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?