A Desi in Pardes

A little over 2 years back I moved lock, stock and barrel to a new country, a world and a half away from my motherland. At the time, the fairy dust sprinkled idea of new beginnings made the transition feel like a barrel of fun. I felt like Alice in Wonderland as I wittingly jumped into the rabbit hole with all intentions of embracing every new experience that awaited me behind each locked door. And embrace I did! From the newness of married life to the unfamiliarity of the environs to the deliciousness of possessing a profusion of time – I accepted it all with arms wide open. As I took baby steps at finding my bearings, each day slipped by as smooth as butter silk, leaving me slightly wiser about the laws of the land. Yet, at the end of each day, just before going to bed, I felt a tug at my heartstrings. A tug so faint that at first it was quite easy for me to ignore it or conveniently place the blame for it on what I had eaten for dinner that day. I did not want to give it any credence especially for the fear of being labelled ‘soft and sentimental’ as opposed to ‘rough and tough’. 

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While ‘Time’ lived up to its reputation of being a fast runner and days amalgamated into each other in a blur of sorts, the aforementioned tug took on a life of its own and grew into a more pronounced ache. Stubborn as I am, I still refused to acknowledge this strange feeling and callously dismissed it as one of the many quirks that an average human body exhibits. Then one day, after the usual Sunday morning Skype call with my folks, Arjun expressed a desire for a plateful of über greasy, yet super tasty Chole Bhature (a type of deep fried Indian street-food). Thankfully, California provides an array of options to pick from, to satisfy a mid-morning hankering of this kind. Within minutes we settled upon a typical roadside, ‘Sardaarji’-owned dhaaba called ‘Lovely Sweets’ that had been highly recommended by Arjun’s advisor. Getting dressed, I thought to myself, ‘Back in India I would rarely eat Chole Bhature. In fact I remember screwing up my nose at the thought of devouring such oily fare. Then why am I so excited about it today?’ There was only one way to find out.

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Inside the run-down little dhaaba, I breathed deeply the smell of desi food and took in the sights of a miniature India right in the heart of a foreign land. It was like an exotic brown island in the middle of a sea of white frothy waves. The Hindi that I could hear other patrons speak was music to my ears, even in its slightly convoluted, accented form. Like magic, the ache within subsided almost as if I had taken a pain killer. That’s when an epiphany struck me hard. What had surfaced in the form of physical discomfiture was actually a craving for a sense of belonging. I longed for those aspects of life back home that had seemed usual and mundane. To call a shopkeeper ‘Bhaiyya’ and haggle away to glory or yell my lungs out at a bothersome ‘Autowallah’ or hear a cacophony of car horns on the road or devour a variety of flavourful mangoes by the dozen or speak in a strange medley of Hindi and English and still be understood by all and sundry - these were the sort of things I had grown up doing and was thus feeling odd without. As absurd as it may sound, the chaotic vibrancy of my country had trumped over the mechanical predictability of the ‘land of plenty’, at least for a short while.

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I do not know how many days, months or even years it would take for this yearning to fade away. In the jigsaw puzzle that this new country is, will I ever fit in perfectly like a piece that is an integral part? It might be difficult owing to a conglomeration of several small reasons like the fact that I need a rather difficult-to-procure work-permit to be employable here or that sometimes I do not understand the tone of speech and mannerisms of people or that I speak with a different cadence which they find difficult to comprehend at times or that my British influenced English pronunciations amuse them.....I can go on with a laundry list of dissimilarities. Despite all this, I must say that I have been fortunate enough to make friends here who look beyond these petty differences and even though we have disparate backgrounds, they remind me very much of my friends back home especially when we get together and giggle away about silly little things. On the other hand, no matter how many years I spend here, India will always be the country where my roots are safely entrenched. It will forever be the country where my heart resides. That my tongue still salivates for a ghee soaked motichoor laddoo or that I always know which new Hindi movies I want to watch and when are they releasing goes to prove that you can take Preeti out of her des but you cannot take the desi-ness out of Preeti!

