Storm in a Tea Cup

 

With the Covid-19 pandemic having practically placed us under house arrest, for want of more interesting channels, I get back to the pen and paper, the zone I'm most comfortable in. My ruminations begin. An avalanche of thoughts, from eons ago to the present, flood the mind in a wild clutter. An attempt at sifting starts. Food, the staff of life surfaces significantly strong from this cacophonous deluge. I am overwhelmed by newer perceptions of fodder  - the all-important factor required for our very existence. I'm forced to observe angles and aspects that I had hitherto been dismissive about, or to which I had accorded scant space. I'm on an interesting journey of discovery. I sense that beliefs, convictions, notions and whims associated with food, can be whipped up in digits as diverse as the cornucopia of cuisines across cultures. And these have nothing to do with the victuals per se - their vast mix, their concoction, aroma, appearance or appeal. At best, the issues are a storm in a teacup!

Pati (grandmother), short and prim in her gracefully-wrapped madisaar (9-yards saree), enjoyed the crispy, spicy samosas from the local sweet shop with great gusto. It was a first time for her, eating something not prepared in our house. Perhaps old age does that to a lot of people - their tongue lusts for variety. She claimed, and possibly rightly so, that no matter how well we made the snack at home, it lacked the taste and texture of restaurant preparation. "Now kids, don't you go around telling your friends that your septuagenarian, orthodox pati who will not even drink water at their places, had samosa from the hotel today!" Pati added.

We siblings, then in our teen and pre-teen years, laughed at her. Why and how should it matter to anyone wherefrom our pati had had the savoury! She had done nothing that was immoral, unethical or illegal. As the established family rebel, I was tempted to argue with her and convince her that she had committed no crime, having delighted in a couple of hotel-made delectables that she so absolutely relished. After all, had she not declined to wash them down with the quintessential steaming cup of kaapi in order to have the tangy flavour linger longer in her mouth? However, wisdom prevailed and I held my tongue in check. I was all too aware of the futility of the exercise; it would only strengthen my standing as a maverick, out to argue at the slightest provocation.

Quite in contrast to my paternal grandmother, was my maternal grandma. Perhaps, home-schooling upto the 8th grade with an English-speaking tutor, and marriage to a doctor had made her more liberal and progressive. Her love for bread, layered lavishly with the salted Britannia or Amul butter, was legendary. And while on a jaunt out of home, which happened very rarely, she loved to partake of the ghee-roast masala dosa in restaurants. She'd casually remark about what people might think of a devout Vaishnavite madisar-mami, throwing traditionalism to the winds and eating out, and that too, devouring a dish made with onions.

And then there is my good old mum with her staunch belief in karma and karmic repercussions. To tow a non-comformist line and flout the shastras, according to her, is nothing short of blasphemy. In her lexicon of do's and don'ts, it's tantamount to accumulating sins for herself and more importantly, for her progeny. Whether her belief system is propelled by fear or faith, we are yet unable to discern; but that's amma all the way. Strictly adhering to rituals in the conviction that she is securing or amassing punya for us, her three offsprings, is her way of life. Food, eating and fasting, undoubtedly form a large part of this scheme.

I vividly remember an incident when amma forewarned us as my sister and I stepped out to  visit an old orthodox neighbour on a certain Ekadasi day. Faithfully following in her mother-in-law's footsteps, amma cautioned, "You two girls,  don't you dare tell her that we had onion sambar for lunch! She's bound to ask you today’s menu as a matter of routine conversation." We were stunned into speechlessness, hearing this absurdity. Thanks to our US-based brother's overtures, (incidentally, he is the apple of mother's eye - not least for being the only son after two daughters, but equally because of his warm and endearing personna) contrary to established religious norms, amma had 'dared' to prepare and partake of lip-smacking, flavourful sambar made with the aromatic pattinatthu vengayam. (small onions - Onion of Pattinam, derived from Madras Patnam or simply Patnam or Pattinam for short, as Chennai was originally known as). 

