अश्रुंचे झाले सोने

माझ्या फेसबुक स्नेही,  व निरनिराळ्या प्रकारच्या  स्वयंपाकाचे प्रयोग करून बघणार्या,  त्याचे वर्ग घेणार्या , आणि पारंपारिक स्वयंपाकात खूप रुची असणार्या सई  कोरान्ने-खांडेकर यांनी त्यांच्या ओव्हन मध्ये काहीतरी गोड धोड भाजायला  ठेवले, आणि त्यावर थोडी साखर पेरली .

कुठेतरी नकळत , आजूबाजूलाही साखर पडली , आणि जेव्हा ओव्हन उघडून पदार्थ बाहेर काढायची वेळ आली, तेव्हा  खाली असलेल्या पार्च्मेण्ट कागदावर  त्यांना हे असे सोन्याचे गोड मणी  दिसले .

कोणाला माहित,  आनंदाचे अश्रू पण असावेत ?  

साखरप्याच्या माई ,
स्वतः कधी शाळेत गेल्या नाहीत
पण नातीनी मुलींनी भाच्यांनी शिकावं
म्हणून
त्यांना घेउन शहरात आल्या .
मुली नवीन प्रकार शिकल्या ,
नवीन नवीन अनोळखी लोकांशी
कस बोलायच ते शिकल्या,
कधी स्वतःचा अगदी चक्काचूर करून
लोणी मंडळींबरोबर जगायचं शिकल्या ,
कधी मैदा तुपाच्या यज्ञात
आत्मसमर्पण करायला शिकल्या ,
कधी उडत उडत हळूच फळांवर बसायला शिकल्या ,
तर कधी गरम पातेल्याच्या तळाशी
फेर आणि लवली विसरून,
खमंग झाल्या.

कौतुकाने एकदा साखरप्याच्या माई
त्यांच्या बरोबर गेल्या,
त्यांची गोडा वरची पेरणी,
त्यांचे सोनेरी बदल,
त्यांना केक्स्पर्शाने मिळालेला आदर ,
सर्व बघून धन्य झाल्या।

सभोवताली किती गरम होत
ते तर जाणवलेच नाही ,
पण जेव्हा लक्षात आलं ,
तेव्हा त्यांच्या डोळ्यातले
आनंदाचे गोड अश्रू
सगळी कडे सोन्याच्या मण्यान सारखे विखुरलेले होते ....

कोंबडीची गोष्ट .....

माझ्या फेसबुक स्नेही शांता कोणजे  यांनी  हा मजेदार फ़ोटो  पोस्ट  केला होता .

फ्लामिन्गो पक्षांचे हाय फाय थंड परदेशातून उडत येणे , पेज थ्री प्रकारचे नाजूक चालणे  ,  आपली अंडी समुद्रानजीकच्या खारफुटी (Mangrove) भागात  छुपव्णे ,  वेळ येताच उडून जाणे ,  आणि त्यांचे डोळे मिटून अनुकरण करणारी आपली  देशी सुंदर रंगांची देण असलेली कोंबडी .

मग उगीचच काहीतरी आठवलं

हुडहुडीच्या प्रदेशातून ,
समशीतोष्ण भारतिय प्रदेशात
गौर वर्णीय पाहुण्यांचे
हिवाळ्यात आगमन,
आखीव रेखीव कमनीय फ्लेमिंगो
ललनांचा नाजूक पदन्यास ,
आणि नेहमी प्रमाणे
आ वासून
इथे सर्वांनी सर्व बाबतीत त्यांची केलेली नक्कल .

साईझ झिरो ,
लांडे कपडे ,
विजारीवर फ्याशन च्या नावाखाली मारलेले
फाटके कट ,
आणि जीन्स वर पोटीमा ब्लाउज ….

आणि एक कोंबडी पळाली
तंगडी काठीला धरून
झोकात चालायला लागली
आणि आपलं खुराड ,
आपली अंडी
आपली माणसं विसरून अनुकरण करत बसली .

