Remembering Grandma

It has been my great fortune to have lived and spent a large part of my young life with my grandmother. My grandmother, who lived up to a ripe old age of 95 years, was an exceptional and an incredible person. She was gritty, pleasant, affectionate, tolerant and many more. I cannot find more epithets to describe her. She was full of wisdom. She was a larger-than-life individual, especially in the eyes of her numerous grandchildren, I am one of them. She was everyone’s favourite grandma.

She had been married at a very early age, when she was just 12 or 13 years old. My grandfather was 35 years old at the time of their marriage.  After bearing 10 children in continuous succession and widowed soon after, one would expect that a person in her position would have been worn out and given up on life! But not my grandma. She took on herself to bring up all her children without any kind of moral or financial support, or any other help from those around her. Her eldest son (that was my father) was 25 years old at the time of my grandfather’s death. There was a gap of 2-3 years between each of her children. She was 41 years when she was widowed and left to fend for herself with her large family; with no money or security in a big town (that was Bangalore then). My grandma and her large family of 9 children (her second child had died during childbirth) survived the initial ordeal with a great deal of grit and determination. The family had to go through untold misery, pain and struggle for survival on a daily basis. This period may be notorious for such struggles for survival and this may, perhaps, be the common recurring theme of many families during the era of the 1940’s in India. However, this does not take away in any way or diminish the pains and struggles of each of the individual families, they had to undergo for survival during that period.

Perhaps, the long period of family struggles and hardship had shaped my grandma’s character, providing her with the grit and determination and the will to fight for herself and her family’s survival. This may hardly explain her cheerfulness and affectionate nature, which I guess she may have inherited from her parents. She had very little in terms of formal education; she just attended primary school. She reminded us of her educational qualification from time to time to motivate us to read well and prosper in our luves.  As she hailed from a small, nondescript village in Shimoga district in Karnataka, I am not sure what kind of primary education she may have had there, in those days. Her parental family background had been of limited influence in her life as she had married very young and left her parents’ house at an early age, soon after marriage.

My grandma had a large influence on my upbringing and early part of my life. She had her say in most of the important family matters and had been a ‘go-to’ person for all issues concerning the family and the children’s future, e.g., naming of the children, when they should attend school, when should the boys undergo the ‘sacred-thread ceremony’, when should a girl be married, etc. Though she was duly consulted and she had her say, the final decision would rest with the main person involved in the matter. She did not interfere and push her own thoughts or agenda, she would only provide her counsel, as an elderly and wise person.

I was in the habit of having long and deep discussions (or let us simply say, arguments) with my grandma concerning religion, faith, God, etc., needling her with outrageous suggestions, which, provoked strong responses from her on many contentious issues. Though we had strong arguments on various issues, she was not the one to give in easily. She argued her case long and hard. As soon as the issue was settled one way or the other, she would affectionately call me her biggest rival.

My grandma was a source of great strength and comfort to all of us in the family. When my father and my two other uncles passed away prematurely, she stood like a rock absorbing all the shock, pain and distress. When the rest of the family was uncontrollable in their tragic loss, I remember her sympathetic comforting words to the rest of the family members, quoting the God’s will and other scriptures; human beings were nothing more than mere pawns in the Almighty’s chess board and she would say that these are testing times; we cannot abdicate the responsibility of fulfilling our destiny chosen by God; life, simply has to go on, despite all odds. This was, perhaps, the sign of her strong beliefs in the Almighty and the Hindu scriptures. She was a very pious, God-fearing and religious person. She had been indoctrinated into the strong Hindu  beliefs to an extent that she was prompted into shaving off her head, following the death of her husband (that is my grandfather). She had steadfastly continued this ritual of shaving her head until her death in the year 2001.

My grandma was a great believer of traditions and rituals. She used to partake of full meal only once in a day (that was lunch alone).  In the evenings, she would have some light snacks and milk. She continued this habit of having a lean diet till her death. She followed the traditions of fasting once in a fortnight on the ‘Ekadashi day’. A strict rule she observed till her very end.

My grandma was a great cook. I still remember her simple, yet excellently cooked food using only the basic minimum ingredients which, however, tasted heavenly. The food she cooked did not have any exotic or extraordinary ingredients. Most of the dishes she cooked were based on regularly available ingredients, the food was cooked, however, with lots of love and care. My cousins and uncles still rave about the extraordinary taste she squeezed out of ordinary ingredients; and the food she prepared tasted great.

