Down Memory Lane

Just like Alice plummeted down into Wonderland, I closed my eyes the other day and found myself deep; in to a landscape that is only the “stuff that dreams are made of” anymore.  I am a little girl, maybe eight or nine and am at my ancestral village with my family. It is hot and the village has no electricity. We have just finished lunch and the whole family, all five of us, are trying to rest in the inner-most room which is supposed to be the coolest. A "khus" curtain has been hung on the door and water is constantly dripping on it to cool the environment.  There is a fabric covered, fringed board, hanging by the ceiling, and a young servant boy pulls the rope to make this device, supposed to be a fan, swing back and forth and move the air so the family can take their siesta. As the adults doze off, we three kids go running up to the roof-top to see the village sights that are new and foreign to our urban life.  We are not allowed outside and the huge entrance doors are locked. Outside the house are huge heaps of dried wheat. Some of the wheat is scattered on the floor and we see a servant (except we are not allowed to call them servants) guiding a pair of oxen, pulling a heavy board that separates the wheat berries from the husk. Some women in brightly colored suits and their faces covered with their dupattas (scarves) are sifting them and piling them on to the ever growing heaps of glistening wheat berries.  Some people have brooms and are sweeping the wayward berries on to the heap. We are awe-stuck that this is what our bread comes from. We are too naïve to know that this bounty also provides for much else that we enjoy in the city.

The journey takes me down another lane and I am in the village fields. A cuckoo bird is singing non-stop in the nearby mango tree. It is hot and we take shelter under the tree.  A couple of cots with red and khaki covers called “khes” have been put there in anticipation of our visit to the fields. (I remember my grandma telling me that this khaki is precious because the yarn is spun from natural khaki cotton and not dyed).  There is a well by the tree and two oxen are walking in a circle pulling the lathe that is attached to a string of metal buckets, thus pulling water out of the well, that then runs into irrigation drains which water the fields. The bells around the oxen’s necks chime in a soothing melody. We drink our fill of the cool delicious water and splash one another in frolic. I look at these animals and now I am perplexed. Weren’t they the pair ploughing the fields earlier, and then thrashing the wheat and now they are pulling water; how will they survive so much labor? My father sniggers at my urban eye that cannot tell one animal apart from another. Of course, we have several pairs of oxen and he tried to show me how they differ, but I still don’t see the difference.  Dusk is approaching and we are sent home. Our father has to supervise some more fields.

When we reach home, we find our mother making small bundles of corn and channa (Garbanzo) beans and asking one of the female helpers to make sure the “Bhatti wali” does not take out too much for her own share. Bouncing up and down we want to go to the “Bhatti wali”.  A BHATTI is an in-ground clay burner. The lady who operates it is called a “Bhatti Wali”. She uses a huge metal Wok with sand in it. The stove heats up the sand and then she puts the grains in the hot sand and roasts them. Once they are done, she sieves them apart from the sand, and when we get them in our baskets, there isn’t a speck of sand—just delicious warm popped corn and chick peas. This joint, we see, also serves as a social hub. As they await their turn to get their grains popped, people take the time to chat one another up, get updated on the latest gossip, and in case of young women, complain about the in-laws. These last bits are always more interesting. Population almost always consists of women, because men are at work at this hour. We bring our grains or “Daane” as they are called in Punjabi, and eat them with jaggery, and when we are bored, flick them at one another.

After evening showers, our father holds court in the outer yard and we go hang around his chair. It is intriguing to hear people come and give him daily reports of how work is progressing, how much wheat is filling our coffers, and how new sowing of cotton is progressing. They report on petty crimes in the village, and request his mediation in matters of the law. This is also the time they could ask for money, more grain allotment, a day off, or talk about next year’s contract.  During just one such sessions, the doors start rattling, our father grabs us to him and before we know, there is dust flying everywhere. The animals are braying and trying to break off their shackles. The lamps go out, and it is pitch dark while the wind is performing its howling dance. Anything that is not tied down is bounced and flung to the other end of the courtyard. I whimper I want to go inside, but it is not safe. After what feels like hours of a ferocious dark dust storm, the wind abates and we go take another bath.

