The Cholesterol Season

The Cholesterol Season

The season after the rains is the season for feasts, the season to watch your weight. For nearly two months the South West monsoon rains lash the land, bringing relief and joy to farmers. The onset of monsoon ushers in the month of Aashada or Aadi when everything grinds to a halt. No new projects are undertaken, nothing new is started; it is considered an inauspicious month. There are no holidays and nothing to celebrate.

The month following Aashada is Shravana, which heralds the coming of the festivals. There are, of course, the festivals of Naga Panchami and Bheemana Amavasya but Varamahalakshmi is considered the major Hindu festival to open the season. This is a pooja traditionally performed by the women of the house. Thankfully, the men are allowed to partake of the grand feast that typically consists of payasam (a sweet dish made by boiling rice or broken wheat or vermicelli or just milk with sugar till it thickens to half its consistency, adding cashews, raisins, pistachios, almonds, etc. and flavouring with saffron and cardamom), aamvade (though in my house, traditionally, we make a steamed version that we call paruppu pidi kozhukattai), a beans curry and/or a raw banana curry, kosumari (a salad made from soaked green gram dal and diced cucumber or raw mango, spiked with chopped green chillies, garnished with curry leaves and coriander leaves and tempered with a pinch of hing and mustard seeds heated in oil till they sputter), yellow dal, plain rice to be had with sambar, rasam (tili saaru) and curds. The list makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?

Around the same time, the people of Kerala rejoice in the celebration of Onam, the harvest festival to commemorate the Vamana Avataram of Lord Vishnu and the annual homecoming of King Mahabali. Onam is characterized by the Ona Pookkalam, a colourful arrangement of the petals of different flowers on the ground, a kind of floral “rangoli” carpet. The festival is not complete without the Onam sadya, a feast fit for kings, with more than twenty five dishes like thoran, kaalan, avial, sambar and others, topped by pal payasam (payasam made from milk) as the grand finale of the meal.

The next major festival is Krishna Janmashtami. This is a favourite with kids, for this is when they get to eat murukku (or chakli, hand-twisted spirals of rice flour, tempered with salt and jeera and deep fried), uppu seedai (similar to chaklis but shaped into small marbles) and vella seedai (here the salt and jeera of the uppu seedai are replaced by jaggery and elaichi and the "marbles" are slightly larger in size). Sufficient quantities are prepared to last a week or more and children get to have them every day. Of course, the elders tuck in, too!

If Janmashtami tickles the taste buds, the next major festival has the juices flowing. Ganesha Chaturthi is celebrated typically with some delicious preparations like modaka (or kozhukattai), medu vade, vellappam and the ubiquitous payasam.

There is a bit of a gap after this, and the festival season moves into top gear with Dassara. Aha! Homes are decked up for the ten day festival characterised by the display of dolls, the womenfolk visit the homes of their neighbours, relatives and friends to view the displays and the whole country is in a holiday mood.  Saraswathi Pooja and Ayudha Pooja are celebrated on the ninth day of Dassara by worshipping books, musical instruments, machines, tools, tackles and instruments which are then allowed to remain at rest for at least one day. All work comes to a standstill. The feasting, however, goes on regardless because Dassara also stands for ten days of gastronomic delights that leave one gasping for breath! Payasam (of course), kosumari, vade, and a different sundal every single day.

The next major festival and perhaps the biggest of them all, Deepavali, sees the gastronome shifting into overdrive. Kilos, nay, tonnes of sweets are made, sold and consumed in those three days. Deepavali traditionally is the time for bonus payments and the sudden abundance of the moolah, albeit for a fleeting while, obscures the penury and brings out the generosity and bonhomie in everyone. And what better way to show it than by exchanging sweets? Milk sweets are the favourites, though among the wealthier classes, badam, pista and kaju sweets take preference. And a description of the food is best avoided here, for it would need many many words to do justice to it!

And then comes Sankranthi-Pongal when you can have sweet pongal, made from rice, jaggery and dollops of ghee. You get only a brief breathing space before it is time to celebrate Ugadi habba with holige and vade!

All these festivals tend to fatten one up and send the cholesterol levels up North. It is time to put on your walking shoes, don your gym wear or your yoga toga, go forth and burn away the calories, for this is the Cholesterol Season!

PHLOX-BUTTERFLY AUDIT

PHLOX-BUTTERFLY AUDIT

A kaleidoscope of butterflies

To my haphazard garden flock over

A sight for sore eyes

As they pause and hover

Above the tiny, colourful phlox

Of varied and variegated hues

Among the forget-me-nots, roses, goldilocks

Yellows, reds, a couple of blues

They gaze at the phlox

Placidly, the phlox gaze back 

Matching colour for colour, gaze for gaze

I decide to test my counting knack

And compare the rival scores

Butterflies, on my fingers, I count seven

Phlox too, likewise, ticked off on my toes

Odd numbers, both, the scores are even

Matter over, the butterflies rise

Flapping their wings and flock away

The phlox remain, grounded and wise

And, in the breeze, gently sway

Here, counting and tallying done

There, pollen dusted

The mental exercise was fun

My numeracy skills haven't rusted

~ SK, financial year ending, 2023-24

A MATTER OF TIME (Gastro Entry Logic)

A MATTER OF TIME

"Tell the time, no?"

"Why you are asking time time time time so many times? Keep your own wrist-watch on your own hand so that you can see your own time at any time."

"I have given my wrist-watch to my cousin brother to wear for exam. And doctor has given some important medicine which I must and should swallow at correct time. So only I am asking you to tell the time."

"Okay okay okay. Because you are telling doctor and medicine I am co-operating. To-day I will tell you the time but tomorrow you must wear wrist-watch."

"Thank you for your generosity."

"But why you are going to doctor for medicine and all?"

"Health problem. I am getting stomach pain. If I eat also and if I don't eat also. Doctor is telling it is due to gastric effect. He is stomach pain specialist."

"He may be ENT."

