NO Nonsense Chayaisms from the 80s…Spreading dosa culture

Spreading dosa culture

Chss sss ss..,. goes the sound in many a South Indian home during breakfast time. With a sleight of hand unique to a “Southy” housewife, a white liquid is spread on a black “tava”, which crackles with glee as she circles it with a spoonful of oil.

Little pores sprout in the white smooth surface before she flicks it on to a plate — the “dosa” is ready! For centuries, this has been the staple breakfast of millions of Swaminathans and Vishwanathans all over the world and is classed as a universal favourite.

The art of making a “dosa” is acquired over a period of time. The right combination of “dal” and rice” the paste ground to the desired smoothness and, finally, spread out to an aesthetically ap­pealing diameter uniformly thin — one of the first lessons in culinary expertise, taught to a young girl. When a girl has perfected this, she is ready for marriage. She must remember to spread the mixture clockwise or otherwise she may be widowed — so goes the legend!

When I was holidaying in Mussoorie, I had a perfectly made dosa in a “dhaba” run by Sher Singh. Intrigued by his mastery, I was told that Sher Singh spent 10 years in the galleys of Udupi restaurants in Bangalore and Mangalore and set up shop only after he was certified by connoisseurs that his dosas were authentic!

In Mysore, in one of the quiet by lanes, there is an eating house where you are treated to “set” dosas — four piping hot ones served on a green banana leaf and topped with coconut chutney. Students and office-goers haunt this place which has retained its identity for sheer quality.

As you motor your way up the winding path fringed with lush greenery to the Nilgiris, you stop by at Gundalpet and have a paper dosa which is two ft long. The ideal way to eat this will be to tear off alternate pieces from the left and right and meet in the centre. Only an expert will be able to go through the whole thing before it cools!

In his composition class, my six- year-old nephew was asked to write an essay on “three national things” — he listed the lotus, the flag and dosa! He substantiated the last one by saying that only when he brought “dosa” for lunch, all his friends clamoured for a share!

Going by his logic I made a mental note of the people around me when I went to eat at “Woodlands” — sure enough there were Gujaratis, Maharashtrians, Bengalis, Punjabis, Parsis, Muslims and Christians all eating the same thing — dosa The only variety in it was that some preferred the exotic “butter masala” while some settled for the humble “sada”!

As my neighbour — an incurable dosa eater — says, Dosa making is not a mere activity — it’s a culture!

NO Nonsense Chayaisms from the 80s..Our national trait

                                                                 Our national trait  

SOME say it is spitting while others swear it is communal rioting. Though the two cannot be ruled out, there are some predominant preferences of the Indian, which place him in a unique category vis-a-vis human counterparts all over the world. Here are some of them:

Forming Committees: Richard Harkness sums up a ‘Committee’ as a “group of the unwilling, picked from the unfit, to do the unnecessary.” “How aptly said! Whether it’s a service club or Government department or educational or social institution, we come across umpteen committees. The members who form these are more interested in the protocol and powers that go with the association and the outcome is hardly important. Committee meets are noted for their ‘sound and fury signifying nothing’ with hours being wasted on ‘minutes’. What one person can decide cannot be done, ten people will ‘deliberate on, for hours’ and conclude.

Holding felicitation functions: Deep down in their hearts, they cry murder, but the guy who has won an award must be felicitated! It’s the done thing. So, there’s a gala- function and the convener of the function will mobilise a reluctant audience, arrange for a chief guest and other paraphernalia. He will line up a few speakers to say nice things about the guy to be felicitated and the function begins. The whole procedure will sound like an obituary column and conducted in great solemnity. In a droning voice, the president will read out the man’s biography, highlighting his achievements and leaving out his darker side. The various speakers come on to the dias and add their flowery tributes to the ‘wreath’ and soon, one gets the feeling that the man should be in heaven and not on earth — what with all his superlative qualities!

Garlanding Guests: Ministers and chief guests are greeted with garlands at the drop of a hat. People vie with each other to get there first and the ADC’s or PA’s stand by to collect the garlands and perhaps, sell them at 50 per cent discount, back to the florist. Not being content with garlanding VIP’s, we scramble atop statues, and travel on cranes to “offer floral tribute” to heroes dead and gone but kept alive year after year. At wedding receptions, guests carry garlands for the already overloaded bride and groom.

Besides flowers, there are garlands made of silk cocoons, sandal shavings, cardamom and other exotica. These are for keeps to collect dust and revive memories in old age and oblivion!

Seating dignitaries on the dais: and making them self-conscious. It is a common sight at meetings to see a galaxy of dignitaries crowding the dias. What their role is, no one knows. They look bored and sleepy each time a speaker addresses all of them before embarking on a lengthy treatise on a subject. They suppress yawns, resist the urge to scratch their neck or blow their nose and try to look intelligent while they are dying to be in the cloak.’

Lighting lamps: Nothing begins without this traditional ritual. A good looking female holds a tray with a ‘diya’ and flowers and kum kum, while ten superfluous characters hang around the large brass lamp and looking very concerned, while the chief guest gingerly lights the flame. There is a deafening round of applause, like a great feat has been achieved and everyone looks relieved. Whether it’s a seminar on computers or contraceptives, this lamp is the common factor.

