Dad and my culinary faux pas

It’s August. It was in August that my father had his birthday. I feel blessed to have known such a person. It’s nearly 20yrs since his passing but I remember him everyday. I prefer remembering the fun times we had of which there were many. Today I write about those. Especially the ones that revolve around my culinary experiments.
My father never told me that I had to do something just because I was a girl. He never had this bias. He would get up and make tea for all of us out of consideration for my mom,as he always said that the homemakers are the ones who worked the most. He did want us girls to learn cooking, not because we were supposed to but for survival. Ofcourse I had absolutely no inclination toward anything culinary. No motor co-ordination in the kitchen and I took up homescience. I am telling you that I am an adventurous person.
In college, I learnt cooking the scientific way. I was very eager to show off these new found skills at home. So I decided to start off with a very simple receipe. The potato bhaji. I mean what can go wrong in following this receipe. I took out the weighing scales and my granny almost fainted. She was like, who ever measured potatoes to make a simple potato bhaji. I told her, well this is how I have been taught. So she just gave me a wide berth and left the kitchen. I got down to making the potato bhaji scientifically. After going about the receipe, I found that half the bhaji was yellow and the other half refused to turn the same colour. I fail to understand, how when I had added the exact amount of turmeric, the bhaji refused to turn yellow (or rather half of it refused to). After adding more turmeric, same result. When I served this double coloured vegetable, my dad only said… “oh good, you have taken care of the ones who can eat the normal yellow bhaji and also the ones who are fasting in one shot.(cos the white variety of potato bhaji is made for the ones who are fasting).
After this episode I didn’t venture into the kitchen for quite sometime. When I finally did get my nerve up enough to go there, I decided that this time I’ll try a non-veg receipe. I picked the kadhai chicken. It had tasted pretty yummy when I made it in college. Again I followed the receipe to the T. Ofcourse, it totally escaped me that I should taste the receipe for the hotness. I added the exact spoonfuls of chilli powder. It never struck me that, in college, we used kashmiri mirch which is a mild variety of chilli powder. At home we used the normal red chilli powder which is pretty potent. Ofcourse I never tasted it myself. Pretty pleased with myself I asked my dad to taste it. My dad put a spoonful in his mouth. Then he asked me “should I call the fire engine now or would it be better to call them when everyones mouth’s on fire. My mom had to put in nearly a whole coconut in the chicken to make it palatable. So what started as a north Indian dish finally ended up in the south!
I was pretty much disheartened, though I didn’t give up. I decided that maybe the normal cooking was not my forte, but what could go wrong with a cake. So for my dad’s birthday, I decided to make the coffee cream sponge. It had looked absolutely delicious in college. I got all the things ready. Made the batter and put it in the oven. For the first hour it never rose, after that it wouldn’t stop rising! My dad was patiently waiting. In fact we all were gathered round the oven collectively watching the cake. It had a mind of it’s own. Finally, I got the cake out from the oven at about 11 o’clock in the night. After which I had no enthusiasm left for decorating it. My dad told his colleagues that his daughter baked a cake for his birthday!
It’s sad when his daughter finally got her culinary motor co-ordination he wasn’t there to taste the fruits. Whenever I make the potato bhaji I end up being nostalgic about my first experiment, and about my dad who never rubbished any of my efforts. He was able to make me laugh about my faux pas...... which I really appreciate.