"Not ENT. That is for face and all. This is for stomach and it is called gastric entry logic something. He is famous doctor. Simply he is pressing stomach and asking two questions and with that answer he is giving some pills and it is curing the pain."

"What he is asking?"

"He is asking what special I am eating yesterday and when I am eating it. I told him I am eating only four Mysore Pak in the afternoon time. Office Ayudha Pooja sweet."

"The sweet fellow might have used unpure oil."

"No no no. I have seen the Mysore Pak preparation with my own eyes. It is pure ghee only. And I am eating only four."

"At a time?"

"No. One after another."

"Oh. Then your stomach may be weak. Be careful. Next is coming Deepavali. Better don't eat Mysore Pak. Eat some other sweet. Meet the doctor before only and take advance medicine."

"Yes. Thanks for advice. I will follow this."

"And give me also the doctor address. Let it be with me for emergency."

- © Shiva Kumar, 26 Oct 2020

CAPTAIN KIRK GETS BACK TO EARTH

CAPTAIN KIRK GETS BACK TO EARTH

As the space capsule passes over Delhi, India, a Hindi speaking Indian-origin member of the staff at the Earth Mission Control takes the com. 

Captain Kirk had learnt a smattering of Hindi for one of the Star Trek episodes that could not get made on account of budget issues. He had, in fact, planned a short dialogue in Hindi with Spock but Spock spoke no Hindi. Kirk loved watching Hindi films and listening to old Hindi film songs. Now, Mission Control thought they'd give him a surprise by speaking to him in Hindi.

 

Mission Control: Earth to Capt. Kirk. Namaste, Kirkji! Kya khabar, sab theek thaak hai? 

Capt. Kirk: Kirk to Earth. Ohohohoho! Namaas Tay! Sab tick tock, dhanbad! Everything's going like clockwork!

E: Dhandad nahi, dhanyavaad! Thank you. Achcha, bolo, upar se aapko Bharat kaisa dikhta hai?

Captain Kirk: Window say dekka. Kooch nahi deekta hay. Sab dua hee dua hay. Too much smoke hay.

E: Woh dhuan nahin, baadal hay, I mean, hai. Yahan baarish ka mausam hai. South West, North East, aisa kuch kuch hota hai. Yahan sab gharon mein subah subah chai ka paani ubaal rahe hain. Uske wajah se bhi ho sakta hai. Ya koi savere ka dhundh hoga.

K (breaking into old Hindi song): Doond? Sansar ki har shay ka itna hee fasaana hay, ek doond se aana hay, ek doond mein jaana hay. Larala lalala lala, lara lala lara lala, hmhmhmhmhmhmhm!

E (as the capsule begins to move out of range of India): Achcha, theek hai, theek hai, ab Angrezi mein bolo, Hindi bandh karo, whole Earth ke log sun rahe hain. Hindi mein bologe toh sabko iska arth maloom nahin hoga.

CK: Theek hai, arth samajh gaya. OK, Earth, understood. 

E: (switching over to official sounding voice): Earth to Kirk. Well done, Captain. We are proud of you.

K: Still learning, Earth. These Hindi songs are like vitamins.

E: I meant your space trip, not your Hindi songs. And that reminds me. Have you taken your 90+ vitamin capsule?

K: Yes, I have, Earth. With 90 ml of pure water. You know, I felt like singing “Koi cheese milane ko jee chahata hay”. The capsule is still floating around in my stomach. I have a gut feeling that it will take a while to dissolve.

E: Understood. You may now initiate capsule descent procedure. The space capsule, not the vitamin capsule.

K: Copy that. Thanks for clarifying. Initiating space capsule descent procedure. Happy I was able to "boldly go where no 90-year old man has gone before". Signing off now. In other words, Kirk out, but coming back in. "May aa raha hooooooo!"

~ © Shiva Kumar

17 Oct 2021

 

--

 

 

TO MARKET, TO MARKET, IN A TONGGA

TO MARKET, TO MARKET, IN A TONGGA

To market, to market in an ass-drawn cart

An ass-drawn cart called tongga

I chose an ass to draw the cart

Though a horse might’ve been strongga

I was in a hurry, so I took the short route

The long route would’ve been longga

But the route I took was the route to Beirut

It turned out I was terribly wrongga!

I lost my way ‘cause I’d strayed a bit

I should’ve taken the road to Chittagongga

I thought to myself, this tongga isn’t fit

I should’ve travelled instead in a Jongga

I was turning around when I encountered

The tennis ace Miss Goolagongga

Twittering and hopping about like a bird

Wrapped in a colourful sarongga

I called out to her, craning my neck

“Hey Miss Goolagongga, where you goingga?”

She said “I lost my way returning from a trek

To the summit of Mount Kangchendzöngga

I hafta get back Down Under to Ozzie land

And back to the town of Wollongongga

Where I practice my top-spinning backhand

Hafta be home before the dinner gongga!”

I pointed South East and told her she hasta hurry

“Thataway, there, Missy, is where you belongga

Go quick, don’t tarry, but go without a worry”

She went, spring in step, bravely singin’ a songga!

© Shiva Kumar - 2019

Songs of 1969-70

When I woke up this morning, Kishore Kumar's "Jee bhar ke dekhloon main tumhe, zulfe idhar karlo" (Deedaar, 1970, Varma Malik / Usha Khanna) was buzzing around in my head, right up to "Surkhi tere ruksaar pe, badlegi rang bahar ke" after which it dried up, without giving reasons for coming or going.

It is an easy paced and smoothly flowing melody and had been a favourite during the season the film was released and on and off (does "on" and "off" remind you of villain Ajit's signal?) and after that too, right up to the present.

Surprisingly, it did not come to mind last week, when the maverick genius, the 'harfanmaula', had his birthday and everyone was playing their favourite songs of his. Perhaps it was reminding me of my lapse to-day and was chiding me by going away after the first line of the first antara. Remiss of me.