We fast forward to another day. There is a device with two round stone pieces stacked atop each other. The top one has a handle and a hole in the middle. It is called a “Chakki” or a grinder. A woman is pouring something through the hole as she is rotating the top stone with the handle. “Chachi (Auntie) what are you doing”? “I am grinding Daal (lentils) for the evening meal”. “Can I try it?”  “Sure but just don’t tell the mistress or I will get in trouble”. (Confusing; why would she get in trouble if I try doing what she is doing?  Adults!) ! ”Just make sure you rotate it at a steady pace. If you go too slowly, the grains will turn to powder, and if you go too fast, they will remain whole”. I don’t think it should be that hard so I try a couple of rounds but cannot synchronize the pouring and the rotating. It is only lentils after all!  Who wants to keep on going in circles? That spinning wheel in the other corner seems like a lot of fun. Haven’t we seen granny Amma spin large cotton wicks into spools of yarn?  There is a basket full of wicks sitting by the spinning wheel. I pick one up, and stick it on the needle, pulling at it with one hand and rotating the wheel with the other. All I get is a clump of cotton. My mother sees me and yells so loud that I wake up.

I am back in the 2012 Punjab. We have driven the entire country side and have not seen a single working well. They have all been replaced by efficient, tube-wells that either use electricity or diesel. The water still feeds the fields, but the sweet jingling music from the bells around the oxen’s necks is gone. In its place is the jarring phut-phut of the motor and noxious fumes from the diesel.  Bullocks are not pulling carts to haul crops or fodder; now people have tractors and trolleys No animals or humans are thrashing the wheat and there are no marked thrashing areas any more. Combine harvesters do the job, while women sit, gossip and gain weight, and men are drowning in alcohol, or lying semi-conscious with drugs poisoning their very essence, or both.  Did I really have to wake up?

 

The Diyas of Diwali

In the pitch dark of a Diwali night, multi-shaped, colorful Diyas(clay lamps) epitomize happines, as the circles of light around them dispel darkness and despair; they stand for erernal hope,as they spatter and burn to the last speck of oil, not giving up. Once they are all burnt out, there is black soot around them, the wick has turned to ash, and there is no sign of the oil that kept the flame going. They lie around waiting to be collected and tossed out. Where once they spread hope and happiness, they are now relics of the time gone. They've had their minutes of glory, and are reduced to mere eyesores. I need to sweep up mine and decide what I want to do with them. I will probably keep some, so I can use them again, to spread their glow at least one more time. Others, I will toss in the trash can to be gone with Monday's pickup. They served their purpose, and can now be dispensed with. I need to clean up the place and move on. Wish one could do the same with relations that are no longer healthy and thriving, but have burnt to ash and soot. Unfortunately, that is the ash and soot we collect and smear around us, and roll around in it.

Gosh, these darned Diyas, are maiking a philosopher of this mere being! I think I'll just stick to candles next year. They glow, they die; you clean up the wax-end of the story.

Pain and Shame Thy names are Commonwealth Games.

People of Indian origin all over the world find themselves having to lower their gaze, quickly change the subject, or give dumb and rambling answers when asked about the fiasco that is the Commonwealth Games. We are left to wonder why India had to take on a task of such magnitude. Clearly, Indian Govt. and people involved in this endeavour do not demonstrate the maturity, honesty, discipline and dedication needed to make it a success.

Every event of any magnitude in India has to have a decorative ministerial involvement so the Ministers in-charge can get some credit and take a few smiling pictures. They have to participate in hundreds of such "photo opportunities", and do not have the time to devote to anything that is not personally rewarding. This fact comes to light from their lame statements to the Press about preparations for the games.

Plans probably looked real good, till it was time to implement them. Construction contracts were probably given on basis of recommendation, partiality, or bribery; or, all of the above. When someone has paid tons of money to attain a contract, he/she (not to be sexist here), tries to make that back and then some, by saving on quality of materials used, and work done. Results are shocking. India had seven years to plan, organize, build and test. Here we are, merely days before the occasion and our structures are falling, facilities are filthy, and people are detached and disinterested. A bridge collapsed, part of the ceiling in the actual stadium fell, and instead of an aura of peaceful order, there is a din of chaos all around.

Here, a comparison with China is inevitable. We were in Beijing three weeks before the Olympics and they were ready to hold the event the next day. The areas around the Bird's Nest and the Athlete's Village were inaccessible to one and all. Tour buses could only point to these from a disctance. The City was in the final stages of window washing and cosmetic touch-ups, and there was not even a sign of litter. Strict punishment is a deterrant for corruption, neglect and plain and simple indifference. Whether it was the rod of Communism, or the dedication and patriotism of people on the street, the country put up a phenomenal show. They must have had their internal struggles and strifes, but participating nations were not given any reason to be concerned or apprehensive. There are bound to be unforeseen lapses of ommission and commission, given the magnitude of the event, and that is why the forseeable ones need to be prevented.

It is shameful, indeed, when nations are withdrawing on basis of cleanliness in the year 2010. The village should have been attractive, inviting, and a shining example of Indian hospitality. Instead, it depicts a disgraceful picture of filth and litter that pollutes our streets and neighborhoods at any given time.