I remember her constant and all-encompassing influence in my early formative years. Looking back, I believe it was her calming presence that gave me the strength and courage to survive, especially in the turbulent phase of my life, post the death of my father. If it was not for her presence, may be, I could not have lived through steadfastly with the trauma of my father’s death. I always believed she calmed down my teenage rage and tempers with her sagacious presence in my life.

My grandma was healthy and strong all through her life. Her robust health was her greatest asset. I have never seen her fall ill with minor ailments. Only in her last few years, after she turned 93, she was admitted to a hospital for treatment, may be just 2 or 3 times.

My only regret was that I was not in Bangalore when she passed away. I was posted in Mumbai at that time. I could not attend her funeral and have a last glimpse of my dear Grandma. This reminded me of the beautiful quote so eloquently expressed, which read, “Those we love, don’t go away, they walk beside us every day, unseen, unheard, but always near, so loved, so missed, so very dear”.

Bhoot Bangla - A live story!

Nelson Mandela had said somewhere that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it and the brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear. Nice quote. Gives me courage to say that fear is nearly almost present in all of us! May be to a varying degree, perhaps. I think it is the human gene that is the culprit! ‘Fear’ gene (or whatever technical name the scientists would have given this gene) may have been passed on to us right from our evolution days (either as homo sapiens or homo erectus or some other earlier species even). Who knows? What I am trying to do here is to justify that we all fear something or the other, especially the unknown. 

The word fear is defined by Merriam-Webster dictionary as something or someone to be afraid of; to expect or worry about something bad or unpleasant. Basically, it is an unpleasant emotion caused by the threat of danger, pain, or harm. Fear drives people to do many things. Both good and bad. Though most of our fears are irrational and unfounded. 

It takes me back to the time when I was young, may be 9 or 10 years old. I had this terrible fear of unknown. Let’s call it fear of ghosts, because that was the nomenclature commonly used those days! I used to stay with my parents on a quiet street in a lonely area of Jayanagar (Those days Jayanagar was lonely and dimly lit during night times). There was this empty house on our street. During our stay of 7 years on this particular street, I never saw this house ever tenanted. This house wore a dilapidated look because of lack of maintenance. Shrubs and creepers had grown all around the house which gave it a decrepit appearance. In the mind of 10-year-old, this house had an eerie look! Whenever I used to pass this house during day times I had this habit of staring at the house looking for signs of any activity in the windows, though I clearly knew in my mind that no one resided there. However, during the evening times (around 7 PM or so just when the Sun had set and darkness was creeping upon) the house used to acquire a sinister look (in the mind of a 10-year-old). While passing the house one evening, on an errand, I kept staring at the house. I paused just slightly before the house as I could see some dim lights coming through the front bedroom window and I had this feeling that some shadows were moving behind the windows. I felt a creepy fear pass over me slowly. My pause turned into a short run. I reached the end of the street. The blood in my veins kept pounding as I kept looking back towards the house while on run. Just at the end of the street, there were two corner stores located, quite brightly lit. It was here that I was headed to for buying few things (I don’t remember exactly what I wanted to buy from corner stores). After completing my purchase, on my way back, I didn’t have the nerve to cross the empty house once again. I thought of taking the long route from the other end of the street by crossing over to the adjacent street. This again had its pitfalls as there was another empty house across that street too! This kept playing on my mind and I decided to take my chances and take the short route home. I closed my eyes and sprinted across the street (crossing the empty house) as fast as my young legs could carry me. I opened my eyes only after reaching the safe environs of my home. This sprint was the fastest blind run in my life. I could have given Usain Bolt a run for his money for the fastest 100 metres dash! My heart kept pounding and the blood gushed through my veins. I kept this incident to myself. I was ashamed to admit to my parents that I was scared. The next morning it was again the time to pass the empty house on my way to the shop. As was my habit, my eyes kept darting towards the empty house. I looked at the house through the corner of my eye. I couldn’t dare to look at the house directly as shivers were running through me. I didn’t see any activity happening in the house. The house stood empty as always! Nobody had occupied that house. I still don’t know if the play of lights and shadows that appeared behind the front bedroom window of the empty house that night were just the wild imagination of 10-year-old boy or something else! 

