Phir wahi dil

As I made the bed this morning, loath to waste even five minutes to a mundane job, I played on YouTube the superlative ‘Aawaz deke humein tum bulao’. Just under five minutes and it sucked me into a vortex of nostalgia. 

Movies in India have morphed so much. There are grim, dreary, bleak reflections of society, there are political statements, social statements… always, always pontificating on something or the other; revealing the underbelly of something or the other, taking a stand on something or the other. In a sense, they have all become very masculine: hard, primarily concerned with the outside, with the larger picture; rather than feminine, which is soft, and more about the particular, the subjective and individual experience.

Are we never to see any particular stories about human beings anymore? Or for that matter even a genuine lip-sync song? Have we been embarrassed out of our natural and spontaneous musicals? It seems the only songs that are sung out are those performed on stage, or item songs. The rest are background scores. Am I wrong?

I don’t remember the plot of ‘Professor’ and don’t remember the context for this intensely romantic song set in Raga Shivaranjani. How inspired were Shankar-Jaikishan with this one… the faintly ominous large drum in the beginning, yielding space to the tabla and Lata Mangeshkar’s soaring voice… The song pulls you in, makes you wonder what is up with these two people…
How wonderful would it be if we could have such mellow, romantic stories made with all the wonderful filmmaking techniques and technology we have today!


 

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I was discussing this with my sister the other day. How is it that OTT platforms, which have mushroomed in such large numbers, have not yet tapped into this wonderful bank of old classics in any language? Where are the Hitchcocks, the Gene Kelly musicals, the b/w favourites? The Shammi Kapoor hits, the Joy Mukherjee must-watches, the Best of Dev Anand, Dilip Kumar, Filmfare awardees of 4-5 decades ago? Where are the Telugu mythologicals and socials? I don’t know about the economics in connection with Hollywood fare, but surely Indian goldies must be low hanging fruit? 

Maybe they'll get there eventually?

Handover

Twelve years since these anguished posts [1] [2] [3].
 
Twelve years since my mother passed. A full solar cycle comes to a close in a few months. It seems just like the other day, and yet it feels like a lifetime or two have passed.

I think I've said before that my mother dealt with the news of imminent death with a rare fortitude and pragmatism. She called for the ‘bank bag’, signed a few blank cheques, made sure the papers were in good order. She roughly planned the menu for the 13th day death rites. She said her goodbyes with love, and kindness almost – she left behind a legion of bereaved people, each of whom had experienced her friendship in their own unique way.

As she lay very fatigued from the aggressive cancer, I remember bringing her a dozen dabbas from the kitchen, ascertaining the precise nature of the myriad unlabelled powders on the shelves. “That is vangi bhaath powder, that is Nagamani aunty’s recipe for curries… that pickle mix is old, throw it away…” A handing over of the kitchen in a manner of speaking.

And I took down a few recipes and ratios the way she made them – the staple idli and dosa, a couple of powders. “For adai,” she told my sister, “just leave it to your father. Only, he tends to make the batter a little too thick, so just add a little water when you make them.” She was so right – my father’s adai hittu ranks among the best in the world.

To mark that sharply-etched time, I have Johana West’s (bitter)sweet haiku.

old family recipe
hoping our hands
are the same size

From a time when recipes weren’t written in cup measures but were an intuitive affair involving a pinch of this, a dollop of that and as my mother said back then, indicating less than a quarter of her hand, ‘ondu ishtu uppu’ (this much salt).

Ram naam ras paan

Kumarji has been an acquired taste for me. Although I’d hear some pieces repeatedly, the unique aesthetic that he crafted escaped me with the more technical renditions. But he’s grown on me over the years. During the Samyama program (one of the advanced programs at Isha), they played on loop a few Nirguni bhajans by him. In the state I was in – open, empty – my Master seeped into me in Kumar Gandharva’s voice.

For a few days now I’ve had this earworm. Raga Kalyan in which Kumarji sings a small tukda from Ramcharitmanas. A gorgeous gorgeous piece. Someone in the comments elucidates that the whole verse goes like this:

देखराबा मातहिं निज अद्भुत रूप अखंड।
रोम रोम प्रति लगो कोटि कोटि ब्रह्माँड॥
अगनित रवि शशि सिव चतुरानन।
बहुगिरि सरित सिंधु महिकानन॥
काल कर्म गुन ग्यान सुभाऊ।
सोउ देखा जो सुना न काऊ॥

This, I understand, is from an episode from the Baal Kanda, where Kaushalya is given a glimpse of the Lord’s vishvaroopa:

She saw therein countless suns and moons, Sivas and four-faced Brahmas, and a number of mountains, rivers, oceans, plains and woods, as well as the spirit of time, the principle of action, the modes of Prakrti (Sattva, Rajas and Tamas), the spirit of knowledge and Nature and many more things of which she had never heard before.
(Translation from Ramcharitmanas.org)

Of Krishna’s vishwaroopa darshanam I had heard many times but I had not known that Tulsidasji describes Rama showing his mother the Truth as well.

