The Smell of Home

I can't remember the last time I took the train from Mumbai to Kochi- it has been well over ten years, if my mental arithmetic is anything to go by. However, most Malayalis would agree with me that there is a distinct tang of greenery and a dew-soaked freshness to the air as the train moves across the Tamil Nadu border into Palakkad in Kerala before chugging along to Kochi and further south. That first deep drawing of breath heralds the beginning of a vacation, just the same way that the acridness in air as Palakkad is left behind draws the curtains on a break that always feel like it sped away on rollerblades.

These days the sight of the expansive carpet of greenery from the cubbyhole window of a plane gives me that kick of homecoming...and makes me realise what the call of the blood means. There are a myriad things that I can crib about my homeland, but that sense of absolute love that overtakes me, that sense of belonging that says 'Love Me Hate Me But You Cannot Forsake Me'. There are a few distinct smells that you cannot but miss in Kerala. Each smell triggers off a childhood memory, a vignette, a reason to smile and reminisce...

My flight from Mumbai this time, was literally at the crack of dawn, I flew with the Sun, chasing the night light away and soaking in the red, pink and orange streaks of the breaking dawn that mixed in an ethereal way with the diluted blues of the midnight. By the time I landed in Kochi, it was reasonably early, at least by my standards that dub morning as any time after 9. That's why as I sleep-walked into the restroom at the Kochi airport, the first smell of familiarity that assailed me also woke me up.

The woman who kept the rooms spotlessly clean, had the look of a traditional Malayali woman, scrubbed and bathed, with sandal paste and red kumkum on her forehead and curly black hair glistening with coconut oil. Now this coconut oil that Malayali women specially temper at home called kaachiya enna does not smell like your regular bottle of Parachute coconut oil. This oil is a potent brew of coconut oil with several other herbs that exude a smell that can identify you as a Malayali at a distance even at the Kumbh Mela. I gave her my best morning sleepy smile, she must have wondered if I had a few screws jolted in the plane ride..But the smell took me back to those bus rides to college in the morning rush hour when packed like sardines, we'd stand on barely a leg for the best part of half an hour, with our noses barely an inch away from someone's freshly washed and oiled hair.

These days, the sanitised confines of dad's AC sedan means that there are few outdoor smells that percolate in. There used to be a time when the trip from the airport to home would be liberally sprinkled with generous gulps of breath sucked in to retain the aroma as we pass by bakeries..now unlike in other cities, bakeries are not really places where they bake stuff, but they merely sell baked stuff and confectioneries made elsewhere. But a few of the bigger, older ones have huge vats of coconut oil constantly on the boil just outside the shop, into which practised hands expertly slice in raw bananas before scooping out those yummy banana chips. Our noses are by now habituated to smelling out fresh oil and stale chips. It is an art and once you perfect it, your reputation back in the city you live in is guaranteed to soar among friends. For, they often grudginly allow you to take a break on the condition that giant parcels of banana chips return with you...Well-made chips are little crisps of divinity...and damn the cholesterol scare or the calories menace..

Banana chips, apart, there is the smell of tapioca frying or jackfruit frying. The Malayalis reading this would by now be drooling. The smell is inexplicably nostalgia invoking..and then the craving can only be satiated by biting into a crisp chip. While I'm no fan of the smell of a thoroughly marinated piece of fish or meat crispening in hot curry-leaves tempered oil, I'd be a bad commentator of the smells of home, if I don't make a mention of it.

Hmmm, talking of food, have you smelt mangoes ripening? April the season for sultry heat and the smell of mangoes ripening in the air..This year, Dad has lovingly nurtured little bundles of nectar in our garden. He talks to them, coaxes them to grow healthy, battling pests that are keen to make merry and leave us shortchanged.. I think the assault on the senses, especially that of smell cannot be a single post..But I'd love to leave you with another secret joy...

Mamma's garden has several plants that you'd hardly find in a dusty urban jungle like Mumbai. Soon after a cooling evening shower, just as the aroma of the earth rises into the air, there is something to be said for walking on the spongy, wet ground, disturbing the raindrops that the leaves have trapped within them. Rub a few of the leaves between your hands, and the fragrance that nature leaves behind on your hands...:) 

Sometimes, it takes distance to make the heart grow fonder...Sometimes, it takes a gentle trip down the memory lanes of smell to recapture lost moments of childhood..