Chess and I

A couple of days ago I came across the news that Viswanathan Anand became the world number 1 in chess. That brought back memories of my own chess playing days. Well more misses than hits… but who’s counting..had great fun.
I came by chess accidentally. I read a notice on our school board stating the start of the sports week and asking for students to take part in different sports. I wasn’t much into sports (one could say sports and I kept a safe distance from each other). I suddenly had this brainwave of taking part in the chess tournament. I got my name down and came home and told my parents that I was taking part in the chess tournament. To say that my father was aghast is an understatement cos at the time I didn’t even own a chess board. After my announcement father and daughter went shopping for a chess board. Then my dad taught me the basics of chess. In a couple of days I was all set for the tournament.
In the first round I don’t recollect how I won… but the 2nd round win proved extremely funny. I guess my opponent must have been equally green. We started playing and there was a crowd of students around us following our game. At a certain point everyone was quiet and suddenly one boy says “hey that’s a check mate”. I wasn’t even aware that I had won the game. I am trying to figure out who won. Then my opponent said “congrats”. That’s how I realized that I had won that round. Obviously I didn’t last long in the 3rd round.
Heartened by my success in the first 2 rounds, I got a book on chess and started learning the game. Read a few books on it and studied the games of Bobby Fischer, Karpov etc.
Our school had a good reputation where chess was concerned and one of my class mates had won a lot of junior/senior/state level tournaments. She was ofcourse the no.1. There was another girl who was the 2nd seed. She always thought she was cat’s whiskers and would look down on all us freshers in chess. The 2nd year that I took part in the chess competition I got a rude shock when I checked the list. I was pitted against this girl in the first round itself. She was riding high on her success in the inter-school tournaments. All the teachers were wishing her the best. I wanted to quit. Then I said to myself “that’s cowardice”. No one expects you to win and if you don’t win well you have nothing to lose. Like they show in the movies …. I posted a surprise win. That girl was so shocked…. She just couldn’t come out of it. There was collective jaw dropping around us. The other students didn’t know how to respond. They were conditioned to clap for her. After 15mins of staring at the board she conceded her defeat. After that winning other rounds I reached the finals where I lost to my classmate. But well there was never any power struggle or jealousy with her. She was always a very helpful person when we practiced. The first round surprise win is something that I’ll always cherish.
Though after school I never really pursued chess. I did play for the fun of it. On my first visit to France I played chess with my host( a guy who had actually played with a known GM in an exhibition match) . Though he didn’t know much of English and I didn’t know French at all, we spent many an evening playing chess and really enjoyed ourselves. When I visited him 5yrs later I had learnt French and was fluent and that time too we played chess and actually held a meaningful conversation about chess. I guess chess is a religion for some. Doesn’t have language barrier. Requires a lot of calm and cunning :D
After quite a long time, now my nephew’s got hooked on the game and expects me to play with him. It does bring back fond memories. During our school days we never had coaches coming home to teach chess. Now there are lots. I hope India will get many more Vishy Anands.

metamorphosis of the "ghaten"

A few months ago I was invited for a wedding. It was a maharashtrian wedding. Now, middle class maharashtrians were never known for their fashion savvy. They have been always categorized as “ghatis”. No offence to anyone as I myself am a maharashtrian. So when I went to the reception I went with the normal concept of a maharashtrian wedding. That the ladies would be wearing at the most “paithanis” or the “shalus” from their own weddings. Was I in for a shock! When I got there, I thought I had gate crashed a balaji telefilms set. The ladies were in “kundan”(crystal) work chiffons. Draped in the latest of styles, with matching accessories. The metamorphosis of the ghati woman into a fashion “plate” has completely passed me by. I never realized that these days there are package deals for everything. The groom package with all the clothes required for the different rituals, the bride package. Glad to know that the marathi girls didn’t get left behind in this fashion race.
There were a couple of girls,whom most of the men were ogling. One was wearing a black saree (black till recently was a complete no no at our weddings) which had golden sequins and she had draped her saree in a gujrati style, but the pallu was left lose and she was wearing a very miniscule golden sequined bustier. That was when I realized that I have been relegated to the gen-prev (previous generation as against gen-next)…. Cos all I could think of was wardrobe malfunction. This girl was smart and could really carry off her outfit. But well…. In my mind all I could think of was wardrobe malfunction…a janet jackson moment… till recently I read an article that wardrobe malfunctions are also staged to get maximum effect and footage.
The second girl was wearing a lehenga choli. It was a bright orange outfit with a nice deep cleavage showing round neck with a tattoo proudly peeping over the neck line. She also had glitter stuck mehendi (Henna tattoos) on her hands.
I was proud to note that the ghatis have atlast arrived on the fashion scene. BRAVO!

