beingdesh

Category: Memoirs, stories, and poems

  • The Big Fat Lentil Wedding

    It was a morning of a date which is quite unclear in my memory. I woke up to the rising sound of traffic and the fluttering of pigeons eternally stuck in the window railings. I picked up my toothbrush, squeezed the last remains of the toothpaste, and tucked the brush into my mouth. I needed some company before sitting on the toilet seat, so I walked towards the door and pushed it open. Lying there was my roll of newspapers, with colorful bunch of pamphlets. But along with it was an envelope addressed for me.

    It was strange as no courier guy or postman would have delivered it so early in the morning. It didn’t carry any seals or stamps, and who had sent it. Curious to know, I first tore it from the corner, and then ripped through the edge with a single slide of the finger.

    Before I could open it, I could smell something. There was a pungency of garlic and mustardy feel of turmeric in the envelope. I was now almost sure of the contents of the envelope, this was a highly familiar smell.

    I could not help but smile. Finally my beautiful friend from Hyderabad was about to marry one of my closest friend from Mumbai. Yes, the Sambhar from Chutneys was finally set to marry the Dal from Bhagat Tarachand.

    image
    The Bride- Sambhar from Chutneys

    I had known her (the Sambhar from Chutneys) since my trips to Hyderabad became frequent after 2010. I visited Chutneys on almost all my visits, skipped my rendezvous with 5-6 chutneys on offer, and always spent the most time with her. This sambhar had a smooth texture like none I had ever tasted. There were no obstructions of drumsticks or pumpkin pieces so pervasive in sambhars all across India. The flavor was rich with spices and a more than generous helpings of black pepper gave it the perfect zing. But what set it apart was its use of Garlic, something which I haven’t frequently encountered in sambhars across the country. Over the years the sambhar from Andhra had been my favorite (Andhra>Tamil>Kerala>Karnataka style sambhars, especially don’t like Manglorean/Udupi variety popular across many Mumbai eateries, which has a dash of sweetness from jaggery/sugar), but this one climbed to be top of my list.

    image
    The Groom- Dal from Bhagat Tarachand

    I first met him (the Dal from Bhagat Tarachand) on of my countless trips across Mumbai in search of good food. I found him hiding in one of those countless Bhagat Tarachands (so many of them at Zaveri Bazaar), where my encounter with him offered peace in between the maddening crowds of Zaveri. I mostly met him with his best friends, Papad Churi and a Ghee laden Chapati, at either his Zaveri Bazar home, or his more suave R City adobe- Shvatra. Like the sambhar from Chutneys, the brilliant use of Garlic was its forte, but what set it apart was the use of Ghee-fried onions, similar to ones used frequently with Biriyanis (possibly a connect with the Hyderabadi Sambhar). We hit an instant friendship and both of us being in the same city (and him staying close by in Ghatkopar) meant countless encounters.

    So when both of them agreed to come together, no one could have been happier, as I was the one who connected both of them. I can’t even imagine how awesome their kids would be. Surely healthy with so much of protein running in their veins.

    —-

    I reached the wedding venue few hours prior to the wedding. As expected the environment was somber and lacking energy. Both of them have had a tendency of moving under the radar, when some of their other contemporaries have been involved in maximum showoff with minimal flavors. Gracing the occasion were the family members, friends from the spices community- with peppers dominating the group. The pandit was busy preparing the holy fire and doing other preparations.

    The pandit seemed adept at handling both the mantras and kitchen equipment, as he placed a huge vessel over the fire. He started pouring in lots of ghee, and then crackled a bit of jeera (cumin seeds) in the vessel. As the crackling voice soaked the environment, the bride and groom entered the proceedings. Both of them wet, soaked in water and fresh and ready for the wedding.

    The sambhar had a garland of curry leaves around it, and the dal looked composed with a pot of ghee in his hands. The background was infused with sounds of ceremony and usual wedding banter, and smells of spices and fresh coriander. As both the bride and groom settled down in the mandapam, the pandit started the fiery rounds mantras. With each swaha, he tossed a clove of garlic in the ghee-jeera mix. Pandit then took out a shining silver spice box, and started adding them one by one in the mix. As the ceremony proceeded, the attendees were handed ghee-fried onions for sprinkling at the bride and groom during the seven rounds across the fire. These onions were the ones which had set apart this dal from the rest for so many years, and it was a great way of welcoming the bride in this family.