So, after glancing through my first newspaper and savouring my second tumbler of strong filter coffee, sakkaré kadimé, I made amends for my forgetfulness by going to Youtube and pulling up this. And it took me right back to those summer holidays of 1969-70!

I suppose I will end up playing songs of those days to-day - songs like "O meri praan sajni", "Priye Praaneswari", "Rut hai milan ki", "Koi maane ya na maane", "Aaj ko junli raat ma". Who knows, when you play one, it will pry out some little tidbit embedded within the folds of yoir memory and lead you to another! That is what these songs do, don't they?

~ © Shiva Kumar, 08 Aug 2021

https://youtu.be/4osc1SXn4zI

NO SHADOW DAY

24 April 2021

It is No Shadow Day again. 

Go out on the stroke of noon or thereabouts and look for your shadow. You don't see it? What did I tell you?

Just like it did last year, it rained heavily last night. And the weather is not exactly balmy. It is bright and sunny - perfect weather to be out and about.

But it is also Weekend Lockdown Day. So I can't be out and about. Not to worry. I have been gifted books that I have yet to read, by a good and caring friend. The tree to curl up under that wasn't there earlier still isn't there, but the old sofa is there as solid as ever, and I have all day. So you know what I'll be doing.

What will you be doing to-day? Apart from looking for your shadow, that is.

***

24 April 2020

NO SHADOW DAY 2020

"The dry spell continues. At least in these parts where I dwell. ...

..... (some 200 words in between) .....

So, all in all, drought conditions prevail. The dry spell continues."

Yesterday, I had reprised a four-year old memory of the dry spell continuing and drought conditions prevailing and all that sort of thing.

The weather gods, not too happy with my reprising and posting four-year old memories that have no relevance for them when they had been having different plans altogether, decided on a swift reprisal.

 

Late in the night, the skies opened up. It poured, and poured like the dickens, and did not let up till the sun came up. And when the sun finally came up, it did not show its face but hovered behind a cover of clouds. We were treated to a diffused spread till well past breakfast time.

Balmy weather prevails now. The kind of weather when you look for a tree under which to curl up with a book. I don't have a tree to curl up under nearby, but I have a book, and I have a sofa.

A well-meaning friend informed, through a kind forward that some well-meaning friend of his must have forwarded to him, that to-day is No Shadow Day and, at a particular time of the day when the sun will be at its zenith, there will be no shadows. He did not mention where all the shadows will go but that is not important now. The sun is at its zenith and I am going to go out up to my gate and look for that shadow that isn't there and, after making sure it really isn't there, I am going to come back in and curl up with a book.

See you in some time. It sure feels funny without a shadow!

- © Shiva Kumar

Veppampoo Pachadi

VEPPAMPOO PACHADI

Separating the tiny flowers from a bunch of leaves of the Neem tree is an arduous task. You have to take care to remove only the flowers, without pulling out the slender stalks too. If these stalks find their way along with the flowers into the 'pachadi' or 'rasam' that the flowers are used in preparing, their bitter taste can seep into the dish and make it less palatable.

 

A half of the harvest you see in the picture was used to prepare a 'pachadi' consisting of these flowers, known as 'veppampoo', jaggery and tamarind as the main ingredients. A thin solution of jaggery and tamarind pulp is boiled till it just starts to thicken and then it is tempered with dried red chillies and mustard seeds sputtered in heated oil with the neem flowers being dropped into it finally, just after the tempering oil is removed from the flame and begins to cool, singeing but not burning them.

(The remaining half of the neem flowers are kept in cold storage and will be used to season a rasam that takes its name from them - 'veppampoo rasam'.)

It took me the better part of an hour to harvest a tiny fistful of flowers. So it's not surprising that we do it only once a year. 

This year I had sort of insisted in my mind that I would engage in this flower picking activity only if the New Year's Day fell on a Sunday and, as if bowing to my wishes, the Panchangam duly obliged.

-  © Shiva Kumar, 14 April 2019

THIRUVATHIRAI திருவாதிரை festival

Yesterday, Wednesday, 30 Dec 2020 was Thiruvathirai, the day of the Thiruvathirai star in the Tamil month of Margazhi (which falls in November-December).

It is celebrated as Thiruvathirai or Thiruvathira or Arudra Darisanam festival in the states of Kerala and Tamil Nadu. Thiruvathirai (Arudra) in Tamil means "sacred big wave". 

On this day, Lord Shiva, in the form of Lord Nataraja, performed the cosmic dance, representing the continuous cycle of creation and destruction. Arudra (Thiruvathirai in Tamil) signifies the golden red flame and Shiva performs the dance in the form of this red-flamed light.     Lord Shiva accepts Goddess Parvathi as his equal partner and together they form Ardhanaareeswara.

The cosmic dance of Lord Shiva in the Nataraha form represents five activities – Creation, Protection, Destruction, Embodiment and Release. In essence, it represents the continuous cycle of creation and destruction. This 'cosmic dance' takes place in every particle and is the source of all energy. Arudra Darisanam or Darshan celebrates this ecstatic dance of Lord Shiva.

 

Neivedhyam (food for God) made for Lord Nataraja on this day is Thiruvathirai Kali (திருவாதிரை களி) with Ezhu Kari Koottu (ஏழு கரி கூட்டு) or Thaalagam (தாளகம்).

The Kali is made with broken rice, jaggery, moong dal, cardamom, nuts and grated coconut. Mildly sweet, it is served with the Ezhu Kari Koottu, a kind of thick, spicy vegetable stew made with at least seven vegetables. This special sweet-spicy combination is unique to this festival.

(with help from Wikipedia and other sources from the internet)

***

GRAND MOTHER'S REMEDIES - CASTOR OIL

GRAND MOTHER’S REMEDIES

CASTOR OIL

My grandmother was a stickler for following certain practices to maintain good health and well being. One of these was what was commonly known as the Castor Oil Service, akin to the 3 MONTHS / 5000KM SERVICE we get done for our cars.