But of course, the best loved of all these ‘tamashas’, is the ‘shraddanjali’ session held for every national hero who dies. More somber than the felicitation function, but more or less, along the same lines, this is something we Indian’s wallow in — it’s only our love for the morbid that keeps us from laughing!

NO Nonsense Chayaisms from the 80s…Terrorists at home

Terrorists at home

 “MUMMY,” said my six year-old. “what is the meaning of terrorists and extremists?” That stumped me and I hurried to look them up in the dictionary.

I patiently explained to him that an extremist is one who carries ideas foolishly too far while a ter­rorist is one who tries to frighten people into doing what he wants,

“You mean papa is a terrorist?”

“Well ” I hesitated, “not exactly, he only wants you to do what he says.”

“You mean he does not use machine-guns and hide in your puja room?”

“Yes,” I said brightly, “see, papa is not a terrorist. All terrorists have machine-guns and hide inside temples. “They have to be flushed out”

“But,” he asked perplexed.” “You flush out only in the ba­throom, not in the temple.”

This was getting too thick for me. Actually, it’s my own fault. I am one of those with a fetish for the English language and urge my son to read the paper aloud. Fed with headlines on terrorists and extremists, it has become his staple diet.

The other day I heard him tick his brother off saying, “Chinko, you are an extremist and I’ll flush you out of this house.” Not to be outdone, Chinko said, “I’ll gun you down.” “How can you? I’ll hide in mama’s puja room.Then I’ll come and flush you out.”

“OK children,” I intervened. It was getting too far. I mean, I did not mind the little ones trying to ape Rakesh Sharma in his weight­lessness and bumping into the cof­fee table; I tolerated their making a mountain out of the mattresses and pillows and climbing them, like the Everest expedition: I was patient with them when they pretended to be Hindu and Muslim and forced garlands made out of their sandals, on each other; I tried not to look horrified, when they set fire to their cousin’s doll, saying that they were burning the mother-in-law for a change and was so pleased when they pinned improvised medals on each other as awards for gallantry.

But this pre-occupation with ex­tremist and terrorist jargon was going beyond the limit. Now I’ve become wiser. I don’t insist on them reading the paper. Instead I encourage them to read Amarachitrakatha to imbibe the qualities of the heroes of mythology.

“Mummy,” said Chinko other day, “Is Lord Vishnu terrorist?”

“No dear, why do you ask.”

“Because, he frightened Lord Bali into doing what he wants, by becoming big — as big as the sky.”

“Now, darling,” I chided gently, “You are being an extremist by carrying this foolishly too far.

I guess it will take the little ones a long time to flush these two words, out of their system!

No Nonsense Chayaisms from the 80s…Of meddling mums / broken marriages

                                         Of meddling mums / broken marriages

 Marriages are quite often broken by in­terfering mothers! They hate to let go their hold on their birds and want to clip their wings at every stage.

Let’s tackle the man’s mother first. Her dearest wish is to see her son married and she takes a lot of trouble finding the right bride for him. Once the bride enters the home, she is subjected to various restrictions. Mum-in-law frowns on her ‘bahu’ locking herself up with her hubby and advises her to be more discreet.

“You know how people talk!” The other day Mausi had come in the afternoon and you were with my son in the bedroom. Mausi was shocked! She kept saying ‘Aaj kal ki bahuein don’t have any sharam’. So, please don’t do things like that again”!

The poor girl has no choice but to spurn her amorous hubby’s advances next time. This ex­tends to outings in the evenings, mode of dress, everything. The husband wants his wife to dress in the latest outfits, cut her hair and look glamorous and go out with him. But what will ‘Mausi’ say — or so the mother couches her own objection! This is to make sure her son does not blame her! Soon the poor boy feels' frustrated, and starts admiring other well dressed women and blames his wife for her old-fashioned outlook.

The wife’s mother contributes in another way. She keeps advising the daughter to have her own way with hubby and gives tips on how to go about it. “Tell your husband not to smoke” or “Why should you be hospitable to his relatives” or “Put your mother-in-law in her place” ... all this can interfere in the smooth sailing of an otherwise happy marriage.

Women have this perverted tendency of not wanting to see other women happy. In 99 per cent of cases, it is the female relatives who create problems in a wedding. “Arre! What a church mouse you have chosen for a daughter-in-law! Not even a pair of diamond earrings!” “What a sparse collection of silver vessels”! “No furniture! Not even a dressing table?’¹ They go on and on.

They don’t realize that they are in no way affected by the bride bringing bounty with her or not. Naturally, the mother gets upset as she feels her ‘nak’ has been cut in her circle of relatives. Even though she herself does not aspire for much, she succumbs to the com­ments and starts tormenting the poor girl.

Mothers should realise that they wield a lot of influence on their children’s psyche — and channelise it, rather than exploit it. Educated bridegrooms meekly submit to the machina­tions^- of their mothers and though they don’t believe in accepting dowry are forced to, all because the mother emotionally blackmails the son. Feeling too weak to protest and hurt her, he slinks away to wear his sherwani. After all, the poor boy has to stick by his mother who has sacrificed so much for him!

Let’s not blame the men. If there is a demand for kerosene and matchboxes, it’s thanks to scheming and sharp-tongued women. They don’t want to loosen the knot in the apron string. They want to have their daughter-at- law and eat her(or roast) too!