New car: To buy or not to buy?

The first car I bought was a heavily used white(ish) gas guzzler of an American make that went extinct in the earlier part of this decade.  From a distance, it was a fairly ritzy looking automobile.  However, small areas of rust would peek out at you through chipped paint as you got closer.  Although it was the only car I could afford back then, the rugged Americanness of the car suited my juvenile resolve of not acting in acquiescence with my fellow desis by picking one of their favorite Japanese makes.  I used to love the car.  It was sporty, had good acceleration, and felt quite sturdy; until one fateful winter day involving a snow storm, black ice, and a discourteous pickup truck.  I escaped, probably because of the car's said rugged Americanness.  Unfortunately, the car was totaled.

The incident shook me up enough to opt for a car that was a complete antithesis - a used and unoriginal gray all-wheel-drive crossover SUV of a Japanese make.  Make no mistake though, I used to love this vehicle as well.  By this time I had entered vie conjugale.  As such, this car served faithfully on many an ensuing long drive, viz. through the winding highways of Pennsylvania, scenic routes of West Virginia and Virginia, and flat roadways cutting through midwestern states.  Also, our first-born came home in this car.  All was well until one day, at a traffic light at a busy intersection, the car's timing belt decided to give up on me and the engine sputtered to a permanent stop.

Not long before this incident, we had acquired another car to accommodate our contradistinctive commuting requirements; a sand colored ('gracious beige', per the manufacturer) coupe sedan of another Japanese make.  Despite being heavily used at the time of purchase, it turned out to be a particularly prolific giver of miles to the gallon, which suited my preposterous 140 mi. daily commute at the time.  While the odometer strained to keep up with my insane commutes, the engine continued to stay in top notch condition.  Everything else on the car however started coming detached one by one, all while driving on the highway.  First, I saw one wiper blade fly off.  Next, one rear view mirror started dangling.  Then, the muffler excused itself from the underbelly.  Finally, an entire brake assembly severed itself.  That is when I decided to terminate my faith in the vehicle, and sold it off.

Today we own an SUV and a mini-van, both Japanese makes, thus staying true to our current existence as a borderline boring desi couple married for 12 years.  The vehicles presently run fine.  However, as you can see, I have never been proactive with car replacements.  I often look at the duo in our garage and wonder what I am waiting for.  Sans conclusion, I usually end up convincing myself that it isn't time yet.

Seasons

Of sultry air and cloudy skies
Are the days of late August,
Seemingly southward a lone goose flies
As if he’s the weatherman to trust!

Leaves atop trees still green and tall
Wait to lightly descend to the ground,
And the little robin sings, “It’s almost fall!”
Capering about the lawn all browned

A bush awaits its first chrysanthemum
As showers try to temper the heat,
Priming the countryside for vibrant autumn
As summer formulates a retreat

The air will soon be crisp and cool
With a hint of chill to suggest,
The sky will turn clear azul
With a color riot soon to manifest!

Summer of '92

I sit atop a hard suitcase staring sleepily at the empty train tracks, thinking about my recent 8th birthday party. My parents and grandmother meticulously count the number of luggage pieces as we wait for the midnight train to arrive. Despite my drowsiness, my excitement grows as the extra large railway station clock ticks away. After a half a dozen fuzzy announcements over the loudspeaker, the rusty brown train finally arrives. Reading the “Dadar-Madras-Dadar” boards on each compartment all at once as the train wheels by is a fascinating test of persistence of vision. We scramble to locate our berths in the sleeper class compartment, and chain our suitcases under the seat. A couple khaki colored air pillows are blown up and dressed up in pillow cases. I claim the top berth and settle down. I catch a whiff of naphthalene emanating from pillow case as I consider the absurd possibility of the ceiling fan next to my berth coming detached and me saving the day by dive-catching it before it falls on anyone. Before I know it, the rhythmic oscillations of the train rock me to a blissful sleep filled with superhero dreams.

“Kaupheee... Kaupheeee...” 

