 |
| 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
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!
