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Flushed from the success with which my first attempt at a mango pickle was received over the weekend, I was enthusiastic to share the experience of preserve making with my Australian friends. The pickles in question were made very hesitantly, with the aid of a borrowed recipe and a couple of firm, green mangoes plucked from the mango tree abiding in my aunt’s house. Understandably, I was excited to note that my boss P had a sprawling mango tree in his backyard – we were at his house to collect some furniture that he had very kindly contributed towards the “Furnish Shruti’s new house” drive. Since P has been rather unwell since the onslaught of the New Year, he probably had not given much thought to the ripening fruit in his garden. Hence it lay abandoned and rotting, strewn on the lawn, the warm summer making it the ideal snack for many-an alcoholic crow! 
Two days back, we had a little break between clients – P and I engaged in some general chatter about this and that – to help him refresh his tired and still unwell brain for his next grim appointment. The conversation turned to our culinary skills and I drew his attention to the fermenting mangoes in his garden. He had been too unwell to rescue the tropical fruit from its fate – and so it was consigned to its rotting end. I rued the waste of good mangoes aloud, they could have been salvaged and transformed into a piquant dish of tender slices preserved with chilly, salt and sugar; or a tangy accompaniment of whole mangoes cooked with jaggery and mustard seeds. P threw me a regretful look – as if realising his folly in not consulting me earlier!
Yesterday, P walked in to work looking decidedly energetic and cheerful. He was toting a huge bag, and appeared to be lugging some considerable weight in it.
“Good morning”, he sang cheerily. “ I got you something”
“’Morning P”, I replied, preoccupied. “What’s in the bag?”
“Oh I was getting out of the house this morning and I remembered our discussion on mangoes yesterday, so I grabbed a bag and collected some for you Shrooooteee”. He rolls the syllables of my name, giving it his unique, indelible stamp of distinction. I have long since given up on correcting pronunciation – Indian names pose serious tongue twisting challenges for my Aussie friends. Besides I was touched and excited.
“Oh, you got me mangoes? You actually plucked some for me?” I peeked into the bag for a look – A rather black and green somewhat aging heap of fruit snarled back at me. Hastily, I snapped the bag shut.
“Yes”, he gleamed at me. “I picked the best ones from the grass. There are heaps more from where those came.”
As I put the bag of decomposing mangoes away, and prepared for the first client, P walked out of his office.
“Shroooooteee”, he announced hesitantly. “Those mangoes might look a lot more black than the green ones you see at the supermarket”
“Hmmm”, I uttered, non-committally.
“But that is because these ones actually come from the tree”, he reasoned.
Stifling giggles, I wondered silently if the ones on supermarket shelves were manufactured in factories. I could not let him get away with that one.
“And where do you think the mangoes in Coles and Woolly’s come from?” I questioned sardonically.
With very wide eyes, as if the truth was only just dawning on him, he responded slowly, “F-R-O-M T-R-E-E-S….?”
His first client walked in just then and saved him from any further difficult lines of questioning. I laughed, shook my head at his endearing naïveté and got on with the day. A few plump bugs crawled out of the bag of mangoes – evidently intoxicated by the alcohol in the fruit; I surveyed them matter-of-factly, wondering what to do with them.
We salvaged a few mangoes, when I got home that night. Then a big insect crept out of hiding, and I gave up with a squeal of fright and emptied the remaining contents in the bin.
Maybe I’ll gift P some preserve from the earlier batch of mangoes – this current batch really had me in a pickle!
I am a diehard Indian – not the militant patriot that one frequently observes, brandishing the national flag and rallying at every occasion that presents itself – be it a cricket match, a national day or a movie cinema. But I consider myself to be a proud Indian, in a gentler, more personal way – I feel a quiet sense of pride and belonging when my mind conjures up a cold, rainy, flooded night in Bombay when citizens helped throngs of stranded people; a vibrancy, when I think of roads and bazaars and a warmth, when memories of the honeycomb network of neighbours, friends and family come gushing back. Undoubtedly, I experience a rush of pride and belonging every time I think about it – I am a proud Indian.
