So lured are we by the glamour & glitter of the New, that we forget the Old, its goodness, its warmth, as we fly with the time
New hopes, new dreams, new aspirations, desires & ambitions lead us on to fascinating avenues & lanes
A journey so challenging & exhilarating that leaves us with little time to pause & ponder
Then, one day, when we stop to catch a breath and absentmindedly look back, the spectacle of our yesteryear’s memoirs, diaries & recollections spring back at us
The lazy days when we would listen to a play on AIR, or the exciting days when TV invaded our drawing rooms with Asiad, to be later taken over by crazy online streaming
Taking eager steps to school in Bata shoes, weighed down by Duckback school bag heavy with books, dreams and ambitions
Travelling in 2nd class, a coach full of students, heart full of aspirations, to the realm that takes us a step closer to so many dreams that whisper in our ears
Some dreams are fulfilled, some forgotten, some broken, some carelessly tossed away, adorn our path as we move along
The pride and joy of owning the first Nokia mobile phone, making the first brief call, packing in as many words in as little time, for rates were high
The arriving in life moment with the first Blackberry, replacing it with little thought with iPhone, Samsung Note and what not, for choices are many
Switching happily from DTC buses, to auto, to the proud ride in first Maruti 800
Moving on from a generation that held on to dreams, clung on romantically to a few material possessions, to a generation that’s spoilt for choice, often confused, bemused or bewildered, easily disillusioned
As we look back, time pauses for a while, to string together our forgotten or lost dreams chipped and dulled with years, new wishes and resolutions glowing with hope and yearnings, into a glittering, uneven multi-coloured necklace.
There was a time when nip in the air would mean bringing out the knitting needles and wools. All our sweaters would be taken out and evaluated. The ones we would have outgrown would be opened and the wool wrapped into a ball again to be used for making new sweaters. Depending on the wool available at home, mom would buy more wool and start knitting new sweaters for us. Once upon a time, my mom knit sweaters for my dad and the entire extended family. She would refer to design books for newer designs. Even weekend supplements of newspapers carried novel designs for sweaters.
Afternoons were devoted to knitting. Mom would sometimes knit alone, sometimes take us to our neighbourhood jethimoni’s (aunt’s) place to knit with her. Kor jethimoni was a knitting whiz. She didn’t even need a design book to refer to. She would come up with newer designs on her own and finish a sweater in no time. My mom and many aunts from the vicinity would gather at her courtyard to knit with her. She would very happily guide them and help them with new designs.
Knitting in those days was a creative recreational activity for women. They would get together with their knitting needles, chit chat, have a cup of tea and knit one sweater after another. It seemed quite effortless then. It was a common practice to gather around a boudi (bhabi) who was an expert and would help out the rest. For instance, even 15 years back, whenever I would visit Chandigarh in winters, I would find my Kakima (chachi) sitting on the porch with her landlady, both of them knitting away. Sweaters knit by Kumkum kakima were quite popular. I still have one lying in my wardrobe. “Your kakima doesn’t know anything. Bina (the landlady) guides her at every step,” my uncle would joke.
As a little girl, I was fascinated by the whole process of knitting. I would hover around my mother the moment she would take out her knitting needles. Once I was old enough, I was given plastic needles and a small ball of wool. With some effort I picked up knitting and even made a small blue sweater for my walkie talkie doll (with my mom’s help of course). I later knit many mufflers. I would ambitiously start knitting sweaters which my mother would finish. When we were in college, readymade sweaters started flooding the market and the charm of hand knit sweaters started to fade. “You can’t make sweaters like the ones in the market,” we would tell our mom. Tired of our constant nagging mom stopped knitting and started buying us sweaters instead. Knitting needles and balls of wool were forgotten, and hand knit sweaters lay neglected in one corner of the wardrobe.
