My Kitchen

- by Janaki Krishnan

As a teenager, watching my mother toiling in the kitchen all day long, I visualized for myself the life of an educated working woman. I would live in comfort, having nothing to do with the drudgery of the kitchen.

Sixty years of life as a Mumbaikar, married into a Tamil Brahmin family, juggling career and home, children and in-laws, racing against time and battling the space crunch in a tiny flat, have totally changed my perception about life, leisure and happiness.

Strangely, it is the kitchen that is now a source of comfort, a place of solace and quiet.

As I enter it in the morning, the clean L-shaped granite platform seems to welcome me. The white tiles, my appliances, my multi-coloured labelled jars; they all fill me with a quiet satisfaction. Everything in my kitchen is designed for comfort. Frequently used items are sensibly placed within arms' reach. Every inch of space is utilised cleverly to accommodate my spoonstands, coffee tumblers, utensils and plates.

As I boil the morning milk, I enjoy the sight of the tall green Tusli and Kadipatta plants watered and nurtured by my husband. I love green; it reminds me of fertility and freshness. The porcelain Chinaman, holding the kitchen knives and gas lighter in his bulging belly, warns me against overeating. My little notepad hangs from the hook, and helps my husband to run the kitchen in my absence. My shopping bag hangs on a hook next to it. Everything has its own place and purpose, and there is pleasure in entering this orderly calm world.

But there is another, more meaningful aspect of my kitchen - my mini-temple. A small enclosure with arches and pillars of marble houses all the Gods of the Hindu pantheon and their spouses. The Om symbol is placed at the top. There is a small brass lamp that I light at dawn and dusk, to dispel ignorance about the “real Me”.

A quote from the Upanishads says “brahmaiva tena gantavyam brahmakarma samadhina”. One who sees Brahman in all actions verily reaches Brahman. Whatever I cook, I first offer to Brahman and then eat. This simple gesture transforms my kitchen from a mere cooking area, into a place where even my mundane actions have a deeper meaning.

Thus at 72, I enter my kitchen with a feeling of contentment and joy. I gladly prepare my granddaughters' favourite dishes, unmindful of the heat or strain. Now I understand why my mother ungrudgingly stuck to her kitchen. To her, it was not just a place of toil. It was also a place of inner meaning and joy.

Note: Photos courtesy my sister Radha and her new camera!

Sleeping City

- by Girish Sangameswaran

Sleeping has evolved into a refined art form in Mumbai.

Several variants of this art form present themselves to a keen observer of the city's local trains. Standing and sleeping in a crowded train, for example, is a simple yet sublime form of this great art. The artists have mastered the art of swaying with the crowd with their eyes closed, to complete the day's quota of sleep. Another variant of this art is standing and resting on the walls of the compartment. This is an easier proposition, but more risky if the artist is standing close to the door, where a sudden onslaught at a station may disturb the performance.

Some sleep artists rest their heads on the neighbour’s shoulder. These performances are subject to snide remarks and angry shrugs by the neighbour in question; nevertheless, the performance continues doggedly. The more diffident artists rest their head on briefcases and put up with the discomfort of a curved spine.

Many artists prefer to sit down and rest their heads on the wall near the train window, to enjoy the evening breeze. Undesirable smells from outside may interrupt the proceedings (especially as the train comes towards Sewri) - but the performance of the artist is intense and unperturbed. Talking of smells, sometimes even the most seasoned artist is disturbed when his nose is almost shoved into his neighbour’s head, and the smell of ‘rai ka telh’ (mustard oil) wafts right into the recesses of his nostrils.

But the true master of the art of sleeping is the Mumbai drunkard who considers all the streets of Mumbai as his bedroom. One sees the drunkard lying down in the most awkward positions in absolute bliss. More sophisticated than the drunkard, is the garden sleeper. These artists perform at parks, with a handkerchief on their face, snoring away to glory. The garden sleeper thoroughly enjoys his siesta amidst the sounds of city traffic.