Countries are rightfully concerned about security of their athletes. On any given day, newspapers and TV news are replete with pictures and stories about attacks against women, of motorbikers violating peace and security of neighborhoods like Cannaught Place, of blasts blocks from a police "Chowki", people protesting and blocking trains and road traffic for hours. In the midst of all this we see the watchdogs of law and order standing around with their batons and antiquated rifles. When he could not evade the subject any more, the Minister in-charge merely states that security is adequate, and if some country does not approve, he cannot help it. That sounds so re-assuring to Nations who are jittery about exposing their athletes to an unsafe setting! How about a simple reassurance that such and such measures are being taken to make the streets and surroundings safe for guests and Delhi residents?

At this point India is not equipped to handle an event that needs total restructure of a city, destroys its ecosystem, and pulls at the meagre strings of a developing society. The thousands of crores being spent on the games could have been used to uplift the poor, to educate the children, improve the infrastructure, or help the farmers who are compelled to take their own lives. Perhaps, some little bit could have been spent on training and nourishment of the athletes themselves. When one tries to count the holes this money could have filled, one runs out of money but not the holes.

A lot of us living outside India always feel a sense of nostalgia and love for the country. We miss our days growing up there. It was always a packet of the good and the bad, of the ugly and the beautiful, but that was always our packet to own, to remember and to love. Now it has been shredded to pieces for the rest of the world to peek in, to question, to ridicule, and to turn away from. That hurts.

What a cool,mellow morning! The curtain of fog is shrouding everything beautiful and ugly, as though to embrace it all. As you step outside, the cool touches the depths of your soul, calming all the storms, big or small, in your consciousness, leaving you to paecefully sigh,"This is heavenly". The pearls of dew glisten on the heat exhausted leaves, infusing fresh breath and hope in to them. They know their days are numbered, so they drink from this nectar like a terminal patient getting hydration, drop by drop. Even though we do not get the four typical seasons in Southern California, we will get our "Fall". These leaves will make room for new ones to come, true to the cycle of life. The difference is that we won't get many Fall colors, exccept where some of us have planted trees that actually change color. Effect is not the riot of color you see in some other states, but that of a dull green landscape with blobs of color. Our pines are always green,and the landscape is not totally bare. We do not grieve the fallin of leaves like Tennyson:
My heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of rotting leaves"
Yet the melancholy of the season will hit a little later, when the day will turn in to night rather quickly, and the dark evenings will drag like the never ending stories of a tired, old relative.

Our leaves do not get the chance to rot and mulch.When the leaves dry here, Santa Ana winds blow them all around, and then the rains wash them away.The Santa Anas are no calming breezes that bring wifts of ripening fruits or brewing apple ciders.These blow in hot and fierce like demons. Nothing stands in their way. Half the ripening fruits meet an untimely end,and the flowering plants lose their crowning glories. Anything that is not tied down, will be found in the most unlikeliest of places. No need to despair yet. We do have a bit of time to enjoy the cool mornings and balmy afternoons till these nightmares hit. Right now it is a:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

We are revelling in Keats' Autumn, with apples ripening, big red figs bending the boughs, and grapes a-plenty.

A Step Back in Time

It was really hot in the San Fernando Valley today, and I made some Mango and Pista Kulfis (Indian Ice Cream). Asniff of the fragrance of Cardamom and Mango, and I was transported to the magical days of our childhood. Mangoes were a big part of our Summers. Mangoes in all their varieties, color, texture and flavors. Our mothers would use the raw mangoes to make pickles and chutneys. In the Summer heat, we would fill a tunb with ice water and leave the fruit in there to chill and exude a heavenly flavor and fragrance. Then we would all sit around the tub and eat our Mangoes. Some would suck the nectar-like juice out of the tiny "Tapka" mangoes, while the more finicky among us would take another variety, slice and dig in to them. Somehow, it was always more fun to dunk them in ice water, than chill them in the refrigerator. At times, we would try to chase the Summer heat with an icy Mango Shake. YUM. We did not know about the currently popular "Mango Lassi". It used to be a long Summer Vacation, and we had to find things to do, since this was before the age of Television and video games. Days were pretty long, even after the volumes of home work we had to do. We would bring out the old Ice Cream churner, send someone for a block of ice the size of a suitcase, get some coarse salt, and try to make Mango Ice Cream. These were not electric machines and we would have to take turns churning the mixture.  Some days we would get perfect Ice Cream and on others it ended up as a mush. Whatever the case, it would cool our throats, aesophagus, and stomachs. Never since have I had Ice Cream that chilled me so! Maybe it's been glorified in my memories, I don't know.

