With ghee, cashews and love

I am hardly aware of the culinary skills of Nala and Bheema but my dad is a gastronome. He is definitely the best alpha male chef on the planet. His uncanny abilities at cooking  were discovered accidentally when my mother made a well-deserved-long-visit to her home town when my grand dad took to illness. I assured her that I'll take good care of dad. After all I'm adept at cooking in the doll house. The real kitchen should be no different.

We bid a bye to the teary eyed mom and opened the doors to freedom. No mom at home translates to no home work, no tuition, no early-to-bed, no No-TV. YES! Life cannot get any kinder. I realized that the blissful three lettered "YES" is no match to the duelling duo "NO".

"Dad! can I go out and play?"

"YES"

"Dad! Can I watch this movie?

"YES"

"Dad! can I go to the panipuri pushcart?"

"YES"

"Dad! can I bunk school?"

"YES"

I wonder he half-listens before the "Yes" plays on his lips. I was so engrossed in feeling the wind beneath my wings that I hardly missed mom until its time for dinner. No! The aroma of the delicacies didn't tease my nostrils. No! The steam spewing food wasn't served on a platter. No! My taste buds weren't bathed in the holy nectar.

"Dad! I'm Famished. Lets cook the dinner" I suggested the obvious. Dad folded his lungi to knee length in a 'Rajini' like style and jumped in to action at once.

"Close the front door and veil the windows of the veranda. Just in case my colleagues drop by" he winked. I caught up with him immediately and added in an extra loud voice that would get carried to my neighbors who are blissfully of my mother's absence "MOMMMM! YOU COULD USE MY HELP WITH THE VEGGIES" .  He grinned at my pretense and nodded his approval, passing on the basket of vegetables.

"I don’t fancy to eat ladies fingers. You better be careful with that knife" he exuded sarcasm.  I giggled sycophantically and chopped carrots leaving behind 2 centimetered stumps for the fear of inflicting a cut on my finely manicured fingers. 

"What next?" I asked rubbing my palms with infectious enthusiasm.

"Beet roots" he added.

"And then?

"Beans"

"what are we in for?" I inquired.

"Veg pulav" he made it sound in a really mouth watering way. " Pulav's are meant for  special occasions. Isn't it? let's celebrate your mom's-day-out with delicacies"

I chopped everything but for the onions which he did with blearily tearful eyes. I was cursing the assault on my senses when the aroma of ghee and cashews took me off guard so badly that I chomped on my phantom meal with my nose, twitching for more.

I could hardly wait as the cooker screeched the whistles as if I were famished for eons.  I gorged a spoonful of the steam spewing rice burning the tip of my tongue in the process. But never mind, I enjoyed the meal. 

"Dad! You are simply super human. You are 'The Rajinikanth'. You are the god of the gourmets". Dad seemed to have better satiety with my flattery laden admiration than with his meal.

I woke up the next day with a standard 'I-HATE-TO-DRINK-MILK' grimace but my face lit up no sooner than dad brewed a kaju-badam-kheer. Mom's deadly Idlee were were no match to his Panner  Dosa. My lunch box is packed with an epicurean meal which captivated all the foodies at school. Thanks to dad and internet, in the better part of the week  I got to taste Strawberry shake, Double ka meetha, Papdi chat, Mushroom matter curry, Panner 65, chicken lolipops, golden fried prawns and what not? 

When mom returned home after a week she squeezed me in to a hug and asked "You look famished! My Baby! How did he cook?"

I smiled and said "with ghee, cashews and lots of love".

Tiny doctor - sturdy patient.

Abhi decided to play doctor-patient with his dear dad.  His dad, in one of his cheerful moods,  was too willing to oblige. Abhi borrowed a steth, B.P app, syringe, few sheets of pills, a book and a pen.  Finally he set up his 'shop' on the dining table drumming his fingers impatiently as he waited for his patient. His dad crawled in a bad shape.

"Daactar! please save me daactar" he moaned.

" No No. Don’t varry. I'm here" Abhi reassured with the aura of Hippocrates. His dad took a seat.

"Wot happened to you?" Abhi inquired in a voice laced with genuine concern.

"My stomach is like a stone dactaar" he complained clutching his tummy with a painful grimace.

"Did u do potty?" the little doctor fired a question at the point blank.

"O yes doc. Twice" his sturdy patient replied triumphantly.