Des - country 

Pardes - foreign land 

Chole Bhature - a type of deep fried Indian bread with chick-peas in gravy

dhaaba - roadside restaurants found on highways in India and Pakistan

ghee - clarified butter

motichoor laddoo - Indian dessert 
desi -  is a Hindi term for the people, cultures, and products of the Indian subcontinent

Ma – The sun around which my world revolves

My earliest memories of my mother are of zipping through the streets of Secunderabad, perched precariously behind her on a shiny black moped (a cross breed between a scooter and a bicycle, popular in India) as she whisked me back from preschool each day. Those were the days when Papa was away on an assignment to Sri Lanka with IPKF and Pranay wasn’t conceived even in our wildest imaginations. To me, even at that age, Ma was a bag full of mixed experiences. Like most mothers she too transmuted from one form to another in the blink of an eyelid – from a whack wielding discipliner to a magic spinning storyteller to a tasty treats whipping culinarian to a mollycoddling soother to a stern instruction giver. And since it was just the two of us together and there was no one else to share it with, I got a taste of each version in abundance.

She was always warm and indulgent while reading aloud a chapter from my favourite books like ‘Heidi’ and ‘Lady and the Tramp’. Her eyes danced in excitement as the colourful stories unfurled. Sitting cross legged on the dining table, hanging on every word that came out of her mouth, my imagination took flights of fantasy. I would find myself hopping and skipping with Heidi and Peter amidst snow capped peaks in the Alps or trudging miserably alongside David Copperfield on his way to Dover from London or slurping a strand of spaghetti from the same bowl as Lady and Tramp. Then, as the evening wore off and the dreaded ‘study-hour’ approached, Ma became all tough and no-nonsense. With my long hair oiled and neatly braided in two thick rope-like plaits, I worked through my daily arithmetic exercises, science projects, poetry recitation and other homework under Ma’s percipient gaze.  

Note to Ma – Books will forever be my most trustworthy companions thanks to you. 

Summer vacations with Ma were always a treat. I remember one time when she caught me covetously ogling at a pretty dolls’ house featured in a popular children’s magazine. The lavish structure had a red tiled sloping roof and beautiful interiors with real wood armoires crammed full of tiny clothes, carved bed heads, mini stainless steel pots and pans, glass crockery etc. Obviously the price to be paid to own it was commensurate with all its fanciness. So, instead of giving in to my childish pipe dream, Ma sold me the idea of actually attempting to build a dolls’ house of my own. After rummaging through various knick-knacks in the store room, she unearthed a large cardboard carton which served as the frame for my house. Piece by piece we imagined and created a resplendent multi-storey structure with a small brick coloured chimney sticking out at the top, vibrantly upholstered furniture made of various odds and ends and walls covered in wallpaper made out of eclectic scraps of leftover fabric. Having enjoyed each hour of hard work that went into building it, it was no surprise that the dolls’ house became my most prized possession and occupied the best spot in my room. 

Note to Ma – Thank you for teaching me the pointlessness of extravagance and the joy of imagining and creating something out of nothing. 

The layered trifle puddings, spongy chocolate cakes, creamy rabri and other heavenly preparations that materialized from Ma’s kitchen were also quite the rage in our household. Despite being employed full time almost throughout, it was a miracle how Ma never fell short of time for conjuring such marvels. Especially on cold winter evenings when all of us curled in our favourite spots reading silently, these delicacies vanished with surprising speed. Of course, when Pranay wiggled his way into the family, the speed quadrupled. Ma’s biggest bone of contention was and probably still is the fact that whenever she peers into the refrigerator, she invariably finds at least one empty pudding bowl licked clean or a cake box relieved of its contents or a crumpled foil sans the chocolate fudge that it previously held. The futility of empty containers in the refrigerator exasperates her beyond measure. 

Note to Ma - But Ma, that’s just our way of showing how much your lip-smacking goodies are appreciated!

