White Gold

               If you think ‘white gold’ is platinum mixed with bhaangar, read no further, this article is about milk.

               Do you remember milk in bottles with shiny, striped aluminium-foil caps? Chances are you also remember milk-booths, queues, rationing and traffic manners. Chances also are you have grey hair and wrinkles for we haven’t had those in the market for a couple of decades now.

Ever since plastic sheets married machines and Dr Kurien worked upon his Amul miracle, sachets were born, and ‘shortage of milk’ became an extinct phrase. From Jhunjhunu to Dinjaan to Tambaram young men learned about cold-chain distribution. (For some reason, women’s groups never insist that there’s gender discrimination in areas like delivering newspapers and milk. Wonder why.)

In Palolem, because my grandparents owned two buffaloes, our kapey-udak (coffee, in case my anglicized bhav-bhayn don’t know what that is) had a dot of milk in it. Those who didn’t have horned pets learned to like black-brown beverages. Or barter a big bunch of bananas for half a tambyo of white gold when needed. Or pay for it in money-order money. Since Goan sweets, unlike Bengali ones don’t need doodh, it was never really missed at chavath, tulsi lagna, shigmo or at haldi kukums.    

Fellow Goans know more about New York than Nashik, and they’re as ignorant about the concept of doodhwalas cycling to the house carrying cans filled with fresh, frothy, milk. In Punjab, during the curfew-bound ‘80s, our milkman and his brother did the morning delivery rounds alternate months: in between jail-residency for murder and other crimes. I learned something about feudal rural Indian culture through them.

The Man (you’re going to read lots about my ghov through this column) believes that buying milk is a form of exercise. Home delivered milk is a naa-naa. In Mumbai, two hours before sunrise, the milk-vans make the rounds. Before the sound of the truck brakes reached our window, he’d have finished his routine of sss, yoga and walk so he was ready to pick up the packets on his way back for breakfast. (‘sss’ means shit-shave-shampoo, a term picked up from friends in the Defence Forces).

In Sangolda, the poder also delivers the doodh. Since The Man’s house rules don’t permit home delivery, we collect it from our friendly local grocer who also sells matches, rubber-chappals, coconuts, chocolates, cigarettes, wafers (potato-chips in case you’ve lived abroad and don’t understand the term).

Which milk to buy: early, we had a choice of two, whole and toned. Then came the different kinds and quantities of fat you paid for, and the brands. The Man wants to homework before he settles on a brand for everything he buys. So we buy differently-labled packets, different companies (co-operatives, actually, mostly). I’ve read milk being ‘enriched’. Would that mean something without that special ingredient (say, D vitamin or some mineral) is ‘impoverished’? Nowadays, since we have tetra-packs with homogenized milk and since the variety available is as much as that on the shampoo rack in any well-stocked store, we have stopped experimenting. Reason: unlike we make an excel sheet and give marks for taste, thickness, how well it converts into curd, etc, and keep filling up the cells and compare, we would be wasting our time, because we forget all those things the moment we buy the next pack of the white gold.

The price of milk. White gold has never been cheap. Earlier the availability was a problem, now it can readily be bought. The fact that milk was a ‘must’ for pregnant and lactating moms and for growing children was not considered a fact. Many generations grew up with nachnnya satva and coconut milk and fish in their diet. Whether they, and others who lived their lives on idle-sambar suffered from terrible malnutrition, is for a nutritionist to point out. Just last year, a litre of milk cost about the same as half a kilo of onion. That was during the artificially-inflated crisis that hogged television headlines and gave Arnab a sore throat for several weeks. The price of the bulb that makes you cry fell, but milk... that rose and rose. Since now milk is considered an essential commodity, one budgets for it. Thanks to advertisements on television, ‘smart’ housewives now dilute the milk and then add Complan/Horlicks/Bournvita to increase its nutritional value. Others convert it to curd so that friendly micro-organisms can add to its inorganic chemical content.

Price rise or not, the days of milk shortages are definitely over.

Beating the Retreat and Other Parades

               I love parades. There’s something about the orderliness, togetherness, teamwork, the pride in the turn of chin, the swing of the arms and legs that sets uniformed parades apart from the Carnival kinds. The latter have fun, colour, music, laughter, themes. Either ways, they’re more attractive and entertaining than any advertisement or serial on television.

               Last weekend, whilst watching a program on the National Defence Academy on television, the conversation at home turned to all the parades we had witnessed. Topping the list of favourites is not the glamorous Republic Day Parade but Beating the Retreat which happens on the sunset of Jan 28^th each year on Rajpath. When the military band plays the moving tunes, including the eternal tear-jerker ‘Abide With Me’ and the uniformed soldiers walk towards and then at angles to the Rashtrapati Bhavan right in front of Raisina Hill, even an enemy would say ‘aha’. The chilly Delhi winter breeze freezes the experience for ever.   

