A Season For The Soul - 1

 Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet! - Roger Miller

I am typing this, seated beside the window on a dark, gloomy and rainy day and a cup of hot and strong coffee beside me. It's bliss!

I think of all the seasons, rainy season would be my favourite. It never fails to amaze me, the absolute miracle of drops of water raining down from the sky. I was always enamoured by this phenomenon and my wonder didn't diminish even after I came to know about how it happens. For me, it will always be miraculous and wonderful!

Apart from this, what I love is the feeling of cozy comfort that rainy days bring. In the afternoon, once the chores of the days are done with, I sneak into my room which darkens considerably on cloudy days. I download a paranormal cozy mystery in my Kindle and I get lost in another world - a world of magic, of queens, of talking animals and a world where it is rainy and dark. This has become my favourite part of the day!

As such, Hyderabad doesn't get rain very often. But when it does, it lasts for days. It's almost going to be two weeks - weeks of dark clouds, of rains hitting and drawing back just as suddenly, of clothes not drying, of wanting to eat something spicy and fried and of enjoying generous amount of coffee. I don't see anything to complain about here.

Rains in Mumbai were special. In my childhood, rains meant playing with friends, getting wet and enjoying hot and delicious vada-paav. When I started working, rains meant waterlogged tracks, trains blocked, standing at the platform and searching for some way to reach office, hoping that the rains would stop, dreading that they will stop because that meant going to office... Local trains during rainy season in Mumbai turn into something surreal and otherworldly.

There are some wonderful memories of trips made during the rainy season. Once we were travelling by train through the Western ghats of Maharashtra on a rainy day. Do I really need to say anything more? The ghats let out numerous tiny waterfalls cascading over the rugged surfaces of the hills. I cannot describe this sight. One has to actually see this to experience the beauty of the phenomenon. And then there was the time when I and my husband went to Shirdi from Mumbai by bus. While returning, the bus took up the route of Malshej Ghat. It was a rainy day and the Ghats were misty with clouds hovering over them. This too is another experience that I cannot forget or describe.

All said and done - rain is beautiful. Even at night! If you see the raindrops falling on the earth under illumination, you will notice that they look like tiny stars exploding on the surface of the earth. Simply beautiful!

Nature blossoms whenever it rains, I feel. The green leaves shine all the more brightly. The sky, after a downpour of rains, looks clean and wiped. The roads look freshly washed and shine. Ah rain, you bring such beauty to the earth!

It is getting darker. The day shows the promise of being rainy, dark, gloomy and beautiful. And my heart shows the promise of happiness, peace and bliss that only a rainy day can bring!

When A Snack Became The Food For The Soul!

 

There are some foods that are unique, irreplaceable and secure a place in your heart forever. 

I think the main reason why Paani-puri (sorry, we Dombivlikars refer to Golgappa as Paani-puri, always have, and always will!) is special to me, is because I was introduced to it by my favourite uncle who left the mortal world at the very young age of just 35. 

I must have been around 10 years old, I guess. I was out for a walk with my aunt and uncle. We came across a paani-puri stall and my uncle placed the order for three plates. It was the first time I was attempting a paani-puri. So I had no idea that we get 6 puris at a time. I ate one at my own sweet pace. What I remember vividly is the explosion of flavours - tangy, minty, salty, sweet and spicy! My eyes watered and my throat clogged up. I managed to gulp the first one and promptly found another one placed in the plate. After four, I couldn't take another one. The first experience, while not very comfortable, was indeed memorable!

And then my Naani started making paani-puri for the kids in our family. Including my cousins and best friends with whom we had grown up, there were about ten kids overall. My Naani would prepare the special mixture required for the snack and we would bring the puris from a chaat shop situated near to our apartment. The owner of the shop would always say - "Your Naani will put me out of my business! You people only buy the puris. Try my special paani-puri too sometimes!" Every time we bought five to six packets of the puris and would feel that we had bought too much. Nobody really paid attention to the fact that in the end, only one packet would lie unopened. 

Once we decided to count how many of those puris we were eating. We started counting and stopped when we crossed the magical number of 25 (per person). We never dared to count again. Some things shouldn't be measured or counted, like, the happiness from eating something delicious and made with love.

Some of the best memories of childhood and teenage are the times spent with friends. Sometimes we would go to a hotel for dinner. Sometimes we would go to the railway station, apparently to 'have a long walk', but secretly, to eat paani-puri at the various stalls that would be lined up outside the station. The happiness of having paani-puri with friends cannot be surpassed at all. And asking for a masala-puri at the end of the snack was mandatory. The masala-puri is simply priceless, a gift that keeps on giving!

