Sports and Me

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Have you heard this adage?  The issue with such adages is the lack of measurability.  I mean, how far is the apple allowed to travel before the adage becomes void?  Is this distance a function of the prowess of the tree?

My mother, was quite the sportsperson in her day.  She participated in college cricket, basketball, and competitive rowing.  And from what I hear, she was quite good.  In other words, a tree with hefty prowess.  On the other hand, I, the apple, turned out to be quite the antithesis.

It was summer 1992.  Wimbledon season.  I had just turned 8.  Everyone was sitting in my grandparents' living room watching a nail-biting tiebreaker between Andre Agassi and Goran Ivanišević in the finals.  While everyone was intently discussing Ivanišević's killer serves and Agassi's energetic baseline play, I was busy sketching.  By the time Agassi thrashed Ivanišević in the fifth set, I had sketched the entire match in the form of a comic book.  I basked in my family's praise that entire evening.  Everyone probably thought that the match had ignited a passion for tennis in me and that they could now have me learn and start playing the sport.

But that never happened.  

A couple years later, when my parents realized that I was reluctant to play any sport, they decided to sign me up for badminton classes, which I ended up attending for all of two weeks.  I remember prancing aimlessly on the court with a bunch of wiry kids, much taller and stronger than me, as part of a dreary warm-up routine.  I also vaguely recollect getting yelled at for not being able to grasp (pun intended) the correct racquet gripping technique.  A couple months later when I was strolling nonchalantly down a busy street, my mind badminton-free after having quit the seminary, I unfortunately spotted my badminton tutor in the crowd.  She was buying tomatoes or something from a street vendor.  Having seen only her authoritarian form hitherto, it was weirdly unsettling to see her in the midst of a worldly task like vegetable shopping.  Needless to say, I panicked, turned, and bolted!  I could hear her call after me, "अरे, तू खेळायला का येत नाहीयेस…? (Hey, why are absconding from class…?)".  I did not dare to turn around!

Cricket, I have to admit, was a slightly different story.  Just like any other Indian kid, I was deeply deeply passionate about the sport.  It was pretty much the only sport I actually wanted to play.  Unfortunately I sucked at it.  Our apartment building, just like every other apartment building in India, had a bunch of prodigious cricketing talents; we had a 12 year old Kapil Dev, a 9 year old Steve Waugh, a 10 year old Sachin Tendulkar, and a 13 year old Vinod Kambli.  I, however, was Bhaichung Bhutia.  Because, I would panic when the 12 y.o. Kapil Dev bowled the tennis ball at me, and would end up kicking the ball instead of striking it with the bat!  My cricketing story is so pitiable that while my passion for the sport made me one of the organizers of my high school Std VIII cricket league, I was the worst player of the lot.  I was ignominiously known as a "wide-ball slow medium" bowler in high school cricketing circles.  My run up resembled that of a fast bowler, sort of like Allan Donald's run up, but when I released the ball, all the fielders would brace themselves to catch the ball even before it reached the batsman, because no one, including me, knew which way the ball would travel.  Every time I walked back to the top of my run-up with my head down in disgrace, I would wish I had somehow missed the match like RK Narayan's Swami!

Now that this apple has fallen fairly far away from the tree, one wonders about the fate of the next generation apples.  Thankfully, Pavana played competitive sport when she was younger.  The word on the street is that she was a track and field champion in her day.  I made the mistake of playing table tennis with her while on our honeymoon.  She crushed me.  Absolutely crushed me.  The hope is that Pavana's sporting aptitude somehow rubs off on Medha and Mira!

Bhima and the Clean Kitchen

A radiant youth of immense strength and beauty, possessing the magnificent aura of his father Vayu Deva dwelling in the foothills of Mount Meru and boundless might second only to his older brother Lord Hanuman, approaches King Virata of the Matsya kingdom and stands before him with a cooking ladle in one hand and a chef knife in another, illuminating the ambience by his splendor like the sun illuminating the world.  He is none other than the powerful Pandava prince Bhimasena, disguised as the cook Ballava as decreed by his brother Yudishthira against the backdrop of Agyatavasa, their 13th year of exile to be spent incognito.  King Virata astonished by Bhima's magnificence says, "O mighty gentleman, who art thou?  What doth thee seeketh, pray tell me!"