    After the rounds around the holy fire, there were the usual ceremonies of sindoor (made of red chilly powder) and a mangalsutra (made of raw mustard seeds).

    The wedding ceremony ended with a feast with no parallels, with a mix of cuisines from west and south dominating the platters. I was as always indulged in the glory of the dishes and sat along with the rest cleaning my banana leaf and waiting for the servings. A little girl was going around with the gulaabjal sprinkler, used so often during weddings to welcome guests. The girl came towards me, gave me a smile and then sprinkled a bit on me. It was hot. I wiped the drop of my lips and tasted it. It was the sambhar, or was it the daal? It was sweet!

    And I woke up to my wife trying to wake me up, sprinkling drops from her hot steamy-sugary cup of tea on my face. The dream was broken, and I had a smile on my face thinking about it.

    There was a rising sound of traffic and the fluttering of pigeons eternally stuck in the window railings. I picked up my toothbrush, squeezed the last remains of the toothpaste, and tucked the brush into my mouth. I needed some company before sitting on the toilet seat, so I walked towards the door and pushed it open. Lying there was my roll of newspapers, with colorful bunch of pamphlets.

    But along with it was an envelope addressed for me. From Hyderabad…

    I wrote this sometime back in October, and posting it now. There are striking similarities to two of my friends who got married just a few days back! Wishing them and the pulses loads of luck Smile

  • Fifty Shades of Purple

    We walked towards one of our favourite pubs in Bangalore, belting past the street vendors, groups of Bangalore college students, and recognizable bunches of software workers. Crossing Brigade Road was a routine affair on weekends, often accompanied by meeting a long lost friend, an unwanted encounter, or an unusual one (like meeting a person and not remembering his/her name).  The lane on the right (while turning in from MG Road) was crowded as always, and the place had usual business sense one can associate with a Sunday afternoon.

    My friend carried a puzzled look, quite surprised by my plan of action on this special day. I asked him to switch off his phone and just walk with me. He followed me to the end of road and then turned right with me.

    We reached the doorsteps soon and entered the place. The purple hues and the dim lighting were on expected lines, the kind of lighting which makes even a dull-looking strangers attractive. Isn’t it strange how darkness can light people up?

    The place was half empty, but given it was still afternoon it I considered it to be half full. We took a small side table, ordered some draught, peanuts, and some spicy close cousin of Gobhi Manchurian.
    There were two rather simple rules to this day:

    1. No discussion about the special day, either amongst us, or with anyone else, and hence the phone was supposed to be switched off
    2. Drink, drink, and if possible, drink a bit more

    Pubs in Bangalore had a certain charm associated with them. Pecos served popcorn with beer, Legends of Rock had a decent ambience, Styx was loud with people screaming lyrics as if they had written it, and going to Nasa always raised a few eyebrows. All these places had certain common traits- abundance of software workers, scarcity of women (except Purple Haze), heavy Indo-Chinese influences in most of the finger food served, and fresh unadulterated draught beer (which I referred to as शुद्ध दानेदार ताज़ी beer).

    Purple Haze had always been my favourite, for reasons unknown to me. Probably because it was the first pub I visited in Bangalore, with my first drink being a glass of Apple Juice!

    As always one of the conversation topics between me and my friend was this quick analysis of Bangalore Pubs. It was followed with some usual discussions around girls, a debate on the best idlis in Bangalore, and sharing concerns around the amount of colour being added to Gobhi Manchurian.

    A pitcher and few conversations later I finally got sometime to looked around. There was a beautiful, curly-haired girl in the seat opposite, her body stiff yet apparently moving with music. There were shades of purple rhythmically moving over her white top, with the dim light strangely complementing her dusky appearance. I asked my friend for his opinion. He sheepishly turned back to ogle at her, and then acting double smart to look around and suggest that this was just a routine turning around looking at the world act. Sometimes I wonder how all men (including me), can be that stupid?

    He said he didn’t like her, which was perfectly fine. Over the years I have got used to people not agreeing to my opinions, and it probably gave me more of an impetus to walk up to her and talk. Talk, if it comes to that, I mostly end up on the winning side.

    But then there was the guy. The guy who is always around whenever one thinks of approaching a girl. He is a protector, a taaweez (or Shani Suraksha Kawach) against evil eye, a brother or a boyfriend, and more often than not, just a friend. I thought this one belonged to the last category. It was quite evident. Difficult to prove, but evident.