A few winters back while I was cleaning my wardrobe, a muffler that I had knitted in college dropped from the top shelf. It looked and felt so much nicer than the readymade ones. I started missing the look and the designs of the hand knit sweaters. “Can you knit me a sweater ma?” I asked my mom. “Oh! I don’t even know where the needles are lying. I haven’t used them in years. And anyway, you thought my sweaters were not good enough,” retorted mom. “I wish I hadn’t changed loyalties to readymade sweaters so soon,” I sighed. Being out of practice for years I have completely forgotten to knit. What seemed ‘not fashionable’ once, suddenly seemed so desirable.
Imagine my delight when I saw my friend Chandana’s 5-year-old son Ray in a lovely blue hand knit sweater. “Have you started knitting?”, I asked her all excited. “May be, I can ask her to make me a sweater,” I thought. “My mom-in-law does,” she said. “Till date I haven’t bought a single sweater for Ray. Mummy is so fast and finishes a sweater in no time. She has knit me one too.” Excited I called up her mom-in-law, Srivastava Aunty. She was only too thrilled to talk about her knitting. “Now Ray is growing, so he asks me make sweaters in his favorite colors,” she laughed.
Hearing me talk about my love and longing of hand knit sweaters, my friend and colleague Lovina told me about her friend Tehmina M Yadav who reaches out to her friends and family to knit every winter. Those sweaters and mufflers are then distributed to homeless people. “She’s an amazing woman,” said Lovina. “She has her own merchandising house; she keeps the most beautiful gardens. And every winter she reaches out to people to knit for the homeless.”
So knitting is not dead. Lovina still knits and has agreed to knit me a scarf!!
While appreciating everything and everybody in his poem Bhalo Re Bhalo (loosely translated ‘All is Good’), Sukumar Ray, one of the greatest poets and humour writers of our time concludes: “Kintu shobar chaite bhalo, pauruti aar jhola gur” (But the best bet/ Is runny jaggery and bread).
The pleasure of
dipping bread or roti in jhola gur (runny jaggery or jaggery syrup) and
enjoying the sweet, sticky flavour on a winter morning. And once the bread gets
over, dipping the finger in jhola gur and licking it, relishing it to
the last dribble. As a child jhola gur was one of my most sought-after
desserts or sweet sauce. As the days would get colder, we would wait for dad to
get a tin (container) of jhola gur from one of the near by farms. We
would sit on the dining table expectantly with a bowl waiting for mom to serve
a spoonful of jhola gur. It would be followed by hours of licking the
bowl clean, with eyes often shut and a satisfied chuckle. The happiness and
satisfaction that simple jhola gur brought into our little lives!
Then there is
round kejhur gur or nolen gur and chunks of aakher gur. We
would wait for Masi to visit from Kolkata with patali gur, very popular
in West Bengal. In Agartala, dominated by East Bengalis, jhola gur and khejur
gur were more popular. While jhola gur and khejur gur are
from made date palm (khejur) sap, tal patali is made from palm (tal)
sap and aakher gur comes from sugarcane (aakh) juice. As kids we
would love to suck little cubes of tal patali and khejur gur. The heavenly
taste and the heady flavour of this crude desi sweetener can’t be matched by
candies that kids crave for nowadays.
Khejur gur or nolen gurer payesh (kheer made
with nalen gur), nolen gurer pathishapta, nariyel naru made of gur
are the sweet delicacies mom makes every winter. I still wait in the kitchen to
taste the sweet, warm patishapta as my mom takes it off the tawa. Unfortunately,
not many people make patishapta at home anymore and those available in
sweet shops just don’t taste the same. But I do love nolen gurer sandesh
and roshogolla and other sweets made of nolen gur that sweet
shops across Bengal are flooded with. In Delhi you can visit the Bengali sweet
shops in CR Park for nolen gur delicacies.
When I visited my Uncle in Chandigarh as a child, my aunt
gave me small piece of gur after lunch. Gur helps with digestion
so Punjabis have gur after meal, I was told. Later I sampled delicious gur
ke parantha. Not just in Bengal and Punjab, gur is popular across India.