With the poise befitting a Kshatriya price but with the humility befitting his disguise, Bhima replies: "O righteous king!  I am a cook by name Ballava.  I am artful in preparing delicious dishes and seeketh employment in thy royal kitchen."

The surprised King states: "O Ballava, it does not seem like cooking is thy office.  Thou shineth in my presence like a thousand suns as if it be true thou were a mighty warrior prince!"

Upon hearing this, Bhima responds thusly: "Do not doubteth me, O King of Kings, as the great King Yudishthira himself has relished my food.  Whilst it be true there is no one equal to me in strength, pray be assured that I am thy cook and servant first."

"Very well!", says King Virata, "I appointeth thee as the superintendent of the royal kitchen.  Just be sure to weareth FDA approved latex free vinyl gloves whilst cooking!"

Praveen Kumar Sobti as Ballava the cook in BR Chopra's Mahabharat

Had the Mahabharata happened in the Kali Yuga instead of the Dwapara Yuga, this scene from the Virata Parva might have very well unfolded in this manner.  If you have perused some of the comments under cooking videos on Facebook these days, you wouldn't disagree with me, for there seems to be an unreasonable profusion of the hygiene police trolling the comment space of pretty much every cooking video and declaring that they wouldn't touch the food prepared in the video with a ten foot pole because the chef in question hadn't worn gloves.  To think that there is an entire population of trolls that has made it its vocation to textually articulate its collective abhorrence of gloveless cooks!  I mean, what kind of a preposterous fixation is this?  

Coming back to the Virata Parva, it is said that the ill-tempered Sage Durvasa once paid a surprise visit to the Matsya kingdom when Bhima alias Ballava was employed as a cook there.  Being unable to prepare a grand meal to appease the great Sage on such short notice, Bhima decided to improvise with whatever he had.  He threw together little bits of vegetables and prepared a new dish that became an instant hit.  This new dish was christened Avial.  Now imagine if the dangerous Sage Durvasa, the one who had cursed Goddess Saraswati Herself to become a river and Lord Indra Himself to lose all his powers, had somehow discovered that Bhima had not worn gloves that day while preparing the Avial, we wouldn't be celebrating this dish and serving it at weddings today!

What’s That Smell?

“What’s that smell?”

“Eh?”

“There is some smell!”

“Oh?”

“It’s like socks or something…

“Socks smell!  That reminds me of the computer lab in my college where…”

“Maybe it’s the carpet.  They are quite old!”

“… our shoes had to be… wait… eh… what…?”

“I want to get them changed, what do you think?”

“Eh?  Oh!  I… er…”

“Maybe we should just replace them all with hardwood…”

“Oh?”

This totally two-sided conversation repeats itself in our home approximately once every week.  Usually with no resolution. By the end of the conversation, one of us is generally lost in memories of smelly computer labs from one’s college days and the other is irrationally having a panic attack while forecasting the ruthless seizure of our house by giant mold patches.

Smell is a rummy business.  A human adult nose supposedly has millions of copies of about 400 intact smell receptor subtypes that are spatially distributed in a way that specific areas respond to pleasant and unpleasant odors.  Furthermore, the neuroanatomical link between olfaction and certain parts of the brain is so incredibly strong that odors can easily invoke memories and trigger strong emotions.  What makes these two physiological phenomena fascinating is that an unpleasant odor can sometimes paradoxically trigger a pleasant memory and vice versa.  For instance, the combined unpleasant scent of stale raw onions and rancid vinegary achaar reminds me of dinners with my family at a particularly dimly lit restaurant and on F.C. Road Pune.  Such restaurant visits were rare treats, and happened probably not more than 10 times in my entire childhood.  I remember I would walk excitedly into the dark dining room of the restaurant with my parents as the cold air conditioning would hit our faces along with "that restaurant smell".  I vividly remember eating malai kofta or some similar brown substance and pineapple raita with butter naan.  I also remember always wanting what my mother ordered instead of my own order.  Similarly, a particularly nice smelling perfume can trigger memories of an unpleasant person who would wear it.