Continuing on this incident, I had connected this “haunted house” phenomenon to the Hindi movie titled ‘Gumnaam’ which I remember watching in the late sixties or so with my parents. After watching this movie, I was quite convinced that ghosts did exist, after all, (though the movie plot said that it was the female character who was carrying out this charade to deceive somebody or the other). I don’t exactly remember the plot of this movie now. This movie with its haunting melodies preyed on my mind for quite a number of years. I was scared of going out alone on the streets late in the evenings. I used to come home before nightfall (after play) as I was scared of late evenings. This was the time when shadows creep due to interplay of light and darkness; I always avoided staying late outside the house after 7 PM. This timing of 7 PM was sacrosanct due to my irrational fears. The fears that I had developed as a young boy age had persisted into my late teens and even during my youth.

This thought leads me to another incident that left an indelible impression on my mind. I was posted to work in a village branch during my first stint after joining a nationalized Bank. That was my first exposure away from my close-knit family. This was a remote village in the rain-fed area of Malnad region in interior Karnataka. The village was notorious for its rains and coffee estates. There was hardly any accommodation available for rent in the village. On the very first day a colleague of mine who was also from Bangalore offered to share a huge old bungalow with me for our residence. The problem with this bungalow was that this was situated outside of the village limits, though hardly a 5 minutes-walking distance from the Bank branch. This was the last building in the village environs. There were no houses on either side of the building. The house was located on a very lonely stretch. Thick shrubbery had grown on either sides of the house. My colleague and I used to keep all the rooms in the entire bungalow locked up except for one room which we used as sleeping quarters. We didn’t have any cots to sleep. Just our basic rolling beds were placed at the opposite corners of one room, which we had occupied. Rest of the house was just left unused. The house had a tiled roof. As the house was quite old, we had got it at a very cheap rental bargain. My colleague who stayed with me was a courageous and smart person. I could see that from day one. He was staying there alone before I joined him in a sharing arrangement. Within a month or so after my joining the Bank Branch, this colleague of mine had to go on leave for a week to Bangalore. I was left all alone in this huge bungalow. It was the rainy season. Rains were copious that year. The night after my colleague left for Bangalore, I went back to my bungalow with a stout heart, mentally determined. I stepped in the house, heartily singing, wanting to mask the fear of what was in store for me during the night. The rains had commenced and were very heavy that night as if the skies had opened up. Water was dripping here and there inside the house, in the crevices between the tiles. The owners didn’t want to spend on repairs as the rent was too low. Rains drops were lashing at the windows which was making an eerie sound. I had finished my night dinner at a nearby village restaurant before retiring for the evening. The long night had begun! I could hear the hooting of night owls somewhere in a distance amid the rain sounds. My mind was in a twirl. I sat on my bed opening a book to read. I couldn’t concentrate. I could feel the blood rush across my spine to my head. My imagination had gone wild and was playing all sorts of tricks inside. I had kept the lights on through the night. There were power cuts in between. I lit some candles. The flames were casting long shadows and dancing to the movement of the wind from the gaps between windows panes. I could feel the shivers running along my spine. All the thoughts of ghosts and whatnot rushed through my mind! I could hear the slight creaking of doors as winds kept howling outside. This experience was like a scene straight out of a horror movie! The fear was so intense that I thought I would not last the night! I was fighting with all my strength and tried to keep up my spirits by singing loudly; I was trying to be as rational as possible. I couldn’t sleep the entire night and was totally awake with fear! What a night that was, I could still feel the shivers creep up my spine even now, as I write this! There was no TV or Radio or anything which I could switch on to spend the night. I kept looking at my watch every now and then hoping the morning would arrive soon which would end my nightmare! That was the longest night of my lifetime! When I went back to the Bank the following day after surviving the horrid night, my colleagues at the Bank were waiting to know my fate, if I had survived! They asked me how was my night at the “Booth Bangla”! That was the first I heard of the bungalow being called that. I was kept in the dark. All the colleagues at the Bank were very young and full of spirits. In fact, all of them knew about the bungalow and told me stories of how this “Booth Bangla” had been vacant for a number of years and nobody had dared to occupy for fear of isolation and its sheer size coupled with the poor maintenance of the house! I also later learnt that how a colleague who was earlier staying in that bungalow vacated the place within a week totally numb with fear! It appears my Bangalore colleague was the only one who had the gumption to move into this bungalow and continue to live there for some time. He had taken this up as a challenge and he had won the challenge. Coming back to my story, I did spend the entire week alone in this huge old “Booth Bangla”, I don’t know how I survived. Each night was a terror and nightmare! The toughest week of my life! But here I am, after so many years, still very much alive and kicking to relate the story! Despite surviving the ordeal, I wouldn’t dare call myself a courageous or a brave person! I didn’t stay long in the house after that particular horrendous week. One more colleague of mine offered to share his house which was bang in the middle of the village, where I later shifted and happily spent the rest of my stay in the village. My hero colleague who had stayed in that big old bungalow for may be 6 months or so shifted shortly thereafter. 

