The beauty of it all .....

Long before fancy folks introduced the word "entrepreneur", some rural folks have been introducing us city folks to handmade implements with great use in kitchens and gardens.  One such lady in a roadside stall selling various types of knives and implements, on the periphery of Delhi, cheerfully roasting in the midmorning sun. The woman who sells the knives, iron tools, Kadhais, Mortar and pestles, wooden chaklas etc. at the weekly bazaar...

Clicked by my blogfriend, gardener, birder, and nutrition researcher Sangeeta Khanna , on one of her forays , possibly looking for handmade traditional implements for her house.

The lady in the picture, probably never learnt marketing, or  fancy talk with customers, but can possibly give a run for their money to those in a uniform, a badge around their neck, wandering in air conditioned halls.

The inconvenience, the Sun, the  missing "road" in the roadside, and the quiet effort to earn for her family. Making friends with Sangeeta an additional plus. 

And it all shows in this beautiful face....

Rawa***,
roasted brown and fragrant,
like the old rich
simple
and respectful;
perhaps
a mass of dalia****,
with a bit of
clove, cinnamon,
and nuts;
or perhaps,
a beautifully stirred payasam
smiling at you
as it thickens
enjoying
the almond eyes,
and pistcahios,
and raisins
amidst safrron streaks
in a morning Sun.

Beauty and practicality
meet
with great alacrity
as the fair white dupatta
rises up
to wipe a
shining wet face,
and in a
complete understatement says,
" I guess I should have known this....
Fair isnt Lovely any more....!"


***Rawa : Cream of wheat
****Dalia : Broken wheat,bulgur

Home is where the Saag is......

It is often a challenge to recreate traditional regional Indian dishes when you stay away from your home country. But there is nothing an observant and learning mind cannot solve.

Gastronomically , India is a rich tapestry of regional cuisines, which are enjoyed by folks across the country.

My blogger friend Shruti Nargundkar of Melbourne,  decided to make a traditional rural Punjabi  meal, of Makke ki Roti and Sarson ka Saag (Mustard Greens with Maize Flat Bread). And she did it using Chinese Spinach or Choy Sum and Swiss Chard or Silver Beet Greens.  She also made it a slightly less richer version , calorifically speaking, in keeping with the times.....

Read the entire post and recipe here.

The result clearly was more than mouthwatering. It also spawned a poem in Marathi, with a version in English.  

And to those, ignorant of it, a concept of Maher (a married girl's parental home), Maherpan (a married girl's homecoming  accompanied by some great indulgent fuss), and Saasar (her marital home, often with a mother-in-law ,,,,)

उलटे ऋतू असलेल्या देशात
सासरी आलेली ती ,
स्वप्नात मोहरीचे मळे,
पिवळी धम्म फुलं,
ताज्या लोण्याचे गोळे

आणि शेतात शिजवलेली
मक्के कि रोटी आणि सर्सोन का साग बघते.

आज कालच्या ई युगात
पालेभाज्या सुधा एकमेकांना ईमेल करतात .

आणि मग एक दिवस अचानक
सौ. चोय्साम्बाई मोहरीमल चिने,
गडद हिरवा शालू नेसून,
जरा वयस्कर सौ. चान्देरीबाई बिट्यान्चासह तिच्या घरी पोचल्या ....
पदर खोचून कामाला लागल्या .
"अग मिर्चे , नुसता "आले आले" काय म्हणतेस,
त्याला कान्देभौजीन्बरोबर, लसण्यासकट घेउन ये,कि !
ऑलिवआजी थांबल्या आहेत केव्हाच्या ....."

शेवटी त्या दोघी स्वतः ही त्यात पडल्या,
आणि येणाऱ्या नवरात्रीच्या भोंडल्याची आठवण व्हावी
इतक्या गोल गोल फिरून
मजेत मिसळल्या....
थोडंसं पाणी , किंचित लिंबुरस, आठ्वणीन्चा मसाला,
आणि एव्हड्यात दमलेल्या सगळ्यांवर
त्या सासुर्वशिणीने हलकेच पिठाची शाल पांघरली.

मनात खूप आठवणी दाटल्या ,
तिचा चेहरा बघून तव्याला काय वाटले कोण जाणे ;
मक्याच्या पीठाकडे त्याने लाल डोळे वटारले,
आणि
पटापटा रोट्या चुपचाप तयार झाल्या .

ती जेवायला बसली.
हौसेने खाल्ले .
आणि मग ती संगणकावर बसली
तेव्हा भारातात्ल्या पालेभाजीने पाठवलेली ईमेल दिसली ...
"लेक किती वर्ष्यात माहेरी आली नाही,
चोय्साम्बाई आणि चान्देरीबाई,
जरा माझ्या लेकीच माहेरपण कराल का ?".......

