What's your Proustian madeleine?

Reading an article of Raghu Karnad this morning, I came across the phrase, Proustian madeleine. The phrase led me into the magic hole of nostalgia where I started walking the sweet lane of my growing up years. What were the sweets that I enjoyed while I was living through a time when I didn't realise how precious those years would be in the coming years. 

There was peanut candy where peanuts were soaked in liquid jaggery and hardened to give a fine texture. These candies can be found even today sometimes the taste unaltered. It was eaten mindlessly during different times of the day. It was so commonplace that one attached no value of significance to it. It was called kadalaimittai. It is not much of a nostalgia because one feels this emotion when one misses something. But the simple sweet is much available. Perhaps nostalgia is for the lost days of yore.

Another sweet is the then mittai. I don't have many memories of the sweet except for occasional treats now and then. It isn't nostalgia material for me. But I remember the taste of the sweet and I don't see it anymore. It used to melt in the mouth oozing honey; it was a stark difference to the texture of kadalaimittai which was hard and chewy. 

Another sweet we used to enjoy was the palkhoa or the milk sweet. My grandfather used to treat us with the palkhoa and sev which is known as omapodi. The combination is a deadly one. We were looking forward to eating that combo whenever my grandfather used to return from his daily outings. Now neither my grandfather nor the omapodi is relished by me - the grandfather is no more and the omapodi disappeared after his death. But once a while my sister and I talk about those days. In spite of the omapodi still available in the market, it isn't the same!

I guess I wasn't much of 'sweet' person to remember the delicacies of my growing up years. But nostalgia makes everything sepia tinted and mellow which led me into a sweet trail of Proustian madeline!

What's your Proustian madeline?

The dog with the bell

Today while I was in our car, my thoughts, without any whim or fancy flew to the days I used to know a guy and his dog with the bell. The dog's name was Bobby and it had a bell on its neck. As the dog walked, the bell chimed and it was like a signal - Bobby and X have arrived! Ah! that there was a special connection between the dog's owner and the writer is immaterial here. Aw! Did I just say that! Ah! well, I just did. I would be having dinner, when the rhythmic sound of Bobby's bell would announce their arrival. I would then squirm, try and hurry my dinner, and jump into the road to join the walkers. Our post-dinner rendezvous punctuated by Bobby's bell. Bobby was a smart dog - he knew the places of affection and love and was a silent spectator to the laughs and undercurrents.

He would walk, sometimes run after spotting a nocturnal creature or find his favourite tree and pee. I knew he looked forward to those walks like us. He was the excuse for our walks and we were the reason for his walks - it was a mutual understanding.

I wonder where Bobby is. I suspect he has passed away and would have found many similar companions to walk with while tinkling his wee bell. I also wonder what happened to that bell. Perhaps it was buried with Bobby or it was just discarded now that there is no much use for the same. As for the owner of Bobby, I guess he is out there doing his own thing and probably owning another paw to take care but I guess he won't need the bell because he is now married with children and he does not have the need to alert someone of his presence. Maybe he might be wearing that bell as a talisman or as a signal to alert his family of his arrival from work, gym, church or just the corner shop.

Memories, very funny, aren't they?

Hope you are revelling in the season of fun and joy.

What are your childhood memories of Christmas?

  

Tracing my reading timeline without success

If I have to trace my reading habit, I will be at a loss for I don't exactly know how I started to read and why. There are a few I know who will exactly tell the moment as if they forced their memory to record the significant date and episode. Alas! when I started reading, I hardly knew that one day reading would be considered such a fantastic activity and that there would be book-clubs, Facebook pages and blogs devoted to the love of reading and hoarding books. For that matter, I have never wondered to stop and think about the reading habit that found its way into my life until recently when we were having dinner with a BBC-Canada film director who asked me: So, Susan, do you read? How exactly did you start reading? Did your mom and dad read a lot? Did they ask you to read? What did you read as a child?

Well, I have to admit that I was looking at him with a blank expression for I cannot put a finger to my timeline of the much adored habit. I also seem at a loss when people gush and mush about Enid Blyton. I think that I haven't read Blyton and the much acclaimed hostel life stories. I remember having read Famous Five, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew but never cared about the author. I used to remember titles but not authors but now I know that the names should be remembered and flaunted wherever and whenever appropriate.