Maharashtra is the largest producer and consumer of gur, I recently read in
Wiki. In Maharashtra, during Makar Sankranti, a dessert called tilgul (sesame
seed candy) is prepared with gur. In Gujarat,
gur is known as gôḷ and is used during Makar Sankranti
for similar preparation called tal na ladu or tal
sankli. In rural Maharashtra and Karnataka, water and a piece of gur
are given to a person coming home after working under hot sun. Gujratis also
make laddus with wheat flour and gur and famous Marathi Puran Poli
uses gur. Of course, we are all familiar with gur ki patti, gur
ke gajak, moya made with gur and other desi healthy and tasty
And gur is not just
tasty, it has many health benefits. It prevents constipation, boosts immunity,
detoxes liver, purifies blood, helps in digestion to list a few. However, like
most desi delicacies, gur is not glamourous enough to appeal to the
younger lot. A kid today will probably not even look at gur, let alone
relish it. We Indians somehow pick western dessert and dishes over traditional
Indian cuisine. Perhaps, gur is waiting to be discovered by a western
chef to make it a happening sweetener.
Birthdays are always so special to me. Many a ‘mature’ people have often told me, “What’s the big deal about birthday? It’s just another day.” For me they are a BIG deal, I wait for my birthday every year, for the wishes to pour in, the cakes, the gifts, even the FB wishes and videos. I subtly (and sometimes shamelessly) remind people about my upcoming birthday, lest they forget to wish. Passing years haven’t taken the sheen off birthday celebrations, I feel as excited as I did as a little girl. It’s not so much about a huge party or expensive presents, it’s more about being remembered by people you love, celebrating the day I came to this world, surely there’s something special about that day!
When I was a little girl, birthdays were about mom making kheer in the morning. I would be greeted with a spoonful of sweet kheer, new dress and maybe a toy. I grew up in a joint family, dida (dadi), kaku (uncles), pishi (bua) and cousins, besides my parents and sisters, would lovingly wish me happy birthday. There were no 12 a.m. celebrations then, birthday celebrations started in the morning. While my parents would get me a dress for my birthdays’, Namentu (my dad’s younger brother who was very popular with the children of the family) would indulge me with toys and books. Ranga pishi (my favourite bua) would ensure I got all my favourite sweets. Unfortunately, both Namentu and Ranga Pishi left us early and birthday’s or any other celebration has not been the same since.
highpoint of the day was about wearing a new dress and happily heading to the
school bus stop holding Ranga Pishi’s hand with a bag full of toffees
(Parle G or Eclairs). Birthday girls or boys would get special treatment in the
school and that would start from the bus stop. Kids would wish me, give me
flowers, I would handout a toffee to each child. On reaching school the class
teacher would announce my birthday and the whole class would sing for me. After
that I would hand out a toffee to each kid, close friends would get more than
one (the birthday girl’s discretion made her so important that day). To think
just one toffee could be so sought after!
be small party at home in the evening. Mom would bake a cake, cook my favourite
food. My best friend, few of my close friends and the whole family would gather
for the cake cutting and the dinner thereafter. It was a simple homely affair
but there was so much love and affection. I got cute little gifts like pens and
pencil boxes which I cherished. Throwing a birthday party in a hotel or a
restaurant, spending money on expensive gifts didn’t even cross our minds in
those days. We were so happy blowing balloons, decorating the drawing room with
coloured papers, being hugged and kissed and wished by everyone around. Those
were the perfect birthdays!
leaving home, midnight birthday celebrations in the hostel had its own share of
fun and excitement. Friends and hostel mates would organize a cake, admirers
would cue up with lovey dovey cards and sometimes flowers. Made me feel so
grown up, years ahead seemed so exciting. When I started working, I started paying for
my own birthday dinners and throwing birthday parties, that was a different
feeling all together.
birthdays’ away from home haven’t always been easy. There were moments when I pined for more
attention from someone special, felt people didn’t care enough for me and my
birthday. But those are far and few, buried in the happy memories and
excitement that birthday brings along with it each year. I have been blessed
with friends who always take time out to make my birthday special, buy me gifts
that I cherish!
best part is, even after celebrating so many birthdays I don’t feel any older.