Although the paani-puri has always made me happy, there was one time when it made me unbearably sad. I and my friends had started working at that time and our meetings had gradually reduced. That day, as I was walking home after a grueling day in the office, I crossed the paani-puri stalls near the station. One of the stall-owners called me out - 'Madam, paani-puri!'. My heart longed to eat that but there was also the slight embarrassment of having to eat alone. I decided to go ahead and placed an order for a plate. The first bite was so good, so nostalgic that it brought tears to my eyes. 'Madam, is it too spicy?' the stall-owner asked in concern. I shook my head and shot him a thumbs- up. 'It is perfect.'

It has been a long time since I had a plate of paani-puri. It is what I miss most about my life as a Dombivlikar. 

For me, the paani-puri is a reminder of everything good in life. It is also a lesson that it takes everything to be perfect - a little bit of tanginess, some spice, a little salt, a little sugar and a little bit of cool mint!

When Happiness Could Be Found In A Jar Of Pickles!

The search for happiness is a tricky affair. When you try to search it consciously, you won’t find it. But at the most unexpected of times, it rises in your heart unbidden and uncalled for and gives a high that you will find difficult to come down from.

I found my happiness in the memory of a jar of pickles named as Bharani.

April – May used to be ‘pickle season’ in my home and was taken very seriously. I remember my visits to a market in Kalyan with my dad to buy mangoes.  Kalyan is a suburb very near to my city Dombivli. There used to be an open market near the station and its specialty was, there would be numerous types of mangoes - cut mangoes, tiny mangoes slightly bigger than peas, large mangoes to be slit diagonally for pickles, and so on. You can imagine what a sensory delight it must have been. I can still smell the delicious aroma of raw mangoes that greeted you the moment  you stepped into the road where the market was.

So Dad would carefully scrutinize mangoes and buy various types of the same. I became an un-official taste tester for the mangoes. Many a kind-hearted vendor gave me mangoes for free tasting. It was a delightful experience buying mangoes!

Special towels were reserved in my home for the pickle-making activity. Dad would carefully wash all the mangoes and dry them out on the towels overnight.

The next morning, I would wake up to the tangy aroma of mangoes. That would be the day of the pickle-making activity. Cut-mangoes turned into a pickle termed Aavakaay, a delicacy the likes of which I have never experienced anywhere. This pickle went with almost everything - Roti, Dosa, rice, you name it! I remember eagerly opening my lunch box in the school and relishing roti with Aavakaay. Best. Meal. Ever!

The small mangoes turned into kanni-maangai, another drool-worthy pickle that went with all kinds of dishes, but formed a perfect-10 relationship with Upma. That combo is one to die for!

And there was another pickle simply called Maangai-curry. Seriously this should come with a warning label - Highly Addictive. A special variety of raw mango would be diced into small pieces and marinated with salt, chilli powder and turmeric powder. Some seasoning of mustard and hing would be added to it. One only had to try a small portion of this pickle for tasting. The hands would keep reaching for the jar, as if having a mind of their own. I remember my mom's admonition to spare some of the pickle for others too.

All these pickles would be carefully put in special jars which we called as Bharani. These jars were ceramic and had a white base and a brown coloured lid. We had these in various sizes. Summer meant lots and lots of these jars in the kitchen!

My best friend was extremely fond of Aavakaay. Once this pickle was prepared at home, my Daadi would tell me to give some to her. Before leaving for her home, Daadi would remember all of a sudden. 'Wait a minute!' She would rush inside the kitchen and bring a small packet of sugar, saying, 'It is not appropriate to gift spicy food to anyone. When you give this, you should give something sweet along with the spice. That would ensure that relations do not spoil between you two!'

The pickle-making activity decreased to a great extent after my Daadi passed away. One by one, we all left our separate ways and gradually the pickle-making activity came to an end. I remember my mom saying – “There is no one in the house to eat pickles. There is no point in preparing in lots just for the two of us to eat.” (referring to her and my dad).

I keep making some pickles on my own. Green chilly pickle is my husband’s favourite. My mother-in-law prepares Avakaay every summer.

Of course now you get ready-made pickles of many flavours. They are delicious. But they do not give the same happiness of my childhood; many things are missing:

-The trip to Kalyan to buy mangoes.
-The sensory treat of the aroma of mangoes.
-The hustle-bustle from the kitchen where my parents and my Daadi would be talking while preparing various types of pickles.
-The ceramic, brown and white coloured jar named Bharani.
And mostly, no best friend to give a jar of the pickles to, along with some sugar!

When Sunday Was The Best Day Of The Week!

 

The 80s seem extremely far off now (especially when you scroll through the list of Years to select your birth year). But for those of us who were lucky to have been born that time, it was definitely a golden period, right!?

