On Jhal Muri

 

That’s Muri, murmura, bhel or puffed rice. I have had some of the best conversations over Jhal Muri and Lebur cha (Spicy puffed rice with lemon tea), where most of the banter lingered around family gossip. This invariably happened in the evenings, after dad got back home.

Usually he tossed the Jhal Muri, with onions, mustard oil, green chilies and chanachur, while ma made the cha. I would be the one on the bed, waiting for the tray to arrive. There is something very heart warming about having cha in your bed room, on your bed.  The mustard oil and the fiery bits of green chilies always added more energy to the heated conversation about who was right and who was wrong in generating the family gossip in question. The Muri bowl was unusually large, like a big salad bowl, and we all took big helpings of the pungent, heady concoction. There is such an evocative quality to this Jhal Muri – cha scene that, it brings in more images of heartening times had over the modest Muri.

 

The best ever jhal muri I have had was onboard  East Coast, Falaknama and Konark Express, on our annual visits to Cuttack and Howrah. I waited for the train to enter Orissa which happened early in the morning. I always about woke up first and feasted my eyes on the sudden change of scene from Andhra’s paddy fields to Orissa’s coconut ,Tal trees and a myriad Lilly  Pokhuri (ponds) and perennial rivers.  And soon enough Behrampur station rolls in and I wake dad up to get Cha in Tapris.  Ma would be the next to wake up, with an entirely new disposition, which came only with the anticipation of visiting her Baaper-bari.

As we got closer to Cuttack, the Jhal Muri, Shosha (cucumber), Pijuli (Guava), and cha walas boarded the train. That’s just what dad and I wait for. (Of course the day before, we had already gorged on the South Central Railway pantry’s Bhajjis and tomato soup – oh, yes we were amongst those who didn't give much thought to hygiene, while on a train journey). I knew it the minute the jhal muri wala  entered our compartment- the vendor’s nasal jhal muri jhal muri jhal muri call to attract lesser mortals like us, made me sit up with big bright eyes looking at dad and hoping as hell that he bought one full cone for me and did not expect me to share it with ma. (Dada is usually blissfully unaware, sleeping on the upper berth) .

I used to be in awe of the jhal muri wala – the way he carried that huge contraption around his shoulder, the big muri basket surrounded by tiny tins of different ingredients that go into the muri. I used to be utterly mesmerized, at his deft, sure strokes of sprinkling mustard oil from an old bottle with a hole in the cap, and then the swirl he gave in an old tin with a metal spoon and finally distributed exact portions  into paper  thungas or cones. Most often he filled them to the brim, so much so that some even fell out.  One handful of that invigorating mixture into my mouth- ahhhhh, pure, unadulterated joy!

 

A sleeper class train journey is a must for all children. There is so much to learn on these journeys, so much to see, consume and record for posterity.

Next time, on my India visit, I will most certainly, take a journey in a Howrah bound train, to experience the sights, sounds and smells of a train journey that are so dear to me.

 

(On a completely separate note, Lalu did his bit, I’d say for the railways, let’s see what Didi has in store. )

A loong, soppy, girlie post for my pals.

(Oh Gawd, this is such an awfully long post. Sheeesh. My first and last )

 

After reading this piece in WSJ, posted as a link by a friend on FB, I got so nostalgic. Nostalgic about different friends, who were important to me at different phases of my life. Unlike my brother, I was  more outgoing as a child, and had more friends than I could handle. Friends not just from my batch, but a whole bunch of seniors from school, friends I made randomly at someone’s birthday party, and friends we made as we carried on with life. In 30 years (just a month to linger on 30), of this very significant journey of my life, I have met and made some of the best people, who are now friends for life. Am going to attempt to remember them, and write/call after I finish this post. I am in a completely soppy mood, so please to be bearing with this mawkish post.

 

