Home sweet home

 The house i presently occupy is my tenth place of residence. In the four plus decades of my existance , variety has been the house of life for me.

My parents tell me that when I was born, they shifted from the staff quarters of RBI to the officers one. A9 , in RBI quarters , Santa Cruz was my home for the first decade of my life.

I remember vividly the huge housing colony, the ground floor home, the wooden slide  in a sand pit and the wonderful ground that the colony had. It was a typical colony that celebrated festivals together.  There were movies screened every Diwali and Christmas. Every  building had four floors and every house was accessible. There was one telephone in someone's home. The entire colony would get their calls at that home. A staff bus would take all employees to office daily morning and bring them back home every evening. This was the place where I learnt how to cycle,  fell down on the water tank and broke my teeth( the repercussion of which I am facing till date...thats a wholly different story!)

Every evening all children would come down to play. We would play till late evening. Moms would come out to chit chat while we continued with games under the srreet lights. I would alide down banisters all the way down from the fourth floor. 

One of the strongest memories of this house was me getting locked up in one of the bedrooms. Appa had to climb in through the ventilator and rescue me. Till date he hates closed doors!

From here in 1982 we shifted to Vile Parle. Many members of the society were the same as the new one Snehadhara was a residential self owned colony of RBI employees. Yet the feeling was not the same. Snehadhara was scattered,  the dynamics were different and people shifted in at different times. The magic of the staff quarters was never replicated. They tried to host programs and recreate Santacruz in Snehadhara , but the leaky buildings and the varied infrastructural issues caused more turmoil in Ashrudhara as people began calling it.

Wadala tatha shifted in with us. He was old and sick and in pain. He spent his last days in this house.  Soon after his death we moved cities and went to Trivandrum.

Trivandrum was a wholly different experience. On one side there was the excitement of getting to live in a bungalow. The only other bungalow in my life was that of my Poona tatha and paati where I spent my vacations.

We shifted into this double storied house which had a huge terrace in a quaint place called Kuruvankonam. The house was located on a slope. It had a cocoa bean tree and a champakai tree. The champakai fruit became one of my favourites ever since I tasted them there. A few months into our stay in Kuruvankonam, I was bedridden with a bout of chicken pox. The reason I fell sick was the adventure Pushpa and me decided to emabark on , while comjneg back from school one day. We saw a lovely green patch of grass and were lured towards it. We stepped into what unfortunately was a deceptive puddle of slush. Both of us developed rashes and fever and mine developed into the pox. Amma decided we need to move near the school, so that such adventures or rather misadventures could be avoided!

We moved into Smrithi at Pattom, which later on became so popular at the Post office that just Smrithi, Pattom Trivandrum was enough for any  letter to reach us. This was thanks to the daily correspondence that Appa kept with his circle. Smrithi housed us for the rest of our tenure in Trivandrum. It was a small little bungalow, with a lovely garden , that was developed by Amma. We spent a happy time , watching Malayalam movies at theatres  near by, going to the zoo regularly and the rose show at Kowdiar palace. School was a stone's throw away and we walked everywhere. 

In 1991, I shifted to Mysore and in 92 the rest of the family  came back to Mumbai. Appa had got himself transfered back to Mumbai. The higher officals in RBI had forgotted he needed to return and he had to jolt them back to awareness.

In May 1992, we flew back from Trivandrum to Bombay for good. Snehadhara became my vacation home for three years.

Ganga hostel at the Regional College of Education was my home for four years.  Room no:160 in the first year and 64 in the next three have so many memories in them. Years later when I revisted the hostel and entered Room no: 64, I burst out into tears scaring the present inmates of the room. I would travel from Mysore to Bombay twice a year. Bombay trips meant shopping, replenishing stocks of achar,  thogayal podi and other snacks that would last atleast a month ahead. I used to shop not just for myself,  but also for friends who wanted clothes from Bombay. 

In 1995, I came back to Snehadhara. But I was not destined to live in that house for long  Groom hunting had begun and in 1996, post marriage I shifted into tiny Kulsum Mahal. I have thanked every single day in Ganga Hostel which helped me adjust in the small house with my husband and his family. Seven years and two babies later , we bought our first house in Kalina.

