Oos-Juice.

          If you mentioned ‘cauliflower’ to my grandmother in Palolem, chances were she wouldn’t know what you were talking about. French beans maybe she’d heard of. There was a time when raw beetroot/carrot juice wasn’t possible to make, even in sophisticated urban kitchens. Unless you were wealthy enough to have special stones to crush/grind them to a fine chutney, muslin cloths for slaves to squeeze the pulp through, chrystalware to serve the precious liquid in and important friends to serve them to. In the Goa of my childhood, beetroots/carrots were not easily available. Once, someone had come from far-off Marmugoa/ Mapusa/ Mumbai and brought those tasty, colourful roots with them as a treat.  The excretion of their pigments on the following day caused mild trepidation and a merry discussion, but that’s not the point of this piece.

          Juices -- of only sweet-lime—were for the ill and the old. The idea of consuming foods rich in nutrients not grown around the house was alien to people who ate fish/beef-curry-rice at every meal all year round. Coconuts were eaten raw, scraped, ‘milked’ (for want of a more accurate word), cooked with jaggery, without a care that they might clog blood vessels.

          Juices, amongst the several health-hysteria related concepts we’ve imported from the West, have taken over our lives. Karela juice for diabetes (which means loss of practice for qualified endocrinologists). Cucumber juice for the skin (promises work: beauticians earn more than dermatologists). Palak juice for those with a low haemoglobin count, melon juice for digestive disorders, all sorts of mixed-herb juices for curing cancer/ piles/ alcoholism/ death. Pumpkin juice spiced up with lemon, mint and spices for all-round good health. Etc.

          Breakfasts these days are accompanied by ‘juice’. Orange, grape, mixed fruit, lychee or some other exotic fruit. It’s packaged (with/out preservatives/sugar), stored and poured out of tetrapacks which, when empty, can be used for planting seedlings if you’re eco-conscious. The glass, bud-shaped thingames that were once used for squeezing citrus fruits now adorn drawing-rooms. They share space with lacquer-coated brass paan-containers, rust-spotted nut-crackers with carved handles, ancestors’ portraits, dented copper bath-water vessels used as planters, models of the Taj Mahal, mementoes of conferences attended and plastic dolls.  (Nostalgia curios displayed by the ‘old-times-good-times’ brigade.)

          To keep up with what’s happening in the world of health, Bai Goanna bought herself a juicer-cum-blender.

          “Why can’t you eat the fruit with pulp and fibre?” Shri Husband wanted to know. “It’s good for the colon, you know.”

          “Why waste time chewing? I’m not a cow,” she retorted. “Technology is meant to help me, I’m going to use it.”

          We watched her dice washed cabbage leaves and throw them into the gadget. A couple of whirrs later, she poured the extract into a glass. Two fistfuls of shredded cabbage had been converted into a couple of teaspoons of frothy liquid. In seconds. The pastel green had become many shades darker. We peered into the gadget. Whatever was left of the leaves clung desperately to the little holes in the cylinder/jar. We watched the process of scraping. Gently at first, tentatively, so that the jar wouldn’t get damaged. Then the spatula was used with some force. The little tatters of dehydrated leaves didn’t give up their place(s) around the blade and the sides of the ‘special jar’. Seconds had turned to a couple of minutes. Finally, Bai Goanna decided enough was enough. She put water into the same jar, the lid on the jar, put the switch on and the mess inside got soggier as it twirled around. When it looked frothy, Bai Goanna took all the jar-contents into her palm and squeezed out with the help of tightly curled fingers every drop of cabbage juice from them (jar-contents, not fingers). Spiced with salt, pepper and basil leaves, it wasn’t difficult to swallow.

          Over the next few days, Bai Goanna extracted juices from cucumbers, melons, tomatoes, pomegranates, even apple and ginger combined. With her newly acquired expertise, every visitor to her house was offered a choice of strange looking and stranger tasting drinks. “Try this, it’s good for your health,” was how conversations began. Then followed discussions on low iron, high sugar, low blood-pressure, high cholesterol, arthritis, Ayurveda prescriptions, home-remedies and the best ‘juicers’ available in the market.  

          We noticed that roadside eateries had as many chai drinkers as fruit-juice fans. Crushed ice helped increase volume, keep costs low and customers happy. The juices were strained so that not the tiniest bit of fibre/seed/flesh came into the mouth. We discovered friends who patronized upmarket hotels/clubs wanted ‘vodka with watermelon, thanks’ when they were asked what they would drink. Or ‘dark rum with orange, please’. Seeing some of them sip the brightly coloured stuff through crushed ice, I remembered the golas of yore.  

          There’s one thing that I haven’t found anyone do at home: make oos-juice. Sugarcanes (oos we call them) are grown in other parts of the world, but I don’t know whether they are juicily served by the roadside to travellers, drivers, children, salesmen, anyone thirsting for an instant sugar-high. 

          The main roads in Goa have oos-juice stalls located at every other kilometre. The quality, serving measurements and prices are standardised. I don’t know whose idea this was, but it’s a successful one. Those like Bai Goanna who like to make everything at home, are stumped when it comes to oos-juice. It’s easier to make delicate wine and smelly cheese at home than to buy a sticks of cane and press the juice out of them. Strong teeth and gums and jaw-bones help, but even they can’t take out a glass-full when oos-juice thirst strikes.

          The ‘make in India’ teams working on fighter aircraft and submarines could earn some chutta-paisa for their institutions if they invented a domestic-sized apparatus to take the sweet juice out of  cane-stalks. A million-million Indians would buy it.

Starting with Bai Goanna.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in