Friday, May 05, 2017

Waiting for Rajnikanth

- by Deepa Krishnan

Today I am waiting for a guy named Rajnikanth to come home. No woman ever waited for a man so much :) He was supposed to come yesterday but did not. I have been trying to entice him to my house for 2 years now.

Who is Rajnikanth? He is a 5ft tall adivasi man who is going to paint a traditional Warli mural on my wall. He lives 4hrs away from Mumbai, in a small hamlet. Each time I visit the village, I ask him "ghari yeta ka?". Will you come home? Each time he looks down and smiles and says nothing. He has a smile that lights up his face.

What he will earn from one city visit is more than his annual income. I have explained that. But the adivasi mind is a strange thing. It works in its own way. Everything cannot be bought by money. He is willing to do carpentry work in nearby town but not come to Mumbai. But finally he seems to be relenting...after multiple visits and relationship building and egging on by the headmaster of the school.

Yesterday he went to the town bus stop but did not board the bus :) Here I was waiting all day long like a jilted lover. Late at night when asked why, he said he didn't have money for the bus. A little white lie :)

Today again I am hoping that at 8:30 am he will board the bus. 

Friday, March 31, 2017

Black Pav Bhaji: Thankful Tastebuds (and Skeptical Stomach)

- by Aishwarya Pramod

Yesterday, I tried black pav bhaji at Maruti Pav Bhaji in Vile Parle. It was recommended by my friend Pooja, a long time Parle resident. I trust her judgment on food. (We have bonded over college canteen sev puris and Gurukripa samosas. My mother has been awestruck by Pooja's capacity to eat). On top of that, a Google search told me that Maruti is now featured on a few lists of Mumbai's best places to eat pav bhaji. So when the mood for pav bhaji struck, I decided to try out this joint with another friend.

We arrived a little early; the stall only opens at 7:30 PM
It's a roadside stall called Maruti. I don't know why his pav bhaji is black. Some people on the interet attribute it to black pepper while others talk of "secret black spices".

Its colour is different from the regular red pav bhaji
We asked for some extra butter in the bhaji
The pav bhaji itself was delicious. It was indeed a little different from what is usually served as pav bhaji. But a special mention goes out to the masala pav (below). It was a real bomb. It was overflowing with spice and flavour. My stomach is not yet sure how it's going to respond to this level of chilli but I already know I'm not going to have any regrets.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Kanatha vadam: My family's guilty indulgence

-by Aishwarya Pramod and Janaki Krishnan

Like all Palakkad Iyers, I love kanatha vadam. But whenever I think of it, it's always with a twinge of guilt. Not because kanatha vadam is unhealthy. Rather, it is because the dish takes a humongous effort to make, but almost no time to finish off. All that work for only a moment of deliciousness? So self-indulgent. :P

Non-Palakkad-Iyers might ask, what are kanatha vadams? At the risk of sounding clinical, they are steamed rice flat-cakes that are sundried to make papads :). During the papad-making process, a few of them are set aside for immediate eating (without drying).

My grandmother has loved kanatha vadam since she was a young girl. She penned down the recipe and her memories associated with it. Here is what she wrote.
Writing down the recipe

Kanatha Vadam by Janaki Krishnan

I learnt to make kanatha vadam at a schoolgoing age. Kanatha vadam means "thick vadam". It's made on a set of leaf-shaped metal trays. It's also called elai vadam, meaning "leaf vadam".

The "leaves" for making kanatha vadam
Vadam-making was a group affair. Children were given simple jobs to do like peeling off cooked vadams from the leaves. There were 8 of us who helped our mother make large batches of vadam-papads. We would set aside a few vadams for immediate eating, and keep the remaining ones in the sun to dry. While peeling off the cooked vadams, a few small pieces would inevitably remain on the leaves. We loved snacking on those even as we were supposed to be setting the vadams aside.

  • 1 glass puzhungal arisi. This is parboiled unpolished rice. It is slightly reddish because a bit of the husk remains on the grain. We use this rice to make idli too
  • 1 glass polished rice
  • Salt, chilli powder, hing (asafoetida) powder
  • Metal leaves to cook the vadams. Right from my mother's time we have been using metal leaves, though traditionally, leaves are used. These leaves are available in the market or with flower sellers.
Soak the parboiled rice overnight. Soak the polished rice the next day for about half an hour. Mix all the rice together, drain the water. Grind into a paste in a mixie/grinder. Add about half a cup of water while grinding, little by little.