तिला काय माहित,
कि जमिनीशी नातं ज्यांचं असतं ,
त्यांचे पाय लांब नसतात ,
त्यांना धर्तीचे रंग सजवतात ,
त्यांना छान बाळसं धरलेलं अस्त,
त्यांच्या जगात
साईझ झिरो ,
लांडे कपडे ,
कधीच नसतात ,
आणि कट्स विजारी वर नसतात पण
त्यांच्या मानेवर असतात

कारण कितीही उंचावरून चाललं
तरी त्याना उडता येत नाही .…. 

A Paratha Life....

I admire the patienceof those who take time to focus their cameras  to click , when presented with superb breakfasts/lunches on a lazy winter Sunday morning.  Particularly amidst the fragrance of butter, ginger, garlic, coriander and roasted flour.

More so when it is plated like this .

My friend Deepak Amembal, is one such person,  and many of his breakfasts have adorned Facebook, Instagram and other places.  He just posted this today.  I think the breakfast/lunch  tastes extra special once you have clicked it.    If the Paratha could smile , it would.

I just wondered what the potatoes might be thinking....

Some days are special.

If you are a potato,
that is.

Sunday.
Not a day to be cut up
and fall to pieces.

But a day
to simply dissolve into oneself,
and hold oneself together
as the battered chiiles,
scraped gingers ,
and crushed garlics invade,
amidst inroads by
salts, sugars and cumins.

An unusual holding together
watched by a
dowager dough-in-wheat,
and she rushes to
encompass it in parts,
carefully patting
and covering
to face
the impending onslaughts
of a rolling pin.

A languid light stretching
on a cool surface,
and bit of turning around,
before
taking a leap of faith
on to a hot griddle.

She blooms,
sometimes pink and gold
with a few beauty spots,
and fate rushes in
thinking they are hot,
and sprinkles them
with blobs of butter,
to cool her.

A well deserved rest
on a cool plate,
and she shyly folds herself
as she watches
the dahi and chutney guys
come rushing by.

Dahi, chutney and potatoes
they go way back.

Sometimes ,
they have no patience
and simply dash into each other
in katoris..

But if it is a Sunday,
they arrive in style,
wrapped in a royal paratha,
with perhaps
Lady Ghee-in-waiting,
and they simply preen and fold
as someone takes a close up
on his camera,
watched by
some impatient
chutney and dahi chaps....

Yes,
some days are special.

If you are a potato,
that is.

You get photographed and facebooked
before going
to meet your Maker.

On being a National Upma .....

It is a fact , universally true, but rarely acknowledged, that there is much to learn from traditional foods, their ingredients, their preparations, and the final coming together of the product. .  

Many times, these foods reflect the state of our society, and if you pardon me, the politics.

My friend Nutsure Satwik, had this delicious nutritious Upma for breakfast, and posted a photograph, before devouring it.

It is only fitting, that this Upma, enjoyed in the biting cold of Delhi, the capital,   reflects a philosophy .  Don't know if Upma is subsidized in the Parliament canteen , but clearly we have much to learn from it. 

So much
for the Parliament types
to learn.

It takes
a stodgy Gora Rawa,
carefully roasted brown;
A golden oil,
with some hot power factor,
perhaps some lumpy ghee
for those clutching tradition;
Short tempered mustard seeds
bursting in "muffled" excitement ;
Agitating,
extremely cut up
slogan-bursting
fighting eastern chillies;
Onions,
deemed proletarian,
but clearly lording it ,
waiting for the rare
kadhipatta support ;
Urad dal
joining in
the Jantar Mantar noise;
Groundnuts,
"yet to decide",
but actually
just waiting
for an opportunity to join
the upma coalition.

Sometimes though,
hopeful
carrots and peas
confused about
whether they are
secular or communal ,
chip in
giving outside support.

What none of these worthies
understands,
is their value lies
only when
each of them
plays their assigned role
in the
Boiling Capital Waters
to cook and create together
a National Upma.

Bozoical Mann Ki Baat .....

Bozo, Mumbai's blogger dog , is quiet these days.

It has  been exciting, in the midst of the whole family,  getting together again for some great events,  and meeting best friends all over again.