The reason for reading is another topic that used to confound me. When I enrolled to do English Literature, the first day of the College, one had to meet the head of the department to collect our handbooks and also the identity card. She was a splendid woman who had a fine Brit accent. She asked me (in her RP): You are Susan? and then proceeded to ask, What do you read? to which I muttered 'Fffiction.' She then responded by asking, Why Fiction? I was at my wit's end. Why fiction? Come on, how would I know why I read fiction at the tender age of 19! Those days I did not know that there should be a reason for reading something. Coming from the suburbs and reading whatever managed to catch my fancy, I did not know how to respond to Why Fiction? What I did not know then was also that there were other genres like drama, poetry and other such which people did read for pleasure. I wish I had known that then. As they say, we get to know everything at the right time. Maybe that holds good in my case.

Why do people read afterall? Why do you read? I would like to read your responses.

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Image 2: Internet

When reality cracks memories . . .

A memory is best when it remains a memory. If one tries to imagine a place and the way it looked like in the memory and hence revisit, then one is in for a rude jolt. Bombay is one such memory for me. My formative years were spent there and after we left, we never visited the place again. Every time when Mumbai is mentioned in the news, my ears perk up and my mind is alerted. It's an involuntary response. To relive those memories and travel back in time, I picked up Suketu Mehta's Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found. I have not yet completed the book but I'm half-way through it but believe me, Mehta does everything in his power to shake me from my reverie of my childhood Bombay. Though in the initial pages of the book, he dwells on memory, he later drifts into a rigmarole of how everything functions and works in Bombay.

I think that he has taken upon himself the mission to rip open the city to me and tell me, "Well, Susan, here is your beloved Bombay . . . with ugly sores and bleeding wounds which are raw and untreated by any tincture." I must confess (ah, this word reminds me of those dozen Confession pages on Facebook!) that though I enjoy reading about the hitherto unknown or relatively lesser known aspects of Bombay, I have to force myself not to alter the Bombay of my memories. I know that change is a constant is a done-to-death cliched saying but that doesn't stop the essence of the meaning and what I have to say, right? So I say it - Change happens but memories don't change.

I tend to think that in a way it's good that I haven't visited Bombay after we left. Perhaps I am spared from the shock of finding something else in the name of Bombay rather than what I knew and liked. But all this doesn't stop me from harbouring a keen desire to go and visit Bombay and spending time walking the roads that led to my school and enjoying vada pav in Juhu beach.

Mehta is a wonderful writer. He deftly paints a realistic picture of the dream city. I don't blame him for puncturing my memories. I am still to complete the book and I fervently hope that here and there in the book, I will find references to the city of my memories. Maybe Mehta will dwell in his memories at the same time providing me with my own special memories. 

Reality and memories don't match.

After coming to Goa, I feel that I'm dwelling a lot on memories. After all, this wee place is close to Bombay and the language that is spoken here was the language that I grew up hearing. 

Let me shake myself off from the reverie and get back to my reality - as of now, reading the remainder of Mehta's book!

Leaving you with an excerpt from Mehta's book:

I left Bombay in 1977 and came back twenty-one years later, when it had grown up to become Mumbai. Twenty-one years: enough time for a human being to be born, get an education, be eligible to drink, get married, drive, vote, go to war, and kill a man. In all that time, I hadn’t lost my accent. I speak like a Bombay boy; it is how I am identified in Kanpur and Kansas. “Where’re you from?” Searching for an answer—in Paris, in London, in Manhattan—I always fall back on “Bombay.” Somewhere, buried beneath the wreck of its current condition—one of urban catastrophe—is the city that has a tight claim on my heart, a beautiful city by the sea, an island-state of hope in a very old country. I went back to look for that city with a simple question: Can you go home again? In the looking, I found the cities within me.

So, are your realities and memories connected or disjoint like mine?

Postscript: All images used in this post belong to Sachindev PS, my friend and photographer. His images can be found here. You can also check out his Flickr stream here.

Up, up and away . . .

It's not an exaggeration if I proclaim myself as an Airport's child. I was born in an Airport colony with the sound of aeroplanes taking off and landing and my amma pointing out to the skies and feeding me mashed rice and potatoes. I was never a fussy eater says amma and obviously when one is shown the skies for small electronic birds, one would be awed beyond one's senses and something as trivial as food would become an enjoyable exercise. I grew up in another Airport colony looking at planes high above and loving the twinkling lights that were often mistaken for stars. Inspite of having lived and laughed in Airport colonies, I never had the experience of travelling in an airplane until recently. Aeroplanes and travel belonged to the rich and affluent but not for middle-class citizens like our family. The urge to look down on the earth was a very strong one and why not. After all the words, 'Airport' and 'flights' were common parlance in our house, our neighbour's house and everyone with whom we socialised and prayed.