Four years later,  when the children were growing up,Gopal and me decided to buy the present house that I reside in. Since 2010 I have been in the present house ! But whether this will be my last house is destiny's call. After all I am the one with erratachuzhi on my head...the one who can never be in the same place. 

What a Paav!

 Tiĺl the age of 23- the only meaning i knew of paav was leg. Then I reached mumbai

Mumbai taught me that paav was a type pf bread that was had with vada in vada paav and with bhaji in paav bhaji.

Then I got married. And what does marriage have to do with paav? That too in the Iyer community?

In my life,  a lot.

Just back from our honeymoon, even as  I was settling into the new home and the new family, I am informed by my mil that I needed to go across the road to the bakery and get some paav. Its a crisp sunday morning and I tell her, OK, I will go after breakfast. She gently informs me , that is breakfast! For someone who has seen paav only outside the home, this is the mildest of the quakes. 

So I  bring in the warm soft paav home. I wonder with what it has to be eaten. I didnt see any bhaji. 

And lo and behold, my husband has replaced the dosa with the paav. There is dosa molgapodi and the til oil on the table to be eaten with the paav. Or rather the paav to be eaten with typical south indian accompaniments. I was duly informed that paav is highly accommodating and could be consumed with anything. As the first year of marriage chugged on, Paav was had , on most Sunday mornings with curd and sambar powder, with sambar , with moru kuzhambu, with dal or plain with it being lightly roasted in ghee. I ensured that I have my share of dosa batter in the frig, as I could never develop a taste for paav for breakfast.

As a young married couple   we were called for lunch to a friends house for lunch. The lady took me into her kitchen and showed me all her preparations. There were varieties of gravies amd curries. 

Ten minutes before lunch i realised both the husbands were missing. On enquiring I was informed that they went to  buy the ubiquitous paav  that was to be had with all the sumptuous curries she had prepared. Paav surely ruled roost here! 

My children religiously follow family tradition. They adore the paav for breakfast and can eat ot for lunch and dinner. Woe behold if one of them is not satiated with the number of paavs. Before every purchase,  a count is taken. This count is sacrosanct. You cant claim more than your share. You cant eat less and insult the paav.

I have survived the last two and half decades telling myself, Hold on to your dosas, you have nothing to lose but the paav! 

(Dinner today was Dahi Misal paav...sigh) 

Dosa delights

 One of my fondest memories of childhood is the dosa. I am a big fan of a crispy thin round dosa. And the only one to blame for this is my mom.

When my sister and me used to come back from school, there would be hot tiffin  waiting for us daily. It would be upma, poha, bread toast, idli or dosa.

I eagerly waited for the dosa. All other items would usually be ready by the time we reached home. But not the dosa. 

The dosakallu would go on the stove just when we opened the gate. Even as we cleaned up and got ready to tackle the evening, the first two dosas would be made for my sister. She was a regular dosa eater and didnt trouble amma with too many rules about the dosa. As she settled into her dosas , mine would arrive royally!  

Mine had to be  hot , crisp, round and slightly brown. No cold ones for me. No white ones for me. No thick ones for me. And definitely no torn ones for me. I remember amma narrating how as a toddler I had asked her to stitch up a torn dosa! She used to make  dosa after dosa and I would gobble them up even as the next one got ready. There would be days when I would ask her, how many did I finish? Eat as many as you want, she would reply, why count? 

When I got married, my mother in law obviously never expected a dosanazi as a daughter in law. She usually prepared dosas and kept them aside, as one by one people kept walking into the kitchen picking them up. She informed me that one of the major life hacks she had learned with four hungry teenagers, a ravenous husband and a band of motley relatives who perenially occupied her home was to make fat thick dosas so that no one demanded a third one! While the hack worked for her, my dosa sensibilty refused to toe the line. I offered right away to make my dosas myself,  so that I could make them crisp and brown and thin and hot and eat them even as I was making them! 

Sonny boy and me love it hot crisp brown and thin while my husband and daughter need the dosa slightly thick, white and warm. It may be served with molgapodi or chutney or sambar or even jaggery or jam. That is immaterial.

