In an age where women have long emerged out of the stay-at-home cocoon and ascended the corporate ladder, I’m possibly bound to get walloped for what I’m about to confess - I feel like a mistress of spices. Watching the movie only enhanced it. I feel like I have strong ties with the spices, the kitchen, and the spiritual core of the family.
When a common cold or cough passes through the household, or say, when the tonsillar tissue acts up, I raid the kitchen for a variety of spices to brew in a range of magic concoctions. The basil and honey blend soothes the throat; the coriander seeds, black pepper, cumin, cinnamon, cloves, and dry ginger decoction relieves congestion, and so forth. And then, I also remember swallowing pungent chunks of garlic roasted in ghee, to keep the body “warm and nice,” during my initial post delivery days. Like this, there are remedies and cures for a whole set of illnesses, passed down through generations, from grandma’s secret recipe box.
Now one could take the mistress thing to a whole new level, and aver that it is not just the spices Indian women used to be mistresses of in olden days of glory. A fact, which, I’d like to believe, is not far from the truth even today. In a land where 24-hour drive-through Walgreens stores represent panacea, and elegantly carpeted Hindu temples, where ‘weekend pujas’ are conveniently scheduled for busy workaholics, represent spiritual sanctuaries, it would be rather astonishing to see that it still holds good for some modern day divas.
Just the other Friday, on the evening of the Lakshmi festival, I got an invite for a ceremonial “turmeric-vermillion-flower-fruit,” offering at a neighbor’s place. Just the prospect made me all nostalgic about the festive season back at home. I reminisced the cemented front yards of several Hindu houses being decorated with colorful ‘rangoli’ patterns, to denote the festiveness of the day. The markets deluged with bunches of bright yellow chrysanthemums, orange marigolds, and white jasmine garlands; the green of tender mango branches, and clusters of other fragrant hallowed herbs; assortments of fresh fruits, and mounds of turmeric, vermillion and other puja items. And to top it all, the bargaining binges - inevitably being presided over by the womenfolk. The houses exuded the same sense of celebration - aromas of camphor, and burning incense stuck to their walls, and the kitchens were ablaze with sweet dish preparations.
As I ambled along to the neighbor’s house, clad in a salwar-kurta outfit, I realized there was so much amiss. Nothing traditional ‘led’ me into the house, to begin with - no rangoli, no mango leaf borders hung at the top of the door, and not even a whiff of camphor or incense. There was a deity of Goddess Lakshmi sitting prettily adorned by hybrid orchids picked from a Jewel store, possibly, on a side table in the living room. But it was clear that it would have to be taken off the next day, to enable normal Americanized living, and replaced with empty cups of carelessly swigged down coffees. There were no ‘diyas’ burning gleefully at their own pace, lest they trigger off the fire alarm; but there was a string of mini light bulbs hanging precariously over the table. There were little girls in pigtails and ‘lehengas,’ but they weren’t clinching their mothers’ ‘dupattas,’ and sitting coyly, like the ones in India. They instead chose to watch an animated movie on the telly and laugh uproariously in the midst of prayer chants. But the lady in charge seemed like a ‘mistress,’ of spices, of prayers and of the kitchen. She had everything in perfect order - she offered me, and the other guests, a glass of cold ‘badam milk,’ to “keep the body cool and balance the righteousness factor,” to steal her words. She had a platter of ‘prasadam’ packets ready to distribute amongst visitors. She fell at elderly women’s feet to take their blessings. And yes, she too is a modern day diva like scores of other women in these shores - works full time, and on a random day you wouldn’t be able to tell her religiousness from her novelty manner of dressing, and from her general disposition.
Anyhow, this is just one of the many incidents that make my hypothesis true, at least for me.
I feel like I have violated the rules, aka Aishwarya Rai style, if I leave the cumin smoking for too long in the pan while seasoning, or say, if I drop salt on the floor accidentally. Having said my prayers tonight to keep the dream-demons at bay, and emptied the leftovers so I can make a fresh, friendly start with the spices tomorrow, I must go and rub some sandalwood-turmeric-paste on my little one’s insect bite - the turmeric’s an anti-inflammatory agent, and the sandalwood powder will help cool off the itchiness.