"ok den. let me press your tummy and check wot is vrong inside" the doc declared in a grave tone.

"Ah…oh…hee…hooo hooo hoooo" his uncooperative patient wriggled on the sofa, which is the state-of-art-couch-for-the-time-being.

"vait. I'm not going to hart you. Nor teekle you. I pramise" the lil doc assured with a great deal of patience. It was of no use. The Hee Hee's and Hoo Hoo's continued.

"If you donth stop movin I will give u an in-jac-chain" he threatened . It worked.

"Oh! I see! you have a fatty leever" abhi explained to his patient with wide expressive eyes.

"Oh! Fatty liver? will I die doctor?" his dad asked pouring out innocent faces.

"No NO No. you silly boy. I wheel save you" the doc promised. He immediately referred to the Bollywood times,  the supposed-to-be-medical encyclopedia and declared "you need a leever trans-plan-tation".

wasting no time he sliced open his patients tummy, pulled out the 'leever' washed it under the tap before replacing it and suturing it insitu.

"wow Daactar! You did a miracle. you saved my life" an overwhelmed patient praised the doc.  The humble Doc , not letting the praise get in to head, scribbled down few meds on the prescription pad and handed it over to his only patient.

"Now go home and donth come back ageen and ageen. Donth eat junk food. okay? Then your stomak will not become like a stone ageen" abhi advised somberly.

"sure doc. I'll keep that in mind. whatz your fee?"

"Ummmm Fee?" Abhi gave it a  thought. "lets us go to the ice-keam shop. you can pay my feez there"  he replied with a cheek stretching grin. I guess this naughty doc's idea of healthy food is toffee's and ice creams while fruits n vegetables form the junk. 

(Based on a true life conversation between my 4yr old nephew and his dad.)

Caterpillars and Butterflies

                                                               

                                                                  Caterpillars 
                                                              A patients disgust!

I like doctors no better than I like caterpillars and cockroaches.  Now don’t give me that supercilious 'you-better-realize-they-are-angels-in-disguise' look. I know they aren't all creeps. Nevertheless they give me creeps. They may be angels in disguise but they do disgust. All that they dispel  is stinking pills and pricking needles. I say why not have an apple a day and keep them away?

Even a caterpillar would turn in to a beautiful butterfly someday. But once a doctor, always a doctor. I guess one has to undergo a reverse metamorphosis to become a doctor. They have to shed away their primals like fear, anxiety, love, hurt, anger and grief to become one of those mask faced maestros.  I mean, I can never pull out a straight face and say "I'm sorry. we did our best but we lost your child". They are empathetic, but not sympathetic. They never stand in our shoes. They understand our pain, but they never feel it. How did they become so godamn mechanical? O yea! I get it. They aren't human. They are Angels-in-disguise. Wire rimmed spectacled, starch pressed dressed, well combed-oily haired, Honey coated-artificially smiled angels-in-disguise.

Forget about mourning on someone's death day, they have no idea how to rejoice on their own birthday. I pity the doctors. They save many lives but they have no "life" in their own life. They need a heeling as badly as their patients do.

                                                               

                                                               Butterflies 
                                                       A doctors anguish!

Hospitals stink. But so does the patients. They are PATIENTS but they lack PATIENCE. No one in their sane mind likes to pay a visit to a hospital except a doctor. For us, it's like home. Hospitals ooze negative vibes. They are dump yards of emotions. They are the cocoons spun with  Pain, anxiety, anticipation, fear and hurt. They womb  a Patient creeping on his fours until he comes out with flying colors.

The struggle ends here. Either the person rests in peace forever or he renervates and rejuvenates. When we save them, we are deemed gods. When we fail we are blood suckers. But we are neither Demi-gods, nor demons. we are HUMANS. we are just one among the lot. Nothing more, nothing less. We work with precision not perception. We understand your pain but we can't stand your pain. And that is why we work to fix it.

Yes! we know that it hurts when we sting those needles. We prefer not to showcase it on our face. Not after the millions and trillions of pricks we witness each day.  What are we here for if not to inject life in a dying person? What are we here for if not to draw out the disease and vial it for the labs?

Won't a tumbling toddler believe his mom when she says "Its-alrite. you-are-fine"? we tell the same to a whining patient and he calls us liars. And guess what the mamma's reward us with?  "Eat your food or else the doc gives you a shot".  Why threaten your children with the shots? why tell them the needles are bad? Why don’t we grow up before we bring them up? Why don’t we trust our doc before we hopelessly give up?