    I got up from my seat, walked pass her table to get a good look at the situation around, and walked towards the toilet. This was not a mere act, as drinking beer does put the bladder through decent level of exercise. I noticed something on their table, which was both disturbing and sad. They were carrying pencils and a paper.

    I walked back to my seat where my friend had just gulped down the second pitcher. The freshness of draught beer had slowly started turning into stale burps and an increasing future probability of acidity. I sat down and recollected my thoughts.

    I thought, what is more important- the rules or the girl? I knew my answer.

    I left behind my somewhat sleepy friend, walked to her table and asked for her permission to join them. She smiled and agreed. Things were proceeding well and the guy was hardly visible or audible, probably lost in these purple shades.

    We settled down with hardly any words being spoken. And before we could start the conversation, the girl says- “ So, how did your CAT go?”.

    The rule had been broken. The first rule was not to discuss the special day. I felt disappointed. I got up and moved back to my table. She was talking, probably calling me, but I could hardly hear a word. Jim Morrison’s “The End” played in the background, and she was lost in the loud music, and in the purple shades.

    This is a semi-fictionalized account of the events which transpired on Nov 18th, 2007. Someone has said that temptation is woman’s weapon and man’s excuse, and men are used to making excuses and breaking rules. Just a case in point.

  • क्या हिंदी जीवित रहेगी?

    आखिरी सासें लेती,
    थकी-हारी, चरमराई,
    हिंदी की जो है हालत,
    उसे बचा सके दवा न दुहाई।

    अंग्रेजी का अत्यधिक उपयोग,
    नहीं है इसका कारण,
    ना ही इस बात पे रोने से,
    टलेगा इसका मरण।

    हिंदी के पुनर्जन्म का,
    बस एक ही है रास्ता,
    अपने स्तर पर उसका प्रचार,
    और भाषा के प्रति सच्ची आस्था।

    यूँ तो भाषा कभी मरती नहीं,
    वो होती है अमर,
    पर ऐसे जीवन का भी क्या ही फायदा,
    जब अपने ही घर बैसाखी पर निर्भर।

    – अभिषेक ‘देसी देशपांडे

  • Pak-e-Mysore

    The story of Mysore Pak is close to my heart, one full of love and equal amounts of good cholesterol.

    Mysore Pak is quite simply my favourite sweet. There is nothing which comes close to it. Well Jalebi sometimes does, but it still remains a distant second. Bengali sweets are further down the podium. And the western desserts? Well they don’t even clear the heats.

    mysorepak

    My story is one of discovery, friendship, taste, and limitless delight. I have limited knowledge about its origins and don’t wish to explore a lot. Also I don’t claim to know which form of it is the original, the melt-in-your-mouth Sri Krishna Sweets style or the porous, brittle, harder variety. All I can narrate is the story built of on true love for the sweet, or for the former version of it. The one which deliciously fades away in your mouth with the trueness of Ghee as a rich aftertaste.

    My initial encounters with Mysore Pak were far from satisfactory. The sweet shop in my township served a dry, ribbed version, closer to the second variety I mentioned earlier. And then I remember this episode from Malgudi Days where the kid forces his miserly Grandpa to show him a movie, and buy him a Mysore Pak. Although there might have been instances of me tasting its greatness, but probably my taste buds were as immature as I was, still waiting to register its taste.

    Things actually turned for the better once I reached Bangalore. Unlike many other things which I love, I can’t single out one instance when I was hit by this sweet lightening. It was a series of events, the boxes of Sri Krishna and Adayar Anand Bhavan (some of them brand it as MysorePa nowadays) arriving at my office with colleagues returning from their native places in Tamil Nadu; the 100 gms I will pick up for Rs. 23 post a idl-vada-dosa breakfast at AnnaKuteera, Banashankari (or any Darshini, or Sagar); the Rs. 50 pack picked up for the sugar-rush post a drinking session.