What is supremely important is it adheres to my standards of being dosa! 

My Great Indian Kitchen

 

This list is not just a random list. Each of these incidents have happened to me! 

Patriarchy is alive and kicking!

All the people who are mentioned here are not just educated, but highly so! 

Male members in my family leaving chewed up drumsticks and unclean plates on the table to be cleaned by the women.

Males being served food before women. 

Male members in a friend group asking my husband why he allows me to express my opinion openly in the whatsapp group!

A female member telling me that her prayers  have been granted when my son was born, as now I had a male heir( to what grand palace , i still wonder) 

Female members insisting on me following period rules and eating last.

A plate of food being hurled across the room on the floor towards me by a female.

Female members in my family asking me why i wanted to clear my post graduation  , now that I was a wife and a mother.

My son being gifted a gold chain for his naming ceremony,  while my daughter was gifted a dress as she was just a girl! 

Male members especially telescopically related guys who wanted to know if we have released the horoscope of our daughter the day she turned 20 into the marriage market! 

Patti and me !

 

She wept copious tears at my wedding , even more than my mom! When I asked amma why she cried so much, amma told me that she was so happy at the wedding especially since I was a late  arrival  to the world and their first grandchild born after much prayer!

My paati as I remember her was always draped in a typical nine yards saree, madisaru.  She loved her jewellery and wore many gold bangles as well as chains. Diamond earrings and nose rings adorned her face. A huge red pottu with her hair tied in a neat bun. The bun always had false hair in it. I used to enjoy combing the false hair, rolling it up and keeping it safely for her. A net would be set up on the bun, neatly tucked in with U hair pins. Finally a gajra  of mullapoo or kanakambaram would surround the bun!
Her sarees were grand. She had amazing silk sarees in the most vibrant colours. She was poona paati to me, but she was Seth maami in Pune. My tatha was Seth Maama, having set up his own business there. She was Manni to all. Even her own children followed their uncles and called her Manni and my tatha was called Anna by the whole family.
Tatha was usually an angry man who snapped with most people, but with his grandchildren he had all the patience in the world. Paati was his backbone, pandering to all his fancies and whims.He too took care of her like a gem. After all she lived with him since the age of 14! They grew up together!

Poona meant vacations and cousins. When my mom and us, and all my aunts with their kids would assemble at Pune for every single vacation, be it summer,  Diwali or Christmas.
Paati used to keep feeding us. Apart from the regular breakfasts,  lunches and dinners, there would be a constant flow of snacks from the kitchen. Murrukkus, vadams, karuvadams, thenguyal, manoharam, mysore pak, barfi, theratipal and many more would keep coming into stainless steel boxes. It was almost like she woke up with an agenda of making some new item each day.
Evenings would be dosas, idlis, bondas, bhajjis and such savouries which we would happily devour before evening trips to the local temples or gardens.

We never returned from Pune without two or three extra bags of snacks or fruits that would last for almost a month or two.By then we would be ready for the next vacation!

She stayed with us very frequently at Trivandrum. Even there, she would hatch up plans for snack making with my mother and the two of them would conjure up something by the time my sister and me returned home. These were apart from all the snacks she was already carrying with her.
She showed her love and care through her food and her gifts.
She bore six children, four daughters and two sons.  She saw grandchildren and even great grandchildren.  One of my prized possessions is a snap of my paati, amma ,me and my daughter!

She died a Sumangali on a Friday, like she always wanted and went away in her brightest saree and her big red pottu. I am glad she went away thus as it would have been painful for all of us to see her in any other way!

And thus it began...

 I had just cleared college and got into a job. During my second year at the job, one Sunday I planned a movie with some of my friends. Mom  declared that I couldnt go for the movie and a family was coming to 'see' me. I asked her what time they were expected. I would go for the movie once they were gone. " Your movie is not so important,  she snarled. This meeting could lead to the wedding."

I went to my room upset about the lost movie and irritated that someone would plonk themselves on my sofa on a Sunday morning.