(P:S All the photographs are mine and I don't think stealing is a good idea..though if you want to use it, credit it..:)

 

The Forgotten People of Bhaktapur

The majesty of the Himalayas need to be experienced to be even savoured while describing it...As my flight neared Nepal, the white, serenely beautiful range of mountains materialised as if out of nowhere, perched amidst the clouds with little else from the earth for company...

For a moment, I rued that the camera's lens can never match the beauty that the human eye sees. However, my imagination crash-landed into reality on landing at Kathmandu and later as our pickup traversed dusty unpaved roads that criss-crossed kachcha houses towards one of the few star-hotels of the city. By then I had mentally decided that my stay in the Himalayan Kingdom could not end within the luxurious confines of the hotel and the false sense of decadence it lent to my first impressions of the country. 

So when a couple of friends suggested a visit to Bhaktapur, I leapt at the chance. Bhaktapur was the capital of Nepal once, I'm told, during the reign of the Malla kings till about the late fifteenth century. Walking into this world heritage site was much like stepping into a time warp.  I wish there was an easier way to describe the scale of architectural splendour that Bhaktapur proudly claims as its own. For, unless I explain the splendour, I cannot give you a sense of the struggle life must be for those that live and eke out a living in that mausoleum of royalty. 

Turn your camera in any direction and you are offered an exquisite frame. Temples, pagodas, shikharas - Hinduism and Buddhism melt symbiotically into one another, into a blend that only the Nepalese understand. Little has changed, except for the single lines of electricity wires untidily criss-crossing the skies and snaking into houses through the elaborately carved latticed windows. The grandeur of these speak about a prosperous past, but the little done for its maintenance and the dirty tattered curtains that flutter about speak of an abject poverty - about life struggling to keep its head afloat amongst the glorious ruins of a royal past.

                                           

As you walk into the majestically vast expanses of the Durbar Square, the dragons guarding the gates appear cold even in the hot merciless sun, stony in their perusal of the gawky tourists invading their grounds. The local population have largely learnt to ignore the invasion of their privacy, the constant clicks of camera shutters focussed on their doors and windows, voyeuristically capturing their daily lives - from the vegetables they eat to the clothes they wear. Equally insouciant are the flies that hover about...flitting from the heaped garbage here and there straight on to the faces of the mammoth dragons guarding every building in the vicinity. 

If they could talk they would have narrated their years of glory, soaked in the knowledge of their importance and relevance, and also of the sharp fall from grace as Bhaktapur gave way to Kathmandu as the capital - slowly slipping off the radar completely till UNESCO rescued the city from oblivion, marking it as a World Heritage Site. 

 Tourism, for the locals of Bhaktapur is the only way of life, this is a city that the tourists keep afloat. Every shop has roughly the same wares - while some have cheap trinkets, masks and souvenirs, the others make a killing on the soft as a cloud Pashmina. I must say I came back much more knowledgeable about Pashminas and far lighter in the wallet too...but that's besides the point. 

The narrow alleyways that once housed prosperous merchants now are barely functional residences, with their fronts converted into roadside stalls. I wonder if there is a fixed price for anything across Nepal, Bhaktapur was no different. The same woman that sold me a Buddha statue and a pair of earrings for about three fifty Indian rupees fleeced another for cheap earrings for about a thousand rupees. And she did it without batting an eyelid! 

                                         

Bargaining is the only way out, but somewhere you wonder if the value of the trinket that you coveted wasn't too cheapened by the ruthlessness of the trade. Then again, I guess, when survival boils down to a few rupees cajoled here and there, ethical selling is the last thought on the shopkeeper's mind too. If you are gullible, you are the fool. 