I must admit that as a teenager I wasn’t particularly Ms. Goody-two-shoes. Then too Ma had a multitude of plots and ploys that she used every now and then to wheedle me into doing the right things. In the process she became the recipient of many a nasty retorts from a belligerent me. If those retorts hurt her, she never made it evident. On the contrary, she’d casually brush them off and stalk away giving me the impression that she did not care much for my temper tantrums. It was her way or the highway. For instance, if I ever threw a fit over what she’d made for lunch, I’d be calmly told to leave the table at the cost of going without lunch. In a show of defiance, I would go huffing and puffing to my room and sulk there. A few hours later, with the proverbial rats doing a little jig in my stomach, I would slink into the kitchen hoping to ransack the larder which usually held treasure troves of cookies, chips and other quick bites. Alas, Ma was a seasoned player at this game. I was more often than not greeted by a big fat lock on the pantry. My plateful of food from lunch was found laid out neatly on the table with Ma quietly sitting and reading beside it. With no other choice, I would eat my own words and devour the food that I had originally turned up my nose on. 

Note to Ma – Thank you for showing me all the tricks of the trade. I will now use them gleefully on my kids-to-be.

From an assortment of tools in her tool box, she has always managed to cleverly extricate just the right one to counteract each one of my multifarious dispositions. If I ache she soothes, if I am unnecessarily stubborn she cajoles, if I make a mistake she reads me the riot act, if I show traces of false haughtiness she shows me a mirror and if I need her even in the middle of the night for an impromptu cooking lesson she is there without a hint of annoyance. If nothing else, just speaking to her makes most problems look like small potatoes. In fact, I will let you in on a little secret - arguing and fighting with her is also quite cathartic and has had therapeutic effects in the past. After all these years, I have finally accepted that she has an ingrained savoir faire to deal with me. 

Ma, Amma, Ammi, Ammoo, Mum – multiple names for a multifaceted person whom I love to bits and wouldn’t know what to do without. On her 56^th birthday, I hope she knows that she is the sun around which at least three people in this world revolve.

An Austin style Saturday

Morning

In a dusty little corner of down-town Austin (Texas, US) stands a bit of heaven for brunch-eaters and egg-lovers. We discovered it quite by accident last weekend. It all started with my thirty year old bones refusing to cooperate as I tried to coax them into crank-starting my day in the kitchen. The clock on the wall too chimed in favour of these errant bones informing us that we were well past breakfast hour and way too early for a full blown lunch. What the hour was perfect for however, was that enticing, often elusive meal which can be indulged in only when one has oodles of spare leisure time – Brunch!

After a dozen frenetic Internet searches with two empty stomachs emanating unimaginable groans

and grunts in the background (making for an interesting soundtrack), we settled on a charming little family run bistro called ‘The Omelettry’. An hour later we were standing in front of its unassuming edifice which was buzzing with Saturday afternoon activity. If the name had left any shred of doubt in our mind regarding what the joint specialized in, it was completely expunged by the décor. A rooster perched precariously on the roof and egg themed graffiti covered every available inch of its façade.

By the time a friendly waitress directed us to our booth, my tongue was salivating copiously. Much to my delight, I was appeased instantly as we dug into crescent shaped stuffed omelettes oozing rivulets of golden cheese, spongy buttermilk pancakes doused in maple syrup, sugary slices of cantaloupe and glasses of chilled chocolate milk. A motley mix of people – dishevelled university students, leather clad bikers, merry old couples, the odd lone artist, saucer eyed foreigners like us – strangers of all colours, shapes, sizes and forms in general shared a few hours of relaxed bonhomie.

 
Noon

Polishing off a mammoth meal within minutes has some well known side effects, one of them being an onslaught of giant waves of drowsiness. With drooping eyelids and unresponsive brains it was almost a mini miracle that we made it back home in one piece. Before one could say ‘boo’ we were out like light bulbs, collapsed in heaps on the bed, floating away peacefully in our own individual dream worlds.