I don’t attempt to light up the cake with 40 something candles though. The glow
of my happiness, youth, maturity and wisdom (that I have accumulated over the
years hopefully) is enough for that!!
Once upon a time she was my constant companion. I wouldn’t
leave home without her. Whether going to school in the morning or
visiting neighbours in the evening, she would be neatly folded and pinned to my
dress or tugged in my skirt. We loved playing Rumal
Choras kids. When I started carrying fancy bags to
college, she found a special place in that bag. Life was unimaginable without
Sparking white, or in soothing pale shades of pink or blue,
with pretty flowers or little birds embroidered, honeycombed edges, Miss Hankie
and her friends were such a delight. I remember making my first little hankie when
I was in 4th standard. SUPW (Socially Useful Productive Work) was a
compulsory subject in school then. With such excitement and love I hemmed the
edges of a small square pale blue cloth and embroidered a pink lotus in one
corner. After that I went on to make so many hankies, in different colours and
embroideries, some with my name stylishly embroidered. I was so proud of
carrying my own little hankies, sometimes perfumed, gently dabbing away sweat
or dust from the face and neck.
Miss Hankie was ever so romantic and enigmatic. Lovelorn
youth would often find solace in the sweet-smelling handkerchief of their lady
love. Boys would use hanky as ploy to strike a conversation with the person of
their interest. “Excuse me Miss, I think you dropped your hanky,” was corniest
pick up line ever. Miss Hankie found a special place in romantic Bollywood
movies as well – Reshmi Rumal, Kaali Topi Lal Rumal, where handkerchief played
such an important role. There are so many romantic movie scenes where the male
protagonist is seen languishing over a delicate little hanky of his beloved.
For the male counterpart of Miss. Hankie, it was all about chivalry. We have so often seen the protagonist offer his handkerchief with aplomb to a damsel in distress. The ‘resham ki rumal’ has always added to the appeal of the swashbuckling Hindi film hero. Remember Shammi Kapoor in “Sar par topi lal, haath me reshmi rumal hai tera kya kehena”
Sadly however, little Miss Hankie is now on the brink of
extinction, nudged away by the convenient tissues. Like most people of my
generation, I am guilty of making the switch to tissues. I have lost all my
little hankies; I just carry a pack of face tissue in my purse. There are hand
tissues and paper towels that have made hankies completely redundant. My mom,
however, still sticks to her hankies, finding them more reliable than the array
of tissues. Fortunately, male handkerchiefs have survived, they still find
place in most men’s pocket, though the charisma once associated with them is
Tissues may have brought in convenience, but unlike hankies
there’s nothing romantic about them. There was something personal about
hankies, reflecting so strongly the personality of their owner – the touch, the
smell. Tissues on the other hand don’t have a distinct character, they are just
use and throw. And the idea of picking up a used tissue is quite repulsive, no
matter how beautiful or charming the user may be!
Goddess Lakshmi, is she the milder manifestation of Durga or
is she her daughter? There are various interpretations in Hinduism. Durga –
also knowns as Parvati or Kali (in more awe-inspiring form) and, Lakshmi &
Saraswathi are considered to be Tridevi in Shaktism. They are the consorts of
the Trimurti – Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma. Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and
Saraswathi the goddess of learning, are the milder manifestations of Adi
Parashakti, Devi. We Bengali’s however consider Lakshmi and Saraswathi to
be daughters of Durga. Daughters are manifestations of their mothers anyway, so
I don’t see a problem with either interpretation.
In Bengal and other eastern states Lakshmi or Kojagari
Lokkhi is worshiped on the full moon night that falls after Dashami or
Dussehra. On Diwali, when Lakshmi and Ganesha are worshipped in North India, we
worship the formidable Kali on Amavasya – the night of the new moon. Since this
is the month of the Goddesses, Shakti or women power, I decided to pen a post
on the apparently mild and quiet Goddess Lakshmi or Ma Lokkhi.