The only thing we have to fear is the fear itself!  Doesn't this explanation sound reassuring.   Psychologists have long hypothesized that the fear response have honed human survival skills by generating appropriate behavioural responses. Again evolution. How nice! 

where have all the readers gone?

Where have all the readers gone?

 

Where have all the readers gone?  

This question had formed in my mind recently.  It left me wondering if this is a vanishing tribe. The young people I know, hardly read books.

In the days gone by, it was a common sight to find people waiting at Railway stations and Bus Stations spending their waiting time glued to paperback thrillers.  As kids, we envied these people hoping to catch a glimpse of the book's title with its lovely cover illustration.  We had a huge crush on paperbacks!  Where have all these paperback readers gone?

Not a day used to pass, without a visit to the local library during our younger days. The libraries were full of people. Young and old.  Young people were in a mad rush to pick the popular fiction of the day.  The old were happy to read newspapers and magazines. There was a huge rush in the aisles where fiction used to be kept.  Some of the popular fiction of the day was rarely to be found on the shelves.  If one spotted such a book, there was a mad chase to pick the book before it vanished off the shelves!  Sometimes, the librarian used to keep some of the popular books with him to be issued to his/her favourite customer.  You had to be in his good ‘books’ to become a favourite!  The libraries which were dotted on every street, seems to have closed shutters.  Where have all these libraries with voracious readers gone?

Each Railway station or even Bus Station had a bookstall with wonderful paperbacks stacked away behind sturdy glass walls.  The paperback covers had sizzling illustrations in beautiful colour and was a dazzling sight to behold!  Some of the passengers and passers-by in the stations stood staring at the book covers with a longing; hoping they would be able to afford to buy them one day! Where have all these railway/bus station bookstalls gone?

The street bookseller sat on the footpath with a huge cache of old books with pirated versions of crudely reprinted books spread out before him.  People had to navigate this bookseller to jostle heavily crowded footpaths weaving their way to their destination!  A group of passers-by stood staring at the books displayed, hoping for a cheap bargain for a book of their choice.  Rifling through the books, we had to sometimes settle for a version with few pages missing!  The bargain with the seller would start once the book of choice was selected.  Happy with the bargain, we used to be delighted to take home the book looking forward to read through the book as early as possible.  Where have all these street booksellers with bargain-hunting readers gone?

In our younger days, rich people living in handsome bungalows owned a huge collection of books both fiction and non-fiction.  These books were displayed proudly in gleaming teakwood/rosewood book shelves having glass panes for doors. I have vivid memories of visiting some of these houses and envying the rich people, wondering how they could afford to buy so many books! I could still visualize the grey-haired man of the house living in a handsome bungalow reclining on an easy-chair, with his favourite book in his hand, his glasses perched on the top of his nose.  Where have all these book collectors with reading habits gone?

My memories take me back to my college days where you could see fresh young faces just past their teens perched atop the corridor stairs or door steps reading fiction behind stealthily covered college text books .  More young animated students were to be seen arguing among their peer group defending their favourite authors!  Where have all these fresh young animated readers gone?

In gardens and parks around the city, during the lazy afternoons, one could see people sitting on benches below the green shades of trees contentedly reading away their favourite fiction (Mills &Boons, if they were young women) and occasionally dozing off!  Where have all these happy readers gone?

This brings me to the collection of my books purchased over a lifetime, gathering dust in the book shelf perched in the corner.  Ridden with guilt, I look over and pick an interesting book to read.  I hear an alert notification from my smartphone showing arrival of a whatsapp message!  That is the signal to drop the book, back in the shelf where it originally belonged!

The TV in the living room is showing the Amazon Kindle ad where an old couple is glued to ‘Kindle Reader’, browsing the Kindle in the glare of soft warm light, hoodwinking their partner; signalling the advent of a new era!

If indeed there was no ‘Apple’ that possibly invented the smartphone (to whom we owe gratitude for inventing this time-saving and time-wasting device!) or for that matter the ubiquitous Internet, the dear late lamented “readers” would have been very much present to this day.  What the hell, this is a more exciting world that we live in!  Smartphones, tablets, phablets, note, palm-tops, and what not; gleaming new devices everywhere, what could be more wonderful?