My first ever ‘best friend’ was Veena, a classmate from primary school (shahabad). Her house was a stone’s throw away from mine, and I hanged around at her place quite a bit.  She was quite a student, and I was the rouge. Slowly, I started getting closer to friends from my brother’s batch and that’s how Gunashree (Gunnu), Anjum (Anju) and Sunita (sunni) came into my life. I felt pretty secure with them, coz they were seniors and they had great clout with teachers. So been seen with them was a matter of pride to me. But more than anything else, I loved their company. Gunnu, remains a lovely friend, though we connect exactly twice a year on each other’s birthday. Anju, she is no more. I still shudder to think, she is not amongst us. And i think I never gave her the love she deserved. The last I saw of her was in Hyderabad, when She came home with Gunu and others. I miss her, sorely, at times. Sunni left for Mumbai in high school. I met her once, when I was in Mumbai and then totally lost touch. Gunu, Suni and I were the three characters from Enid Blyton’s – Fatty stories.  While I continued mingling with all these people, I ensured, I walked to school post lunch with a bunch of seniors (4 years senior to me) – it felt very adult to do that :-). Geetu, Shubhi, Sushmi. All I am pretty much in touch with, through social networking sites.They always kept me from their secrets (which is pretty obvious- imagine a class 6 kid wanting to be part of gossip about class 10 students.) But that’s how I was – echore paka, as they say in bengali – ripe before time. When I talk about senior friends, I must say, I have done such a good job of keeping in touch with not just mine but all of my brother’s friends. Till date, I write, call, and know about all his friends, and they know about him from me. Sanjay, is one of them.

 

As I moved on and left Shahabad for Hyderabad, I was miserable in Keyes High School. I hated everything about the school – their uniform, teachers, classmates, the school itself. I don’t think I ever forgave my parents for taking me away from Shahabad before I completed school. But soon, Shara helped me cope up, and she helped me see things in a better perspective. Then again, she was the topper, (remained one all her life) and I was fooling around. So I met Rashmi (Munni) and Rachna (Dundoo). My adventures in adulthood began with Munni. She was the fast n the furious one :-). Always ready to meet boys, always ready to hit Sangeet cinema for a flick. One of the most remarkable memories about Munni and I was when we walked back from Sangeet, all the way to Ameerpet, because we didn’t have  ticket money for a bus ride. We had spent them all (a total of Thirty rupees, I think) on watching “Pretty Woman” and buying Thumbs Up. Well, how can you not buy Thumbs up during interval, it was a shame. We rather walked.

Munni has remained a constant since school days. I think our friendship stood the test of time, and many other adversities. I remember telling on her impish activities to her parents, at the risk of being ousted by her from our really strong bond. But, she remained my pal. I so love her.

Munni and I went to the same college, albeit in different faculties. In St Francis, I met Mouli, with who I went through many complex relationship tangles. But in the end, we still are friends. She was married off in second year of college.

Enter, Ms Jaya Naomi. J and I, have had a friendship most would cherish. From lending each other money, to boy friends, her first and only Vodka shot with us, we’ve come a long long way. We’ve done some pretty mad stuff together- she has left all and sundry to come see me. Its a different matter that her questions kill me. She asks too many of them. Even now, when she calls from Singapore, she is so full of them.

 

And then came the best phase of my life- Symbiosis. Oh, man. I’d give away everything to go back just once and see all of them again. It was the first time ever, that I was out of Home. No one to question, no one to answer to. The three completely insane roomies of mine, made my two years of masters, so enjoyable. Anu, Pravi, Joy- all the three, items of a very peculiar kind. We fought like dogs and made up like silly girls. we’ve done some very heady, unthinkable stuff together. I should leave our Jesus fearing Joy out of this. She was either in Hyderabad, or was too busy attending Joe Pinto’s class. She was the good one. I couldn’t stand the fact that Pravi and Anu shared a room. I always wanted Anu for myself- no lesbian tendencies there. Just pure girlfriend jealousy. There is one story that never leaves me- the story of our BIG fight. Anu and I remained painfully out of touch for a while, only to spring back to our old mad selves, a year after Symbi. We continue to meet each other, sometimes in Mumbai, but mostly on the cyberspace and through sms’s. We always thought we’d live together after college in Mumbai- we’d earn pot loads of money, and we’d have Biriyani for dinner every day. Dreams.

 

And then there were guys I was close to only after I passed out- Brij ,Sid, Sue. Sid,  remains a nincompoop. But I can’t help but keep asking after him. I hope he finally enters  adulthood, with the birth of his Son. Brij- he has been on and off my blog. He remains my ultimate counselor across the seas. And Sue is the only person I talk to when things go awry. Only Sue. She brings the best in me- she is always so full of laughter and sunshine.

 

Tarana, I met her at Naandi. I mothered her so much, back then, and now she mothers me, on Gtalk. Always giving me advice. Always in touch. she is an awesome woman. I have yet to meet someone stronger than her. She is a steel-woman.

Poo- I miss her so much. Miss her for those long conversations, and over night stays at my place. I miss cooking for her, and i soo soo miss her Gajar ka halwa. She constituted the entire two years of my stay in Bangalore. When i think of Bangalore, its always with her in my mind.