We kids (my sisters and I; my brother escaped by not being born then) would be woken up early in the morning on a Sunday chosen by our grandmother, based on auspicious signs from the almanac. Instead of coffee with milk and sugar, we would be given small tumblers of coffee decoction mixed with sugar and a spoon of Castor Oil cunningly added. The coffee and sugar were meant to mask the smell and taste of the good old oil but failed miserably. The instructions : clasp fingers of left hand tightly over nose, pick up tumbler with right hand, gulp down contents. Glug glug glug. No gagging ... Go and sit in a corner and await your turn. No breakfast, no nothing. Straight lunch, to be served after the system was serviced.

Several turns later, we would be totally exhausted in every sense of the word and our systems would be declared clean as a whistle, and we would be packed off one by one for a quick bath. This would be followed by a frugal lunch, consisting of overcooked rice with a thin watery pepper rasam without any chillies or dal in it. Known as “milagu rasam” in Tamil, a much milder form of this captured the imagination of the British and they took to it with gusto, and after minor alterations to suit their bland tongues, rechristened it “mulligatawny”, the name derived from “milagu thanni” or “pepper water”, which it is, literally.

Tired after the morning’s exertions, we would forsake going out to play but rest awhile.

The evening would be spent in prayer. Bhajans would be sung, led by grandma. She had a bhajan book from which she would choose the bhajans for the day. Thanksgiving done, we would busy ourselves with our homework, while she would rustle up a quick dal rasam and occasionally a simple vegetable as a side. Rasam rice followed by curd rice. Dinner done.

Next oil change and service after three months or 5000 km, whichever comes first.

-          © Shiva Kumar

24 Feb 2018

A Short, Short Story with a Twist

A Short, Short Story with a Twist

This is a story with a twist in the end. It begins once upon a time, in a small village.

Once upon a time, in a small village called Arukanchatti on the East Coast of India within waving distance of the sea, there lived a young boy Angalan, with his parents Chinnappan and Chinnathaayi. Chinnappan was a shepherd by profession and Chinnathaayi became a shepherdini by marriage.

The shepherd owned a small herd of half-a-dozen sheep. He also owned one single billy goat. As the goat was outnumbered by the sheep six to one, it was in a minority and had no standing. The man could not have been called a goatherd. He was more a shepherd than a goatherd. Six times more. Had he owned only one sheep and one goat, it would have been a toss-up between being called a goatherd or a shepherd. But six sheep count for something. Six of one kind or half-a-dozen of another, as the case may be. The question resolved itself and he was called a shepherd. He would have been called a shepflock had his herd been a flock. But it wasn’t, so he wasn’t.

The goat was special because he was the only goat in the village. He was dark brown in colour, with one white leg, his front left, and three brown legs, making four legs in all and enabling him to walk on all fours. He also had two horns, one on either side of his head above his eyes, curving outwards menacingly. They were sound horns, though he never ever used them. He was never threatening. His failing or weakness was that when someone, anyone, came close to him, he gave the game away by grinning sheepishly. Goats grinning sheepishly immediately stop being threats.

Every morning, Chinnappan would get up early and walk down to the stream nearby to complete his ablutions, while his wife would get ready his breakfast of a coconut shell bowl of rice porridge, or congee, sometimes from the rice left over from the previous night and sometimes from freshly cooked rice, and a glass of watery tea made from an indistinct variety of tea dust procured from the only petty shop in the village. He would have his breakfast uncomplainingly, for he liked congee and did not mind watery tea. He would then pick up his long wooden staff curved at one end to help pull down high branches to pluck leaves, and, driving his herd out in front of him, walk off to the grazing ground in the valley full of shade trees and grass about a kilometre from their hut. Angalan would accompany him, walking by the side of the goat.

One day, while Chinnappan went ahead with the sheep, Angalan and the goat loitered on the way and found themselves in a small glade. The goat seemed happy, for the trees had low hanging branches with plenty of fresh green leaves. He began to nibble at them and enjoy himself. Angalan saw a bush overgrown with juicy berries. Soon he was plucking the berries and feasting on them.

As they were thus passing the time of the day, the boy saw, in the distance, dust rising in the sandy stretch that passed for a road. By and by, a Jeep, such as it was, came into view round the bend. It was a rickety old thing, a few decades old at least and seemed to be running on sheer will power.  It stopped just short of the glade and disgorged an old man from its interiors. He looked several years older than the Jeep, with his wrinkled skin and long, flowing white beard. He was wearing loose khaki pants, a tan shirt, a sleeveless khaki jacket with several pockets, weathered brown boots encasing his feet and a sola topee on his head. Lanky and walking with a slight stoop, he approached the little boy.

Angalan had not seen an outsider in his village for several months and didn’t know quite what to make of the old man walking towards him. But he showed no fear for he did not know what fear was.

The old man stopped short of the boy and, finding a round boulder under the nearest tree, went and sat on it. For some time, no one spoke. Not even the goat who, in any case, was busy getting his breakfast and lunch combined. Faint, creaking noises were coming from the Jeep. The old man looked at the boy and the boy looked back at the old man.

The man pulled out a worn leather pouch from a side pocket of his jacket. From another side pocket, he pulled out a pipe with a dark wooden bowl and a bamboo stem. The bowl he stuffed with tobacco from the pouch and lit with a match stick from a match box he pulled out from yet another pocket. With a few tentative puffs, he had the pipe going to his satisfaction. As the aromatic smoke wafted in the air, a comfortable, quietish silence prevailed.

The old man contemplated the boy for a few more moments and then spoke to him in Tamil with a faint Pondicherry French accent.

“Ennappa onn peyar?” he asked the boy. (“What is your name?”)

“Angalan” responded the boy and in turn asked, “Onn peyar enna?” (“Angalan. What is your name?”)

And the old man replied, “Twist. Oliver Twist”.

I told you in the beginning itself, there’s a Twist in the end. In fact, if you look carefully, you will find there are two.