Secret recipe

"ouch! Its spicy" my daughter complained with tears flooding her eyes and juices flooding her mouth as she tried the new cuisine.  

"Mom! Make it sweeter" my son implored holding out a tin of jiggery.  

"Nah! Dad is a diabetic. I'll make it tangy" I announced tersely adding liberal amounts of tamarind juice.

"Woman! which school did u go to? you seem not to have any idea how bitter it is and yet you call it sour?" my husband commented.

"But I haven't added much of the Neem inflorescence which is 'The key' ingredient" I objected without picking my nerves at the insult. "By the way didn’t your school teach of the vermicidal effects of Neem?" I added in a false sweet voice.

"There should have been more nectar in the dish than in your sarcasm" he swiftly emptied the bottle of the honey.

"Now that’s a disaster" hassled to the core, I necked them out of the kitchen crying "too many cooks spoil the broth"

"But mom. I boasted you are the best chef on the planet when I invited my friends. Please live up to the reputation" my son pleaded through the hinges of the closed door.

"I'm not here to make a fruit salad.  Its Ugadi pachadi (pickle) and one can't ignore the traditional recipe" I retorted without turning back. I leaned on the kitchen counter as I recollected my grandmother's secret recipe.

                                      *                              *                                *                                 *

"Ammu! Ugadi marks the beginning of the Telugu calendar. It falls on a chaitra sudda padyami day when the star Aswini takes precidence" she explained elaborately.  "It's our belief that what goes around this day, comes around this year. so my child! Make sure you live the best out of this day".

"I'll ingrain it in my mind Ammamma (maternal grandmother) but serve me more of thet delicious Ugadi pachadi" I chirped like the koko bird preched on the branches of the florid neem tree.

"Here you go" she added generous amounts of the sweet-sour-chilli-bitter pickle to my cup.

"ummmmmmmmm" I groaned relishing it. My nose crinkled and the corners of my eyes creased with pleasure lines as I gorged on the tangy bits of raw mango bated in the tamarind-honey syrup.

"Like it?" she asked affectionately stroking the side of my cheek.

"Finger licking good but for those Neem flowers" I complained coyly.  "Why don’t you alter the recipe?" I suggested wryly.

"well! If you keenly decipher , there is a good lot of philosophy in it. It is a shadruchi pakam. There are 6 tastes in it. Sweet symbolizes love & affection. Salt signifies the strength of victory. Sour for excitement. Umami for jealousy. Chilly for the red-hot-temper and the bitter neems portray the bitterness of life" she added knowledgably.

"Yea! I understand but why don't we choose only happiness?"  I persisted.

"I wish we could" Ammamma said with a long sigh "but one can appreciate the light only when he suffered the dark. Love attracts hurt. victory attracts jealousy. They are simply complimentary to each other. One should learn to hit a balance - The state of Stitapragnata" she talked in jargon. " Never pray not to have troubles Ammu. Pray for the strength to fight them. Embrace whatever comes your way and you'll be happy forever" she concluded to a huge round of applause from her only audience.

                                           *                              *                                *                                 *

Falling back to the present day, I thought  "I'll bring up my children to the state of stitapragnata ammamma. I promise. How I wish they are blessed with all the happiness of this world!" That instant I realized my grandmother wished me the same yet she taught me to be prepared to face the challenges fate throws at our face.

Right now the challenge poking me right in the eye is my son's prove-ur-culinary-expertise. With no second thought I folded my sleeves to quench the raving appetites of those 10+ teenagers my son invited home, with rasmalai's and samosas.

Very punny

I was riding high on the first day of my carrier as a doctor. I wore a serene lemon yellow chudidaar and a pressed white overall exuding the charisma of the sun god. A chick-lit raspberry colored bling stethoscope made sure all the eyes in the ward are pinned on me. I walked confidently past the rows of beds, my feet hardly touching the floor. to say I'm happy would be quit an understatement.  

I confidently picked up the case sheet of Apparao, a patient recovering from hepatic encephalopathy due to cirrhosis of liver and poured over the details.

"sister sister. mee tho koncham personal ga matladaccha?" I heard Apparao's son address me. Sister. May I talk to you in private?

