My Favourite Short Story

I was introduced to Richard Brautigan years ago by way of this evocative piece on a man visiting his ex. I return to the sadness, the loneliness and the stubbornness in that piece quite often but in happier moments, I have another favourite. This one from Richard Brautigan’s Revenge of the Lawn

I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone

I was trying to describe you to someone a few days ago. You don’t look like any girl I’ve ever seen before. I couldn’t say “Well she looks just like Jane Fonda, except that she’s got red hair, and her mouth is different and of course, she’s not a movie star…”

I couldn’t say that because you don’t look like Jane Fonda at all.

I finally ended up describing you as a movie I saw when I was a child in Tacoma Washington. I guess I saw it in 1941 or 42, somewhere in there. I think I was seven, or eight, or six.

It was a movie about rural electrification, a perfect 1930’s New Deal morality kind of movie to show kids. The movie was about farmers living in the country without electricity. They had to use lanterns to see by at night, for sewing and reading, and they didn’t have any appliances like toasters or washing machines, and they couldn’t listen to the radio. They built a dam with big electric generators and they put poles across the countryside and strung wire over fields and pastures.

There was an incredible heroic dimension that came from the simple putting up of poles for the wires to travel along. They looked ancient and modern at the same time.

Then the movie showed electricity like a young Greek god, coming to the farmer to take away forever the dark ways of his life. Suddenly, religiously, with the throwing of a switch, the farmer had electric lights to see by when he milked his cows in the early black winter mornings. The farmer’s family got to listen to the radio and have a toaster and lots of bright lights to sew dresses and read the newspaper by.

It was really a fantastic movie and excited me like listening to the Star Spangled Banner, or seeing photographs of President Roosevelt, or hearing him on the radio “… the President of the United States… “

I wanted electricity to go everywhere in the world. I wanted all the farmers in the world to be able to listen to President Roosevelt on the radio….

And that’s how you look to me.

That Powdered Baby Smell

I can’t figure why Kiki smells the way she does. I call it the “powdered baby” smell. Powdered as in Johnson & Johnson's baby powder. But that’s not entirely what it is. She also smells of my mom and grandma. Of bureaus with lifebuoy soaps, vetiver and the morning sun caught in the freshly laundered cotton. I even dragged her to the vet - Is this an infection? Why does she smell of comfort? We came up with nothing.

A friend once described his puppy’s breath as the fragrance of pink grapefruit. I looked at him funny then but I think I know what he was talking about. Kiki smells of Mama- disapproving looks, 10 PM bedtime reminders, 6 AM alarms, a comforting cuddle et al.

Under the Same Sky

You broke the ocean in half to be here. 
Only to meet nothing that wants you.
– immigrant
salt. nayyirah waheed

We are stepping out of the movie theatre after watching Captain America. As I hand over my 3D glasses, I catch snatches of Arabic. Three young men, in Adidas tracks + baggy tees are standing there talking to the staff. All that my biased ears can hear is the start of an argument. 

I am instantly transported to 16th Street, Bur Dubai. Mom and I walking back from Ms Feriyal’s, my Arabic tuition teacher’s and the taunts of “Aye Hindi!” from tall, oh-so-tall and obese young Arabs following us all the way till we reach home. Don’t show fear, I tell myself. Look down, don’t look into their eyes to confront, walk calmly but not too quick. And that’s how I walk out of the theatre.

It’s past midnight. Now there’s just 5 of us in the narrow corridor between the exit from the cinema and the mall entrance. I hear one of the 3 Arab guys asking the other to hurry. “If I’m late, my mother will kill me.”

And just like that we are all the same: young, stupid and afraid of the wrath of waiting mothers.

#4 Rain Tree Albizia saman

Every time I see a Rain Tree, I’m overcome by an urge to run into its arms. Hug it and just be. I met this sturdy grandmotherly presence on Bangalore’s roads, so majestic with its tangled arms holding up the sky. It is said Simon Bolivar camped his entire liberation army under the “Saman de Guerra” near Maracay, Venezuela. 

