Speechlessly in love : My entry for the get published contest

The idea - Introducing the protagonists, the theme and a bit about the story

Eleven years into marriage and I am still unsure whether love really exists. I am happily married yes – but I do wonder sometimes if I am in love. Was I ever in love? What is love anyway?

If love is the giddy feeling that smothered me several times before I decided to get married – then I am certainly not in love with this man. If however, it is the feeling that even though I may detest the sight of this fellow human being at times, I just cannot imagine life without him – then I would say I have been in love ever since I ran into this awkward man eleven years ago.

Ours is the most unlikely combination. He is reticent and prosaic. I am vivacious and romantic. If love stories are about communicating – ours was one where despite the profusion of communicating devices, we had nothing to say. In retrospect it was probably just as well - considering how little my husband has to say (at least we had something to talk about after we were married).

Ours is a love story that needs to be told - if only to dissuade the love struck from hankering after fairytale romances. An arranged marriage, a mini swayamvar, a fauji who shocked everyone with his inane practicality, a girl who insisted on a fairytale wedding and a comedy of errors that ended in - happily ever after.

What makes the story real

It is a story that convinces you that marriages are scripted in heaven and do work even though they look slightly unreal when they are played out in 3-D on earth.

I am inspired to strike the keys on my keyboard - by my beautiful marriage, my comical wedding and the desire to dispel the myth of the much hyped fairytale romances.

This is my entry for the Harper Collins Indiblogger Get Published Contest which is run with inputs from Yashodhara Lal and Harper Collins India

Independence Day - the Tata way

A sleepless 14^th August night in the heavily surcharged atmosphere of expectation - was the norm when I was growing up. Independence Day always left me breathless with its promise.

I didn’t know much about what independence meant in those days, but I could feel the tears that were just beneath the surface in my mother’s eyes as she spoke about that day in 1947 when they listened with disbelief as the news of freedom travelled to them many hundreds of miles in distant Kharagpur from Delhi. As the long play record of patriotic songs trilled on continuous replay she told us about how the streets were filled with a joyous madness when independence was announced.

Her sentiments would probably have remained alien to me had it not been for the Tatas who even thirty years later managed to inject the same mad enthusiasm and patriotism into this national holiday. If you lived in Jamshedpur it was impossible not get swept up in this wave of patriotism.

In our little town this was not a day for sleeping late. We would patter out in our pyjamas at 4 AM to watch the Prabhat Pheri as senior school children paraded the roads of the town.  As the Prabhat Pheri permeated our sleep drenched eyes it would dawn on us that the long awaited day was finally here. Frenzied fights would ensue as we fought to get to the bathroom first in our rush to be the first ones to be dressed for the Flag hoisting and our faithful record player would be silenced in deference to the patriotic songs now booming all over the TELCO Colony. Even the worst cynics would be forced to sing along.

As we threaded our way through the sea of people on the way to the stadium, we would buy armloads of paper flags and wave them high in the air. Then inside the stadium, my parents would have to struggle to keep us in our seats through the flag hoisting and the march past of the twenty odd schools and ten departments of Tata Motors. They would finally relent and lift their restraining hands as the crowd favourites – the canine section and the live band went past.

There were no televisions to drag us home and a palpable sense of regret pervaded as the ceremony wound up. Reluctant to go back to the mundane, little groups would crowd into friend’s houses and breakfast with more tales of those years before 1947.

Now – so many years later – when my eyes cloud with tears every time I hear the Jana gana mana my heart fills with gratitude for those lessons in patriotism that the Tatas taught me.  

This semolina pudding was my Mothers Independence day favourite - probably because you can make large quantities in minutes.

Semolina Pudding

1.     In a pan mix 2 tablespoons of sooji with a glass of milk

2.     Add sugar to taste. I add less than a tablespoon because I am not a  sweet lover

3.      Put the pan on the gas and allow the milk to come to a boil. Stand right there to avoid a mess.

4.     Once the milk boils – lower the flame and simmer, stirring continuously.

5.     The mixture slowly thickens.

6.     When it starts going “phut – phut” turn off the gas and transfer the pudding to a bowl

7.     Put the bowl in the fridge to chill.

8.     It can be served hot but I love it chilled.

Enjoy!!!!!

