The elusive little onion

What is it about food that is so reassuring and comforting? It provides more than just relief to hunger, more than mere satiety. Well, it is said that home is not merely a place, but a person you go back to. Similarly, food is not just about the flavours that meet each other in your mouth, flirt on your tongue, before sneaking off down your throat to canoodle in some dark recess of the stomach. It is about the rich bank of recollections that these combined flavours manage to stir up – the sights, scents, and feelings that well up inside you, until, combined together, it all comes to a wonderful climax.

So, when away from home, I finally begin craving onion sambhar, it’s not just any onion sambhar that I want, but the specific onion sambhar that is made at home, with much love and affection, by my mother. The very thought makes my mouth water. I don’t yearn only for the final act of sitting down at the dining table with my family, and tucking into steaming hot jeera samba rice onto which my mother spoons ample amounts of spicy sambhar. There is more to it, much more… And it all begins with a stroll to the market.

My mother generally chooses to combine her evening walk with a trip to the vegetable market. She waits till it is around twilight, and there is plenty of Bangalore breeze to accompany her on her ramble. Now that I live away from home, I never get the opportunity to go with her, and I must confess that I often would feel far too lazy to make the effort, even when I was living at home. However, on the rare occasion when I did, more often than not prompted rather selfishly by some errand that I had to run along the way, I always enjoyed the trip. Vegetable vendors with their carts all lined up together, the warm glow of gaslights being cast on the fresh produce. Tomatoes, all plump and juicy on one cart, some a rather peaky shade of green on another. Mounds and mounds of potatoes that would make my stomach rumble and make me immediately look around and see if there were good bhindis at a nearby cart, so we could make aloo bhindi, a fried affair that borrowed some spice from freshly ground peppercorns. Bundles of pudina, methi and various forms of spinach, which, if good enough, would mean Mum would make her special ‘green rice’. It served as a menu card, and was far more appealing to the eye than plain typed word.

If I remember right, the vendor who sold the small, bright-pink sambhar onions, was a tall, well-built chappie with a mustache that made him look somewhat like Veerappan. Polite fellow he was. He would always exchange pleasantries with my mother, before handing her the steel measuring vessel into which we’d toss ingredients for the night’s meal. He wielded a rather mean looking chopper too, with which he could cut the most imposing of yams down to size, allowing us to buy just the amount we wanted, right down to the gram. And he’d always remember the change that was owed either way, sometimes substituting two rupees with a sprig of kari patha or a fistful of green chillies.

Shopping dispensed with, we’d head home, mum retreating to the kitchen and me curling up with a book, only occasionally lending a hand. Sometimes though, I would end up leaning on the door, watching as my mother cut, chopped, stirred and fried with the consummate ease of one who loves cooking and serving a good meal.

Preparing the onion sambhar was not too taxing an affair, once you got the tiny shallots peeled that is. All you needed to do after that was add the right amount of dal and water to a pressure cooker, put in a tomato – quartered, half a teaspoon of turmeric, and one teaspoon of oil. Then add the peeled onions, each one is roughly the size of a marble, and put the lid on the cooker. Three whistles later, the dal will have cooked well, the tomato will have blended in with his surroundings, and the onions too will have turned a wonderful translucent shade, ready to simply melt in your mouth.

The trick to preparing good sambhar, according to my mother at least, is to add the sambhar powder at the very end, well after the rest of it has been cooked. Too much boiling and the flavour tends to abscond. So, add the amount of powder you need to half a cup of boiling hot water, and whisk well with a fork, so there are no lumps in it. Once the liquid is smooth, add it to the cooked dal and give it a quick stir. This is then followed by the tadka of jeera, mustard, kari patha and garlic. Mum’s work done, it is time for me to set the table. Dinnertime is family time.

Away from home, I have often made sambhar. It is easy enough, especially as I am armed with Mother’s special homemade sambhar powder – the recipe is a secret – with all sorts of vegetables added in, from lauki to bhindi and mixed vegetables. A strictly indoors-only weekend, with the Mumbai monsoons wreaking havoc outside can be vastly improved for a homesick Bangalorean, with a meal of sambhar rice, followed by curd and pickle. But, of all the vegetables that I have swilled and simmered into a vessel of sambhar, it is the sambhar onion has always eluded me in this city. It is time for a trip back home, and a stroll to the market with my mother to keep a tryst with our trusty vegetable vendor. I can already taste the meal.

