My Ventures

Ventures in Jewellery Making

Some of my ventures in hand embroidery.

The Common Area

Of late, my evening strolls have become more vigorous with intentions of shedding some extra kilos. But as I go for my regular walks, I observe around me, activities in the common area which is the garden. Currently this garden is being renovated so it is far dustier than it usually is. As I walk, I get a lot of time to observe and ponder over things. With kids playing in the play area, my attention gets diverted as at times I feel, some parents are not careful enough when kids are playing on one of the swings or climbing up ladders. These tiny tots can easily fall through the steps of these ladders and sometimes I freeze on the spot looking at these kids precariously holding onto the side railing.

There are a dozen new born puppies running around. I often wonder whether the puppies are more scared of the kids or it is the other way round. The puppies’ tails sticking vertically above them, and making it quiver as they prance around. When I look around I sometimes find an irregular shaped stone lying in the pathway, and only when I near it I realize it is actually 2 puppies huddled together. I have always had a soft corner for dogs and I would really like to hold one of these puppies close to me and stroke it, but refrain from doing so for fear of stray dogs.

Old men and women sitting together in large groups in the same area of the garden, singing bhajans, or discussing sweet nothings, at times just staring into the vast darkness. It often makes me wonder about old age; to have all the sensual faculties functioning properly but still being unable to perform the physical duties that the brain commands, to have so much of free time and still have nothing to do. If there are grandchildren in the house, then of course time flies past. On the other end of the garden there would be some young lovers sitting huddled together, oblivious to the world around them. A few feet away sometimes there would be some friends sitting together deeply engrossed in their conversations about school or other friends.

Many a times my speed gets slacked down with elder people walking slowly in front of me, or some teenage boys deliberately blocking the way. But this garden, this common area is still my favourite walking ground. No matter what the purpose, or caste, or creed, or age, the same common people gather every evening. This ground which is earmarked with a specific purpose serves as a catalyst for many-a-discussions. For some it just gives them space to spend some time with nature and with music in their ears (thanks to the mp3 players). For others it gives them privacy to meet far away from the prying eyes of friends and relatives. But no matter what the environment is, this common area gives me time away from home to spend time with myself.

My World is Full of Colour

I am still busy packing my bags and each time I empty my cupboard, I unearth some old treasure. Yesterday it was the numerous cards exchanged between my husband and myself. Today I unearthed my old painting brushes, my paints and drawing book. A bright smile flashed across my face instantaneously.

Before marriage all I could think of was paints, music and poetry. Each and every moment spent at home would be in the company of music and colours. Sometimes hours of painful involvement would result in a decent work of art. I still remember my first big attempt on a glass painting. It turned out to be a favourite of one of my uncles who later on became the proud owner.

My love of painting started in school as a child. The encouragement of my parents took me to many competitions. I still remember one such competition in which my father had later on pointed out to me that I was progressing pretty well but later on spoilt it while outlining the picture. My mother herself being an ardent lover of art passed on her huge collection of paints to me, and this I had in my possession for many years to follow.

Painting led me to try my hand at sketching. And during school days who else would have been better to experiment than my favourite Bollywood actress? I remember spending hours during study huors trying to get her perfect portrait. I had even smuggled it to school to 'show off' to my friends. They loved it but insisted that I should make the shading darker as my pencil strokes were very light. And indeed that's what I readily did but ended up spoiling it.

In school I had an opportunity to submit a sketch of our Mother Superior, but I withdrew during the last moment as I felt my dear friend, who too was participating was far too good for me to compete. Moreover she was learning painting and sketching methodically. I had always marvelled at her brush strokes and her sketches. In fact I remember visiting her house often to just take a glimpse at her work of art.

After marriage, for some reason I stacked away all my paints. It is not that I didn't have the urge to paint and create, but the kind of freedom that one enjoys as a girl is different from that of the responsibilities of a wife. But today these treasures are back in my hands and ready to be utilised at the other end of my journey.

The Flight of Life

Today as I look back I feel it all started 8 years ago in 2000. From the time I left my hometown in Kolkata, I have been travelling constantly. At one point of time, this is what I had wanted, but with time when my travel schedules started becoming more frequent, all I wanted was to stay.

