Gastro-sexual Escapades

My mother wasn’t a great cook – but a competent one. Like other things in life her “practical” nature extended to the kitchen as well. On the other hand, her mother - my Didi-ma - was almost a gourmet chef. This was remarkable because, she became a widow in her early 30s and didn’t have meat, fish or any form of non-vegetarian food the rest of her life. Yet, she would churn out the most amazing specialty European and Bengali fare with effortless ease. (one of her best was Smoked Hilsa – deboned and cooked on a bed of ‘mudki’ spread over charcoal) But, this was true of many Bengali ladies of that era with a western upbringing and, in her case, she came from an hotelier family where she could hone her culinary skills under the tutelage of the ‘Khansamas’.

the simple and ( a wee-bit) sexy

Coming back to my mother, she never spent too much time in the kitchen. On most days – her cooking would be over by 9 in the morning at the latest. One of her favourite pastime – though - was watching cookery shows on TV. My father tells me she has left behind several note books full of recipes – which we would have to discover and explore someday. However, she did like to experiment in the kitchen. In trying out new recipes – she didn’t strive for perfection or go looking for exotic ingredients. She would improvise mostly with whatever was available at home – only sometimes getting some special condiments or fresh herbs from her occasional trips to Calcutta’s New Market. The results were often mixed – but interesting enough for friends and relatives, who – though not exactly connoisseurs - loved the “nouvelle” touch in the dishes that were rather low on spices and oil for the Bengali palate. It was the kind of cooking her favourite niece calls a "Flash in the Pan” in her recently published cookbook of the same name.


...and, meals of substance

Parties were not the order of the day then - but, we had a couple of large feasts in a year. One such ‘big do’ would be post Kali – Puja or Diwali – when she invited her large band of cousins for “Bhai-Phonta”. On these occasions, we called in a professional cook. There was a ‘Mogh’ colony next to Lotus Cinema on Surendra Nath Banerjee Road in Taltala. The Moghs were of Burmese-Buddhist origin from the Cox Bazar region of Bangladesh. They had the generic title of ‘Baruah’ and worked down generations as Bawarchis in the “Box Wallah” companies. There was a Mogh Chef in my Dad’s office. He would moonlight on his off days and come to our house. He was a mean cook. The menu would be simple but substantial. Roast of small spring chickens, mutton collar, fish kebabs or biriyani – rounded off with a mouth watering trifle or bread pudding.

the Sky(room) was the limit

Eating out was not so big with us, as - I guess – it wasn’t in most traditional families. We would look forward to a Chinese meal at “The Waldorf” on Park Street – every time my uncle from Allahabad visited (Crab-meat Asparagus Soup, Sweet and Sour Vegetables, Mandarin Fish and Soya Chilli Chicken) or North-Indian / Punjabi at Ambers or Kwality’s (Chicken Bharta and Mutton Burra kebabs) on someone’s Wedding Anniversary or Birthday. The high point, of course, was Sky Room ( Blue-Fox and Moulin Rouge was out of bounds for the children as those were Cabaret joints) with its Chicken Tetrazinni and Zuccotto cake for dessert. Other than that, it was mainly club food at the CSC – Chow mien, Thukpa or Momos after a swim and the odd Continental Dinner of Chicken Ala-Kiev or Fish Meuniere . Junk food was restricted to the rare binge on Phuckas at Dhakuria Lakes (Southern Avenue) – later Bhel-Puri or Pav Bhaji at Victoria before the ubiquitous Kathi Roll descended onto the streets of Calcutta from Nizam’s on Hogg Street (behind New Market – near Minerva Cinema and Kolkata Municipal Corporation Head-quarters) via Karco and Badshah in the same area.

the price of hunger

It’s no surprise therefore that my culinary sensibilities were honed from these early experiences and memories that still linger on my taste buds. A new journey began when I left home to start my work career. The first realization was – every time you felt hungry it cost you money. The days in “Hotel de Papa” – as the Bengalis would joke – were over for good. You had to pay for food. The second realization to follow soon was – the homely Daal tasted much better than the priciest item on the menu of the fanciest restaurant. Add to that the home-style Mutton or Chicken Curry and it was bliss. Even the humble fish that one had looked down upon all through childhood was like a piece of home.

