The Peter Cat

At that time someone forbade me my regular crumbs and introduced me to the wonders of The Peter Cat. I didn’t think much of either the sizzling ‘house special’ or the ‘Chelo kabab’. But over the years I acquired a taste for it.

Then it was time to venture into a new life in a different city and then a different country. Chelo Kababs lay forgotten over the struggle to digest the new cuisines that were offered to me. Busy with work and life nothing seemed that important anymore.

Just a couple of weeks back I woke up thinking of that fragrant rice sizzling with a blob of butter, an egg poach on top and a choice of succulent kababs. It was such a strong craving that I refused all other food. We checked lots of  restaurants in Bangkok and came up with a bevy of very tasty kababs, but nothing was good enough for me.

Having tried my luck and having irritated a lot of people who couldn’t really understand my sudden fixation towards that particular meal, I decided to try my culinary skills.

After a little bit of research and a bit more of marination and grilling, by lunch I had a similar looking plate of goodies ready. I admit my rice was not Basmati but Jasmine, and my poach decided to land upside down on the rice, and neither did I have a choice of kababs. But I did have chicken kababs, tomatoes, onions and capsicums on stick to go with the rice butter and poach. And guess what? It tasted familiar enough not to miss the mellow lighting and chattering waiters of Peter Cat or that noisy beloved city for once.

The same age

I remember her like that little doll the first day when she came home and wouldn’t stop crying.
I held her hand on the first day at school and told someone to take care of her.
She was my first playmate, my first best friend.
I have used her as guinea pig in carrying a pillion on a bicycle for the first time and for many other experiments… Someone to be used as a messenger to mom during times of our cold war…

Who poured water on the neighbors head? Who burned up all the paper just for fun? Who did all the crazy things quietly like an angel at work? ME!!! Who got the blame? My baby sis. That’s what sisters are for.

She stole my favorite tops; she wore my new shoes behind my back. She ran away with my new pen and ate up all my chocolates. She gets away with things no friend or family would ever dare to do…just cause she is my sister.

But still she turned to me when she needed someone to defend her or when she needed answers for most of her problems.

We are each others biggest critics. She tells me that I am putting on weight’ and I tell her that her choice of clothes is atrocious. We tease each other about everything we do. So when she does tell me that something is ‘alright’ I know that she is paying me the ultimate compliment.

Two people I love the most

With her I can be a famous actress in a Hollywood movie, a rock star and tour the world or be an eminent scientist and save the world. All before breakfast on Sunday Morning!

People listening to us talk feel like absolute outsiders cause they don’t understand a word . We don’t need careful explanations to understand each other. We don’t even need full sentences…

Friendship is a splendid thing. But it involves people who do not know the family jokes, disasters, habits and ridiculous adventures. Not from the inside. But you my oldest friend, enemy, rival, companion and collaborator – u do.

Friends came and went. And Boyfriends. Jobs. Adventures. Beliefs. But there has been a constancy. Our bonding with each other.
Sometimes I dread waking up to a huge crisis – then I cheer up because little sister will be there to give me excellent advice and put the smile back on my face.

We shared parents, home, pets, celebrations, catastrophes, secrets. And the threads of our experience became so interwoven that we are linked. I can never be utterly alone knowing that you share the planet.

She persuades me with her talks and behaviors that she has grown up and learned a lot from life, is wiser now. But then she suddenly does something and I smile and nod cause I see her again: Aged six in disguise.

Now she is all grown up and living her own life… but still I’ll always be around, just in case. ‘Coz she will always be my baby sister even the day she turns 40. Love you sweetheart.

So similar... almost the same

Granny

The person I relate to the most in my family is my grandmother – my father’s mother. I have known her as the strong, fearsome (to the rest of the world) person, who held the whole family together. I look nothing like her but what I am today is mostly of her. Sometimes, I look at my own reflection on the glass pane and suddenly see her, the same hands, the same gait, the same attitude towards life. I run my household according to what she used to say so many years ago.

I was never her favourite and I didn’t mind. Truthfully, at that time I was too busy living my life to care about being anyone’s favourite in that huge family.  She adored our eldest cousin and my little sister who was then the youngest in the family. With me, it was always a conflict of interest.

Thaku-ma as we called her was also known as Renuka. By the time we were born that name almost didn’t exist except in official papers. Her marriage to my grandfather was an arranged marriage, pretty much without their consent. It so happened that her elder sister, who was a great beauty in those days, was married to my grandfather’s handsome elder  brother. It was decided that the two sisters should marry into the same family.