I wonder if memories are triggered more readily if you have a particularly powerful olfactory sense.  Medha and I share this unfortunate blessing.  I have a sense of smell keen enough to not only identify what is cooking in the kitchen but also tell the cook of the day whether they over-salted or under-salted the dish.  Medha too has proven time and again that she can accurately guess what's for dinner by simply sniffing the air.  While Medha and I have olfactory sensibilities that are biased toward food smells, Pavana has an olfactory knack for picking out imminent unhygienic circumstances in her vicinity way more proactively than Medha or I could even imagine.  She is often found wandering around in the house with a crinkled nose, usually with a semi-planned home improvement conspiracy cooking in her mind, chanting "What's that smell... what's that smell..."

Curry

If you a member of the brown diaspora and carry a bloodline from forebears that have once roamed or are currently roaming the flavorsome regions east of the Mediterranean, or if you have had the privilege of roaming or growing up in the said regions, you have no doubt been bothered by the usage of the term "curry".  You have no doubt spent some cringeworthy moments of your life perusing the International Foods aisle at your local grocery store, reading the ingredients list on containers of pre-made "curry powder" or "curry paste" and found that they all contain a generic combination of coriander, cumin, turmeric, paprika, sugar, vinegar, along with the customary cocktail of eclectic spices like citric acid and E211 aka sodium benzoate.

While it has been made heard time and again that the concept of "curry" is a lie, we here at the coalition of disgruntled brown people understand why this concept has come to be.  We understand that food in India is so diverse that it changes every 100 km, and that the average non-subcontinent dweller is either too overwhelmed by this or is too lazy to learn the actual names of our dishes.  We understand that once upon a time in 1700s India, there was a prudish European proto-colonizer clansman who was somehow simultaneously enamored by the Tamil word kari (கறி) and the Indian practice of spicing food up, and decided to promptly appropriate the former and learn only certain convenient portions of the latter, giving rise to the novelty trend of "curried" everything back in his home country where even the queen, who incidentally had acquired in the form of a 'gift from India' (https://www.bbc.com/news/world-south-asia-12670110) two Indian servants, would have dishes like "Currey the Indian Way" (https://www.secondshistory.com/home/victorian-curry-history) (yes, with the 'e') whipped up for her not infrequently.  We get it.  We also understand why some folks are surprised when we tell them that the "curry dish" they prepared by sprinkling the aforementioned "curry powder" onto a saucy canned tomato based stew like substance, delicious as it may have tasted, was not true Indian fare.  We are even almost ready to forgive this whole exercise of appropriation, just as we are almost ready to forgive the glorification of the very institution of colonialism.  And don't worry, we find racial slurs involving the word "curry" only mildly offensive; after all, "curry" isn't even a real thing!  

"Curry" doesn't scandalize us.  Does it bother us some?  Sure.  But would we wage a war just to cancel "curry"?  Probably not.  What truly is an outrage to us is the fact that this need to dumb down the names of multicultural dishes seems to apply more to Indian food than to other cuisines.  For instance, a modak becomes a "sweet dumpling" and a momo becomes a "savory dumpling", while ravioli is still ravioli and empanadas are still empanadas even though they are basically dumplings too.  The waiter in an Italian restaurant just asks you if you would like to order bruschetta, but the waitress in an Indian restaurant feels the need to ask if you would like an order of naan-"bread".  Let us make it very clear that phulkas are phuklas, not "balloon bread"; that chapatis are chapatis, not "whole wheat tortillas"; and that puris are puris, not "fried puffy Indian bread".  While we are at it, let us also make it clear that paneer is not "Indian cottage cheese".  Sambar isn't such a hard word to pronounce, try saying it instead of "Indian lentil stew".  Also, try saying chana masala or chhole; trust us, it's way simpler than "curried chickpeas in gravy".  And while we usually aren't that offended when Guru Dutt is called the "Orson Welles of India" or Aamir Khan is called the "Tom Hanks of India", we do sincerely ask you to stop calling vada pav the "Indian burger".  This kind of dumbing down becomes especially problematic when someone appropriates an Indian recipe in its entirety, and uses its dumbed down name as a means for absolution.  It's paratha, Ms. Tosi, not "flaky bread"!