The shimmering halo around my head popped inaudibly as if someone poked it with a pin. Damn these illiterates. They consider every female of the hospital fraternity to be a nurse and every male, a doctor. How I wish I could educate them! I thundered at him "kallu kanipinchadam leda babu? coat vesukunnanu. steth vesukunnanu. doctor ki sister ki teda teliyadam leda?" Can't You see man? I wore a white coat. I wore a steth. Don’t you know the difference between a doctor and a nurse?

He looked as if he swallowed a googly but recovered within no time and replied "Nenu doctor-sister lo sister analedu sister. Brother-sister lo sister annanu sister" he let out his parrot words.  I did not mean the sister of the doctor-sister. I meant the sister of the brother-sister. Nevertheless I choose to believe him and his intentions cos it fed my ego. I inquired why he requested a private conversation with me once we were sure that the coast is clear of eavesdroppers. "sister! maa nanna ni taagudu maana mani meere warning ivvali sister" he implored. Please warn my father to quit alcoholism.

Feeling important, I took to the task of counselling this alcoholic and convincing him for de-addiction therapy. "chudandi Apparao garu. meeru arogyam ga vundali ante meeru mandhu maaneyali" I doled out on a one ponit agenda. Look Mr.Apparao. if you want to lead a healthy life u have to quit drinking.

A surprised Apparao look at me in the eye and inquired "adenti doctoramma? mandulu vesukuntene kada jabbu taggedi? arogyam ga vundedi?" what doctor? How can I be healthy if I stop drinking medicines?  I noticed that he held a cup of oral glycerol mixed with fruit juice close to his lips as I delivered my ultra short spiel on alcholosim. 

"Nenu mandula shop lo mandu manamanadam ledu. kallu dukanam lo mandu manamantunnanu" I replied stoically. I didn’t ask you to quit drinking from a medical shop. I asked you to quit drinking from a wine shop.

Pcch! I was the only one in the whole of the medicine ward shooting blazing looks. Everyone else is in stitches and rolling on their beds laughing out loud. 

Priced Possession

"whatz  ur priced possession?" our pompous English teacher asked me in one of her hi-fi accents when I was a 6 yr old.  Within no time my mind zeroed on my kiddy bank. I have a fistful of coins but 'is it good enough?' nagged a thought. I answered her with pride jutting my chest "My mother's jewelry box."  She smiled and said in a surprisingly soothing tone "Priced possessions aren't all glittery & pricey. In fact they are priceless like the insurmountable hugs n kisses of your beloved mom". I did not quite understand what she meant but I like the way she said whatever she said.

As of now I'm  60 years young (yes! For  some queer reason I never grew old). Even today I stand my claim that my mother's jewelry box is my priced possession. Not that it boxed diamonds & sapphires, rubies & emaralds, but it treasured far more valuable memories.  you see, it hoarded my mother's concern and care, wit and humor, her  sacrifice, her pain, most important of all, her love. won't you gorgeous ladies out there like to have a peek in to my mother's jewelry box?

Cradled in the intricately carved sandal wood box are my itsy-bitsy golden bangles (custom made from my Grandmother's golden pendent when I was born)  and my mother's melodiously tinkling glass bangles which served the best BGM (back ground music) to my bed time lullabies. I still remember how shamelessly delighted I was when one of them gets accidentally broken, adding a few more pieces of glass to my handmade kaleidoscope.  It encased the multicolored bling beads I wore around my neck as a toddler. I recited my un-two-thee's and led-bue-geen's rolling those beads between my fingers. It cushioned the sliver anklets I wore while dancing to my mother's sa-pa-sa's. It nested safely those red n black holy threads with a 'sajivini carrying Bajarangbali's taveez that were tied to my arm as my mom nursed me through a terrible chicken pox.  It housed the pearl ear rings I earned from my mother as a reward to my academic brilliance.

Hidden in the heart of the box are the mangalsutr which she wore till the last day of baba's life and the diamond nose ring which she wore till the last day of her life. Talking of her mangalsutr ripples a few more memories I hold close to my heart. In one of my teen tantrums I fussed about a pimple while primping myself in the mirror. No amount of reassurance from my mother convinced me that I'm beautiful. She  said the true beauty of a woman is enhanced by three jewels. "A sindhoor bhara maang, A neck twined with the kaali moti" she said placing a plastic sindhoor box and a chain of black beads in my hands.

 "And the third?" I inquired with zeal.

