Existential

And, one day, I realize that I am but a curious blend...........

Who am I and why am I here? Am I really just a jumble of chemicals working in mind-boggling unison? What is the point of this endless waking up, working and sleeping routine? Am I here to prove some evolutionary theory or is there a deeper meaning to it all? Is my place in this world just a chance event or was it predestined in some way? Am I a part of my own small universe that randomly collides with other similar universes, attracting and repelling on a whim? These are all questions that flit across the mind screen with alarming regularity these days.

I find myself attracted to things that I never thought I would be and being passionate about things and causes that I might have previously just given passing thought to. I am pulled by an invisible cord in directions unexplored. My mind is on fire with myriad thoughts cascading through. Yet, my world is calmer than it has ever been. I am able to see things with a clarity hitherto absent. Controlled madness probably sums up this growth spurt the best.

I find myself being more than just curious about my ancestors. They are suddenly not just names but  forces that pull me into worlds unknown. They are missing pieces in the puzzle of my life. I quiz my parents relentlessly about Sita paati, Chandramoulee thatha or athanga paati. I collect stories and tidbits with rabid enthusiasm, stories that I want to share with my children. I feel regret that I did not glean anymore from people who have already passed. Doing rituals like "shrardham" takes on new meaning.

I realize that being rooted to the past thus is strangely comforting. It gives my branches the nourishment and strength to reach out to the sky. Everything in this universe comes from something, be it a song that arises from a musical note, a masterpiece that starts from a brush stroke, or conviction that starts from a small thought. I too, come from a mix of tangibles and intangibles from the past that shape themselves according to the world around me. This is what I will pass on to my children, who will carry the torch forward. It is intensely humbling when I think of myself thus, merely a small link in this chain.

And, one day, I realize that I am but a curious blend of my parents and my children. 

A short rant

Hey you! The girl in the awkward high heels with bunions and fallen arches. Yes, you....with the face and hair aged by unfair expectations, chemicals and heat. Do you realize that your breath is shallow from holding it in so your bulges don't show? The bulges that are a reminder of meals that have been missed or eaten in haste. Your falsely whitened teeth try to hide the nicotine stains, a habit picked up to fight the weight battle and spurred by insecurities. You in the creative wardrobe, mixing and matching designers and colors so it appears that you have new clothes on every single day. You with the painted talons that get in the way of living your life freely. You soldier on daily with repeated onslaughts to your body and soul, trying desperately to fit your square peg into round holes. You who finds substitutes to fill the emptiness that results.

Stop and think whether the reflection in the mirror is your own. There are places to see, languages to be learnt, boundaries to be shattered, planets to be saved, children to be nurtured, peaks to be climbed, books to be read and written, strays to be rescued and beaches to be walked barefoot on. There is a life to be lived in comfortable shoes and clothes. Wear your body with pride. It is your very own unique stamp on this universe. Step out of those uncomfortable clothes and expectations and breathe......

Battered

The color, a pristine white. The consistency, soft fluff. The quantity, more than anticipated. The result? Perfect malli poo-like idlis. These, accompanied with getti chutney, molaga podi-nalla yennai and fragrant sambar is the equivalent of a symphony orchestra playing upon your taste buds. Add degree kapi to this and gastronomical nirvana is attained. Sorcery of this high order was required in those days by the lady of the house to make sure that her sour gent sang a happy tune at the breakfast table (OK, more like a satisfied grunt) and felt sufficiently charged to leave the comforts of his Bombay Fornicator to go face the world (I'm positive that I got your attention now. Now go Google it).

The perfect idli batter has to be the holy grail of all Tamil households. It is the stuff of legend and closely guarded family secret recipes. It is the reason why many a homemaker is celebrated for her kai pakkuvam and others sidelined as also-rans. It is amazing that something with just two ingredients (rice and urad dal) can reduce many a new cook to tears. Here, I share my journey from making tear-stained, concave discs to the aforementioned delights that are equated to the jasmine flower, a string of which would grace the lustrous single plait of the successful lady who managed perfect idlis every single time. She wore the flowers like a crown to match the smug smile on her face.

