the last year, sent me enough dried fish and masalas to feed an army. My Mian had stockpiled the house with enough flours and yeast to start a bakery. Maybe more important, they had taught me enough of their cooking skills for me to use this food. I had not just the raw materials, but also the culturally diverse techniques to allow me to wonder if I wanted pesarattu or buckwheat noodles for dinner.

I hate to admit that I had bickered as they loaded up the kitchen, "we can buy more anytime! It's clutter!". No, sometimes we can't buy more. It's food.

I have also been thinking. This was a cash flow hiccup, nothing more. These rupees were only meant to top up food stocks. I have all the necessities- a properly set up household, a job that punctually pays me a salary. I even had an adequate and liquid emergency fund in the shape of a $50 note. Not only would any of my friends and family have helped me, but the two who knew the state of affairs were actively insisting that I allow them to do so. If I did not accept, it was because I was never in distress, just uncomfortable. Even this mild level of discomfort occupied my thoughts to a large degree.

And that is why the Arjun Sengupta report made me ashamed of my complaining. 836 million Indians live with 20 Rs a day for ALL their needs- food, shelter, clothing, medicine, life. 20 Rs a day. Always. Not for a fortnight till the next cheque comes in. Always. For far too many people all over the world, the state of affairs I was in is wasteful affluence.

I am ashamed that I have not given thought beyond the occasional 'tut-tut' to this; I have never done anything to alleviate their real distress. I will now keep my eyes open to help someone out in a real way- not the occasional five-rupee charity, but something more reliable.

How can I end my tale of the last fortnight without sharing the way the multi-verse stepped in too? One day, pretty early on, I gloomily held the last coffee bean on my palm and resigned myself to a fortnight without the soul-satisfying and pleasurable mornings that are my one 'habit'. That same evening M stopped by with a request. She was going away soon and her family were all tea drinkers. Would I mind taking a pound of coffee?

Teaching English

The little girl who visits me on alternate evenings. She is now becoming more comfortable coming home, and opening up wonderfully. She has begun going to a children's activity center and the question "what did you do today?" opens up a flood that I need to stop with a stern call to studies. She paints excellently, has an astounding grasp of mathematics and a keen interest in the world around her. She is also exceedingly generous and often brings me little gifts like this flower she made.

The problem is, I feel like a fraud when I coach her. I have bitten off far more than I can chew, and it is sheer bloody-mindedness and the reluctance to withdraw what little help I am without offering a better alternative that is making me continue.

I am supposed to be helping her with Maths and English. The Maths she only needs the slightest help with, and the English she needs far more than I can give her. It is not her intelligence that is at fault. It is the education system. Its emphasis on focusing on the exams means that children like her get by with concealing the real state of their knowledge till they are suddenly thrown into the world.

She reads her English text well including words like 'attended', and 'jealous', and 'regularly'. She translates each paragraph correctly into Hindi. All this made me think that she is competent in English. No, she isn't. She has simply memorized the textbook.

Trying to converse with her in English made me realize that she actually has an extremely poor vocabulary. She did not know the meaning of 'you' or 'me'. This has me stumped, because I cannot conquer the large gap between what she knows and what she has learnt by heart. Getting her to translate a simple new sentence,"what is the time?" is impossible, because she tries to translate each word. We end up tied into knots because not only do Hindi and English have their subjects and predicates at different ends, but they also split verbs in a maddening manner.

For a while, I said goodbye to the school curriculum and focused on language games. The BBC games were a little out-of-context, but she had good fun with the graphics and would actually listen and try to understand the instructions. And making words with scrabble tiles was fun too, though that game usually ended with us building a house instead.This starting from scratch would probably yield results given time

But now exams are around the corner. I know that her parents expect that she'll do better because of the time she spends here, and the only way to do that is by dropping this and 'doing her lessons' which is learning the questions and answers by rote..knowing that if the question is worded even a little differently, she does not have the language skills to know what is being asked of her.

I have no idea what to do..should I sit down with her father and explain matters to him? Tell him that it is important she develop basic language skills now, before the gap between her curriculum and her skills is unbridgable? And even if I do, will I still be able to teach her, knowing that she has an utter phobia towards the language? I want her to know that English has an applicability outside the classroom, that there is pleasure in the written word. I show her my books- the few with pictures in them- and plan on buying some appropriate for her soon, but will that be enough? Is it any surprise that I feel like a fraud?