Listening to these four lines leaves me in a jumble of replete bliss scrubbed in with shades of longing, regret, and a certain grasping greed. If four lines, taken out of context can be so beautiful, the mind wishes to acquire all of Ramcharitmanas. It doesn’t work that way, but that is the mind’s way.

Anyway, here it is, Kumar Gandharva with Aganita Ravi:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cyWhNcKGmHY

Two Sticks and the Exception

I remember a time when I thought chopsticks fiddly and a distinctly oddly conceived tool. Two sticks, I ask you! But so it always is - one culture's way of doing things will seem very difficult to another. I remember Sadhguru chuckling once about how South Indians manage runny rasam saadam with their hands and THAT while eating on banana leaves. It is a feat, no question.

Lack of skill notwithstanding we found chopsticks intriguing and I remember laughing a lot at our clumsy attempts at picking up mango pieces on a sleepover at Alina's. And being soooo impressed with Karishma Kapoor's nonchalant skill in Dil Toh Pagal Hai. Such mastery seemed a far cry away.

Now however, one way or the other, I've become handy with these utensils that have been in use since 1200 BC. East Asian shows, for one - the Koreans eat rather a lot in their dramas, and by just observation almost, I've picked up the knack. As for how hungry Korean dramas make you, that's another story. (I wish Indian TV and OTT producers would get their act TOGETHER! Contact me on email for consultation on how to re-orient the industry.)

But to chopsticks again, my cousin brought me some nicely tapered ones from her travels, my sister gifted me a stainless steel pair in the Korean style, and I have a few blunt Chinese-style ones in wood and plastic, so now I've a nice collection for every kind of application. I find myself reaching for them when cooking anything chunky that needs dexterous turning on the pan. Can't reach for a piece of pickle at the bottom of the bottle? No problem. Need some alma murabba or prunes halfway down the jar? Piece o' cake. 

Obviously I now eat noodles with chopsticks but there is one exception. Maggi - done the desi street-side way, with tamatar, pyaaz, capsicum, chillies and masala - simply cries out for the fork. Not the elegant sort with long tines and embellished handles, but the thin cheap variety where the tines could possibly impale your tongue, where the handle could cut your finger if you held it too tightly. That kind of fork, scraping against the steel plate as you try to salvage as much masala as you possibly can.

Bin Sataguru aapno nahi koi

This Guru Poornima, sharing this exquisitely imagined and executed song video from Sounds of Isha.

Kabir, singing again in the female voice of the seeker, says the comforts of the maternal home will no longer do. The maternal home, traditionally considered to be among the most secure and comfortable places to be... where you are well looked after, where you are pampered, allowed the freedom to simply be. But even this haven will not do.

There is a 'nagari'...  Saeein ki nagari, the Master's Realm, where none of these physical symbols apply - no sun, no moon, no elements that make up our physical world... she seeks that place.

 

Who would tell the beloved of my longing? Who would show my the way? Who would take me there? 

Presenting Naiharwa...

https://youtu.be/5h2566_fTDw

 

Touch and Go

Balancing out the pleasure you get from online games is the hoops the makers put you through in order to get you to buy from them – coins, energy, gemstones… all the in-game currencies that apply in that universe. Understandable, I suppose. But I’m miserly and would much prefer to watch their advertisements to support them than fork out cash just because I’m impatient.

Most games would like you playing them – a lot. Anything to keep you hooked and coming back for more. Running out of currency? A sudden gift or windfall will keep you in the game for while longer.

Then I came across Murder in the Alps. It’s a hidden objects game with a lovely 1930s theme. Anna, our protagonist, is the journalist-detective and you must help her find the clues to piece together this very intriguing locked room mystery in which corpses keep turning up with delicious regularity. The set of suspects includes a cuckoo Indophile professor who is chasing after the elusive Vedic recipe for the elixir Soma. The artwork is spectacular, the voice acting is fantastic, the interface smooth and exciting – the atmosphere of the game is top-notch.