It seems as if no city or country wants to keep us for more than 2 years. In the past 8 years, I could say I've almost been living out my my suitcase. Education took me to one city, then marriage took me to another and all the other changes were due to the change in my spouse's employment. First the feeling of excitement and the possibility of exploring newer avenues lured me. Then a sense of apprehension sunk in, apprehension of a new job, of a new environment, a new house etc.

Now when I am once again getting ready to move to different destination, I feel bitter at having to let go of many a prized possession. Right from an embroidery pattern, an article, a favourite pouch, photograph collection of old memories, or some old greeting cards, to a recipe book. These prized possessions do not have any space in my luggage. Especially with the weight (of luggage) restrictions to each country, there are many such treasures which I have to let go. And that is when I start hating transitions.

Nothing in life is constant. So now my brain tells me only one thing, whether it is joy or sorrow, the moment will pass. The intensityof today's joy or sorrow will be lesser tomorrow. And things that I hold on to today, and that which seem precious, will seem unimportant and petty tomorrow when they have to be thrown away due to a necessity. Friends whom I cling on to today may seem far away tomorrow when we are miles apart. Nothing is constant, and now as I realize this, I try lesser and lesser to hold on. I have learnt to let go. Let go of the memories if they are not helpful in any way, let go of the emotions that tell you to hold on to a pen that doesn't function, a broken curio, or a useless jacket, things that have been treasured because it was a brother's gift, or fiance's first gift. None of this matters. I realize more and more that the person himself or herself matter and not the petty things that are exchanged. Many a times we ignore human beings and neglect them, but hold on to their things when they are no longer near us.

When we travel, it is more important to imbibe the good things in our memory and action than just blindly collect curios. The beauty of each city needs to be registered in the mind. But easier said than done. It is human tendency to want to own anything that is beautiful. Now as I ready myself for my next destination, I hope I will be able to safely let go of my emotional baggage and look forward to a new life once again. And after some time, the flight of life will resume once more.

The Oh So Rich & Pompous Iyer Wedding!!

Weddings are more often than not the union of two families than just two individuals. I was witness to a typical Iyer wedding being conducted in the posh suburbs of Mumbai. It must have all started in the usual way. As soon as the girl and boy give their nod about exchanging the nuptial vows, parents on both sides start making preparations from the very next minute. Calls are made to the near and dear ones. If the girl & boy are from the same city then there are an increased number of visits on both sides so that the uncles and aunts may also get to interact with the girl and boy. The other distant relatives may probably get a glimpse at someone else’s marriage ceremony where the couple gets introduced as the ‘next-in-line’ couple.

As bookings for the marriage hall, music troupe, food caterers etc are made there are 2 souls amidst all this oblivious to whatever is happening around them. They have created a world of their own. In between phone calls, secret visits and glances exchanged, they have created a secret world around themselves. The whole world looks so rosy; everything tastes good, between one date and another a year seems to have passed. In the meantime, the parents on both sides leave no stone unturned to ensure that the wedding is a huge success. They ensure everything is perfect enough for the bride and groom to feel it is a dream come true. The near and dear blood relations too ensure that they help in whatever way possible.

Marriage in itself is not just the 2-day affair that everyone witnesses. It probably takes months or even years for an alliance to get fixed. Imagine the turmoil that goes into all the pomp and splendour. In spite of all this, there still are some relatives who keep complaining or bickering for some reason or the other. They neither extend any help themselves nor do they let others help. They simply wait with folded hands for the D Day, attend the rituals all decked up, eat and leave without being bothered no matter what happens.

And as I was sitting there in the audience on the D Day, I was feeling nostalgic as moments of my wedding came alive before my eyes. I was trying to relate myself to the girl sitting there, all decked up, ready to take the wedding vows. Because of late I have noticed that unlike me there are hardly any girls who cry during their marriage. But at last I found my clone in the bride sitting there in the ‘mandap’. As she sat in her father’s lap and she was ‘given away’ in marriage, slokas in Sanskrit were being read out, and water was being poured over the hands of the father, bride and the groom by the mother, the feeling sunk in. The feeling of being ‘given away’ and that the girl no longer remains just a daughter; the feeling of no longer being in the warm care of one’s own family sent a chill down the girl’s spine. And all this sorrow engulfed her completely. The parents watched as silent spectators and they too were engulfed in sorrow. I realized that this is not sorrow in its literal sense, but that of happiness of starting a new life. But at that moment, time froze as the bride’s brother was inconsolable as he stood there watching his dear kid sister being married away.