And yet, one must rue, that like many in my generation – there is a widening gap – between my concept of belonging and the idea of patriotism that has been commonly subscribed to. So, while I approach national days, national songs, parades, leaders, freedom fighters and speeches with a perfunctory regard, India for me resides in my experiences of a free and evolving society of my youth and childhood. Unfortunately, this sometimes made celebrations of Independence, Republic Day and the birth anniversaries of our greatest leaders, somewhat difficult to identify with.
I often wondered – if looking forward to such days because they were holidays – was the worst form of blasphemy possible – rivalling other despicable acts like drinking on national holidays and wearing the national flag, disrespectfully. Since I was never exceptional or extraordinary, I am certain that I was not alone in wondering so. Most of the urban youth of my generation shared a similar, arguably misplaced sense of pride and belonging. We were respectful of our history and our struggle, but we identified with our present and it’s potential.
Coincidentally, Australia celebrates Australia day on 26th January – sharing the date with the Indian Republic Day. Since this year, Australia Day fell on a Saturday, convention demanded that the following Monday was declared a Public Holiday as well – so Australians could enjoy an extended weekend of festivity. And what a celebration it was!
The City Council fired up the barbecues in all the parklands, riverside gardens and botanical gardens along the city and put up a grand display of fireworks by the riverside. Brisbane-ites planned to do what they loved most – get together, have family barbecues, go sailing and drink some beer. We encountered teenaged Australians sporting carved watermelon shells and the Aussie flag on their heads, houses bearing signage that proclaimed “Honk for Australia” outside their gardens and advertising for cockroach racing! Yes, you read that one right!! The thought that I had turned delusional, did cross my mind, as I took in these sights.
When Kym (my girl friend at work) asked me, if I would like to go to the Story Bridge Hotel for cockroach racing and dancing I thought she was joking….for more reasons than one. The idea of betting on racing roaches had me in splits for about a quarter of an hour, before my manners could reclaim me back to reasonable conversation. And then my brain had to battle with the shock of a pub, alcohol and dancing on a national day! But how was that possible….was that not utterly disrespectful? Surprisingly my mind took a puritanical stance to this celebration.
We disembarked from our taxi amid swirling crowds – apparently everyone between the ages of twenty and forty in Brisbane, seemed to be there. As I stood on my toes (it seemed the most probable way of squeezing into the crowd), I noted everyone was wearing T-shirts with the cockroach racing schedule on it. There was a race titled “Waltzing Mat-roach” that really tickled my confined funny bone. A woman – not visually unlike a member of the Arthropod family herself – walked by, clutching the race trophy and a big plastic cylinder – most likely bearing the prize winning, prancing roach! The band belted out lovely, alien sounding, country music and people everywhere were sporting the Australian flag – on their clothes, faces and hands.
It was the best evening out that I have experienced in Brisbane. The lead singer selected renditions of – what were obviously – true blue Aussie numbers, while the crowd sang and danced along. People were celebrating Aussie beer, Aussie music and their common heritage by spontaneously hugging their neighbours and just having a good time. There must have been close to five thousand people in that tiny hotel, but there was no sign of a brawl or a misbehaved soul. Australia Day had brought out the best in these young citizens. I watched them connect and celebrate a shared sense of belonging – in the best way possible – by just being themselves.
It dawned on me, that many young Indians would identify with this more contemporary, inclusive display of national belonging – fun filled and yet wrought with respect and identity. This all inclusive celebration seemed very distant from some of our more formal gatherings and moral policing. At the risk of being irreverent, I now wonder aloud (or in print, actually)….. Surely, it cannot be such a bad thing?
Drowning Pisces tagged me… so blame her!
The rules of this game are:
Link to the person that tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
1. I can’t live without my pillow – I’ve had it since I was born. Holding on to it gives me the security of a cocoon.
2. I LOVE lemon pies and tarts. Its my favourite dessert.
3. I am allergic to most citrus fruits. (Combine this fact with fact no. 2 and you will understand how pitiful I am!)
4. I am obsessed about wiping water and crumbs off the kitchen sink and counter – Can’t sleep at night if I have not wiped down.