A gruff voice wakes me up. I pop my head over the corner of the berth and squint. Everyone is up and sipping coffee from plastic tumblers. I climb down with a maneuver, exchange ‘good morning’s, and trudge along the corridor, toothbrush and paste in hand and towel on shoulder. I start brushing while balancing my stance and staring at a deceased fly stuck inside the metal sink. The train starts slowing down. I peer out the door and see Gulbarga station approaching. I finish brushing and walk back lazily. A couple of colporteurs carrying bundles of newspapers and magazines walk past hurriedly. I get back to my seat and notice that the homemade breakfast foil packets are out of our bags. Idlies doused in milagai podi! I start munching and look out the window at the sun rising behind the platform. The train has started moving now and the breeze meanders through my hair.

By mid-morning, the train rolls into Raichur station. I lean over to peer into the train timetable my father is inspecting. “30 minutes late”, he announces. A family of three enters our compartment and occupies the seats across from us. The band consists of a rather loud mother, a fiendish looking boy about my age, and a bespectacled and much older girl. I do not look forward to talking to them. The mother however strikes a conversation with my mother. I do not pay attention. I fish out a Hardy Boys novel from one of the bags and start reading. After about a minute, I glance over the book and catch the boy grinning devilishly at me. I quickly avert my gaze and get back to reading.

It is almost lunch time when the train enters Guntakal Junction. The platform is bustling with activity. I catch sight of a man incongruously riding an Atlas Goldline bicycle on the platform and wonder if he had to buy a platform ticket for the cycle as well. The sun is now blazing angrily, casting sharp shadows on the asphalt. An elderly woman tries to sell us a Bisleri mineral water bottle through the window bars. I feel bad for her as our loud compartment-mates shoo her away rather discourteously. Younger hawkers swarm the compartment carrying lunchables. The aroma of food makes me wish that my parents would, just once, buy a packet of biryani or something, even though I know that my family is the extra careful type that packs every meal from home. Sure enough, once the train is mobile again, packets of homemade chapatis and thengai thogayal are brought out. I don’t complain. I actually love thengai thogayal.

The train starts moving again with a rhythmic “tha-jham , tha-jham , , , “. Or is it “dha-dha , ti-dha , , , “? Also, how come the train moves accurately in chaturasra nadai in Eka talam? Or is it Teentaal? I doze off to sleep with these thoughts while sitting sweatily on the blue rexine berth cushion. I start dreaming of all imminent fun to be had in the company of cousins. I dream that we would go to the beach, stand in the water feeling the sandy waves against our legs, and listen to people argue in the background... “It is Koodappa”, “No, it’s Kadappa”, “No, it’s Koodpahaa”. Suddenly I realize that the argument is happening outside the dream and between the fiendish brother and the nerdy sister across the aisle. The train is standing still. I rub my eyes and squint through the window bars. ‘Cuddapah’ reads the yellow board on the platform.

“Kadalai urundai venuma?”, my mother asks.

I nod my head. “When will we get there?”, I inquire.

“Train is still 30 minutes late”, my father says.

My question hasn’t been fully answered. But I get distracted by the two kadalai urundais my mother hands me. I put my jaw to test as I crack one of them in my mouth. I grab my Hardy Boys novel and start reading again.

The next station I notice is Renigunta. My grandmother says this is the last station before we enter Tamil Nadu. A bunch of presumably ticketless passengers enter the compartment and crowd the corridor. A soft murmur rises in the compartment. I get up and stretch. “2 more hours”, announces my father. Combs and ponds talcum powder containers are passed around as everyone takes turns standing in front of the little mirror trying to reverse obvious fatigue. Suddenly, the train starts slowing down and stops in the middle of nowhere. A couple youngsters jump out the door and walk down to the next compartment. A few others swarm the land around the railway tracks trying to figure out what is wrong. My father talks to a few of these people through the window.

“Train is 4 hours late”, he announces.

Simpler times

The early 90s were simpler times. Summer vacations back then meant three months of total play time. I have vivid summer memories of playing cricket barefoot in the sweltering heat, climbing the mango tree behind our apartment building to collect mangoes for all neighbors, spending chatty afternoons in the parking lot munching on juicy जांभुळ fruit, and playing hide and seek on the building terrace until dark.