Dial "D" for Doctor.

Thinking about a visit to the doctor makes me break into a rash. My BP goes haywire as probably does the sugar and cholesterol. So am an abs sitting duck for the local GP. I have to mentally prepare myself before. Thats the time when I remember the names of probably a crore (from the 33 crore) Hindu Gods. I send up a prayer to each one and barter with/argue with /threaten each one. Just to save myself a visit to the doctor.
Just the other day I had to make a trip to the doctor…. Before leaving the house I did all the relaxation/deep breathing exercises taught to me. No change. I landed up at the clinic. There were a few patients before me. There was this adolescent girl in particular who grabbed my attention. She was actually trying her skills of flirtation on the doc. I had this flash (like they do in the cartoons)… that I am a walking cadaver and this girl is making eyes at the doc. How come she isn’t scared of him….. when I was having the shivers. My antenna went up. After getting the giggly bit out of the way….. she asks the doc…. Did you get my good morning message (followed by another burst of giggles) Doc confused…. When did you send it……. Ms giggles…. Oh I sent it to you this morning….. as soon as I woke up…. I sent you a “Good morning Doctor” sms (proudly pointing to the latest model of a cellphone)….. doc told her very calmly…. How would I know who sent me the message….. the poor girl was abs shocked that doc wouldn’t have her cell no. stored in his (or his cell’s ) memory. Me thinks that the latest cell model became obsolete for her then… cos it didn’t do the most important thing of supplying the doc with the most vital info. I could see her good morning go down the drain like so much slush. BUT this is gen next… so she rallied at the speed of light and told Doc….. save the sms so that you know who sends you a message the next time. Talk about being forward…. This was fast forward!
This entertainment (free of charge…. Otherwise nothings free at the doc) brought a smile to my lips and helped calm me. Don’t know about Ms. Giggle’s morning but mine was made. Went through the visit in a jif (which normally seems like years).
I hope Ms. Giggles (or some one of her ilk…. That’s the beauty of being dark haired….. you cannot be categorized as being blondes!!) is present whenever I have a doc’s visit. I will be eternally grateful to her.