    By the end of my first year in Bangalore, I had established this sweet as the best response for a sweet-craving amongst my friend circle(s). Any drinking session or get-together was meaningless without ending it with Mysore Pak. It made our evenings complete, in a way Curd Rice completes a South Indian meal. I remember an incident where I was walking the lanes of Kormangala with a friend in a drunk state, the drinking session halted by its absence. I also recall carrying a dabba through the city, to welcome a friend of mine who had arrived from Mumbai. I once had a box which was completely frozen in refrigerator so I melted it in a pan, extracted a bowl full of ghee from it, and used it to on khichdi.  I enjoyed the moment when I had Milk Mysore Pak, or the brilliantly innovative Horlicks Mysore Pak. It was a fascination which kept growing on me, both the feeling, the stories and yes, the weight.

    When I visited Bangalore after a long time, all my friends got together for a drinking session like the older times. There was Gobhi Manchurian, Biriyani, Boiled Eggs, and Medu Wadas. But the session was halted as one of my friends recalled, Pattu aaya hai, aur Mysore Pak nahi! Quite expectedly, my friends halted the session, rushed across the city to get the sweet, and raised a toast to our true love for it.

    Even now friends coming from down South usually end up getting a box for me. I am lucky to have friends who appreciate and understand my crazy obsessions.

    I love the feeling of Mysore Pak fading away in my mouth, a unique experience with hardly a comparable one to mention. The simplicity of the sweet is unquestionable. It is probably the easiest sweet to de-construct in mouth, equal proportions of Ghee, Sugar and Gram Flour breaking down to infuse such rich flavours  I heard it was made for the Mysore Maharaja first, probably the creator took the simplest route to creating something so delightful, and pure.

    Yes it is the purest form of love I have ever felt from food, and hence the term Pak-e-Mysore. It is interesting how Pak the Sugar Syrup in Hindi (or Kannada) changes to Pak the pure in Urdu.

    We are always on the look out for love, pure and unconditional love, and I am lucky to have Mysore Pak in my life, for what will never change is my love for it.

    Image courtesy: Bing Search

  • मलहम-ए -खिचड़ी

    आपको देख दिल पे चल जाती है अभी भी छुरिया,
    पर आपने तो फेका था हमें जैसे सीली हुई भुजिया।

    खा पी कर ले रही हो तुम डकार,
    पर क्या कभी याद किया तुमने पुराना प्यार?

    धराशायी मन, टूटे दिल की सिसकी,
    सोचा शांत करू इसे मार मदिरा की चुस्की।

    पर मदिरा की राह लेते है असफल और बेकार,
    हमने अपनाया खिचड़ी, पापड़, और अचार।
    -अभिषेक देशपांडे ‘देसी’

  • Recalling Indian Coffee House

    I am a frequent visitor to the multiple coffee shops in Mumbai. During these visits I have developed a special affection for the filter coffee joints at Matunga, and a growing admiration for the multiple homegrown and international brands setting shop in the city. But for me, and many more like me, coffee had humble beginnings. Sometime it was the whisked, often cardamom-flavored home made Nescafe, or the shake-shake-shake blue plastic shaker mixed cold coffee, or the tongue-tingling espresso served at weddings. But none of the experiences have left a deeper impression on my memory than the turban-clad waiters of the Indian Coffee House. And more than the Coffee, this note is about the institution which will always remind me of the word Coffee.

    Indian Coffee House or ICH are restaurants run by a set of co-operative societies across the country with strong presence across Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, and some other cities including Bangalore, Kolkata and Shimla. They have their origins in the Coffee Board of India, and were the first proponents of the coffee-promotion movement some 60 odd years back. Apart from the Coffee they serve, their menu also includes breakfast snacks, primarily South Indian, eggs made in different styles, cutlets, their unique version of Chana-bhaturas, with some branches even serving the full meal. They also have a catering business spawning majorly Public Sector Enterprises.

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    Indian Coffee House at NTPC Township, Korba

    As a child growing up in a small Chhattisgarh township in Korba, ICH was the epitome of having a good time. In those days when eating out was a rarity and swallowing fizzy drinks a luxury, ICH was a break from the routine, one of the only ways of us spending some money on pampering ourselves. It was a destination for family dinners and get-togethers, for some memorable birthday treats, and the best place for watching the annual ritual of township Dusshera celebration (it was mighty difficult to get a good spot, but a Gold Spot did come to rescue).

    Drawing from the words of my childhood friend, there was and always will be a certain charm about ICH. I might expect some of the younger kids to go in and find the place a bit morose by coffee shop standards, but then perceptions of all things which I fancied as a kid has changed.