Once the paste is ready, add more water to it till it becomes the consistency of dosai batter. This will make it easy to spread on the leaf. Add a spoonful of sesame seeds (optional).

The rice paste with sesame seeds
Ready the metal leaves, by dabbing them with a cloth dipped in a mix of water and a little oil. Spread the batter evenly in circular shapes. Steam-cook it for two minutes.

Spreading the paste on the leaves
Steam for 2 minutes
Remove the leaves from the steam-cooker and let them cool for a couple of minutes. Spread a little oil of your choice on the vadams, and gently peel them off the leaves. Trying to remove the vadams before they cool down will make them stick to the leaves. They are now ready to eat!

Ready to eat
Some of the vadams can also be dried in the sun and later deep-fried.

I still love kanatha vadam. I prefer eating them directly rather than drying and deep-frying. The steamed ones have very little oil and I can easily eat half a dozen.


Aishwarya back again :)
Like my grandma, my mom has also been a long time fan of kanatha vadam. I myself wasn't a big fan, until I was suddenly converted a few years ago. I'm back home after finishing my MBA. It turns out that Amma has developed a slight addiction and asks Shyamala (her cook) to make these vadams every fortnight or so.

Here she is answering mails, taking phone calls and watching Star Trek all at the same time. I bring a plate of sample vadams to my her, and she tastes one. "Needs more salt in the batter. Also, not sour enough. Maybe add buttermilk." She feeds me a couple and eats the remaining two. "OK so are there more vadams?" she asks furtively. I grin at the guilty look on her face and go to fetch another plate.

Monday, March 06, 2017

Fair markets for farmers?

- by Aishwarya Pramod

We've all heard stories about exploitative middlemen in Indian agriculture. They're charged with shortchanging farmers, and causing high food prices for end consumers.

I wanted to figure out how agricultural produce makes its way to our local bazaars. Who is in charge of ensuring that the farmer gets a fair deal?

The answer, at least in the 50's and the 60's, came in the form of Agriculture Produce Market Committees (APMCs). Agriculture is a state subject, and several states set up their own APMC Acts to regulate the sale of agricultural produce.

At APMC market yards, licensed agents connect farmers to wholesalers and other buyers. Prices are decided based on auctions, instead of giving the middleman the ability to set the price. APMCs also mandate the use of fair weighing machines, as well as fair payment for loading/unloading labour.

Today there are ~2500 principal APMC markets and ~4800 sub-market yards in the country.

Vashi APMC Market
However, as it turned out, the APMCs weren't as good as envisaged. For starters, the APMCs impose multiple high fees on all actors that operate in them, distorting prices. Farmers often ultimately bear the costs of these levies. The intermediary agents can form cartels. Prices can be manipulated, because the markets function quite opaquely. The market is regulated by the APMC committee, who are elected from the agents operating in the APMC, leading to a conflict of interest.

To encourage states to reform their APMCs, the central Ministry of Agriculture formulated a Model APMC Act in 2003. It requested state governments to amend their laws to bring them in line with this model law.

Some of the suggested reforms in the APMC Model Act include:
1) No more government monopoly on setting up APMCs. Anyone can apply to set up a market
2) Farmers are not compelled to sell in the APMC but can go to any market, outside the APMC, or take up contract farming
3) The Act attempts to better regulate contract farming to give farmers more options
4) The Act also streamlines fees and levies.

Several states are now in the process of amending their acts, though progress is slow. In 2016, Maharashtra for example, exempted farmers from having to sell fruits and vegetables at APMCs, despite opposition from APMC traders.

Some states like Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, Punjab and Haryana have experimented with 'rythu bazaars' or 'apni mandis', where farmers sell their products directly to consumers. But not all farmers have the capability to bring their products to urban markets. So the middleman provides a necessary and useful service to them, and the direct-to-consumer model has very limited applicability.

The central government is also working on connecting multiple APMC markets across the country using a single electronic platform called the electronic National Agriculture Market (e-NAM). The e-NAM is still taking baby steps. I wonder how the agricultural markets will evolve in future. More options for farmers and more transparency in general seem like the way to go :)

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Morning routine in my parents house

This is the kitchen of my parents' home. Their day begins with two glasses of warm water, to which Amma adds a spoon of honey and some lemon.
Appa finds a knife and plates, and sits down at the dining table to slice elchi bananas. It takes a while. They will eat the bananas later, with cinnamon powder and sugar. The milk is set to boil. The filter is filled with coffee powder; and boiling water is poured into it. The fabulous smell of Mysore coffee fills the air. Once the decoction and milk are ready, the first cup of coffee is had. It takes them an hour to complete their first round of morning activities.

