It’s on the tip of my mind!

For most things irrelevant (and irreverent) I have an excellent memory – almost photographic. But when it comes to names it falls embarrassingly short. So very often, a friend, an acquaintance, a relative will bump into me, faces will light up in mutual recognition and the other will say, ‘Hi, Wendy, how are you?’ and I will respond appropriately while all the time searching frantically in the attics of my mind for the name that matches the face. Sometimes, I do come up with a name but invariably it is the wrong one – a name for a sister, a brother or a lookalike!

Friends soon got to know and helped me out by stating their name clearly as in, ‘Hi, Wendy, Elaine, how are you?’ What a relief! But for the most part, I am left groping, and so I employ a defense mechanism – I develop an association, a kind of mental image, with the name. Michael is an archangel, Rose is a flower, Oscar as in the awards, Clementine as in the song, Caesar is a Roman emperor, Patrick is definitely Irish, Henry is, metaphorically speaking, the one with six wives, and so on. This works well when you are speaking of the person to a third party, because you have time to flip through the album of all the ‘pictures’ you have created. But when you are confronted by the person and require instant recall, the situation can still be fraught.

I could never remember our Parish Office Assistant’s name. I knew it, but I could never remember it. So, I created a word picture (as usual) and the association was with an American President. One day, when I was in the office with him, I was going through the mental list: Lincoln Abraham (no), Washington George (no), Adams John (no), Jefferson Thomas (no), Jackson Andrew (no) – oh dear! And then I hit it. Of course! Franklin as in Benjamin and Roosevelt! So happy was I that I exclaimed aloud, ‘That’s it! Franklin!’ The office assistant, who had his nose in the Parish register, jumped out of his seat: ‘What happened?’ Sheepishly, I replied, ‘Nothing. I just remembered your name.’ Frequent encounters ensure that I no longer have a problem when I meet him, but he always gives me a wary smile, nevertheless.

Now that I am older, memory lapses are more acceptable and I take full advantage, ‘Take pity on my grey hair, and remind me once again, your name is?’ Being a senior citizen allows for discounts in more than one area, as I am delighted to discover.

Now, where on earth did I leave my keys?

An Angel before Breakfast

Christmas is a time that resonates with angel presence and angel song. And ‘angel crochet’ too. Many moons ago, in preparation for the season, I had decided upon angels as my motif and was so delighted at the outcome that I broke out in print (I write better than I sing!). Once again, angels are the reason that I write.

Much has happened. Seasons have come and gone, and my lovely husband who so delighted in my crochet is no longer with me. Bereft of his presence and his enthusiasm for all things Christmas, I saw no reason to take up hook and needle. Nothing inspired. Nothing jogged mind or hand.

Till now.

A niece, struggling with a pattern, called for help. I read the instructions, thinking that a hint here or there might help to set her on track. But the directions intrigued me and, before I realised it, I had pulled out hook and thread and the angel formed beneath my hands – tiny, adorable, precious.

One angel completed. Then, almost without volition, a second joined the first and a third was well on its way, as my fingers moved automatically in remembered rhythm to form the stitches. I could see my husband’s eyes lighting up and feel his joy on being presented with these harbingers of Christmas, already present in summertime! I always needed to start this early to get my quota ready by December.

Once again, I sit in the early morning hours, cup of tea at elbow and hook and thread in hand. Each day, I will crochet an angel before breakfast while memories play back in my mind: memories at the same time happy and sad. And, while we cannot bring back the gladness of the past, we can take forward and share the remembered joy.

I am indeed indebted to angels – heavenly, human and crochet!

The picture in the frame

At four floors up, our hospital ward provides us a bird’s eye view of the surroundings. I use the phrase quite literally: two sets of pigeons are roosting on the AC fans outside the windows. One pair is sitting on eggs while the other is nursing two hatchlings. And, since hubby’s bed is near the window, we share the same lookout.

The view spans the hospital backyard and the by-lanes and buildings beyond. On the nearer horizon, is a wide and heavy gateway. Strong pillars support an ornate horizontal beam – too narrow to be a canopy, too broad to be termed a strip. And as the scenes of life unfold, this gateway provides a temporary surround to an ever shifting tableau.

Caught within the frame, today, were five schoolgirls, laden backpacks in place but uniforms askew, chatting animatedly. They were replaced by a young boy walking an exuberant puppy, the red of the collar and leash a bright contrast to the puppy’s firm cream coat. After a small hiatus, the ‘frame’ was filled by a man trundling a barrel on a handcart. He was succeeded by a gaggle of local matrons, gaudily attired in nylon saris, on their way to the shops in the maze of by-lanes that characterize the locality. A couple of nurses going off duty walk swiftly through. Two little boys persuade their bicycles forward, the training wheels providing unnecessary traction. A young man, eyes fixed on the paper in hand, pauses to get his bearings. He accosts a couple of gents entering ‘stage left’. A short conversation later, they go their divergent ways.