Books, who wants them?  It looks nice on the book shelf, doesn't it?

 

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Radio Times

While driving on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when the traffic was tolerably less engaging, my wife and I were listening to the FM Radio, which was continuously belting out evergreen classic Hindi songs of a bygone era.  My mind was racing towards the golden times of the pre-FM Radio era; an era in which, Radio was the main source of entertainment for many of my generation.  I reminisce on the sweet memories of those times, which had been tucked away in some corner of my brain.

The Radio was an endless source of entertainment and information, in an era, much before the onslaught of Smart Televisions and High-speed Internet.  There was a clash of generations at home, vying for the limited Radio time!  While elders at home, were keen on listening to news broadcast or some other informative programmes such as panel discussions or the commentaries on current topics (e.g., Loksabha Sameekshe); however, the younger me (excuse me, folks, I was also young once:)) longed to tune into “Vividh Bharathi” on the MW (Medium Wave for the uninitiated) or “Radio Ceylon” on the SW (Short Wave, which is, AM / HF band).  Hearing the voice of Amin Sayani on Radio Ceylon was exciting; so was the fun in knowing, which Hindi film song was in the No.1 position that week or which song had been edged out of the top ten or twenty in the Binaca Geet Mala; this popular programme, was aired on for close to two decades, if I remember right.  We never missed listening to this programme, come what may.  The main topic of discussion among the inner circle of my friends’ group was the position of a particular Hindi song in Binaca Geet Mala that week!  

Cricket commentary on the Radio, excited all of us, irrespective of the generational gap (excepting elderly women in the family!).   Whenever there was Cricket commentary on, all other programmes on the Radio were rescheduled or cancelled.  We were so happy that the elderly and other Cricket-haters in the family were edged out of their Radio time; we, the Cricket lovers, had an upper hand over the entire Radio time for days on together; you see, those were the times of Test Cricket and not the instant Cricket, like one-dayers’ or twenty-twenty or IPL.

The ‘24x7’ programming concept was unknown, back then, in India (although some unfamiliar AM channels went on through the night, probably because of the time difference with those countries airing them).  None of the MW Radio stations were up before 6 AM in the morning (I am still fascinated by the Radio stations’ opening tune, which was later adopted by Doordarshan!) and were promptly shut down by 10 PM or so, after the final news bulletin of the day. 

After some years, when I was into my late teens, my interest in listening to Hindi film songs had started to flounder; something more fascinating had captured my imagination.  I had started enjoying listening to western pop music and rock music (compositions by ABBA, Boney-M, BeeGees, Brotherhood of Man, Beatles, Tina Charles, Donna Summer, Michael Jackson, etc., come to mind).  My favourite Radio station, then became, Radio Australia or Voice of America or BBC or Radio Kuwait or Radio Moscow, including so many unknown Radio stations that broadcast western popular music on AM band; incidentally, AIR, Bangalore also used to broadcast western music on Sundays between 12 noon and 12.30 PM, which aired my favourite western pop music based on the requests of the viewers.

How perspectives change!  My craze for western pop music those days, reminds me of the youngsters of the MTV generation, who endlessly watched the music videos on MTV or V channel, all times of the day and night.  The same glitzy, noisy videos which kept on repeating ad nausea, exasperated us no end; forgetting that, we too had created similar ruckus and irritated the elders of our generation, albeit, in a different era, with some bombarding western pop and rock music on Radio stations.  I can still hear my grandmother’s exasperated voice shouting from the kitchen asking me to stop the cacophonous blasphemy blaring on the Radio!

We had a huge Radio at home, named AMZEL.  The Radio was placed on a wooden stand, which was fixed to the wall, in the living room.  I think, this Radio brand was manufactured in collaboration with some US Company in the initial years.  This Radio was one of a kind; very few people had heard of this Radio brand, even then.  As a matter of interest, this Radio was manufactured by a factory named REMCO (Radio & Electrical Manufacturing Company), in which company my father worked as Accounts Controller.  This factory REMCO was later taken over by BHEL (Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited) and the manufacture of Radios and Transistors were abandoned; as the market demand for them had diminished. Even today, whenever I happen to pass the BHEL factory premises on the Mysore Road, memories of my late father envelop me and my eyes become moist; reminding me of the great times, I had with my dad.  This is a topic for another blog post.

Sometime later, came the revolutionary Japanese brand Transistors and the fancifully designed ‘Two-in-Ones’; Transistor Radio and Tape Recorder combined into one unit, which took the Indian market by storm.  The huge funky Panasonic brand of ‘Two-in-one’ comes to mind, which used to be mandatorily carried by people returning from Dubai and selling or gifting them to our people.

