A Goddess for the Summer

- by Deepa Krishnan

The fierce April heat brings with it rashes, skin diseases and the dreaded pox.

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Before it was eradicated in India, smallpox was one of the most feared diseases of summer. Chicken pox is still a big worry for Indian parents. Many communities believe it is the wrath of the Goddess Mariamman that brings on these diseases, and that she must be propitiated to ward off the pox.

In Mumbai, a small community from Andhra Pradesh worships the Goddess Mariamman every summer, seeking protection from smallpox, chickenpox and all forms of disease. My housemaid is from Andhra Pradesh, so I went with her to see the annual Mariamman ceremony. Mum came along, of course, to find out what it was all about.

The first thing we saw (heard) were the drums. Three men came walking from a little lane, and posed for me.

Then the women emerged from several lanes, carrying offerings for the goddess. Their bowls had a sort of thin gruel, made from ragi and buttermilk, and flavoured with chillies. Ragi, or finger millet came to India 4000 years ago from Ethiopia. It is now a staple part of the local diet.

There were neem leaves in the ragi gruel. Neem has medicinal properties and is used all over the country as a cure for chickenpox.

Several children and young girls wore skirts of neem, as protection from the pox.

A temporary tent had been erected, where everyone gathered with their offerings.

Inside the tent, there was a little shrine. In the villages of South India, there's a distinctly different looking Mariamman. But this is Bombay! There is no consecrated idol of the goddess here, so a popular representation of Durga was housed inside the tent, with the customary trident.

Mariamman is a proto-Dravidian goddess, not a part of mainstream Vaishnavism or Saivisam. But as usual, both Saivaites and Vaishnavites have appropriated her, because she has such a large following.

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To get things going, there was a dance. Two male performers had come from a little village in Andhra Pradesh. They were not just dancers, they were more like shamans, intermediaries between the Goddess and the rest. They said a little prayer and tied anklets on their feet.

The dancing lasted a short while, but it was energetic and graceful.

After the dancing, there was a brief prayer ritual. An elder from the community performed the arati. The prayers to Mariamman are "non-agama" i.e. not from the sacred Vedic texts. Brahmins do not conduct prayers to this Goddess, except in a couple of very large Mariamman temples in Tamil Nadu, where the worship has morphed into a fully agamic tradition.

After the prayer, a desi fowl was offered as sacrifice to please the Goddess and ask her protection.

This pot would be taken around the city after the sacrifice. It was filled with water, turmeric and neem leaves, and decorated with turmeric, red sindoor, neem, lemon and flowers. In Bombay, this vessel goes to various Tamil and Andhra localities in Dharavi.

The ragi gruel was then served to everyone as prasadam. It was delicious and cool, by the way. There were a couple of neem leaves in mine, bitter as expected. I ate them, mindful of all the medicinal properties neem has.

Customary group photo at the end of the day. This is a section of women from my maid's community. They are Yadavas, a Kshatriya caste who are traditionally cowherds and shepherds. My maid Vasantha is on the extreme left, in an orange saree and red blouse.

(Modified version published in the Hindustan Times HT Cafe City Beat page May 10 2008)

Desi pickle, foreign spice

- By Deepa Krishnan

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The green mangoes I bought from the market are now safely pickled. This sort of pickle doesn't keep, so it has to be polished off quickly. We've been eating it everyday with rice and yoghurt.

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Here's what went into the making of the pickle: Fenugreek, sesame, red chili powder, salt, groundnut oil, and last but not least, asafoetida or hing.

Have you smelt asafoetida? Aza - resin, foetida - stinking! When you fry it in oil or ghee though, it has a tangy sort of smell, like onion and garlic. It is a great substitute for onions, so it is used widely by the Jains in Mumbai, and by South Indian Hindu Brahmins who don't eat onions.

Hing used to come in little smelly pieces, that you soaked in water to soften and extract the essence. These days it comes in powdered form, in white plastic containers. A clever scientist at the Mysore Central Food Technology Research Institute figured out how to make hing powder. I'm sure millions of grateful Tamil maamis would give him daily thanks, if only they knew who he was.

Indians are the largest consumers of asafoetida in the world. But strangely, all of India's supply of asafoetida comes from Iran and Afghanistan. The damn thing doesn't grow here, I don't know why.

Laljee Godhoo & Company, they guys who make LG Hing, are a household name. They are an old trading company, established in 1894. In my fertile imagination, I have LG Senior doing a long arduous trek through cold mountain passes, to forge trade links with bearded strangers in Afghanistan. In reality, it was possibly an adventurous Pathan who came to Mumbai, bringing with him a smelly yet precious cargo of hing. I've always wondered why there were Pathans roaming around all over India. Now I know one good reason at least!

Today LG imports the raw stuff, and then compounds it in their factory in Andheri, Mumbai. Three generations of their family have been selling hing, and they have 70% of the Indian market. A nice but smelly business to be in, huh?

Prasad at Mumbadevi

- by Deepa Krishnan

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In the little lane behind the Mumbadevi temple, doodh pedhas are still made the old fashioned way.

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Milk is mixed with sugar, heated and stirred constantly, until it thickens and acquires the colour of a creamy latte.
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It is then hand-rolled into little offerings for the Goddess Mumba. Not that she hangs on to them permanently - she merely blesses them, and the priest at the temple hands them right back to you as holy prasad.

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Prasad or prasadam is a Sanskrit word which refers to any material substance that is first offered to the deity, and then consumed (usually fruits, sweets, flowers). The process of offering is called naivedya. Once accepted, when the prasad is returned to the devotee, it has the deity's blessing residing within it. So every temple visit usually has a two-way transaction in it...you offer something to the Gods, and you get it back enriched with blessings. What's more, when you go back home, you also get to share it with friends and family.

