Muddy waters

Somehow, a vegetarian writing about food is looked upon as a celibate talking about sex. Okay, I don’t think food when I see a lamb or a crab, and I do have a vegetarian kitchen for the most part (except one shelf in my freezer for he-who-must-be-satiated-with-cold-cuts). But this is not an attempt to celebrate vegetarianism or to condemn meat—just that I can only write about what I know.

And I do know my veggies—just the sight of them makes me happy. Bright orange carrots, shiny happy purple brinjals, tender green succulent beans and lady fingers, flaming red tomatoes, convoluted red, green and yellow peppers and luscious pumpkins with their guts spilled out, can do a lot to alleviate my mood.

I can’t help noticing the hierarchy in the vegetarian world. Like in the world of showbiz, there are stars and there is the supporting cast. Some vegetables —like brinjals, drumsticks, cauliflower, capsicum, lady fingers, baby onions will always be stars, since they have the personality and intensity to carry off a movie on their own.

The others get relegated to supporting cast—carrots, radish, tomatoes, cabbage, gherkins, sweet potato, colocassia (arbi) raw banana, yam, spring onions, bottle gourd (doodhi), fenugreek(methi), spinach (palak), white pumpkin, snake gourd (padval), peas, and the lesser varieties of beans that populate the periphery of most vegetable carts.

These, though with quirks of their own, lack individuality and sometimes, aesthetic and therefore need to cling to something else. Like palak with aaloo or paneer, methi with aloo, white pumpkin with beans, snake gourd with yam or raw banana, carrots with cabbage or beetroot, tomatoes with anything.

The potato is an exception, because it can either be the star or the supporting cast depending on the situation.

But sometimes, supporting actors can walk away with the accolades. Like arbi. My childhood memories of these muddy, messy tubers include amongst other things, feeling grossed out by the mucilage that coated your palms as each one slipped out of its skin when peeled post boiling.

“Have to do the work before you enjoy the fruit,” was what my dad would say. It was he who actually made me fall in love with this tuber, with his numerous creations, most of which involved tamarind. He often threw it into a sambar, and we greedy ones would eagerly fish them out one by one. He also made a fine dry arbi with a tamarind reduction (only we didn’t know it was called reduction those days).

When I had my own kitchen, arbi would make an appearance ever so often, at least once every two weeks. Here are three of my favourite arbi recipes—one inherited from my father, and two from my mother-in-law.


Arbis in tamarind gravy

Juice from a lemon sized ball of tamarind, soaked in water

Arbis: ¼ kilo

Sambar masala: 2 tsps

Salt to taste



Method:

Boil and peel the arbis. Cut the bigger ones into twos or threes and transfer to a large bowl.

To these arbis, add salt, turmeric powder, two teaspoons sambar powder, and the first and second pressed juice of the tamarind. Mix well and set aside.

Heat oil in a kadhai and add a teaspoon of mustard seeds. When they splutter, add hing and curry leaves followed by the arbi mixture.

Cook on a slow flame for 10-15 minutes, tossing occasionally till the tamarind juice is completely reduced and the arbis are dry.

Serve hot with chapattis or rice.



Arbi cutlets

¼ kilo arbis

Chat masala



Method:

Boil the arbis for at least three whistles in a pressure cooker. Cool and peel.

Flatten each peeled arbi on your palm, shaping the edges as you do so.

Heat oil in a shallow pan and shallow fry the arbis, turning them over as they turn golden brown.

Sprinkle chat masala on the arbi cutlets and serve hot.



Ajwain-wale-arbi

Arbis: ¼ kilo

Ajwain: 1tsp

Salt, chilli powder, amchur to taste



Method:

Parboil the arbis and peel them. Cut into round slices and set aside.

Heat one tbsp oil in a pan and add the ajwain. When it splutters, add chilli powder and the arbi slices and stir.

Add amchur powder and salt to taste and cook on slow flame till the arbis are somewhat crisp.

Eureka, Eureka!

The husband complains that I often use my column to spank him and he usually waits for Tuesday with bated breath to find out what he has done this time. He is also convinced that through the column, I am trying to build a support group for myself by making me out to be the poor thing and him the incorrigible.

My argument is— what’s the point being married when you can’t even generate enough material for a gender column? Plus he can always write a counter column to mine, I tell him—nothing is stopping him.

I also assure him that he has enough supporters too, like men and women who write to me saying, “How sweet of him to actually think of a Play Station game that you both can play,” and “How cool that he wants to watch football with you and not with a bunch of rowdies in the bar,” and ‘I wish more men celebrate their women like your beau does..” etc etc. So no worries on that count—enough brownie points have been accrued.