But  age and observation has mellowed him , and he has learned that every coming, is followed by a going away.  What remains constant , is him. 

He doesn't say much, but you can see it in his eyes.  Missing folks, yes. But then the need of the hour is to be with the older folks back home, and relive the memories, and wait for happier times again ......

I grew up with them.

I would strain my ears
to hear their footsteps
as they rushed home from school.

Then I grew up
again
with some others
in the family.

I stood
stoically,
with their parents
and grandma,
as one by one
they left
to make their lives
beyond the seas.

In our world,
we don't just grow up,
we mature .

I am now amongst those,
much older folks,
who
once again strain their ears
to hear the footsteps
of the children,
as they leave a house
to go to another house,
and wonder when
they will return again.

It is not an Empty House Syndrome.

It is
the
Rub-your-head-against-some-one's-knee
and
Remember-the-Good-Times   Syndrome....

कोणी करंजी देता का, करंजी ?

माझे स्नेही , श्री विवेक पटवर्धन ,  नुकतेच वेस्ट इंडीज ला जाउन  आले,  आणि मायामी (फ्लोरिडा) मार्गे मायदेशी परतत आहेत. त्याना प्रवासात अनेक खाण्याच्या पदार्थांचा आस्वाद घेता आला असे दिसते .

आर्जेन्टीन एम्पनाडाज़  ह्या नावाखाली  एका  दुकानाच्या खिडकीत चक्क  आपल्या करनज्यान सारखा पदार्थ दिसला .  त्यांनी ताबडतोब फ़ोटो काढून, फेसबुक वर टाकून मला खुणावले (tag केले).

आज समज्ताय ,  संजय लीला भन्सालीच्या बाजीरावला बघून खर्या बाजीरावना काय वाटले असेल . ….

पूर्वी वनवासात जाण्याची स्टाईल होती,
कंद मुळ खाल्ली जायची ,
शिकार व्हायची ,
जादूच्या थाळ्या असायच्या,
आणि विविध संकटांशी सामना करून
चोर दैत्यांचा नाश करून,
मंडळी आपली पायपीट चालू ठेवायची

आणि सरते शेवटी

आपापल्या राज्यात परतून

मेज्वान्यात लाडू , कारंजी, पुरण्पोळ्या खाउन

आनद साजरा करायची .

आज काल
रवे मैदे  पर्देशी जातात ,
लक्ख मोहन बघून हरखून जातात ,
अण्ड्याशि  संगनमत करून
चीझी लोकांच्या मागे लागतात ,
आधीच इटलीच्या माफिया ला फितूर झालेल्या
टोमाटोला सामील होतात ,
आणि कहर म्हणजे
वृन्दावानात्ल्या तुळशीला  ह्या सर्वांबरोबर
बंदिस्त करून
चक्क भाजतात,
नाहीतर उकळत्या तेलात तळून काढतात .

कुणा एका परातीत
व्यवस्थित कुटून  , अंग कमावून
लाटणे लोकांचा आदर ठेउन
नारळ  खोबरे गुळाचा आनंदाने स्वीकार करणे ,
स्वतःला दुमडुन
वेळ प्रसंगी गुलाबी फ़ोडान्ना सहन करून
त्याना गरम तेलात संभाळणे ,
आणि अशा परिस्थितीत सुद्धा
स्वतःला नक्षीदार बनवून
लाडू चिवडा चिरोटे हायफाय प्रभूतीन्मध्ये
आपला मान राखून असणे ,
हे फक्त एक करंजीच करू शकते .

जिचा अर्थ "योद्धा" किंवा  "साधन"
असा आहे,
त्याची सर
अंडे आणि तुळशीला ला एकत्र आणणार्या ,
अर्ध्या चीजकुंडाने  नि फेर आणि लवली झालेल्या
स्वतःला एम्पनाड  म्हणणार्या
ह्या अर्जेण्टीना च्या
तोतया  बाजीरावला कशी येणार ?

