The FOB

“Can I have the free swim shedule?” I asked the teenager manning the desk at the pool.

“A what…?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in mock confusion. I could hear the stifling of giggles from the assorted teens gathered behind him.

I tried my best to ignore the sniggers and braved on. “A shedule of the free swim? You know the timetable for days when the pool is open for us to come and practice?”

“Ah, you mean a schedule? Wait a minute,” he said, enunciating the ‘sche’ and the ‘d’ in schedule, as he dived under the desk, clearly trying to get over the laughter that was threatening to overcome him.

As I walked away with the free-swim schedule, I could hear the laughter erupting behind me. Only then it hit me that the little twerp knew all along what I was talking about. He was clearly used to our accents, what with all the desi men and women who frequented the community colleges’ swimming lessons. I am sure we could go to a private swim class and get better lessons. But we desis are cheap and the community college fee rates suited us just fine.

“I just need to learn the technique,” I overheard a paunchy guy in his 40s tell the instructor. “You know, so I don’t have to stay in the shallow end and be able to rescue my son.”

“Sir, what you are learning here is not enough for you to jump head long and rescue anyone,” she said, clearly not trusting the guy’s technique.

She had obviously no idea of the over confident Indian male species who thought they could learn to swim and rescue a drowning 5-year old just by taking twice a week, six week swim lessons at a community college. But I was FOB (as I was politely told by someone who had been living here for five years) or fresh off the boat, with barely three months in the country and was all too aware of the Indian male phenomenon.

Getting used to America was another matter. It wasn’t as big surprise as it was for some of the other desi women but it was still a mystery I was trying to unravel. The shedule – schedule was one of those incidences that made it perfectly clear to me how to pronounce certain words. It didn’t matter if I spoke good English. I also had to get the pronunciation right and get the word usage down to a pat.

“Don’t say ‘double’ 4,” Ajay, my husband of four months, told me one day after he heard me give my cell phone number to a friend.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you know how you said, 972-9double 4-6123? Just say, 972-944-6123. Here, double is usually reserved for bra sizes, as in double D, double B, etc.,” he said, obviously knowledgeable in bra jargon. That was a piece of clothing that also threw me for a loop initially, with its different sizes and the underwire. Who ever thought of the underwire bra must have been a man because these things were pokey and pinchy and not very comfortable. I longed for the days when I could go to the hosiery shop in my town and tell the guy behind the counter to give me a medium sized, cotton bra and he would produce four bras of different colors and fabric patterns. And that was that. It fitted me fine and I was done for the whole year.

Here, Ajay, told me to buy at least seven, “one for each day. I do laundry once a week and you need to get used to that routine too.” Whoever heard of once a week laundry! Next thing you know, he will tell me to grocery shop once a week and cook food for the week on weekend. And what do you know, he did! (For the record, I do not like to use more than one exclamation mark on a page, let alone a paragraph, but I thought these two notions warranted the indulgence.)

Doubling back to proper wording when giving out phone numbers, I welcomed these nuggets of information in order to avoid future backhanded giggling and general amusement of teenagers. And the thing was these teenagers were everywhere; in the shops, working behind fast food counters, in movie theaters and hanging out in the malls. They looked at you with their sullen, bored expressions and discouraged all manner of talking. Conducting a transaction was one of the pleasure of shopping back home. We could chat with the shopkeeper, haggle on the prices, and discuss the weather. It didn’t matter if you were buying grocery, vegetables, clothes or shoes.

The first time I went to Gap, I started talking to the girl behind the check- out counter.

“Hi! I am from India. I just landed a week ago and needed some new clothes,” I said.

“Un-ha. Will this be all? Did you find everything you were looking for in the store?” she asked.

“Yes, I did, thank you. I love your store. So many different cuts of jeans and I love all the colors of the T-shirts,” I said.

Thankfully, this one was too bored to giggle.

As I picked up my blue bag and walked out the store, I heard her ask the next customer the same question. I looked up at Ajay, standing outside the shop, waiting for me.

“You could have told me the counter-girl asks everyone the same question and not to bother chatting with her?” I said.

“I can’t think of everything to tell you. Use your judgment. On second thought, ask me if you are in doubt,” he said.

We both remembered the 911 incident. It still makes me laugh but he winces every time he thinks about it.

It happened the first night we landed in Dallas. Some friends of his picked us up from the airport and brought us back to his flat, which I was quickly learning was called an apartment.

It was a cold, February day when we landed here and the wind chill was in the 30s. I had experienced cold before but not this bone chilling cold.

“I thought Texas was supposed to be hot?” I asked, as I stood shivering at curbside pick-up, waiting for his friend.

“Yes, it is. In summer,” he said, warm in his wool sweater and blazer.

“Well, I am going to have to go shopping,” I said, shivering.

“I know,” he said with a sigh.

I was wearing a sateen salwar-kameez and an ill-fitting man’s leather coat that had been altered to fit my slender 5ft 2” frame. That was all I could find in my small town where my cousin had a small shop selling leather handbags and coin purses. He had procured the coat for me from his vendor but forgot to tell him it was for his cousin sister.   

We drove through highways and overpasses, passing cars of different makes and models, all gliding past on silent wheels. There was no honking, no screeching and no shouting of angry drivers and best of all there was no pollution as far as I could tell. Anyway, back at the “apartment” the heat was turned way down since Ajay had been gone for the last two weeks. In case you are wondering, he was in India, getting married to me.

His friend helped him carry the two big American Tourister suitcases up the apartment stairs and said he would come by later to pick us up for dinner. I explored the beige apartment with a galley kitchen, a small bedroom off the living room and a bathroom with a tub in it. The small kitchen seemed cozy and I longed for a hot cup of chai but with no milk in the fridge and no tea leaves, the hot beverage seemed elusive.  

“We can pick up some Statbucks on the way to the restaurant,” he said. But the thought of getting down and braving the icy cold wind for a cup of coffee was not warming enough for me. Now, if there was a chaiwalla at the corner of the block selling hot piping ginger infused chai I might be tempted to get down. But no way was I getting out of the warm car for a Starbucks. The ‘cheap’ desi in me can never justify a $3 coffee when I can whip up some instant coffee powder with milk and sugar and make a desi cappuccino at home.  

I needed to get ready for dinner. We were dinning with two of his friends at an Italian restaurant, a cuisine I knew nothing about except for pizza. I had high doubts about the authenticity of the pizza I had in India with spicy tomato sauce and broiled paneer topping. I was prepared to order a blander version of the pizza if need be but when I glanced at the menu, I didn’t recognize any thing I had eaten before.  

“She might like eggplant parmesan,” one of his friends suggested when I declared I didn’t know what to order.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them I didn’t like eggplants. Instead, I smiled and nodded, eager to make a good impression.