He says no more and grins his famous grin. But a few weeks ago he appears on national television to discuss what men want and propounds that every woman treats her man as a life-long science experiment. I am intrigued.

Now, I am a science junkie. I loved proving the Archimedes’ principle, synthesizing Aspirin and Para-amino-benzoic acid in the lab, understanding the hues and complexities of Azo compounds or even studying the effects of Castor lipase on Curcumin. I love the fact that there is an objective, a supposition, a procedure and a deduction for every experiment—that’s how science works (at least that’s how it did when I was in it)

But can there be something more fatalistic and unrewarding than the experiment of fixing a man? Why would we want to do that? I would rather study why cats don’t fetch and dogs do.

Let’s just assume for a minute that my experiment is to find ways to make the husband game less, eat on time and sleep more.

If this were an actual science experiment, I will go about it by proving that the intensity of gaming is inversely proportional to REM sleep which is scientifically proven as good sleep. Or I will demonstrate how the body’s metabolic activity reduces by 10% for every hour after 9 pm— hence, later the food consumption, more the load on the digestive tract, less the coefficient of metabolism, more the cumulative disorders of various kinds.

But this is not a science experiment. It is a husband. So I have to find non-scientific ways of making a point— like suggesting to him other ways of recreation or unwinding. Unfortunately, cooking, reading, yoga, swimming or gymming seem to be more of a production and require a time, space, posture, discipline and above all, props much more intense than his favourite antidote which only requires a gaming throne, an ash tray, a can of beer and a controller. It’s minimum pain, maximum gain, and there’s no way science can counter that argument.

Science loses. I sleep on. Life goes on.

Driving Ms Difficult

There are only two places in the world that I can be totally with myself, almost meditative —without having to make small talk, answer phones or doorbells, smile, and stay as long as I want— my bathroom and my car.

To allow a stranger to inhabit one of these for an extended period of time is a big decision. The first, thankfully is out of question, the second becomes inevitable sometimes. Even so, in eight years of owning a car, I have never felt the need to have a driver.

First of all, I love to drive. Now don’t give me that “you can’t be kidding, this is Bombay” look. I love the sense of isolation and purpose it gives me, I love how I can be anything I want to be when I am behind the wheel, and I love the fact that it is the only real alone time one can have these days, considering that I am a quick bath person.

More importantly, I haven’t met a driver who knows Bombay roads better than me, which actually makes me eminently hirable (if you are willing to pay a bomb).

But more than that—having a driver defies my concept of space, and besides, I have various issues with the aforementioned person, some of which are aesthetic.

First of all, I like my men bathed and scrubbed every day, smelling clean, wearing clean clothes and socks. I don’t care about facial hair or their sense of style or ability to speak, read or write English. But I definitely do not want someone who is a mobile junkie or who chews strange substances and spits every five minutes.

Second, I like them quiet, which is harder to find.

Third, they shouldn’t be overly smiley. The thing is, when someone smiles at you, one feels obliged to smile back and fake smiles always hurt my jaw, and I have been doing enough of that lately, so I fear one day it might get dislocated.

So even though the parking outside my office involves a bit of circling, and the potholes are still potholes and the traffic is still traffic, and the car does get towed away occasionally, and strange dents do appear from nowhere, I am still not willing to surrender my wheel to a stranger.

I think if I ever get around to hiring a driver, I’d only ask him two questions (since he purports to be a driver, driving should be a given I guess)

1. How often does he bathe?

2. Would he describe himself as a talkative person?

The husband on the other hand thinks we should self-drive to work, and then engage a driver for after-hours recreation.

“Huh? Where will you find such a person?”

“I am sure there are many young men out there who would want to work from 8 pm to 1 am. How do you think call centers find people?”

I offered myself for the aforementioned job, but he said he couldn’t afford me.

Show me the mamma

Men don’t know what to do with their mothers. Actually, they haven’t had the foggiest for a long time, but they seldom get caught, as there have always been others to diffuse the situation. The mother has been a thing to deal with, get goodies out of, and escape really fast.

Most of them don’t know there’s a way out till they meet a woman is willing to take over— sister, wife, girlfriend, or just goodwill ambassador.

So when the mother-in-law was visiting, I was quite sure who’d end up doing the work even though the husband hadn’t yet announced that he was working through the weekend.