(https://www.instagram.com/tv/CAGcL_bpuwN/)

Come to think of it, maybe "curry" must be cancelled.  Someday, maybe.  Meanwhile, the next time someone tells you curry smells, tell them they are right.  Curry does smell…

 of colonialism.

1.3 kilograms of Sugar

I consumed exactly 1.3 kilograms of sugar in my first week in the US as a tenderfoot international student from India.  That is 184 grams or 46 teaspoons each day!  Over 5 times the recommended maximum daily intake!  Why?  Because I subsisted on exactly two large McDonald's vanilla milkshakes per day for the entire week.  Why?  Because I didn't know how to cook and I didn't know how to order food.  Here's how this dreadful week happened.  

It was 11am on a hot August morning.  I had landed in the US the evening before and had slept for almost 12 hours in another Indian student's apartment.  The dude had fed me a remarkably spicy mushroom curry before I had crashed, and had given me a sermon on how he was known to be kind to new students but his roommate was an unfavorable soul.  As such, he had said it was imperative that I find my own accommodation and start making my own food at the earliest.  Like I said, I knew nothing about cooking back then.  So, I walked into a McDonald's, lunch on my mind.  Having witnessed the McDonald's revolution in 90s India, the only picture I had of this eatery in my mind was that of a swanky restaurant de choix of the well cologned haute monde among the youth, clothed in their newest attires purchased at mall or obtained from an affluent aunt 'from foreign', commemorating a birthday or a newly forged committed relationship of a flirtatious duo in the gang by compelling the implicated to treat them to McAloo Tikki burgers and milkshakes.  I couldn't go wrong with McD's, I told myself naively, and walked in.  

Imagine my immediate disillusionment when I was engulfed by a totally anticlimactic sensory panorama!  First, a strong untellable odor hit me in the face.  As I treaded over grimy floor, I could feel my shoes stick, presumably to the remnants of spilled soda.  The trash can next to the door was overflowing.  An elderly chap in tattered clothes suddenly emerged, seemingly out of thin air, and walked past me.  As the chap departed from my frame of vision, I could see him grin at me through half a dozen decayed teeth.  I surveyed the sitting area.  I spotted exactly one customer, a fellow with more hair on his cheeks than his head, huddled over the sports page of the Akron Beacon Journal.  The bearded sports enthusiast half glanced at me and returned to his newspaper.  

Not what I had envisioned.

Upon recovering from the initial shock, I walked up to the counter and ordered, almost by reflex,

"One veggie burger, please!"

The response:

"One whaaa....t?"

"Veggie.... burger...?"

"What's a wedgie bugger?"

A chuckle travelled from the direction of the bearded sports enthusiast.  I realized my folly.  I had used the 'w' sound in place of the 'v' sound, like many Indians do.  I quickly rectified the erroneous diction,

"Sorry, I meant, VEJJEE burger!"

"Oh veggies!  So you want a salad?"

"No no, I want a burger!"

"Bugger?"

I heard the bearded sport enthusiast's newspaper rustle.  He might have chuckled again, but had covered it up with a cough.  Again, I realized my folly.  I had dropped the R sound like a true protégé of my motherland's past colonial master, who for some reason had had no impact on this NE Ohio McD's cashier.  At any rate, I mended my order,

"Sorry, I meant VEJJEE BURRGERR!"

I'm pretty sure I sounded like a Brazilian or Chilean imposter this time, because at this juncture the bearded sport enthusiast began peering over his paper and at me unabashedly.  However, the cashier thankfully deciphered my words accurately this time.

"Oh burger!  So you want burger and a salad?"

"No salad.  Only burger.  Veggie."

"Sorry, I don't understand.  You want a burger.  And what about the veggies?"