If you’ve taken a walk in the newly paved avenues of Bangalore, you’ll also notice their seed pods immortalised in the tar. Roads may wash away but these pods remain a perennial bumpy presence. 

It has puffy pink silky flowers which are easy to miss till it rains or the sun sets earning it the name pukul lima (five o'clock tree in Malaysia). The leaves fold in “sleep” and these pink beauties stand tall. 

I can see how this tree can be easily mistaken for the Albizia julibrissin, the Silk Tree or the Pink Siris. I’ve often wondered how I’d be able to tell the difference and the answer lies in the leaves. The saman has larger droopier leaves. The julibrissin on the other hand has characteristic mimosa leaves. Tiny tamarind-like leaves, that look very similar to the touch-me-nots on the roadside. Interestingly, both trees belong to the pea/legume family and have light sensitive leaves.

There are other Mimosas to be had: I’ve been looking for an Albizia lebbeck (Indian Siris) for the longest time and I recently found one in Delhi! For now, I’m focusing on Bangalore. Dilli dur ast. 

waiting for the cheque to clear

What an odd, romantic time it is,
if you remember not to panic.
How many times has money almost
driven you mad?
You only need spices to throw in the bowl
you only need flour to make some kind of bread and maybe somebody to
lie in the dark with. Somebody’s hands to touch.
- Yrsa Daley-Ward, bone

Found this beautiful gif via The Alipore Post.

So Old

I think of my Grandpa’s 94 years (his age frozen to the day he died) and wonder what it must be like to be so, so old - born in one century, living and lying in wait in another. 

It must be moles and watching the spittle fly as you chew your food. It’s counting wrinkles on the hand and the teeth left in the mouth before the grandchildren come home. How many more Cadbury bars before I die? 

Whiskey for apple juice, apple juice for whiskey. Something to keep the blood flowing while the soul slowly winters. The toenails are curling into the skin and the skin at the ankle is now an itch. The veins are splotches of red and blue and purple where your hands can’t reach. 

It’s pillow talk till the eyes dim when the lights are still ablaze. It’s cobwebs in the hair and musty sandwiches and little kittens gnawing. Now at the bread crumbs and now your toes. 

The politics of food

With all this furore around beef eating, I’m reminded the ire and disgust I experienced first-hand around pork eating when I was all of 7 years old. Mind you, as children we are mostly clueless about the politics of food, religion and other man-made mythologies. 

In Dubai, Social Studies right up till Grade 8 involved studying about the history and geography of the UAE. It being an Islamic country there was a lot of emphasis on the halal and the haram. During this class, just before we left for lunch, we were talking about the food habits of my subcontinental classmates - Pakistanis, Indians and Bangladeshis - and pork, in particular.

We had a Muslim teacher - Mrs Suhaila - who taught us Social Studies in Grade 2 and the majority of the students were Muslim. Suddenly out of the blue, the teacher called me out and declared “Joylita is a Christian. Tell us, do you eat pork at home?” 

That was it. The class broke out into a series of gagging noises, how can you’s  and also some curiosity around how we ate it, why we ate it. Saiqa and Ahmed, my two best friends, who incidentally happened to be Pakistani Muslims didn’t let me live this down for the next week. 

We didn’t speak about alcohol, thankfully. That saved me from the horror that would have been explaining drinking wine as the blood of Christ and possibly, further indoctrination of the otherwise blissfully ignorant 7 year olds. 

We are what we (say we) eat.

Ma

 aratikumarrao writes about a lady she met in Rajasthan:

I met a lady that day. 
She seemed glad to see me. We got chatting. I asked her what she liked most to cook. She couldn’t understand the question. I asked again, of all the things she knows to make, what does she enjoy most. What would she make for herself? She fell silent and smiled. Clearly unsure.

A Brahmin standing nearby translated my question into marwari, and repeated in hindi. Then she said, “i dont know. Anything you ask me to make.”

That day they asked her to make a over a hundred rotis for a puja. 
#traildiaries

With that one nugget, Arati explained my mother to me.