I never found out who made the match, but I guess it was her sister. She was worried her tall and dark little sister would never land a groom. The opinion of the bride and the groom was never asked and nor did they see each other before the wedding. My grandfather on the other hand didn’t mind much thinking his bride too would look like her fair, petite and pretty sister. In those days people didn’t think much of the supermodel good-looks, hence my granddad was sorely disappointed. He even made it a point to let his 13 year old bride know about it.

The marriage started with discontent and disapproval. There was never much love or harmony between them. They were like two strangers living under the same roof. One was the breadwinner and the other the homemaker. They went on to have seven kids. They stayed married all their life and brought up the children together. But all that was possible because she was the woman she was.

On the other side of the family was my grandmother – my mother’s mother. I don’t remember her much. I was very young when she passed away. She is someone I know from the stories I have heard about her. I do not emulate her in anyway though I have her passion for books, music, cooking and fine living. The little of her in me is what was in my genes.

Didi as we called her was known as Binapani. She and my grandfather had a love marriage at a time, when love before marriage was unheard of. Didi was the daughter of a widow, who had taken it upon herself to be educated so that she could earn for the family. Education for women was still at the grass root level then and a working woman was unheard of. Didi was the first woman staff for the state government. She had her office at the famous Writer’s building. She met my grandfather during her work life and accepted his proposal for marriage.

Didi always dressed in white. She had a wardrobe full of crisp white cotton sarees that she wore the modern way. She always wore sandals with 3 inch heels and used expensive soaps and perfumes. She earned more than her husband did and supported 2 families. She was an officer before her husband got to that designation. She was never a looker. She was frail, thin and short with beautiful knee length hair, and

a personality that could throw off any man. She was a rebel among women of her time.

Didi not only loved her husband who could sometimesbe a tyrant, but also taught the whole household to love and respect him at all times. She stood by her ideals against all odds and did what she thought was right. She was a woman who knew her mind and however frail she might have been she ruled with an iron hand.

Two very different women, both equally strong. They define me for who I am today.

Karaishutir Porota and Alur Dom

Today was a surprise day off, thanks to the ‘Red Shirt Rally’. Back home we have rallies every alternate day and we have learned to live with it. But, in faraway Thailand, its an event which gives us an extra day off and may cause a coup if not handled properly. A 50,000 strong armed security force has been deployed all around the city.

We woke up at 8:30 (which is a privilege cause my babies usually wake up with the sun). Late wake up was followed by a porridge and fruits breakfast for Little A and me and cold cuts sandwich for darling S, who screws up his nose at the mention of oats. We had already planned on going for a swim but I had also planned on doing away with my weekly cooking – fridge stocking routine by today. That’s the only way I can relax for the next couple of days.

Finally we settled on swimming first and cooking later, which I gave in to after a hurried arrangement for a simple lunch. Little A was ecstatic that he was going ‘supping’ (swimming) again. But, it turned out to be a flop show as the water was cold and he was out of the water in half an hour, shivering. He made quite an effort to stay put, but, finally gave in. We have decided to hit the water early tomorrow morning to catch the sun.

The hurried swim session got us all hungry and sleepy. Lunch was followed by a 3 hour long nap for both daddy and sonny. I was left to do my own thing.

I do love to cook and experiment while I am at it. The big packet of frozen peas sitting in the freezer looked very inviting. I thought of using it in the kheema or making a polau. Again those were old stuff. Suddenly I thought of the lovely ‘Karaishutir Kochuri’ they make back home. My MIL is specially gifted in this one. So I knew experimenting on those grounds would mean filling some really big pair of shoes. But its more fun when its a challenge.

By 5:30 in the evening I was done with the whole weeks cooking and the star dish of the week. I couldn’t stick to the recipe provided. As is my habit, I pick and choose from 10 different websites and call home in intervals to cook anything special. In the end, I had made karaishutir porota or green peas paratha (also called Indian bread stuffed with green peas filling).

The critic tried it the first thing after his refreshing nap. Frowned a little, chewed some more and finally declared ‘mmmm its good’. I am happy with the verdict and hence, refrained from prodding any further.

Peas Paratha

Here’s my recipe for those of you who may be interested…

Ingredients for filling:

200 gms Green Peas

1 Green Chili

1 tsp Cumin Seed (Gota Jeera)

1-2 tsp Ginger paste (Aada Baata)

1/2 tsp Asafoetida powder (Hing)

1-2 tsp Red Chili powder (Shukno lonka guro)

2-3 tsp Sugar

Salt to taste

Ingredients for dough:

1 cup Wheat flour (Atta)

3/4 cup White flour (Maida)

1 tsp white oil for Moin

Salt to taste

Prepare the filling first and leave it aside for cooling. Preparation time 30 mins.