There was a salad that came with it, all green leaves and olives. The only things I liked were the croutons and the cheese and the blue cheese dressing that came with it. I munched on those while listening to the three of them discuss green cards, work visas and the latest gossip at work. I barely touched the eggplant.

Back at the apartment, all cold and hungry and homesick, I told Ajay I wanted to call up my parents.

“Use the country code 91 then dial your town code without the zero and then your phone no,” he said, handing me the phone.

“Why don’t you do it this once? I am tired,” I said.

“I won’t be here all the time. You need to learn to do this yourself,” he said.

And that is how the 911 incident happened. I dialed 911 instead of 91, realized my mistake and hung up quick.

“What happened? Did you dial 911 instead?” he asked.

“No,” I said, trying not to sound like a simpleton who couldn’t even dial an international phone number.

What I did not know was that the operator on the other end had already picked up the phone. She dialed back our phone number and he picked up.

“Sir, we received a call from this no. Did you or anyone in your household call from this no?” she asked.

“I think my wife may have misdialed while trying to call India,” he said.

“Sir, please put your wife on the line and get off the speaker phone,” she said.

He handed me the phone, “It is for you.”

“Hello,” I said.

“Ma’am, this is the 911 operator. Are you off the speakerphone?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you just call 911? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“You see, I landed here from India today afternoon and I was trying to call my parents back home. I dialed 911 instead of 91, the international code, by mistake,” I explained.

“Would you like me to send an officer to check on you?” she asked, ignoring my explanation.

“No ma’am, I am fine. There is no need to send someone,” I said, panicking now at the thought of a police officer visiting our apartment at night.

“Ok, you have a good night ma’am,” she said and hung up.

I looked around to see Ajay listening intently to the conversation.

“You dialed 911, didn’t you?” he said.

“Yes, but I hung up as soon as I realized what had happened. How was I to know the call went through?” I said.

“This is not like India. The calls go through quick and everyone has caller-id,” he said.

Five minutes after our conversation, there was a knock on the door. Ajay opened it to find a police officer standing on the doorway.

“Sir, may I speak to the lady of the house?” he said.

I went to the door as he asked Ajay to step back in the other room.

“Ma’am, did you call 911? Are you in need of assistance?” he asked bending down from his 6ft frame.

“I explained to the lady on the phone, I misdialed 911. I was trying to call India, you see and the code begins with 91, followed by the town code, minus the zero and then the home phone number.”

He looked over my head inside the apartment and saw paper buntings on the wall and some rose petals leading to the bedroom. It was his friends’ way of welcoming us back.

“You see, we came back from India today in the afternoon and his friends put all this up,” I tried to explain. I was mortified for the officer to see the blatant suggestion the rose petals were indicating. After 24 hours of air travel that involved crossing two continents and three time zones, I just wanted to curl up in the bed and sleep.

The officer seemed convinced and walked away, talking into his walkie-talkie.

Ajay came out of the room looking worried.

“Is it over?” he asked.

“Yes, I think it is fine. I told him what happened and he seemed convinced. I think these buntings and rose petals your friends put up convinced him finally,” I said.

“I guess we will have to clean it up tomorrow,” he said looking at the mess.

“I can’t believe they sent an officer down to check on me just because I misdialed,” I said, yawning.

“Yes, they will do that. I think you have had enough adventure for the day. I know I have had enough for a lifetime. Let’s go to bed,” he said.

As I climbed into bed, I realized that it was high because I was sleeping on two mattresses and covering myself with a comforter, which was just another word for a blanket which here means a thin coverall. It was cozy though and soon I was drifting off, with dreams of making hot, piping ginger chai in the morning. As soon as I figure out the electric cooktop.

Chal re bhoplya tunuk, tunuk (Go pumpkin go)

In part 2 of Go Pumpkin Go Chatura had safely crossed the forest and her daughter was about to reveal to her the plan she had come up with while picking vegetables in the garden.

“Well, I saw this pumpkin growing in the corner of the yard and I thought, what if we let it grow as big as it can get. We will have to nourish it and take care of it for a few months. If we can let it grow big enough to be able to hide you inside it…” Samajh quickly finished. She looked at her husband and mother, expecting them to laugh at her idea.

To her surprise, her mother nodded her head and smiled at Samajh. “I think it just might work. We will have to figure out the finer details in the days ahead but I see no reason why we shouldn’t be able to pull it off.”

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, Chatura and Samajh planned and plotted of ways to get through the jungle safely. Meanwhile, Chatura enthralled her grandkids with stories of her adventures, some true, some embellished and some imaginary. The kids couldn’t get enough of their nanima.

Photo: Soma of eCurry

The mother daughter took care of the house and kept a watch over the pumpkin. They tended to it every day, nourishing it with water and fertilizing it with compost.  In a few months, their hard work harvested the biggest pumpkin the town had ever seen. It was almost three feet tall and about two feet in diameter. Chatura was a small woman and it was easy for her to fit inside the giant pumpkin. The problem was to transport the pumpkin through the forest.

Since nobody in the town was foolish or brave enough to do it Karma came up with a plan clever enough to match his wife’s. I should mention that Karma was a carpenter by profession but in his spare time he liked to invent little contraptions for the amusement of his children. The neighborhood kids were always hanging around the workshop in the hopes of catching him in his spare time. That was when he would whittle a piece of wood in the shape of a monkey, add some springs and wheels to it and viola, the little monkey would start cartwheeling on the ground.

A few days before the pumpkin was to be harvested, Karma set on building a little round cart that would fit snuggly beneath the giant gourd. He added four wheels underneath and added a few levers for Chatura to steer. The next day, the neighbors helped Samajh and Chatura hollow out the pumpkin and carve two eyes and a nose for the old woman to see and breathe. They cut a hole at the bottom, big enough for Chatura to get in.

Chatura hugged her grandkids and her daughter, said farewell to her son-in-law and sat down on the cart he had built for her. The neighbors handed her all sorts of eatables for the journey ahead. Then they lowered the pumpkin over her, taking care to align the slits over her eyes and nose. Samajh arranged some leaves and pumpkin vines around the cart to camouflage it. Then they all gently pushed the cart to the edge of the forest, whispered their goodbyes, said a silent prayer and watched as Chatura bravely steered her pumpkin cart on the rough forest path. Now it was up to Chatura to survive the one and a half day journey.

Inside the stuffy pumpkin Chatura steered the cart all the while keeping an eye out for Sher Khan. Around mid-day she thought she heard a roar but it seemed to fade away in the distance. Around two in the afternoon she decided to take a break and eat some lunch. Steering the cart was hard on her old bones and she was hungry. She deftly steered the pumpkin behind some bushes and started eating her lunch.

Photo: Soma of eCurry

Suddenly, she heard rustling on the other side of the bushes.  She stopped eating and tried to stay as calm as possible. The rustling stopped and Chatura heard voices talking in earnest.

“We need to get rid of that lion,” said a raspy voice.

