The Magical Tiffin Centre

Imperative as it is, I believe the most important thing to do in the morning, apart from brushing teeth is, to fill the stomach. And what's the word, ah yes, breakfast. They say that breakfast should be really heavy, to sustain the daylong hectic lives of ours, to fuel our body. And for south Indians, breakfast is such a pleasant affair, with a range of foods to choose from, my personal favourite being idlis and dosas (whole range of them). Southies are so famous for their tiffins that even Kolkata has a Sarvanan Bhavan and Udupi hotel.

But off late, I've stopped eating breakfast at the chain food eateries where they are all just same. I mean, when you break a piece of piping hot idly (which, nowadays, are stone cold on the serving table) or a piece of dosa, you share a connection with the food, a bond, a vow, to satisfy all your senses and keep you happy and gay, all day. But unfortunately, they break the vow. They become fillers and nothing else. No satisfaction to the ultimate foodie. And there I was, on the quest to satisfy all my senses, including my purse. On my way to work, with an empty stomach, I was aching for good food. And the Almighty blessed me.

There he was, with a steel drum-like casserole and two dabbas hanging to the front handle of a cycle with two different thick liquids, which were actually two different kinds of chutneys. I stopped near him as I saw hungry mortals like me eating idli. I went to the guy and asked him his menu. It included only two dishes, idlis and dosas. Ask any southie and they would say why idli and dosa never run out of popularity. I asked him for a plate of idly and he opened his drum. Like Aladdin lamp rubbed, there came the fumes first, carrying the mixed aroma of the two available dishes and then came out the hot idlis onto my tiny plate. And it was very small, like a baby's plate. The guy served me nearly 9 idlis. Do not judge my weight or the extent of my hunger by the number of idlis served to me, they were the size of my new-born nephew’s palm and as thick as an Apple iPod. He ‘garnished’ the idlis with the viscous chutneys. I was worried about burning my finger if I touch those piping hot idlis but ultimately, hunger overcame the fear. I broke a piece of idly, which was warm, warm enough to eat and since it was already covered with chutney, I put it into my mouth. And the aura of the taste and aroma engulfed me, and I smiled into myself, rewinding into my mind the momentous experience I just had. I had the urge to experience it more and more, by eating very slowly, but then again, my watch reminded me that it's time for the office. Quickly, I finished my plate and drank the water in the jug nearby. I must admit that the jug needed special care from Vim bar and a really good scrub. I resumed to pay the guy and gave him a 20-rupee note, with no change in expectation. He smiled at me and gave back 10-rupee note. I stared at the note and at him and the note and him again. Ten bucks for nine minuscule but filling idlis! In Hyderabad? This is the biggest joke of the millennium. I laughed out loud. Now he stared at me. Before he could conclude anything about my state of mind, I got onto my bike and rode away. And from then on, I became his regular customer. And every time I eat tiffin at his mobile tiffin centre (and the smallest one I know), I remember the precocious experience I had for the first time. I realize that he not just serves tiffin; he serves his love to every customer who ever eats at his cycle tiffin centre.

Emancipated Woman

Reading an old open page editorial in The Hindu (which I unfortunately missed at the time of publication) about stay at home moms reminded me of an essay read in my graduation days called the emancipated woman by Ambrose Bierce where he talks about the new age woman and her entry(read conquering) into the male bastioned world. Since my little brain was overcrowded with innumerable memories in little portions stored for family, class work, love, future etc, there was no corner where my old classroom memories were stored, so I rang up my grad friend-cum-best friend who was the class topper and asked her. ‘I’m sorry hon, I don’t remember’, came the message. I didn’t lose hope. I racked my brains for that one word which we used to use quite often after we studied that essay- self deprecating, self- emanating… self emancipation. Bingo! I hit the word- or rather the word hit me and quickly I searched for the essay on the panacean Google.

