A dying art!

Goddess Annapoorna

    

          Oh, this ain't about martial arts or playing the veena or a rockers dying song with a bleeding heart and a broken guitar.

          This is about that one special person in your life. In my life. In everybody’s lives. That irreplaceable strength, it’s about just one of those magical creations from those magical fingers that caressed your hair, that powdered your bum when you were a toddling toddler, that fed you when you conveniently ran all over the house at the cost of her inconvenience, those fingers that pointed at the moon while they thumped you lovingly while you fell asleep listening to her created stories.

          This is an ode to the Goddess Annapoorna we know as Mother. This is about the virtuoso's' brilliantly composed delicacies, about her prodigious talents as a cook, approved, applauded and commended since ages, her charming art of turning lifeless non-eatables into mouth slurping delicacies, her magical powers of mixing and matching, of cutting and smashing, of turning and tossing, of pulling out and presenting on your plate an impeccable something which evokes more awe than the rabbit pulled out of a hat by a magician.

          Since birth, or maybe even before that, we have taken her for granted. Almost always! She has always reserved the best for us, made the best for us. As a nestling, while we fussed and gave her a hard time, she made sure we ate all that is right, all that made us look plump yet healthy. She made sure we had the right diet, the right vegetables, the right fruits, the right fish. She fought with dad and caused a riot if anything was missing in the kitchen that hindered her from making that perfect dish for us. She ensured that we had our meals at the right time while she skipped hers most of the time.

          While our school mates laughed at the size of our tiffins, she relentlessly filled every nook and corner of the lunch box lest we remained unfed. Nobody enlightened her on our likes and choices. She observed, she noted, she knew!

          She took extra effort to feed us all the niceties. If she didn't know, she learnt. There was no internet then, the mother-in-laws weren't mothers and the daughter-in-laws weren't daughters, and one was expected to know everything. She was a fast learner, she was dedicated, earnest and the most significant part was that she CARED. She was never satisfied by the food being just edible, she treated it as a work of art. We have always known her as a maven, but she has relentlessly worked her way to be one. We have seen the incessant forgiver never forgiving herself for that extra bit of salt she put, or the missing ingredient she forgot. She genuinely felt bad though you appeared to not notice it.

          She didn't need the praises, she didn't need applauding, and she didn't wait for a pat on her back to know how much we loved every wonder she put on our plate; she read our expressions, she knew from the way we licked our fingers.

          Would any of the species today take the trouble of remembering to buy raw mangoes on time, to put them to dry in the sun, to keep a watch on the crows lest they deprive us of that tongue and lip smacking sour and salty pickle?

          On Diwali, while dad got the crackers, Maa lit up the house and our bellies with the unstoppable aroma of chaklis, besan laddus, shankarpallis, chewda and shev. Back in her hometown, all these items were and are unknown but she adapted with panache this lifestyle that she accepted gracefully. When we mouth those spiral chaklis, we don’t spare a thought for the hard work that has gone behind it. Try making a chakli all by yourself and you will infer that though it ain't rocket science, but come nearly close to just being that science – a little exaggeration can be tolerated! While we went to schools and office, she toiled in the kitchen making the batter with the exact amount of masalas, making those perfect shapes (trust me it isn't easy), parallely bringing the oil to a simmer, frying it to perfection. An attempt of this sort today by the current generation will prove to be no less than a feat and a single harmless comment would invite blatant glares that could burn not only you but the entire kitchen to ashes! Keep that extinguisher handy.

          For those rainy days, she cogitated months in advance, singularly made and dried the pappads  of different lentils (daals), watched them every hour so that they got enough sun, so that the crows were denied their share, every pappad of the same size and taste, smelling of the touch of love and care, the unconditional kind? Nobody told her, nobody reminded!

          When the rain Gods lets the streams loose and it poured, the enlivening smell of kaanda and moong bhajis filled the house and brought an unconscious slurp and an attractive greed! At Janmnasthami, pati shaptas and puran polis ruled the kitchen. On holi, garma garam khichdi with begunis were gorged on. At Laksmi Puja, the zest with which she made those mouth smacking nariyal laddus and sandesh was as much for the Goddess as much for me. Modaks and malpuas were never missed on Ganpati. The tasty pickles and boris were satiated with delight. In a house where a few ate only fish, some only chicken and the others acted like pure Brahmins – the real kind, she cooked relentlessly, day in and day out, a variety to satisfy each of us dimwits without the slightest bickering. She took the opportunity on Christmas to bring that large round plum cake, less for the crucified Lord Jesus and more for me.

          Girls of today live out of boxes, go to plush offices, travel, are more educated and have less time on their hands for anything beyond their work. The growing restaurant business is proof to that. Times have changed and so have lifestyles. The word ‘Independence’ has attained a new dimension, at times respected, at most other times abused. When preparing the night meal and feeding your family becomes an adventure in itself and is a source of constant bickering and unwanted fights, you would be a fool to expect chaklis and malpuas and kheer. When every task we thought was a daily chore and hitherto went unnoticed is glorified to unwanted proportions, you dare not open your mouth and say that the salt is more.

          Everything is getting bottled up nowadays, packed and packaged to perfection, but that four letter word called LOVE and another one called CARE, what about that, does it feature in the list of ingredients on the printed mention of calories outside each bottle? I guess not.

          Maa, we are truly blessed! Like the life you induced in us, you sustained and kept it going on with the food, the innumerable delicacies that you provided; you puffed magic with your fingers. This is just a small salutation to you. To my mother, to your mother, to every mother!