Recently my mother took a fall in the bathroom. It was not a major fall. But my sister, my cousin Girish and I have been taking turns to sleepover at their house for a few days, until things normalise. That's how I am here, watching these morning rituals. As I observe them moving around, I realise the mortality and fragility of the human body.  Someday, I will also get to this slow-moving stage. Will my husband be there with me, dancing this slow dance?

Last evening, an elderly neighbour heard about her fall, and came to visit my mother. "Deepa," she said, in that advisory tone that even complete strangers use freely in India "You must now look after your parents carefully." Almost instantly, I replied, "Maami, it is my good fortune that I can serve them". I realised as soon as I said it that I was parroting a cliché. But sometimes it is the clichés that seem to most closely reflect our thoughts. I am indeed blessed, that I can spend time with my parents at this stage of their life. 

My parents are still able to do many things on their own. For things that they cannot manage, my sister and I have been pitching in for the past couple of years. Our army of maids and drivers has been very handy. But in the process, the big thing I have learned is that when it comes to caring for elders, money alone is not enough. You cannot throw a nurse on the job and expect it to work well. Planning, coordination and a sort of loving expertise is required.

Many things seem small; but they are important to the person you are caring for. For example, the feeding of the crows in my mother's house is a tiny ritual, but it's important to her. It follows a fixed pattern. Rice and curd are mixed together into thayir saadam. The crows come at 10 am. Nothing else will they eat, except that thayir saadam. We have tried upma, sevai, dal-rice... uh-uh, sorry! Only thayir saadam is accepted with grace. So this is a ritual now, and it must be planned the previous day. We must ensure rice is cooked every day, and that some curd-rice is set aside for the next morning. At 10 am sharp, it has to be placed on the compound wall. If my mother is unwell, then someone else must do this little thing, because the crows cannot be forgotten.

There are a hundred small things like this, each one tiny, but each one a fragment of my parents' routine, a part of the way they want to live their life. It is what makes them who they are. It brings normalcy and comfort to them, to see these things done. I hope my sister and I can do it for as long as required.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

My academic research projects

- By Deepa Krishnan

These days I am enjoying my forays into academic research. 

Economic Times
The first research project  I did was on the impact of demonetization on families living in slums. It got significant coverage in the Economic Times, trending as Top News on their website. It was also in the Top 10 daily list among the articles on the Social Science Research Network (SSRN). For a rookie researcher, this is very encouraging!

The second research project (group photo below) is about the economic rationale for giving legal title to slum families. In this photo, you can see our field researchers are being trained in how to collect data. They are college students, who live in low-income/slum neighbourhoods; so they have access to the types of families we want to interviw.
Students who live in different wards of Mumbai
These research projects are part of my  "Earn while you Learn" scheme for students. Data collection doesn't interfere with college lectures, and is the ideal flexi-time income opportunity. 

I hope to complete data collection by January; and then hopefully we will produce some sort of draft academic paper by April.

Why have I suddenly embarked on this type of work? 

I think it's because every ten years or so, I feel the need to reinvent myself. I want to learn new skills, add new capabilities to my repertoire. From my mother, I have inherited the restless yearning for new frontiers. We are nomads, she and I, we like the new and the unexplored. 

Also, research appeals to the curious child in me. It is important for me to see the world through a child's open frank lens. Without that, I would atrophy and die, like a tree that has rotted. At SPJIMR, where I teach, I attended a workshop on doing research. When they asked participants about why each person there should do research, I answered "for the sheer thrill of it". I think we should only do things that excite us. The chase for the truth, for that kernel of insight and revelation, is at the heart of all research. 

But I'm not interested in abstract research. "Knowledge for knowledge's sake" doesn't really excite me. I would like to do research that can influence policy. Watch this space :)
Staff from Abhyudaya explaining how to fill the form
After the work, the eating :) Our local shop made hot samosas for us

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Party encounters

- by Deepa Krishnan

Spotted a mom with a whole bunch of schoolkids tagging along. They were on their way to our nearby municipal school. The kids were all dolled up and taking a snow tableau. Snow in Mumbai. With coconut palms :) 
I asked, "Who made it?". "Me of course!", the mom said. "What is the school going to do with it?", I asked. "They are having a party", she replied, and all the kids giggled together. Pure joy. My New Year is made. 