The Taming of the Ginger.... आले लिंबू मिलन

Winter mornings in Pune, decades ago , and a memory from childhood of a small bowl of ginger lemon concentrate , with very little water , sitting on the table, as one got ready for school. We loved taking spoonfuls of the stuff, with gentle reminders that too much of anything was bad, and we rushed off to school with the tingling taste on our tongues.

No mixers and blenders then, lemon juicers were just coming into their own , folks had strong fingers, and ginger grated and crushed on a chutney stone was cloistered with freshly hand squeezed lemon juice, with sugar to sweeten the proceedings.

It isn't about whether the recipe is easy or difficult. It is all about how it would magically be there for us , everyday, on the dining table, long before we got up.

The taste lingers.....

एक रागावलेले आले , परिस्थितीचा कीस काढून हताश होउन एका वाटीत आपल्या नशिबाचा विचार करत बसलेले; "उगी उगी , मी आहे न ?" म्हणत साखराइने काढलेली समजूत , हळूच खुणावता धावत येउन त्यांच्यात मिळालेला आणि आल्याचा राग होत्याचा न्हव्ता करणारा मोठ्या भावासारखा लिम्बाचा रस. आम लोण पार्टीचे शेंदेलोण पादेलोण, सगळ्यात पडायची त्यांची अतीव हौस , आणि मग अनुभवी सैन्धावाने घेतलेले काही स्वतःच त्यात पडण्याचे कठीण निर्णय . आल्यात झालेला थरारक बदल, गुलाबी लाजणे , लिंबाच्या रसात एक्जीव होणे , आणि काही लोक चमचा चमचा ते पितात , लिम्बाला बघून डोळे बारीक करून मिच्काव्तात, आणि म्हणतात , "स्वछ्च घसा पोट अभियान …. एका चम्च्यावर २ चमचे रस फ्री ….!"

An angry young Ginger gone to shreds and wondering about her future as she sits, forlorn, in a katori. And then a concerned clucking by the Sugar ma, as she hovers around her gesturing for help. Some lemons, squeezing their all into a responsible juice, and rushing over like a big brother to calm down the Angry Young Ginger. A slight skirmish on the side as the Black Salt Hero defeats the odorous Lone** Rangers and appears on a stunned Ginger's horizon. A thrilling transformation as she blushes pink, and hides in the lemon juice and dissolves in joy. Some folks take sips, narrow their eyes wink, and reveal the catch : "Its the Swachch throat stomach Abhiyan! Sip a spoon full of the stuff, and get 2 spoonfuls free !"

**"Lone:  ShendeLone, PadeLone, two odorous salts often added, which we did not. I have no clue about their English names.

The Last Omelette Dance

You can take me out of Pune, but you cannot take Pune out of me.  This from someone born, brought up in Pune, and who went to college  in the Deccan area, and has seen popular eating places and hangouts , change hands over the years.

This one has not.

My friend Shakti Salgaonkar, just posted this capture of a Omellete Pav Sandwhich she probably had at an early morning breakfast  in Pune's  Cafe Goodluck at Deccan.  A traditional Irani place, having catered to at least 3 generations of folks , from a time, when anything beyond East Street, Parvati,  Pune Station, and University was considered "out of town" .  

Sometimes, you see a photograph and  feel full . This was one of those days.

डेक्कन वरच्या सकाळच्या थंडीत , आजूबाजूची टेनिस खेळून येणारी शुभ्र कपडे परिधान केलेली मध्यम वयीन मंडळी , आणि टेकडी वरून खाली उतरून, वैशाली च्या नाकावर टिच्चून तिला भेटायला येणारी "गुडलक गुडलक" म्हणणारी  बाकीची . सोनेरी गाउन  वर कांद्याचे स्वारोव्स्की , आणि पुणेरी मिरची कोथिम्बिर बुट्टे, आणि घेर सांभाळत , चाय च्या वाफा चुकवत ती येते, पावाच्या मिठीत शिरते , आणि उन्हाच्या खिडकीतून येणार्या कवडस्याच्या ताज्या उजेडात तिचा आयुष्याचा  शेवटचा फॉक्सट्रोट सुरु होतो….