Stick figure ships out

I have been called many things in my life, however, as a five-foot-five incher who weighs in at round about fifty kilograms, something that I’d never been called is fat. Of course, that was before I was privileged enough to meet a living legend.

This being my very first encounter with a living legend, I suppose I was a tad taken aback. You see I’d always imagined legends to be rather substantial blokes, beefy, so to speak. You know the sort that would storm in with a few claps of thunder and some bolts of lightning. Or, if the elements wouldn’t be party to their advent, perhaps there’d be a drum roll, or a big blinking neon sign that said ‘Legend coming through’. So, when a sweet looking stick figure sidled up to me and, by way of introduction, inadvertently insulted my intelligence (later stating quite airily “How was I supposed to know you were smart?”) I had no idea that this was a rather momentous err… moment.

Nonetheless, once I’d made his acquaintance, I soon realised that legends came in all shapes and sizes, and more often than not, had a propensity to take digs at everything around them.

This legendary little chap was vastly entertaining. He was a one-stick-figure comedy show, and he’d have us all in splits. Of course this was hardly the reason he was renowned, there were other things to which he owed his fame and the adulation he received when he drove through obscure parts of the country. See, it’s like this. You give the little guy a car and he’s likely to drive it more miles on one tank of gas than anyone else is. And you toss him a scrap of food and he’ll manage to run on that for longer than most human beings can. Frugal sipper is what he is and what he makes the cars he drives!

But if you thought the little living legend would be content with that, you’re wrong. Flight fuel is pretty darned expensive, so I’ve heard (I’ve never actually been out shopping for the stuff myself), and some fuel efficient piloting would go a long way in conserving them natural resources. Not to worry, the Legendary Stick Figure is already on it. He’s shipping out soon enough and taking his talents to greater heights. What are we going to do for fun around here now? *sniff*

But hang on... does this mean I’m thin again?

*flick*

History

When a juvenile past attempts to repeat itself,
Grab a hold of the present,
And walk into the future.

Clan-des-tine

Whispered words in the dark.
Secret smiles,
Exchanged
In bright sunlight.

The finer points of balance

I first met Wheelie Lad on the day of a taxi strike. With no transport, options of watering holes were cut down a fair amount, and we had no choice but to go to the only one that was walking-distance away. Wheelie Lad was reticent to meet me. He even declared to our mutual friend, The Giant Ponytail, that he was in no mood to "face" anybody. But he was tricked into showing up at the watering hole, where, after the initial perfunctory greeting he resolutely ignored me. At least he attempted it, but I had orders to try and draw him out of his shell, which I followed to the best of my abilities.

Perhaps what made it easier for us to talk was the fact that The Giant Ponytail, was engaged in a rather absorbing discussion (about what, I know not) with another friend, The Crab, who was sitting next to him. Never having met anyone like The Crab before, Wheelie Lad helped talk me through the idiosyncrasies of the biped hexaped. It was required. A conversation with The Crab was enough to befuddle most people the first time around, and ours went like this:

Crab: So, do you listen to music?
Me: Yes
Crab: What music?
Me: Lots of stuff
Crab: Alice in Chains
Me: Sometimes
Crab: Slayer?
Me: No
Crab: Gutworm?
Me: No
Crab: Soul Demise?
Me: No

- Two-minute pause -

Crab: So, do you listen to music?

I'd like to think Wheelie Lad warmed up to me after that, our very first encounter. Then on, we'd drag him along with us, ignoring all his "I'm tired"s and "There's too much work to do"s. When he'd get bored he'd focus on his cellphone, watching stunt videos and messaging people, only work-related he declared. We didn't believe him.

Wheelie Lad was called so because of his sole ambition to reach the balance point on his Pulsar 180. He'd ride a good two hours out of the city every Sunday, practice wheelies, and come back tired, and closer, hopefully, to that elusive balance point.

When much coaxing The Giant Ponytail did not result in a bike trip, Wheelie Lad and I were disappointed. Wheelie Lad himself went on about how I ought to have seen this and that and the other and reprimanded The Giant Ponytail for not having taken me anywhere. The Giant Ponytail tersely replied that Wheelie Lad could take me instead. Stoppie. Wheelie Lad was now saddled with the task of taking me on my very first bike trip.