               Some say the R-Day parade is a waste of money. My response: anything that can raise pride in one’s country is worth the expense. Once, in a small opthalmology clinic in Faridabad, a young female staff member was watching the parade on television. At one point the jaana gaana maana was played. This solitary creature in that dreary, barely furnished room stood at attention and sang with gusto, un-noticed by anyone but me, right till the last jaya jaya jaya jaya heh. The colourful uniforms, the disciplined stepping in time, the folk-dances, the floats that came from the corners of the country, they impressed her. She wasn’t ever going to see them live. If on-screen the effect was so much, can imagine what impression the live show would have. I met a couple of people who had participated in the parade either when they were in school or the NCC and they still cherish the experience. This is one parade that must continue. Those who talk about waste of money need to remember: a second pair of shoes is also a waste of money. When has it ever stopped anyone from buying them?

               When in remote cantonments, still stuck in the Raj era, I see soldiers practicing for some parade, I am reminded of the hard work that goes into making a disciplined forced. These exercises aren’t done for entertainment, but to establish team-work, fitness and more.

               The Carnival in Goa was such fun when one could identify the participants and sometimes join in the music and dance. With increase of crowds and commercialisation, it’s still a good parade, but one has to be content with crassness at times.

               I like the state-level parades, too, like the one at Shivaji Park in Mumbai where the schools participate and so do the Road Safety Patrol (something Goa desperately needs), Fire Services and Home Guards.  

               Perhaps the parades I’ve never liked are the ones involving kindergarten children ‘graduating’ to primary schools, wearing the black robes and caps of college or university degree holders. I’m not one to say ‘so cute’ to that sort of farce.

               Unlike the energy-filled parades with heart-stopping thump thump drumming, the parade at the graduation of the nurses who earn their bachelor degree is gentle. The ethos of the profession and the girls who have chosen it is soothing, comforting, quiet. The junior girls sing chosen songs and hymns dedicated to treating and care of the ill and ailing. They devote their time and effort, they sacrifice their family life, to make sure the wards under their care is the best. I don’t know whether this ceremony is officially qualified as ‘parade’, but to me, that’s what it is. One of the best.

               Strangely, those gentle nurses and the passionate, effervescent NDA cadets (the television program on whom triggered off this column) have one thing in common. Something that every 10^th standard teenager has when s/he is given a farewell from school: a strong feeling of nostalgia for the hard work and the success that followed.

               At the end of one’s life, perhaps one has the same feeling. And I’m wondering now, is a funeral also a parade of sorts? Dwelling on that thought now. Ciao till next time.

Vegetarian Goan Hindu Food.

          Dr Shah couldn’t believe that Goan food could be made without something that has a tail, without onions or garlic. Like the Jain cuisine, Goans too have recipes that are sattvic or fit to be served to the Gods. For some reason, a number of Hindu Gods don’t like non-vegetarian food and for some other inexplicable reason, bulbs that grow underground aren’t considered ‘pure’ because they have ‘life’ in them. But so do sprouts which are relished. In an already complicated social set up, we have sub-complications when it comes to caste, dialects and food. In Goa, Christians add salt to the rice when it’s cooking; Hindus don’t. The former use vinegar to add sourness and tang to a gravy, Hindus prefer tamarind pulp or kokum.

Unless you’re going for a Saraswat food festival or someone’s home, you are unlikely to find these recipes/dishes on any menu.

          First, a raw mango ud-da-methi. Peel a medium sized raw mango, remove the seed, chop into little squares, sprinkle salt over them and keep aside. Finely grind 2 cups grated coconut, 2 tsps chilli powder, ½ tsp turmeric powder, a tbsp. of tamarind paste and 12 peppercorns.  Heat a tbsp. of (preferably coconut) oil till it smokes. Then add a tsp each of mustard seeds, urad dal (split black gram without the skin) and fenugreek (methi) seeds. When the dal turns brown, add a pinch of heeng (asafoetida) and immediately pour into it the ground masala, salt and jaggery to taste, three cups of water and the mango bits. Boil for 3-4 minutes and serve hot with rice.

          Next, a stew called khatkhatem.  Chop into 1-2” pieces and keep ready a cupful of each: red pumpkin, raw papaya, banana, drumstick, raw jackfruit and white radish/turnip, yam (suran, colocasia root). If you have an ingredient or two less, don’t panic, either do without it or replace with something similar. But no cauliflowers, peas, broccoli or carrots. Or cabbages, spinach and the likes. Cook and mash ¼ cup of toor dal. Add to the dal 4 cups of water. First add and cook the hard vegetables: jackfruit, yam and radish. Then add the other vegetables. Cook them with salt until they are soft but retaining their shape.  Whilst they’re cooking, grind together finely 2 and ½ cups grated coconut, a tsp of turmeric, 1 tbsp of chilli powder and some tamarind paste. Lastly, add to this masala  4-5 lightly crushed teffla (this strong smelling spice is commonly used on the west coast and is easily available with hawkers who squat outside markets and in villages). Add a dash of jaggery for sweetness, give it a good boil and stir and serve immediately. This dish is not dry. It goes well with rice/bread/chapatti.