And then they walked off all together, with much anticipation (and lipstick) :-D

Saturday, September 03, 2016

Women at Haji Ali Dargah

- by Deepa Krishnan

Haji Ali dargah has been in the news lately, because of the agitation to allow women into the sanctum. I went there a couple of years ago, when we were not allowed to access the mazar (mausoleum). There was a side-door, through which women could go up to a certain point. 
Thus far and no further
Closest that women can get to the tomb
Given the way the access is organised, with multiple gates and enough space for queuing, it would be really easy to ensure equal but segregated access to the mazar for men and women. Women don't particularly want to jostle with men, anyway. It could work just like a traffic light, no? If we can manage cars, why not humans? 

To deny women and allow only men, is a really jaundiced view of the world. The sooner we change such mindsets, the better.
Prayer area outside
I posted a series of 30 photos, showing the common areas, as well as the women-only areas. You can see the photos here, on the Mumbai Magic page. This is a beautiful shrine, and should be accessible to everyone. 

Sunday, August 21, 2016

A great shopping day at Paramparik Karigar!

- by Deepa Krishnan

I had a meeting at the World Trade Centre; and it coincided with the first day of the Paramparik Karigar exhibition. So a bunch of us decided to make an outing of it. 
Paramparik Karigar is an association of craftsmen from around the country. It was formed under the guidance of Roshan Kalapesi and Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay (Crafts Council of India). I visit their exhibitions often, because they really bring the best of Indian crafts to consumers. There were so many stalls, each with their own specialty craft or textile. I started to photograph things, but within a couple of minutes, I decided to put my camera away :) and focused on enjoying myself.
Tholu Bommalata of Andhra Pradesh by Sindhe Sriramulu
With Padmashri Laila Tyabji at GV Sarees (Kanchipuram)
Our shopping haul
We ended with lunch at Status, their fabulous thali. Overall, great retail therapy! And here's me, enjoying one of my acquistions, a beautiful organic cotton stole from Khamir. Isn't it gorgeous?

Saturday, July 30, 2016

A day in the life of a Maharashtrian vegetable seller

- by Deepa Krishnan
Whenever I go to the markets, I wonder about the women who sit there, running small businesses. What sort of life do they have? How do they survive in the city?  Recently I came across this coriander-and-lemon seller.
She was wearing her traditional green bangles and mangalsutra, but she had switched from cotton to synthetic sarees. She probably finds synthetics easier to wash and maintain, especially in the monsoons. And there is less wear-and-tear on the sarees, making it more economically viable.

I tried to imagine what her day was like. She has probably woken up at 4 am, and gone to the big market at Dadar or Vashi or Byculla, to buy at wholesale rates. It is likely that she had no time or inclination to make tea at home. Perhaps the rest of the family was fast asleep at that time. It is likely that she travelled by train, with an empty basket on her head. At the wholesale market, she must have walked around, trying to find a good rate. After buying her stock, she probably stopped to have some sweet milky hot tea.

Then, she must have made the journey by taxi and train, to her little roadside spot in the local market. I tried to estimate what she spends on her commute. Probably around 30 to 50 rupees each day, getting to work and back.

The total stock in her basket is probably worth somewhere between Rs 800 to 1000. If she sells it all, then she will probably make somewhere between Rs 200 to 300 per day. She probably needs to spend around 30 rupees on food, because she leaves home too early to cook and carry a meal. Perhaps she also needs to spend around 5-10 rupees on using a public toilet. After expenses, finally her profit for the day is unlikely to be more than Rs 100. 

She is unlikely to work every day of the month; due to illness, or family constraints, or festive occassions, or village visits. So my estimate is that she earns not more than Rs 2500 per month. Of all the vegetable vendors in the market, the lemon-seller is probably among the lowest earners. 

The markets of Mumbai are full of women, with small stalls of their own. Here's a kad-dhanya shop, I think her stock is worth around Rs 5000 (she had lots of stuff under the table as well). She is wearing her traditional khuna blouse, and green bangles, and the tattoos, but her saree is also synthetic. My estimate is that her income is around Rs 4000 per month.
This photo below is actually a temporary shop, which came up in Bhuleshwar around a festival. It's only a day's affair, and she will make probably Rs 500 on this day if she sells all her stock (quite likely). She is also wearing a synthetic saree, as you can see. It is quite clear to me, that cottons are dying out.
Most of the women I see selling vegetables are 40 years or older. I rarely see young women.  Perhaps fewer younger women are entering this sort of business? I will keep my eyes open for younger women, next time I go to the market. And I will ask some of the older women whether their daughters or daughters-in-law are going to follow in their footsteps.