If I ask my mother what is the one thing she’d want, she’s sure to say “I want my daughter to get married” or “My daughter should settle down” or something along those lines. Her happiness, her wants are not her own. 

Where there was a deep dislike for this pathological habit of appropriation, now there’s only understanding. Her dreams were not hers - they’re my father’s, her mother’s, mine. I see her now as a woman whose ambitions and hobbies all rolled into one and she couldn’t tell one from the other. 

I don’t know the woman who’s also my mother. I only know Mom, the “brown/yellow woman, fingers smelling always of onions.” 

#3 Gulmohar ~ Delonix regia

This is the tree I’d call Flame of the Forest only to realize very recently that that one is a different tree. This one’s just good ol’ Gulmohar or simply Flame Tree. Its name finds its origins in Persian: gul rose, flower + muhr seal. I love the Gulmohar’s distant cousin the Peacock flower a teeny-weeny bit more but I’ll leave my paeans to the red-peach-yellow flowers for another time.

When I tried to photograph the Gulmohar lined streets of Indiranagar, I almost got pulled over by the cops who’d parked themselves right under a tree near Toit. Never ones to be short on self-importance, they thought I was photographing them! 

Earlier today in Frazer Town, I saw a man with a henna’d beard the color of gulmohar blossoms standing against a majestic Albizia Saman. All I could think of after that was funeral pyres, bonfires and the castor plants on fire by the railway line yesterday- licks of fire jumping out to touch the sky and then just as quickly the grey smoke as if the ice blue coldness of had killed the fire’s ambition. Slow down you crazy child, you’re so ambitious for a juvenile.

I’m not alone in waxing poetic about these fireballs reaching for the sky. Sarojini Naidu couldn’t stop herself from writing a poem In Praise of Gulmohar Blossoms either: 

What can rival your lovely hue
O gorgeous boon of the spring?
The glimmering red of a bridal robe,
Rich red of a wild bird’s wing?
Or the mystic blaze of the gem that burns
On the brow of a serpent-king?

What can rival the valiant joy
Of your dazzling, fugitive sheen?
The limpid clouds of the lustrous dawn
That colour the ocean’s mien?
Or the blood that poured from a thousand breasts
To succour a Rajput queen?

What can rival the radiant pride
Of your frail, victorious fire?
The flame of hope or the flame of hate,
Quick flame of my heart’s desire?
Or the rapturous light leaps to heaven
From a true wife’s funeral pyre?

Photo Credits: My friend Les shoots plants and flowers very well. The up close and personal shots of Gulmohar are by Les. 

#2 Queen’s Crepe Myrtle ~ Lagerstroemia speciosa

Everywhere else in the world this tree with popsicle-like mauve, lavender, lilac, pink, shades of purple & pink flowers is called Queen’s Crepe Myrtle or simply Crepe Myrtle. It gets its widely known name from the crepe paper-like crinkly texture of the flowers. 

I read somewhere that this tree’s flowers are red during the day and purple at night. Walking around EGL in bright daylight today - in the 3 pm sun - I saw these trees swaying in all their purpleific glory. Whatever they were doing at night, they’re now during it bright daylight. (You’ve been warned.)

Oh, another thing. We in India call it the Pride of India and the Postal Department even issued a stamp in its honor in 1993. Indonesia however does a better job with the visualization. So pretty, no?

#1 Red Frangipani ~ Plumeria rubra

I met the ruby red frangipanis for the first time when I joined 247 last year. I’d only ever met the white with yellow centers champa flowers before this, the White Frangipani Plumeria alba. This is a central courtyard where my manager and I’d have our meetings. Let’s not sit in stuffy meeting rooms, I’d plead. And so it was that conversations, one-on-one’s as they’re known in the corporate world would happen here. 

Wikipedia tells me that Frangipane/frangipani is derived from frangere il pane (Italian for “break the bread”), from which the noble Frangipani family of Rome derived its name in the 11th century. It is said a certain Frangipane was perfumer to Louis XIII of France, hence the common name Frangipani. Plumeria on the other hand is named in honor of the seventeenth-century French botanist Charles Plumier, who traveled to the New World documenting many plant and animal species.