“But Sardar we have tried so many times. Sher Khan is cunning. He stays away from our part of the jungle,” a squeaky voice said timidly.

“Well, we will have to do something. No one comes through the jungle anymore for fear of him. We haven’t looted a single traveler in months. The last one who came through was the old woman and she didn’t have a dime on her,” Sardar said angrily.

Chatura could not believe her luck. These were the bandits who had waylaid her a few months ago. They were a rag tag bunch of village misfits and bullies who made their living robbing defenseless travelers. But they could be useful to her in escaping the predator. She decided to get their attention.

“Excuse me,” she said aloud from inside her pumpkin.

Go pumpkin go

I know I promised in my last post I will be back with some stories from India (check the bottom of the post for one of them). There is another one I have been working on which looks very promising. It is about a queen and an architect and secret passageways. But the story will have to wait while I attend my hosting duties for Susan’s MLLA-51.

The last date for sending in the entrees was three days ago and as the host I should have posted at least one if not a couple of legume recipes. As things go, I posted none. I also missed the deadline for Anita’s Mad Tea Party. Actually, I almost made it to her tea party but the kid fell sick. A doctor’s visit and some tests later we found out he had strep throat. He had to stay home for the better part of the week and though it was nice not to wake up at 6.30 AM to take him to school, I prefer him in school on weekdays. Unlike his mother, he enjoys the routine and predictability of the weekdays when he is in school. Nothing makes him happier than knowing what is in store for him for the day.

I try to keep a similar routine at home for him but things tend to get a bit loosey-goosey once in a while. He doesn’t seem to mind and I feel it is good for him not to follow a strict regimen all the time. He is just in first grade after all.

First grade has been a big transition for him though after the fun and easy kindergarten class. Last year, he got a one page weekly homework. This time around, there are weekly reading logs, math exercises and spelling tests to keep him occupied for the week. Did I mention, he also has after school activities four days a week? I, as always, am on chauffer duty after three in the afternoon.

Between picking him up from school, driving him to his play dates and assorted activities, I make dinner, usually a quick vegetable stir fry. Yes, we are not big on elaborate meals. A sabzi, some roti and a salad suffice us on weekdays.

This quick pumpkin sabzi is a staple during fall. In India, this preparation is usually reserved for fasting days and the sabzi is eaten without any bread or rice. We prefer it with rotis or a bajra bhakri and another sabzi or some cooked dal on the side. Sometimes, a koshimbeer of tomato and onions substitutes for a salad.

A tale of Ganesha

I start feeling nostalgic and missing homeland during festival time and this year has been no exception. A phone call to my brother for Rakshabandhan or Bhau-Beej, a video chat with my parents during Diwali leaves me teary eyed and wanting to jump on a flight to India. I try to compensate feelings of alienation by making corresponding festival fare and gorging myself on it. Two years ago, I attempted modaks for Ganesh Chaturthi. The crust came out chewy and rubbery but the filling of jaggery and coconut, infused with cardamom, was still worth it.

This year I could hear the beating of drums in the background as I talked to my sister back home. It was hard to hear much over the din but I gathered from her that the youngsters in her housing complex were practicing for Ganesh Chaturthi celebrations. How could I not attempt to make modaks again sitting in the quiet surroundings of my suburban home? My mother gave me her usual helpful but ambiguous tips “a little bit of rava (semolina) to maida (APF) and roll the poori thin before filling and shaping the modak”.

Making of a modak for Susan's B&WW

Based on those thin guidelines, I fiddled with the proportions and had the foresight to take notes while I made the modaks. I was delighted to bite into the crispy crust (after offering the Prasad to Ganesh first, of course) that would have made the pot-bellied god a happy camper.

Modaks for the pot-bellied one

Once fried, they are off to Susan's B&WW

It transported me back to the days when my mom would fast once a month for chaturthi and break her fast with twenty one modaks. One of those modaks was a salty one and once mother ate that she had to stop. We three kids sat close to her, watching as the modak count dwindled. We would heave a sigh of relief as she finally came across and ate the salty one. Then the three of us would divvy the modaks and send a silent prayer to Ganesha for helping her find the salty one short of ten.

Now, all grown up, I do not even think about observing the strict fast my mom kept.  However, Ganesha still has a strong presence in my household.  I have pictures and statues of him scattered all over my house.  My husband reads tales of Ganesha and other gods to our son. We, like parents of my generation, are forever grateful to Uncle Pai and his Amar Chitra Katha. Those tales (katha) are indeed immortal (amar). As much as we read those tales, when a poojari (priest) asked us the names of Ganesha’s sons we were thrown for a loop. We knew the names of his wives, Riddhi and Siddhi. But we didn’t even know he had sons let alone what their names were. The answer, when he told us, was so simple, we almost smacked ourselves in the head.

After I had my fill of the modaks I posed the same question on fb. A lot of friends chimed in and like all Indian myths, they had slightly different versions and names of Ganesha’s wives and sons. Manisha was most helpful, quoting from a book on tales of Ganesha and her tidbits made for a fun discussion. From that discussion, this tale is woven.

Disclaimer: Based on myths and tales of Ganesha and written in jest. Not intended to offend any Ganesha devotees. I am one myself and have nothing but the highest reverence, regard and love for the Remover of all obstacles.

The invisible man

I am an invisible man in a foreign land. When I say invisible, I don't mean the invisible man from H G Well's story of the same name or even the unnamed hero of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man.  I am not complicated like that, nor do I have existential issues. No, my dilemma is simple one. The people I live with are my son, Suresh and daughter-in-law, Tulsi. I do not care much for them but I am stuck living with them. I don’t like their museum like house with its modern furniture made of angular lines and hard surfaces, the dark brown walls and white crockery that reminds me of a hospital.


I know my son asked me to stay with him out of a sense of obligation after my wife died. I agreed because I had no other option. He was always close to his mother than he was to me, not that I blame him. I was never the ‘involved father’ like these younger generation boys with their fancy strollers and carriers.

In my time, it would have been considered outright laughable if not ridiculous to be so involved with your kids. My wife took care of the house and the kid; I went and earned a living. Life was simple, with clear demarcations, not like the hodgepodge of today. Our fruit basket had only fruits in them.  My son's otherwise neat house has this one big bowl on the kitchen counter that catches everything from stray fruit to phone and iPad chargers. Just looking at it drives me nuts but I restrain myself.  "It is none of my business how they want to lead their lives," I try to reason.

The photo cue

My son is nothing like me. He helps his wife in the kitchen, they clean the house together and I am sure when they have a kid, he will get up in the middle of the night to bottle-feed the crying infant. I mean what do you expect when they call each other Sur and Taal (Rhythm and Beat)? What is wrong with calling each other by their full names, Suresh and Tulsi? How hard is it to pronounce two more syllabels?