1. Make a puree of the peas by adding just enough water. Make sure the puree doesn’t become too watery. Add the chili while making the puree if you like your parathas hot.

2. Heat oil in a thick bottom pan.

3. Add the cumin seeds followed by ginger and fry for a minute.

4. Add Asafoetida powder.

5. Add the pureed peas as soon as you get the aroma of Asafoetida from the oil.

6. Mix in the chili powder.

7. Let it cook till there are no lumps in the puree. The peas will get separated. Add the sugar and salt at this time. It will give the mixture a dark green look.

8. The pur or filling is ready now. You can keep it aside for cooling while you prepare the dough.

To prepare the dough mix together the flours followed by the oil and salt. Add enough water to knead it into a soft dough. Be careful not to add a lot of water together. It can turn into a disaster. I keep adding a little water at one time and knead till the water vanishes.

Making the paratha:

1. Make small dough balls. Shape them like cups keeping the center thick and thinning the sides.

2. Put the filling inside these cups and seal them. Roll them back into balls taking care not to break the skin.

3. Roll out these balls into flat discs using the rolling pin. Be careful while you roll so that the filling may not break and spill out.

4. First dry fry the rolled out discs on a flat thick bottomed fry pan (Tawa). When both the sides look  slightly cooked add a little oil and fry both the sides again till they are done.

This paratha is best eaten with the Bengali Alur dum which S is cooking right now under my supervision. If you are too lazy to do that just whisk a little sour yogurt with chaat masala or just eat it with some pickle of your choice. Most people like this as kochuris where you make the discs smaller in size and deep fry them. But we tend to feel better with less oil. Thus my choice of paratha.

Hope you enjoy!

I am an avid reader and listener. I am curious by nature. Probing and knowing is second nature to me. I wouldn’t participate in maligning gossips but it will not surpass my ears if it is being discussed within earshot. All through my childhood I grew up listening to stories from people. Both my grandparents were excellent story tellers. I still know the Ramayana and Mahabharata better than many people, thanks to them. My dad and mum were no less. My dad concocted his own stories which I learned very well how to do ever since I was a kid. Mum was a terrible children’s’ story teller, she keeps going on for ever with one story alone. But she is great at family history from both sides.

So all in all, I had a very colorful childhood, visualizing and dreaming about all that I heard and savored. I didn’t know how precious these were to me till I could rattle off each one after 20-25 years precisely better than all the family members put together. Back at home, we would recall and discuss them as a family. Here, so far away from home, no one knows it to discuss it with me.

So I came up with an innovative way of reminiscing them all. I recite it to baby A while feeding him and putting him to sleep. He doesn’t understand much as he keeps poking his fingers inside my mouth as I talk or just smiles his disarming smile at me from time to time after tugging at a lock of my hair. During these sessions I would have Baby G gaze at me confused but reassured from his corner of the bedroom.

What I didn’t know was I had another ardent listener. One who sat at his beloved computer doing his own stuff, with half an ear towards me. One day I stopped mid story because baby A was snoring peacefully. I got up to arrange the bedclothes properly when I heard a floating inquiry from the next room “What happened after that?”

S asked me why I didn’t consider writing it all down on my blog. The simplest reason was ‘lack of free time’. But it’s true. Sometime in the future I may need to recall a story and have nowhere to turn. Or unlike my grandparents, I may have my grand kids half way around the world where I can’t reach them too often to run them by the same stories.

So here comes my thakurma-r jhuli (Granny’s sack) of stories, just for my satisfaction of having preserved them for the future.

I do not remember much of the time spent in Mamma’s tummy though I know there was always a lot of activity and shouting. I was acutely aware of two people, one being my Baba – who I also call Shojo. The other one was Dada (Goofy). They were Mamma’s constant companions. Dada says him and me came to mamma and baba around the same time though I was still too small at that time to come out. I would regularly kick them if they came too close to Mum though – an activity I vigorously indulge in, till date.

When I was born, which is the biggest event of my life so far, Mamma had to go away from home for a few days. When she came back alone and dada couldn’t understand why I was not with her. Dada didn’t know if I would look like dada, mamma or baba and no one told him till I arrived a few days later. He said I looked like no one he has ever seen. I couldn’t walk or talk or eat like he could. I could only cry  out to mum to feed me and the rest of the time I just threw my arms and legs around and gurgled. I pee-ed and poo-ed all day long and dada complained a lot to mum about the smell.