This writer is yet to spot anyone performing this great and versatile art while walking on the road, but would not be surprised if it happened. Until then, he hopes you’ll join him in keeping a sharp eye out for more sleeping virtuosos in Mumbai. Enjoy the performance.

(This article was published in Hindustan Times - HT Cafe 05 April 2008)

Nightlife in Mumbai - taking friends around

- by Deepa Krishnan

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Suba and Lankesh, our Srilankan friends, were here for a couple of days. Lankesh is an easy-going guy, and his wife Suba is a very interesting woman who speaks her mind. We've always gotten along famously. Since the two of them wanted to party, we decided to show them the city's nightlife.

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"I've heard so much about Enigma", said Lankesh on Day One. "Why don't we start with that?"

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"Yes", said my equally easy-going husband. "Let's go to Enigma".

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I was running a temperature after the day's shopping (Suba and I spent a small fortune on shoes, belts and bags at Linking Road). So I dropped out of the Enigma trip, and the three of them went.

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Suba being Suba, was dressed to her eyebrows. Lankesh is a pretty natty dresser as well, so I coaxed my husband into looking presentable. After the three of them left, I went to bed with an aspirin. I didn't regret it one bit. I'm a thorough Enigma-hater, so in any case, I would have spoilt it for them. At breakfast next morning, Suba was scathing. "No class", she pronounced. "What weird creeps we met! And the music! Terrible!"

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It was time to salvage the city's reputation. "Let me show you some different places tonight", I said. "Maybe we can go bar-hopping". So at nine p.m. on Day Two, we went to Shiro for drinks. The minute we stepped in, Suba said "This is more like it!". And I knew the evening was off to a good start. The bartender was attentive, the service brilliant. The starters were excellent. From Shiro, we went to the Dome at the Intercontinental, because I wanted to show them Marine Drive at night. No disappointments there either. The red bar had a nice little buzz to it, the views were outstanding, and the outdoor seating fabulous.

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And then we took them to see Mumbai at night - the Gateway of India, the heritage district...and ended up at Indigo for dinner. We got ourselves a table at Indigo, but the menu didn't work for us that night. After all the drinking, everyone wanted something spicy! So we bid goodbye to the still smiling waiter at Indigo, and went off to find Bade Miya.

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"You mean we can go walking?", asked Suba, when we left the car behind. "It's quite late, you know."

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"It's just the next street from here", I said, "Besides, there will be a lot of people there even at this time."

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So we went there on foot, and of course, Bade Miya was a hive of activity even at midnight. See for yourself.

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Crowd outside, eating off car bonnet at midnight. One family had a 3 year old sitting on top the car.

The "Miya" of Bade Miya, counting cash. He gave me a dirty look when he saw the camera, but didn't say anything.

A closer look at the kebabs

The roomali rotis that the kebabs are folded into

My dashing husband, with Suba. Bade Miya has now expanded into the building across the street. So while you can eat standing outside, you can also have a sit down meal. We didn't want to stand, not on high heels!

Lankesh and me

Waiter Number 5, our Man at Bademiya. This little card, by the way, is ALSO the menu.

Ta-da! Flip the card around, and this is what Bademiya offers! No prices listed. None needed.

Service is quick, and the chutneys that the roomali comes with are just heavenly.

On the way home, we rounded things off nicely with the legendary strawberries-and-cream at Haji Ali. Suba was all praise for it.

We got back home at 2:00 in the morning, happy and full. I realised that seeing Mumbai through the eyes of a close friend, a first time visitor, is real fun.

The Visiting Grandparents

- by Deepa Krishnan

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Flying as often as I do, there's a special class of Indians I always see at the international airport - the Visiting Grandparents. They are usually very respectable looking couples, solidly middle-class, off to meet their children and grandchildren in the USA. The women are often in kanjeevarams; the men in 80's style shirts and trousers.

If they're first time flyers, they look distinctly uncomfortable, clutching travel documents in rexine pouches and looking around anxiously. My heart goes out to them as they battle the chaos of the airport, searching for Immigration, worried sick that the plane will somehow take off without them.