My salvaged ego and eggs

Assam was magical!

In our help’s tiny house behind ours, two birds ruled the four human inhabitants - Mithu (the parrot) with his tart admonishing and Kholi (the hen) with her demure coaxing.

They subjugated us as well, because the chiding and cajoling continued day long, as Mamun went about her work in our huge house. We were wary of Mithu’s sharp tongue, but were completely bowled over by Kholi’s decorous directives.

Vying for Kholi’s attention as she followed Mamun around the yard was a favourite pastime, and each of us imagined ourselves the chosen ones - until one day, our pride was dealt a sudden numbing blow, when Kholi decided she had had enough of us . Mournfully - we ousted humans, brought in a cock.

We, the spurned lovers found the new entrant’s strutting insufferable, but oblivious to fragile crashing egos, Kholi was instantly enamoured of the brutish disposition of our competitor.

Injury compounded insult as His pompous majesty crowed himself hoarse every hour with cuckoo clock like accuracy to stoke our guilt about the hours we were whiling away and the precious minutes  we were wasting in bed after the crack of dawn.

Soon Mamun looked exhausted, Mithu looked bleary eyed and we looked guilt ridden. Kholi thankfully in her glowing happiness at last laid eggs. As she contented herself with warming her eggs we quickly banished our rival to the village.

We were triumphant – Kholi was back!

Kholi gave us lots and lots of eggs. These fertilized ones that she warmed hatched into chicks but before and after the arrival of our arch enemy, she gave us lots and lots of unfertilized (vegetarian eggs) that we relished.

Baked Eggs

This is my favourite when I want to eat something different without expending too much energy

1.     Take a Microwave safe glass bowl (small katori) and break an egg into it.

2.     Top the egg with grated cheese.

3.     Add salt (add carefully – cheese is already salty) and pepper.

4.     I like it runny so that I can dip in my toast, so I add 2 tablespoons of milk. If you don’t want it runny skip this.

5.     Microwave for 1 minute at full power.

6.     Eat it hot with toast!

Hunger, sleep deficit and Biryani

The year 2000 for me is clouded in an exhilarated sleep deprived haze. As an intern that year, life was a heady cocktail of emotions. Elation at finally being a doctor was mixed with generous proportions of despair at still knowing too little and fogged out everything else.

The incomparable intoxication of sleep deficit ruled and left room for little else. One memory that does stand out though – is that of lumbering noisily up the stairs to a first floor apartment in Frazer Town. A bunch of us would arrive there sometime in the late afternoon – invariably unannounced, insatiably hungry and unerringly boisterous after hours of being cloistered in our white coats. Triumphant survivors of self generated near wreckages of the wards we were posted to.

As we pushed open the door to the apartment oblivious of the existence of non – intern life on the planet, we would run headlong into a beautifully serene sight. Razia Aunty would be seated on the corner most sofa with her head covered, her eyes on the Quran and her beads in her hand. One look at us – dishevelled but proud, battered but not done in yet and she would quickly stall her prayers to rush into the kitchen to put together a meal.

Everyone has their own Ramzan memories and this one is mine. All through the month of fasting when she wasn’t cooking for her own family she would conjure up these wondrous meals for a bunch of hungry aspiring doctors so that they could revel in their few successes and go on to greater ones. Today’s post is just for you Aunty.

Ultra quick Biryani

1.     Wash and clean Curry Cut chicken (chicken with medium sized pieces basically).

2.     Measure out 2 cups of rice. Use the best Basmati with the longest grains that you can find.  Wash the rice well and place it in a strainer to drain off the water.

3.     Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a pressure cooker. Fry a chopped onion till it turns golden.

4.     Add a tsp of ginger garlic paste

5.     Add a chopped tomato – followed by a good amount of salt. The salt should be a little more than you would normally add to a curry because the rice will be added to this later and needs to get salted as well.

