I seem to have developed a new sentimental edge these days. Well, not so much ‘these days’ as ‘eternally since I can recollect.’ And my guess is that it’s not just me, or something to do with my exclusively patriotic genes. I look around, and see every other Indian woman worth her salwar kameez share my state of mind. And all it takes is a box of homemade besan-laddus to take this melancholy up to a higher level.
It’s not like we don’t get Indian food here in all sorts, tastes, and regional specialties for a few bucks. It’s not even like we have to drive miles away for those, although, if we did, there’s a fair chance we’d come upon a wider assortment of sweets, biscuits (of the likes of Parle, and Good Day, not the American versions, like Pillsbury) papads, and related condiments with a potential to bring home closer to us. It’s just a daffy little obsession we seem to have about home made food. May be it is the thought of our mothers toiling in the kitchen for hours on end just so we could get a little taste of their gourmet cooking, that drives us wild with nostalgia.
On my recent visit to India, however, I witnessed some unusual things. My mother’s refrigerator was stocked with an array of neatly organized bottles, with pickles of many kinds in them. However, they didn’t really taste home made, even though they screamed ‘Mother’s Recipe,’ (the brand, I mean). At the break of dawn, my mother sheepishly offered me Kelloggs Crispies in a bowl of stove-warmed milk, while all I secretly hoped for was a cup of steaming hot filter ‘kaapi.’ And eventually, when the kaapi did make its appearance, it was a vanilla-cocoa blend, decaf, and it came with a platter of Cheez-Its. “It’s a new flavor, from Coffee Day,” she said, “I think you’ll like it.” But it didn’t stimulate my senses like the chicory-mixed, caffeine-rich cuppa would have. Suddenly, I felt ancient, and my poor old parents, in all their attempts to make me comfortable, seemed, rather sadly, to have developed a modern, youthful predilection.
Even as I braced myself for these new changes, I found that the more I explored this freshness, the worse it got. My dear old Bangalore, which was once known for its lush green landscapes and simple, old-fashioned lifestyle had transmogrified into a concrete jungle, full of choky malls, and fancy lounge bars, among other things.
My local grocery, or ‘kaka’ shop had been replaced by a sprawling, cramped supermarket that sold Tropicana juices in the place of Maazas, and oversized RedKen shampoo-conditioners in the place of convenient Clinic Plus sachets. The quaint little ‘Darshini’ that used to sell idli-vada with coconut chutney in steel plates had been redesigned into a trendy eatery with a proper, printed, laminated menu, and pizza varieties, to boot. The down-to-earth ‘chaat’ joint of yester years had turned into a stylish bistro that sold grilled sandwiches with a diverse selection of cheeses, and a vending machine for diet colas.
Cinema halls with squeaky chairs were now a thing of the past - multiplex, escalator-driven talkies appeared to be the latest fad. Even the local goldsmith had had a makeover - he no longer sold authentic, 24-carat jewelry out of a petty shack with wooden shelves, protected by grandfather locks, but 18-carat white gold ornaments, in a glass-walled ‘showroom,’ complete with security guards and tempered glass displays.
The kids in the community no longer played in the muddy, fenced playground; they either enjoyed videogames in the confines of their homes, or went to ‘entertainment zones,’ for more choices. The oldies no longer sat on the stone bench in the park, laughing their worries away, but attended ‘Ha-Ha Clubs,’ for therapeutic sessions of forced cheer.
I felt suffocated in this new-fangled way of life, understandably enough. Maybe I was being a little too crabby, but I wanted to enjoy the joys of simple, everyday living, like say, shopping in a ‘Season’s Discount’ roadside sale counter without the frills and thrills of high rise malls, or enjoy a by-two coffee with my dad after a Masala Dosa meal, without having to endure the nuisances of exotic blends and complicated carte du jour. So, when I returned, I made sure my mom packed for me home-made ‘rasam powder,’ (I get MTR ready-to-eats here, thank you) and home-grown ‘henna’ (no L’Oreal streaks for me, please) among other things. And I don’t spend hours contemplating my choice of oxygen-enriching or camomile-cleansing facials here anymore. I’m happy to make my own multani-matti face pack, and I hope it shows well enough.