-          © Shiva Kumar – 09-20 Feb 2018

Hoy Calcutta!

 Hoy, Calcutta!

I did not look closely at the holding pattern of Calcutta when I visited the city back in 1978 but I reckon something must have been holding it up. I read somewhere that the city stands at an elevation of 9 metres, or almost 30 feet, above sea level. It stands virtually in the backyard of the Bay of Bengal and, if it stretched its neck a bit, I suppose it would be able to get a good view of the sea. Thirty feet. Quite a feat. Didn’t want to get its feet wet, I suppose. I wonder how they managed to put it up. It is still up there, I’m told. I’m sure it must be up on stilts, unlike my own city, Bangalore, which seems to be on steroids these days.

When I went to Calcutta for the first time, it was by train. With my 5th Semester Engineering class group. For much of our journey, we experienced heavy rains and we were told that several cities were flooded. We were headed for Varanasi but skipped it and decided to push straight for Calcutta.

I got off the train in Hooghly. No, wait. That’s the river. I actually got off at the railway station, the last stop, the terminus. Yus. Howrus. No, Howrah. Hurrah! That’s the name I was looking for. Howrah, not hurrah.

Having got off or alighted or disembarked or detrained as the case may be, we proceeded to make our way out of the station to a Hotel Ashoka where we had booked rooms in advance. It had an International or Intercontinental suffix, I don’t remember exactly which at this point of time thirty nine years hence, but it certainly hinted at a global reach. We got to our rooms and deposited our bori and bister. Then I packed a toothbrush and a change of clothes and took leave from the group for a short break. A batch-mate friend who belonged to Kolkata and was my neighbour in Bangalore was enjoying a holiday in the City of Joy and had invited me to spend a day or two with him.

Per instructions given, I boarded a tram moving towards Dalhousie Square. It was a two-car tram and I got into the second car which was quite empty. The seats were all slatted, made from some kind of dark wood. I took a window seat.  I had been told by my friend to get off at Dalhousie or Esplanade. I muttered “Dalhousie” to the conductor as he came towards me with his hand stretched. He took my money, gave me a ticket and then tugged at a string attached to a bell to give the “go” signal. The conductor in the first car echoed this with his own bell. The tram started off and, with a lot of screeching trundled along the Howrah Bridge, “The Grate Still Breeze of Calcutta”, through heavy traffic at a sedate pace. My first ever ride in a tramcar. My first ever sighting of the great symbol of The City of Joy! I could see all kinds of vehicular traffic, even pedestrians crisscrossing the tram’s path, cutting across the tram-rails just in front of the slow-moving tram with impudence. They were not bothered and neither was the tram. It maintained a slow and steady pace. Last stop, Dalhousie. The tram did not go beyond this point. At least the tram I was in. I was sorry to get off because I was just beginning to enjoy my first ever ride in a tram. Sadly, it turned out to be my only tram ride till date. I have not been able to step into a tram again for I have not been to Calcutta or Kolkata again.

I looked for, as instructed, and located, the Telephone Exchange in Dalhousie Square and walked across. There, waving down and hopping into a black-and-yellow Ambassador, I bade the driver take me to Park Street. And he obliged, running down the length of Chowringhee, past the Planetarium and then swinging a left into the famed food and fashion street. I got off in front of Flurys, where my friend was waiting. Flurys, the legendary pastry shop, has a long history behind it and is known for its pastries, he explained to me. We walked in and asked for some of their pastries but were told that they had completely run out of stocks and a fresh batch was still in the oven. We would have to wait till 3 pm. So much for all the anticipation. I wondered what I would write about Flurys, if I were to write about Calcutta forty years hence. But forty years is a long time and I didn’t dwell on it. We had a cup of tea each to dilute the disappointment and then my friend, after pointing out some of the Park Street landmarks like Trinca’s, Kwality and the paan shop adjacent to it, drove me to a theatre to catch the matinee show as a sort of compensation. Liberty, I think the theatre was called, or was it Regal? And Athithi was the name of the Hindi movie, starring Shashi Kapoor. Nothing special to mention about it, except that it was quite noisy, both in the lobby and inside the theatre.

Movie done, we moved over to what the Calcuttans call the “Lakeside”, near the Victoria Memorial, lined with stalls selling “chaat” and other street food. I sampled the famed “puchkas” and was not disappointed. A puchka is a round, crisp, dry ‘poori’, the top of which is cracked open with the thumb and stuffed with a cooked potato-onion-chickpeas filling. This stuffed poori is then dipped into a tangy solution of tamarind water, chilli, salt, chaat masala and black salt. The tangy flavours in the solution get the gastric juices flowing! One round of puchkas was followed by another Calcutta special, the “jhal muri”, puffed rice mixed with fried lentils and stuff, finely cut pieces of onions and green chillies, spices, salt and sprinkled with lime. Mouth watering! I had my fill of these typical Calcuttan street snacks and washed them down with cool and refreshing “nimbu paani”. It was late evening and we did not feel like having dinner, so I was dropped off in a vacant third floor apartment in an unknown (to me) location which belonged to my friend’s family but was unoccupied at the moment. I was told to get ready in the morning and that I would be picked up by 8.30.

It so happened that I was tired after the long cross-country train journey and all the perambulations through the city of joy during the day. Moreover, the apartment where I was put up was vacant and there was utter silence. When my head hit the pillow, I went off like the light I had put out moments earlier. I never woke up. Well, I did, but not before creating a huge scare. My friend and his uncle came for me at 8.30 in the morning as promised and rang the bell of the apartment. I was sleeping in an inside bedroom and it is quite possible I did not hear the bell, or it may be that the bell did not work. I slept on. After a few attempts, so they told me later between gaalis, they started banging the door. I slept on. I mean to say, 8.30 on a peaceful morning in Middleton Street or wherever, who will notice a piddly thing like a knock on the door? I am told that my friend was in a state of panic and wanted to call the police. His uncle, however, was made of sterner stuff. He said, no, don’t call the police, I’ll try the balcony. So he went up to the next floor and, using some new spider-man technology, climbed down from that balcony to this balcony. And managed to reach my sleep-benumbed brain. I woke up with a start and, for the next several minutes there was a terrible thunderstorm attacking me from two sides. I endured that and afterwards all was well. That became the highlight of my visit to The City of Joy. Boy!