One noteworthy summer memory is that of catching up with cousins, aunts, and uncles. Since three out of four of my father’s siblings and their families lived in Chennai, we would visit Chennai quite regularly back then. The Pune-Chennai train journeys we took as a family are etched in my memory. More about this in the next post!

Bowl cuisine

A bowl with a bed of warm and gingery मुगाची उसळ cooked with juicy tomatoes and sweet onions.  A thick blanket of a hearty भाजी with soft potatoes covering the उसळ.   A somewhat disputed layer of fluffy कांदा पोहे with the tartness of squeezed lemon over this भाजी.   A canvas of cool yogurt with an artwork of colorful crispy चिवडा and some फरसाण replete with toasted peanuts and the aroma of हिंग covering the पोहे.  Copious amounts of finely chopped crisp pink onions, succulent tomatoes and fresh coriander leaves strewn across this landscape.  And most importantly, a झणझणीत, slightly sweet, and slightly tangy तर्री poured on the sides of the bowl.

Why ever would one opt for a Chipotle burrito bowl over this healthier and more flavorsome मिसळ bowl?

On Barbies and lipsticks

 "NO", I exclaimed to Pavana, who was about 6 months pregnant at the time.  We were on the customary baby shopping excursion at Target.  As I carefully returned the baby pink onesie to the newborn clothes rack, I saw Pavana roll her eyes.  It was a phase when I was determined to be unyielding to any type gender stereotypes.  I had become annoyingly bullheaded.  I would vehemently reject any garment in the conventional baby (read 'bleached') shades of pink and blue.

Fast forward 7 years.  Our home is filled with Barbie dolls, some fully dressed and some not so much.  There is also a Shopkins set, a Polly Pocket set, and some decorate-your-own-cake toy.  Everyday, I also get educated on how cool doll houses are.  The dresser drawers are filled with bleached pink apparel.  Pavana's 'hanging earrings' are constantly borrowed as are her lipstick, fancy bindis and kajal.  Our bedroom carpet has pink nail-polish stains.

I have realized that parenting never goes as planned.  Ultimately, your children will grow up the way they are destined to, and you will love them no matter who they are.

Decoction

Scene. ABC Kalyana Mandapam. The hall is filled with the fragrance of jasmine as mamis in pattu sarees decked in impeccable jewellery hurry about with their assigned duties. A rather passive group of mamas saunters down the corridor leading to the faded red plastic chairs facing the Homa Kundam, presumably sharing some insights on the ponnu-aatthukkaaraa. Just then, an affable ambi enters the scene with veshti folded up and a questionable towel draped on his shoulder. Suddenly, the aforementioned mamis and mamas abandon their tasks on hand and look at ambi with deep admiration. “Kaapi vandhachu”, he announces with a twinkle in his eye. He sets down a large kuzhaay vaccha drum along with some tumblers on a plastic table and disappears.

Ah... filter kaapi...

Filter kaapi drinkers are a finicky peoples. One drinker’s kaapi is never good enough for another. And for good reason. Think about how many variables there are! First the decoction; how much kaapi podi to put, does the water have to be brought to a rolling boil or bubbling hot, how much water to pour over the podi etc. Then there’s the mixing; how much decoction, how much milk, how much sugar, temperature of the milk, to froth or not to froth, etc. Then there’s the kaapi podi itself; how much to roast the beans, how fine to powder them, how much chicory to add, etc.

To be honest, I have tried tweaking almost all of these variables, but my kaapi still doesn’t taste like that ABC Kalyana Mandapam ambi’s kaapi...

Front porch reveries

 Every family has its own idea of a dream home.  Such a dream home usually comprises of one or more 'dream features', for example a huge backyard, an amicable neighborhood etc.

Pavana and I began our house hunt about 7 years ago.  Few years of apartment life and repeated discussions had eventuated a serious pursuit.  Being truly fledgling house hunters, we engaged the first realtor we found and began our journey with rather open minds.  We had no real dream features in mind when we began the process.  However, as we started seeing more homes, quite organically, our requirements began evolving.  By the time we had seen about a half a dozen homes, the requirements had matured into a laundry list of dream features.  