 

Except, they don’t want you to play.

You get 200 energy to start off with. And as Anna examines a scene looking for these hidden objects that will help her understand what the hell is going on in this forsaken, snow-boarded inn in the Swiss mountains, every item you touch on her behalf will drain you of 5 to 30 units. Depending on how frenzied you are, you could play for 10 or 20 minutes at the most.

And then, unless you are willing to pay quite handsomely for more energy, you wait. The energy replenishes itself at the rate of one unit in eight minutes. Which means a wait of upwards of 26 hours to max your quota – which, I repeat, lasts you gameplay of 20 minutes. If you are desperate, there are ads to watch that’ll give you 10 energy at a time.

It's perfect sadhana actually. You touch the screen with the utmost awareness and only when you must. And you learn to wait. This view is solipsistic and you must grant me the indulgence: considering I have a tendency to be addicted to games, that’s the sound of my Guru having the last laugh.

A pickle-ish quandary

We’re seeing perilous depletion levels in our chundo stock. In the past couple of years, I have so grown to appreciate this sweet mango pickle from Gujarat that I’ve managed to always have a jar of it in the shelf. It is supposed to go with theplas and khakras but I love it with my mosranna… to my palate the tart-sweetness of the preserve pairs perfectly with curd rice, rounding off the meal with not an obligatory cool-down but on a triumph. 

There is one neighbourhood store that keeps a sort I like and with lockdown hours, I haven’t gone out to pick up some more. But no matter, there are other relishes that honour curd rice very well. A smidge of lime pickle elevates it, for instance.

This consolation brought me to a pleasing exercise. What is my favourite pickle? So difficult to decide. To make matters more complicated, there are rice mix pastes and even rice powders that by dint of their sheer brilliance expand the category.

Being Hyderabad-bred, I have an obligation to reserve my top slot for the Queen of all Pickles – avakaaya. Sour raw mangoes cut into largeish chunks, treated with chilli powder, mustard, salt and sesame oil… a divine concoction that drives thought from your mind. Some argue for mudda pappu with avakaaya, some go straight for avakaaya annam. I say do both!! First pappannam to appease my delicate stomach and then a small portion of fiery pickle rice to slake my soul-thirst. 

For second slot, various pickles jostle at the door, trying to make their way in. I apply an extra criteria: what would I like to eat with rice? Gongura wins this round – hot rice, a dash of sesame oil, a dollop of ghee and gongura pachadi… its glorious sourness deepened by that punch of red chilli. Hmm! This is chased closely by karuveplai (curry leaf) rice mix, and this has to be from Grand Sweets. Honourable mention also for Harika’s Drumstick Leaf powder. It needs a generous addition of sesame oil over hot rice… ah, *chef’s kiss* 

My sister eats all pickles with everything from dosas, adais and pesarattus to upma and khichdi. I’m pickier with my combinations. Kerala parotta and lukhmi are magnificent with tomato pickle, pesarattu rocks with a slightly sweetened ginger relish, adai is rather good with tomato and lime. I prefer avalakki and upma with the spicier preserves – green chillies with lime and pandu mirpakaya pacchadi – another Andhra concoction involving Guntur red chillies and tamarind. And of course, thayir sadam with nartharangai (citron) is a classic combination for a very good, time-tested reason.

For a change of palate, I also like the northern pickles featuring various vegetables and heavy-handed sprinkles of saunf – milder, of course, and not quite so imposing as southern fare but very acceptable.

What’s your favourite pickle? 

Nan anju maram valarthen…

It was borne on me a couple of days ago that I’d been living under a rock. Completely unaware of a viral song, Enjoy Enjaami, a production from AR Rahman’s initiative Maajja – a tech platform for independent musicians. (And what a start!)

My friend Sriram introduced the song to us with a bit of a backgrounder. The poet-singer Arivu draws from his own life and the accounts told to him by his grandmother – tales of humble farm workers employed on lands that they did not themselves own. Lives sweetened with the joy that being close to the land brings, but also insecurity and a looming fear and dread of being dispossessed. 

The song has caught me by the gut. It is so many things at once – on the surface a catchy, well-made music video that ticks all the ‘good entertainment’ boxes. But also a powerful song celebrating the earth, a lament for old griefs, a tribute to ancestors who bequeathed their precious seed and land to us.