Pravin- a senior from school, a local guardian, a long distance caller, a friend for life.

Now, miles and miles away from my Matrubhoomi, I can’t get enough of Tracer , Maya and Deblina on Gtalk.  Tracer, with her totally insane chat sessions with me, spends more time with me, than my husband does. My days are incomplete without their pings :-). And Ann, she is like a saving grace in the land of goras. ‘Deblina, I just e-met her, thru, Poo, and i can’t for my life of it understand, how similar two people can be. I am so eager to see her highness’ face.  And Maya- well, she will probably be the only boss, who became friends with me. She is such a remarkable woman.

 

There. And these are just probably 10 percent of my entire friend circle. So many more, who have touched my life, and made it so full. I know I have cralessly left out so many names, but they are as loved and important to me as the ones mentioned here. My life would have been pretty inconsequential, without you all.

 

Thanks, darlings.

Rate Me

KG: How much on a scale of 1 to 10, will you rate me-  for the way I was during our dating days, and now, post marriage.

R: This is a trick question.

KG: Shut up and answer.

R: I fared well in your quiz on FB, highest so far. why do you need me to rate you?

KG: You cheated. Also, there’s no connection here. Just rate me, its a kind of reality check. Promise I wont be upset.

R; Upset? Meaning, you already know I’ll rate you bad.

KG:  I meant I wont be upset if u rate me bad, that’s not a reason for u to deliberately test me.

R: Ok. Pre dating days- 9 on 10. Post shaadi, 4/10.

KG: what crap…you are doing this deliberately.

R: Accept it. Not joking.

KG: On what basis did you like me 9 on 10 then? I am still as irritating and aggressive.

R: I am not having this conversation.

KG: I just wanna know why. It hurt, you know..

R: That, exactly is your problem. You don’t keep your promise.

KG: For all that I did for you, and for loving you so blindly, this is what i get

R: There there there

KG: And what of the sudden I love you’s, and those gifts. I notice suddenly there is an increase in these sudden surprise gifts. A woman can sense these things you know.

R: we are getting late, lets go out.

KG: I am not in a mood. I mean, after 8 years you saying that. You are seeing someone else. And you are diverting the topic.

R: Stop this Konkonapanti.

KG: Just accept it. I am not going anywhere.

R: Ammma- I was joking amma. Having one woman in my life itself is a nightmare. Besides, I can’t even imagine bypassing you for another- its too much stress, babe.

KG: 4/10? How could you?

R: It was a joke, almost.

KG: Huh? Almost. Which part was not a joke?

R: Hey listen, lets have lunch at Hyderabad House? Long time, na. meeeeeeeeeeeeeeshu, chalo, we are going out in the car.

KG: *sulk*

R: Are u coming or not?

KG: *sulk*

R: 10/10 babe. You are the only one. Praaamise.

KG: We are not done, remember that. I am coming, only for the biriyani. Don’t be fooled that your sudden 10/10 made me happy.

 

(This is my best bet- I pick up a topic and steer it to a direction where I am sure, there will be a fight and at the end of it, food. how else, did u think, I’d get the biriyani? He was planning on watching cricket the entire day )

Constructed with stray bits of conversation, here and there, to suit my post and mood. You can call it distortion of sequence. :D

And so I wrote

I felt like writing a letter

like old times, to you Dada,

on Hallmark’s flowery stationary , with pink felt pen,

about my day at school, of friends who made me cry.

 

I felt like writing a letter

like I did so often, to you Kaka,

at great length, about the weather outside,

of the Enid Blytons I read.

 

I felt like writing a letter,

in an  Inland blue,

a hurried reply, to the missive you sent, Daddy,

with sentences stuffed at corners, over the glue.

 

I feel like writing a letter, to you J,

a  poem, about a coffee place, that we never went to,

long, drawn out sentences, about our love lives,

bickering , cursing, planning our escape.

 

I feel like writing to you,

my darling, of times gone by,

and days yet to come, in sappy, syrupy words,

to remind you of the wistful days, we spent in agony, with out each other.

 

(when was the last you wrote to someone on beautiful stationary, with an ink pen, in great detail about the weather, and all things romantic, and useless bits of information?)

Oh, Ma!

A sheet of pink makes my day!

(And Her Pinkness’ dad insists that the Iphone was a Mother’s day gift that was gifted a week earlier. Mommy is not very impressed :D )

 

To all my Mommy friends and all the mommies around the world, here’s wishing you a lovely day. Make sure you put up your feet and chillax!