    At ICH the dishes were served on thick china plates, something we were not used to at home. The waiters moved around in a quick orderly fashion, with the right hand carrying the serving tray, exactly raised to shoulder length. Their walking was accompanied with a clinging sound of shiny Salem steel cutlery hitting the china. We also learned our first lessons of slightly alien-table manners (using cutlery- knife and fork, wiping hands using tissues), although I personally never got a hang of it. I am still not comfortable eating that way. The glasses reminded me of a curved conical frustum, something which we did come to haunt us during our Xth board Mathematics examination.

    The interiors were mostly dull with the only striking colors noticed on the ribbon stripes of turbans wore by waiters. I could never figure out the color coding though, it was green for some, and maroon for others, with a rare occurrence of navy blue. The smell of Sambhar dominated the air, pleasantly interrupted by the fragrant whiff of Khus from the Water Cooler and the scent of freshly brewed Filter Coffee from the kitchen. Add to that the wonderful sound of forks and spoons hitting the cutlery while eating and ICH ruled all our senses.

    But the sense of taste was never undermined. All variants of Dosa were served fresh and crisp, and yes you could always ask the waiter uncle to make it extra crispy. The Chutney was more daal than coconut kinds, and the sambhar had a majority share of pumpkins and drumsticks. The Wadas were crisp, Idilis soft, Omelets as trustworthy as ever, French Toasts unique, and Cutlets delightful with those chunky pieces of beetroot and carrot. Rs. 14 could buy you a Masala Dosa, Rs. 16 a Special Masala Dosa (with two pieces of cashew nuts in the masala to make it special), Rs. 12 a plate of Idli, and Rs. 6 a filter coffee (this must be the rates in the mid 90s I guess). And yes the Coffee was a delight. I was introduced to the magic of Filter Coffee here, for which I would be forever indebted to ICH.

    I have faint memories of dessert too, they kept Dinshaw’s Ice Cream (a Nagpur based brand prevalent in Central India), a kitchen-made Vanilla Ice-Cream (frozen custard, topped with Fruits). The Lassi Ice-Cream combo was good too.

    And when the meal ended, the bill was always brought to you neatly tucked in a pile of saunf. Tips if any were all stuffed in a common piggy bank kept on the manager’s desk.

    IMG_0259
    Indian Coffee House at The Mall, Shimla

    Over the years I have got a chance to visit Indian Coffee House across various cities. Delhi’s ICH is at Connaught Place is now a poor cousin of the much popular United Coffee House (not related to the society) and is not in a good shape, and Shimla’s ICH is a place dominated by Lawyers and Government Officers at the Mall which does give it a very true to the ICH feel (there is a new one at Kasumpti now, very dull though). ICH’s across Kerala are the busiest, with people from all age groups coming in for a Coffee and a Cutlet (Beef Cutlets were visibly selling more), and the Bangalore one has been relocated to a neat and new location on Church Street from MG Road post the Metro construction. But it is MP and Chhattisgarh which have kept the institution running outside Kerala in a well spread out and popular manner. I do want to visit the ICHs across Kolkata though, have heard they still retain the old world ICH Charm.

    I am scared that like all things good, ICH will cease to exist in a few years from now. So what is the place of an age-old institution with socialist roots in the new India with chic cafes and upmarket restaurants?

    Their place is sealed in my memories, forever.

    With inputs from Amey.

  • The Shimla Affair – Chapter II

    Continued from Part I…

    Slowly and steadily the flavors of Shimla were building on me, or probably building a better me. The daily dose of the forgettable Kadhi, the ever so delightful daal, and ghee-moistened rotis served by those beautiful long slender fingers were adding a new dimension to my life. One beyond infatuation, adding a slight crispiness to romantic fascinations of  teenage years, and semi-serious indulgences of recent times. It was a 70s movie refashioned for present day consumption, Engineer guy arrives from big city, falls for a Pahadi girl while working on a dam project, impregnates her on “that” lightening-struck, stormy evening, overcomes all difficulties and lives happily ever after. The story was slightly different though, I wasn’t working on any dam project, there were no song and dance routines, I had hardly touched her, and yes the biggest thing, I had never talked to her.

    Sitting one night at my haunted accommodation, and listening to my still talking-on-phone friend, I had an idea. Well it wasn’t a stroke of genius , but writing letters was my thing. And I knew this would work. So I added a note, written in a dyslexia-smitten Hindi writing. I had asked her to meet me at Krishna Bakery, at The Mall the day after at evening, 4 PM.