Then I started chatting with dada when we would lie together on the mattress. Dada helped me when I finally started crawling. We went on long crawls around the house. Mum forbade everyone to wear shows inside the house and I couldn’t try on any for a while – although they looked quite tasty. Dada would sometimes take advantage of the fact that I was too little (to protest) and bully me and bug me.  I continued drinking my favourite food – milk (which I love to drink even now) but mum also started making these weird concoctions which didn’t taste all that bad. I ate them morning, noon and night though they wouldn’t give me what they ate. In between sometime during June I started saying Babbba which catapulted my poor Baba straight over the moon. I did say a lot of things  – so it’s really strange why that particular word got him all excited.

Around this time, all my grannies and great grannies heard about Mum’s torture and invited me to their India land called Kokatata (Kolkata). I got a new blue book with a photo which said I was a grown up now. Dada planned to go on a little vacation of his own to visit some of his own folks. We dropped him off and then went to the airport. It was my first time on an A-pin (Airplane) though I didn’t know the difference. I was busy working my charms on the pretty women who came by every two minutes cooing at me.

On reaching the destination I was met with lots of people wearing weird clothes who insisted on cuddling me. They did have lots of gifts waiting but I refused to leave Mamma even for a second in this strange land. Mamma turned a bit weird too and started wearing their clothes and insisted I go to them all as they are my grandparents. I vaguely remember meeting them before but couldn’t place any of them.

They arranged a huge party and ceremony for me where Dau (Grand dad from dad’s side) did puja with me on his lap. Dadan (Grand dad from Mum’s side) fed me rice for the first time. I dressed up in funny new clothes and got lots of gifts and cried bucket fulls. I met with a lot of my cousins and all my important family members. I knew them all except the one I called Gono (Mashi – Mum’s little sister) and Benky (Mesho – her husband). I even had my first Durga Puja there. All in all it was a great vacation.

We returned home all exhausted to find Goofy dada all weepy because he missed us so. Mum said she will never let him go on a vacation alone again. He will stay on with the nanny at home in future.

Then one day I was strong enough to stand and another day I started taking a few wobbly steps. Mum, Baba and dada do that all the time and yet they were elated. They thought it was a Kodak moment and made me walk around till I refused to be exploited anymore. You see, one year olds have rights and views too.

In no time, the Christmas and New Year was over. I slept through them both. And then in a few more days I had another smaller party. They got me a cake and sang me songs and told me I was 1 year old. I had no idea what they meant and didn’t know why they wanted me to wake up and smile when I was so sleepy. Dada told me to keep shut and just eat the yummy cake and so I did. It was good. It was a pretty ordinary year by my standards.

Soon I will tell you about my more ‘happening’ year 2 on planet earth.

It happens over and over with me. I don’t have too many friends. I know lots of people but the ones I call friends are really special. They are the few people in my hall of fame who always manage to put a smile on my face. Sometimes I may be irritated with them or not in the mood to host them, but after the initial few minutes with them, all the irritation and doubt melts away.

We start talking about the present, the past, the times that were, mutual memories and we drown in a pool of words and laughter, not bound by the gap in time anymore.  No pretensions. No lies. Speaking our minds. Speaking from our hearts.

The same happened when my cousin arrived a few days back. I was apprehensive to start with. I didn’t know how I would cope with work and home and hosting guests. My mum was a perfect host all her life but then she loved people and that job. All the doubts faded away even before they were 10 minutes old in my little 12^th floor apartment. We were the same two kids who played with her toys and gossiped or partied through the night.

The same happened again when I spoke to a friend after 1 year. One who I last met 4 years back. The initial stiffness of fault finding stayed for may be 5 minutes. Soon after we were laughing and pouring our hearts out about all the time we had missed out in each others life. We promised to keep in touch this time but we both know it may be another year. But we’ll still be Best of Friends.

It keeps happening over and over again till I realized it today. That’s why we call some people ‘friends’ and the others ‘Best friends’. Cause regardless of time, place or age we don’t pretend or lie with these people. Cause I am not scared they will judge me for all I have failed at and all the wrong paths I took. Cause I know they will accept me and love me just as I am today. They will love without a question all that is dear to me just because they know its precious to me. That’s why we call them Best Friends.

I am indeed lucky to be able to rattle off names of at least 8 people who are in my Hall of Fame of friendship. And I am luckier cause one of them is my sister and the other my husband. It’s a whole lot more than most people can claim in a lifetime of making new friends and searching for true friends among them.