Sur is the proud owner of a fancy camera that he carries with him everywhere. Taal encourages him, pointing to all manners of objects to be photographed. He twists his body into uncomfortable positions to make her happy but I suspect he doesn’t much care for the things he shoots. I just don’t know what the big deal is in shooting a clump of fresh pulled garlic or a zuchini. If you have seen one, you have seen them all. Why go around taking pictures and wasting film?

Apparently, the two of them have a food blog and all this photography is for that purpose. Taal also spends a lot of time in front of the computer researching food and re evaluating her diet. When I first arrived here from India, there was not a drop of milk to be found in the fridge. “Pappa, Taal is a vegan,” Sur had explained when I had asked for some milk.

“I thought vegetarians drink milk,” I had asked, confused.

“No Pappa, there is a difference between vegetarians and vegans. Vegans don’t eat any animal product, including milk,” he had said with a faint irritation in his voice. He had explained how Taal was against exploiting animals for their milk, eggs or meat. It was the strangest thing I had ever heard but I kept my mouth shut. It was a good thing too because I soon realized that Sur and Taal experimented a lot with their diets.

Put on your chalks and chopsticks!

Ok, I was going to title it ‘put on your writing caps’ but putting on chalks and chopsticks sounds so much more interesting. Aqua’s brilliant conception deserves no less. Now if I was only more respecting of deadlines the last two times when Sra and Sandeepa hosted the event. Nevertheless, once I managed to post my overdue fiction, I was overwhelmed at the kind, encouraging and appreciative response to it from some of you. I couldn’t ask for better friends and visitors of DSM.

After the still pending part 2 of 'It takes two to marry...' I had vowed to finish all future stories in one single post. I am proud to say I have managed to stick to that resolve. However, two of the above mentioned supportive friends, namely Sandeepa and Harini, wanted a part 2 to ‘To stalk a brinji’. I insisted that I was done with the brinji and Sandeepa duly conceded and I quote her here, “...I know there won't be a second part because this is how the author wants it to end but since I know the author personally I can always demand my kinda endings, can't I ;-) Not that the author has to listen or anything!!!”

Well, the author listened not because of her nagging but because Harini’s idea of writing the story from ‘Uncle’s’ point of view appealed to her. There still will be no part 2 to the brinji but the author is working on Harini's above mentioned idea. This also brings the said author, me, to announce the third edition of the revived  'Of Chalks and Chopsticks' event which is being hosted this month here at DSM. If you are new to this blog or not aware of ‘OC&C’, it is all about combining your writing chops with your eating chops. To put it simply, OC&C is about writing an interesting piece of food fiction. It may or may not have a recipe but it has to reference food. For examples check out my food fiction page or a previous roundup of the event on Sra’s blog.

The revived event also has a photo cue for you to get inspired and fire up your imagination or get you stuck on the photo and leave you totally uninspired to come up with anything (whichever way you choose to look at it).  But if the above photo sparks the writer in you, here are some basic rules, penned by Sra, with one additional rule by me, to follow before sending in your entry.

1. Spin us a yarn - an original one, based on the above photo cue. It could either be based on a real incident or could be something completely imaginary. Explore any genre: humor, romance, mystery, paranormal etc.

2. The story you write has to have some food - it doesn't have to be a recipe.

3. There is no word limit on the story you write, but it has to be written in one single post.

4. Posts written for this event CAN be shared with other events.

5. Please link to this post and Aqua's original post mentioned above.

6. It is recomended but not required that you add the above photo to your post. If you do, mention this link in the caption since I own the copyright to the photo that I took.

7. Post your story and the recipe between now and August 10 and mail it to me at: jayawagle@gmail.com

Include the following details in your mail:

1. Name and URL of your blog

2. Title and URL of your post

So, grab that chalk, or pen or laptop or desktop and start writing.

At the expense of shameless self promotion, if you haven't already clicked 'like' on the DSM page on facebook, please do so and stroke my ego.  The badge is right there on the top left hand corner or here is the link to DSM on fb.

To stalk a brinji

Naina woke up to the insistent ringing of the morning alarm. She considered hitting the snooze button but decided to get up anyways. It was going to be a busy day and she needed a head start. She walked bleary eyed into the kitchen and turned on the tap. She drank a glass of water and then poured two cups of water in a pan, added some sugar, tea leaves and milk. By the time she had finished her morning ablutions, the tea was boiling. A little bit of grated ginger, a final boil and she turned off the heat.

Picture Cue: Bong Mom Cookbook

It was still dark outside as Naina strained the two cups of tea and walked towards the picture window.  She loved this time of the day, sitting by the window, reading a book and sipping her cup of tea. It was calm and peaceful, no jarring sounds of the television and no hustle bustle of daily chores. There was hardly anyone on the sidewalk except an occasional runner jogging past or an early riser walking the dogs.

Of late, she had been noticing an elderly desi ‘uncle’ strolling past the house around the same time. She knew from her parent’s visit last year how these routine walks sometimes became the only respite for the elderly parents. They went stir crazy in the house but couldn’t go anywhere for the lack of public transport. The weather was usually too extreme to take a stroll in the middle of the day. Early mornings or cool evenings was the only time one would see them strolling around the community. The men almost always wore pants pulled above their waists, full sleeved shirt, a cap and shiny new sneakers. If their wives came along, they too would sport matching sneakers under their saris or salwar suits. This man could have been a clone to the other seniors.

As the sun came up over the horizon, Naina put the book down with a sigh. They had invited a few close friends for dinner and she had a lot of cooking ahead of her. She carried the empty cup back to the sink and started preparing for dinner. Her husband, Ajay, and daughter, Nita, were still sleeping and she decided to do all the non-noisy chores first. Out came the whole wheat flour for the chapattis which she quickly and deftly kneaded into a big ball of dough. She rinsed and soaked a combination of toor and masoor dal with plenty of water.

Naina had decided to make brinji for the evening, an exotic south Indian pulao cooked in coconut milk. She decided to turn on the computer and check the recipe once more, “just to make sure I have everything,” she said to herself. The truth was Naina had studiously avoided turning on the computer since morning. She knew once she got on it, a couple of hours would easily go by before she got back to cooking.

“I’ll just check the bookmarked recipe and turn it off,” she reassured her doubting self and logged on. To her credit, she did go straight to the recipe. It called for loads of veggies, a spice paste of cilantro, mint, ginger, garlic and coconut. She decided to jot the recipe down so she wouldn’t have to come back to the computer. “I’ll leave a comment later,” she silently promised herself and the author of the blog.

For the spice paste

Naina stepped out in the backyard to get some mint leaves, marveled a few minutes at the beautiful morning sky that was soon going to turn hot and scorching. She picked a handful of mint leaves and came back in. She pulled out the browning, slimy-at-the-bottom bunch of cilantro from the fridge and dumped the whole thing in a colander. She ran water over it in the sink and started separating the good parts. There was barely half a cup of green leaves left after she was done with the bunch. “He’ll have to run to the grocery store to get some,” she thought with a wince. Just two days ago Ajay had asked her if she had everything she needed for the dinner party.