 The slaps of bright paint advertising Coca Cola appear rather incongruous, like an assault on the landscape that has largely changed little. The rickety boards that advertise 'Internet Cafe with lightning speeds' in dark pigeon-holed rooms deep inside the walled city leaves you with bubbles of incredulous laughter threatening to erupt. These are chords of dissonance - the attempt by the twenty first century world to make its presence felt in the forgotten metropolis. 

 As the sun climbed higher and the fatigue began to dim the need to explore the hidden alleyways, we sought 'modernity' - a cafe that wasn't in darkness, that could offer a modicum of hygiene and perhaps clean, western loos. The relief that we felt when we chanced upon one such is indescribable. Calling it quaint and charming now sounds hypocritical, for it had toilet paper and coffee machines churning out cappuccinos and moccachinos. Ohh and did I mention free wi-fi? As I sat in the cafe, sipping my coffee and re-connecting with the civilisation that seemed lightyears away, the sound track playing in my mind was the much stereotyped Dum Maaro Dum and Kaanchi Re Kaanchi Re from the film that made Nepal famous on the Indian silver screen - Hare Rama Hare Krishna... 

I was the quintessential tourist, intruding into every corner that I could, exploiting the lost splendour of a once proud city and its inhabitants. Today they are voiceless as I invade their privacy and thrust cameras in their face as if they were in a living zoo and in exchange throw a few rupees their way. I haggle my way, look for cheap bargains and consider everything overpriced. I am not proud, I was the tourist and this is how tourists behave. Each local calls himself a guide and offers his services for a hundred cheaper than what was quoted by the earlier person that approached you. I wait for the dirt-cheap offer and finally decide I could just read it all off the wikipedia.  

                                                    

 As I leave Bhaktapur hours later, my van kicks up a massive cloud of dust. I cover my face and hide my eyes behind sunglasses. But a terrible sense of unease tells me if I were to visit this forgotten city ten years from now, little would have changed, except for maybe an odd daub of paint here or there.

 

A Shoe Story - A Tale of Mamma and Me!

A few weeks ago, one of my favourite bloggers and also people ( though the second part precedes the first even if I haven't written it in that order)asked me what were the chances that I'd be a Guest Blogger on hers? Now, deep in the heart, I had little fireworks going off, because Cybernag is one of the better bloggers in the Indi-blogosphere currently. She reminds me so much of my Amma that very often my reaction to her posts are often responses I'd make to my own mother.

 Now when she asked me to write a post, I didn't have to think much. There was a story waiting to be told - of a woman who not only inspires me but completes me and without whom, to repeat the rather well-clobbered cliche, I wouldn't be in this world. Yes, so I'm also a card carrying member of the 'I Adore my Mother' community.

 I'd love for you to read the piece. It's not fair that I reproduce the entire piece here, so I shall leave you with a teaser and hope that you do read the post and as always I would love to hear your thoughts. The post is A Shoe Story . Please click on the title and you shall be transported instantaneously to Cybernag's blog.

Now here's the teaser I promised -

My mother was a Bata woman. Her only pair of footwear was sensible and lasted a long time. By contrast, I am a collector of shoes. Each pair that I own is worn after careful thought because it is an extension of my personality, a reflection of my mood, an assertion of my quirkiness and by virtue - my individuality.


Do do read the whole post. Here it is once again - A Shoe Story...




PS: Have I been away for so long that my Blogger setting looks like someone came and WordPressed their way through the site! I am not sure if it is just me or there are others who feel a bit disoriented too. As usual, my lame excuses can't extend to more than work..Oh and a bit of travel, which will continue through April too...I won't go for months on end like last year where I was just plain hibernating, that's a promise. Besides, what I am about to do over the coming months, is tell you about all the travel I have been doing and I have done a fair bit of it.

Life in the City - Vada Pao for the Soul

Chapter 5 - An Ode to the Humble Vada Pao

What's life without soul food? And if you think I'm talking daal-chawal-kadhi, yawwwwn think again. Soul food for the true Mumbaikar is the food that can be easily snagged off the tapris on the road and had with a cutting of adraki chai or ginger tea for the more anglicised. 