Harvest

Remember these guys?

 Well, they have been drinking in sunshine and water in the month I was away, just so they could welcome me in their full splendour:

 and tonight, they fed me.

Buckwheat noodles with pesto.

Back home. Sort of

I am back, in our bone-white bedroom with the pink furnishings. For the rest of the week at least, I will be busy enough cleaning the house and setting it to rights. But no matter, I've had a bath and I've brewed coffee, and all is right with the world.

Not quite. I miss my mum and sis. And my phone mysteriously died even as I plugged it in and rejoiced at the dial tone. So I wont be chatting online with Mian today- which is really, really sad. And I have not brought back half enough gifties for all the people I will meet..

Overriding everything though, is my missing of mum and sis. My niece shouldn't bridle, because I miss her too, but what I am referring to here is a specific missing of the family of my childhood. Partly, it's the weather. The summer-monsoon period is where all my happy childhood memories are. My sis would be home for the study prep- when we would study all day and mum would take us off to a picnic in the evening. In the holidays we would run pretty wild. It was a small town in a safer time, and I would be out either in the garden or in the woods all day long. Later, when summer turned to monsoon, the new year truly began with school and all the associated excitement.

Monsoons along the coast create plenty of stories. We had a super-tall television aerial to 'catch' the broadcast all the way from Panaji. It was like a mast, and in every storm it fancied it had sails. The wind would catch it and rotate it so that it was no longer aligned correctly. If a favourite program was going to be aired, my sis and I would go up to the attic to rotate it again. This meant the untying of it, which meant the removal of the plastic around it, which meant that we would be standing in the rain grappling with a huge, huge, metal pole that was fighting for liberty while my mum would watch the TV and give us directions from below. And always, always, some part of the house or the other would be damp..it was a 100 year old earth and wood structure, what do you expect? We loved it.

Monsoons were warmth, too. I would walk or cycle back from school and invariably get soaked. But coming home in a storm was lovely, because I knew exactly what I was coming home to. I would lug my cycle up to the verandah, walk up the dark wood staircase, and enter the kitchen. Amma would be standing there at the gas heating a wad of cloth on a tava. This she would proceed to apply to my head and -after an unceremonious stripping- to my back and chest. I squealed my way through the entire process, but it was a good thing to come home to.

And another good thing was Amma's ovachi amti. A wonderfully warming and tasty curry made of some seeds I can't remember. It's so warming that over-indulgence leads to skin breakouts, but that didn't prevent my sis and me from clamouring for it every cloudy day. I am shocked at myself for not knowing the recipe, but I will ask her today, and I will learn to make it.

But will it matter? Even if I learn the curry, even if I manage to make our home smell like the monsoon of my childhood, it still wont be the same. I want the whole package. I want my sis and I sitting at the table and waiting for mum to come with the curry. I want the three of us to sit and eat it together with mounds of red rice while it thunders outside and we worry about how our plants are faring and whether the jackfruit tree will lose a branch yet again. I want that even if for a little while. And now I've made myself cry.

Of gifts

If things had gone according to plan, I would have now been sitting moping in an airport fingering the chocolate Mian had given me last night. Instead, I am sitting at home watching the bees hovering over the lavender.

The flight out of SEA was delayed, which would have meant me missing my connection and spending a lonesome night in Newark. And so the airlines rebooked me for the next day.

They say it was because of weather, but it was the multiverse acting on my behalf, of course. Just last night Mian and I were lamenting. There was the grief of saying goodbye, of it never being enough time together. For me, there was the usual regret of not having made the most of what time we had. In addition, there were things we needed to do that we hadn't. We still had thank you cards to write, coffee and sweets to buy, bookstores to visit.

Back in Dun, our plants, our landlady, and my office all wait for me. They will wait one more day.

Today, we make the most of this gift we've been given. In two hours, instead of fighting for elbow space on a plane, I will stretch out in the sun and have a picnic lunch with my Mian. Later, as we did three years ago, we will take the bus home with our hands clasped together.


Thanks to Joe Mabel for the wikiphoto

Two parks

I have been gadding about the last fortnight. The places I visited and the things I did could not be more different and yet, they were very similar.