I don’t visit the frangipani anymore but walking back from lunch today I noticed the tree reaching out to hug the sky - arms all tangled, ruby-red clawed.  

As a ten year old I wanted to be a gardener, florist, botanist in that order. I spent endless hours in my Grandma’s garden attempting to eat, grow and befriend everything that would make even a feeble attempt to find root in the red Mangalorean soil. There were begonias to taste, veggies and flowers to grow - carrots (very unsuccessful) to sweet potatoes (moderately successful) to button roses (wildly successful) - and trees to befriend. 

I find unbound joy when working with my hands, moulding and shaping things and then seeing the efforts bear fruit. Remembering that led me to rekindle my love for gardening last year by starting my own li’l organic veggie garden. Anything I find in my kitchen finds soil in my garden and then my undivided attention and smothering love as I cajole ‘em all to come out and see the sun.

A couple of weeks ago I was out for lunch at Fatty Bao with a few colleagues. One of them pointed to a tree and remarked how round the Jackfruits so high on those tree were. Only those were Breadfruit. That led to a round of a ‘Name the Trees’ and I was left thinking how long it’s been since I looked around with wonder. I’m the one who calls out names of trees when driving down roads (Hey, look African Tulip!) and picks up seedpods to touch. Where did that unbridled curiosity go? 

I spent the weekend reading about trees in Bangalore. That’s when I learned that the Flame of the Forest and Gulmohur are not the same trees. The tall noise reduction tree I’ve called the Ashoka Tree is actually the Fake Ashoka Tree! Despite spending many evenings walking under them, I still can’t tell the Albizia Saman from the Albizia Julibrissin. 

This is my attempt to fix all that. 

Kittens for Adoption in Bangalore

We have four kittens Chorizo, Yoga, Lily and Sherpa who are looking for loving homes here in Bangalore. Born on July 31st, the kittens are now 3 months old, potty-trained and completely weaned off their mommy, KitKat.

-

Chorizo also known as Zooey. Chorizo loves eating, sleeping and being carried and cuddled. He spends all his waking time grooming his BFF, Yoga.

Yoga Bear or Yoga is a sweet calm babygirl who loves stretching, meditating and striking poses on the treadmill. If you’re a lady who wears red nail paint, Yoga will love you instantly. 

Sherpa - this feisty li'l boy is a ball of energy. He loves belly rubs, a good meal and chasing Lily’s tail.

Lily is so named because she was the runt of the litter. She was the underdog, this spirited little bow-wow. But she’s a cat and she’s tiny so she’s Lilliput. Lily, for short. Lily and her forever companion Sherpa love the outdoors, chasing flies and tugging tails.

-

You can’t buy happiness but you can adopt it.

Origin Myths

Christopher Hitchens detailing out the Virgin birth myths in various world religions and mythologies (what's the difference again?):

Now the birth of Jesus Christ was in this wise. When his mother, Mary, was espoused to Joseph, before they came together she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.

Yes, and the Greek demigod Perseus was born when the god Jupiter visited the virgin Danae as a shower of gold and got her with child.

The god Buddha was born through an opening in his mother's flank.

Catlicus the serpent-skirted caught a little ball of feathers from the sky and hid it in her bosom, and the Aztec god Huitzilopochtli was thus conceived.

The virgin Nana took a pomegranate from the tree watered by the blood of the slain Agdestris, and laid it in her bosom, and gave birth to the god Attis.

The virgin daughter of a Mongol king awoke one night and found herself bathed in a great light, which caused her to give birth to Genghis Khan.

Krishna was born of the virgin Devaka.

Horus was born of the virgin Isis.

Mercury was born of the virgin Maia.

Romulus was born of the virgin Rhea Sylvia.

For some reason, many religions forced themselves to think of the birth canal as a one-way street, and even the Koran treats the Virgin Mary with reverence.