gastro-sexual concepts

But, it was not every day, or every week for that matter, that one would find the kind Samaritan calling you over home for a meal with the family. That’s when my courtship with the pots and pans started. It was a pre-marital affair that turned out to be a bigamous relationship almost from the very start with the wife arriving on the scene in close succession. But, the good part was that - we were both equal novices in the kitchen. So, the conjugal arena soon shifted to the open kitchen in our 3rd floor terrace flat on Prabhat Road 5th Lane in Pune and we took to the pitch with shared enthusiasm - she armed with her mother’s copiously compiled recipes and me with the Leela Majumdar primer “Ranna’r Boi” - later graduating to the Calcutta Cookbook. That was before the advent of the internet.

Over the years , of course – as one would expect – Nina has overtaken me by miles, like so many other aspects of life, and I have turned into a consummate ‘concept cook’ – that is I provide the concept and someone else cooks. But, in this of age “gastro-sexual” males my repertoire remains functional rather than fancy, earthy not esoteric - refined even if they not very evolved, which I believe is just age-appropriate.

(amma's photo and food shots courtesy - Joyeeta Ghose)

For a change

The Bengalis called it “change” for short – meaning a change of weather and place. They’d say - “change e jacchi” – literally, going for a change (sic) - “Ektu jal, hawaa badal korey aashi”. So, in winters they’d move base to what was colloquially referred to as the “West” (Paschim) – small towns of Bihar (now Jharkahnd) - Deoghar, Madhupur, Hazaribagh, Ranchi – sometime even as far as Banaras. In summers – it would be to the sea-side of Puri or Gopalpur (Ganjam, Orissa) or to the hills in Darjeeling and Kalimpong. It was bit like the old colonial concept of shifting capital for summers or winters – or the European custom of heading out to the Riviera or the Alps. The self styled “aristocrats” had their summer or winter homes at those places. Others would rent a house or have long-stay arrangements at hotels ( the more “well-to-do” in places like the BNR in Puri or The Windamere in Darjeeling). Though we were nowhere as privileged – going on long vacations was still very much the norm even in ordinary middle-class homes.


So, I don’t remember ever going on a holiday that was less than - at least - a fortnight (something we can't even imagine in today's work-life)। Usually – my father would take leave in the period intervening between Durga Puja and Kali-Puja (Diwali). Quite often, we would travel to Allahabad – where my mother’s younger sister and her favourite cousin lived – and from there head-out in a larger group in another direction. Thus, we toured the Kumaon Hill circuit of Nainital-Ranikhet-Almora, the golden triangle of Agra-Jaipur-Delhi and, on another occasion, parts of Madhya Pradesh covering Khajuraho-Jabalpore.

These were not very organized or planned trips। Travelling in 2 or 3 jalopie-loads (squeezing in 6, sometimes 7 or 8 including children into the old Ambassadors and land-masters), it was like picnic on the road with its fair share of misadventures. Practically every second night we would have to find a new place to camp or pitch a virtual tent at a Circuit Houses, Forest / Dak Bunglows, PWD Rest-houses or the Guest House of a Government Undertaking – greasing the palms of the chowkidar or seeking the benefaction of the junior local officials – or at times make way into the Holiday Home of a company. Sometimes, we were lucky to be able to make use the house of someone distantly known through a relative or friend.

Deem-er Dalna and Dak Banglow Chicken Curry

Rarely did we have a cook accompanying us – so it was usually the women who had to swing into action no sooner had the luggage been dumped into the rooms. While the rice and dal (part of the dry ration and provisions that were carried) was put to boil – couple of the men would scurry to the market for vegetables (and, on a good day, country chicken - otherwise it was mostly eggs for “deem-er dalna” click here for recipe) and their evening’s quota of whiskey (Aristocrat and Black Knight being the preferred brands of those days) . Breakfast would almost always be of bread, boiled eggs and the mandatory banana for the kids. Lunch on the road would naturally have to be in Dhabas – but in towns we would get to ‘splurge’ at a ‘family restaurant’ ( the high points being Kwality’s or Jone Hing in Lucknow, the Niros or LMB in Jaipur – even tho’ the last mentioned was purely vegetarian – and the likes of them) or in the cafeteria of a Tourist Lodge. (For recipe of Dak Bunglow Chicken Curry Click here)


the original 'time-share'