Ambrose Bierce said that women may have entered the male bastioned world with guts and courage and may be doing things that they do but if they have entered the male world which means the female world is going empty and then, who would enter the female world? Going by some of the reminiscences of my life, I remember that my father couldn’t manage without my mother any time. When I was still very young and my elder sister could manage to master the skills of culinary art and pushed me to master the skills of washing utensils and sweeping floors, it was as if taken for granted that mom would do all the work, and when I say all, I mean all the work- both in- house and out-house like buying veggies for the house, purchasing anything for the house, paying bills and what not. When mom had to go out of station for a while, she used to pass on all the responsibilities to my elder sister which reminded me of a television soap scene where the mother-in-law hands over a bunch of keys to her daughter-in-law. And then when that day of journey arrived, my dad would grumble and send off my mom and come back; the house would become rather empty, and I used to feel some kind of eerie silence and a sort of vacuum made me claustrophobic and I used to run and sit on our terrace steps. My sister would no doubt try her best to do all the house work but still, that vacuum used to engulf me and I used to run away to my cousin’s place to avoid that horrible feeling. And when in the evening (or worse, next morning) mom comes back, she would bring with her that bubbly, good natured feel and I would hug my mom and never leave her that day. Dad would feel relieved and happy when he sees her and start off with his usual ‘did you see my shoes, pen, books, newspaper...’ and mom would be like ‘ can’t you search for it yourself? Don’t you know where your stuffs are kept’ and dad would give a sheepish grin. I could almost see the happiness on my mom’s face when she would get back to her work at home. She never felt like a captured slave made to work but rather felt happy to do everything for her family and she also takes care of her old parents who stay near us. My father knows that he cannot do without her and never felt sorry for it! She had her power in the family and we were under her, protected.

True emancipation does not mean that women should wear jeans and work like a man with a man and show one’s masculinity. To be like a woman, shying away and coy natured maintains the symbiotic relationship between the two genders. To be like a woman, it’s not easy, to think like her, it’s impossible and these men can never achieve it and women like my mother know it and are proud of it!

Cycle sutra

Though I'm no philosopher, I know that human beings tend to become philosophical only when they have met with a heart jabbing, earth-shaking experience in their lives. It is also a time when all those atheists would finally believe in the Almighty and start chanting mantras silently to help them get out of the tricky situation. And that’s when we realize what Shakespeare had been shouting at the top of his voice through his poems ages ago- all the world’s a stage, all the men and women just players. To cut the philosophy short, it was one of those bad days which cannot come under the category of ‘bad hair days’. It was the day I lost my cycle.

My cycle and I share a very special relationship, or should I say, there’s chemistry between both of us. The two-wheeler had entered into my life when I was in my graduation and my mom had this silly reason to get the cycle- to deliver special food items made at home to my aunts and cousins. Well, silly though it may seem, it sure is difficult coz though all my aunts stay in one colony, the houses are far off and since I was the youngest at my house, it was my duty to deliver the special food like Biryani or chutneys or anything. My aunts and uncles and cousins adored my mother's art. Bringing groceries was another job I used to do. Well, she knew that I cannot say no to a ride on my cycle and so I would do all the little chores assigned to me. I love bicycle, whether it’s mine or my neighbor’s. And my mom cashed in on this and bought me one. And that’s when a brand-new Hero Emerald entered my life. I loved the maroon colour, I loved the touch, I loved the smell of the new plastic seat cover, I even loved the grease on the rims. It was fantabulous.

Three years went by and my cycle became a part of my personality. I no longer felt the need to listen my dad’s ramblings about exercising daily coz, well, cycling is the best exercise. Every weekend I would hit the colony roads on my cycle, racing with the little counterparts rode by kids. I would feel so refreshed and energetic and well, I would also keep my mom happy doing her chores. It was as if the two-wheeler could read my thoughts, I used to ride it so comfortably, sometimes leaving the handle and sometimes riding fast without holding the handles! But I never fell down, thanks to my cycle who understood my adventurous intentions. My cousins had abandoned their cycles but I used to keep my cycle clean and going and used to feel proud when they asked my cycle to ride.

Things were going on fine when I heard I have to shift to Hyderabad for my further studies. I was tormented. I wondered, “Wouldn’t my cycle feel lonely without me”. I was scared, even though my parents promised to take care of my cycle. “Nobody would ride it; it would be a lonesome fellow standing in a corner, aging away silently”. My mom seriously doubted whether I would start crying for my cycle. After all, it’s my best friend, my three years wonderful companion.

I came to Hyderabad leaving my cycle and to my immense surprise, saw that everybody in my campus was riding cycle! I was ecstatic. My dear cycle can come here. It can live with me. I called up my mom to arrange my cycle shifting. And thus my cycle came with me to Hyderabad. I rode it every day and night and I had my best moments on the cycle with my friends. Two years and my friends also came to know of the wonderful relationship I share with my cycle and praised me about it. Time passed and my cycle became aged and worn out. But I loved it still. No other cycle understood me better than mine. My friends too were comfortable riding it. It was such an obedient companion.