In reverse chronological order, there was this:

The second beach, Olympic National Park

And there was this:

Disneyland

Different, as you can see. And as for the beach, I have many stories to tell, and photographs to share. When it comes to Disney, I need to confess that I went there bristling with cynicism. I am crusty that way, and far too environment-impact-conscious to simply allow myself to relax and take it all in. They air-condition open areas, I griped. The entire tree is plastic, I yelped. There's plastic sheeting under the lawn, I groused.

Thankfully though, the people I went there with loaned me their points of view. One of them was unabashedly enthralled by the whole experience in a way that Walt would have loved. Like a one-woman Disney survival pack, she told us about the various rides, helped us navigate, showed us parts we would have missed, and by simply being with us, helped me look beyond the glitter and  see the magic.

And above all, a small pack of little cousins reminded me that irrespective of the authenticity of an island, the simple pleasure of looking at water with someone you love remains the same.

A pool conversation

Two cousins, both nine years old, playing in the pool two hours after having met for the first time ever.

"I didn't know I had you. Did you know you had me?"

A bit on cooking

Last week, I realized all over again what a lovely set of friends Mian and I have. Friends that willingly give of their time, creativity, efforts. Friends that gladly do whatever it takes to make sure that our celebrations are truly memorable. I didnt need reminders of how wonderful they are, but since I've been here, I've been open-mouthed in wonder that these people love me. But this post is not about them.

One of the ways they showed their generosity and their love for us- and their knowledge of just what would be enjoyed by us- is by gifting my Mian and me a weekend at the Inn at Langley, with a dinner reservation. The weekend was perfect- the complete stop from running around that we needed. The highlight, however, was definitely Chef Costello's six-course dinner.

The menu was playful, inventive, and firmly rooted in local produce. Chef Costello plays a lot with newer techniques and tools- creating a bacon 'snow' and porcini foam for example. These make for playful eating, as in the case of the dessert. Meant to be shared by two, it consisted of balloons of various sorbets floating on a sea of mousse. The colours and shapes were evocative of a playground, and were fun.

What blew me away however, was not so much the use of these new-fangled tools, as the realization of what truly excellent cooking means. While we enjoyed the tricks, the true magic of the dinner was how every ingredient was made to be the best it could be. My favourite part was an artichoke and bacon soup. Other than the bacon 'snow', it was plain old good cooking. Perfectly balanced ingredients, deft seasoning, and scrupulous straining- nothing that one cannot replicate. Mian's favourite was the fish. Again, a very simple dish consisting of perfectly roasted halibut, and delightfully surprising sides (a garlic scape! cucumber and yogurt icecream!). And this was true of every course. Minimal fussing, great technique, much attention.

My most humbling moment was the garlic scape. Onion buds are popular in Dehradun, and invariably cooked to a soggy mush. I had stirfried them, and stunk up the entire kitchen. Costello's scape was a gently curving bloom sitting proudly on the fish. I tasted it and found it sweet with bite. The secret probably was blanching followed by a quick toss in hot oil. The thing is, this is what an alium bloom can and should be- not the stinkin' mess I'd reduced it to.

The flavour combinations were a lot like Mian and me- looking at the plate, I couldn't understand how these could be paired together; after one bite I would realise that it was inevitable, these were always meant to be taken together. Halibut, cucumbers and yogurt. Strawberry and coconut. Watermelon (seared!) and feta. Try this at home.

Flavour combinations aside though, I now think that what makes a truly good cook is the willingness to take the trouble to be one. I dont know if I can ever master technique, but the next time I cook, I am going to be fully there- thinking, tasting, cooking.

being home

Last night, I was asked if I had been to all my favourite haunts in Seattle yet. No, I had to confess, not yet.
And today morning on my way to the market, I was wondering why. After all, one of the things I was looking forward to (besides plonking my head on Mian's shoulder) was revisiting all the places I loved in Seattle.
But I find myself unable to do that. Not physically, it is not like I dont have the time to, but mentally. I find myself strangely reluctant to pull on walking shoes and step out.

Part of it is the new neighbourhood, of course. I live some distance away from where I did earlier, and so my haunts are a bus ride away. As for sauntering around this neighbourhood, I am still in the position of the child learning to tie her shoelaces- 'the chicu goes  across the road at the big yellow tree, and under the bridge at the little pink house'. Part of it is the feeling guilty to saunter when I have things I am supposed to be doing. And I know that is not logical, I need to work through this fog. I will do that, soon.