Like all hugely successful things, many aspects come together to make this work. Santosh Narayan composes it in intricate layers, weaving in parai drums, reggae, rap and a Tamil art form called oppari. Singer Dhee is a revelation with her raspy airs and Arivu clutches your heart with the keening lament of the oppari. The video by Amit Krishnan accentuates the beat, the lilt and places the song in its natural surroundings – the land. The effect is simply stunning.

This is a quintessentially Tamil song, about the Tamil people’s deep and profound connection to the soil, water and all creatures. It reminds me of what Sadhguru says about ‘looking up’ and ‘looking down’ cultures. The Tamil people exemplify the second sort – those who look down at the Earth as mother, as the source of their sustenance and all divinity. 

 

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Nan anju maram valarthen is from this song, translating 'I planted five trees...'

Home Patch - 2

The fresh haiku on the header reminds me that I have been meaning forever to write another post on the exciting events in the neighbourhood.

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I may have mentioned, once or twice, the street dogs that have established base around my home. A few years ago, the garage opposite was rented by a lady who ran a smallish boutique with dresses, bags, tailoring and the like. Now, she was fond of their company and took to feeding the dogs – a full family of two adults and a litter of four puppies. She let them run tame in her shop, and they indeed felt and behaved like pets. Until she shifted her shop and, in a spot of callous irresponsibility, simply abandoned the lot to their devices. The family disbanded over weeks but two of the siblings hung around here, latching on to Ramulu, the istri man who took over the shop. They continued to make themselves more familiar than anyone else was happy with. Now, we’ve conceded our terraces and our yards, and the dogs have signed the pact to not enter our houses.

These siblings – Kim and Mowgli, as the neighbourhood’s children have christened them – are interesting characters. Kim, the male is a thin, lithe fellow with a somewhat sly nature. Having received one or two thwacks many months ago for nosing into the house and ensconcing himself on the settee, he tends to side-eye me, giving me a wide-ish berth. That is not to say, however, that he’s afraid, and he certainly is not shy. Mowgli, on the other hand, is far more confiding and relies a lot on charm. She’s stouter than Kim, and not a good enough jumper of walls as her brother. Many times, if she’s unable or, I suspect, unwilling to clamber up to get across, she will just lie near the gate, whining till we come out and open it for her. 

To this mix was added a new puppy – who, thanks to her agile defence of the territory from other canine intruders, was named Sheeghrati Sheegram. Their interactions were most interesting. The siblings, being older and first on the territory outrank Sheegrati. And although they tolerate her and include her in pack activities, she is somewhat outside of their inner circle. The littermates lie close together almost always, their body language similar, while Sheegrati will take the opposite side of the road, or a different level. 

Sheegrati - the gentle, good girl

 

 

Winter mornings are made of these: Mowgli (top) and Kim (bottom) on the terrace.

Mowgli and Kim bask in the sun

Last fortnight, Sheegrati stunned us all by suddenly producing a litter of ten puppies. Most of us hadn’t even realised she was pregnant. The puppies have not yet been introduced to the public, but Ramulu, who has been keeping a close eye, reports that the siblings have been assiduous in protecting mother and pups from outside dogs. 

Sheegrati with her puppies. She's carved out a nice little hole for herself and the litter.

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The dogs had made matters a bit difficult for our colony cats, who were not to be seen as frequently as before. I rued this – I liked the cats around, lying on the walls, spooking the babblers and of course, keeping the rodent population under check.

But without meaning to, I did something that altered the status quo. We have a nice lemon tree to one side of the house – and it is a wonderful variety that yields large green lemons. The lemonade takes on an interesting pink hue and is fragrant and refreshing. Alas, the tree suffers from too much shade from a couple of mango trees (bullies!). For a couple of seasons, I noticed flowers that would not convert into fruit, falling off at the slightest breeze. I learnt that the plant probably needed some nutrition, and since then, the spare milk, cream and curd goes there to increase bio activity.

It was borne on me too late that a stray cat was taking these compliments personally. I caught her lapping the cream and she sat on the wall outside the kitchen window one afternoon, making eye contact and telling me volubly that she was hungry. 

 

My friend, the Brown Cat

 

The following week, something curious happened. I stepped out of the back door and found a dead rodent on the stoop. I was shaken, till I realised that the stray had left me a gift. And it happened again a week later – the gory offering unmistakably splayed out. I was grossed out, amused and flattered.

Jill Lange’s haiku captures the mood.

basking
in our trust...
feral cat and I