          The third vegetarian dish with no onions, no garlic is a simple one, made with the lowly but tasty and nutritious and easily available red pumpkin. Goa doesn’t celebrate Halloween. The inexpensive pumpkin is unjustly looked down upon. Try this recipe and you’ll see why: take a slice (approx. 300 gms) of bright orange pumpkin, remove its seeds (you can dry them and use elsewhere) and its skin. Cut the flesh into ½” bits, put it in a vessel with a fistful of freshly grated coconut, a tbsp. of finely ground ginger, ½ tsp of crushed jeera (cumin seeds), salt and green chillies to taste and cook it until tender with very little water. Garnish with finely chopped fresh coriander leaves. If you want to convert this into a raita or yoghurt-based salad, beat up a cupful of curd, cool the pumpkin and mix it all up.

          Whoever said Goans can’t, don’t, won’t eat anything that’s plucked hasn’t met my grandmother. Ok, she’s been gone a long time, but my mother and now my cousins and I enjoy our ‘pure’ vegetarian food as much as we relish the fried fish, pork chops and beef steaks (blasphemy that I should even mention this, but truth must prevail) that are often served in our platters.

          So hark ye who believe that the world and humankind will be saved by everyone turning to healthy, vegetarian, vegan, organic food, turn to Goan cuisine, you won’t miss flesh again.

Launching a Book.

          I love reading books, I love writing books, translating them, even editing them, but book launches for some reason, I find boring. Specially if there’s a politician’s speech involved. Or a company chairman’s. Or a swami’s. Or the author’s cousin’s. Perhaps the disinterest stems from the fact that at the time of the launch (or, as Mr George Menezes says, ‘release’, as launch reminds him of something violent, like rockets), I’ve not read the book concerned and have no questions in my head. Quite often, the questions at a release aren’t about the book. Those present want to know the opinions of the writer on various current happenings, or personal habits or family matters. At the GALF (Goa Art and Literary Festival) in December, Bina Ramani’s book on her experience of the Jessica Lall murder case and Patricia Sethi’s biography of Mr Chauhan of Parle interested me. Ramani was a first time author, and Sethi a seasoned one. One spent time in jail and the writing was likely to be cathartic at some level. The other was a documentation of a successful businessman’s life; Sethi’s prose was what I was looking at. In both cases, the launch events gave barely an inkling of how good the books were.

          As always, there are exceptions to the rule. First, a recent release in Panaji of ‘The Diary of an Infantryman’ by Brig Ian da Costa, VSM, Retd. The First Speaker was a doctor who, for twenty minutes, told us how brave Goans were, specially Goan officers in the Defence Forces, how they died valiantly, what high standards of discipline they had, how they were loved by one and all, etc. A retired Vice Chief of the Navy, who took the mike from him, very mildly and very, very firmly said that men are respected not because they are Goans. It’s the character, integrity, loyalty, professionalism that mattered no matter where they were from. He gave examples. The speech got me interested in the book. He explained why the Armed Forces were different from every other walk of life. It didn’t matter what your mother-tongue was. Religion was Indian-ness and humanity. All the uniformed (wo)man wants, he said, is izzat (hard to translate, the closest word is honour) and sachaee (truth, honesty). Brig da Costa, the author, took the mike and with characteristic candour minced no words. Anyone who has got a medal for exceptional service, he said, knows it’s recognition of those who are working under him/her. If a General is good, it means the staff under him is good. He said something about Liberation that drew many claps from the audience: “… it wasn’t war, more like bursting Diwali crackers.” I paid heed to that because I believe we need to stop harping about our opinions of the past and move on to a better future. This is how he felt about the soldiers working under him: “I will not forget my batman until my breath is gone.” His narrated his experiences of working in a Goan office and the corruption he saw there. Pity that book wasn’t polished by an editor. It is, as the title says, a ‘diary’. Still, it held my civilian attention through the pages that told me about life in an infantry unit.

          Second exception to the rule of boring book launches: Jerry Pinto. He can hold the attention of the audience. His release of “Em and the Big Hoom” last year was funny; the book was serious stuff, well written, I later discovered. Jerry revealed the journey of a professional author. He told us how he did the research for a previous book on Helen the actress and another which was a compilation of poems, and this year, he told us about his translation of ‘Cobalt Blue’ from Marathi to English. From his daily routine to his method of writing, to the money he gets, in his book releases he tells it all.