"I want a veggie burger!"

"So a salad and a burger?"

I probably looked like I was about to scream.  The bearded sports enthusiast had now put down his paper completely and was watching the whole scene unfold as if he were watching some movie.  I avoided his gaze.

"I want a veggie burger.  A burger that is veggie!"

The look on the cashier's face told me she had never heard word 'veggie' being used as an adjective.  With a confused look, she asked,

"So you want just lettuce and tomatoes inside a bun?"

"I want burger also.  Vegetarian!"

Both the cashier and I realized that the word 'vegetarian' had been uttered for the first time in the last 5 minutes.  We stared at each other wide-eyed for almost 10 seconds.  Even the bearded sports enthusiast looked intrigued.  I began mentally kicking myself for not having ordered a vegetarian burger when I opened my mouth the first time, but I had high hopes that the cashier now knew exactly what I wanted, and would swiftly forge ahead with the order.  However, that wasn't to be.  This is what she said instead,

"I don't know what that means.  Sorry."

I probably again looked like I was about to scream.

"Vegetarian means no meat.  Please don't put meat in my burger.  I want a burger with no meat."

"I'm sorry I don't understand.  You want the burger but no bun with lettuce and tomato?  Is that a separate order?"

I took a deep breath and decided to snap out of this chakravyuha.

"Can I please have a large vanilla milkshake?"

And that is how my sugary week began!

Orthoepy

I am somewhat of a connoisseur of the imprecision of orthoepy.  The romance intrinsic to imperfect pronunciation is what adds spice to the spoken word.  Perfect elocution mein wo baat kahaan!  In my opinion, listening to flawless pronunciation and articulation is as boring as watching paint dry.  A quirky mutation to a word every so often not only puts some spirit into the discourse, but also provides individuality to the speaker, enabling them to leave a lasting impression.  This is true especially if the said speaker a community leader or teacher or someone in a position with leverage to mold the minds of the intellectual proletariat.  For instance, I have had a number of teachers, lecturers, and professors throughout my formative years, and while our current education system doesn’t foster Guru-shishya relationships like in the older days, let alone facilitate the neurons in the student’s brain to fire synapses to form specific memories of individual teachers, lecturers, or professors, the ones I remember the best are the ones that bombarded my ears with unorthodox pronunciations.  These educators had such an impact that the only way I could study the subjects they taught was to loudly read their class notes out to myself in the same accent and the same pronunciations used by them.  There was no other way.  In the days leading up to a semester exam, you could be sure to find me sitting huddled over at my table reciting stuff like,

"The firsht ilayment in the payriodic table of ilayments is hydrozan...", 

"Newton's equation of vhiscosity is based on shearing strayss ijhequal to phorce divhided by area...", 

"The 8085 is a microprocessor cheep manufactured by Intale company in 19sheywunty6 (1976) with a 8 beet daataa bus...", etc.  

Regional influences on pronunciation are often so pronounced, pun intended, that any resultant orthoepic transgressions get assimilated into the local vernacular with minimal resistance and with such overwhelming pervasiveness that the mispronunciation becomes the norm.  For instance, I still say phurnaas for furnace and shroobery for shrubbery, thanks to my college professor who taught Elements of Mechanical Engineering and my school English teacher respectively, both of whom were incidentally among the best teachers I have had!

Orthoepy is subjective.  I find it very pretentious when someone corrects someone's diction or someone feigns being unable to comprehend what someone said just because they pronounced a word differently.  I find it ironic that someone would berate someone because they say comfortayble when they themselves say cumfterble!  Whether you call it an aalmund, an aahmund, or an awwmund, an almond is an almond.  Whether you call it an egg, an ayg, or a yegg, the predicament faced by a vegetarian when it is served to them doesn't diminish.  Whether you call it a coopun, a cuepawn, or a khoopahn, you can still save some $$ if it hasn't expired.  And finally, whether you call it Mahaabhaarat or Magaabaaradham (thanks to the Kogul phenomenon, read about it here), the Pandavas still won the war against the Kauravas!