6.     Wait for the tomatoes to lose all their water and become a thick masala.

7.     Now add Shahi Biryani Masala and fry a bit. You get this heady aroma.

8.     Now add 4 cups of water to the masala and add the chicken.

9.     Give the chicken one whistle in the cooker

10.    Allow the cooker to cool and then open

11.   Add the washed rice to the cooked chicken and mix

12.    Now cook the rice in the same cooker without the lid on.

13.     When the rice is done, mix well with a fork and serve hot

Jeera aloo and its fight for supremacy in dieter's fortress

In my house right now - the clothes are not drying, the shoes are stinking and there is a stench from the garbage dump half a kilometre away that even sealed windows cannot keep out. Classical monsoon smells and I am not complaining.

My problem is mammoth.  I am protesting against the aroma from the kitchen of the “Deadly Deep Frying Diva” – my new neighbour to be precise, who appears to be the invincible queen of grease. The heady smell of her deep fried cuisine and her “ghee ka tadkas” ride the humid still air around her flat and have given the word “temptation” a new meaning in my life.

Fortunately our fifth floor abode is a virtual fortress and does not allow the smells inside the hallowed interiors of our blessed aspiring dieter’s paradise – but it has become a torture to open the front door and step out.

Seven ‘o clock is the chosen hour at which we step out after our staid breakfasts of dalia and fruits – and that is the time she decides to fry her “pyaz ke parathe” in ghee . I am almost swooning as I attempt to lock my door and I would give anything to eat that paratha with a huge dollop of butter.

 Thankfully however - as I inhale a lung full of the mouth watering aroma – just the excess air in my body stretches the stitches on my clothes and reminds me that this is an expensive wardrobe that I just cannot afford to outgrow, and so I scoot towards the lift (promising myself that I will take the stairs from tomorrow).

Deep fried diva does not give up so easily though. In the evening as three growling stomachs belonging to Baba Bear, Mamma Bear and Baby Bear - step out of the lift – she strategically drops a puri into the oil and stirs the intoxicating aloo ki sabji on her gas stove.

That’s it – my defences are down!

 I fling caution to the winds!

 If not puri – Aloo ki sabji is definitely on today’s menu!!!!

No I didn’t ring her bell (though I was tempted to) I made my own!

This is a life saving recipe and has saved my gasping meals from drowning several times. When I attempted it the first time, my Bengali (and therefore connoisseur by birth) Dad rubbished my attempt because the potatoes were not adequately salty at their core. Thereafter I devised this trick of cutting the potatoes small and adding a good amount of water to the final sabji and then allowing it to evaporate. The end result is not the dry jeera aloo that you can order in restaurants but a dish with adherent gravy. If you like the sour taste to predominate – you could add 2 tablespoons of curd instead of water. I love this! I just didn’t have curd on hand that day.

Jeera Aloo

1.     Boil 3 large potatoes. They need to be cooked to their centres but should not disintegrate. I generally do three whistles in the pressure cooker and then allow the cooker to cool on its own.

2.     Cut up the boiled potatoes into small cubes

3.     Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a karahi and add 1 tsp of jeera to it

4.     Follow the jeera with a pinch of haldi powder and salt (to taste)

5.     Add the cubed boiled potatoes to the oil and mix well to coat them with the masala

6.     Now add about 4 tablespoons of water to the karahi

7.     Allow the water to boil and evaporate

8.     Serve hot – on indulgent days.

The link between Real estate and Tuna

Last Sunday we were just three days away from our wedding anniversary.
Gifts have been rather one sided in the past eleven years and I have been at the receiving end. So this eleventh year I decided to push the envelope. A small push - with ideating rather than funding at its core.

The buy would smoothen our furrowed brows, reassuringly wipe away our friend’s concerned looks and purge us of the disgusted disapproval of acquaintances. It would kick-start our heretofore nonexistent foray into real estate and glean the envy of the diamond and platinum buyers.

Sunday was the chosen day and we set off with the firm resolve to sign the papers and follow it up by well deserved fine dining.