But I left out Chowringhee! What a street! On my way back to rejoin my group, I took a walk along this long and iconic lane. I seem to remember that there were buildings only on one side of the street. Some kind of clearing and construction work was going on near the Esplanade end and I was told it was for the underground Metro. I think there was a large, open ground kind of area on the other side. I believe it is the Maidan. Chowringhee was a street alive with the sounds of a million tongues. Every step I took, I heard a different language, or so it seemed. People were chattering away like there was no other agenda. I would have been the only one silent as I walked along, trying to take it all in and not succeeding. I walked along slowly, gawping at everything. But no one seemed to mind. Quite a friendly city, this, with friendly people ever ready to help.

Suddenly, I was accosted by a tall gent sporting a luxuriant moustache and wearing a long coat. Now who would wander along Chowringhee in Calcutta wearing a long coat on a warm mid-September day? Exactly. So I decided that discretion is the better part of valour and tried to do a quick sideways shuffle to my left. But this fellow twirled his moustache and did a sideways shuffle to his right so that we ended up facing each other again. We did this tango a couple of times and then stopped for breath. When he was satisfied that I could not get away, he undid the buttons of his coat and dramatically threw it open. The inside of the coat was festooned on both sides with pens of all colours and descriptions! He was only a pen seller trying to earn his living. I managed to make him happy after I selected a cheap pen. Ceremoniously clipping this to my shirt pocket after collecting my money, he stepped aside politely and with a gracious gesture of his hand allowed me to continue my walk through Chowringhee. With an equally gracious bow, I took his leave.

A few steps later, I stopped, fascinated by a tall contraption which looked like a weighing machine and from which were issuing forth short puffs whenever someone stood on it. I was gaping at it, when the chappie standing next to the machine beckoned me forward and, pointing to it, called me a brute. I looked at him and said “Huh?” and he repeated the charge. I was not ready to pick up an argument in a strange land, so I said “Huh?” again. He quickly deduced that I was a “baahar ka aadmi” and spoke to me in Hindi. He told me that a try would cost 50 paise. I was to stand on the pedestal and drop the coin into the slot at the top right corner. And hey and presto! A spray of perfume would hit me amidships and cover me with a fast acting and long lasting scent! He again called me a brute and this time I could infer that he was referring to a well known brand of deodorants and perfumes. Indeed! But I didn’t want to be fumigated, so with a blank look on my face I deftly moved away from him with quick steps. He wasn’t as intrepid or acrobatic as the pen-wala and I managed to escape. Chowringhee!

While meandering through the by-lanes, I found a South Indian hotel where I was able to get a typical vegetarian meal. Happily I went back to my hotel to rejoin my group.

I was sorry to leave Calcutta and promised myself that I would come back one day.

I wonder if I will have these experiences again when I revisit the old city.

Good old Calcutta!

***

Glossary

Bori and Bister > literally, sack and mattress. It stands for “bag and baggage”.

Chaat > spicy street food

Puchka > see above

Poori > an Indian bread, deep fried till it puffs up

Jhal Muri > see above

Nimbu Paani > lime juice

Gaali > abuse

Baahar ka aadmi > outsider

ACROSS THE PALE PARABOLA OF JOY

Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, "Plum" to his countless fans, passed on to the other side on Valentine's Day, 14th February, 1975.

This was written in tribute, in July, 2015

ACROSS THE PALE PARABOLA OF JOY

P   Plum begins with this curvaceous line

A   And then leaves it dangling fine

L   Levitating, hanging, as it were

E   Enthrallingly suspended in mid-air

P   Pelham, yoo hoo! (PGW who you?)

A   Answer my call

R   Run to my rescue

A   And please tell me all

B   Break the flower pots

O   Overturn the tables

L   Landscape the blots

A   And open the stables

O   Ossify the owls, but please complete it

F   Fossilise the fowls, but finish it, dash it!

J   Jumpin’ Jenkins!

O   Ogling onions!

Y   You started it; pray end it, you Purple Bandit!

                

  © Shiva Kumar 

MY HOODED NEIGHBOUR

Monday, 31st January 2017, just after noon, I had collected my lunch box and was stepping into my car when a woman walking down the road came to me, pointed behind her and said in an excited voice "Haavu!" (Kannada for "Snake"). I didn't catch on immediately but then she turned round and pointed. Just across the street, less than 50 feet from my house. I walked across and looked. At first I couldn't spot him because he was so well camouflaged. But when I looked closer, I could see him, about eighteen inches of him that had emerged out of a rat hole, facing away from me. His half open hood was as large as my fully open palm, maybe even larger! The "Naamam", the distinguishing mark on the rear of his hood, of two circles joined by a U-line, like a pair of spectacles on the salt-and-pepper speckled scales, was clearly visible. Naja naja! 

Was he taking in the sun? Was he checking out his territory? Did something disturb him? He remained in that position for a good 5 minutes or so, not making any sound (that "hiss" can scare a person into immobility), not turning around, not moving at all, allowing my daughter and me to snap off quite a few pics on our mobile cameras from almost, but not quite, hand shaking distance. Then, perhaps satisfied that the sun was shining down brightly and all was well with the world, he downed periscope and slid back into the hole.

-      

Lightning Quick!

Quick Light (Tez Roshni)

How quickly time flies! They say it travels at the speed of light.

I am reminded of the good man, Olaus Romer, an Earthling who was born 372 years ago and died 306 years ago.