So, sitting inside of an airplane was an eternal dream. When airplanes were shown on the Telly, I watched greedily and travelled in a fantasy flight to a land that was as fantastic as they showed in the pictures. When someone asked, what's you favourite dream, we would be quick to answer: To sit in an airplane and fly away. It seemed magical to think that one day we would have lots of money to be able to fly in an airplane. Friends whose parents were businessmen had the privilege of travelling to exotic locations like Hong Kong and Sri Lanka. We would be quite happy to listen to their stories while at the same time wishing that our parents could also afford such trips. The dreams soaked us so much that we soon grew up, fell in love and forgot all about planes. What mattered was the object of our affections and infatuations.

And then one day, I was given the wonderful opportunity to go to Belfast, N. Ireland as an exchange student. More than going to Belfast, I was eager to fly in an airplane. I was 29. For 28 years, being an Airport's child, I had never flown. When the plane took off from Chennai's Airport, tears fell down my cheeks. I was overwhelmed and speechless that I didn't even feel the need to wipe the tears off. I let them fall. My first flight was to the UK and a long distance flight. After that first flight, I've had many opportunities to fly and every time the flight takes off (the best feeling), I remember the urge that I used to have in my childhood to fly in an airplane.

                                                           I believe I can Fly - R. Kelly

These days it's not a big deal to fly. Everyone flies - children, young adults, old people and when I see them, I wonder about those days when we were children and waited for 28 long years before I could fly away.

My grandfather is almost 85 and has worked in the Airport all his life until his retirement. He hasn't flown. I doubt whether he will ever be able to fly as he is bed-ridden and frail. I wonder whether he also had the same dream when he was in close proximity to a plane but never had the opportunity to fly in one.

And the cherry on the cake is that even today I live next to an Airport and every day my ear drums take a toll as the jets from the naval base fly in and around our campus practicing various moves. When my husband and I sight a plane far off in the skies, we play a game of predicting what airline would the approaching flight belong to. It is a thrilling game to look up above and keep looking till the airplane flies beyond us. We smile at our attempts and soon there is another plane approaching. We continue our guessing game . . .

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Relishing kalla katta ice-gola dripping with tangy memories

Today for the second time in February I had kalla katta ice-gola. I don't know how to translate the name 'kalla katta ice-gola' but roughly ice-gola refers to crushed ice and kalla katta is the flavour into which the crushed ice is dipped. The word 'kalla' in Hindi is the colour black and 'katta' refers to the sour taste. Now, to the post.

Kalla katta is an integral part of my formative years. A man selling ice-golas would be stationed outside our colony and every time I came home from school, I would want to buy some ice-golas but was always refused by my mother. She felt that the water used for making the ice was not hygienic. Of course, all mothers feel that way and we children felt that hygiene or not, ice-golas were tasty and delicious. Every time we passed by the man selling those golas, our mouths would water and immediately we would crave for one or two coloured golas. By the time the man crushed the ice using a dilapidated machine and moulded the crushed ice, we would get impatient and while he fizzed out coloured syrup from tall bottles on to the ice, we would stretch out our hands, one hand with the money and the other for the ice gola! One ice-gola cost about 10 paise. Though it seems a paltry amount today, those days it was some money.

Ice-golas remained frozen in my memory and I never did think that I would be able to taste the same ice-gola all over again. I did. Our Institute conducts festivals during which many food stalls are put up and one such stall was BOMBAY ICE-GOLA. Initially I was wondering whether I should give it a try. Usually when a memory is intact and perfect, one doesn't want to distort it by revisiting the same and get disappointed. Right? Ah, I just wanted that ice-gola and the same flavour that I knew back then -- Kalla katta. The 10 paise ice gola was 30 rupees now! Any price to revisit memories, right. Apprehensively, I muttered, "Kalla katta" and immediately the man started his antics of preparing the ice-gola. The moment I tasted the gola, I became the Susan who was five years old and relished her ice-golas. I sucked memories and also split some nostalgia on my clothes in the process. I forced my husband also to buy one for himself. He did. He preferred to get an elite flavour - pista badam and strawberry flavoured ice-gola. Somehow his ice-gola did not appeal to me. It was too synthetic and modern unlike the raw and tangy kalla katta. Both of us sucked our golas all the way from the stall to our house.