    Next night things were running as per the script. Her mom was sitting at the counter and abusing everyone from Chief Minister of Himachal to the Gandhi Family for low Apple production in Himachal this year while reading vividly colorful Punjab Kesari, my friend was still on phone, she was making those lovely rotis, and I was busy eating. She shut the stove, picked the basket and came walking towards our table. As I beamishly watched her face, she served me  and my still talking-on-phone friend. And I held her hand. She was shocked. I felt as I was being hit with the thunderbolt, just as Michael Corleone was hit by his Sicilian first wife, or Feroze Khan by an Afghani Hema Malini in Godfather’s pathetic Indian adaptation- Dharmatma.

    Her hands were powedered with bits of dry flour, but beneath the flour lay those soft beautiful slender fingers, which I could just hold on to forever. She had a timid, yet a welcoming look on her face. I guess she felt like snatching away her hand, but just couldn’t do it. I quickly took the letter folded as a small chit and pushed it in between her fingers. She snatched away her hands and with a shooting smile rushed inside her house. Behind those dirty-torn curtains, lay something special, something which was building on me, or building a better me.

    That night I could hardly sleep.

    Next day I had some work at the YMCA office next to Ritz at the mall in afternoon, so I left my office immediately after lunch. I kept thinking about the moment I could talk to her, on the bus, on the Rs. 7 lift ride to the the Mall, during my meeting with the YMCA Shimla Chairman, and all the time after that. The meeting ended around 3:30 PM and I rushed out of the Chairman’s office towards the main road of the Mall.

    I reached Krishna Bakery and ordered my favorite plate of Kurkej. Kurkejs are veggie sticks made from a mix of potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and capsicum. The sticks are rolled, coated with a bit of cheese and then baked and fried. They are served with Garlic-Chilly momo sauce, green chutney and white sauce (which tastes like packaged Garlic mayo). Strangely I haven’t found this dish anywhere else in India. Although they are horrible while they are cold, tasty yet hardly edible. I took my plate, spotted an empty bench and sat there, munching on Kurkejs. It was almost 4 PM. There was a chill in air, heightened by the anticipation of meeting, a bit of nervousness and a lot of expectation.

    And it was 4:15 PM.

    There was beauty all over, the old Victorian structures and wooden buildings, the cutest of school kids in their bright uniforms and toned blazers, beautiful people with an amazing Himachali sheen on their skin, and above all the mist filled scenery. Her presence would have completed this already complete picture.

    And it was 4:45 PM.

    I waited for some more time, slowly flicking through the Dominique Lapierre book I had been reading. Freedom at Midnight had its chapters on Shimla, especially the scenic descriptions of Viceregal Lodge (now Institute of Advanced Studies) witnessing the drafting of India’s partition plans. Me waiting for her here was a bit like the partition plan, the foolish quickness of decision making, and the absence of a sound logic were similar to the drawing of the Radcliffe Line.

    But not all decisions in life tend to be logical.

    And it was 5:30 PM already.

    There was no point waiting further. I packed some Momos for my friend and started walking down the Mall towards the bus stand. Strangely at this bakery, the Momos were plated in the exact same way as Kurkejs were, with lots of Momo sauce, Green Chutney and Mayo. I gave my friend a call and asked him to meet me at Kasumpti. I then took one of those bread-box like Shimla Transport buses towards Kasumpti.

    I met him at the bus stand and he wanted to have an early meal. Obviously given I wasn’t there, he would have missed our evening Pakods, Jalebi and couple of shots of milky tea. We started walking towards the eatery.

    We reached our daily kadhi-daal-roti adobe around 7 PM. My still-talking-on-phone entered while I stood outside. She was standing on the counter, looking at me, with an amicable smile, a really pleasing one. All of a sudden there was a mini-eruption of anger within, maybe she was smiling at my foolishness. I quickly walked past the eatery and ran towards my hostel.

    My friend didn’t even realize that I was absent till he came back to hostel that night.

    That night I could hardly sleep. There was another week to go before I moved back to Mumbai.

    So for the next seven days I kept passing her place, looking at her and walking past it. I saw an array of emotions, smiles turning to sorrow, happiness turning to fury, and amazement turing to disugust. The growing coldness in her eyes was completely in contrast with the rising temperature.