Early misty Deccan winter mornings, middle aged voluble  champions in tennis whites aggregating there along with those having descended the Tekdi, having cocked a snook at Vaishali saying "Good Luck , Good Luck" . And she arrives, a vision in a golden gown, studded with Onion Swarovski mixing happily with Puneri Mirchi Kothimbir Buttaas, managing the spread amidst vapours of the tea, only to enter into the arms of a Pav. Amidst sunrays streaming intermittently through an old glass window she must now begin to dance the last Foxtrot of her life......

Listen to the Parijat !

My friend Sangeeta Khanna lves in the capital, and is blessed to have a garden with lots of useful, traditional , and decorative greens. She also makes teas from many traditional greens from her garden, and the Parijat ( Night flowering jasmine or Nyctanthes arbortristis) tree  leaves , is one of them.

Thanks to the excessive pollution in Delhi,  the Parijat leaves , at least those that are a bit older , now boast a layer of smog, as may be seen in the photograph  here, clicked and posted by Sangeeta.   I wonder what the Gods feel about being worshipped with smog-encrusted flowers smelling of weird hydrocarbons..

The leaves don't protest, fight in Parliament , or even take half hearted decisions based on popularity. 

That is left to stupid, evolved , greedy bipeds like us.

And then , sometime, somewhere, nature teaches  us a lesson. 

Smoggy deposits
on the green lungs of the city,
and still they
bravely carry on
respiring,
photosyhthesizing,
and standing in support
of the young ones
with orange stems
and white fragrance
for the Gods.

We shameless
evolved cerebral folks
follow corrupted
power Gods
and pretend to
bravely carry on
evenly and oddly ,
spewing the exhaust
of mindless wheelers
and yes,
dealers....

Does it take a deluge
to wipe off
the deposits
on the leaves ?

Think .

The Tolerant Pickle....

A favourite pickle made  on the spur of the moment from freshly shelled peas, Delhi carrots and crisp cauliflower.   Steeped in pickle masala , tingling Tadkas and copious lemon juice.

Folks typically do NOT wait for the vegetables to marinate. Much of it gets finished under the guise of "tasting"  it.

So you make a lot of it .  How wonderful it tastes with Dahi Bhat, Bhakri and such pillars of Maharashtrian Cuisine, is the subject of another poem....

And like all other times when the poetry keeda strikes , there is also something to learn from this pickle. .... 

काहींच्या डोक्यावर पानं , काहीन्न्ना कवटाळून बसलेली पानं , आणि काहीं तर जन्मापासून हिरवाईत बंद , आणि मग एके दिवशी हळूच हिरव्या मोत्यासारखे टपकन बाहेर… जन्म कुठ्लांही, कुठेही, कसाही आई वडील कोणीही असूनही झालेला असला, तरी एकत्र येउन तिखट खारट तुरट आंबट दिवस एखाद्या बरणीत एकामेकाबरोबर घालवण्याची मजा काही औरच असते. फोडणीत चुर्चुर्ण , लिंबाच्या रसात डुम्बण, कधी दही भात, कधी ब्रेड कधी पोळी कधी भाकरी सर्वांबरोबर समभावाने रम्ण, आणि हसत खेळत एखाद्या चोरून चव घेणार्या बोटाला कौतुकाने चिकटण… कधीतरी आपल्या राजकारणी ह्यांच्या कडून सहिष्णुता म्हणजे काय ते शिकतील का ?

Some sprout leaves on their head, some are simply wrapped precociously in leaves, and some remain enclosed in green, till the moment of birth emerging as little green pearls. Regardless of place of birth, method of birth , or even parentage, they come together in a celebration of life, often deemed, full of salt, sometimes spicy hot, occasionally bitter, and so many times simply sour, and a few times, sweet, as they fool around and have fun in a porcelain jar. Shuddering under a Tadka, swimming in the juice of lemons, giving sufficient time to all folks like Dahi Bhat, Bread, Poli, Bhakri, and an occasional indulgent touch to a finger trying to dip in and taste them all. Will our intolerant politicians learn something about tolerance from these folks?