Well, did I tell you my tongue and lips were a tinge of blackish pink after having finished the ice-gola? For some time I was twenty odd years younger, looking up the mirror now and then and happy that the colour was still there - natural lipstick, we used to say.

Memories are beautiful especially food ones. After all in memories calories and health don't matter, only memories matter.

What are your favourite food memories? Tell me . . .

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Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale its infinite variety

The title, of course is Shakespeare's but I have appropriated it to pay tribute to the evergreen and never failing to entertain, Tinkle. For those who did not grow up in India, Tinkle is our version of comic series that kept us engaged and amused through our summer holidays and other mundane days as well. And one can never be too old for picking a copy of Tinkle and smiling from ear to ear at the antics of Suppandi, Tantri the Mantri, Kalia the Crow, Kapish the Monkey, Shikari Shambu and reading many other tales, jokes and science facts. When I googled Tinkle, I was surprised and happy to find that they also have a website now. But with Tinkle, it was always the stories and not the author. Only later did I know that Anant Pai was the creative editor behind the book.

What is the USP of Tinkle and how did it manage to stay put inspite of the revolution created by the internet, cable TV and many other media? Well, I guess it's a mixture of simplicity and quick-read that manages to hold the reader's attention. Suppandi is a gullible half-wit who never fails to make one smile and sometimes even laugh. Through the entire span of me being a kid and growing into a woman of 33, Suppandi has never disappointed me. The Suppandi tales are not conceived by 'creative' professionals who sit in air-con rooms but children who send their contribution to the book. Sometimes even the name Suppandi makes me laugh out loud. Such is the charm of Suppandi.

I also immensely enjoy reading the folk-tales which are again sent by children across the country. The stories are delightful and always carry a lesson in the end. Most of them are happily ever after stories but still retain a  rustic charm and simplicity. The characters are quintessentially Indian and consist of Indian sensibilities and customs -- mostly characters from rural India which also include kings, queens, princes and lovely princesses.

Anant Pai (1929-2011), the father of Indian comics who started Tinkle

The witty tales of Birbal and Nasserudin Hodja make you nod in admiration for the proper use of common sense. Their prudence stands directly in contrast with Suppandi's folly and dumb mind. Those days, friends who sometimes did not understand what we conveyed were nick-named Suppandi!

Wisdom, ethics for living and answers about the unknown working of the Universe and its mysteries were the staple diet doled out by Tinkle in every one of its issues. Moreover, our parents never objected us reading the comic book and sometimes they themselves enjoyed reading an issue now and then, when time permitted. Parental guidance and regulations were not needed while one indulged in the stories and articles in Tinkle.

Well, I can go on and on about Tinkle and its charm on me but how did I arrive at this topic. I picked up few copies of the book while on the train from a man who was selling them when the train was slowly trudging through West Bengal. Tinkle has always been my faithful travel companion for a very long time now and my sister and I are aficionados of this wholesome treat. Whether I will outgrow Tinkle is a question I have asked myself many times but every time I postpone the answer, perhaps, knowing the answer only too well.

Have you read Tinkle? Is there something  local like Tinkle that you used to read or even read now?

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The legitimacy of an ambition

What is ambition? Why do many of us bombard young minds with the highly improbable question: What do you want to be when you grow up? Are we (read slightly older individuals than the kids) trying to make idle conversation with the young one who happen to be either a friend's son/daughter, a niece or a nephew. I have seen it many times and cringe at that question. Some smart kid who has been fed well by the parents, repeats like a parakeet,

I want to become a doctor, 

I want to become a scientist, 

I want to become an Engineer,

I want to become a  . . a  . . . a (the uncle/aunty/akka/anna/cousin who asks the question is bored and the poor kid is dismissed).

Some parents are quite happy to answer the question: I always wanted to be a doctor but somehow it didn't happen and so I am determined to make my son/daughter a doctor.