“Of course I do,” she had said with a confidence that defied the truth. He just looked at her with a resigned look that said, “I know I will have to run to the store at the last minute but I hope this time you are right and I won’t have to.” Naina hadn’t been lying. She just hadn’t bet on the cilantro turning bad so fast. Or rather, she had ignored to check on the cilantro because picking and cleaning cilantro was her least favorite things to do, as was picking and cleaning green beans, podding peas, cutting arbi and bhindi (okra). Coming to the US had changed all that. She got frozen green beans and sweet peas all ready to use. She had tried the frozen arbi and bhindi, all cut up and frozen. Those had been major slim-fest disasters.

It was eight o’clock by the time Naina had all the ingredients for the spice paste. She considered holding off on starting the magic bullet to grind the paste and then decided to go ahead. “Maybe today they can wake up to the whirring of the blender,” she smiled at the thought and plugged it in. The sharp aromas of ginger, garlic jostled with the fragrant mint and the nutty coconut as Naina opened the jar. Even then she knew that the brinji would be the highlight of the dinner.

She spent the rest of the day chopping, sautéing, stirring and frying. Two hours to dinner and she still had to clean the kitchen counter tops, load the dishwasher and clean the bathroom. The brinji was to be served hot, but she had prepared everything else. She sped up on the chores and remembered at the last minute to soak the rice in water before hitting the shower. She looked back appreciatively at the island counter. Steaming palak paneer, aromatic mattar paneer, pipping hot dal and warm rotis has been carefully transferred to white serving platters and covered with cellophane. Ajay was working on the salad and reading the instructions on the frozen pizza box he was planning to cook for the kids. The house looked clean, the toddler’s toys were under control. “Now, only if the guests would come on time,” even as she said it, she knew it was not something one expected of one’s desi friends.

All dewy from the shower, Naina went into the closet to pick out a t-shirt and at the last minute decided to wear something ethnic. She looked over her collection of sarees and salwar suits and chose a mauve salwar kameez she hadn’t had a chance to wear in a long time. A pair of small earring, a touch of mascara and she was ready.

“Naina, are you done?” Ajay asked from the door.

“Yes, I am coming. What’s the matter?” she asked with a hint of irritation in her voice. He was always harping on her about her long showers.

“There is a desi uncle in our living room,” he whispered.

“What? Do we know him,” she asked perplexed. They weren’t expecting any uncles or aunties for that matter.

“Come out, I’ll tell you later,” he said as he turned around.

Naina walked into the living room to find the desi uncle she had been observing taking a walk in the morning sitting on the couch, reading a Time magazine.

“Namaste uncle,” she said politely. She was too puzzled to say anything else.

“Namaste beti. I see you reading in the window every morning when I go for my morning walks. Today, I thought I will stop by,” he said.

Now that she could see him up close, Naina noticed he had beady eyes under his thick glasses and wispy, grey hair. He seemed to be in his late 70s.

“No problem uncle,” she said politely. “Good of you to stop by but today is not a good time. We are expecting guests over for dinner anytime…”

Before she could finish he clapped excitedly. “Desi friends? Good, I haven’t met a lot of desi people since I came here. It will be good to meet them. I’ll stick around. Don’t worry, do what you need to do. I will read this magazine till they come,” he said as he proceeded to settle himself comfortably on the couch.

Naina looked at Ajay who shrugged and motioned her to come to the kitchen.

“Why is he staying around? Who is he? Do you know him?” she blasted him with a flurry of questions.

“Calm down,” he said. “I don’t know him but it looks like he is lonely. He was telling me before that he stays all by himself the whole day while his son and daughter-in-law go to work.”

“So he decides to drop by our house and then stay for dinner!” she exclaimed.

“Well, we can’t do much about it now. At least it will make for an interesting evening,” he said with a chuckle.

“Leave you to find humor in a party crasher,” she found herself smiling as well.

Then there was the brinji to be made still. She set the big pan on the gas burner and took out the whole spices and the chopped onions. In went the spices in the sizzling oil, followed by the onions. She lowered the heat and let the onions caramelize. The green spice paste went in the browned onions. As the paste sizzled, Naina smelled the mint, coconut and the whole spices coming together in harmony. For a while she even forgot about the septuagenarian sitting in her living room reading Time magazine.

Of eggs, onions, strawberries and hot dogs

She heard his audible sigh as he passed the dining room. She was busy taking pictures of juicy, fresh strawberries she had picked up that morning at the farmer's market. "How does he not get it still?" she wondered. She had been blogging for over a year now and as she had gotten more involved with her blog, she had started experimenting more with different cuisines, with photography techniques and with social media. She spent a pretty good amount of time on twitter and facebook and she had a respectable following.

How could she not get addicted to this wonderful medium? Living in a foreign land, this was her way to connect with people from all over the world. She had made friends, shared her frustrations and joys with them and a lot of times learned from them.

Just the other day, Supriya had taught her how to use manual mode on her point and shoot camera. She hadn't fully understood the technicalities of aperture and zoom, but she was excited and eager to experiment. The strawberries were the perfect subject.

She knew she sometimes got carried away and neglected to attend to everything else. Hence his deep sigh of resignation.  She realized she had been at it for almost an hour. It was past breakfast time and he was probably hungry. Come to think of it, she was hungry too.

A guessing game for the tea party

My heartfelt thanks to all you lovely people who took the time to pause and read this post and then give you precious comments. I have had fun making this for Anita’s Tea Party. It was my first time attending and it was a blast. However, amidst all the fun was the backdrop of plagiarism and blatant lifting of copy and pictures, not just by fellow bloggers but by long standing institutions (?) like TOI. (Read her powerful post here.)

It is easy to stamp your feet and proclaim that a recipe does not have a copyright, especially if it is specific to a particular region or cuisine. However, there is copyright infringement when ingredients and sometimes the method of preparation is lifted blatantly and passed off as their own. I have never had the misfortune of my copy being lifted, and frankly I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or to feel slighted at the insignificance of my blog.

But ask a blogger whose content was stolen and she will tell you it is like slaving over a ten-course meal the whole day and then have the mother-in-law take the credit for your hard work. I sure would not want to be in either of their shoes, which is why I try my best to give credit where it is due. And if you, my dear readers, have ever felt tempted to pass off on giving credit, be aware. It is a small knit community and sooner or later you will be caught and exposed for it. So, go ahead and copy past that link you have been debating about. Link Karma is a powerful thing and it will come back to bite you or reward you, depending on how you treat it.
Now, back to the tea party...


“Hey, I’m leaving work now. Will be home in another 45 minutes,” he said over the phone. “Got another surprise for me?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?” she asked with a smile in her voice. “Drive safe,” she said and hung up the phone.