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In the early Rig Vedic texts, though, prasad was something else altogether. It was originally a sort of inner mental state experienced by the Gods, or by wise sages, characterised by a spontaneous generosity and a bestowing of boons. The morphing of this mental state into a material substance appeared only in later texts. Perhaps devotees needed something concrete to take back from the daily ritual of prayer at the temple. Or perhaps this very pragmatic religion understood that religion should nourish not just the soul but also the body! Personally, I like to think that the ancients discovered guilt-free eating many years ago, and institutionalised it into edible prasad. At the Mumbadevi temple, you get to take prasad home and eat it happily, safe in the knowledge that you're acquiring merit with every calorie!

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Coming back to the pedha - to me, the doodh pedha has always been a very comforting sort of sweet. Perhaps it is the simplicity of the whole thing - just milk and sugar, really, stirred patiently for hours. The texture is not too grainy, and not too soft. It is a perfectly balanced fudgy smoothness that melts when you bite into it.

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Some pedhas have dry fruits and spices for flavouring. Cardamom is popular, so is saffron (kesar peda). But honestly, I like my pedhas simple. Milk and Sugar. That's all I need. Why mess with something that works so well?

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If you go on the Mumbai Magic bazaar walk, make a pedha offering to the Goddess. And tell me if you like your prasad plain or flavoured!

(Published in the Hindustan Times HT Cafe May 3, 2008)

The Teacher Taught

- by Janaki Krishnan

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With more than three decades experience as a teacher, dealing with students ranging from ten to twenty years, I had developed a sense of pride in my teaching abilities. I thought I could teach or coach any student for an examination - all I needed was the prescribed text book, and a model question paper.

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But lately, my attempts at teaching my ten year old granddaughter her CBSE curriculum at home have taught me some new truths.

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I have come to realise this: teaching in an educational institution, and teaching at home have nothing in common! The theories in Child Psychology I learnt in B. Ed (I got a distinction) have been tried and found sorely lacking.

My successful teaching tricks - a serious tone, a stern face, and a cultivated reputation for strictness - have no place at home. The only things that really work with my granddaughter are saama - sweet words and negotiation, and daana - outright bribery! My chances of success are better if I approach the unwilling learner lovingly, make requests, promise rewards, and allow adjustments and suggestions in the study plan. It is also better for me to turn a blind eye to little time-wasting ploys - for example, lengthy visits to the toilet, forays to the fridge for sweets, or a chatty phone call to a friend.

But that's not all I've learned. Teaching my 10-year old granddaughter has also taught me that the old saying "One thing at a time and that done well" is not a universal truth. Kids these days do a lot more things than they used to: they juggle many activities and have a lot on their minds other than schoolwork. Today's children are smarter and more knowledgeable in many areas - it is the grandparents who are ignorant. Giving children space to grow and think in new ways may be the best gift a grandmother can give. To quote Kahlil Gibran:

Your children are not your children

They are sons and daughters of

life's longing for itself.

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You may give them love,

but not your thoughts,

for their thoughts dwell

in the house of tomorrow

which you cannot visit.

A thousand shades of Mango-Green

- by Deepa Krishnan

Mum and I went to the market this weekend. The little green mangoes were there in all their splendour, tempting me.

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"I want to make mangakari", I said to mum. Mangakari, pickled green mango cut into little bits, is a summer favourite of mine. Snazzes up a meal like nothing else and leaves everyone wishing for more. So we set off to find the perfect green mango.

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The mangoes were in different sizes - tiny, not-so-tiny, medium and largish. I walked around with mum looking for a largish size that would still have the special taste of unripe green. We rejected several larger mangoes that looked as if they would be sort of sweetish inside.

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Finally we found a vendor who had just the perfect shade of green! He handpicked them for me - they were a little smaller than I would have wanted, so we'd have more effort in cutting, but at least they would be delicious.

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And now to make the pickle. Watch this space!

Published in the Hindustan Times - HT Cafe - April 11, 2008

Elephants and cities just don't mix

- by Aishwarya Pramod

Have you ever seen an elephant on the roads and thought, “I wonder how it feels, being forced to walk on tar roads, in the hot sun, among potholes and a crass cacophony of car horns…”

If you’ve dismissed your concerns with “Oh, whatever, I’m sure that elephant is fine”, please think again.

In the July of 2007, a ban was implemented on elephants on the streets of Mumbai. Why? Because the poor elephants are often mistreated. They are mostly underfed (out of 24 hours in a day, wild elephants spend 18 foraging for food…basically, they eat a lot). City elephants suffer from skin ailments, eye cataracts, spend most of their time chained up and unable to move and have a really sad and boring life, separated from their loved ones at a really young age. (Yeah, loved ones. Elephants have a complex social network, and they even mourn their dead relatives.) Plus, despite their bulk and size, elephants have delicate feet, and can’t walk on the hot city roads. Basically, elephants and cities just don't mix well.

It’s really great that Mumbai authorities have banned this and tried to make provision for their rehabilitation. It has greatly improved their lives. However, people continue to use elephants for begging in many parts of India and I really think it should stop. There are 3600 working elephants in India, 1000 of which work in Assam, in the logging industry. A working life is too cruel for them, and I hope that this practice will soon stop for good.

(This post was published in the Hindustan Times - HT Cafe, City Beat, City Culture page on April 6, 08. Retitled "Jumbo Walk")

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.