What makes an ambition? Does everyone need to have an ambition? How do we determine what we will become after say, ten years. Now wait, don't get me wrong. I am not saying that one should not have any motivation for the future, but thinking of a profession when one is three or four seems ridiculous. Don't we all change from time to time? How can a young kid dream of something of which he/she does not even know. Does the child know that being a doctor involves blood, extreme patience, kindness and long working hours or the glowing Engineer has to struggle. Well, how can ambitions be formed without having an inkling of what the profession is.

I remember as a kid I was proud to say I want to become a doctor and when I saw everyone's smiles and nods, I was quite sure that I had said something which is absolutely wonderful. Well, at this given moment, I want to run a restaurant and cook delicious food, in spite of being a teacher!!

Growing up with an ambition actually restricts an individual immensely. One is closed to the other probable possibilities that would have actually suited the individual best. If not for ambition, there would be no books and sites which scream: Turn what you like doing best into your profession. The advise comes at a point when one is too lazy to switch over into something new.

Well, what if a child says, My ambition is to be.

Are you doing something which you like or are you caught in the profession of your childhood ambition but regretting it.

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The innocence of not knowing prices and value of things

Long ago, when I was a kid, it was wonderful to think that everything was possible and easy in life. For example, it was quite common to think that I will have a house by the sea and have a large telescope in my living room which would enable me to view the craters of the moon. Alas! the world from the eyes of a child is seldom based on practical calculations and pragmatic decisions. That world is Utopia, I reckon.

It is quite amazing to observe that as children, we don't estimate wishes and dreams through money. But that innocence slowly fades when one enters the teens. The harsh reality of money and value seeps into the thoughts and slowly the wishes disappear. All that one wants, as a teenager is something removed from the fantasies of a child. The "house by the sea" slowly vanishes and what is visible is the great idea of a 'career.' The becoming of something (I mean in a profession) is the ultimate beacon to be reached. Parents, teachers and well wishing adults remind us to remember what we have to become in the future. Even the path to a career needs money but that can be attained, anyway.

In the meanwhile, the child that we were talking of in the first paragraph, starts attaching a price to everything material. A house costs a lot of money and a house by the sea costs even more. Dreams have to be dreamt based on the cost price. Then the wishes no longer remain wishes. They become pursuits.

The other day I was thinking of how as a child, I wished for so many things. The wishes were just wishes and not something that I should possess. Wishing is one and possessing is another. I hope you get what I mean. We wished because we liked to pass our idle hours in thinking of something. It used to be a lovely pass time before sleep folded us up in her loving arms. But now, when sleep eludes, I calculate the price and wonder when will I be able to accumulate money to buy X or Y. It is at this juncture, faith enters. As a child there were wishes but no faith but now there are wishes and faith.

I guess the cycle has to go on.

Well, I don't know whether I made sense in this post. If this post kindled something within, then would you care to share what was kindled? I would be all ears . . .

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When Orion walked with me . . .

With earphones playing 'Chicken Fried' by Zac Brown Band and brisk walking down the joggers park, I looked up and behold! who is walking along with me - ORION, the hunter. Now did I ever mention that  I am absolutely fascinated with star-gazing. When times seem tiring and eyes need some soothing, I look up and spot the few constellations I know. Orion is one of my favourites. I just like to spot the hunter with his sword and other paraphernalia. I can gaze and gaze without any thought nor action and get lost in the multitude of stars.

While we were children, we were quite amazed that the moon followed us wherever we went. I always used to ask my father: 'How come the moon knows where I go? It is always following me.' My dad would make up different answers to pacify the ever-springing questions and I got immense joy by looking at the sky at regular intervals and spotting the moon follow us. This was the same feeling that I experienced today while spotting the Orion right above me. Fascinated as always by the hunter, I found that this constellation is visible throughout the world. Wow!!! That someone at the same time as me would be looking at Orion made me feel connected with every being and life-form.

Foolish as it may seem to think that Orion or the moon is keeping pace with me, it also gives a strange camaraderie with the universe. Giving science and common sense a break for a while, it felt wonderful to be walking along with Orion. Now the song in my radio went on from playing 'Chicken Fried' to 'It's Raining Men' by Geri Halliwell. I looked up. As strange it may sound, Orion went from being above my head to the left of me. So long we were walking beside each other but all of a sudden (!!!!) the hunter decided to move a bit. Hmmmmm. I just think he did not like me listening to 'Its raining men' when he was around!!!

Picture courtesy: freewebs.com