I don’t know if it happens to people often or if this is a common feeling. To me this is an alien feeling because I love to work.

I have worked in various places before. I have worked as hard as possible and tried to achieve all targets. I have been creative, loyal and over achieving wherever I have worked. I looked forward to going to work. I enjoyed all the targets. Deadlines and late stays were fun because I looked forward to the result. I was self motivated. Monday morning blues were feelings others had and I didn’t know how it felt.

That’s exactly how I was till I reached this place. I loved the job description. I started new ideas, worked on new assignments, took new responsibilities. In a few short months I realized wherever I succeeded was soon becoming someone else’s glory.  My seniors who were really not even raising a finger while I did all the work were quick to promote my work as their success.

To make matters work, they even expected that I would keep them updated minute by minute so they could report to the top officials what their progress is. Over and over this kept happening as they kept expecting more and more from me. I lost all motivation.

I always knew I was a control freak and the thought of handing the controls to someone else was unheard of.  Yet now, I report to someone who wants to do all the work and wants me to assist. Surprisingly I don’t mind. I have been more than eager to forward all the files I have worked on in the past. I ask what is required and work accordingly. I don’t take any extra responsibilities because I don’t find any happiness in giving others a sense of false achievement.I learned, handing over controls is much easier when it is for something you hate doing.

I only enjoy the part where I am teaching now. Students, books, studies, presentation is my refuge. That helps me survive. I can’t quit now as I need this job for another year or so. I am biding my time till I am free to move on.

A part of me is so tired of moving from place to place and starting all over again. Another me, finds the whole prospect so very adventurous.  I remember the last time I shifted apartment I had promised to myself never to move for another 10 years. I would probably have begged the owner to let me stay on if they would have wanted to get rid of me.

It’s not even a full year. I am already thinking on short term and long term relocation plans. My short term plan involves a little house with a lawn/garden and a terrace. One where my babies can run around and play. One where we can set a huge plastic pool to splash around in summer and laze in the sun during the few winter days.

My long term plans involve scooting from this very country to go see some other part of the world. I even have some places in mind. I just don’t know where to start. It’s a lot of planning and a lot of work. Mainly now, when we have to move with a lot more than just ourselves.

My family would be shattered to know how much of a hurry I am in. They know me. Hence, they are expecting to hear about our move sometime in the future. I am sure they are even keeping their fingers crossed and hoping against hopes that we may decide to return home.

But that is not to be. Some unknown place beckons. This time it’s not just for the 2 of us that we need to think about. We need to think of a family place where the whole family can start again and learn to be happy together.

Just to make her feel a little involved in our little party I called her over to my cubicle for a chat one afternoon (we shall call her Liu here!)

Me: Hey Liu…do you drink?

Liu: Drink water?

Me: No do you drink…like wine or alcohol at parties? Coz I was thinking of getting us some port and some other stuff too.

Liu: Oh do you want me to get wine?

Me: You bring wine if you like and I will get some port.

Liu: Okay! Red or White please?

Me: Whatever you like. Have you ever eaten Indian food before? Can you eat spicy food?

Liu: No, is Indian food very spicy?

Me: Not very. I shall put less of spices for you. Can you eat sour food?

Liu: What is sour please?

Me: You know like lemons.

Liu: I HAVE TO EAT LEMONS? (She was looking quite shocked)

Me: No not eat lemons. We call this food Raita. It’s made of curd or yogurt and vegetables or fruits. It will taste a little like lemons…sour. Can you eat that?

Liu: Where can I get that please? (Starting to look uncomfortable)

Me: Errrrr…you may get it in some Indian restaurants maybe? (I was totally confused and unsure as to where the conversation was leading)

Liu: You want me to get it and eat it? (Looking very distressed by now)

Me: NO… no…I am asking you…would you mind trying it?

Liu: Oh but I am not sure where I can get it. (By then she was probably wondering why I wanted her to go buy some weird food out of the blue and eat it and I realized I shouldn’t have called her for chit chat.)

Me: NO you don’t have to get it from anywhere… I will make it for dinner. You try it at my place.

Liu: Oh at dinner at your place? Sure no problem…I was thinking…

She walked back to her cubicle still looking at little confused but much relieved. She kept stealing a few glances at me. I was a little overwhelmed by how close I was to falling victim to mis-communication and misinterpretation. I breathed a little easier knowing that I had not convinced a poor girl to eat lemons or go Raita hunting on a hot afternoon… funny though it sounds now.