The three days next were a whirlwind. My aunt and uncle came home early on Sunday morning. The saree I chose was rejected promptly. My aunt had brought a saree and insisted I wore that one. Finally by ten thirty, I was ready. 

I said I will not carry the tray with tea. Mom and aunt  were glad I was decked up with flowers and jewels. All I could think of was when these visitors would go and I would be free to go for the movie.

They came. And the groom to be was not there. That irritated me further. They said the family came to see me. If they approved the boy would come. 

Oh the high and mighty dont do normal stuff , I thought and went out in the  living room to greet them. I met them with a smile. Some usual questions , some normal conversation and tea and snacks and they left .

A telephone call in the evening confirmed that next Sunday the boy would also come. Oh god! I wailed. One more Sunday gone. 

I am not going to deck up now , I protested. I will wear a sinple saree. Thats enough for the boy who needs two visits to see a girl! 

And so Sunday , I meet the guy. He is tall, dark and handsome. My heart skips a beat. The wait was worth it! 

He tells me he is a workaholic,  but loves to party and travel and he watches movies when he gets time. My ears perk up. The guy watches movies. He clears my test. Thats all I needed. 

The rest is my parents look out. They can figure it out. 

I say ok. He says ok. We get engaged. 

Two weeks later he offers to take me for a movie. I am ecstatic. We will go town side he says. Town side in Mumbai is the hotspot for fashion and entertainment. 

He comes to pick me up in a motorcycle. Wow. This is getting better I think. A movie, a motor bike and a TDH guy. This is dream stuff. 

Halfway through Mumbais skies open up. Even as we drive down the streets getting soaked, my heart sings.. Rimjhim gire saawan... 

The movie of my life has begun. Could it have begun better? 

The Onion

 Mine being a typical tam brahm family, the family had found a chamathu payyan for me for kalyanam. Little did I know that I was enegaged to a life size onion. 

Having grown up outside Mumbai, I didnt know much of the place. So the few evenings Onion  and me met, we went to a near by restaurant called Verandah. The other reason being the timeline set by my mom. Everytime we went out, my mom would insist on me being dropped back by eight p.m. Considering that Onion  would reach only by 7.p.m , that's the best we could manage. Onion would complain, who goes home by eight? I leave home by eight! 

During these outings, he would constantly brag about the wonderful places in town! He casually enquired if I have ever eaten non veg food. I told him that I did taste some fish from a few hostel mates, but never went beyond it.

So finally we decided on a full day outing with a movie and lunch in town.

Post the motorcycle ride, before the movie , we went for lunch to a resturant. The restaurant served sea food. My curiosity was piqued. This is a non vegetarian place. Yes, he said. If your trust me, I will ensure you have the best lunch, he said. Ok, I quipped, I guess I have to trust you, considering I decided to spend the rest of my life with you!

There was a lot of hustle in the restaurant.  He knew the waiters by name. They fawned over him like he was their blue eyed boy. He ordered a beer and I ordered lime juice. 

I asked him, you drink beer regularly? Not really, he said, just when I want to have something light! Little did I know that beer was light when conpared to his staple Old Monk Rum! 

He ordered chicken biryani and some fish curry. But this was just layer one of the  Onion.

Halfway through lunch, Onion vanishes amd doesnt come back for a good ten minutes. This is the pre mobile phone days. I am stuck at the table, wondering where he has gone. 

Then I see him chatting with the manager and smoking a cigarette. The next layer  is peeled. 

Onion is a pattar who drinks , smokes and eats non veg food. 

Post the movie, Onion gets philosophical and says , this is the real me. I am a pattar by birth, but I am this guy. I smoke,  drink and eat non veg. I love to party and  stay out of home late night. I dont wear the poonal. Nor do I follow all religious stuff. I pray in my head and not at temples. 

What do you have to say?

What did I have to say? 

My parents picked up a chammathu pattar  payan  whose horoscope matched mine. His credentials were checked by other family members and duly stamped amd certified. But here he is confessing to a lifestyle that is wholly different and as non pattar as can be. 

What did I say?  I know for sure I am in for a lifetime of adventure. I say, Chal bike start kar. That backseat is now booked forever!