Chicago Blues

This blog is an online repertoire of my columns that run in the Indian Express, North American edition. Here I rave and rant about life, mostly as seen from the large vistas of my little world.

Name:
Location: Chicago, United States

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Come summer and my mind harks back to the alluring warmth of Bangalore sunshine and the cool cascade of the monsoon. Thoughts of sunbathing on the rooftop while slurping on orange popsicles, soaking in first showers and scurrying to pick up marble-sized hailstones, stir idyllic memories in my mind. Even as I write this, I can conjure up visions of eager children in my parents’ neighborhood, drenching merrily in an impulsive monsoon downpour. And my parents are possibly indoors, readying candles and lights for an unforeseen power cut. They’re also, perhaps, relishing piping hot vadas with strong, chicory-laced filter coffee.

Every summer, most of the NRI population here in America goes into a funk, just like me. While my UPite friend in Minnesota misses the gush of the Ganga, a Chennaite pal in Ohio pines for Marina-beach merriment. But there’s much more to this season, aside from the widespread mango mania. There are sights, sounds, smells and tastes, which bring different aspects and cultures of the Indian summer alive.

On a recent trip, I visited the Northern and Southern parts of India, and despite all the diversities, I found that the intoxicating smell of wet earth after the first showers, the taste of roadside chai and chaat --- they’re still the same, and they evoke the same sense of nostalgia. In Kolkata, the season’s first downpour didn’t deter the salted-peanuts vendor in our little boat on the Ganga, while being ferried to a quaint town across the border. And in Chennai, the terraces were beaming with papadam-lined plastic sheets, soaking up the sun while it lasts, and parching just enough to be stowed in aluminum tins for use in the winter months.

What ensues during this time of the year here in the Windy city, however, is quite contrasting. Even when the sun is out bright and nice, I’m left wondering what to wear so that I don’t feel like a fool downtown. You see, the grand Michigan and the mighty Chicago river, not to mention the perdurable nimbus clouds that swathe Illinois skies, have this obsession about conniving against poor, diligent weathermen like Rick D’Maio. On a bright, 84F day (which feels like 94), when one is in the mood to flaunt some skin and tiptoe around Navy Pier in strappy AnneKliens, a sudden blast of chilly air might fleck one brazenly with gooseflesh, and worse, if one’s cruising down these water bodies, the torrent will come teeming down and drench the boats sloppily. And one has to make do with a pack of greasy fries from one of the eateries in Navy Pier, and a Tazo chai from Starbucks. That’s when I think back to the piping hot singaras and masala chai I was duly offered back in Kolkata.

And even though there’s something tenuously seductive about these city lights, which makes me feel special, I long for candle-lit monsoon evenings back at home. Ambling down swarming streets across the gorgeous Millennium Park, I find myself wondering where to take shelter if it pours, or where to pick up a drink to quench my thirst. My daughter, like scores of other cheery toddlers, loves to drench in the spritz of the crown fountain and is absolutely fascinated by the gargoyle effect - she leaps everytime water gushes, so to speak, out of a person’s mouth. But I feel sorry that she’s missing out on the street rain-dances back at home. I see elders delight in the fountains too, and all I can do is sigh, and try to find a familiar desi face on the glass block, just so I can swank a little, and feel belonged.

Yes, there is a place I can go to for a feel of home --- Devon Avenue --- but there are limitations. The roadside tender coconuts are not authentic, they’re Mexican simulations. The masala puris at Sukhadia’s are good, but not as good as the ‘chur-muri’ on MG Road. The Alphonso mangoes sold in cartons and tins, in pulp form, are no match to the luscious, fleshy ones plucked straight out of the neighbor’s garden back at home.

All this makes me pine for the simple pleasures of the summer and monsoon in Bangalore. I miss charcoal-roasted corn-on-the-cob, glazed generously with chili powder, as well as the jovial spirit of the wedding season, during the monsoons. And well, the child in me misses the tautness on my palms and the mocha stains on my pastel cotton outfits, from making mud pies in the slush. And even as I sip lemonade from Auntie Annie’s, I can’t help but think back to my mom’s own jaggery-water blend, with just a hint of lemon for that extra zing.

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