A few weeks ago, when she started their little game of “guess what’s for tea?” she didn’t think it would come back to haunt her so soon. It had started out of a desire to connect with a man she barely knew. She would call him when he was driving home in his car and they would play the guessing game till he reached home.

The first time they played it, she had found a neat trick, while surfing the net, to make batata vadas without getting her hands dirty.  He wasn’t much of a tea person and he didn’t care much for the fried stuff either. She, from the land of kachori and poha, missed the fare and the company. She would sit in the cold apartment and think back on the days when relatives and friends mingled and chatted over cups of hot tea in her parent’s two bed room home.

He, from the same land but without her attachments, was happy with some dal-chawal-sabzi-roti. But he had gradually got used to her waiting with the tea. “Now,” she thought happily, “he craves that cup of chai as much as I do.”

The batata vadas were a gamble, but she couldn’t have chosen a more opportune time to make them. It had been raining the whole day and by evening the clouds had ceased their pitter-patter. A cool breeze had picked up and the air smelled of wet earth. He had come home to find the apartment smelling of fried vadas and ginger infused chai. He had guessed right on the third try that she was making something deep fried.

Him, “Is it round or clumpy?”

Her, “It is round.”

“Is it yellow in color?”

“Yes.”

“Is it batata vada?”

It was almost too easy that first time. After that, she had to get creative each time, if not with the snack then with the hint. Like the time she told him it was something baked.

He had guessed everything from cakes to muffins to scones. “Well,” she had said when he looked at the chutney sandwich, “I meant the bread was baked. I didn’t say I baked it!” He had started laughing at her guile and she was happy and emboldened.

Today, she was in trouble. He was expecting a Q&A and she had zilch. She opened the fridge and spotted the cilantro-mint chutney from two days ago. “Nah, we had sandwiches yesterday.” There was half an onion wrapped in saran wrap. She was still getting used to the supersized onions of this land. She missed the small, red bulbs of her homeland that tasted sweet and sharp and pungent at the same time.

She banged the door of the fridge a bit harder than she wanted to and started rooting around the various cabinets. Her eyes lighted up as she saw the red and gold packet sitting forlorn in an upper shelf. “How did I miss this?” she said out loud.

She was transported back to her mother’s kitchen, trying to decipher the chatter from the hallway beyond and keeping an eye on the pot of boiling tea. Her mom was calling out to her to bring out the big kadhai where she and her sisters were sitting around gossiping. The smell of onions and cilantro and something else she couldn’t remember. The laughter and the talk as someone tossed and mixed everything in the big kadhai. Her mom scooping out the spicy goodness in stainless steel bowls. An aunt straining the tea into the mismatched tea cups.

She jumped when she heard the phone ringing. She had been clutching the red and gold packet for ten minutes. “Hello,” she said into the phone.

“It’s me. I am fifteen minutes away. Sorry couldn’t call you before for the Q&A,” he said on the other end.

“That’s ok, just come on home. I haven’t decided what I am making. We can just have toast and biscuits,” even as she said the words she realized she knew what she was going to make for this tea party.

She put a small kadai on the cook top and started dry roasting the puffed rice. The onion was unwrapped and chopped. A few sprigs of cilantro floated in a glass of water as she put the tea to boil in a saucepan. She reached for her Aaji’s dabbas and quickly added the sugar and tea leaves to the water.

She found a small tomato that she deseeded and chopped. Half a cucumber was stripped of its dark green coating, deseeded and cut into fine cubes. She almost reached for a sharp green chili but decided against it.

She took the now crispy puffed rice off the flames and mixed it in with the Haldiram’s khatta mitha, some bhujia and a handful of neylon sev. She looked up at the watch before reaching for the mint chutney in the fridge. “Five more minutes,” she thought as she started mixing the onions, tomatoes and cucumbers in the kadhai.

She looked over to see the water boiling, changing from a light tan to a dark brown color. She quickly added a splash of 1% milk and grated some ginger with the tiny grater her mother-in-law had given her.

The cilantro was demanding attention. She lifted the sprigs from their water bath and patted them in between two paper towels. As she chopped the cilantro over the mix, she smelled the heady smell of onions, cilantro and the salty-sugary-spicy aroma of the mixture.

“Almost like that day,” she wondered aloud and then remembered that there was something still missing. “It is not the mint chutney,” she thought. That was her addition; just like the dried cranberries she had found hiding behind the packet of raisins. What was it her mom had added that day? It was there, she knew, at the tip of her tongue. She could almost taste it, smell it, but it remained elusive.

“Ah well,” she shrugged as she took the tea off the heat. She heard the front door open as she started to strain the tea into the two mugs. And then it hit her, chat masala. How could she not remember chat masala for chat?!

The two sat down on the balcony with the tea and the big bowl of bhel. He popped a spoonful in his mouth and chewed it slowly, letting the flavors mingle and sing on his tongue. As he reached for some more, he said, “You know, this is what you should take to Anita’s tea party. It is perfect.”

Of Chalks and Chopsticks roundup

Here they are, a dozen plus one pieces of food fiction that will make you laugh, cry, wonder and enthrall. Above all, these stories will make you salivate and hunger for the rich fare they serve on the side.

1. Chow chow! Really? I can’t believe you used it in a salad, and I can’t believe it doesn’t taste crappy; The sweet potatoes don’t really do it for me, though, maybe you didn’t roast them well enough; That’s grated egg? I thought it was coconut!; I love shrimp, but I dislike the smell of fish; You’d have made a great chef, Amar, maybe you should write a cookbook one day! She ate the last of the chocolate cake and the bread pudding, lapping up every crumb, licking the spoon clean as he looked on fondly.

2. Fresh sliced bread was obtained from the town's only bakery. Amul butter was set out to soften. Cheese cubes were grated into a snowy white mound. Finally, the stage was set and four warm ripe tomatoes were harvested with great care, sliced and tucked into sandwiches. An old blackened sandwich toaster was pulled out to make golden toasts, oozing with melted cheese and fragrant tomatoes. The two best friends sat down to a lunch that had been months in the making.

3. She remembered the potful of idli batter chilling in the fridge. While the idli batter had to be undoubtedly exhausted, the reality was that children would stage a mass exodus from the house whenever they saw those white balls of steamed batter. They despised the mere look of greased idli plates as they knew what lay ahead. They would frown, make a fuss and succeed in inveigling bowlfuls of maggi noodles from Rajni.

4. 'Come children, let's go and have some coconut kheer, amma's [Mother] favorite'. All those gathered hurried to the dining room to savor amma's favorite kheer that Leela aunty had prepared.

5. The sweet rasgullas excited temptation that Temptation, herself, couldn't resist. Vividh gulped another gulla and went to the next Raag on her list. She sang Malhaar, and it rained a monsoon. She ate one more and sang Raag Des. The whole country, nay, the whole WORLD, was united in a patriotic blaze. Another rasgulla, another song.. now Raag Multani was in tune, and every woman's pimpled acne cleared up before you could say, "So soon!?"