"The third and the most important of all  is a SMILE" she glorified. From that day I stopped complaining and started complying.  I continued to spend  hours with my mirror but wondering how I would look with the sindhoor and mangalsutr, while a smiled played on my lips.

I never knew how time soared from my sixteen's to sixty's but what I'm sure of is that not a single day passed by without recalling her words. Had she not said those words, my tears might have flushed my happiness. Had she not said those words, my face might have been creased by more than laughter lines. Had she not said those words, I would have had nothing to share with you today. So dearies, Stop worrying and start smiling. Cos there is nothing in this world like a smile which can outshine the pearls n the diamonds. Nothing like a smile which can outshine the sunshine.

Where ever-U-Go-I-Follow - 2 (boys version)

                                                    Where ever-U-Go-I-Follow - 2  ( Boys version.)

(Please read the girls version before you read this!)

Who said women are hard to understand? They are open books but written in a foreign language. It's her eyes that do the saying.  It only takes a master mind, a little of practice and patience to read it.

Like most of the guys of my age I proclaim that being in a relation is such a waste of time, money and freedom but I can't help picturing myself in a stable relation when a damn hot damsel gives me a pass.  I noticed this stop-looker  walking blithely on the pavement, her feet hardly touching the ground, her ringlets veiling and un-veiling her face.  Her Nike jacket did its best to hide those shapely curves but alas! One could easily make out that she's quiet statuesque.

She almost walked past the mall I was shopping at but quiet unexpectedly, she turned her heels and walked past those sliding glass doors, all twinkle eyed and jewel smiled. And <DANG>we were face to face in the blink of a sec. I realized my lips stretched in to an automatic smile and I must be looking quiet like a moron….but dude, she didn’t think so. she smiled back sweetly as she walked past me. It took me a couple of seconds to rein my senses. I dropped the truck load of stationary I was carrying (DUDE! Don’t give me that supercilious look. Being a freshman of B.E architecture, we do need a truck load of stationary) on the billing desk and weighed my options.

One -Be somber, gather my pick and walk out of the mall like an unshakable saint, which I'm not. Two-Go ahead and find out if the aag doono taraf barabar lagi huyi hai. I feigned forgetting some record sheets and made an excuse to percolate in to the mall. I leafed through few sheets of handmade paper when I met her eye across the row of books. She is startled by my sudden apparition. Honestly I was a bundle of nerves myself. I had a nagging suspicion that it's too early to take off and make a move on her. So, I hesitated to go for an one-to-one, but lurked in the shadows, beating-around-the-bush.

 I gave her my most appealing smile. Though she never smiled back she hand combed her hair  primping herself to feast my eyes. Well! That ain't a bad start. I brushed my hand through my hair mirroring her but she disappeared. I paced quickly to the rack of books where I saw her the last. She is just gone in a whiff of smoke. Dude! Aren't we too big for this Hide-n-seek? I'm not the chori-chori-chupke-chupke types. I'm in the pyaar-kiya-toh-darna-kya club.

I ran all over the store only to discover her picking a gift for me, the kissing bears or was she making me a suggestion? well! I don’t mind giving it a try.  When I appeared out of the blues discovering her plans, she threw a tantrum and sulked in the women's arena. I appraised her with an 'Angels-don’t-need-diamonds-to-sparkle' look.  She teased me back with a 'You-are-such-a-cheepo' look. I laughed to myself.

She dissolved the invisible wall between us. It wasn’t like we met a few minutes ago. It was as if we belonged to each other all along. We went on a make-believe shopping spree. I dwelled in the aroma of her presence as she  shopped some household groceries like a dutiful wife. She picked up everything thoughtfully right from mosquito repellents (so that our nights aren't bothered) to baby diapers. I'm convinced she would make a great mother for my kids.

Popping the bubble of  the 'Happy family' in my head, she handed me over the basket and asked me to get it billed. WTF! Do make-believe husbands pay real bills? I collected the basket and walked to the billing counter like a zombie.  I'll take her number, she I'll ask me to get it recharged. I'll take her out on a date, she'll make me pay the bill.  I'll take her on a ride, she will ask me for more. WTF! the petrol charges are on an all time hike.  After all my peers weren't wrong when they said being in a relation is such a waste of time, money and freedom. 

I'm enlightened of the perks and jerks of love life as I paid my first bill and emptied my pockets. I slipped out of the store somberly like an unshakable saint and left behind the girl that could have been my future wife.