But, there was also a second format of holidays that we followed. Every other year, we would choose just a single destination to go and drop anchor for a month or so. The choice of place would, per necessity, depend on the availability of someone’s house who was willing to let it out to us (usually for free – the ‘token’ reciprocation would be in the form of a dinner invitation at home on our return) . Coming to think of it – this was, perhaps, the older form of ‘time-share’ holidays.

Normally – 2 families (presumably, like minded and compatible) would travel together (3 were a crowd and too many variables to accommodate), as apart from providing the ‘social’ critical mass not only did the holiday economics worked out better as the ‘overheads’ could be split – but also the logistics due to the comfort of numbers. Besides, traveling in a group broke the monotony of long train journeys– often extending beyond 2 nights (tho’ air-fares must have been a fraction of what the ‘low cost airlines’ of today charge, it was not an option even for the most affluent).

On reaching the final station of rest, we would go about setting up a temporary home almost like new immigrants. Life would quickly fall in to a routine – be it the long walks in the mornings to the market at other end of town or the gentle trudge in the evenings to the Military Farm Dairy to get cream for the strawberries. We would very soon be on familiar terms with not just the local grocer and baker – but, at times, even the best tailor of the place from whom – for some inexplicable reason – my uncle decided to order a suit and had to make umpteen rounds to get the fit exactly right. In the process, the rest of us too – including the ladies - had some piece of winter clothing stitched from him. On the weekly trips for encashing Travellers’ Cheques ( as there were no Credit Cards or ATMs then) – the Bank Manager – would not only give us sight-seeing tips but also, occasionally, share little nuggets of gossip about celebrities who would come for escapades to some tranquil hide-outs in the vicinity. . Before long, it would be time to leave and we would go about bidding farewell with a promise to come back soon – which, at least for then, were meant genuinely.

Charing Cross in T Nagar

One such holiday – we had enjoyed a lot was in Ooty circa 1973. Took my father there – at the end of our trip to Wellington, Coonoor, earlier this month - after a gap of nearly 37 years. It wasn’t such a good idea – because, within 3 months of my Mother’s passing away, it only brought back for him a flood of old memories. We drove down Havelock Road to see the house where we had stayed (that belonged to a leading stevedore of Madras). It was now in shambles and a slum had sprung up around it. Shinkows – which, I believe, is not a patch of its old self - was shut for renovation. Among the old shops only Chellaram’s had retained some of its old character – Mohan’s was now like any other touristy shop at a hill station. Charing Cross could easily pass off as a junction in T Nagar, Chennai. Everything else – not surprisingly – had changed beyond recognition with the exception of a few tucked away secrets like the King’s Cliff. What we could manage for him was a panoramic photograph of Ooty shot in the 70s from Elk Hill mounted on the wall of the reception at the Ooty Club – which itself had stood still in time.

Amma

My mother - Jharna - passed away early last Friday morning (4th Dec) after a brief 5 day illness. She was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML) the previous Saturday - 28th Nov - which, incidentally, was their 50th Wedding Anniversary. She had no prior symptoms or indication. It would seem like, she was waiting for that day before declaring the close of her innings. I wouldn't know if it was out of sheer prescience that she had instructed us long ago not to plan any anniversary celebrations for them - saying that she'd rather use the money for some good cause later. She was all of 68.

By the grace of God, she didn't suffer too much and was lucid till the very end.Tho' in distress from a pulmonary infection that had set in, she was aware of every minute detail, talking (giving my father and Nina instructions on minor issues of the house-hold) and sometimes even joking with the doctors, monks (Swamis) and nuns (Mataji-s) of RKM who came to see her. She passed away in her sleep at 0100 AM. She had been admitted on Monday (30th) at the Ramakrishna Mission Seva Pratisthan (Shishu Mangal) on Lansdowne Road, Calcutta - a place of her own choosing.