It was a time when simple pleasures brought most happiness. And while we are talking about simple pleasures, one object that stands out prominently is the television.

Like most of the people during those days, my home too had a black and white TV set named Dianora. My earliest memories are of a show named Junoon (starring Tom Alter who fascinated me) and another one called Ajnabi. This show - Ajnabi - had a beautiful title song which had a really soothing melody and starred Danny Denzongpa. I remember that my dad would want to watch one show while my younger sister would want to watch another. Some days Dad won, some days he let my sister win!

The day we got cable connection was a day of celebration for everyone at home. I and my sister had proudly called our friends to come to our home so that we could watch a movie. I don't remember which movie we watched but it was surely a novel experience, owning a cable connection and watching a movie at home with friends. Around the same time, the black and white television got upgraded to colour tv. It was like seeing the world in a brand new light!

There are many beautiful memories associated with watching television with my whole family. Sunday mornings were cozily spent watching Chitrahaar and Rangoli. I would keep a tape-recorder and an empty cassette beside me while watching these shows. The moment a much-liked song would be announced as the next, I would press the Record button, hoping to save the song in the cassette. Of course, along with the song, my dad's ominous sneeze and the bickering of my sister and cousins would also get recorded. Sometimes I would laugh over this and other times I got frustrated. All in all, this was a good way to start the weekend which consisted of only Sunday.

Sunday evenings meant watching movies on DD channel. I remember one funny incident. Once the channel played the movie Aradhna, starring Sharmila Tagore and Rajesh Khanna. When the song 'Roop Tera mastana' started playing, my mom changed the channel. I, my sis and my cousins started complaining to her but my mom kept exchanging amused glances with my aunt and my Daadi and didn't switch on to the movie for the next five minutes. Looking back now, it feels so hilarious!

Sometimes we watched the movies at home and sometimes with friends at their home. It was equally fun, wherever we watched the movie.

Sometimes, we would have trouble with the cable connection. I and my friends knew the shop where the cable operator worked and we would go there to lodge a complaint. It didn't matter that we had to cross a busy junction to reach the shop. It did not matter that the shop would be guarded by local and domestic dogs who would start growling the moment we stepped around the shop. It didn't matter that we were scared of dogs. The important thing was to restore the cable connection as soon as possible!

The serial Chandrakantha was my first introduction to fantasy and I was totally enamoured with the show. It used to be relayed on Sunday morning. It became a custom to watch the show while eating Maggi. The arrival of the khaari-biscuit-waala in the morning, having Maggi as breakfast, watching shows like Chandrakantha and Mahabharat and watching a movie in the evening with family and friends made Sunday the best day of the week!

Television also introduced me and my friends to our all-time favourite serials, F.R.I.E.N.D.S and I Dream Of Jeannie. The anticipation these serials built up! I have chewed enough nails over the break-up of Ross and Rachel and have spent some really anxious nights wondering whether Jeannie and Nelson will ever get married. The wait that these serials subjected me to was worth every single minute. I also loved watching Dennis The Menace which was in black and white that time and other serials like Who Is The Boss, Bewitched and Silver Spoons.

I can't help thinking about the difference between the Sunday of today and the Sunday of yesteryears. Today, Sunday evening brings in blues of its own, heralding the cessation of weekend and the arrival of another hectic week. There are so many things one can do on Sunday - hang out in the malls, spend time with friends and family, dining out, watch a movie in theatre... so many things to do. And yet, Sunday hasn't ever felt like the Sunday of childhood which was really fun-filled and awesome.

All thanks to this object named Television. It brought people together. Not just family members, but friends and neighbours too. It made dining fun. It brought in real entertainment that the entire family could enjoy as a whole. Most importantly, it taught that often, happiness can be found in the simplest of things.

Travelling Back In Time To A Place Called Dombivli

 

I never imagined that I would turn into one of those who use words like “good old days’ or ‘our generation and the new generation’. But I have reached that point in life, it seems! Google tells me that I am a millennial, having been born in the 80s and grown up in the 90s. I like this term. And you know what, I am proud to be a millennial!

Of late, I find myself thinking about life in two contexts – the past and the present. But what are they, if not for a grand continuation of the entity called Time! When I reflect on the journey so far, I am surprised to see that the most memorable moments were those simple moments when we lived fully, when our expectations were low and life’s gifts, therefore, unasked and always abundant, when we knew not much suffering and heartbreak and it took only the presence of friends and family members to give immense joy. When we were kids, how little it took to make us happy!

Often my mind wanders to those days of innocent and blissful happiness.