Coming back to the AMZEL Radio, I think, may be, my father got an employee discount on purchase of this Radio.  This Radio which was purchased in the year 1963 or thereabouts, served our family faithfully till the year 1980; I think, this item was disposed of as junk (as we did not know, what else to do with it), although still in fairly good working condition.  Sometime in late sixties, my father brought home a much smaller and compact version of the REMCO brand Transistor, manufactured by the same factory REMCO.  This Transistor also lasted until early eighties, when it was junked.  The Transistor had microprocessor circuit and switched on immediately whereas the Radio had some in-built valves and took time to switch on; that was the only difference I could make out in their functioning; being a non-technical person.  The REMCO Transistor had an in-built aerial and was mainly used in our family, especially when the Cricket commentary was on.  We had a choice of Radio and a Transistor in our home, which brought down the friction with in the family.

The most popular Radio of that era was the Murphy Radio.  A cute baby holding a finger to his mouth, was the brand ambassador for the Murphy Radio, which was so very popular, those days.  Jogging my memory, is a huge hoarding, advertising for the Murphy Radio, on the Brigade Road in Bangalore; where a distributor for the brand had their main show room.

During those pre-FM, Radio era, if we loved a song and obsessed to listen to that particular song, we had to wait for days on end, to get another opportunity to listen to the song; much depended on the whims and fancies of the Radio stations on the repeat cycle of a particular song.  I would like to think, that the prolonged wait deepens the pining for the song and keeps them fresh and evergreen in our minds; unlike today when we can watch/listen to any song we wish on the YouTube and you can replay them any number of times (you see, I have realized that downloading a song is a total waste of time, effort and phone/computer memory).  So much water has flown, since then.  There is no longer the obsession or fun in listening to any composition of the present day, Hindi or otherwise. Technology has taken over our lives, we are less ready to appreciate and enjoy what makes us happy.

An order of ‘Vegetable Platter’

Life in Kuwait had its unique blend of myriad experiences; while some of my experiences were downright amusing, others were distinctly, distasteful.  There was an anecdote that made me clearly aware that we were outside India.  Normally, it felt like we were living within our own home country; considering, that there was a large expatriate population consisting mainly of Indians and a lesser mix of Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and Filipinos.  Since we were staying in a part of the City that was predominantly populated with Indians, we never had a feeling that we were far away from India.  Further, the Bank I was working for, though Head Quartered in the Middle-East, had a large sprinkling of Indian employees; more so in the Audit Department, that I was part of.  Other than a few Arab and Lebanese nationals, all of my other colleagues were Indians.  Moreover, the predominantly Indian part of the City, where we had set up our residence, had popular Indian Restaurants (which included an Udupi Restaurant, a few Gujarati and Punjabi Restaurants; all of which, mostly served vegetarian fare).

I was (during the time of this anecdote) still new to the country, having lived there just for over a year.  My wife and I had been invited to attend a new year dinner party hosted by our Audit Department.  The dinner was mainly to celebrate the declaring of year-end bonus to all the staff of our Department.  The dinner was arranged in a nearby downtown Lebanese Restaurant (named Mais Al Ghanim) which had been in existence since 1957, or so; and was popular for its regal ambience and Lebanese cuisine.  Many of the middle-easterners flocked to this restaurant for the variety and quality of the choicest Arabic dishes, the restaurant had to offer.  As soon as we entered the Restaurant, we saw some of the loyal patrons smoking hookah, blowing multi-hued smoke through their mouth and nostrils; and there was a royal look about the Restaurant.  We were impressed with the choice of the Restaurant for our annual dinner.

The Menu consisted of largely non-vegetarian dishes, details of which, I did not bother to read nor even know.  The dinner gathering comprising families of my Audit Department colleagues; they were mostly non-vegetarians; excepting for three of us; my boss’s wife, my wife and self  One after the other, my colleagues and their families started ordering their choicest non-vegetarian dishes, having regard to their palettes.  We, the tiny vegetarian group, were just fidgeting with the Menu, unable to narrow down on the dishes to order.  My boss’s wife had some idea about a vegetarian dish named Baba Ghanoush which, she said, she had tried out earlier and tasted great.  Baba Ghanoush is basically eggplant blended up with lemon juice, sesame seeds, and a generous sprinkling of sea salt.  We went along with this choice, as we did not know much about the other vegetarian dishes (although, the details of ingredients were noted boldly in brackets, against each item in the Menu; however, the Menu did not specifically mention whether the dish was vegetarian or non-vegetarian).