An hour or two later, when we finally resurrected from our comatose-like slumber, it was but natural for the desi within to crave a cup of sweet, milky masala chai. Gilt tinted sunshine filtered through the windows casting a spell on us as we sat in silent harmony, sipping tea. In that moment everything seemed bright and shiny. Not a care in the world ruffled our feathers and not a frown creased our brows.

Night

With a hey, and a ho

and a hey-nonny-no,

These pretty country folks would lie

In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, Hey ding a ding, ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour,

It was a perfect summer night. A moist evening breeze laden with the above notes along with the scent of wild flowers and freshly mowed grass made Zilker Hillside outdoor theatre the perfect venue for our last adventure for the day. Under a leafy canopy, on a rather large green patch, we stretched out amidst several theatre enthusiasts to experience Shakespearean comedy at its best. The characters of Rosalind and Orlando, Touchstone and Audrey, Oliver and Celia magically came alive as thespians from the Austin Shakespeare Company enacted the famous play ‘As You Like It’ in front of a rapt audience.

As is the case with most theatrical comedies, humour was meshed with a few strands of thought provoking dialogue. Lines like “I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad” and “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool” and “But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!” provided food for thought. After much drama and comedy of errors, the petite, pixie-like Rosalind finally tied the knot with her tall, lovelorn beau Orlando. With a great flourish the curtain came down bringing a great Saturday to an end as well.

Detroit's Eastern Market - A western 'sabzi mandi'

In the midst of ramshackle buildings in Detroit, a vibrant marketplace mushrooms every Saturday like a bold stroke of happiness and hope against the dreary canvas of poverty and neglect. Here, under a spotlessly blue sky, with the sun shining merrily upon the city, a large warehouse stretches across six blocks. Within its premises hundreds of local farmers set up their stalls brimming with farm fresh produce like succulent peaches, pears, apples, cherries, mangoes and other fruit, crisp leaves of lettuce, kale and spinach, jars of tongue-tantalising jams and jellies, slabs of organic chocolate and tubs of rich golden home-made butter. Their wares do not need any fancy marketing tactics to attract customers. A mere look is enough to mesmerise the umpteen patrons milling around.

As one strolls through the market absorbing the myriad bucolic sights, sounds, hues and flavours, it feels like time has regressed. Warm, mom-and-pop style shops replace shiny, air-conditioned modern-day grocery stores, unadulterated, healthy produce trumps over artificially polished fruits and veggies and friendly shopkeepers eagerly trade places with the oft mechanical cashiers we deal with regularly. It looks like there is nothing that cannot be found here. From fruits and vegetables to eggs and meat to flowering plants and herbs to earthen pots to jewellery, incense, creams and soaps – everything is available under one roof much like our neighbourhood grocery store but fresher and cheaper. Lugging my haul in a heavy jute bag brings back memories of vegetable shopping trips with Ma at sabzi mandis in India. Sans the frequent interruptions of the bovine kind (especially the ones where a cow ambles up to you and tries to sneak out that errant stalk of cilantro hanging out of your bag) that are very common back home, this market is much like the sabzi mandi that Ma frequents.

The general ambience is that of a fun fair. Food carts pepper the compound aplenty and provide much needed nourishment in the form of fun food like sugar sprinkled funnel cakes, delicious stuffed croissants, refreshing apple cider and lemonade. Against walls covered in colourful graffiti, street singers serenade the crowd as they go about their business. Thanks to stores like Germack, there is a perpetual whiff of a medley of spices, tea and coffee in the air. Tucked in a corner there is an antique store too which is like a maze of connected rooms which are packed with treasures from bygone eras. It contributes abundantly to the 'auld lang syne' effect with black box-like rotary phones, chairs with flower patterned upholstery, gramophones and old records decorating its showcase. I can see myself spending an entire day exploring every corner of this store, cooking elaborate tales of people who once owned the stuff on display.

All in all, a morning at the Eastern Market is a morning well spent as it is not only about finding good food at bargain prices but also about giving new dwellers like me a chance to explore the sunny side of Detroit.

* Inspiration for the pictures in this article came from my dear friend Nanci Johnson