I picture myself at my home with my friend, studying for the exams. The windows of the room are open. As I gaze outside, I feel a strange shift in the atmosphere. The song of the bird is louder and clearer. The very air around seems different – refreshing and sweet. A lone cloud temporarily casts a shadow, blocking the sun for a while as it passes through the sky to some unknown land. I gaze goofily at my friend and find her staring back at me with a smile. I tell her. ‘The air has the aroma of Vacations!’

Indeed, there was a time when we could feel the change of seasons heralding the approach of holidays, of bright mornings, hot afternoons, breezy evenings with spectacular twilights where the sky would be a mélange of hues of orange, yellow and fiery red as the sun would set majestically, in style and with a bang (what a way to go, right!) and late nights spent at the balcony of the house with all the family members sharing a light banter while munching on some fruit. Even as I think about these moments, I feel a wave of calm wash over me, reminding me of a beautiful time of life.

I picture a 10-year old me rushing out of my home towards the entrance of my building where all my friends have assembled. I can feel their barely-restrained excitement and glee. I can see all of us walking together towards the shop from where we all could rent cycles. I can still feel the excitement of choosing a cycle for myself and the happiness that came if the cycle turned out to be a brand-new one. I can feel the air caressing my face as I ride the cycle on the road in delightful abandon. At that moment, it always felt like everything was fine with the world. It was a sunny day, I had my best friends around and we all were happily riding cycles. What could be wrong in such a beautiful world!?

On a breezy evening, I find a teenaged-Me lying down beside my best friends Chitra and Meera on the terrace of our building and gazing at the sky in silent awe and wonder. Our mission is to trace the exact point of time at which the sky changes colour and turns darker. We fail spectacularly in our mission (who has ever managed to decode the mysteries of the Universe!?) but we procure something that would last with us forever. We fall in love with the activity of star-gazing. We learn to trace out the Great Bear constellation with the seven stars. We learn to celebrate when all the seven stars of the constellation are visible on rare and lucky nights. We learn the magic and beauty of lying in silence beside a best friend and take in the wonders that the evening sky has to offer for the astronomy-hungry soul.

As I travel back in time, I find myself at the entrance of my childhood home, drawing Rangoli. It is the festival of Diwali. I am not the only one drawing the Rangoli. All my neighbours are drawing Rangolis outside their homes, amidst chatter and gossip. I listen to them while adding colours to the drawing and wishing that my Rangoli was as good as my neighbour’s who was blessed with artistic and creative talent. While this is happening in the ground floor, I hear the ‘whispered’ conversations of my friends who are in the second floor, drawing Rangolis, exchanging colours and chatting about everything under the sun. I can feel the sense of bliss that this moment provided then, the feeling of belonging to a community, of celebrating together and knowing that my friends are around, even though they weren’t visible! In the evening, we all would dress up in new clothes, walk around in every floor of the building to gawk and gasp dutifully over the beautiful Rangoli drawings and lanterns adorning every flat in the building and at the end, assemble at the entrance of the building where we would burst crackers. There was no mobile to take a photo and capture the moment for eternity. There was just the feeling of absolute joy that never leaves the heart and appears years later, reminding of nights illuminated with crackers, lanterns, bright colours of Rangoli and the joy of being with wonderful friends and family at the most beautiful time of the year.

Oh, oh, as I time-travel, I find myself surrounded by darkness. What is happening?! But then, I feel the familiar and soothing touch of a friend’s hand in my own. Ah, I understand. I am back to the times when power-cuts were quite common in my town. The entire town would reel under darkness. At such times, as if by an unspoken understanding, all the people in my building would assemble at the entrance near the gate and have a sort of a mini get-together. There would be laughter, there would be Antakshari, there would be non-stop chatter and amidst all these, an aura of celebration and belongingness. As a child, while I dreaded the power-cuts, I started looking forward to these as I grew up. Sadly, the power-cuts were reduced and stopped completely, what with the arrival of generators and inventors, and a beautiful ritual of the community assembling together and making the best of the darkness, faded away.

Oh, now I am being pulled towards the terrace. What is happening here? Oh right, it is 31st December. It is the annual function of my building. I and my friends are performing on a song. There is no stage-fear or conscious feeling or hesitation. There is the simple joy of dancing to a good song with friends to true and heartfelt applause of the people with whom we grew up and the elders who watched us grow as the next generation of the community that they had created so lovingly.

For some reasons, all the happy moments of my past center around my childhood-home, friends and family. A lot has changed since then. I moved out of the town, my parents sold their home and moved to another city and a golden era came to an end. But the memories don’t end. They are always there, lurking in the background of my mind and reminding me always of that part of me that has frozen forever in this beautiful, wonderful and happy era, when life was all about simple joy and pleasures.