One balmy afternoon, when a weak sun was shining its light down and a light breeze was playing about, our friend, as the story goes, was lying under his favourite tree contemplating life. There were no apples hanging from the tree as it happened to be a jackfruit tree. He was fortunate that no jackfruit fell on his head, or else there would have been no telling what the gravity of the situation might have been, and the good man escaped by the skin of his teeth. Ah!

Just when he had begun to doze off and the opening credits of his day-dream began to roll, he was startled into wakefulness by a call from his favourite aunt on his smart phone. She asked him what he was doing and he replied somewhat testily, for he was forced to pause the dream, “Contemplating Life”. And Aunt Matilda, who was a little hard of hearing, misheard him and said, “What are you contemplating light for? Don’t just lie there and contemplate light. Do something about it. Light! Pah, bah and tchah!”

And Olaus was always in mortal fear of his Aunt Matilda for she was the one who, when he was a boy of four, scared him by switching off the light without warning during story telling sessions when she spoke of spooks and things that move in the dark. He always wished that he would be able to catch a fistful of light and keep it in his pocket so that he would never be in the dark. But, try as he might, he could not. It always managed to slip through and was too quick for him. Hah!

He decided to find out just how quick light was.

Now, he was familiar with the planet Jupiter in the sky. Among its sixty seven moons was one called Io (pronounced “Ayyo”, and rightly so). Io had a habit of playing hide-and-seek with Jupiter, going off every now and then into its shadow. Olaus started off by timing the eclipse when Io suddenly moved into the shadow of Jupiter and again when it suddenly moved out of it. Don’t ask me how, but with the help of a stop watch and by a clever mix of observation, logic, mathematics, trigonometry, some intrepid calculations on the fingers of his hand and remembering the carry-forwards in his head, he was able to derive a figure, rounded off to a hundred and forty thousand miles per second, as the speed of light. This was later discovered by other clever mixers to be off the mark by a slight margin of some forty-six-thousand-odd miles per second but it was close enough for everyone to pat him on the back during their next Friday club get-together. Wah!

(One intense trignomerist, or whatever you call those astronomers who use trigonometry to bring them up to speed, patted him a little too hard, causing him to exclaim, “Io”!)

It is already three hundred and forty years since Olaus was thus patted on his back. Since then, other noteworthies have sat down singly and jointly, gallons of coffee* at hand to keep them awake, and have calculated the speed of light to a nicety. And the conclusion they reached was that light travelled too fast. At the rate of two hundred ninety nine million, seven hundred ninety two thousand, four hundred fifty eight metres every second, to be precise! That’s mighty quick.

Sudden, what?



* I wonder if the coffee they had was the South Indian filter variety, strong, sakkare kadimeˊ !

© - Shiva Kumar – 07 Dec 2016

Courtroom Drama

The Face in the Court

Monday morning. The clock in my head said 10:23, which was more or less the right time because this clock is right most of the time (except on Sundays and public holidays). The Court Complex in the heart of the city. Bustling with activity. Black-coated and black-robed lawyers rushing to and fro, looking extremely busy, some looking like they had just been para-dropped into the court grounds, their black robes billowing behind them and hair carefully mussed up. Flustered assistants running behind them carrying piles of files and looking even busier, and clients with furrowed brows following close on their heels, hanging on to their every word and trying to get in that last request.

The court halls were starting to fill up with accusers and accused, plaintiffs and defendants, parties of the first part and parties of the second part and such like, and their relatives and friends. And, of course, their lawyers. Some are there out of genuine concern. Some are there because it is their duty. Some are there purely for the courtroom drama. And some, like me, are there without knowing why.

I was actually on my way to the city market planning to check out a fountain pen repair shop and a second hand book seller in the Avenue Road-Chickpet area and had just alighted from the bus at the stop near the court, intending to walk down from there to where the stationery stores, book shops, pen sellers and repairers, wholesale merchants and bargain shops are located, when I saw someone in a bright checked shirt waving at me from the court grounds just opposite. I couldn’t see his face but he looked very, very familiar. And that checked shirt too. Where had I seen it before? Curious to know who it was, I crossed the road and walked towards him. I could just make out the round face, the broad nose and full head of greying hair but couldn’t pin it down. As I neared him, he gesticulated and ran towards the stairs leading to the court halls on the upper floors. I ran after him and was just able to make out his form disappearing into the Court Hall No. 7 on the 1^st floor. Who was this gent in the bright checked shirt? Why did he run away from me? Curious.

I quickly entered Court Hall No. 7, but was accosted at the door by another gent with a handlebar moustache, looking official in white trousers and white half-sleeved shirt. He was obviously one of the court staff, the chappie who stands at the door and shouts out names of the parties to each case as they are called out by the clerk. He stopped me just inside the hall, his moustache fairly bristling as he looked me up and down three times sternly, making me feel like the party of the other part. But apparently he decided I wasn’t guilty until proven so because he told me to sit down quickly as court would be starting any moment and I should not make any “galaatta”. He made space for me between two aggrieved parties on the bench along the wall and I squeezed into it. The chap I had followed inside, the raison d’etre for my coming to this place, the gent in the bright checked shirt, was nowhere to be seen. Curiouser.

Just when I was thinking that I should get out from this place, the aforementioned white shirted official-looking gent walked up to the door behind the magistrate’s bench, threw it open smartly and announced in a loud voice, “OPEN COURT”. Every person stood up as a distinguished looking black robed magistrate walked in through the doorway, climbed up the steps to his seat, did a “Namaskara” to the packed Court Hall and settled himself in. The clock hanging on the wall facing the magistrate showed the time to be precisely eleven o’ clock. The clock in my head more or less agreed. I couldn’t very well leave at that moment, could I? So I sat down and waited.

There were lawyers everywhere. The early comers were seated around a U-shaped table below the bench. Those who couldn’t find a seat were standing behind the seated lawyers, hoping to take their places soon. Some more were standing behind the clerk. The benches along the wall were full with people waiting expectantly and there were more people standing near the door. ‘Jampacked’ is the word I am looking for.