- Chris Hitchens, God is Not Great

Finding Vivian Maier

I spent my Saturday afternoon watching the documentary 'Finding Vivian Maier' about the mysterious yet intriguing street photographer Vivian Maier. 

Mysterious because publicly she worked as a children’s nanny but this intensely private reclusive woman was a prolific street photographer or as she once explained to someone when asked what she did, “a kind of spy.” This ‘strange’ French-accented lady left behind over 100,000 photographs, hundreds of films of life from the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s in Chicago, New York, a little village in France and of her 8 month tour around the world which took her all over S America, India, Egypt, etc. But here’s where all those adjectives begin to make sense: Almost none of her pictures had been exhibited or published during her lifetime.

Yes, everybody did see her walk around with a camera strung around her neck but almost all of her work was hidden away in storage till John Maloof, the director of the documentary, bought some negatives during an auction.

Most telling of all is the social attitude that the movie enshrines, and that you hear in the testimony of those who knew Maier in their youth. On the whole, they feel warmly disposed toward her, and all of them are pensive and polite, but none can quite believe that art, of a serious nature, was going on under their noses, and that the hired help, of all people, was responsible. They might almost be talking of a crime. The implication—and this was mid-twentieth-century America, not nineteenth-century Britain—is that Vivian Maier knew her mind, but somehow not her place. Near the start of the film, Maloof himself asks, “Why is a nanny”—he pauses for a brief laugh—“taking all these photos?” To which the only possible reply should be: Why not?
- Anthony Lane, The New Yorker

The rest, as they say, is history. 

"Why don't Americans love Mexicans?" asks Anthony Bourdain →

When I lived in LA, the downtown neighbourhood I lived in was full of Hispanics. It was most parts Americans and at the same time some parts, what Americans call, “ghetto-ish.” In that so much like India: litter on the street, street food stalls, mothers and fathers and children all talking loudly, aromas from the kitchen, and an abundance of quotidian gaiety. The aged were taken care of and the young got yelled at quite regularly. The younger generation however seemed caught up in the dichotomy of being Mexican and American. ABCM, if you may. 

Which is ok so long as they preserve the art of making Carnitas. 

Americans love Mexican food. We consume nachos, tacos, burritos, tortas, enchiladas, tamales and anything resembling Mexican in enormous quantities. We love Mexican beverages, happily knocking back huge amounts of tequila, mezcal and Mexican beer every year. We love Mexican people—as we sure employ a lot of them. Despite our ridiculously hypocritical attitudes towards immigration, we demand that Mexicans cook a large percentage of the food we eat, grow the ingredients we need to make that food, clean our houses, mow our lawns, wash our dishes, look after our children. As any chef will tell you, our entire service economy—the restaurant business as we know it—in most American cities, would collapse overnight without Mexican workers. Some, of course, like to claim that Mexicans are “stealing American jobs”. But in two decades as a chef and employer, I never had ONE American kid walk in my door and apply for a dishwashing job, a porter’s position—or even a job as prep cook. Mexicans do much of the work in this country that Americans, provably, simply won’t do. 

We love Mexican drugs. Maybe not you personally, but “we”, as a nation, certainly consume titanic amounts of them—and go to extraordinary lengths and expense to acquire them. We love Mexican music, Mexican beaches, Mexican architecture, interior design, Mexican films.

So, why don’t we love Mexico?

We throw up our hands and shrug at what happens and what is happening just across the border. Maybe we are embarrassed. Mexico, after all, has always been there for us, to service our darkest needs and desires. Whether it’s dress up like fools and get pass-out drunk and sun burned on Spring break in Cancun, throw pesos at strippers in Tijuana, or get toasted on Mexican drugs, we are seldom on our best behavior in Mexico. They have seen many of us at our worst. They know our darkest desires.

- Anthony Bourdain rips America a new Mexico-sized hole in an epic rant

Paintings of American Cities - Los Angeles, San Franciso, New York, Chicago - by Jeremy Mann in his series Cityscapes.

Gorgeous.