But if they're veteran flyers, ah, then it's an entirely different story. The veteran Grandmother has sensible closed shoes peeking from under the kanjeevaram, and a bold look in her eye as she drags Grandpa along. "Check-in is that-a-way, don't you remember?” she says in an exasperated tone. Grandpa argues about it a little, but then gives up and trundles along, pushing the baggage trolley. He has a sweatshirt that says 'Princeton', and shoes from Nike. The rexine pouch is still there, but the airport is no longer a scary place.

On one of my flights, I chatted with an elderly Tamil couple who looked like veterans. They were comfortable and relaxed as they waited for the flight to London.

"My daughter is in Cincinnati", said the gentleman. "We're going to see her".

"Oh, isn't it winter now?" I asked.

"Yes", he said "she was talking to me last week, and she sent me photos of snow in her backyard."

His wife smiled at me and said "Nowadays everything is on the computer. Skype is wonderful, you know? I don't understand this computer stuff, but my husband does". And she looked at her husband with a fond smile.

"So how long are you going to stay?" I asked.

"We have a six-month visa", said the lady. "My daughter has two small children, so I am going to help her."

"Do you enjoy it?" I asked her husband in my famous friendly-yet-nosy sort of way. "Or is it difficult?"

"The winter is difficult", he said frankly. "It gets dark early. Sometimes I want to run out of the house straight to India. But otherwise, it’s really nice to spend time with my grandchildren."

"He doesn't have much to do around the house", said his wife. "That's why he gets bored."

"She wants me to learn cooking at this age", he said, a little irritably.

"Why not learn?", she retorted. "Do I not change my habits when I go there? Do I go saree shopping or to the temple, or to meet my friends? We must all adjust."

I quickly changed the subject. "What does your daughter do?" I asked.

"Oh," they said, beaming, "She's a senior manager in telecom engineering, at Cincinnati Bell."

"She's just got a promotion, you see, so now she has to travel a lot"

"And the children are still small."

"And her husband also works very late hours."

"So we offered to help."

"Poor things, they're really struggling."

"Six months we stay in the US, then six months his parents stay."

"His parents can't handle the winter, my son-in-law's mother has arthritis. So they go in summer, and we go in winter."

The flight was announced, and they got up and walked away. "We're really looking forward to seeing the grandchildren", said the lady, smiling at me before she left.

As I watched them go, I wondered what their six months would be like. Would the gentleman get grouchy as the months went by? Would the lady miss her friends and social circle? Like all other things in life, I guess being a grandparent is a mixed blessing. There is the delight of hearing a grandchild speak, of watching them grow - things you probably didn't have the time for when your own children were young. But there's also a price to be paid if your children live far away. For this couple, being with their family also meant being cooped indoors in a strange place with hostile weather.

But what is it that makes us value family more than our own selves? Perhaps it is the peculiar social conditioning associated with children and child-rearing in India. Children - the continuation of the family line - are considered somehow above everything else. Detailed discussions of what the child ate, when and how that passed out of the digestive system, what the child drew in playschool...almost no detail is too small to be discussed minutely. Naturally, grandparents are happy that they are valued, useful, and still have a say in such an important part of the family. Internal and external conditioning makes grandparents willingly sacrifice their free time.

And what of the daughter in Cincinnati? Does she feel guilty, commandeering her old parents’ time? Is she doing the right thing? A friend of mine, who lived in the US for many years, says that Indian couples living abroad use their parents as "cheap baby-sitters".

He had this to say: "Here is a message to young Indian couples living abroad - grow up, loosen your wallets and show some respect to your old parents who dedicated their lives to bringing you up. At the very least, before you make a decision to have children, ask your parents if they would be willing to spend miserable months abroad to raise them for you, while you live the good life, and build that fat bank balance."

Strong words! But perhaps he is not being fully fair. Most grandparents *do* want to go help their children. They see it as a continuation of their duty, their dharma. It is natural to them. And to bring a bit of gender politics into this: if you're the mother of a working daughter, you definitely have a big desire to help. Mainly because you know that it is very hard for women anywhere to keep their careers going after children, and if you don't help your daughter, then all that effort your daughter put into her MBA or whatever will just get washed away in nappies and detergent.