6. His mother made puran polis like no one else could, with whisper-soft, flaky layers of poli sandwiching a core of buttery, melting-sweet puran. His mother’s puran polis were the talk of the town, and neighbors often asked her to make them some when they had special guests coming that they wanted to impress.

7. She went to kitchen and started marinating the keema.  She was not at all in a mood to deep fry the masala paste and then deep fry it with keema for that would have taken at least an hour. And she just wanted to get out of the kitchen as soon as it was possible.

8. She thought of all the sadyas that she had enjoyed and smiling, moved to pick up a little plastic packet that she'd bought on her last shopping trip. The smile became wider as she added milk and sugar to it and put it into the pressure cooker. By the time she was done with the rest of her cooking, the whole house was filled with a heady, sweet aroma.

9. She would preen secretly and patiently answer. Her voice glided from dull to sensuous while explaining the onion's color and shape. With a sparkle in her eye, she could go into details about how exactly the oil separating from the masala look and what it meant to beat an egg white to stiffness.

10. On the left side he wrote butter, cheese, eggs, steak, fries, doughnuts, sugar, pie. On the right, he wrote coffee, cream, cake. His pen hung over the “e” in cake as if pondering the magnitude of the work.

11. People of all shapes and sizes and ages in groups or alone wondering what to eat – dosas, egg bhurji, vada pavs, chaat or Chinese food – they were spoilt for choice. The hissing of the stoves and clanging of spoons on the huge woks. The air redolent with the smell of food and more food.

12.  After few days of tasting her uncooked food, more salty food, very spicy food, stone like idly, more oiled chapattis, burnt halwa.... he was very upset.

13. She had been thinking about the pav bhaji her cousin’s cook was going to make for dinner; tomatoes and potatoes, sweet peas and mushy green bell peppers, a hint of cauliflower, simmering with spices, sparkles of finely chopped onions and garnished with finely chopped fragrant cilantro and a slice of lemon.

I am pretty sure I covered everyone who sent an entry. But I am human after all, and if I did miss out anyone, do drop me a line and you will be added pronto.

It takes two to err… marry

This story is not a work of fiction but the names and identities of people, to some extent, have been changed. If you would like to read more of the story, mention it in the comment section and I will try to post the next part of the story as soon as possible. Due to my bed rest, there is no recipe this time with the story which is written for Of Chalks and Chopsticks, a food fiction event started by Aqua and currently being hosted on this blog.  

Raj and his parents looked at each other incredulously. They didn’t know what to think of Naina. Every few minutes she would excuse herself and go behind the curtain. Having lived in a small flat like this one all his life, Raj could guess that the curtain shielded a narrow hallway which probably led to a bedroom on one side, bathrooms on the other and a small kitchen at the back. They could clearly hear the girl blowing her nose in the sink. From the amount of noise she made, they could deduce safely that the sink was just outside the bathroom, a few feet away from the curtain.

She came back in the hallway again, wiping her hands on her duppatta. Her nose was a beetroot red but she didn’t seem to care. “She is so nonchalant,” Raj thought. “Doesn’t she care who we are? Aai (mother) is certainly not going to be happy,” he thought with dismay.

The nose blowing girl could feel the disapproving glare of the boy’s mother sitting across from her. Naina had to pinch herself hard to stop from laughing out loud. She couldn’t get the image of the woman, all prim and proper in her starched sari, with a band aid on her nose, out of her mind. She knew she had been making excessively loud noises blowing her nose but she didn’t care. The unwritten rules of the matchmaking ritual demanded that she be presented as a docile, homely and sweet natured girl. Ever the rebel, Naina was determined to break every rule. Blowing her nose loudly was a minor infraction in her long list of penalties.

Two years ago, since she had been deemed of marriageable age by her parents, Naina had refused to carry the mandatory tray laden with tea and biscuits or to wear a sari and strings of necklaces to impress the visiting “dignitaries”.

In India, the ubiquitous tea and biscuits are almost always offered to guests.

Her defiance had increased when she found a job working for a major newspaper in Bombay. She was staying with her cousin sister, Priti tai, at the time and was falling in love with the fast pace of the city. Her new job and the financial independence were too exciting and tempting to give up for a life of matrimony. Every time she went through one of the “viewing” sessions, her resolve to resist grew stronger, her violations more severe.

A tale of independence, Baingan Bharta and Global Kadai

Mrs. Mohini Kamath was chopping a mountain of onions while the two big eggplants cooked in the oven. She brushed away the tears trickling down her face and started on the garlic. She always liked to mince the garlic with some chopped onions mixed in. With the heat of the oven, the tiny apartment had become cozy and she started humming a Bollywood tune as she washed the tomatoes and started chopping them.

“Aren’t we in a good mood?” she said to herself as she peeked into the oven to see if the eggplants were charred. She decided to give it a few more minutes before she turned off the oven. “They won’t have the same smoky flavor as back home but it is better than cooking it in the microwave,” she had explained to Naina the first time she oiled and put the eggplants in the oven.

Naina didn’t know how to cook. All she managed in the mornings, before Mrs. Kamath arrived at her apartment was a weak cup of tea. “I have to give it to that girl. She listens when I tell her something which is more than I can say of my own flesh and blood.”  She remembered how she had told Naina to grate some ginger in the tea and boil it a little longer. Now, stepping in from the harsh winter outside, Mrs. Kamath arrived to a hot, steaming cup of adrak wali chai (ginger tea).

“My own daughter-in-law never offered me a glass of water,” she thought as she took some wheat flour and started kneading it with water. She did not realize she had stopped humming and was kneading the dough with a ferocity that would have surprised her if she could have seen herself.

It was ironic, she thought, how a cup of tea offered by stranger could make her feel appreciated. “Is that what happens when your family disappoints you?” she wondered.

“Aunty, this is so yummy!” Naina had come looking for her in her room. “How did she know I made the food?” She could overhear the guests appreciating the food she had slaved over all day, crispy Aloo Tikkis, spicy Baingan Bharta, creamy Aloo Dum, hearty Palak Paneer, subtly flavored jeera rice, Vegetable Pulao and cardamom infused Shikhand.

She waited for her son or his wife (that’s how she thought of her nowadays) to tell everyone that she had made the food. But all she heard was her daughter-in-laws’ “Thank you,” in that exaggerated accent she put on in front of company, as if she was the one who made all that food.

“Why are you in your room Aunty? Come out and meet everybody,” Naina had implored her. How could Mrs. Kamath tell her that she had been instructed by her son to stay in her room till the party was over and all his friend’s had gone home? She wanted to believe it was “his wife’s” instructions he was following, but she knew that it was as much her son’s wish as hers.