The French connection

Since I started this blog "n" number of people have asked me why I changed my name to Shruti Pense (read Pensey as in a Maharashtrian surname). Earlier on I was feeling extremely smart about having been creative about coining a blog id for myself. How flat it fell!!! I had to keep on explaining about Shruti being one of the names given to me in the cradle and that pense is def not Pensey but a French verb which means to THINK.... so literally it means that "Shruti thinks".... Oh well she can certainly do that huh..... surprising as it may sound to some! Being a Francophile I thought I could give my blog id a French connection but did not consider the fact that there would be a cross connection much like the way it is thrown up by our MTNL.
My French connection started when I was in the university and we had a cultural exchange between the 2 countries. I was a part of the group that visited France and earlier to that we had a group of French girls visiting India. Quite excited about going to a country of which I had only heard..... I landed on the French shores. Though I had travelled within the Indian subcontinent had never been to a Western country. I reached there all wide eyed... complete FOB....though I had taken the time to learn a bit of French just to tide me in case of emergency. How I thought it would tide me over is beyond me cos the first time I decided to use my meager vocabulary to ask for road directions it sent the Frenchman into an outburst of such volatile gesturing and rapid fire French that it could have competed with the TGV for speed. I realised I was lost in "all" ways! The pride I felt at having mastered a few useful lines from the travel books and having taken some tuitions from a French speaking aunt went to dust.... completely.
I stayed with a nice French family. Most of the other girls stayed in normal dysfunctional families (which was more the norm than having the required set of parents and grandparents). The girl.. I’ll call her Fifi... had this boyfriend... well we'll just call him BF (very original)... who was TFH ( that’s Tall/fair/handsome as against the pre-requisite in mills and boon TDH tall/dark/handsome). Since Fifi had visited India earlier I had a bit of know how of the French customs. The form of salutation being a hug and kiss on the cheek. Fifi introduced me to BF and as was the custom he approached me to hug me..... and Fifi screeched a loud "STOP" (read that with a French accent). BF stopped mid stride ( well you have to start men on house training very early if you want them to respond to the orders).... he had this big question mark on his face.... he asked Fifi what the problem was..... Fifi's profound answer being "She's Indian". I am telling you my Indian sensibilities always desert me in stressful times. For the life of me I couldn't get the connection. I was as puzzled as BF. So Fifi elaborated "You can't kiss her as she's Indian and they don't kiss". BF, the poor chap had no knowledge of India (probably only knew the latitude and longitude) went red in the face. It was then that I realised how good it is to be dark skinned. However embarrassed you are it doesn't show (after that I never touched Fair and lovely.... and after I told my friends this episode fair and lovely lost quite a few clients and devotees). Here I was in a Sita like situation wanting the earth to open up and swallow me but it didn’t show on my face at all, while BF’s face resembled a ripe strawberry.
There was another moment when BF went all fire engine red. Fifi, BF and I visited Lille. When we reached there we spent a long time searching for a car park. Finally we parked and when we went to the apartment, I saw a huge car park right in front of the building. I was surprised at having parked at a distance (cos it was very cold and my Indian bones had still not acclimatized and I was shivering, and after having braved the cold, I was a bit put off that BF had not used the car park close to the building). So I definitely did have to voice my question…. Which I did very politely and BF’s reaction was resembling a strawberry… finally when he got back to being TFH he told me that the car park opposite was used as a pick up site by gays. So he didn’t want to park there. In the 80’s I wasn’t even aware if there were any gays in Mumbai….. and imagine having a pick up site for them in France or rather in Lille which was small town compared to Paris….. really the difference between a developed and a developing nation has never been brought to me so starkly. As is said that whatever happens in a developed nation happens in a developing nation after about a 10-15yr gap, they were already out of the closet so to say where as I wasn’t even aware whether the closet existed in Mumbai. After that I kept my counsel about asking BF embarrassing questions and enjoyed my stay in Paris.
It was an enchanting 2 weeks for me. This was the time I fell in love with the very Bohemian Mont Martre. It’s my dream that someday I can go there armed with an easel and different colour mediums and of course with a bottle of lovely dry white wine and paint La Guee Paris in all it’s splendour. I just love the view from Mont Martre.
Getting back to Mumbai I would regale my family with anecdotes from my visit. Once I was visiting my uncle. He had a friend who had also visited Europe around the time I was there. This man was in his 40’s. He had also been an FOB as this had been his first trip to foreign shores. He was telling my uncle how things were in Europe and then he said when he was in Paris all he heard everywhere was (this conversation took place in Marathi so here goes) “Chakchuk chakchuk”… so my uncle was puzzled. He asked him what he meant by that. His friend replied that anywhere and everywhere he looked he would see people kissing/smooching etc(which certainly bothered his Indian sensibilities as the generation then was used to being shown two flowers meeting up instead of the hero and the heroine enjoying a romantic clinch). My uncle looked at me and said but she never told us about that. All eyes were on me and I felt as if I had been caught coming out of a cinema after watching an adult film. Very clinically I explained the rules of kissing in France as explained to me by Fifi. If you are just introduced to a person then on parting you give one kiss on the cheek….. if you meet up again and you have started knowing the person socially… 2 pecks on the cheek… on becoming better acquainted 3 pecks and if you become very good friends then 4 pecks. If you want to check this out all you do is take a metro ride. When a station approaches the sooner you hear the kissing sound the better friends they are… otherwise it’s just a peck and off the train :) I thanked my stars that this person had not visited the Latin quarter. Otherwise the poor chap would have been rendered speechless and had he mentioned the scene I would have had another Sita experience.
So here I end the story of my French connection. Hope you guys haven’t dropped off…. And if you are reading this line then you haven’t ,so I must thank you for bearing with me thus far. :)