In the five odd days she spent with us, the total time the husband (the peach of her eye, incidentally) spent with her on a one-on-one was 46 minutes. He did try to teach her the fine art of registering for a petrol loyalty program online, but was seen tearing his hair out in less than ten minutes.

I realised that the difference between mothers and mothers-in-law is the difference between a cat and a dog—while one is discreet and invisible, the other is conspicuous and visible. Every action is announced, every thought is spoken, every silence filled. It takes work. Work that the husbands don’t want to do.

Brothers are no better. While my brother lived here, he was never around, so it worked out nicely—he went to work in the am and returned in the am. Since he moved to America, his visits have been spaced out such that he had had a lot to pack in each time, so mom-time was not such a priority. In any case, in two out of five times he has visited, my mother has been in the hospital, rendered speechless by a stitched-up rib cage, millions of tubes and needles. Conversation was limited.

Also, while visiting home, the brother has an agenda to keep himself from talking. He fixes things. So if it’s not the computer’s CD ROM drive or sound card, it’s the cordless telephone or the camera or my dad’s binoculars or the DVD player or the vacuum cleaner. Perfect! Hours of not having to make conversation or have an opinion!

As for overseas phone calls with him, mom is not very good with those—she imagines a time-bomb ticking away, and the need to pack in a lot. Usually, it ended up being a babble-fest with neither party figuring out what the other was saying. Flabbergasted, he gave up. Now, when he felt the need to call her, he called me. Till I reminded him that was not cool— I couldn’t be standing in for her forever, so he would have to deal with it.

I then suggested to mom that she ask open-ended questions, like I would tell a junior colleague about an interview—“Make him talk,” I said. “Don’t ask questions that he can answer with a yes or a no. And listen.”

A few weeks later, the brother called me to complain, “What have you done to her?”

Someone’s got to do the dirty work. Pity it’s always me in my family. Make that families.

The other side

Two things happen when you get married. Singletons start believing you are not one of them. Smug marrieds start believing you are one of them, and are quick to adopt you in their fray. It’s hard to say which one is worse. It’s as though your chemical composition has been altered, and your valency readjusted. Suddenly you are viewed like an unstable hydrogen atom that has changed into a stable molecule of water. They call it settling down.

I guess more than transitioning into ‘being married’, one has to transition into ‘not being single any more’. If you have spent most of your life being single, and understanding related sensibilities, you tend to miss being included in the singles group. It almost feels like an act of betrayal, except you had nothing to do with it.

The other day, a singleton said to me, “Oh, you married ones…!” It felt weird, like being outcast. Not that the singles give you the benefit of doubt or a three-month notice period or any sort of warning before the exclusion. They just un-single you, and it can be a bit sudden.

So friends stop calling you on weekends for those buddy chats because they think they will be intruding on your time with the significant other. No one makes any spontaneous plans with you or calls you ‘just like that’ because they are afraid you will reject them. Almost no one calls you after 9 pm, since it’s considered sacred coupledom time. Even your cats give you attitude, because now you come with excess baggage. Your mother and your favourite aunt are more interested in ‘him’ than you.

Since you are largely abandoned by your single friends, you end up constantly doing things with your significant other or other smug-marrieds. To top it all, you get accused by readers of being in a ‘I, me, my husband’ bubble. It’s a no-win.

And to think that I was a happy singleton, undeterred by the biological clock and no qualms about going home to my cats or my baby potatoes. I never had a dreary house, a sad room, weird parents or a pesky landlord that kept me away from home, wanting to stub cigarettes, down shots and pass out.

I have been married four months, and no thank you, I am tired of answering the “How does it feel?” thing. Just that I still feel as participative in singleton discussions, their politics, preoccupations and peeves. I still relate better to my single friends than my married friends—the latter somehow are too bound by the script, too busy indulging in roleplay or discussing wedding videos, investments, their next holiday, ‘rent Vs buy’, ‘to baby or not to baby’, EMIs or car upgrades.

May be the next time someone asks how it feels, I’d say, “Weird. I miss going home to me.”

As dear as it gets

Once upon a time, when my dad was still working, I heard him use a term very often while explaining the union unrest in his company. It was about the ‘Dearness Allowance’ being increased or decreased and sometimes frozen (!). I don’t exactly know what it meant, but it sounded good, and I filed it away somewhere..

Recently, the term found a definition for me when I read this in a pocket sized Don’ts for Husbands, 1913, bought on a whim at Crossword the last time the husband and I went out for retail therapy (Don’ts for Wives was out of print, which was the only reason it wasn’t bought)

Pg 14, para three of the book states:

Don’t think that if you married merely to get an unpaid housekeeper, that position is going to satisfy your wife. She could have obtained a good salary as professional housekeeper to any other man if she had wanted to: she married for other reasons.