As I looked around, I thought I glimpsed a familiar face craning around the neck of another just outside the door but it disappeared before I could zoom in and get a fix on the identity. He was there one moment and not there the next. The gent in the bright checked shirt checked out as suddenly as he had checked in. Curiouser and curiouser.

As the Court began proceedings, a hush descended on the hall. The magistrate uncapped a fountain pen, wrote something on the pad in front of him and nodded to the clerk who then stood up and called out the first case listed for the day. “OS numbar eks-woi-jed, Such and Such” (note that both are Such until one of them is proven Jhoot). The white-and-white gent, standing at the door, repeated the names called out in a loud voice, “SUCH, SUCH”. Two lawyers standing expectantly near the clerk with their ears flapping approached the bench and made a respectful submission that they were appearing for the plaintiff and the defendant, respectively. The magistrate quickly scanned the papers placed by the clerk in front of him, wrote something on the last sheet, said something to the two lawyers that I couldn’t follow, looked at a table calendar placed in front of him and pronounced a date for the next hearing. The two lawyers slowly backed off and retracted their ears. Next case. Similar action. And so it went on. Court was rushing through cases that were in the preliminary stages.

I sat through some ten or twelve cases and nearly dozed off. Then suddenly there was a lull as the clerk was getting some papers signed by His Lordship. I saw my chance. Before he could call the next case, I quickly stood up, thanked the two aggrieved parties for letting me sit between them, did a “Namaskara” to the Court and stepped smartly out of the hall. Mr. White-and-white glared at me but I was free and couldn’t be stopped. I glared back at him and walked off. And looked around. But could not see any sign of the gent in the bright checked shirt. He had vanished as if he had never been there.

I walked back to the bus stop ruing the fact that I had lost an hour for no reason at all. I was thinking that if I got hold of that checked shirt, I would wring the neck it encased. And as I was revelling in this thought, lo and behold, there it was! And there was the chap wearing it! I saw him waiting at the bus stop. I decided I would steal up to him and catch him unawares. But before I could cross the road, a bus rolled up, our man got in and the bus pushed off.

As I stood there shaking my fist, I suddenly remembered that I had a bright checked shirt identical to the one that chap was wearing. And a chilling realisation struck me amidships and sent me reeling – I knew where I had seen that face before. I had seen it in the mirror.

It was my own face!

© Shiva Kumar - Nov 2016

The Face in the Night

The Face in the Night

It must be some 6-7 or 8-9 years now after this singular incident took place. It happened when I was living in the first floor house where the ground floor was vacant, the inmates having escaped a couple of weeks earlier without leaving a forwarding address. No ground staff, only the flying squad.

As is my habit, I boo a dit of beading in red after dinner before nodding off to sleep. You know what I mean. By the time I bang the book shut, slam the lights off and quietly call it a night, the clock usually has slid past the twelve o’ clock mark. I generally manage to get my seven or eight hours straight and without a break, unless I have had that glass of water just before head hit pillow.

This night was no different. I read my constitutional twenty three pages till my eyes were barely able to stay open. My brain was starting to fog up and stray out of focus. I snapped the book shut with a snap, reached out and flicked the light switch off with a flick. As the room went dark, I closed my eyes, rolled over to my right and made a dignified exit to slumber-land. I think I went out like the light I had just flicked off. All had become silent in the household except for the odd snores emanating from time to time.

Suddenly I came awake. One moment I had been out as described above, in a state of suspended animation as it were, the next I came alive, into a state of animated suspension. I tried to reckon the time, but the clock in my head, which is usually reliable and correct to the minute, was on temporary leave of absence, its mainspring having broken off from its moorings. But I reckon it must have been close to three o’ clock. Very oily in the moining.

I blinked my eyes open but made no other movement. It was as well. My bed was right next to the window whose shutters were glazed with translucent figured glass with a kind of serrated design. There were no curtains covering the window. As my eyes settled on the window, I saw a face!  

Yes, I saw a face. It wasn’t a reflection of my own face; I know my face well and this wasn’t it. There was another face outside, trying to peer into the room through the glass! When my eyes slowly focussed, I could see the whites of the eyes as it tried to look inside. It was pressed close to the glass with the hands held on either side. It was fairly lit by the outside street lights but I could not make out the features. Whoever it was, was trying to look inside but not succeeding because the inside of the house was in darkness. Hardly four feet away from me.

I was fully awake now. I knew what I should do. I slowly sat up. I breathed in deeply but silently, inflating first my left and then my right lung to the full, put my head as close to the window as I could without moving my body and looked straight at the face. And I bellowed.

It came out as a deep roar, gathering force as it exited my throat, a boom of thunder rolling out and hitting the window pane with a fearful punch. I don’t know if it woke up the entire neighbourhood, but it certainly jolted my wife from deep slumber to wakefulness.  

“HOOAAAOOOOYYYY!”

My vocal performance produced impressive results outside the window. For a second after the reverberation died down and the window panes stopped rattling, nothing happened. Then the face disappeared from the window as if wiped off, there was a loud “THUD” of something heavy falling to the ground and I heard someone groan “AYYO”.

I realised then that that face was part of a head which had a thorax and an abdomen joined to it. In other words, there was a body below that head. And legs attached to the body. The blighter had been standing on the “chajja” (“chad ja” for him?) or sunshade of the ground floor window just below my window and trying to peer inside. Who was he? Thief? International spy? Peering Brosnan? I don’t know, but I do know that I had startled him and upset his delicate balance, causing his downfall. I had scared him right off his perch.

I quickly picked up the stout bamboo cane with the bent root like a hockey stick which I keep next to my bed and ran out on to the balcony, hoping he had broken a leg or something and was lying in the narrow passage beside the compound, unable to move. I was disappointed. The blackguard had disappeared.

My wife was sitting up, looking dazed. She found it difficult to believe what had just taken place but having been in the room while it happened, she had to.

All in all, a very satisfying bellow. I should use it more often.

-          © Shiva Kumar 2016