She is the goddess of wealth and prosperity, hence she is
worshipped and sought after by all. Traditions may be different, rituals may
vary, but Goddess Lakshmi is worshipped by Hindus, Buddhist and Jains across
India. And don’t go by her benign smile and her quiet grace, she is one of the
most whimsical goddesses’. Known as chanchala she doesn’t reside is one
place for long. She needs to be constantly sought after, worshipped. She maybe
seen sitting quietly at the feet of her consort Vishnu but don’t mistake her
for an obedient wife. While Vishnu is all for Dharma, Lakshmi will grant her
blessings on whoever she pleases. She doesn’t care if her devotee is an asura
or a sinner. We all know that the demon king Ravana lived in a majestic palace
made of solid gold.
In Bengal, this whimsical Goddess is worshipped on the night
of Sharad Purnima or Kojagari Purnima. Ma Lokkhi is worshipped in pandals that
lie lonely after the departure of Ma Durga and in most Bengali households. Her
presence brings back the festive cheer, fills the vacuum that we feel once the four-day
Durgotsav comes to an end. Ma Lokkhi, we worship has two hands. Dressed in red,
with a benevolent smile she comes riding an owl, holding a gachkouto (red
coloured pot filled with sindoorand a silver coin) in one hand and
blessing us with the other. The golden goddess is known for her beauty, her
aura lights up the world.
Lokkhi Pujo was an important part of my growing up years. I
remember going to the market with my uncle and cousins to pick up the most
beautiful idol of the goddess. The house would be cleaned, we would put rangoli
or alpana with rice powder paste all over the house. Feet of Ma Lokkhi
would be drawn at each doorstep to ensure that the Goddess visits the
household. The elaborate bhog would consist of nariyal naru, chirer
moya, fruits, sweets, lucchi, khichdi, labra, chutney and kheer, and
of course pan supuri (beetle leaves & nuts). Mom would decorate the
vedi with flowers, a kalash with nariyal and amra pallab (nascent
mango leaves) would be placed before the Goddess. The room would be decorated
with alpana and flowers.
Mom and other aunts would wear fresh clothes, usually a red
sari, comb their hair, put on sindoor, bindi and alta (red dye applied
on the feet). Ma Lokkhi likes cleanliness, she likes well-dressed people, she
likes peace and quiet. Fearing that the goddess may flee at the sight of
anything untidy the whole house would be cleaned and decked up. As a little
girl I would excitedly watch the preparations of the pujo, helping with the
decorations and alpana. I would beg mom to put some alta on my feet and
she would eventually oblige. Ladies of the house would observe fast on the day
of the pujo that would be broken with Chipitak Bhakhan (coconut water and
chire) after the pujo. Though the bhog laid out for the goddess is
vegetarian, married women are supposed to eat fish after the pujo. According to
Hindu mythology the goddess visits her devotes only very late at night, so we
would wait up for her.
Though I have stayed away from home for a while, not been
part of Lokkhi Pujo in years, I feel the same excitement on the day of the
Pujo. I am not greedy for riches; I pray to Ma Lokkhi to bless me with enough
wealth, wisdom and strength to take care of myself and those around me!
Bijoya Dashami! Time to bid adieu to Goddess Durga, the all-powerful Mother. The day brings back memories of Dadur Barir Durga Pujo (Puja at my maternal grand father’s ancestral home). Ladies would gather before the Durga idol since morning, feeding her sweets, wiping her tears with pan (beetle leaves), trying to catch a glimpse of her feet in the water. This would be followed by Shidhur Khela – married women smearing each other with red sindoor. Once the rituals of Dhashami Pujo was complete the male members would get the Ek Chalar Durga Pratima out of the huge puja ghar. Every year the puja ghar would be decorated and a vedi would be made for Ma Durga and her children. Getting the idol down from the vedi and out of the puja ghar took a lot of maneuvering.