In the afternoon, the ‘frame’ remains empty. It casts a shadow on the road below, lending a watchful tranquility to this somnolent time of day. Even the inanimate deserves a siesta!

Come evening, the light fails gradually into sunset. In slow motion ‘still life’, the vegetable vendor lays out his produce, while sparrows peck at the seeds and leaves – their final scrounge for the day.

Each moment presents new pictures for the viewing, a little bit of detail against the larger canvas in the background and a welcome distraction from the ward within; it provides the opportunity to speculate and daydream and weave a little fiction of my own.

I have no talent with brush and paint, but if ever an artist needed inspiration, he – or she – would find it here; a sketch already composed and framed!

A Hospital Pause

Youth is arrogant about its health, flaunting the body perfect: candles can be burnt at both ends and still not run out. But, as encroaching age gathers momentum, we become more conscious of the candle’s dimming flame and are affronted by our failing bodies. Sometimes, the problem is simple and the cure is effected, but sometimes the problem does not have a solution and one is faced constantly by that unpalatable question, ‘Where do we go from here?” The most common and likely answer is, ‘The Hospital!’

The hospital room that hubby and I inhabited, as patient and caregiver, was shared strangely enough by both youth and age. Youth was impatient, eager to up and go, while age was resigned. After all, this was an expected pause in the journey.

S was 26 and from Bengal. A karigar (artisan), he was employed at Jhaveri Bazaar (the local version of a gold souk), to realise in gold the designs dreamed up and demanded by his boss’ clientele. He kept pacing up and down the ward, untethered by drip or tube, in a convalescent state which was not ‘dischargeable’. He missed his work and his companions. But most of all he missed his native food. And as he regaled us with tales of his village, heavily embellished with comparisons with Mumbai, his homesickness was very apparent. His greatest enemy? The mosquito that was responsible for landing him in this inhospitable place. The day he was discharged, he was incandescent with happiness. I was mightily surprised, therefore, to find him visiting the ward two days later. I teased him about the risk of running into Sister and her ‘bloodsucking syringe’, but he laughed and explained how he had sidled past her and hopped into the ward to visit his ‘new friends’. He spent the better part of the visiting hours with us, chatting about his hopes and plans and the world in general. He was one of the good news stories.

R was 24. He had to spend 12 days confined to his hospital bed because of a blocked nerve in his left leg. It had swollen to elephantine proportions. Daily injections in the stomach brought tears to his eyes, but apart from those twice a day teeth clenching sessions, he was a happy companion. We got to know him and his parents as his story unfolded. A commerce graduate with a penchant for Event Management, he was itching to get back to his social round. A native Maharashtrian, pleasant and articulate, he enjoyed the assurance of a well-loved first born son. Both parents came either together or in turn and fussed over him. The mother was shy and reticent, but the father was jovial and outgoing – genes obviously inherited by his son. R has since been discharged with a clean bill of health, a hefty hospital tab, and a list of precautions. The blood thinners he needs to take will require some circumspection. Still, youth is buoyant and his release was a matter of celebration – he distributed KitKat to his fellow patients! He was the other good news story.

Age was represented by hubby, of course, and a very dignified ex-military gentleman, who came in for an eye operation. He surveyed us out of his one good eye and offered us pertinent advice on how to go about our lives. Solemn and sincere, he delivered his homilies with the aplomb of a bishop. With great concern, he looked me over, enquired after the origin of my grey hair and gently advised me about various treatments. I thought it quite legitimate to be ‘salt and pepper’ at sixty. He thought I was much younger. I do love people who are temporarily afflicted with limited vision!

As for hubby, he was brought in because his condition had taken a turn for the worse and he has kept us engaged from predicament to predicament – a learning curve if ever there was one. At one point, he was so out of it that I panicked and so did the Ward Sister. The RMO visited, hummed and hawed, checked the pulse and promptly suggested an echo-cardiogram. Hubby was heaved off his bed and wheeled to the ‘Echo and Stress Test’ Room, comatose for the most part. When the procedure was over, we rode the elevator back to the ward and, all of a sudden, hubby woke up quite cheerfully to his surroundings.

Apparently, the journey on the gurney had a reviving effect!

An AI in an EI Kitchen – Part IV

My introduction to fish was a happy one. I encountered it filleted, flaked, crumbed and fried as in Bird’s Eye Fish Fingers (are they still around?). Fish was delicious, Fish smelt good. Fish came in neat cardboard cartons out of a deep freeze. There was no connect between the aquarium and the meal on my plate.

Fast forward twenty years or so to when I stepped into the EI kitchen and discovered that fish was on the daily menu: every denizen of the deep was fair game. And so I was introduced, in quick succession, to Parkat (Sting ray), Mushi (Shark), Rawas (Salmon) Surmai (Mahaseer), Cupar (Eel or Tuna), Catfish, Ghol (Croaker), Bombil (Bombay Duck), Bhangda (Mackerel) and a whole lot more from the elite Pomfret to the guttersnipe Newtie. And how can one forget the shellfish? Prawns, shrimp, crabs, lobsters, oysters, clams were expensive in comparison but still added their presence to the meal. Each fish was allotted its own masala ranging from red, hot and sour to yellow, to green to reddish brown or brownish red – the ingredients were selected so as to enhance the particular flavour of the fish. Some fish were good for frying, others for stuffing, yet others for curry and some for baking and cutlets.