And then there was this friend's family that lived in our colony in Delhi. Steeped in orthodoxy to the exclusion of caring for sentiments of fellow human beings, they strictly walked their talk. They avoided taking certain fruits and vegetables only because the seemaikkaran (foreigner - colonials) had introduced them to the Indian soil. But doesn't matter the umpteen gadgets that the ‘aliens’ had invented which wormed their way to our sacred land, including the humble telephone to which this household remained wedded. As for my chum and her two elder sisters, they would enjoy the luxury of puri-aloo and masala dosa at our place whenever amma would prepare these gastronomic delicacies.

Little events, everyday happenings, inane, innocuous and inconspicuous as they may appear, expose the frail cord to which human emotions and thinking are tethered. It's flummoxing when you realize that a lot of this meanders around manna, adding zing to mundane existence. I can quite comprehend and even contribute at times, to pati's and amma's beliefs related to food. Their abstinence from certain vegetables or preparations during specific days or time periods stems purely from their understanding of scriptural dictates. However, the quirky and tenuous notions that people often exhibit on the pretext of observing social decorum or propriety, confound my cognitive capacities.

I wonder if a nation's or community's cultural moorings would goad one to eschew discipline to accommodate these farcical food fancies. "We are not famine struck that we need to be at his place at sharp 8!" This is an oft heard argument for arriving fashionably late when invited for lunch or dinner. I'm apt to reflect on amma's words in this context. She would simply say, "after all, is this gathering not just about that - eating, meeting and catching up!" As for myself, being a stickler for punctuality, I feel it's plain and simple courtesy and respect for the host which demands that we keep to the time. Arriving on the dot does not imply that we would dash straight to the table and attack the grub. Which again brings to fore yet another set of pretentious perceptions.

Having conveyed their self-importance by making a 'cool' entry at their hosts' place, the trendsetters peck at the meal, advertising their slimming diet plan. This attitude would definitely not go down well with amma and those of her ilk, who, in the true spirit of athithi deivo bhava (Guest is God) believe their visitors should have their fill even if it means their bursting bellies can accommodate no more!

On another note, this nibbling brings extreme discomfort to fellow guests like me. Though quality and variety take precedence over quantity for me, I prefer doing better than politely eat a few morsels. But ever alert to these stylish trailblazers who secretly eye the plates of those around them, I am compelled to return home ravenous from such dinners!

A friend very helpfully and honestly reveals, "I make sure to have something sumptuous before coming to such parties. Else I'd have to go hungry because I'm forced to  taste tidbits like them, for appearances sake!"

I'm comforted when the "me too" whispers do their rounds. As I ponder over these all-round absurdities, I arrive at my own conclusions which reinforce my core belief systems. You certainly don't have to plonk yourself in a corner and scarf down the contents of a plate piled to the rim. And yes, you could certainly refrain from making those repertoire of sounds testifying to how much you relish your host's culinary skills. But you could do more than just nibble and be appreciative of your hosts' efforts.

At the other end of the spectrum, there are camels giving the rabbits company. Buffet settings at restaurants and star hotels are not for the calorie conscious, light eaters, and for vacationers in a tour group who cannot enjoy the comfort of a leisurely breakfast. When these species focus equally on value for money, their cameline traits come to the fore and their digestive systems become a veritable reservoir of sorts. As one of the co-tourists voiced during our tour of East-Central Europe some years back, “Who can eat so much at breakfast that early. We have some at the table and carry the rest back to our room. After all, are we not paying a high price for the room?” 

Food, O Food, nourisher and sustainer of life, you’ve fed and fuelled my fantaties, elevated my ego, enabled me embellish epicurean etiquettes, and pen this peppered piece no matter how quixotic it may read. But with malice towards none, and each to his own, I plod on, pondering over human foibles, follies and frailties, over our overwhelming desire to be accepted, appreciated, perhaps even admired.

 

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