There are days when I wake up craving a hot vada pao, that's straight out of the vendor's kadai, still dripping black viscous oil through the sieve scooping it out of the bubbling cauldron. Never venture to look into the oil vat, you might not want to touch a vada again, nor look at the huge vessel in which the potato balls are given its besan-bath.But look at those crisp, crackling vadas that are carelessly tossed into the container near the vendor and the first moment of bliss overtakes you. 


(Disclaimer: Before I go further with my foodie musings, let me at the outset say - I am no connoisseur, I have a few regular places like most Mumbaikars for my secret vices - while the true Mumbaivaasi will scream 'blasphemy' at my dubbing vada-pao hogging as a vice - I must say my health-consciousness makes me admit, it's not an eating habit to be made a staple part of the diet. Precisely why I call it soul food!)


Now, comes the pao, but before that..I must confess I am very particular about how I like my vada pao - that's the reason why I'm no Jumbo person - anyone who's been to Mumbai knows about the big yellow stalls that can be seen across most railway stations and busy areas which sell a burgerised version of the vada-pao. I normally never look that way, not even for the sake of superior hygiene. I still go to my usual man at the Andheri station, when the whim strikes. If it strikes in Lower Parel, there is a shop really close to the traffic signal as one comes down the bridge from the station. Or my third option is the man, who stands by the High Court in Fort. 


The pao is rarely stale and what remained from the stock of the days gone by that went unsold. The churn-out rate in these places is so high, that very often people are forced to wait till a fresh batch of vadas are fried. 

Now when I say fresh pao, how do I describe it to someone who has never held that sponginess between their two hands? The toasty outside has a tiny crackle and when you split it into two to dab on the chutney, the bread isn't doughy, but instead so soft that the chutney sinks into it leaving just a green trail in its wake.


The reason why I like the humble vada pao so much is the skilled carelessness with which my favourite vada paowallahs make mine, in just the finicky way I like it. I like my steaming vada to be lightly crushed on to the bed of the pao which has been soaked with green chutney. Once it has been crushed into a compact form, a generous sprinkling of the dry fiery red garlic chutney is mandatory ( I don't like that sprinkled on to the green chutney, but on to the vada). Now comes the turn of a tiny tiny dab of sweet date and imli chutney on to the upper flap of the pao. And that brings the yin and yang of taste together - a sweetness to the fire generated doused by mildly spiced potatoes of the vada. But if the fire isn't enough to get your taste buds dancing, there are the humble green chillies (deep fried in the same oil as the vadas) to create heat of varied proportions too..

The first bite is like a series of tiny fire-crackers going off inside your mouth. The tongue is on fire, the taste-buds are on an over-drive and your senses are in bliss. The first vada pao is usually finished off, often greedily, in three measured bites. And chomping with your cheeks bulging out, in the manner that Amma says is not how food is eaten politely, gives it an added 'guilty pleasure' quotient. The second comes with the guilt of extra calories. If you can shrug that off, then it is highly recommended. Wash it down with lightly sweetened( I hate sugary concoctions) adraki chai and walk away with an added spring in your step. 


The pocket is only lighter by under twenty rupees and the soul filled to the brim! The journey towards Nirmal Anand (pure joy) is half complete. 


(Images courtesy: Open, Outlook and CNNGo)


And if your heart is still not full, go ahead and read this poem by Ugich Konitari. Entertainment is tax free! :) 

Life in the City - Cheap Comforts

Chapter 4: Mumbai survival 24x7


I am a gypsy at heart- to date no city -across the world- has screamed HOME enough to make me dig my heels in, thrown my anchor down and declare that I have a city to call my own. The truth is now I have several and like a global citizen holding multiple passports, I make multiple claims depending on company and context as to which city I'm loyal to. 


The reason is, in the thirteen years since I first left the home I grew up in (the distinction is made deliberately) I have moved cities eight times. In all fairness, I must admit that Mumbai and Kochi have seen me return a couple of times, my love-affair with the other cities have been rather brief and fleeting at best - a year and a half being the longest period of dalliance.