The worse day arrived when I left my cycle near the gate, at the mercy of the accursed security of the campus and somebody stole it. I was shattered. I couldn’t digest the fact. I still believed that I would have left it somewhere and I would still find it but I didn’t. Four days and every time I saw a girl riding cycle; it would remind me of my own. I would see my cycle in everyone else’s. It was hurting deep inside; it was as if my cycle was cursing me, “Why did you abandon me somewhere when I served you for five years?” I dreamt about it and I prayed to God that I would see it. And as if God heard me, Voila! I found my cycle outside my hostel, but it was looking brand new, painted, repaired. My friends asked me, “How do you know it’s yours?” I couldn’t explain them. It was the touch of the handle that was familiar, it was the look of my cycle which was so friendly, I had a goddamn five years relationship with it. How can I not recognize my own cycle? I wanted to find out who did that to my cycle but in vain. Every day I see it and go, but I can’t ride it, can’t feel it. But yet, I realised something, it taught me that when you really want something in your life, whatever may happen you would definitely get it. It also taught me that I should have asked God to own the cycle and not just see it.

When life isn’t giving you what you want, it means you’re not asking hard enough.

It was one of those halcyon days with my best friend S___ that I was mooning around on the endless stretch of the Vizag beach which was crowded with people on a Sunday evening. The azure sky held the sun but the sun was slipping down in the horizon as if to take a dip in the vast sea. I was waiting for P___ to come to the beach. We are four best friends- P___, S___, D___ and Me. We met each other in NCC and became thickest of friends.

“Why is P&D taking so long to come? I’m hungry’, I lamented. S___ teased me, “When are you not hungry huh?”

“Yeah right. Well, let’s just have a ice-cream till those guys come and then we can go to churmuriwallah and eat”

“Okay”, I said and bought two dollies for both of us. We slurped happily while waiting for our friends. Just then we spotted a small boy standing on the beach, his body painted with silver wearing a small pair of glasses, standing with a stick put forth, like Mahatma Gandhi. He had a small cloth in front of him with few coins on it.

“These poses have become quite common in the city. Everyone’s dressing up like Mahatma begging on the streets. Non-violence is on the streets now.”

I congratulated my friend for the metaphor. We observed the kid. All those who felt pity for the kid were dropping some coins in his cloth. Few others stood beside him looking at the kid as if looking at a beautiful sculpture. But the kid was looking behind at a merry go round with children playing on it. He had twinkling eyes that were full of pain and a yearning. I turned to S__, “You know, I think we...” “Should take the kid onto the merry go round”, S___ cut me, with a smile on her face. I smiled and hugged her, “So you were thinking what I was thinking”.

“Yeah, that’s why we are friends”, S___ hugged me back. We were about to go to the kid when two men approached the boy and asked, “ Do want to go on that merry go round?” and then I saw the amazed look on the kid’s face. His eyes were wide with a look of surprise and happiness, he nodded excitedly. The men took the kid to the merry go round. “Hey, how much do you charge?” they asked the owner.

“Five rupees. But I’m not taking this kid. He’ll spoil my benches with all that wet paint.”

“Oho, nothing’s going to happen to your benches which are already so clean, now, come on, take this boy onto your ride” one of the men quipped. The boy clutched his cloth of coins and his stick tightly and walked. One of the uncles took it from him. “Give them to me, I’ll hold them. You can take it back after the ride. Don’t worry, I won’t run away with them”, he joked. The boy sat on the ride and the owner pushed the round with his hands. Slowly it picked momentum and the boy was shouting excitedly. It was funny watching the young lad dressed like Mahatma Gandhi, playing on the merry-go-round. We paid for the ride and watched him as the dusk dawned with kid’s laughter ringing in the sky. The waves hit the shore forcefully as if celebrating with the boy in the silver paint. I remembered one of my friends commenting about small cities that we don’t get anything here. Well, she’s wrong. There’s still that humanity and love for one another left in these small-cities and I feel proud of it.

హమ్మాయ్య, మొత్తానికి తెలుగు లొ రాసి నా తెలుగు బ్లాగు ని మొదలుపెట్టాను లెఖిని దాట్ ఆర్గ్ పున్యమాని. ఇక ముందు తెలుగు లొ రాయడం సులువు.

ఈ శుభ సందర్భం లొ ముందుగా అందరికి విక్రుతి నామ సంవత్సర శుభాకాంక్షలు.