Those of you - whose lives she had touched, would know that she wouldn't have liked to be mourned in her death. But, remembered for the happy times she shared with all of us.

For us life has changed permanently. But, I hope and pray that, she enjoys the same sense of peace and tranquility that was so characteristic of her, wherever she may find her abode of rest.

More on her....some other day....

Feather-weight erotica

I finally succumbed. Friends and family know that there are a few things in life that leave me helplessly weak-kneed. There are some temptations in life I can’t resist for too long. Buying books is just one of them. So ignoring the hype generated by the ‘inspired’ reviews in every magazine and newspaper (including – surprisingly – a high-brow business newspaper, which even carried an excerpt click here to read), I picked up from the new Delhi Airport Bookshop what’s been touted as the first ever anthology of Indian Erotic Writing - Electric Feather: The Tranquebar Book Of Erotic Stories by Ruchir Joshi, Tranquebar Books. In the foreword ‘Indian’ has been qualified as “Indian (South Asian) authors writing in English”.

On the flight, a colleague traveling with me quickly flicked the copy but was equally prompt in returning it when we got off the plane – saying, he didn’t wish to take it home and get the wife all worked up (no pun intended). My lady at home was characteristically nonchalant. "Don't take it along on the long trip ahead", she counselled explaining that she thought it may not be very conducive to my current physical condition, following the minor surgical procedure I had undergone a few months ago.

So, I had to wait till my return last week before taking up the book. I liked Ruchir Joshi’s introduction. Though his justification for doing such an anthology was a trifle convoluted (and, unnecessary I thought), what I found interesting was his account of the reactions he evinced from different established authors whom he had approached for contributing to the collection. But, honestly I couldn’t proceed beyond the first 2 pages of any story that I tried. Each one was more juvenile and puerile than the other. To me they were the print equivalent of the crude desi-porn movies shot with hand held movie cameras that we saw in our college days – courtesy some adventurous classmates who dared to raid their parents’ closets (those were before the days of camcorders and video parlours).


Vernacular Treasures

In contrast, I remembered some of the lovely erotic passages one has read in modern Bengali literature – the writings of Samaresh Basu, Buddhadev Bose, Buddhadev Guha, Sunil Gangopadhyay and so many others. I am quite sure there are similar works in other Indian languages with strong literary traditions – Tamil, Kannada, Oriya, Assamese and, 'oh-how-can-I-forget' – Marathi, living in Mumbai, or even in Hindi, rising above the stereo type of the sleazy paperbacks one sees lined on pavement book shops.

Recently, I remember watching a TV documentary on a developing cult in Tamil literature of erotic poetry being written by a band of young women poets (SheWrite, A film by Anjali Monteiro & K P Jayasankar click here). I wonder, how much richer the collection could have been – if it included translations of real authors writing in real Indian languages. Perhaps, Mr Joshi – educated in one of Calcutta's so called "English Medium" Schools, may not have been exposed to these facets of modern Indian literature (Or else, he may have mildly moderated his assertions such as "we in the subcontinent still live trapped in a cat’s cradle of taboos and repressions").

More interesting than the book, I believe, was the launch event. Read about it here. But, for me the only silver lining is that, there could be life beyond blogging. One can always turn to writing facile erotica.

One for the road...

There were some 30 of us from over 20 different countries spread widely across the 5 continents. The age group varied from early 30s to the late 50s – and I was clearly on the upper quartile. Almost a third of the group were women – though none of the kind to set my heart racing.

We were gathered at an ancient chateau (Bellinglise - it is said Joan of Arc was imprisoned here) converted to an inn – an hour’s drive north of Paris for a company training programme. Situated in the midst of thick woods - the setting was idyllic. The chateau lighted up in the evenings – with the moon reflecting on a lake – looked like an enchanted castle (read a poem of Alan Seeger dedicated to Bellinglise by clicking here).