Looking back at what took me back time and again to Kochi and Mumbai, meant facing some uncomfortable truths. The logic with my love for Kochi is simple. Home is where parents are, however old you grow. When I go to Kochi, I go for pampering. Amma would certify to the embarrassing fact that I have never lifted a spoon or done my laundry while 'at home'. Also, psssstt...I have bundled several of my whites (I have an obsessive compulsion to buy them even if I can't maintain them)back to Kochi while visiting so that between Amma and her maid, it can turn sparkling white again. ( If Malayali daughters are obsessed with buying whites, Malayali moms have this obsession to launder and bleach them brutally till they surrender their yellowing selves and turn pristine again!) So there, in a nutshell, Kochi is about regressing back to a time when parents did the 'taking care' and you exploited it for all it's worth. 


Now Mumbai...Mumbai is another story altogether. Why is life in Mumbai so much simpler? It's something I mooned and moaned about the first time I picked up my bags and traipsed off to live in Brighton, England.( In case, you are interested in that post, click here). 


All the reasons why many people consider this city to be unliveable, I must admit, are all valid and VERY TRUE. It is a nightmare for anyone not used to the Mumbaiyya kind of life - all about living by the clock. If your clock goes awry and the alarm didn't wake you on time, your day can be screwed in ways you can't even imagine. Everything, just about everything happens by the clock. 

The kachrawallah rings the doorbell at dot 6.30, the cook walks in at 8AM and the maid at 10.15AM. If the cook does not walk in at dot 8, she gets late for the next household that anxiously waits her arrival like I do and my sister gets late to leave for office and consequently if she loses more than half an hour extra on the road in traffic, she loses a half-day leave. 


The traffic chaos in this city might mean losing several hours, but that's not an excuse for arriving late for a meeting. Instead, you also factor in an hour extra if you are travelling at peak-time. Indian Stretchable Time, as I have come to fondly refer to it while in the UK, is least applicable in Mumbai.( I must add the 'least', because Mumbai is after all in India and all the characteristics of Indians across the country do tend to get reflected here too, however rare) 


However, what has me enthralled is that the city works 24x7. The maids in Mumbai don't believe in union-baazi ( working by union-stipulated hours). Work schedules are flexible provided adequate notice is provided so that they can juggle their work-charts around. Everyone is contactable via a mobile phone and they are very happy to share the number with you ( none of the Brit-snootiness when it comes to divulging a personal number). So on my phone, I have convenient categories - three Brokers ( or call them Estate Agents), two electricians(one also doubles up as a plumber), stand-by maids if mine decides to take unexpected time-off and has not brought in her aunt or cousin or sister or daughter to work till she gets back and two istiriwallahs - one who does my regular ironing and another when I need some urgent pressing done and assorted numbers for beauticians who swing by to help you look less wild. I have a category for just about everything and they are all filled. Efficient, no fuss, disciplined enough to pander to my weird form of OCD. 

And it is not just the people, the services provided in this city are also equally appreciable and in a way that respects their time and mine. The kirana store delivers just about everything home and also brings in the required change, if you want to pay for a packet of crisps and diet coke with a 1000-rupee note. You can decide on the menu of what take-out food you want to serve your guests after you have set the plates on the table. In the time, they have had their first glass of wine and warming up to eating, the delivery boy would be at the door with food wonderfully packed to keep it hot. Even the ice-cream outlets offer individual ice-cream scoops, packed cleverly and not just family-pack of ice cream slabs as home delivery. Sunday is just another day, unlike in my red-state Kerala where everything including the neighbourhood stray dogs take it as their rightful day off.


The work-ethic of Mumbai is admirable - prompt, very polite and rarely shoddy. Yes, money power does hold sway like in any other metropolis, but isn't that a universal truth? 


For a single girl in a big bad city, this one is a blessing. The nights aren't unsafe, the comforts aren't back-breaking expensive. It affords you your little corner, even if it is no bigger than a handkerchief. 


Mumbai is home today, I'm not sure if it will remain that tomorrow. As I grow older, the need for space and for a more relaxed way of life is growing too. But this city has kept me young, alive and on many occasions soothed, healed and put me back on my feet. Wherever I go, irrespective of my criticisms of its dirt, dust and dinginess - I shall remain a loyal Mumbaikar. This city has character- flawed or otherwise.