    I didn’t meet her again. Infact I never met her. I left Shimla the next week. The flavors which had dominated my life for the past few weeks had mellowed down. Life was a bit like those cold Kurkejs, tasty, yet hardly edible.

  • किम्कर्त्व्यविमुढ

    सब कुछ  था स्थिर, अविचलित, शांत सा,
    अचानक से इस दुविधा ने लाया एक बवंडर सा।

    क्या करे क्या ना करे के दोराहे पर मैं हु खड़ा,
    असमंजस से जूझता, पर इरादों पर अड़ा।

    इस पार है निराशा, उस पार आशा की किरण,
    बीच मझदार का सफ़र है, जिस पर तय होगा जीवन-मरण।

    -अभिषेक ‘देसी’ देशपांडे

  • The Shimla Affair – Chapter I

    I hadn’t realized how close we were to our hostel. I looked at my watch, it was around 7:30 PM, but it felt like it was 11 already. The Shiv Temple which stood brightly shining in the morning sunlight looked a bit dull now. The only shops which seemed busy were the two liquor stores selling Desi Liquor. Kasumpti tends to be this way, much more humbler compared to the happenings at the mall. And even colder. Actually the hunger made me feel extremely cold.

    I spotted a few eateries, a set of shady ones serving gas inducing pulses and cold flaky jalebis. I just entered one of them, followed sheepishly by my friend, who had been busy talking to a series of brain-dead girls since an hour, or so I assume.

    A stout-looking, grumpily smiling aunty welcomed us and asked us to take a seat. The place was empty, and dimly lit, with walls having those smoky oil spots with flaky distemper,  a trait common across so many small-town eateries. The tables were dirty-white, enhancing the grimness of the place. The grimness was equally reflected on aunty’s face, wrinkled around the edges, but still carrying that rose-tainted Himachali charm.

    I asked the clichéd question, “What’s there to eat?”, she came back with an equally clichéd response, “Dinner!!!”. I didn’t think much and asked her to layout dinner for two. My friend was still on phone, the hmms and long pauses quite indicative of his boredom. Talking on phone to girls has never been my thing. Never will be.

    She cleaned the table using a dirty rag, then using the same one to clean our compartmentalized steel plates. These plates reminded me of the plates used in langar, or my favorite plate at home as a kid. I used my T-Shirt to give my plates another decent wipe. T-Shirt had a coating of cold sweat on it, but atleast it was my own sweat.

    Kadhi Pakoda and Maa Ki Daal were served first, along with some stale-looking chopped-yesterday kind off onion and green chillies  I took a spoon and started sampling stuff, the daal was hot and fresh, and minimal usage of Garlic provided a confirmatory evidence of its freshness. Kadhi felt stale, like really stale, with a strong whiff of Hing (Asafoetida) in it.

    I started looking around to kill time till the rotis arrived. There were pictures of gods and goddesses and few cut outs of Filmstars from the region’s favorite Punjab Kesari editions. There was huge blue drum next to an old creaky door, an off-color blue drum, the shades of the place giving it a rather Instagrammed feel.  Maybe it was used to store water. Maybe that’s where aunty stored this awful Kadhi, and recycled it for guests like us.

    To add insult to injury, she got some Pakodas made in evening and popped them in the Kadhi served on our dishes, as if that would help? I reminded her about the rotis. She asked me to wait for couple of minutes.

    I heard a slight creak of the door behind me, I felt someone entered the main eatery area and started walking towards us. I didn’t bother as all I had on my mind were the impending rotis. I felt a touch on my elbow, a touch of warmth on my cold elbow, a soft and special touch. I smelt a freshness in the air, it had replaced the Asafoetida smell, and all my tiredness had disappeared at that very moment. She stopped, I looked at her, and at that very moment things became exciting yet silent. The gaze of those rich brown eyes was superbly complemented with a sharp, rather pointy noise. Her complexion was clear, and the rosy Himachali sheen on her cheeks exuded freshness. Her faint green kurta and the deep blue head scarf just went so well with her beautiful face. That amazingly beautiful pahadi face.

    She walked towards the stove and started rolling the dough. Her long slender fingers rolled the dough and then divided it precisely into separate balls. She started rolling the dough balls and lighted the stove. I saw a few small drops of sweat flowing down her cold white face. It was all so beautiful. I wish I could have been a painter and captured that moment.