Being a veteran of many such courses and conferences, I arrived with a small pouch of cynicism in my carry-on duffle bag. My misgivings didn’t turn out to be entirely unfounded – as the faculty came across as - at best - mediocre and the course contents also pretty elementary. But, I didn’t mind. The food was outstanding at every meal, the pace of the programme was relaxed and the schedule light – leaving enough free-time to do our own stuff be it going on long walks and cycling in the forest, soaking in the Japanese tub or simply hanging out at the open bar.

going 'solo'

By the end of the 3rd day a little boredom was beginning to set in. So, when we came to know that the penultimate afternoon has been set aside for ‘solo’ personal reflection by the participants – even the most laid-back amongst us thought it was becoming too much of a ‘time-pass’ and the facilitators were probably taking it a bit too easy.

There was no guideline or brief on what we were supposed to do in those 2 hours of solitary “retreat”. It was meant to be a period of free thinking on any subject – professional or personal – trying to cut off any extraneous thoughts or distractions. However, 3 conditions were stipulated. First, all of us had to leave our mobile phones and Blackberries behind. Second, we had to go it alone – unaccompanied by any of our course mates. And finally, we could chose any place inside or outside the chateau premises except that we were not allowed to go back to our own rooms – throwing cold water on what many of us were secretly contemplating.

breaking the mould

So we dispersed in different directions with our ‘Moleskin’ Notebooks in hand -somewhat skeptically. We saw Bob – from Edmonton, West Canada - heading out towards the Spa, Dimitri – the American-Greek - positioned himself beneath the large cypress tree and the 4 Koreans walked out in a group – chatting, blissfully ignoring the very specific instructions. Tony – our Chinese colleague – who was always half asleep with his persisting jet lag ambled across the drive way looking a bit disoriented and the Americans disappeared into the forest. I chose the lonely trail across the lake.

putting the pieces back together

We all strolled back in around teatime. The usual chatter that surrounds the mid-afternoon recess was missing. People weren’t pensive – but they were palpably quiet. Slowly we adjourned once more into our team rooms. There was a look of expectation on every face - about “what next?”, when Kris – our rakishly handsome and charming Flemish facilitator walked in. But, he was clearly far too seasoned to be drawn easily in to telling us where do we go from there. Wearing a beatific smile, he stared at us quizzically, waiting for one us to break the silence, which - by now – seemed almost ready to burst.

the melting moment

Burst it did and how. Don’t exactly remember who – it just could have been any one of us – suggested that, we could probably share our individual experiences with the group. This caused a virtual eruption around the room. It was as if our collective sensibilities had been assaulted, threatening to violate of our right to privacy. The individual reactions brought to the fore the cultural differences among us. Some were downright offended, others exuded a sense of outraged modesty. The French vehemently shook their heads in dissent; Tony asked “why ?” looking genuinely flummoxed; the girl from Romania got emotionally worked up; the Americans were more vocal – tho’ restrained - in their objections; the lone Korean in our team withdrew visibly further into a shell and the 2 of us South Asians didn’t seem to quite understand what the fuss was all about.

from stand-off to take-off

From the rumblings and murmurs it appeared that we were fast approaching a veritable 'stand-off' that was going to - almost ineveitably - end up in a churlish ‘walk-out’. But then, suddenly - came the moment of meltdown. I think it was Bob who took the lead and said that, he was comfortable about sharing his experience without revealing the details – as they were intimately personal. Soon the trickle became a flow and others followed – as if on cue.

Little wonder, each one’s journey was very different from the rest. But, there was no mistaking that - in our own way - each of us (the four-some Koreans included) had touched a deeper point of consciousness. The result may not have been 'life transforming' – but it had certainly brought home some significant realization – perhaps, disturbing for some – but nevertheless important. And, who knows – it could just be working away insidiously in the sub-conscious to bring about a change – hopefully positive, which we’ll only see much later in retrospect.

take home

In those 90 minutes or so, the atmosphere in the room changed as we discovered a new chemistry of trust and mutual respect between us. That evening the bar was less boisterous – but every one seemed to enjoy their drinks more and even the food at the dinner table tasted better, as did the wine. The women appeared much nicer too.

Looking back, even if this was just one thing we took back home, it made those 5 days very precious and memorable. For me the bigger lesson was, learning - be it in a course or in life - doesn’t always come from cramming but giving ourselves the time and space to reflect.