Mention of Ice Cream and Kulfi is sending me twirling into my past almost like Dorothy got whisked on to the Yellow Brick Lane. It reminds me of Summers spent at our Grandma's. Those were the days when nothing moved on a Summer afternoon. Almost everyone retired to a cool room for an afternoon siesta.. Even the pets would stay close to water and fans. We were at an age when napping was a waste of time, and we would rather fill our afternoons with something more fun. There was this hawker who used to come at the perfect hour when our elders were deep in slumber, and we could creep out in the smouldering heat. This man used to sell the most unique kind of Ice Cream or Kulfi. It wa like a solid block of frozen mixture, wrapped around a cone. Then he would cover it in layers and layers of cloth to insulate and keep it solid. He would be hawking" Khoey Malai Wali Kulfi" ( Ice Cream from evaporated and condensed milk). We would run outside, give him our money, and he would shave layers off the cone, and serve them to us on large leaves. I think they were "Peepal" leaves. It was so good, we would even lick the leaves, and then go back inside, smacking our lips, savoring the taste and waiting for the next afternoon.

What a nostalgic trip down memory lane! All because of the King of Fruits! 

Out of Sync

For any system to work, I mean just work, not even efficiently, parts have to be in sync. At least to a certain point. Take any creation, human or divine, all organs have to work together. If the body of your car is in great shape, but the engine sputters, huffs, and puffs, it is no good. Similarly, if the engine works OK, but the doors are falling off, you won't go far, This is the easy stuff. A mechanic can fix the body and the engine, and it is somewhat decent again. The human body has been compared to the automobile, the computer etc., but the main difference is that we cannot discard the body and get a new one, or change the CPU and go merrily along. If all parts worked together, road to the Golden Years would not be so bumpy. Problem comes up when the mind says "Go,  put in another mile. You used to do it last year", and the body is saying, "Are you crazy? That was 365 days ago". The mind proposes and the body disposes! It is a nice cool Summer morning, perfect for gardening, and you have plans to work out, do couple loads of laundry, shop and cook for the week, and go see that movie everyone is talking about. This is what your mind has planned for your day. Your body sweats through gardening and tries to make a deal with the mind, "Look, I worked in the garden for an hour. That should count for something. Also, it's getting hot now. I can go to the Gym tomorrow". The mind frets and fumes, and goes to the next item. Body complies and puts in a load of laundry. Mind ( we all know who is the master here) keeps going to next items on the list and the body does OK. Around mid-day, the mind nudges, and the body plays dead.  The mind yells GUILT, body says, "We'll deal with it. I have been your slave for years. I have followed all your commands, now slow down or you'll drive me crazy". So they go, day in and day out, the mind bouncing ahead, prompting the body to follow along, and the body trying, really trying, and not keeping up, like a dog that chases its tail, never catching it. The things to do list? It is still there in some recess of the mind, the body couldn't care less.

ADIEUS SUMMER

Summer came and went, well almost. The season might still be Summer, but the lazy days, the sleeping in, follow own schedules--it's all over, as of this Monday. Monday is the last day of semi-freedom, and then on to living my life by the clock. The alarm will go off at 5:15, get out of bed at 5:30, morning tea, shower/dress, short prayer, breakfast, off to work Am I ready? I think so. It has been a great relaxing summer; a mixture of rest, fulfilment, and family time. The Summer heat just came in spells, Southern California weather often switching between Summer and Fall, confusing my plants.

Back to being ready to go back to school. I though I'd aid the process a bit by shopping for some new rags. That always helps the mind-set. What an exercise in frustration and futility. Has anyone tried to find a pair of decent pants lately? Some forces seem to be conspiring against me ever owning any decent clothes. I have to buy Petites, and if you ever go into a petite section, the discrimination against short people is GLARING! The section is less than 2% the size of "Regulars". Then, if you do find some pants and try them on, they grind and groan, and stop at your hips. I thought pants were supposed to fit around one's waist! And then you look down, and your legs look like sausages, prepared by a novice, with lumps sticking out in unseemly places. Disgusted, you decide you'll just stick to your old pants, but buy some new tops. Not much luck there, either.  Anything and everything that is half-way decent is made for women over 5.9" tall, weighing a hundred pounds! People like me? I think we'll just have to do with other people's discards and pretend like they are stylish and flattering. I still had to buy something; everyone else goes shopping for going back to school. So, I buy shoes, and more shoes! I can still find some that  fit right, look good, are comfortable and make me feel good! So, folks I think I'll just wear "Moo Moos", but a nice new pair of shoes, every day of the week!