What I’m Lovin’ This Week - Saffron Trail’s Breaking Bread Workshop

I spent a good chunk of my Saturday morning watching and learning from Nandita while she expertly kneaded, pulled and coaxed flour, sugar, water and yeast to come together to make pillowy soft, perfectly crusted bread in various shapes, sizes and tastes.

My maternal grandpa’s family set up one of the first bakeries in Mangalore - Pinto’s Bakery. Not one to let down the family name, I decided I’d bake bread and carry forward the legacy that had skipped 2 generations. The business of baking bread had other plans for me - it never worked. The yeast didn’t froth, I could not figure out the kneading, the dough never doubled in size. Everything that could wrong, went wrong.

Then I saw Nandita’s tweet and had an epiphany: I should just attend one of her Breaking Bread workshops. 

On the menu were five different breads that we were going to bake over the course of the four hour class. The Mumbai Laadi Pav was a bread everyone seemed to be excited about - who doesn’t love a good bhaji with some perfectly crusted pav? The pizza was to die for - the base and  the sauce were homemade and the toppings, homegrown. It cannot get anymore fresh and delicious than that. Till you meet the cinnamon rolls, the loaf of bread and foccacia, that is. 

I loved how organised everything about the workshop was - right from the email we received a day before that asked about allergies and told you what to get along (yourself, an apron and a box to take home some yummy goodies) to the manner in which the workshop itself was conducted. It was step-by-step recipes, detailed instructions about things that some would dismiss as trivial (how does one measure out 2 cups of flour?) and demystification of various processes by way of science all the way through.

Nandita is a fun teacher - patient, engaging and generous with her knowledge. Her sense of humour and the insights, tips and tricks she shares will keep you hooked. One minute she’s telling you about the Michael Pollan book she read “Don’t eat anything your grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food," the next about "yeast, the living organism” and then you catch her grinning away as she sneaks cointreau into the cinnamon rolls. 

Nandita conducts these series of workshops in her beautiful house with an enviable garden full of veggies and herbs in Whitefield. This multi-tasking lady who I’ve known for about four years via Twitter and only met for the first time on Saturday is quite a wonder-woman (as all Moms are?). She’s got something for everyone in the Saffron Trail Kitchen this year and it would do you good to dip in, indulge and learn a little:

- Put your Saturdays and holidays to good use and sign up for her Saffron Trail workshops on everything from baking bread, eggless desserts to fun salads 

- There’s a spanking new Youtube channel where she does her awesomesauce thing and shares recipes and #kitchenhacks. (See what I meant about being generous with her knowledge?)

- If you’ve been living under a rock: There’s the Saffron Trail blog that is an exhaustive collection of recipes covering everything from bread to tambram cuisine.

Under the Mangalorean Sun

Mangalore looks like one giant fractal when seen from the skies. Each smaller fractal unraveling itself as we get closer to the runaway. It’s coconut trees as far as the eye can see, dried up river beds and mud roads that no one drives on.

---

The menu for the week ahead has been decided on Sunday evening. Monday, stingray and dal with bimbli. Tuesday, shark. Wednesday, squid. Thursday, mango curry. Friday, shrimp. Saturday, chorizo. Sunday, pork offal. 

---

Monday morning, I understand first-hand why the parents are wary of the BJP in Mangalore. At the grassroots, BJP hasn’t distanced itself from their communal agenda that’s exclusively biased towards the Hindu voter.

BJP’s local wing came around to distribute voter’s slips but ignored our house. Mom called out, “We vote as well!” The nextdoor teen who was part of this brigade came by later to hand over the slips. His macho BJP gang would rather not woo Christian voters. 

---

Monday evening, there’s a light breeze but the stickiness of the Mangalorean heat never leaves. A choir of young girls accompanied by an amateur violinist are practising for the upcoming Easter mass, the hymns dotted with the staccatos of a piano being tuned. The leaves rustle, it’s the two birds that have made their nest in the shrubbery of the orange trumpet flowers coming in at the end of a long day. The air is filled with the distinctive aroma of a Mangalorean Chicken Curry being cooked. It’s an overwhelming mix of chicken fat, coconut milk and bafat powder.