The list seemed fairly simple, at least on the surface.  We had come to realize that we weren't really big on an idyllic milieu or a gargantuan backyard.  Our nascent minds decided instead that we wanted a home with a cute little front porch.  A quaint picket fence along with that would do as well.  So much so that every time we drove past a home with a front porch or a picket fence, we would glance at each other knowingly!  We also decided that we wanted good lighting in the kitchen and a living room overlooked by a second floor landing; both largely Pavana's desires (never got a good reason from her on the latter; perhaps she wanted to keep a watch on the living room from upstairs?).  Both of us definitely wanted at least partial hardwood flooring, a finished basement, and a neighborhood with kids where our kids could play.  Our non-handy temperament also necessitated a home that would need minimal repairs in the next 10 years. 

When we finally saw our current home, we were both convinced.  We swiftly closed on it and moved in soon after.  It has been 6 blissful years now in this home now.  Interestingly, our home does not have many of our dream features; we neither have a front porch nor a landing overlooking the living room!  The kitchen lighting also is quite meager.  Even so, we love our home beyond doubt.  Our young family is growing in this home and we are undeniably creating some beautiful memories here.

Meanwhile, our dream features list is still growing.  Some notable additions are a three-car garage, a walk-out basement, and a second floor laundry.  Like normal couples, Pavana and I have the occasional inconclusive talk about moving.  Ad interim, that front porch remains a daydream...

Quarantine food

This lock-down has visibly brought out the dormant culinarian  in many.  The sudden proliferation home cooking posts, photos and, recipes on Facebook are a testament to a certain culinary fecundity that was perhaps hitherto lurking just under the surface.  Our home is no exception to this phenomenon.  In the last few months, our kitchen has churned out some excellent dishes.

Cooking to me is therapeutic.  It is a space where I can be creative.  And perhaps one of the reasons I revel in it is the instant gratification it provides through acknowledgment from others at the dinner table.  I have had the good fortune of honing my cooking skills around excellent cooks.  One such person is my mother, who in my view is not only unparalleled cook of traditional Tamil and Maharashtrian cuisine but also has a proclivity for undertaking alternate cooking methods and unfamiliar cuisines.  Another such person is my mother in law, who excels in traditional South Karnataka/Mangalorean/Havyaka fare and has an uncanny ability to incorporate any given food item available in and around the kitchen into traditional food in the most unexpected yet delectable manner.

One obvious drawback that ensues from all the cooking and being around good cooks during this lock-down is the expeditious augmentation of poundage to the figure.  But as they say, never trust a skinny chef!

COVID-19

It is a strange world out there.  Some call it COVID, as if it is telling us to VIDu (விடு) everything that is co- (i.e. joint, together), or to stay inside the COsy COve that is your VEEDu (வீடு).  Some call it Corona, because it has undeniably caused हम सब का-रोना, and some others say इसी लिए social distancing करो ना.  Whatever we call it, it isn't hard to hazard a hunch that the world is going to remain hazardous for some more time now.
 
COVID-19 is often compared with the pandemic of 1918 and quarantine life with World War days.  However, what sets the COVID-19 pandemic apart from these two historic crises is a great invention called the internet that supposedly saves us from social isolation that our grandparents or great grandparents might have faced back then.  While one cannot deny the role the internet plays in keeping us informed and up to date, one also cannot ignore the inordinately discordant pieces of information we are inundated with every single day via social media and news sources, both legitimate and semi-legitimate.  Opinions are frequently passed as facts as they get heavily circulated on Whatsapp.  फेंकी हुई  disinformation hardly gets called out as फेक news as folks gleefully share their daily quotas of inaccuracies with each other.  After all, a little bit of मसाला causes no harm, they say.  Per contra, we have constantly remind ourselves that distorted truth is worse than a lie.  Alternative facts help no one, and are in fact very dangerous.  Perhaps more dangerous than what COVID ஐயா originally planned for us when he decided to be our बिन बुलाया मेहमान. 

Some food for thought.