I took a glance around myself at the audience and noticed that apart from the ones closely involved, the audience comprised of guests mostly who were least bothered about what was happening on the ‘mandap’. Some were busy discussing each other’s jewels and sarees, some were complaining of how a relative had just ignored them, some other elderly guests were miffed at not being given due respect, and many others who just sat there watching as if they were just watching a documentary film!!! And this was the rich and pompous Iyer wedding, like most other weddings, where money is spent on nothingness just to satisfy some insatiable guests!!! No matter how pompous a wedding is, satisfying everyone will never be possible. And all this turmoil for the parents!!!

I am a product of Chance

Today as I donne my thinking cap once again, I realize I am but a product of chance. It is by chance that I was formed. An egg released in a particular month, fertilized by chance withing the crucial period of 24 hours, and that formed a lump of cells. It is by chance that the organizer of the cells placed my organs in perfect form. And it is by chance that my features were placed in the right symmetry on my face. Human beings are in fact a product of fate. Human creations are in fact works of wonder. It is marvelous how innumerable cells cling together and form a certain shape. Our bodies cannot control the tiny growth within us, no one can for that matter. It is all just chance.

It is by chance how the driver of a car survives while his fellow passengers don't. Can chance be termed as luck? What is the force which controls us and decides the degree of our chance? What are the chances that when I slid off a bike in motion, I only fracture my fingers and not my hand? Birth, marriage, death, chance meeting of individuals, finding one's soulmate through marriage or surviving an accident by a fraction of a second, all this and much more, none of it is under man's control.

Everything that happens to us and around us happens for a reason. And these reasons are governed by a very powerful force. No one knows what this force is. It may be called chance, it may be termed luck, destiny, God's will, coincidence or just about anything. I am a supporter of both the cosmic forces as well as science. But both put together cannot explain why something happens the way it does. Man has indeed made great discoveries and inventions. He has been able to clone, been successful in controlling the time of birth to a certain extent, but he will never be able to master it. Chance or luck is something that will never be controlled. It is therefore chance that makes me what I am today, sitting here thinking the way I am, holding a pen, able to sit upright, able to feel and think, comprehend and realize the importance of my existence, and be thankful that I was given a chance over maybe numerous others to............exist!!!

Something's Cooking

A Tribute To My Mother…

It’s been very long since I was inspired to write. Indeed there were instances which touched me or hurt me & prompted me to write, but probably they were not as strong as the incident that took place a couple of weeks back.

It felt like any other day when I woke up thinking of what I wanted to cook for that particular day. I kept the vegetables ready as usual and started with my preparations just like any other day. But that day a big fat brinjal made me realize how I had started forgetting the world around me when I was cooking. The feeling I get when I hold those vegetables…the calculations that my brain does when I think how symmetrically I can cut them…what spices will go with them…how I can innovate with an age-old recipe etc. These feelings just cannot be explained in words. I was holding this big fat brinjal directly over fire when slowly the process engrossed me completely. I could hear noises (voices of people) around me but I was hardly aware of what was happening. The flames engulfed the brinjal slowly. First nothing much happened and then the magic happened right in front of my eyes. The brinjal was ‘perspiring’, the colours were changing. The violet looked so royal with it’s changing hues. I wanted to see more and more of it, but the fire was gaining an upper hand over the meek brinjal. The shade had now changed to a somber grey and then finally the skin turned black to ashes. Finally when the aroma filled the kitchen my brinjal was ready to be peeled. And magic happened once again when my hand felt the pulp. The fire was lit again so that the pulp could be made interesting with some spices. The result was just marvelous.

It is indeed amazing when sometimes it also turns out that what our eyes cannot do our hands can do. That is our sense of sight proves weaker at times in comparison to our sense of touch. For example I would rather sprinkle salt with my two fingers rather than see to measure it with my sight.