It’s not like we don’t get Indian food here in all sorts, tastes, and regional specialties for a few bucks. It’s not even like we have to drive miles away for those, although, if we did, there’s a fair chance we’d come upon a wider assortment of sweets, biscuits (of the likes of Parle, and Good Day, not the American versions, like Pillsbury) papads, and related condiments with a potential to bring home closer to us. It’s just a daffy little obsession we seem to have about home made food. May be it is the thought of our mothers toiling in the kitchen for hours on end just so we could get a little taste of their gourmet cooking, that drives us wild with nostalgia.
On my recent visit to India, however, I witnessed some unusual things. My mother’s refrigerator was stocked with an array of neatly organized bottles, with pickles of many kinds in them. However, they didn’t really taste home made, even though they screamed ‘Mother’s Recipe,’ (the brand, I mean). At the break of dawn, my mother sheepishly offered me Kelloggs Crispies in a bowl of stove-warmed milk, while all I secretly hoped for was a cup of steaming hot filter ‘kaapi.’ And eventually, when the kaapi did make its appearance, it was a vanilla-cocoa blend, decaf, and it came with a platter of Cheez-Its. “It’s a new flavor, from Coffee Day,” she said, “I think you’ll like it.” But it didn’t stimulate my senses like the chicory-mixed, caffeine-rich cuppa would have. Suddenly, I felt ancient, and my poor old parents, in all their attempts to make me comfortable, seemed, rather sadly, to have developed a modern, youthful predilection.
Even as I braced myself for these new changes, I found that the more I explored this freshness, the worse it got. My dear old Bangalore, which was once known for its lush green landscapes and simple, old-fashioned lifestyle had transmogrified into a concrete jungle, full of choky malls, and fancy lounge bars, among other things.
My local grocery, or ‘kaka’ shop had been replaced by a sprawling, cramped supermarket that sold Tropicana juices in the place of Maazas, and oversized RedKen shampoo-conditioners in the place of convenient Clinic Plus sachets. The quaint little ‘Darshini’ that used to sell idli-vada with coconut chutney in steel plates had been redesigned into a trendy eatery with a proper, printed, laminated menu, and pizza varieties, to boot. The down-to-earth ‘chaat’ joint of yester years had turned into a stylish bistro that sold grilled sandwiches with a diverse selection of cheeses, and a vending machine for diet colas.
Cinema halls with squeaky chairs were now a thing of the past - multiplex, escalator-driven talkies appeared to be the latest fad. Even the local goldsmith had had a makeover - he no longer sold authentic, 24-carat jewelry out of a petty shack with wooden shelves, protected by grandfather locks, but 18-carat white gold ornaments, in a glass-walled ‘showroom,’ complete with security guards and tempered glass displays.
The kids in the community no longer played in the muddy, fenced playground; they either enjoyed videogames in the confines of their homes, or went to ‘entertainment zones,’ for more choices. The oldies no longer sat on the stone bench in the park, laughing their worries away, but attended ‘Ha-Ha Clubs,’ for therapeutic sessions of forced cheer.
I felt suffocated in this new-fangled way of life, understandably enough. Maybe I was being a little too crabby, but I wanted to enjoy the joys of simple, everyday living, like say, shopping in a ‘Season’s Discount’ roadside sale counter without the frills and thrills of high rise malls, or enjoy a by-two coffee with my dad after a Masala Dosa meal, without having to endure the nuisances of exotic blends and complicated carte du jour. So, when I returned, I made sure my mom packed for me home-made ‘rasam powder,’ (I get MTR ready-to-eats here, thank you) and home-grown ‘henna’ (no L’Oreal streaks for me, please) among other things. And I don’t spend hours contemplating my choice of oxygen-enriching or camomile-cleansing facials here anymore. I’m happy to make my own multani-matti face pack, and I hope it shows well enough.
posted by Ranjini | 12:01 PM
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