In this tiny little neighbourhood, It’s hard to not drown in the “archipelago of tongues.” The incessant chirping of the birds that visit Dad’s garden only adds to this cacophony of languages.

It’s a Catholic neighbourhood there’s Konkani everywhere. Konkani is the tongue of emotion. Of love, prayer, anger, disgust, indignation and outrageous gossip. In the early morning rush of kids running to school, in the lunchtime menus and recipes exchanged over fences, it’s the evening rosary that’s a funereal wail.

Kannada is for the underlings and the strangers who deserve politeness. I can hear the househelps’ Bagalkot Kannada meet the local dialect. It’s the sound of delays in the housework, of risky propositions - clothes being hung out to dry when the sky is overcast with rain bearing clouds. It’s also the neighbourhood gossip cloaked as conversation. The polite stories of those who don’t matter are heard in Kannada. These will soon be repeated in Konkani. 

Tulu is for the overlords, the powerful and the friends from the alley when you’ve thrown back a few drinks and confidence has made way for arrogance. In its street avatar, it’s taunting and mocking. My untrained ear associates it with drunk men on the road. It’s brawn and brusque. Perhaps that’s why it’s also the language of comedies on Mangalore TV, those that are so reminiscent of PTV in the early 90’s. Its rough edges can only be softened by the kori roti that Pallavi and her Mom discuss in their sweet lilting Tulu.  

Wednesday evening, I can feel the smoke stinging my eyes before I can smell it. The neighbourhood is burning incense to ward off mosquitos. The next evening, the priest will burn it during mass and then wave it in the general direction of the crowd. Who said the Catholic rituals aren’t paganistic in their origin and intent?

---

We planned to get to the polling booth at 7 am. A neighbour tells us there are long queues and these well-laid plans are promptly pushed out to a less humid hour. We make it to the booth at 10.10 am. In under seven minutes, we’ve voted, got our fingers inked and made our way back to the car. If only this efficiency wasn’t limited to the national elections…

We soon find ourselves at Big Bazaar which is giving away 10% discounts to anyone who turns up at the counter with an inked finger. Wonder how many went in to vote just so they could avail this offer.

For lunch, the mother has made mango curry. No guessing which party she voted for. The mango is sweet, the gravy thickened with ground urad dal. Are warm sickly sweet mangos to be eaten in peak summers? I know I’d prefer a cold glass of mango juice. I can’t say these things out aloud lest they offend Mom who’s relishing every last drop of that gravy.

Keeping with the tone of the debates (outrage! outrage!) on Times Now, the dinner-time conversation moves towards the controversial handouts. One Christian lady in the neighbourhood brings home 10 kgs of rice for Rs 100 from the ration store. She feeds it to her dogs. Somebody else is buying dal and rice from teachers at schools that serve mid-day meals. 

Local entrepreneurship at its worst, we’re at our outraged best. It’s been less than 10 hours since most of my family voted for the Congress.

All through the week I’ve been babysitting the grandmother. It’s an easy sell: The parents don’t have to be embarrassed by my absence at church. It’s replaced by a sense of pride, the grand-daughter is caring for the grandmother. They use the word “saakri” to describe the simple act of spending time with my grandparents.  Saakri elevates care-taking to the level of dharma and karma. It’s what disciplined people with a conscience do - it’s a good deed and penance rolled into one.

Grandpa had stories from the time of independence and I had stories about food, alcohol and travel. I prefer Grandmother’s stories to the sermons delivered by sanctimonious celibate men in church. Unlike my grandpa, she would rather not use her intelligence when deferring matters to God. But that’s ok. I enjoy her company - my time with her is peppered with coffee, loads of delicious Mangalorean food that my Mom doesn’t make and lessons in Kannada. 

By Sunday evening, I was impatient to get back to Bangalore and stuff my face with ghee cake from Cochin Bakery. It will be 3 months before I visit Mangalore again. By then it will be monsoon and the rains fix everything. Almost.