The fish was still delicious but there was one catch: it had to be fresh! Hello, Indian Fish Market.

My first visit was an education. There sat the women, buxom of build, laden with gold, hair slicked to a shine, baskets brimming with different kinds of piscatorial fare. A stone slab and a mean looking sickle completed the picture. There was a time honoured process involved in the purchase: examine the freshness of the fish by pressing the gills and checking the eyes, then haggle over the price, then sidestep the flying scales, fins and other incidental debris and avoid the ubiquitous cats. All this while being overpowered by the aroma of fresh, not so fresh and some quite stale fish and discarded entrails. It was also tough to avoid the puddles of ‘fish water’ and you undertook the homeward journey trying hard to avoid the accusatory glances of other commuters. Buying fish was not for the fainthearted. Neither was cleaning them – fish always seem to be caught while enjoying their own last meal!

I soon learned the useful trick of sending hubby to buy the fish. The fisher-women loved him and a few became his ‘fast friends’ hailing him as soon as he entered the market and producing for him the best of their stock. He would come home with a lot more than he bargained for, but since the fish was fresh and cleaned to perfection he was readily forgiven: we could look forward to a weekend table laden with the ocean’s bounty.

Those fisher-women with their lively banter and occasional invective are now long gone. The present generation is not so amiable in plying the trade and fish is sold at ‘fixed price only’, take it or leave it. The up-market housewife has also been responsible for the introduction of ready to cook ‘fresh’ fish delivered to the door. The trawler companies are finding it convenient to cut out the middle woman.

Fish is no longer on our daily menu, but when it does make its appearance, we remember the time when the trip from market to table could be quite an odyssey!

An AI in an EI Kitchen – Part III

Bottle Masala: I first met hat EI staple in all its pungent, fiery splendour when the annual quota was in production at Mum-in-law’s home.

As I ascended the stairs, my nostrils started tickling and the heady aroma grew stronger as I neared the kitchen. There, in the center of the large dining table, in an enormous steel thali (rimmed tray cum plate) sat this tall, sprawling heap of freshly roasted and ground masala. Hubby’s Mum and sister were busy filling the powder into narrow necked bottles using sawn off funnels and a wooden baton to tamp the masala down, packing it so tightly that subsequent removal would require a lot of friendly persuasion (I use a knitting needle or chopstick which is tucked away safely in my kitchen drawer)! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Hubby, following me, sniffed the air, did an about turn and trotted down the lane double quick. I thought he was chicken. But he returned in ten minutes flat, with a plastic bag of ‘hot, hot’ potato wafers, fresh out of the fat, from the neighbourhood ‘chip shop’. The wafers were emptied onto a plate, a generous pinch of fresh bottle masala sprinkled on top and, presto, he had the perfect accompaniment to his bada chhota peg (a large, small whisky!).

I think that the true test of an EI is the ability to face the freshly prepared masala without having to emulate a masked highwayman. I needed to live down quite a few twitches in the olfactory canals before I got accustomed to the condiment. That first occasion certainly had a salutary effect on my sinuses – never before or after did I have such a clear nose!

Now, I can face the bottle with equanimity. I can even sniff and tell whether the content is good, bad or indifferent. And I use it generously in my own cooking. The proof as always is in the curry: if the colour and taste turn out right, you have the perfect product.

Mum-in-law’s generation always made their own quota from a carefully guarded family recipe. Thankfully, the quota included a daughter-in-law’s needs as well. Slowly but surely, the number of people making the authentic EI Bottle Masala is dwindling. Will the pizza popping generation, who prefer the instant meal, still need the magic ingredient? I cannot say. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope that it will be available to me till my time runs out.

It will be a sad day indeed when this very desirable flavour becomes just a memory.

Delicate Yellow

I scattered some mustard seed and look at what I’ve got!

Some of my plants had outgrown their homes and new pots were called for. I picked up three instead of the needed two. The spare pot took care of the leftover mud and manure and sat on the grille – a daily reminder that I needed to visit the local nursery.

Prompted by the many biblical references that kept cropping up, I thought, ‘Why not scatter some mustard seed and see what happens?’ Every Indian kitchen possesses mustard seeds which go into a number of dishes and so I fetched a handful and scattered it over the surface of the wet mud. Daily watering and much patience saw a few tentative shoots poking through. They looked so fragile that I did not expect them to survive. But they grew – delicately and long – sending out green leaves every now and then. And then, yesterday morning, I spotted the buds. Today, the tiny bright yellow blooms greeted the sun and me.

So delicate, so delightful, so rewarding!