It was the first time that we had savoured this dish, as an accompaniment along with Arabic bread (something similar to the Indian Phulka-roti); Baba Ghanoush tasted awesome.  In order to be safe, our colleagues advised us to just stick with this dish (Baba Ghanoush) and the ubiquitous, hummus; hummus is a vegetarian dish made with chickpeas, olive oil, sesame seeds, lemon juice and salt.  No food order is complete without hummus in any Arabic Restaurants in the Middle East.

Midway through the meal, my mind was in a whirl; how could I stay content with just Baba Ghanoush and hummus, while the rest of company were enjoying their choicest, tasty non veg food?  I had narrowed down on an item in the Menu named ‘Vegetable Platter’, which was without doubt a vegetarian fare.  Boldly in brackets, names of familiar veggies, like, tomatoes, carrots, capsicum, cabbage were clearly mentioned.  I discussed this with my vegetarian group and the other two, nodded.  We were, looking forward to a beautiful salad of fresh, finely cut aforementioned, vegetables, served in style with some dip.  I, promptly, summoned the Waiter and ordered the item.  Some of my colleagues were looking at me with mild amusement; I did not get what was the joke.  As usual, I was a little dim-witted.  I patently ignored their amused looks and waited for the order to be served.  After a while, the Waiter gingerly placed the ordered item on the table in front of me.  Many of my colleagues could not contain their merriment; their laughter echoed through the Restaurant.  In front of me was placed a large basket, containing complete and whole, un-cut vegetables in all its glory; shiny, wholesome vegetables stared at me; a large cabbage, a couple of huge tomatoes; a couple of huge capsicums; two or three large glowing carrots; each item of the veggie weighing about half a kilo.  I was flabbergasted.  I summoned the Waiter and asked him, what is the meaning of all this and how do we eat these?  He was unrepentant.  He calmly said, “Sir, this is the order you had requested, Vegetable Platter”.  Amidst the throes of laughter, one of my colleagues suggested we should take home the vegetable basket and prepare South Indian 'sambar' with the veggies.  We precisely did that for the subsequent few days!

Caffeine rush!

Coffee, traditionally has been served hot.  People all over, love to drink the hot beverage, savouring the aroma of the steaming, freshly ground coffee beans; with coffee beans sourced variedly from Africa to South America; to India.  Cold coffee, generally meant iced coffee and different recipes have been explored for people to savour and enjoy.

There was a time during my school days, when I used to love the cold coffee (or 'cooled' coffee, if you want to crunch the grammar); mind you, not the iced coffee variety, but simply the hot coffee preserved in a steel vessel for a few hours. Just to be clear, coffee meant the South Indian filter coffee added with milk and sugar.

School life then, to me meant, play in the school and more play outside the school hours.  Since attendance at the school was mandatory and some little home-work was unavoidable as part of the school life, I complied without demur.  What choice did we have?  As soon as the school was finished for the day, I ran home with my school-bag, dumped it in a corner; hastily changed my dress from the smelly khaki school uniform and was eager to rush out to play.  My playmates were waiting for my arrival from school. It was a mystery to me, how some of the boys had managed to arrive at the play field early, even before me.

Before I could hurry out of the house, mother shouts from the kitchen.

‘Hari, have your coffee before you go out to play’.

I run into the kitchen.  ‘Where is the coffee?’.

‘Wait a second, I will heat the coffee for you’.

I say, ‘No time for that.  Give me the cold coffee itself’.

‘What is the rush, your friends will wait.  Heavens are not going to descend.  Just wait for a few minutes, I will heat the coffee for you’.

‘No mom, give me cold coffee itself or else I am off, without drinking any coffee’, the ultimatum from me. Mother surrenders. 

‘Ok.  As you wish’.

My mother transfers the cold coffee in a steel tumbler and pushes it across towards me.  I gulp the coffee.  The cold coffee tastes great; there is a lingering sweet, after-taste.  You see, as young boys we did not drink Bournvita or Horlicks or any other nourishing (does it really nourish?) beverages those days.  We simply could not afford them, I presume; although I was not worried or bothered about what we drank.  Play was much more important!  