Cooking indeed is such a beautiful art that probably this is the only art which utilizes all our senses – sense of touch, sense of sight, sense of sound, sense of smell and sense of taste. It’s worth giving it a thought. I feel we all have the urge or inclinations to cook. It starts from the day when as a child we choose what to eat and what not to eat. Remember the times when we visit our local ‘chaat’-wala and tell him “no spicy, only sweet and sour please”. Out choices are made. If we take these choices a step further we will find ourselves in the kitchen choosing between our spices ourselves. My explorations started similarly. My taste buds were so attuned to my mother’s style of cooking that I indeed found myself in a soup when I tried to recreate the magic. My mother was one of the few mothers who would rather coax me to study than to cook. On the other hand my father used to coax me to learn to cook. But why mess my hands with coking when I could have it served ready-made on a platter? When my parents used to be away on trips my elder brother compensated for their absence and set my taste-buds rolling. Finally when I found myself in the kitchen I was frustrated at being unable to create the magic that my mother and sibling had managed to, least realizing the fact that it all stemmed from years of experience and a natural intuitive interest in cooking. As marital bliss happened, I found myself in a different world adapting myself to change. But my taste buds refused to co-operate in the land of coconuts – Kerala. I would gulp my food down trying to keep a smiling face and say “Oh Coconuts? I love them!!!” In my heart of hearts I knew for sure if this was to continue I would soon go on a hunger strike. I craved for my mother’s touch of magic and realized her importance. She had always been making South-Indian dishes with a North-Indian twist to it to suit our taste buds. I raked up some courage to slowly venture and put my skills to test. Over the next few months all I did was observe. I had to anyway satisfy my household by learning the Kerala dishes. But during the times when I found myself alone in the kitchen I would let my senses guide me and add an extra spice or two to an everyday recipe and Voila! It tastes different.

Memory plays such a vital role in cooking. I never realized it till I took up the ladle independently. Whenever I insisted on learning a recipe my mother would always push me away saying, “You are going to end up cooking for the rest of your life after marriage. What’s the big deal with cooking? There’s nothing difficult in it.” Probably this casual attitude is what saved me. Today many a times I am found in the kitchen lost in thought just standing there motionless as I try to remember a taste from my memory, or try to remember the smell and feel of a particular dish. In fact it may be surprising to some if I say we can smell an ingredient through a taste in our tongue. Try it someday and you would realize how true it is.

As a child I’ve spent most of my time in the kitchen without consciously realizing it. The spelling dictations, the school home-work, the music practice sessions all used to take place under the strict supervision of my mother. As a result during silent intervals I would hear the sound of mustard seeds spluttering in oil followed by the smell and sound of wet curry leaves. My brain would tell me “something’s cooking” when after lunch I could smell the aroma filling the house – “Wow!! Mom’s making a sweet dish…!” But my mother would promise to give me an extra helping only if I completed my home-work on time.

All these sights, smell and sounds had registered deeply in my brain. I still remember even as my mother kept me occupied with my home-work she would be rattling off about the recipe, “this is not the correct way to make this dish, don’t follow my footsteps…” OR “Don’t add salt in the beginning itself for certain vegetables, they will not be cooked properly.” All these and many more… Of course for me all this was just daily routine. Who wants to cook anyway? But these daily repetitions are what sailed me easily through my first attempts.

It is indeed surprising how I would hear my mother’s voice in my head all the time when I was making a particular dish. My hands would automatically follow the instructions my mother was giving me in my head even before I consciously realized it. “Do this…don’t do that…”

Similarly I don’t know how many of you would have experienced the following. I used to hate accompanying my mother to the vegetable market. I hated to set my foot on the discarded vegetable waste and endure the smell of rotting vegetables. The only reason I used to budge was because my ‘best’ friend stayed close-by to the market. I used to slip away on the pretext of meeting her. By the time my mother would walk from one end of the market to the other, I would run to see my friend and be back on time. Nevertheless sometimes when I didn’t get permission to visit my friend, my mother would tag me along with her. And here too I would see her feeling each and every vegetable with her hand, breaking the tip of the lady’s finger etc. But all this would only further frustrate me and I would think “why is she taking so long?” She would keep telling me how to select vegetables. At times I would have to pick some vegetables too but that meant soiling my hands with some wet rotten vegetables and the feeling would leave me disinterested anyway. But all these instructions had registered deep in my mind because my mother coupled each instruction with a funny anecdote or incident. So all this left a deep imprint on my mind.