would be then placed in the huge courtyard. Sound of dhak, kashor, ghanta,
conch, smell of dhoop would fill the atmosphere. The whole extended
family danced around Durga, teary eyed – ‘Aami daaki ma ma, mai toh kane
shone na’ (I keep calling out to Mother, but she has turned a deaf ear to
to let go. The idol of the Goddess would be immersed in the pond that lay at
the backside of the courtyard. Ma Durga along with her entourage being lifted
deftly and carried to the pond, following the procession eagerly with a heavy
heart, scampering for her jewelry and her weapons as the Goddess was immersed
in the water, crying out loud as the Mother Goddess let herself be devoured by
the water body…
Those were the
pre-mobile camera days. Unfortunately, I have no photographs to share but the
images are firmly etched in my memory…
Bijoya Dhashami, may Devi grant us wisdom and peace of mind!
The golden sunlight, the clear blue sky, the white cottony clouds
The gentle cool breeze, the sweet smell of shiuli, or just the memory of that smell whiffing through the air
Ears straining for the sound of dhak, the excitement of dhunochi dance
Absurd heart yearning to soak up in the spirit of Durga Pujo and the festivities
To while away the mornings, the afternoons and the evenings idly busy in the pandal
To feel purposeful, yet do nothing
To feel the nearness of the soft glow of the divine power
The positivity, the optimism and the cheer
Dressing up in best saris, suits and jewelry
Showing ourselves off in the radiance of the divine glow
Sampling the choicest delicacy
Hopping from pandal to pandal as if nothing else mattered on those four days of Matri Pujo
The carefree Pujo days while we were growing up
Memories come flooding back with the gentle breeze, the soft dew, the all forgiving smile and the golden aura of Devi
“Devi arrived on ghatak (horse) this year, that’s bad omen,” exclaims my mother
The all-powerful Mother Goddess can only be the harbinger of hope, of all the good that awaits us, protests my absurd heart!!
Hello Friends! The Retro Feeling is one year today. It has been a very exciting year of looking back and moving forward. Thank you all for being with me on this nostalgic trip, for taking time to browse through The Retro Feeling.
This blog attempts to string together bits and pieces from the past as we move forward into a very exciting future. Change seems to be the only now, and so much has changed in little over a decade. Remember the cassettes, the tapes getting stuck and how we would pull the tape out and roll them back with a pencil. The VCRs, the video parlours, rushing to the video parlour moment a new movie was released. Alas, online streaming has completely done away with that!
If I go down
further, I can visualize the paper boats & planes, kites, marbles that we
would so fondly hoard. I can still smell the letters – the post cards, the
inland letters and the sometimes ominous telegram. As a child I used to collect
stamps, do kids do that anymore? The lazy vacation afternoons, pickles being
cooked in the sun, homemade laddus and namkeens…
Change is inevitable, change (most of the times) is for good, but in the last decade, things have changed at a break-neck speed. Things that were so precious to us growing up have suddenly vanished. If you have grown up in the eighties you will probably know what I mean. We grew up in the pre-internet age, most people didn’t even have a telephone then and yet we were connected. Bonds were probably stronger then…
Over the past
one year, I have attempted to write about things that I sorely miss, that I
wish I had not carelessly tossed away or left behind in my mad rush to move on
to the future. This year I will attempt to bring your more – different voices,
different views, inspiring stories or just funny anecdotes – of people trying
to preserve a bit of our legacy and make a difference in their own unique way
Thank you again. Do join us on this exciting journey…
When I suggested that we order some dhoklas for evening snack my Gujju friend looked startled. “Dhoklas from a shop. I eat only the ones my mom makes,” he exclaimed. I would have probably reacted in the same manner if I was asked to buy Patishapta or Malpua from a shop. They are readily available in sweet shops across CR Park but can’t match the taste of Ma’s home-made Patishapta or Malpua. Though I yearn for these traditional Bengali sweets and request Ma to make them whenever she comes down, I never bothered with the recipes. Along with the time, are we going to lose these traditional recipes?
Enjoy reading how Keerti Ramachandran revives the Chakli recipe of her mother-in-law and try making some traditional food this festive season.