In those days, in my home, in order to save on milk and sugar (you see, sugar was generally available in Ration Shops; and small, insignificant quantities were allocated to each family; some of the families used to buy sugar in Retail, where the price was double the cost of rationed sugar) coffee used to be prepared by mixing the filtered coffee decoction with milk and sugar only once in the morning and again once in the evening.  If one happens to be late to attend the family coffee-drinking session, the already pre-mixed coffee used to be re-heated in a steel vessel on a kerosene stove.  The coffee tasted of kerosene smoke sometimes when the stove exhibited an yellow flame. 

Coming back to my school days’ story, after gulping the cold coffee, I hurry out to join my playmates, who had already commenced the game, without me.  I was made to wait until the game, which was already midway in progress, had finished.  I was more than determined that from the following day, I would join the game early on; and was firm on having only cold coffee in the evenings. In the mornings, I purposely got late to the family coffee-drinking session by lingering on the 'teeth-brushing' routine; so that I could have my coffee cold.  From that day on, my determination had stayed intact, as I was hooked on to cold coffee, for a long, long time, perhaps, until I enrolled in the Pre-University. In my younger mind, cold coffee tasted great; and was the only way to consume coffee.

Back to the present, when I was narrating this incident to my cousin, he told me that he too had liked his coffee cold during his younger days.  I was surprised; was this a universal phenomenon in young boys of my generation or was it confined to only boys within my family?

Would I, perhaps, care to drink my coffee cold, now?  No, thank you; I just happen to enjoy the steaming hot cup of filter coffee served straight from the gas stove!  The caffeine hit first thing in the morning is the drug that stimulates the bodily functions!

Eating out Bengaluru Ishtyle!

Eating out has almost become a way of life with most Bangaloreans in the present-day.  The notion that Hotels and Restaurants served unhygienic food prepared in a filthy kitchen by dirty cooks, is almost becoming passé.  Home food, however, has always been considered healthy, tasty and hygienic.  As I am a big fan of eating out, I may not agree with this hypothesis and hence, I feel that the truth (or taste), as usual, lies somewhere in-between!

My tryst with eating out takes me to my boyhood days when my dad regularly took me out to eat in small restaurants; the Hotelu (as these were commonly called in the local parlance) were very few and far between.  Hotels were generally meant to cater to bachelors or out-of-towners; men, living with their families hardly patronized these Hotels.  Some of these small Hotels (or even coffee-bars, as they were called) were well known for its tasty Dosa and Idli/Wada preparations.  The Darshini-style restaurants were still a long way off.  The Hotels, those days, had stinky kitchens, which looked more like bathrooms (we carefully avoided looking within); unbathed and shabbily dressed waiters serving us tasty (perhaps oil rich) Dosas and other items.  The general notion amongst us regular Hotel patrons was, dirtier the Hotel, tastier the food items!

The Idli/Wada items served with rich sambar tingled our taste buds.  The rich sambar that was prepared using onions (shallots were also used in some Hotels) was heavily dosed with a variety of spices.  Onions were a strict ‘no-no’ at home, forbidden by my grandmother, who generally had a large say in all matters concerning the Kitchen; so, eating this thick, spice-loaded onion sambar was like having a sneaky ‘affair’; with our taste buds dancing away with delight.  The unique blend of onion and potatoes with the gravy loaded with spices, gave a special taste to the Idli-sambar (dipped and mixed) that was consumed in large quantities by the Hotel’s discerning clientele (including self)! There were some hotels which were famous for their Dosas alone; Udupi Krishna Bhavan, Vidhyarthi Bhavan, New Modern Hotel come to mind, on the South side of Bangalore.   There was this Hotel named Modern Hotel in Gandhi Bazar Main Road which has been closed down a long time ago that was famous for its Khali Dosas.  There was a Hotel by name Gajendra Vilas in Chamarajpet, which served crispy chapattis and sago masala Dosa, that had an extra special taste to it.  They have closed down shutters since a long time ago.  The names of the Hotels that were spread across Bengaluru had common names such as Sri Rama Vilas, Krishna Bhavan, Venkateshwara Coffee Bar, etc.   We do not see such names now, perhaps out dated and out of style.

With the mushrooming of Darshini-style restaurants in Bangalore that caters to a large number of growing patrons (literally vying with each other to have a go at any new offering or trying out newer outlets), it is abundantly clear that the restaurant business is here to stay for a long time to come.   Bengaluru, in my mind has the best restaurants and Hotels and can compete in terms of taste and variety, with any such eateries anywhere across the country or even the world (countries only that I have visited!). This being the case in point, I can confidently say that eating out is the best thing that has happened to us, Bangaloreans!