The Bothersome Ingredient

Well, my mind-block to cooking is known among my friends and family. I cook so that my family does not go hungry, and gets the required nutrition. But the moment there is a need for delicacies to be prepared in authentic way, I get jittery, need time to prepare myself mentally like before every interview call I take and sometimes I just drop out.

Corn in white sauce is one simple dish that I have made, not mastered, but my children get excited on seeing it. Lumpy or not, they happily lump it on the occasions I have made it so far. And yet, that maida component has bothered me for long. It is like a niggling problem that needs a solution.

So this week, when I decided to make it on a weekday - in itself an adventure for me - I decided to add some roasted and powdered almonds just to enhance the healthiness factor of the dish. And then I said, why not roasted gram powder? So a handful of roasted gram went into the wok. I ground the two to powder and noticed that it was sufficient to make the sauce, and added just a teaspoon of maida - more out of fear than anything else.

It wasn't white sauce, it was yellow. But with salt, pepper and mixed herb powder for flavour, it was a healthier option that I didn't mind giving again during teatime as a snack.

Now, I will agonise less about making this sauce in this new format in the future.

Moving Forward

"I look fat!" I complained when my husband showed me this photo. He started cropping it to oblige me but I was already in a dilemma. I had let myself go and it showed. Why hide the fact? After all, people who saw me perform saw me this way!

Just then, my daughter jumped up to see which photo we were discussing. She said, "Amma, it is not how you look but how you danced!"

Stunned at this piece of wisdom, I asked her what she meant. "Grandfather said you were dancing like a teenager, doing the thoppukaranam (sit ups done before Lord Ganesha) with ease."

This pose was at the fag end of the varnam, by when I had already danced for 30 minutes non-stop on stage. I was tired but not out. I went on to do two more items without fatigue overpowering me. I had felt one with myself throughout the show, feeling the emotions flow freely and my feet and hand move agilely. Why then should I apologise for how I looked?

I posted this photo as it is. But I promised myself, next time, I would not give myself any reason to feel embarrassed.

One Earth: de Composter

One Earth: de Composter: I was stunned when editing a section in a book about how before weddings, a community in Rajasthan (maybe all communities in Rajasthan) wor...

Editing the Noise

'War is the last resort of desperate and foolish kings' Dasaratha's message to his sons, quoted by Lakshmana in Ashok Banker's 'Bridge of Rama'.

But it is not just the war in the battle field that I think of. People speak freely, uttering all nonsense that comes to them in a moment of despair and anger. They speak ill of others.

And the person being spoken of hears of this. Does he discard it as nothing? No! It takes root in his or her heart and starts becoming a poisonous tree. She awaits an opportunity to vilify the person who spoke ill, whatever the trigger, or confront and punch holes, leaving a crack that can never quite heal.

And this vicious circle goes on unabated, spreading unhappiness, not just among these two but everybody connected with them. Battle lines get formed, loyalties are sworn. With time, the original charge is forgotten, only the feeling of resentment prevails.

War mongers have field day, carrying tales, twisting words and adding spices to even inane statements. The ear still does not know how to filter out the noise and the brain laps up everything the ears hear to relish the moment, anticipate the 'enemy's downfall and somewhere feel triumphant for no rhyme or reason.

'How much is price of that reparation? When will our honour be sufficiently redeemed?' Rama demands of Lakshmana a few lines later. 'At what point does the cycle of revenge end?'

Never, unless we develop selective hearing, understand ourselves well and are beyond the touch of mere words. To gossip can be fun and entertaining, but like a movie or a game, should follow codes and have an end. Or else, like a serial, it will simply stretch, running into years! And you know how mindless that can be!

She is The Breeze

The earth sighed, feeling tied
He watched her twirl and rise high.
Knowing he could never travel wide.
But what wonder, he was rising with her
The dust whirling, having great fun.
She cannot touch my core, he thought.
But when she settled, he felt heavy at heart.
She was the breeze who entered crevices.
Exploring dark corners he thought he kept a secret.

The water flowed, but thought with envy.
Ah she can travel, more than me!
I am bound by banks, but she knows no limits!
Even through territories uncharted like a spirit.
And he saw his surface rising in joyful waves.
Tiny droplets carried a long way off.
Falling on lands he dared not dream of.
She was the breeze who carried him easily.
To places he longed to visit secretly.