It was at dinner a few days ago that my daughter-in-law
said, “Mummy, you must start a Keerti’s kitchen” now otherwise all these
traditionally home-made dishes will be lost to the next generation. See how
popular ….. has become!”
Taking a cue from that I decided I would revive some of my
mother-in-law’s recipes for the benefit of my grandchildren at first then if
viable, for other people’s too.
The festive season is round the corner so a good starting
point would be to make chaklis at home. Of course chaklis are available
everywhere, but we always felt they lacked something – they had no particular
character, whereas Amma’s were still alive on our tongues.
So, one day when the sun came out after a particularly long
and unseasonal cloudy wet spell, I hunted out my old recipe book, checked the
recipe and did as instructed. Wash and put out to dry in the shade, 4 measures
(any measure will do) of raw rice, gently roast 1 measure of urad dal (without
the skins) till golden brown and fragrant, and keep aside till the rice is completely
dry. Get the rice and dal ground into a fine flour, without any contamination
of jowar, ragi, besan or wheat flour.
My local chakkiwala was obliging. He agreed to grind plain
rice and then my chakli flour, for a
small fee of course! Mmmm…. Smelt good!
When no one was at home, I quickly measured out 1 cup of the
flour, added salt to taste, 1 teaspoon of red chilli powder, ½ tsp hing, and
3heaped tablespoons of white til. One tight fistful of white unsalted butter
(mine was homemade, yes!) was gently mixed into the flour and all of it then
brought together with a little after at a time, soft enough to be easily
pressed through the chakli press with the star shaped disc. (Of course the chakli maker had not been used
for years and had to be thoroughly scrubbed with tamarind and pitambari powder
since it was made of brass). Ultimately it was the wooden one that worked!
Oil in kadai, gas on
medium high and the dough was ready to press out. Needless to say the hands
were out of touch, they were too high above the foil sheet, so the chaklis came
out in bits and pieces. Okay, the dough was too stiff. A dash of water to
soften it and it pressed out easily, with the right amount of prickles. But
oval chaklis? Try lowering the press I said to myself, took a deep breath,
slowly moved hands clockwise and there it was! A perfect circle, with a slight
gap between the rows. (Amma used to say don’t make the circles too tight!) After pressing out about 10, the oil had
become nice and hot, I remembered to put in only 6 chaklis at a time and then lower
the flame. The one thing cooking teaches, or ought to teach you is patience… don’t
keep disturbing the frying chaklis, wait until they are nicely golden, and
start giving out the butter… you can tell when the oil stops bubbling. Then take the chaklis out gently – use a
piece of wire cut from an old aluminium hanger and pass it through the centre of
the chaklis so you get them all in a row. Drain and set aside till cold.
Wah! An hour later they were all done and ready to serve.
“Hmm, too buttery” “no crunch” “not enough salt,” “good, but …” “ummm
something’s missing…” “arrey just go and
buy them when you feel like eating na! not worth the effort!”
“Go, get your chaklis from Malleswaram or wherever!” I snorted
and put the dabba away, muttering under my breath, “Gadhe ko kya zafran ka
maza” (where will a donkey appreciate the flavour of saffron!)
A couple of days
later I felt nibbly at tea time so I reached for the chakli dabba … and felt like Mother Hubbard! Mother who?
Now that’s something else that will get lost too!
Keerti Ramachandra is by aptitude, inclination and training, a teacher. She has been a freelance editor of fiction and non-fiction for major publishing houses and a translator of fiction and nonfiction from Marathi, Kannada and Hindi into English. Among her translated works are: From Marathi: Mahanayak, a fictionalised biography of Netaji Bose and A Dirge for the Dammed, both by Vishwas Patil, A Faceless Evening and Other Stories by Gangadhar Gadgil Of Closures and New Beginnings short stories and a noella, by Saniya.
Dying Sun and other stories by
Joginder Paul with Usha Nagpal, and HIndutva or Hind Swaraj by U R Ananthamurty with Vivek Shanbhag.
of her translations have appeared in anthologies, magazines and journals in
India and abroad.