My parents helped raise my daughter, because I went back to work two months after she was born. I am not ashamed of asking my mother for help, although we had the means to employ a nanny. This was the right decision for my daughter. Later, I experimented with day care as well. But irrespective of how good the day care system was, it was no substitute for family.

I do not think I was being unfair or selfish. Why? Because I know for certain that I will do for my daughter, what my mother did for me. And that's what makes all the difference. When you pay it forward, the cycle becomes fair.

My mom says nothing worthwhile comes without some pain. For the blessing of children, women go through the pain of labour. Tasty food is usually not healthy food. Travel to exotic places comes with a fat bill and weird food. It’s all about balance. When I become a grandparent, I'll gladly pay the asking price for the sound of baby laughter. What I received as a daughter, I'll give as a mother.

Mumbai - an Avial

- by Janaki Krishnan

Having lived in Mumbai for more than seven decades, I have a strong affinity for all things that belong to this city. For breakfast, I love sabudana khichdi and kanda poha. But at lunch time, my South Indian tastebuds take over. My favourite is the avial.

I love the avial's rich mix of vegetables, simmering in coconut gravy. My mother used to say "Aadu thinnada elai illai, Avialukku podaadha kaaikari illai" (There's no leaf that a goat won't eat, and there's no vegetable that you don't put in an avial). White pumpkin, red pumpkin, yam, raw banana, beans, drumstick, and snakegourd...you can use whatever you like in an avial. Mumbai's chefs have added carrots, peas and dudhi to the list of avial veggies, and in some homes, I've seen bitter gourd used as well. White pumpkin is essential, and makes up almost 40% of the avial.

You need a minimum of 5 different vegetables to make an avial. Cut the vegetables into 2 inch long strips. Harder vegetables like yam are cut thinner while others are cut slightly thicker. Cook the vegetables with turmeric and salt, making sure each vegetable piece is intact and not mashed into others. Every vegetable must be visible separately. Grind coconut and green chillies, and add to the cooked vegetables, along with sour buttermilk. Stir gently, so that all the vegetables float colourfully in the gravy. Garnish with a spoon of coconut oil and curry leaves. Serve the avial with hot rice and papad. Or, like many south Indian households in Mumbai, serve it with phulkas.

Cliched maybe, but I like to think of the avial as a metaphor for Mumbai. People from everywhere arrive here, and the city seems to welcome them all. Although they're different from each other, very soon they begin to fit into the city, and become part of the city's unique cultural blend. Like the fresh aroma of coconut oil from the avial, the Mumbaikar has his own unique cosmopolitan flavour - a strong work ethic, a tolerance for differences, and a willingness to adjust to multi-cultural life in the city.

When dance mirrors life

O-Kayyyyyyyyy. For those who know me, here's that photo of me in a funny orange turban, posted by popular demand.

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For those who don't know me, no, I *don't* look like this on a daily basis! So why the turban and special effects? The photo is from a dance drama that I was part of. On Jan 28, students from my dance school enacted the story of Maharashtra's 800-year old Bhakti tradition. I had a small role in it as a Warkari pilgrim.

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If you want to see what Warkari pilgrims really look like, check this out. The Warkaris go on a pilgrimage twice a year to the Vitthal temple at Pandharpur. As part of our research for this dance-drama, I went with my guru to check out the pilgrims. We wanted to study Warkari costumes, to incorporate it into our dance-drama. I think we did a pretty good job, what say?

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Here's another photo, of us carrying a palki of Lord Vithala. That's my neice Ramya, she played a much bigger role than me in the dance.

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Here's another photo from the dressing room - this beautiful lady is my dance guru Jayashree Rajagopalan.

She got a lot of appreciation from the audience for not just the concept of the show, but also the painstaking research she did for authenticity, and the final beauty of the production.