In the meantime, as I answered truthfully,I am focusing on meeting all my favourite people. A couple of days ago, and again yesterday I met The King (no, not that one!). This man has given me goodbye-forever hugs twice already only to have me pop into his life like a mushroom again. Bless him,  he always reacts asif that is one of the nicest things that could happen to anyone. And in an hour, I meet M (no, not that one) for a day of wrapping wedding favours, gossip, and rendering me sane. Not bad, eh?

And as for the haunting, out at the market, I got me a map. Now I am an unstoppable force!

To err is human

If so, both Indian Rail and I proved our humanity this week. And that is a good thing, right?


At 5am on the 9th, I wobbly-ly (and if that isn't a word, it should be) ran onto the platform lugging a heavy suitcase and continued running past D7,6,5,4 to get to D3, seat 96. The instant I passed D4, I heaved my suitcase into the train, stowed my luggage, got into seat no 96, and fell asleep. When the TC- a young Shahid look-alike- came along, he told met that I was in the wrong coach, this being D2, "but you just keep sitting there, Madam". well ok. I did keep sitting there for all of 90 minutes when a chap came up and showed me his ticket.

Well, fine. That's ok. I did have a legit ticket, right? All I needed to do was find the right carriage. So balancing my suitcase on my knee, I set off in search of it. Not so easy. After wandering up and down a couple of carriages, I found the TC,  grabbed his sleeve and implored him to lead me to it. "Never mind that," he said, "you just go to the next carriage and sit in seat no.33."

When I went there, the seat was occupied by a little old lady who gave me the dragon eye. I blushed and walked by to stand near the loo-which had an overflowing basin. There were some policemen there and after chatting for a little while, they offered to look after my luggage while I looked for the TC.

"What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to sit in 33?"
"yes," I yelped "but there is a little old lady in it!"
"there shouldn't be. Come with me."

Well, he went to the seat, and barely opened his mouth to speak when he got the dragon glare. which is why instead of speaking to her, he addressed the carriage at large," Is there anyone with Maaji here?"

One man- standing there by the basin- owned up to being her son. They were traveling ticket-less, he said and apologised. He had seen the empty seat and told her to sit there, but now he would tell her to get up. "No, wait! Why could I not go to my own seat", I asked. Because it wasn't there. Turns out that while 106 passengers had been booked into D3, the coach only had 81 seats. As a legit ticket holder, I had priority over a ticketless traveler. But of course, I couldn't allow that, and volunteered to stand there.

I didnt really mind it, especially since the chaps who had seen the incident all found a place for me to stow away my bags out of the wet. But everyone else did. And they all told me how soon, some seats would be vacated and i could sit there. And sure enough, they often were, and i would sit down for a while, till the next people came on.

One of these times, when I was standing in the corridor and being jostled, a man gave me his seat. Thank you, but I am fine, I tried to say. I have been sitting long enough, he said and insisted I take his place. After that, every half hour, on the half hour, I would try and tell him that I've sat enough. He always refused to take his seat back. He stood there for two hours, just so that I would not be jostled by strangers.

So it was not a bad experience after all. It was reassuring to know that the Mighty Indian Rail was human after all. It was nice to interact with my fellow-passengers. It was extremely nice to meet truly kind people. This experience was all about humanity then, and it was good.

But humanity is not all good. When I was standing by the loo, something sticky was thrust into my palm. I looked down and saw  a grimy little  paw holding my hand. Its owner was a little boy who stared impassively at me and did not flinch as I raised an interrogative eyebrow at him. His mum then spoke to me," look after him, will you" and disappeared into the loo before I could reply. I was left holding the kid and trying not to think about the cause of the sticky palm. See, he wasn't eating sweets, and his nose was running. If this woman had thrust a parcel into my hand, I would have been justified in calling security. Now, I could do nothing, despite that this had immense potential to explode and was a biological hazard to boot. Sometimes there is too much human contact

My other home

in Seattle.

When I was packing to come here, I believed that I was escaping the heat of a Dehradun summer.

But what with the warmth of friends and my own sizzlin' Mian, I am not longer sure.