“Ma, you must be tired after all the cooking. Why don’t you rest in your room while the party is on? You will get bored anyways,” he had said but she knew what it really meant: “You are good enough to cook the food but not meet my friends.” She had been banished with a movie to watch on the small television in her room. Now, this strange girl had strolled into her room with a knock and was asking her to come out.

“Na beti (daughter), I am tired. I want to watch this movie and then go to bed,” she had tried to muster a smile but her lips failed her.

“That’s ok aunty, I understand,” Naina had said with a knowing look and went away.

She had come back a few days later, when Mrs. Kamath was alone in the afternoon. “Aunty, I was in the neighborhood and thought I will check on you. May I come in?” she had asked.

Eager for company and a friendly voice she had let her in. Over a cup of tea Naina told her what she had come for.

“I know I am asking you this behind your son’s back but if I asked him, he would just turn me down. I was wondering if you would cook for me and my husband. We both work long hours and we love your cooking. We will pay you $600 a month,” Naina had said.

Mrs. Kamath had never in her life thought she would cook for other people for a living. She had lived a comfortable, middle class life in India, taking care of the house and raising a son while her husband worked. She had never felt the need to work the way some of her friends did, delegating cooking and household chores to maids. Then, she had looked down her nose at them. “That is karma for you,” she thought. If two years ago someone had told her she would be living in this foreign land and considering cooking for young couples who did not have the time or know-how to cook, she would have scoffed.

After her husband’s death, she had started to feel lonely and when her son asked her to move to US with his family, Mrs. Kamath accepted immediately. It took her all of six month to convert her savings to dollars, sell off the house and move into her son’s house.

“What a mistake that was,” she muttered as she remembered how her status in her son’s house had been reduced to that of a maid who cooked, cleaned and laundered. If only her son had more time to sometimes sit with her and chat. Or if the grandkids would gather around her and hear the stories she had wanted to share. Instead, they would go from school, to different activities and in their free time watch TV rather than spend time with their “old” grandma.

“What do you think, Aunty?” Naina’s voice had brought her back from her reverie. “Like you said beti, I don’t think my son would like that,” she had replied with a tight smile.

“Will you at least think about it?” Naina had asked her before leaving.

It had taken several months for Mrs. Kamath to finally decide to leave her son’s house. In the end, she figured she might as well get paid and appreciated for what she did for free every day.

But before she could leave, she had to learn how to drive. Mrs. Kamath smiled as she thought of the day she had asked her son to teach her how to drive. “Beta (son), then you or bahu won’t have to bother with groceries and supplies,” she had reasoned. She had surprised herself with her guile. Once she had her driver’s license her independence would be complete.

Naina and her husband, Ajit, had helped her get a cheap apartment and a few of their friends had hired her as a cook. She brought Ajit’s ten year old reliable car and she was all set to embark on her new journey.

She had figured out that with her savings and her income from cooking for a few families, she could live comfortably. On weekends, she had started babysitting, not only to supplement her income but also to while away her time.

Her son and daughter-in-law were not happy at what they perceived was her desertion. “What will people think?” was her daughter-in-law’s concern. Her son tried to dissuade her in his own way. “How are you going to manage by yourself? You don’t know enough English to get by. Why do you want to leave?”

How could she tell this son of hers why she wanted to leave and be on her own? All her life she had always put the interests of others before her and she had been happy to do it, or so she thought. Here, in this land, away from relatives and friends, she finally had a chance to try it out on her own. She wanted to do what she liked doing best but with dignity and respect. Mrs. Kamath knew her son wouldn’t understand. She could only hope that one day he would. Till then, she had the baingan bharta to finish.
(End of fiction)

This piece of fiction, written for Of Chalks and Chopsticks, conceived by Aqua and hosted by Sra, is based on some of the older women I have come across in the US. They work here as cooks and nannies. For many of them, food is the only tie that connects them to their roots back home.

Mrs. Kamath’s Baingan Bharta (eggplant mash)

Ingredients:
1 large eggplant
1 tsp of cumin seeds
1 tsp of turmeric powder
1 big onion, chopped fine
1 green chili, chopped fine
5-6 cloves of garlic, minced fine
1/2 tablespoon of ginger-garlic paste
2 medium sized tomatoes, chopped fine
1 tsp of dhana-jeera powder (cumin-coriander)
1 tsp of garam masala
A handful of peas (optional)
Cilantro for garnish

Method:
Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Oil the eggplant, put it on a cookie sheet lined with foil and bake it in the oven for 20-25 minutes. Turn off the oven and leave the eggplant in the cooling oven.

Heat a couple of tablespoon of oil in a heavy skillet. On medium heat, add the cumin and turmeric, stir for a minute till the turmeric starts smelling fragrant.

Add the green chili and chopped onions. Cook till onions turn translucent, about 5-8 minutes on medium heat. Halfway through, add the chopped garlic and the ginger-garlic paste.

Toss in the garam masala and dhana jeera powder as the ginger-garlic paste starts giving off a delicious aroma. Stir for a few minutes before adding the peas and the tomatoes. Cover and cook till the tomatoes are mushy and the peas are tender.

Meanwhile, take the eggplants out of the oven and gently peel off the charred skin. The oil should make it easy to peel. Chop the skinless eggplant, making it as mushy as possible.

Add this to the cooking tomato-onion-peas mix. Add salt and cook for another ten minutes before turning off the heat.

Garnish with chopped cilantro and some lime. Serve with chapattis or rice.

*********

July has not only been one of the hottest months in our neck of the woods, it also has been a busy month for me. I have been constantly falling behind in my posts. This story should have been up and running by 31st of July but since I was running late, Sra graciously let me submit it before she did the roundup. If you liked my story and want to read an excellent piece of fiction on first love, head on over to her blog.

Speaking of which, my roundup for the B2B event will be up after the 5th of this month. So, if you have any last minute entrees, send them in.

Is it against the protocol to announce another event before the roundup? I don’t know, but Cilantro’s Global Kadai rules stipulate that I announce it on the first of August. So sticking to the rules of the host, I would like to challenge you to Indianize tofu. There is a wide array of possibilities here, for example, substituting paneer with tofu to make palak tofu or making tofu stuffed paranthas instead of aloo paranthas. If you live in a part of the world where access to tofu is limited or nil, try making your own, like this. With so much creativity out there, I am pretty sure there will be some great recipes. Here are the simple rules:

1. Make an Indian recipe using tofu as the main or one of the ingedients.

2. Include a link back to this post and to Cilantro's original post.

3. Make sure the recipe is an original one. If it is adapted from another blog or a recipe book, give it its due credit and link.

4. The last date for submission is September 1st. If you are late by a couple of days, email me at this address. If I haven't posted the roundup, I will accept and include your entry.

5. Older posts are welcome as long as you link them to this event announcement and Cilantro's. No need to repost them.

6. Don't have a blog, but have a great recipe to share? Email it on the above address with your name, location and the name of the dish. You will get your name on the blog and we will get another recipe for our collection.