There is a reason however why certain people don’t own houses and we were destined to learn that that day.

With the agent giving us directions on the phone we were driving down a road when we passed the beautiful Pandav Garha waterfall. Picnickers were embarking on their journey up the waterfall and we began looking at them longingly. The agent no longer had our attention and we involuntarily stopped the car. In a trance we followed the picnickers down the path and up the mountain.

It was the most fun we had since we migrated to this metropolitan mela. High end shoes and sandals were soaking wet, clothes that had looked chic a few hours ago looked tattered at the end of the climb but hearts were soaring high.

Of course the flat didn’t get bought and the fine dine restaurants were closed for lunch by the time we made it back.

In our exhilaration at the miracle of nature that we had just witnessed however– we were happy with Tinned Tuna on Toast.

Tuna on Toast

I am not sure this should be called a recipe but it definitely is a winning dish in the hands of the hungry and the exhausted

1.     Open a tin of Tuna (with the good sense of a weight conscious doctor pushed into the darkest recesses of my mind - I always pick up tuna in oil rather than in brine)

2.     Overturn the contents of the tin into a large bowl

3.     Generously add 4 or 5 tablespoons of mayonnaise.( It is best to indulge in something like mountain climbing like I did before this so that you can justify your indulgence.)

4.     Mix the mayonnaise and the Tuna.

5.     Pop slices of bread into the toaster and wait for them to become brown and crisp

6.     Layer the Tuna mixture on the toast and pamper your taste buds.

Cheese croquets, Chrysanthemums and a bygone era

December evenings were ripe with anticipation in that house at the end of the sleepy little lane. Two little girls waited with bated breath for a certain white ambassador to roll down the sloping road and come to a halt in front of their gate.

I was one of those little girls, the years were the eighties and the place was Jamshedpur.

Nothing much happened in Jamshedpur in those days and I think it was the absence of events that engendered the happiness in the little things that did.

I remember tripping in my favourite ghagra several times as I ran to the gate when the white ambassador came to a halt in front of our gate and a beaming man stepped out to open the trunk. We gasped every year as he carefully lifted out two burgeoning flower pots of multi coloured Chrysanthemums grown by one of the most talented ladies in the city.

The pots were the pride of the garden for the rest of the winter. We lured friends into our garden and proudly showed off these priceless gifts from Ramalingam Aunty.

In my gardening stints in Jorhat I tried hard to recreate that mental picture that is still so vivid in my mind. I think it is superfluous to mention that of course I failed.

I am hoping for a Ramalingam Aunty for my daughter so that she can love Chrysanthemums the way I do.

Today’s recipe is Cheese croquets – needless to say a shortcut. I think I chose the recipe because of the Cs it has in common with Chrysanthemums.

Cheese Croquets

1.     Boil two potatoes and grate them. The easiest way is to seal them in a plastic bag and microwave for 5 minutes and then give them a standing time of 10 minutes before you take them out. The potatoes can be mashed instead of grating them but frankly I find mashing more tedious.

2.     Grate some cheese. The amount of cheese can be varied according to taste. We are a cheese loving family and so I like to mix in as much cheese as potato.

3.     Mix the potato and cheese together. Add salt if you like but usually the cheese makes it salty enough.

4.     Shape the mixture into little cutlets with your hands

5.     Now break an egg into a quarter plate.

6.     Spread bread crumbs onto another  quarter plate

7.     Heat oil for shallow frying in a frying pan

8.     Dip the cutlets in the egg and coat them well

9.     Roll the egg coated cutlets in the breadcrumbs so that all the surfaces are coated

10.                        Fry in hot oil.

The trick with frying cutlets in the frying pan without having burnt crumbs all over the frying pan and none on the cutlet is – to keep the oil hot enough through the frying. When you put the cutlet in, it cools the oil considerably so you have to quickly whack up the flame.

Also keep the cutlets small – it will be much easier to fry them.

Of course frying is an indulgence. On diet obsessed days – grill each side for 5 minutes in a grill pre -heated to 200°C for 10 minutes