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If you click on the photo for a better view, you can see the make-up kit that is part of the dance preparation. Brushes, eye liner, foundation, rouge, nothing "traditional" I'm afraid! With a total of 30 performers in the dance, we had a whole army of people in the dressing rooms, including harried mums fretting over safety pins and unruly wisps of hair. That's me in the background, photographing everyone.

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My parents came to see the show, so did my aunt. And I was very pleased to see in the audience, two of my school teachers. When I greeted them, they were pretty surprised. Let's face it, what with the turban and the extra kilos, I wasn't really the skinny kid they knew in the 80's!

My dear 'Kaka'

- By Janaki Krishnan

It is ten in the morning. I am stuck in a traffic jam near Sion Hospital. My house is just a two minute drive from here. But I get tense, for my dear friend's lunch will be delayed.

It is a daily ritual in my life. I make two balls of cooked rice, mix a little vegetable and curd, and place it on our compound wall. The very next minute, my winged friend comes swooping down and pecks at it. He is a small lean fellow, my friend Kaka the Crow. Very soon, eight to ten of his clan turn up. They stand one behind the other on the wall, in a neat queue. My friend moves away and allows them to eat. There is no rushing and fighting. One after another, they have their share and fly away. After they leave, my little friend comes back to have a second helping.

As against my friend's disciplined behaviour, my brother's feathered pal in Matunga is a spoilt brat. Unless the dahi is visible on the rice ball, he won't touch it. And only when my brother places the food on his outstretched palm does he come closer to take a look. Then, he perches on my brother's shoulders and enjoys his meal. But that's not all - every now and then, he must be served his favourite dish - potato curry. He also insists on home-made murukkus.

My Sindhi friend says he's not surprised about the murukkus. He feeds his crows sev. He said to me "Janki-ji, they love it. As soon as I throw a little sev on the ground, they come in large numbers cawing joyously"

Mumbai's crows don't have to depend on us to feed them, of course. The city's high rodent population offers them a regular supply of fresh meat. The fishermen's daily catch is yet another interesting source of food. In fact, the only problem our winged heroes have in the city is scarcity of accommodation. With the city becoming more a more a concrete jungle, like all Mumbaikars, the crows too must go to distant suburbs if they want to find safe, spacious and peaceful homes for their offspring.

A panki? What's that?

For foodies, Swati Snacks is a bit of a religious experience. For me, it is an education in Gujarati cooking. This time, I learnt about the panki.

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I'd never seen a panki before, although I've lived in Bombay for more than 20 years. The couple at the table next to me ordered it, and they seemed to know what they were doing. So I recklessly said "I'll have whatever they're having".

Ten minutes later, my plate arrived. It had this yellow, paper thin pancake, steamed in banana leaves. You open the folded leaves, peel off the panki and pop it in your mouth with green chutney. It tastes divine.

The panki is made of ground rice mixed with a paste of yoghurt, green chillies, fenugreek and asafoetida. It is not spicy, and therefore the tangy green chilli in the chutney complements it wonderfully. 

The panki is Swati Snacks' signature dish - if you do go there, you'll find others ordering it. You'll also see some variants of the panki on the menu. Just do what I did - look around, subtly point at someone's plate and say 'I'll have what they're having!".

No problem, yaar!

- by Janaki Krishnan

Mumbaikars have mastered an interesting knack - the ability to sail skillfully through life in housing cooperative societies, even in the face of irritants. I refer to the parking problems we face in our society, with three buildings, 48 flats and 15 cars. There is just enough parking space for the existing cars, at a payment of Rs. 300 per month. The problem arises when the cars do not check in at the usual time, and are forced to park wherever space is available. Since my husband is the Secretary of the Building Society, I get a ring-side view of the results.

It begins right at 6:30 a.m. The watchman comes running to our house and says 'Saglay mala oradtaat. Gaadi majhi aahe ka?' (Everyone's shouting at me, is it *my* car?). Before he finishes, our Sindhi friend Mr. Bhavnani, owner of two transport buses comes fretting and fuming. He delivers a fast-and-furious speech about his parking problems, most of which the Secretary cannot understand. "Bhavnani saab", the Secretary coolly says, "Repair work is going on in your building. You have to adjust for a few days." Bhavnani is stumped, but he delivers a parting shot before he leaves. "Whatever you have to say, you give it in writing", he says.