Come the day of the trip and I dragged myself out of bed and, miraculously, was ready on time.
Jacket. Check.
Helmet. Check.
Daft grin on face. Check.
Tinted visor to hide daft grin. Check.
I was good to go.

We set out, with Wheelie Lad riding. Speed was kept in check because of a stern warning that The Giant Ponytail had issued. We stopped and took in splendid vistas, paused for grub, tackled corners nicely and rode the distance in amicable silence. An hour was spent looking out at a valley and swapping stories.

Wheelie Lad managed to let his guard down when I was the only one around. Perhaps it was the scenery, and the peace and quiet that inspired the exchange of confidences, but it was nice. I told him about a house and dog that weren't mine, but were, and he told me about a black car that wasn't his, but was his. By the time we got back, there wasn't an ounce of doubt in my mind, that Wheelie Lad and I were firm friends.

It's strange though. Wheelie Lad seems to have wisdom aplenty on offer when it comes to my life. "Our paths may be rocky but it's the destination that is important," he once told me, on a day that I needed to hear it the most that too. But in his quest for balance, Wheelie Lad seems not to notice so many things. Stubbornness does that to you. Popping a wheelie might be an activity, but it's also a state of existence. It's a metaphor of sorts, and it's the finer points of balance that Wheelie Lad needs to understand. He's much more than just Wheelie Lad, even if he can't see it yet.

Seaside walks and fairy-light talks

Twilight. Sea breeze wafting inland. Two slender young ladies walk along the promenade, glad to have each other for company.
“I can’t believe we weren’t friends through three years of college,” the slenderer of the two says to her friend, with a smile.
“I can’t believe we’re the same people,” the other replies.

* * *

Pitch dark, there’s a chill in the air, and four somewhat scruffy girls walk along a narrow road. They pause at a lake. Opine loudly about the state of the world. Each of them is in activist mode. These four scruffy girls, believe, and believe that is all they’ll be.

* * *

The sound of traffic is forgiven because the sea crashes gently against the rocks. The wind gets stronger. It causes one of their shawls to flutter; it catches the other’s skirt, Monroe-like. They laugh, gently. They still opine, but softly, calmly. There is now brevity to their statements.

* * *

There was an unsuccessful attempt at whipping up some spaghetti with tomato sauce. There was pani puri and seafood festivals. There were midnight snacks at Mocha before long walks on the beach.

* * *

They’ve walked a good long way. Talking, exchanging confidences, the kilometre-long stretch of footpath seems to disappear beneath dainty slipper-clad feet. They work up an appetite.

* * *

There was a time when one of them flopped down on a table-top, slept for a good twenty minutes and the other escorted her home. Then there was a time when the roles were reversed. This time, the other lolled around, babbled incessantly, and was quite groggy, while the first made sure she got home.

* * *

It’s no-longer half-light. The sun has set completely. But they still walk for there is much to be said. There are questions they don’t ask simply because they know that the other will tell them, soon enough.

* * *

There were sleepovers where each would clutch a pillow and tell the other about what had transpired in the days they hadn’t met. Talk would revolve around likes, dislikes, main squeezes, scratches that appeared without catfights and more, while they sipped wine in a room warmed by the glow of fairy-lights.

* * *

The moon is out, giving the sea a delicious glow. Things have come a full circle. They turn around and look at the point they began their walk. It is now far away. Far away, like the things they’ve left behind, like the lives they used to lead, like the people they used to be. A large wave crashes into the breakwaters, spraying them. They laugh, glad to have come so far in each other’s company.

Doze daze

When Somnus walked through the door
And settled down heavily,
On everything,
There were yawns, creaks, sighs.

Progress grabbed his coat and fled the room,
The armchair squeaked,
The cushion settled down into the cozy nook,
The cotton fluff yawned and felt airy and dreamy.

A spider crawling along the wall,
Looked at the web he'd just spun.
It stretched and then curled up like a little hammock
And he crawled in, happy to be cocooned.

From active to passive,
From action to stillness,
From motion to a grinding halt,
Things froze.

Somewhere, far across the earth,
The wheels of change were turning,
The sun was burning bright,
Things were happening.

For now,
Everything in the little chamber between Left Ear and Right Ear,
Slept.
A deep still slumber.