    The rolling seemed so seamless, and in a smooth action that dull off-white colored dough had transformed to a spotty white colored, hot air filled Roti. She piled on a 3-4 rotis in a basket and then dabbed a bit a of Ghee on it. The dab was accompanied with a smile, ghee does represent love in some way for sure. Aunty walked towards her probably to pick up the basket, but she shut the stove, picked the basket before aunty reached it and came towards our table. As I shamelessly watched her face, she served me  and my still talking-on-phone friend. How the hell can he miss this? In a way it was good that he was missing all this. I don’t think he could have appreciated it the way I did.

    The rotis kept on coming, the boring kadhi developed a lovely flavor, daal felt like the one from the Golden Temple at Amritsar, it is strange how love, or the thought of it can completely change your life. Or at least the flavors in it.

    Read part II here.

  • A Very Long Walk to Freedom

    There is a continuous buzz in my ear, but I neglect that and keep running. I see him clearly, the colors are crystal clear, Hi Definition, and beautifully bright, even in the pitch black darkness of night. I can see the rolling ball at his feet, about to leave them, but still hesitant, like a first-time school going kid. I can’t see him now, I can just see the ball as it starts curling towards me, wait curling away from me! I dive and snatch it out of the sweaty, seafood-smelling air. I stopped a certain goal. But now it is my head which is curling.

    I am high. I think I am on a beach. A few hours back I was on my campus writing my final examination. I can’t recollect events post that, but I can piece together a sequence of images- phone calls, a run towards Bandra Terminus, a ticket bought for Vapi, lots of beer and whisky picked up on the way, a bottle of beer breaking. Oh yes, I remember now. I am in Daman.

    It is new years eve and a group of football-loving, women-hating young men (or the so called losers) have accompanied each other on a short trip to Daman.

    And yes, I am on a beach. There is sand. There is a small shack cooking chicken and frying fish for us. There is a small campfire. There is music. There are a billion bottles of beer and a trillion empty pegs of whisky. There are people- my good friends, my acquaintances and few unknowns.

    But where the hell is water???

    All of a sudden I shudder. Am I actually on a beach? I am walking on a thin rope between the real and the surreal, and I am afraid of falling, just that I don’t want to be on either side.

    I do the normal checks by pinching myself. I go ahead and slap one of my friends and he abuses me back with his favorite abuse. Oh yes, maybe things are real. I am actually on a beach with no water. Is it possible?

    The clock is about to strike 12 and I am feeling awkward about things. I corner a couple of my friends and ask them have they thought about the no water on the beach thing yet? I see a look of negligence on their faces, maybe they have known it all throughout, even they are walking the same rope. Their look changes to one of curiosity, their eyes burning with inquisitiveness. We look at each other. Let’s go and find the bloody damn water!

    We start walking towards the pitch black horizon. It is a moonless cloudy night, with minimal tinges of shiny sprinkles on the pitch black sky. So there is no reflection on the seabed. We do feel the wet sand touching our feet after walking some distance, but there is water yet. No sound of tides. No boat on the distant horizon. I still think we all are dreaming.

    Three of us have left our friends far behind, the sounds have died, the fire we had lighted on the beach is slowly smoldering now, it’s all in the past. We are standing in the middle of nowhere with a wet feel on our feet, and see a sea of nothingness in front of us. My ear is still buzzing. I think it’s the alcohol. But I hear water. I look towards my friends, and even they heard it. We start running towards nothingness.

    Splash.

    One of my friends falls tripping over a small puddle of water. We have found some water and there is hope to find much more ahead. We keep running. We have left everything behind, our friends, our fears, our inhibitions, and maybe ourselves.

    A few seconds later our feet start touching the foamy beginnings of the sea, and we are there, in between the saltiness, and gushiness of sea-water. We jump into it. All three of us. The water is cold, cold enough to take the heat of alcohol from our brains and the buzz from my ear. A sense of freedom creeps in, a freedom for all what we feared of. I know it is all real.

    After regaining some sense we know it was a low tide day and the water had receded quite far away from the shore. As we are sitting in water, we can listen to the sounds of our friends rejoicing, few fireworks go up in the air. It is the start of a new year. It is a new beginning.

    As we begin our long walk back towards the shore laughing at ourselves, we leave behind the darkness and move towards a bright, hopeful new year.