Not bad for 1913, I thought.

I know many single men who would pay to keep their house in order. On the other hand, there are women who could do with house managers. Fortunately the universe plots so that opposites attract, else most marriages would either be totally competitive or a total mess.

Even so, I think men have a pretty good deal with marriage (even if they are paying EMIs). Women, on the other hand now do two jobs and get paid for one.

Which is when it struck me that all efficient wives should demand a dearness allowance from their husbands. If you do money, job, social graces, aesthetics, food, and children (whenever they appear) with equal finesse, why not make a career out of it?

So I told the husband I wanted to be paid for the following:

For giving him a wardrobe makeover and being his in-house style consultant.

For handling reply-all family correspondence.

For not maxing out his credit card, and for always refusing expensive presents and opting for practical ones.

For turning a gaming parlour into a home.

For replacing Pronto’s in his life with a wholesome three-course lunch.

For introducing him to the fine joys of vegetables.

For being his driver for most social outings.

For replenishing all that rapidly extinguishes in the refrigerator, the grocery cupboard, the toiletry cupboard, miscellanous.

For fixing nonworking plug points, taps, sinks, DVD players, lamps et al.

For replacing sulky maid with smiley maid.

For replacing smiley maid with another smiley maid when we moved house.

For mysterious piles of ironed shirts and trousers appearing in the wardrobe.

For finding his favourite white shirt and his socks.

For subtracting purple stain from aforementioned white shirt.

For relieving him of a quack doctor who fed him animal doses.

For watching movies full of people killing people, blowing up cars, and jumping off choppers with him.

For being a sounding board for what he is currently doing on his PS3 game—how many cars and establishments he has blown up, people he has chain-sawed, guns he has bought, respect points he has earned.

For sensing when is not a good day to talk and giving him space.

Into that heaven of freedom, dear husbands, give us this day our dearness allowance.

Last man standing

A friend of mine, a universally acknowledged alpha male said to another about a brunch invitation recently. “I’ll be there by 1 pm. By 1.15 pm, I will be the most drunk person around. Count on that…”

It was meant to sound cool. It was meant to get eyes widened. It was meant to get us all competitive.

Another was bragging about his brush with a dangerously bizarre game called Last Man Standing at a farewell bash recently. It seems a few of them decided to do a tequila marathon. The person who was still standing at the end of it won. “We targeted twenty shots each. By the end of it, I was so blown….I thought I was going to die,” he said, with much bravado.

Smart observation that. I wouldn’t think 20 tequila shots would leave you with enough perception of death.

One Mr. Jim Beam cribbed about how he went to this PR-led free booze do recently and how the cheap stuff was so awful that he and his friends had to go someplace else to wash it off and dilute it with the good stuff.

At my sangeet, there were at least three women who spent more time throwing up in the loo than breaking it down on the dance floor. When one was told to get something to eat so she’d feel better, she said, “I don’t do food. I’ll have another shot.”

I feel very old fashioned when I hear stuff like this.

A certain Mr. Partyholic once bragged to me, “You have no idea what I used to be. I was the guy who got the party started long after the party was over. I was the after-party guy..”

I was supposed to be impressed. I wasn’t. Although it sounds like a career—get a bunch of wasted people on any given night, and get them even more wasted. So when people compare notes, they can say, “I passed out at 4 am. How long did you last?”

I must imagine we live in terribly difficult times.

Here’s my theory, however far-fetched it might sound. Most men and women drink and/or smoke because they don’t know what to do with their bodies in a social scenario. The drink and the cigarette serve as props. It gives them something to do, it makes them look less clumsy or gauche. It talks their face away.

Which is why when people notice me, they usually say, “What, no glass? Or, “Don’t smoke?” Strangers proffer additional wisdom. “Health or religion?”

I feel like saying health is my religion, but I’d rather not waste humour on someone who is not quite there, so I smile cheekily.

I learnt the importance of props while being a production person in a theatre group. Seems when people are just standing together and talking, it looks weird—so you give them a book, a scarf, a jacket, a phone, a cigarette, a glass—something they can play with.

Have you noticed soaps on TV and how something seems amiss (apart from logic) when a family just gathers in a semi-circle and talks. They have no props!

As for me, I found my prop. I play with my locks. It keeps me engaged and looking interested for as long as I want to.