The woman in the picture

She sits on the ground in the front row. Her hair is neatly parted to the left and tidily draped with her sari.  Her eyes are focused away from the camera- not exactly to the ground, but inward as if she were contemplating the future.

(My grandmother is in the white sari with the dark border, her head covered,  in the front row, fifth from the left)

I have often looked at the picture and wondered what she is thinking of. In her eyes, the set of her mouth, the way she holds her arm on her lap I see glimpses of a cousin or an aunt or a fleeting likeness to my mother. She is my grandmother, my mother’s mother.

But in the picture, she is not. She is just a young woman, beginning her life. So many dreams, so many hopes, so much potential. There will be six children, so many grandchildren- but of course she does not know yet. Maybe she is focused on the more immediate Quit India Movement, or some political meeting she will attend where she will meet the tall, handsome freedom fighter she is going to spend her life with. Or maybe she contemplates the intricacies of Math or Logic from a lesson not long ago. Maybe her mind lingers on some philosophical discussion she had with her peers. Or perhaps her mind is engaged with the more mundane, some forgotten chore or other.

I have no way of knowing. She died a long time ago, when I was eight. All I really have is this picture and one other and disconnected memories. Memories of a UNICEF birthday card sent every December. Memories of her threatening to tie me and my cousin up if we continued bothering our mothers. And then a half-seen shadow in the room on the roof after she was gone - I just knew it was her- maybe I was thinking of her.

I try to look for glimpses of her when I look into the mirror, but I do not see any. I suppose the fraction of her genes which I inherited are present in more subtle forms. Perhaps it is some part of my temperament. Perhaps it is my love for tart food. Or the preference of a color over the other. Or maybe, a propensity to some malaise. Whatever, it is- a part of the woman in the picture is me. And so maybe, that I never knew her much, nor have anything more tangible to remember her by does not matter so much after all.

Food from the Hills

( on the urging of my friend Kathakali, who is statistician, poet chef extraordinaire, for her  blog here)

Thanks LBK for reminding me of this food.

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“That is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if once it creeps into the blood of a man, that man will at the last, forgetting all else, return to the hills to die.” Spake Rudyard Kipling in Namgay Doola..

While I still have a lot more of wandering the world left to do, not planning to die as of now, yet I do keep returning to some of the tastes of my childhood.  They say the food of Kumaun is like its people- simple, yet wholesome. Neither fancy ingredients nor elaborate exotic spices characterize it, instead there is a comforting simplicity in those foods. 

One of the easiest things to prepare is Aloo ka Guthka.  You need a few large potatoes, some chopped green chilies (the finer you chop them, the hotter they are), cumin seeds, ground coriander seed, asafetida, turmeric, mustard oil and  salt to taste. Oh and you will need lots of cilantro leaves.

Boil the potatoes in a pressure cooker or bake then in the microwave. Skin and keep aside, cubing to largish pieces. You may want to slightly undercook them, rather than overcook- the taste is great either way, but presentation better if the potatoes are not falling to pieces.

In a heavy bottomed iron wok, or a kadhai, heat more than a smidgeon of mustard oil, till a warm nutty aroma fills the room. Toss in the cumin seeds watching them splutter in a frenzy of smoky abandon. Add a trace of asafetida, you will know its done when it ceases being malodorous.  Throw in a few green chilies and let them blacken. Now add your potatoes, carefully coating them with the oil and spices. Add the salt, coriander powder and turmeric. Kumauni cooking uses turmeric liberally not only because it is a wonder-spice but also because the yellow it unleashes in food is an auspicious color. Coat the potatoes evenly with these condiments. Cover and reduce the heat till done. Serve garnished with the green chilies and cilantro leaves.

You may replace the green chilies with dried red chilies- but you will need to fry them with the cumin seeds and asafetida. If you really want to go fancy(and authentic Kumauni) you can try to find a little known Tibetan herb called jumbo. Though, frankly, I wonder if its inclusion in the meal is more to evoke images of the earliest Bhutia traders who carried tea and herbs from Tibet and staples from the lower Himalayas back. Most aloo guthka recipes mention jumboo, yet cheerfully dish out the mostly authentic guthka without it. Oh, and if you do go the jumboo way, let me know where you found it.

Relish the aloo guthka with some Kakdi Raita. Creamy yogurt, cool cucumber, a trace of kala namak, a tinge of turmeric for the auspicious yellow and a soupcon of sugar, tempered with ground mustard seed for the kick combine to make this dip fit for the kings. Just be sure to grate the cucumber and squeeze out the excess water before stirring it into the yogurt. Add the salt and sugar and turmeric and ground mustard. Keep it a while to let the mustard work its magic. Then garnish with chopped cilantro- green chilies if you wish and some roasted ground cumin. 

Homecoming(C)

I lived here 15 years ago.

It is still the same. The house –more decrepit. The trees-taller. The lawns- wilder. The same faces- on ever younger children.

Change happens.

But nothing has changed. The same air, the same water. Even the tea glasses.

The same oppressive feeling of stagnation.

Nothing has changed.

Except me. .

Letter in the mail (C)

A letter
In the mail
Not a bill
Nor a flyer.

A letter
Genuine handwritten
In a flowing hand
Pale blue envelope
And dark blue ink

A letter
No return address
Just an “A” on the back

A letter
Written for someone
Who lived where I live now

A letter
I keep on the mailbox
And wait
For letters
For me.