5. I love rinsing and stacking the dirty dishes like a jigsaw puzzle, after dinner, so that the pile occupies the least amount of space. (I think I inherited this one from my dad!)
6.I feel very nervous, every time I step onto a bus – I keep fearing that I will not have enough change, or the concession card needed to buy a ticket!
And I shall now tag the following people to complete the same exercise…it would be fun to see their responses!!
Five months and a few weeks after we moved into our little unit in the city, we are poised on the threshold of a large house in the suburbs. Understandably, our glee helped us to see things that were routinely annoying, in a much lighter vein. Today was a big day for us – Saee and I were to go shopping for household appliances and ferry them to the new house. Today was an even bigger day for our landlord- for they were holding an inspection of the house for new prospects (to be read as fresh catch)
After a day of carting big boxes in taxis and taking buses with circuitous routes in the sweltering heat, I came back to the house, ready to collapse in a heap on the bed. As I turned the key in the door, I nearly jumped out of my skin at a cheerful bellow from upstairs.
“Hullo”, called the voice. “I did not want to startle you”
“Well, that was early”, I thought grumpily, as the landlady, Faye, appeared like an apparition floating down the steps.
“We have re-arranged the house and fixed the chairs – the legs were a bit wobbly”, she threw at me accusingly.
“Grrmph”. We might as well have complained to a brick wall for the last five months. Eating a bowl of cornflakes at the table every morning demanded some serious challenges in hand-eye coordination.
“So you are going to be around when the viewing happens?”
“Yes.”
“Umm… I see. Well if you get asked anything, please make sure you say that the house is lovely. You are moving because you need a larger place. We do not want to mention the broken beds.” She quirks an alarmed eyebrow at me, in an effort to communicate the gravity of the situation.
I felt like taking her by the shoulders and rattling her till every last hypocritical tooth fell off, but instead, merely nodded agreement. After she left, I noted that our fans had been cleaned, the pillows had been scattered in a pathetic effort at achieving some aesthetic appeal and the bed spreads awaiting their turn in the laundry, had miraculously disappeared.
Yet another loud knock rattles the door, and the landlord Mike ushers in a group of bewildered prospects. He is in his Sunday finery – on a Monday evening.
“Come along, this is the kitchen”, he beams. “Here are the pots, pans and a shining cook top .”
I snorted involuntarily – When we first rented the unit, Saee and I were horror struck by the grease and had been scrubbing to eradicate it everyday. Mike looks towards me inquiringly, as I bury my nose in my laptop.
“The chairs are a bit spotted, we will re-upholster them next month”
My my, talk about over promising and under delivering!
“And new beds are on the way – Brand new mattresses!” Mike gleams at the faces in front of him. Not withstanding the fact of course, that the proposed new sleeping arrangements are merely because the old ones leave the hapless tenant sleepless and grumpy every morning. I speak from experience.
As he ushers the eager prospects out, he calls to me in his sing song voice, “Thank you! I’ll be back with some more – I’ve got heaps lined up!”
In the next hour I watch him go through the entire routine multiple times, like a well rehearsed ballet. I shake my head in sorrow, as I realise that one of these unsuspecting lambs is going to fall prey to the cosmetic changes and selling spiel.
Thank heavens we are moving – we know what lies beneath. I’m hoping that no unpleasant discoveries await me where I am headed! We have had our share of bad tenant’s karma. 
Did I remember to tell you that we have finally found a house? For those of you who have been following the rather un-eventful progress of my student life in Brisbane, you would be aware that we have been furiously scouring the neighbourhoods for a comfortable and affordable housing proposition. (Refer to my post on House Hunting) Well last week, we finally zeroed in on a house and more importantly, the house owners zeroed in on us! Relieved with our success (somewhat natural after going through a stream of units, town houses and queenslanders, with a somewhat zombie-like precision) we allowed ourselves a few quiet moments of celebration.