          The third and best book release I’ve ever attended was at Literati two years ago, of ‘Inside Out’, published by a motley group, the GoaWriters. The book had contributions from and was put together by the members. A copy was wrapped in banana leaf and covered completely with fermented dough. The whole thing was baked and served hot to Amitav Ghosh who ‘released’ it by actually breaking pieces of the bread and eating them. The idea was apt because the cover, too, depicted local Goan pao coming out of a burning wood furnace. Children’s book releases sometimes have fun elements (balloons, masks) added to them, but adult ones are seldom so creative. There’s no doubt that that Inside Out’s book launch would be unmatched for sheer novelty anywhere in the world at any time. I think Goa does something to keep the creative juices bubbling.

          A fourth memorable launch was of my Marathi-English translation of ‘Ward No 5, KEM’. The speakers were doctors. They were excellent orators, and their speeches were studded with quotes and verses in English, Marathi and Sanskrit. More, the humour kept the audience in splits. Not a single speaker spoke for more than three minutes.

          I wonder whether ‘Book Launch’ is a subject in event management courses. Considering the number of launches happening everywhere (and the number of literary festivals hosting them), it should be. Event managers should also know whom to invite and how to keep the audience interested in the book. That’s the only way books will get buyers. Otherwise, a large bulk of the people will simply walk away after the ‘launch’.

         

         

No Praise for Merit

            I was eight or nine years old when a poem of mine won a prize in an ‘Aunty Wendy’s’ competition in the Illustrated Weekly of India. I pointed out my name amongst the winners to my parents. Reaction: ‘good, good, have you finished your homework/ had your lunch/ said your prayers?’ In my family, praise and compliments, like sugar and oil, were rationed. If someone did exceptionally well at academics, the news was drily passed on to neighbours and relatives whose response (“Aanand zhaala” or “abhinandan”) was brief and momentary. Since I didn’t fall amongst the praiseworthy few, I’m saying this from recall of my observations. Paradoxically, if some other child did well, in kabbadi or singing or doing cartwheels, nice words were overtly used.

If someone called a said ‘clever child’ or even a mild ‘shabash’, to a juvenile within our home, a vigilant aunt would promptly, publicly disclose a couple of embarrassing traits to tether the child’s ego down to terra firma. Morale, psychological trauma, were words restricted to dictionaries; praise, like the rod, was used, but sparingly. The only indication that the adults were pleased was that some halwa was made, like for birthdays that weren’t celebrated as parties. Family’s encouraged not with words. They paid fees, they walked or bussed you to examination venues, stayed up nights when you had to complete projects, sacrificed goodies if cash was needed for the same aforesaid project, chewed their nails to their knuckles on result days.

When I first began to write, two decades before computers saved shelf space, I asked my husband for a ‘scrap’-book to paste and store my precious cuttings in. His reaction: ‘Just because some magazine couldn’t find anyone else’s stories to publish, you want a scrap-book for the stuff printed with your name in it? One envelope, a big envelope, that’s all you’ll need.’ But the scrapbooks were bought. And later he dug into his meagre savings to buy me a camera. Encouragement came, but never through words.

Since we were brought up to down the positives, in adulthood, my husband and I and others of our ilk find it difficult to utter a simple ‘thank you’ when complimented. The response to ‘nice shoes’ or ‘pretty purse’ is “it’s nothing”. Even when congratulated for getting a job, some people say: ‘It’s nothing.’ I don’t know what that means or is supposed to mean, the utterance is because of conditioning, quite an Indian trait.

When someone is asked whether s/he is prepared for an exam, the usual reply is: “not really” or “hope so”. A confident yes is seldom blurted out. Similarly if one is asked how one has fared after an exam, if one has done well, one says: ‘ok’. If you say you’ve done brilliantly and expect to score very high marks, you will invite strange looks. Even marketing professionals of the old school, who could sell sand in Rajasthan, were shy of circulating their own biodata.

Once, for an NRI relative, I cooked something that he liked. He said it was good and I said: ‘Am glad you liked it. It doesn’t always turn out this way. Next time it might not be like this.’ Or words to that effect. He asked me whether I wanted to say that I was usually better, that this time wasn’t good enough, or whether it was an accident that it had turned out well and that usually my dishes didn’t turn out well. I had no answer. I had parroted something that most of us say: I’m not that good. Even when we are feeling good from inside.

The exception to this rule of ‘modesty’ is in the arranged-marriage arena where, I’ve been told, the scene is the opposite: one has to invent, hightlight and project all the good points and hide the negatives. Am beginning to wonder whether hereabouts marriage, therefore, is a bigger deal than merit.