When a common cold or cough passes through the household, or say, when the tonsillar tissue acts up, I raid the kitchen for a variety of spices to brew in a range of magic concoctions. The basil and honey blend soothes the throat; the coriander seeds, black pepper, cumin, cinnamon, cloves, and dry ginger decoction relieves congestion, and so forth. And then, I also remember swallowing pungent chunks of garlic roasted in ghee, to keep the body “warm and nice,” during my initial post delivery days. Like this, there are remedies and cures for a whole set of illnesses, passed down through generations, from grandma’s secret recipe box.
Now one could take the mistress thing to a whole new level, and aver that it is not just the spices Indian women used to be mistresses of in olden days of glory. A fact, which, I’d like to believe, is not far from the truth even today. In a land where 24-hour drive-through Walgreens stores represent panacea, and elegantly carpeted Hindu temples, where ‘weekend pujas’ are conveniently scheduled for busy workaholics, represent spiritual sanctuaries, it would be rather astonishing to see that it still holds good for some modern day divas.
Just the other Friday, on the evening of the Lakshmi festival, I got an invite for a ceremonial “turmeric-vermillion-flower-fruit,” offering at a neighbor’s place. Just the prospect made me all nostalgic about the festive season back at home. I reminisced the cemented front yards of several Hindu houses being decorated with colorful ‘rangoli’ patterns, to denote the festiveness of the day. The markets deluged with bunches of bright yellow chrysanthemums, orange marigolds, and white jasmine garlands; the green of tender mango branches, and clusters of other fragrant hallowed herbs; assortments of fresh fruits, and mounds of turmeric, vermillion and other puja items. And to top it all, the bargaining binges - inevitably being presided over by the womenfolk. The houses exuded the same sense of celebration - aromas of camphor, and burning incense stuck to their walls, and the kitchens were ablaze with sweet dish preparations.
As I ambled along to the neighbor’s house, clad in a salwar-kurta outfit, I realized there was so much amiss. Nothing traditional ‘led’ me into the house, to begin with - no rangoli, no mango leaf borders hung at the top of the door, and not even a whiff of camphor or incense. There was a deity of Goddess Lakshmi sitting prettily adorned by hybrid orchids picked from a Jewel store, possibly, on a side table in the living room. But it was clear that it would have to be taken off the next day, to enable normal Americanized living, and replaced with empty cups of carelessly swigged down coffees. There were no ‘diyas’ burning gleefully at their own pace, lest they trigger off the fire alarm; but there was a string of mini light bulbs hanging precariously over the table. There were little girls in pigtails and ‘lehengas,’ but they weren’t clinching their mothers’ ‘dupattas,’ and sitting coyly, like the ones in India. They instead chose to watch an animated movie on the telly and laugh uproariously in the midst of prayer chants. But the lady in charge seemed like a ‘mistress,’ of spices, of prayers and of the kitchen. She had everything in perfect order - she offered me, and the other guests, a glass of cold ‘badam milk,’ to “keep the body cool and balance the righteousness factor,” to steal her words. She had a platter of ‘prasadam’ packets ready to distribute amongst visitors. She fell at elderly women’s feet to take their blessings. And yes, she too is a modern day diva like scores of other women in these shores - works full time, and on a random day you wouldn’t be able to tell her religiousness from her novelty manner of dressing, and from her general disposition.
Anyhow, this is just one of the many incidents that make my hypothesis true, at least for me.
I feel like I have violated the rules, aka Aishwarya Rai style, if I leave the cumin smoking for too long in the pan while seasoning, or say, if I drop salt on the floor accidentally. Having said my prayers tonight to keep the dream-demons at bay, and emptied the leftovers so I can make a fresh, friendly start with the spices tomorrow, I must go and rub some sandalwood-turmeric-paste on my little one’s insect bite - the turmeric’s an anti-inflammatory agent, and the sandalwood powder will help cool off the itchiness.
posted by Ranjini | 12:06 PM
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