Next comes the mild-manned Rajaram Iyer, with his grievances. "Sir, Mr Jain has parked the car in front of mine and is still sleeping. Now I have to climb three sets of stairs to get his car key. Please, from next time, you keep a duplicate key!"

Next in line is Preeti, our Gujarati neighbour. Coming from the land of the Mahatma, she wants justice. "Uncle", she says, at the Committee meeting, "Only cars that are registered in the member's name should be allotted parking in the society's premises. Why is Ranade's married daughter's car here?" This sparks off a furious debate about parking rules. The Secretary tries to be calm. "Preetiji, today Mr. Ranade had a mild heart problem. His daughter has come to take him to the hospital."

Then, Mr. Joglekar, a senior citizen and a Committee member, steps in. With Maharashtra's legacy of legal luminaries like Ambedkar and Tilak behind him, he speaks about rights and duties. "Secretary saheb, when society work is to be taken up, nobody comes forward. Those who do not do their duties have no right to ask for privileges." As the Secretary smiles at him, Mr. Kamath, another Committee member of 82 years, takes up an advisory stand. "Mr. Krishnan, don't be scared of all this shouting. We cannot satisfy everybody. You do what you feel is right."

Finally comes a diplomatic reply from the Secretary. "I understand your problems fully. Therefore I have written a letter to the Secretary of the Mumbai District Cooperative Housing Federation, regarding rules to be followed for parking in cooperative societies. Very soon, I shall send you a copy of the rules. Till then, let things continue as they are."

After this, the meeting disperses. The members stand around, discussing why the watchman never opens the gate in time, the unhygenic conditions around, the sweeper's indiscipline, and other common problems. I observe their behaviour, and realise that a Mumbai housing society is a cohesive unit with its own unique character. Perhaps this is what separates the Mumbaikar from others in the country - we can live *happily* in groups, complaining to each other about our innumerable problems, while we continue with our daily tasks!

Jai Jai Vithala

- by Janaki Krishnan

It was 'Vithala Vithala' all the way this morning, as hundreds of Varkari pilgrims danced their way from Cotton Green to Shivaji Park.

They were on their way to the Vithala temple at Pandharpur, 450 kilometers from Bombay.

Men in traditional white caps and dhotis, with cymbals hanging from their necks, danced and sang devotional songs composed by Tukaram and Gynaneshwar, the great Bhakti saints of Maharashtra.

They were accompanied by women in nau-varis – long nine yard sarees – skillfully balancing tusli saplings on their heads. Some carried copies of the Gyaneshwari, a 13th century translation of the Bhagavat Gita from Sanskrit into Marathi.

A colourful palanquin, drawn by bedecked oxen, contained the idol of Lord Vithala. It halted at intervals, for people to pay obeisance. Residents of nearby buildings showered flowers on the ox cart.

My attention was drawn towards two brightly coloured cut-outs of Vithala and Rakhumai, the deities of Pandharpur. Vithala is another name for Krishna, the eighth incarnation of Lord Vishnu. Little children, dressed as Krishna and Rukmini, brought a smile to my face.

The procession halted at Five Gardens for lunch. This family, led by a kirthankar with a stringed tanpura, had brought their own simple food.

There were others who ate in larger groups. They were served rice khichdi in disposable plates made of leaves.

Lunch was not a prolonged affair. When the sound of drums and cymbals started again, the whole group – men, women and children – rose quickly to their feet, and resumed their singing. I stood for a moment and watched them. When the rest of the city seemed to be revolving around fashion, fame and money, here was a group totally oblivious of everything around them, walking to a different beat.

This was no ordinary noisy procession, such as the ones I see every year during the Ganesh festival. The members of this group, young and old, seemed to be floating on a different plane, with Pandharpur in their heart and Vithala on their lips.