Anyways, apparently the agony of moving houses does not end with locating the perfect house. Oh dear – apparently – that is merely the tee-off point! While I was anxiously contemplating furniture and pots and pans and trying to match them with our ever-so tied up purse strings, my house mate Saee was in merry oblivion. All that she seemed to be doing was, day dreaming about entertaining people. She had encountered the minuscule issue of knowing insufficient people to suit her grand catering plans, so was short listing people we worked with, or had met once, or had heard about from mutual friends as potential invitees!
As we anxiously parted with six weeks of rent in advance though, our merriment soon dried up. Suddenly the purses seemed feather light, and we still had to pay for the existing lease, buy durables and some furniture and figure out a way to move it all into the house. Moving houses certainly aided in adding a natural salt and pepper look to my full head of ebony tresses!
Yesterday we signed the lease and paid up the money in trepidation. But then, a girl friend at work volunteered some spare furniture she had (she can furnish a second home – ours!!) My adorable boss P, gifted us some lounge furniture and the land lord on our current lease requested if we could move out early – since our lease expiry was clashing with his impending vacation. A friend of Saee’s and a few others piped up to help with the actual move.
As things fell into place with some kind of jigsaw puzzle perfection, Saee and I could not help but marvel at the events. We contemplated our initial anxiety and the eventual perfect outcome over a pot of mint tea and a slice of hot lemon pie….Divine intervention? Maybe? Or maybe, that is just the way the cookie crumbles…!
(January 13th is my mother’s Birthday – this was a little note that I sent her this year – thought it would be nice for all of us to chew on!)
Dear Mum,
I guess I could write you a long letter and tell you how all those wonderful sacrifices you made for me never went unnoticed, or how all of your words of advice never went unheeded, or even how you provided me a clear model of independence, vibrancy, integrity and humour – all the basic tenets by which I now live my adult life – but this letter to you is not at all about that. While I do value all those mother – daughter moments, there is something that I value even more than that.
What I want to thank you for instead, is for marrying Papa and for being Mummy-Papa, one starting where the other finishes – an indistinguishable continuum – for every waking moment of my life! My memories are filled with moments of great fun that you guys had together, great patience, great sacrifices and great love.
Everywhere around me, I met children from broken homes – their lifetimes scarred by years of marred relationships and stilted interactions. While we have grown and blossomed in a cocoon of security, looking at ourselves through the eyes of others, has taught us never to take this gift for granted.
And while some might think that a successful marriage is the norm in Indian society, I can now understand, that it demands similar, if not more, inputs from the incumbents, as anywhere else in the world. And I thank you, for being able to show us the way it should be done, for making us successful individuals, confident, that should we wish to jump, we have Mum and Dad as our parachute.
So, while I do appreciate the trials and successes of single parenthood, I am so glad that my parents are still, if not more, enmeshed in each other’s lives. And I thank you for all the little things you do for each other, that little line of worry on your forehead, when he is out for long, that shake of his head when you are upset, your little holiday jaunts together, movies and dinners out, morning teas and walks, together in all trials and tribulations….Touchwood!
So, as I wish you today – I also wish you many more such moments together. Happy Birthday Mum!
Love
Shruti
It is strange how most people make their best friends in their childhood and youth. As you sail further and further on the ocean of life, these pit stops called “Friends” become fewer and further in between….and you start experiencing the intense need to hold on to those few rare jewels that you have garnered in your lifetime. Unfortunately, this wisdom, inevitably strikes you at a rather advanced stage in life – at a time you can do precious little apart from rue lost connections and forgotten buddies.
Since every phase of my life was pursued in a different city – I made numerous new and varied friends, in each phase. Unfortunately, the sublime art of staying in touch was lost on me. Mum, in all her wisdom and foresight, often made futile attempts to get me to maintain contact with people – but I always found it too stressful. As I moved on in life, I seemed to have nothing in common with my old friends to talk about or share. (Yes, I know – all of you who have many-a special childhood friend would be understandably horrified with my callousness!)
But maybe I had notched up a lot of good deeds in the accounting book of karma, in my past lives, for unlike other people, good friends kept coming at me all through college, management training and even work. I am told that you need to work at your relationships with people to keep them going – but never me. Somehow, ties deepened, almost by their own will, with passage of time – when you were not looking. As friends gradually turned into extended family, I could not help but wonder if these bonds too would die a natural death, as I moved on in life.