Cut to me, a decade or so ago. Wet behind the ears, eager beaver cook raised among culinary greats and married into a family of hall-of-famers. I thought that I had the idli thing in the bag, thank you very much. I mean, how difficult can making idlis be? I've eaten them all my life. Quite simply put, I was dead wrong.  After the first few disastrous results, I figured that it was possibly because I had a humble "Oster" grinder and not the sophisticated "Ultra" grinder. So, hubby bought me one. I tried and failed miserably once again. I changed the kind of rice used (turns out that one needs idli rice to make idlis. Duh) The idli Gods started to smile upon me. It was not a fully benign smile, more like a small crack on a stern facade. My idlis started to become convex but were nowhere near perfection. I let go of my ego and started asking everyone for their recipes, even the close-mouthed mistresses of perfect idlis. They tried to dodge my keen questions, but I persisted until I gathered every last secret ingredient and every last secret tip to make my batter rise like a phoenix out of the ashes of my pathetic idli making efforts. I tried every ingredient under the sun including cream of rice, flattened rice flakes, cooked rice and even corn flakes. I kept my batter covered with old blankets and sweaters to keep it warm. I let it rest in a pre-heated oven and sometimes in the furnace room on top of the dryer while it was being used. I used my ingredients in every ratio and proportion possible, skills that would have made my middle school Math teachers proud, yes, even the ones that had given up on me for good. The idlis started resembling what I had eaten many years ago and yet something was missing. They just were not fluffy enough. I thought in desperation that it had to be because I had the misfortune of living between the arctic circle and the Tropic of Cancer. My husband however, categorically said that we could not move and muttered something under his breath about not getting what idlis had to do with latitude.

So, I persisted. I endured long monologs from ladies who claimed that they only had to cast a passing glance in the direction of the batter for it to erupt like Mount Vesuvius out of the vessel and flow out into the plate kept underneath. I sighed in envy at a friend's ease at feeding an army of hungry junta with idlis made from the very last drop of batter, perfect from start to finish. Needless to say, I was never picked to bring idli-sambar for any pot-luck and was relegated instead to bringing dessert while my poor deprived family bore the brunt of my sub-par idli making. One fine day however, my idlis started getting good, then better and finally a day came when my husband grunted at the breakfast table. I thought that I was hallucinating and ignored it. Then, he grunted again. Could it be, I thought. "Idli supera irukku", he said. I fainted with happiness and once recovered, I got ready to buy a fresh jasmine string to adorn my short bob. This would be the happy ending to my story, complete with a rousing ovation and subsequent encores had it not been for the recent healthy revolution. "Did you taste the idlis at Sangeetha's house?",  my friend mentioned at the last get-together. "She makes it with quinoa, brown rice and horsegram in the ratio of....."  As Vadivelu would aptly say at this point, "Shaba, kanna kattudhe!"

Dachau

I find it hard to sleep the night before I am to visit Dachau. My mind slips into consciousness and out. Dark dreams in shades of grey color my sleep. A deep sense of foreboding fills me as alight from the train into the bahnhof. The town is somber and filled with elderly people with kind eyes.....eyes that are filled with understanding. However, I am reluctant to make eye contact as I board the bus that will take me to KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau....the memorial site of the first and most important concentration camp of the Third Reich. An eerie silence greets me when I get off the bus. Trees line the cobblestone pathway leading to the site. As my shoes crunch on the path, I close my eyes and can hear the marching of feet....both the military precision of soldiers and the nervous shuffle of would be inmates. My heart clenches with fear. I hear raucous laughter and light hearted chatter. Confused, my eyes fly open and are greeted by a group of school children visiting on a field trip. I drink up this sight of youth and hope, who are on their way to embrace possibly the darkest part of their nation's past.....it is impossible to move forward without a deep understanding of what precedes. Lost in thought, I come upon the road that originally lead to the gates of the camp. Rail tracks are partly buried in the sand and I see the commandant's quarters at a distance. I come upon the wrought iron gate with infamous words  "Arbeit macht frei" on them. As I enter the grounds through the gates, I shiver and tears begin to flow. Mere minutes into the museum, my mind shuts down, unable to rise above the oppressive sadness that fills the air. Floor to ceiling posters detail the political climate preceding the rise of the Röhm Putsch, timelines encapsulating Hitler's regime, personal accounts of inmates who survived the camp, visual and descriptive vignettes of unspeakable horrors committed by humans on fellow humans.....my eyes read every word and yet not one registers. I walk around like a zombie with images and words swirling in my mind.....like photographs in rapid succession from a camera gone wild. I come upon a section on poetry written by inmates of the camp....words written on forbidden paper with forbidden stubs of pencils. Fresh tears flow as I read one written by an eighteen year old to his mother, who probably never got to read those words of complete despair....thank God. There are uplifting tales of brotherhood, of humanity in the face of horror. They are but a bleak streak of color on a desolate canvas of sadness. A short film concludes the tour.....more senseless words and visuals. I cannot bear to walk over to see the living quarters of the inmates (of the many rows of sheds, only one is kept intact). On the walk to the exit, I see a wrought iron sculpture showing stick human figures grotesquely caught on barbed wire. With every step taken away from the site, my heart lightens and I realize that I have not taken a single photograph for remembrance. I reach Munich and go straight to church, where prayer soothes mind, body and spirit.

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