A pot of Darjeeling

A pot of infused Darjeeling brings to me

myriad thoughts and chronicles.

Some, make my day,

some ruin it so.

 

The pot of infused Darjeeling, brought to me, today,

a cup full of unpleasantness,

and a morning acerbic,

with a mood that will linger and follow me around, like an irritant toddler.

 

Then, I poured myself another cup of her,

and drowned myself in a bouquet of complex aromas

and found her slowly cajoling me, with her soft, mellow flavour,

into tranquility, trying to explain to me, the nothingness of it all.

 

With each sip, I realised

the futility of this world, the pointlessness of things around.

Realised and how, the vainness of this existence,

with the fatigue of a soul that’s given up on finding her lover.

 

The last pour from the fat pot, into my cup,

however changed perspective,

it asked me to not just glance, but feel life, intimately; I do.

In awe, I hear music again, a distant cheer, a disquieting giggle.

 

The pot of infused Darjeeling brought to me today,

myriad thoughts and chronicles.

Some, caustic, some ominous; But today,

it brought to me thoughts of amiable variety, and thus it made my day so.

Stealth

I knew I’d find an answer to this taciturn phase of mine, through you guys. I thought one of my regular readers would give me that one flash, i needed to get my fingers flying into a known frenzy, on my Lenovo. But this flash has come from a not-so-regular visitor. Or who knows? May be this blogger came on and off and left without saying anything, but took back a great deal from me or my fellow blogger-friend’s spaces. Beware, we have a plagiarist on the prowl!

 

On the prowl, lifting pieces from blogs and making it her/his own. What’s amazing about these people are how foolish they are. Don’t they know we install applications and codes that tell us exactly who, and when a slimy idiot cut-copy-pastes your content on to their blog seamlessly? Well, for the less informed like the pleasantone, who is pretty docile, and  looks at these kind of thefts, in sheer amusement, just happened to browse this little idiot’s blog, to find her two year old post reproduced word to word. Imagine her horror, or just plain helplessness.

This little thief thinks, she/he is a smart one. Not true. This person is beyond idiocy. After stealing she/he should have just shut up. Instead, his/her highness comes to my blog and leaves a casual comment. Has the nerve to tell me- ‘ummm there you go- write on jobless vacume’. ‘Vacume’ itself told me a few things about the person, but I decided not to be judgmental. Until, the pleasantone related this rather unpleasant episode to me.

I don’t find it amusing at all. I think its disgusting. You rob a bank or someone’s words, they are one and the same. Stealth can never be cool. My point is, why do it at all?  When i started blogging, I hardly knew what or how to write.  I just had a desire to write, and  over the years have managed to write almost decently. I am no Nobel material, but hell, I write my own stuff. God, bad, ugly, trash- its mine. I don’t go about browsing people’s blogs ad lifting phrases, paras, sentences, let alone, full fledged posts. I am no Kaavya Vishwanathan of How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life, fame. I’d rather remain unheard of and unpopular, than become famous the Kaavya Way.

I remember, when I wrote my first post, it was such an exhilarating experience. Actually, it was pretty below average, back then. But hell, who cared? It was mine. I was over the moon. Tell me, does one feel the same way when one lifts stuff from someone else and makes it their own?

Scribbler had once written about copyrights – are they a crime or not a crime. I still think stealing an idea, stealing someone’s tune, stealing someone’s words , are all one and the same. I don’t see why anyone should benefit out of someone else’s very personal expression. I think, it all boils down to respect. Respect for one another. Which is a dead deed.

Be it our own Pritam Chakravarty’s lifted tunes or Kaavya Vishwanathan, I realized plagiarism is a rampant disease, especially in the blogsphere. One Google search  and millions of results were thrown before me on plagiarists, plagiarism and all things related.

Its scary and more than that, very depressing.

(oh btw, your stories are coming up , soonish :-) )

Please?

Gimme 3 ideas for a blog post. Please. Preferably happy ones. Coz my mind has been in a spate of bad mood.

 

Tagging, Jayeetam, Tracer, the Pleasant one, The Clown, Scribbler, Phish-phish, Discovering M. Tagging the regular ones. :D. Rest passing by, if your fingers itch, go on and type three good ones. They can be topics or just words. I’ll try and make sense of it my way.  I’ll try and pick three topics of all the posted ones and do some writing. Am hoping, that will inspire me to write something, after this lull.

Oh dreary life. I hate you. Bring some sunshine into my grey existence. And make Paracetamol effective for migraine sufferers.

 

Yours truly

KG