But some ties are cast in stone – as I have discovered. And they withstand the test of time, history and geography with such ease – it is truly admirable. I find, that as I pursue my interests, I increasingly want to stay in touch with the precious few, who have been a part of my journey. Such bonds do not need constant reinforcements – even intermittent spasms of silence, cannot threaten these special relationships.
I realise, dear reader, that this is a much heavier post, than my usual ramblings – but this thought has captivated my mind completely. Technology has catalysed the process, but the driving force remains, the need to participate in each other’s lives. So if you have a special friend, whom you have lost touch with, stop just ruing over it. Reach out – in the words of the Nike commercial – Just do it! Like Richard Bach said, with such friends, “there is no such place as faraway”.
Maybe I am turning into my mum – there’s a thought!
One of the first things to hit you, once you move abroad, is how infrequently your cell phone rings. Such a revelation can be quite tough, especially if you have spent most of your adult waking life, with a phone fused to your ear! In Bombay, the ringing summoned me at all hours of the day – and night. I remember muting it when mum and dad came visiting, in case their reverie was rudely shattered by the “ployphonic” version of Robert Miles’ Children (this song has been my ring tone for the last seven years!)
Not only did you have a huge community of sympathetic friends and family to talk to endlessly, consumerism in India had also ensured that airtime was as cheap as the air we breathe (well…almost!) There were celebration calls, commiseration calls, the I’ve-broke-up-with-my-boyfriend calls, gossip calls, work calls, good night calls and I’m-bored calls! Looking back, I wonder if I ever interacted with anyone in person, or merely waited for them to leave, before I called them to chat!
Not any more. My cell phone may as well have been a brick, that I lug around, for all the times that it rings! Even the family in India does not deem it too urgent to call frequently – so tragically confident are they of my well being! Many-a -times the brick…er phone has gotten left behind in public places – a hitherto unknown phenomenon in my life! (previously, I had to replace phones because they went EVERY where with me and things got sticky – like in the rain, to inspect a pot of curry on the flame, etc!) Besides, Australian air time rates are so prohibitive, that I prefer to let the brick remain a sedentary weight at the base of my pocket!
In an effort to recover its lost glory, I researched inexpensive ideas like Calling cards, VOIP (voice over internet protocol), Skype, et. al. Many appeared to be viable options – until I attempted to school my tech un-savvy family to use them. It was like trying to force your pet cat into a bath – the mention of a calling card, or the purchase of a web camera brought on an onslaught of protests and excuses.
Meanwhile, even the occasional, conventional telephone call became an adventure, with experiences like call dropping, delays and a crackling lines – all thrown in, with the intention of providing some cosmic amusement! Electronic mail from them usually comprises a few tersely worded sentences strung together – chatting is impossible, since they can’t find half the keys on the keyboard, and snail mail….well, you have to be kidding me!
The only option left to me, appears to be to devise some sort of pan-Pacific smoke signals! I have decided to catch up for coffee with a fellow Indian and thrash out the issue – the meeting was coordinated on email – a phone call would probably cost more than the coffee itself!!
I have been staring at a blank computer screen for the last 30 minutes, without the faintest clue, as to what the theme for my next blog post will be. And this does not take into account the entire morning that I have spent trying to conjure up a good topic. And yet, my fingers are twitching with eagerness to fly over the keyboard and tap out a new post. It is at times like these, that I am well and truly envious of structured and thematic blogs like techie blogs, or culinary blogs or political ones. At least the owners of such themes don’t encounter this serious a Blogger’s Block!!
So pardon me dear reader, if you find that I have waffled along for centuries, without actually arriving at the point. The fact is, that today, I don’t seem to have one to make! Having cleared my conscience thus, by issuing a statutory “Danger: Illogical Blog Post Ahead” warning, allow me to dwell on random things….
- Brisbane weather has turned as unpredictable as London climate – it goes from sultry to humid to sunny to moist – every time I step out there is a flash down pour. I am convinced that either I have been tagged by a little black cloud, or am a reluctant rain goddess in disguise!