On reaching home, I would always assist my mother in peeling peas. This was my favourite chore as I would get to eat all the sweet peas. The result being a 1 kg purchase of peas would end up as a ½ kg in the pan! I was given all the liberty to try my hand at cutting vegetables provided they were required only for the next day as I was pretty slow in cutting them!

Post marriage attempts discouraged me in the beginning and I would end up crying over my colleague’s shoulder at office. She then told me something wonderful, something that I will remember for the rest of my life. She said, “Don’t cook because you want your husband to like it, just enjoy the process of cooking and it will end up being loved by everyone.” Till date I have held on to this philosophy coupled with my mother’s instructions of a casual approach towards cooking. This combination has made my dishes if not excellent, at least interesting and different!

Journey on Wheels

This maddening pace of life appalls me. I am unable to understand the intolerance of man especially on the road. This age has left no value for life. Day in and day out I see the number of youngsters traveling on footboard increasing. Now it has further gone a step ahead – from footboard to the wheel; youngsters precariously hanging on to the windows in the public bus without even a foothold. I wonder how much it would pain the parents of such youngsters if they are spotted performing such fetes. What is the hurry after all? What could be more important than life itself? What use is thrill if no life remains to enjoy it? What pleasure does such risk provide? What would one choose after all; the risk or the thrill? Which of these has a more lasting impression?

Why does it pain a man to wait in queue at a traffic signal? Is it education or is it culture that influences traffic etiquette? What will after all happen by a moment’s delay? Such gross deviations in traffic rules are actually loud indicators of what a mockery the government has made of itself. There are silent spectators of such spectacles everyday. A common educated office-goer who follows the rules is only left behind and ridiculed. In order to be accepted and not be the odd one out, he too joins the rat pack. Why isn't there anything called common-sense or logic left in man? If a regular commuter trespasses the oncoming traffic of the opposite side then why will there not be a traffic jam? Even when there is a free left, there are irate drivers honking continuously till the vehicle in front moves out of the way. It is said that in foreign land, honking is considered to be an insult. Then imagine the number of times a common man is insulted every day and also in turn insults a fellow human being. The countdown at traffic signals is another everyday event which surprises me. There are especially the 2-wheelers and auto drivers breaking all possible rules. These drivers will be the first ones to shoot off at countdown 3 or 2 itself.

Money has become the basic necessity of life. But it now rules our world by all means. I salute the ‘share’ auto drivers who strive to survive in this big bad world. This vehicle is their second home. Photographs of all gods & goddesses, and many a times of all religions donne their small & humble abode. It is after all their living. But the greed for a better living has always dominated the human life. That is the basic reason why fire came into existence – the discovery that cooked food tastes better than raw food. That explains – “Necessity is the mother of all inventions.” But does that explain why speakers are substituting for proper seats in these ‘share’ autos? A regular scene in Chennai nowadays – office goers getting late for office, the over-crowded public buses literally spilling with commuters is of no help. The autos are in now way dependable. They charge far more than what is the normal rate. Therefore these ‘share’ autos are flourishing. Who would pay Rs.35/- for an auto ride in comparison to the Rs.5/- fare in this ‘share’ auto. But it really is a sight to see such grown-ups sitting huddled up inside a box. In place of maximum 5-6 people being seated, 11-12 people are taken on board.

Summarizing the whole debate, reaching our destinations on time is more important than how we travel. Right from a stylish college student to a domestic maid, a labourer to an office-goer, this ‘share’ auto is a boon compared to the undependable public buses and autos.

Intolerance

Journey by local trains in Mumbai is a part and parcel of all Mumbai-ites. I fail to understand why we are so intolerant towards our fellow human beings. Couple of months back, when I was new to Mumbai, I was able to board the train only just before the train started. As a result, I was standing on the edge of the door. Being new to this kind of travel, I was petrified. I was able to hold on with only one hand and with the other I was holding on to my bag and trying to balance so as not to fall off. I kept screaming for people to move in. A girl in her 20's was standing just in front of me and speaking on the mobile phone as if nothing was happening around her. If she could have moved just a little bit so as to accommodate me, I would have been comfortable. Even the other women were least bothered. Why are we so intolerant? When I told my friends and relatives about this incident, their only comment was "hota hai yaar, mumbai mein aisa hi hota hai. this is an everyday affair in Mumbai....ppl are least bothered!!!" But my question is why? Can we all not live together and accommodate a little for the others as well?