Fire roared and burned and thought himself strong!
And yet she tamed him so he may do no harm.
When he thought he would die out in shame.
She gently roused him to his former frame!
She teased him, lured him, carried him far.
Showed him his place when he puffed up too broad.
Never mind that she burned too to save.
She was the breeze who would rise again.
And she held in her hand all his secrets.

Calm, untouched, too far above all.
Ether felt benevolent, watching the tiny forms.
Scrambling hither and thither, sending prayers his way.
He thought he held in his hands their fates.
His vision blurred though with the cloud cover.
He rumbled angrily, sending lightening and thunder
She blew clouds away and made them scatter.
She was the breeze who defied his might.
Knowing how hard he kept his weakness a secret.

She was the breeze who gave them life.
She knew all their wily little secrets.
She knew the joys and sorrows they felt.
And played and teased when in the mood for it.
She would not be tamed or contained.
She gave all life, she knew with pride..
She was everywhere and yet unseen.
She was the breeze and she roared and whispered.
Through it all she keeps her secret!

The Shadow Lover

You are the sky to my earth
You are the rain to my pond
You are the ocean to my river
You are the cloud to my sun

You are the one I seek
In a quest that goes deep
When I am awake or asleep
Whether at home or in the street



When I hear your voice within
Ever so fast my heart beats
Like a flippant, fleeting vision
You slip before I can reason

Distracted by the forms around
I grab what comes anon
In ephemeral things I think
I find that thing that I seek

Is it too much to ask?
Is revealing yourself such a task?
Must you remain just a shadow?
No form that you could borrow?

To grasp you tightly
To feel your presence
To become one with you
Forever and ever.

The Prized Collection

Paloma glanced at the room, making sure it was spic and span, every object in its place. Her eyes then ran over the various mementos she had collected over the years during her travels. The large African tribal dolls, the Mexican hat on the wall, the miniatures from Thailand, the ivory table - again, from Africa... Juggling, shuffling, remodeling her rooms sometimes to fit in her acquisitions.

When her husband and she divorced a few years ago, she had negotiated hard to get this house with the artifacts. They hadn't fought so hard about the custody of the children even! Building on what she had - how she loved it! She had managed to find a job that helped her maintain her lifestyle. She traveled, collected, displayed them and invited people for parties so that her displays could be admired and envied. Once her children flew the nest, she felt all her restrains breaking. To the world and her friends, it looked as if she were filling the emptiness in her life with travel. But to her, the children had finally vacated the space she needed to explore the world more. Of course she loved them, they were her children, after all! But she could not hang them on walls. Their achievements were modest and sometimes a good excuse to entertain. Now...

The phone rang. "Hi baby!" she said, excited to hear from her daughter.

"How was your trip?" Tapasi asked.

"Great! I got a rare miniature painting that I just hung up near the staircase. You know the space..."

"Yea, yea... I know. I just called to say I maybe coming down next week for a couple of days."

"Oh how wonderful! You haven't seen the ivory box or the sandalwood..."

But her daughter impatiently ended the call. Paloma sighed sadly. Her daughter strangely did not share her excitement for beauty. She hoped at least her daughter-in-law would. After all, after her, it would all pass down to them and she hoped it was to someone who knew the worth of the things she had collected painstakingly.

But that was not to be. The young bride of her son was an outdoors person who traveled light and liked her house furnished simply. Paloma turned to her daughter, trying to get her excited, telling her of the money she spent on each piece, where she bought them, how she knew it was authentic stuff... Paloma hoped Tapasi was able to appreciate the time and effort each piece cost her.

When she breathed her last, her thoughts were for her possessions. Would they be taken good care of?

"This is like a museum!" Nethra, the daughter-in-law said as Paloma's children and their spouses sat around to discuss the next move. "Selling it is the only way out."

"But who will buy? Are they really worth it?" Veer, Paloma's son asked.

"How many times I told mom not to just keep getting things! I told her we have our own stuff to worry about, but she insisted it was for us! Let's just divide them and then do the best that we can!" Her voice broke as she remembered her mother's pride in her purchases, but frustration at being burdened with all this contorted her face.

The discussion continued long into the night, and Paloma's spirit, which lingered awhile, screamed in agony unheard as her callous children treated the artifacts with scant respect. How she wished she could take them with her to her new home! How she wished she could mark this address and be reborn. But already, she was dissolving into nothingness and her memory fading. Only the desire to cling to her acquisitions remained strong.