- My little baby sister wants to come visiting in February – yippee! I must start making grand plans of places to show her around and experiences to wow her with (Not to mention, that I too may finally see the tourist spots myself!)
- Vacations stretch out languorously ahead of me – I have read, cooked, eaten, slept and lazed to my heart’s content. It was always my life long ambition to explore a few, if not all of the seven deadly sins!!
- Long walks by the river and sinful cappuccinos at a new cafe everyday, sometimes make me long for a great companion to share this experience with. If soul mates really are, how come they are so elusive and well hidden?
- The Phantom of the Opera comes to town in February – even though the ticket prices are prohibitive – I shall be there to see it – dressed up to the nines, I might add. A bit of culture never hurt anyone!
- A weekend with my aunt and uncle was most pleasantly spent – sometimes I can be VERY communicative and entertaining! Maybe I should try to be so, more often… (naah! too much effort on a regular basis methinks!!)
- There is nothing more uplifting than an Al Fresco family barbecue with a great bottle of wine and an open air wooden deck to enjoy it on.
- Have been examining my lifestyle and the realization has dawned that it has gradually turned too sedate much too soon. Can that ever be a bad thing?!
- Read a book called “God explained in a Taxi ride” – its good to know that other people share my opinion of spirituality as against religion.
- When you feel homesick, nothing is as comforting as a good tear jerking Bollywood movie, rajma-chawal and a fragrant cup of tea!
And finally, to summarize the way all my favorite Bugs Bunny cartoons ended….
“Thats all folks!”
…….(an audible Phew! from the reader is justified! )
All my life – I have had but one lasting obsession – and mum will attest it – for I am crazy about books. As a child, I learnt the alphabet faster than most toddlers, because the end of the story awaited me eagerly! (kudos to some good parenting from my folks as well – somehow they managed to make the stories sound so interesting, that I just HAD to read them by myself!)
As time ticked by, I outgrew Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew – as my appetite for reading grew voraciously (As did my collection of books and correspondingly, the size of the hole in my parents’ pockets!) It was simply not good enough to read a book, I had to own it – had to see it’s spine on a shelf in my room – from where I could take it down lovingly and re-read it, from time to time.
My parents were initially pleased, although a tad bit bewildered as well – at my mania for the written word. But the euphoria started to die down rapidly, as I demanded more and more expensive books (I once threw a major tantrum for a set of encyclopedias – and my parents stunned me by throwing tantrums back at me for a “Mercedes Benz and a Diamond necklace”!) and grew increasingly vague about the REAL world. I was well and truly hooked.
Other kids got yelled at for playing too much and ignoring their books – I was berated for burying my nose too deep in one. As I grew older and more independent, I discovered book shops – there was the tiny one in the local market, with the latest best sellers, the corner shop at school, the second hand store on the pavement and the best of them all – the plush one in town with three levels of books, seating to lose yourself in and a coffee shop to keep you company!
It was a life long addiction. On my solitary days off, I discovered the joys of Bach, Rushdie, Fynn, Asimov, Archer, Naipaul, Rand and millions of others. I swept away silent tears at “Goodbye Mr. Chips” in a couch – under the worried supervision of an attendant, laughed uproariously with “Murphy’s Law” at the bookshop cafe and fell in love with “Midnight’s Children” at the counter, as I paid for my purchases. Every month I spent a third of my salary there – making the store sales team – and myself – VERY happy!
The move to Brisbane stole from me my books (even with a student visa, I could hardly cart 500 books across the big pond that is the Pacific!) as also the ability to shop for new ones (Have you tried to survive on a student budget?!) As I scuttled between classes and work, I was unable to brush off the inevitable feeling that some part of my soul was wanting! Until one day I chanced upon a quaint little secondhand book shop – with a stooped old man at the counter, tinny music for atmosphere and the lovely smell of old paper in the air!
I don’t believe I need to lay out for you, how this story ends. I have just blown up a third of my monthly allowance (Again!!) – and it was money well spent!
I gracefully (and gleefully) resign myself to the fate of a bookworm!
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