Ensconced Down Under,
in her  Saasar,
she dreams
of the
golden yellow  fields,
the mustard greens,
and the delicious
traditional meal of
makke ki roti and sarson ka saag,
with a cheerful dollop of
fresh churned butter.

She doesn't know that
in these E-days,
even Greens send emails
to each other....

And so it came to pass
that
Mrs ChoySum Mustardy Chinawalla
in a grand green silk
and
a slightly senior
Mrs ChanderiBai Beetay
came visiting
and tucking in their saree ends,
simply got down to work.

"Stop calling out, Mirchi,

and just drag The Gingerfolks here,

when you escort

Lords Onion and Garlic;

can't keep Grandma Olive waiting, can you?"

In the end
both the ladies joined in,
stirring
and shaking
and moving in circles,
as if participating in the Navratri Bhondla
of Maharashtra.

Some freshening with water,
lemon juice,
some spicy memories of old,
and suddenly
the lady of the house,
sprinkled
a light wet shawl of maize
over all the tired cooked folks.

Her childhood
in vivid recall,
displayed across her expressive face,
the griddle noticed,
and red hot in anger,
ordered the maize dough
to organize itself
without fuss
quickly in
delicious cooked rounds.


She set a place,
sat down
and partook of the amazing meal.

And when she logged in
on her laptop
soon after
to check email,
she saw the message
from the Indian Mustard Greens
to the Greens Down Under.

"Our daughter, far away,

hasn't been able to visit

her Maher for so long.....

Choy Sum and Chanderibai ladies,

would you visit

and give her a taste of Maherpan ?"

In praise of Amti Bhat .....

My blogger friend Harekrishnaji aka Priyadarshan Kale, goes exploring in the hinterlands of Maharashtra amd more so when the monsoon starts.

An expert on traditional food items and where you get the best of the lot,  in places way out in the countryside, he with his faithful Zen, often traverse Sahyadri peaks,valleys, unknown jungles, and rivers, to occasionally arrive at a home, where, fresh from howling winds, unrelenting rain, wandering clouds and a cold nose, they are transported to heaven at the sight of steaming hot rice served with a spiced hot dal, called "amti" in Maharashtra.

In his own words : "बरोबर दिशा धरुन चालत, डोंगरदऱ्या पार करत अंधाऱ्या रात्री मुक्कामी पोचल्यावर चुलीवर शिजलेल्या गरम भाताचा तो भलामोठाला डोंगर, त्यावरची ती वाफाळलेली आमटी. विसरणे नाही. अंतिम सत्य एकच. आमटीभात. गरमागरम आमटीभात." 

 These poems in Marathi (original) and and effort in English dedicated to Amti-bhat....

 (photos courtesy Google)

काही अक्खे , काही कण्या,
एकत्र रोळीमध्ये,
पाण्याच्या मोठ्या सरीतून निभावून
दोन मिनिटे स्वस्थ पडलेले .
मग धो धो पाणी ,
चटका लाउन जाणारे पातेले ,
आणि उचंबळणार्या विचारांना
ढवळून काढणारा डाव ,
बेभान पाण्यात फुलून उठणारा भात ,
आणि
सगळी एकामेकाला चिकटून बसलेली,
आपल्या भावी आयुष्याची काळजी
करणारी शित....

एका राजाभौंचे आगमन ,
बाहेर वार्याची धमाल,
हात पाय धुउन ,
मनातली भूक ओठावर ,
आणि एका सुगरण काकू ने
वाढलेली गरम गरम आमटी.

भुरका मारून तृप्त होउन
ते वदले,
"हेच ते, हेच, अंतिम सत्य ,
गरम आराम आमटी भात ....",
आणि त्या सर्व कण्या
"इश्य , काय हे !" असा मुरका मारून
आमटीत बुडून गेल्या .....

Some full grains,
some broken in
dehusking times,
resting together in a colander
after a torrential wash.

Then a tumultous dip
in a vessel
full of water,
but searing in its heat,
and their thoughts
bubble forth,
as the spatula
ensures a massive upheaval
amidst the
now empowered grains...

They sit,
stuck to each other,
secure in their numbers
wondering what lies ahead.

Enter Rajabhau,
he of the monsoon drives,
whistling winds, waterfalls,
and lost roads
in deep jungles.

The wind bangs the door shut,
as he dries up,
and sits down
enraptured by
a mountain of steaming
apprehensive rice.

A pot of dal,
just subsiding
after a massive
boil of emotion,
amidst mustards seeds,
hing,
coriander leaves toran,
spiced , tamarined,
and turmeric on the face,
finally meets
the rice.

He mixes it all up,
and slurps,
the warmth shining in the eyes.
"This is,
truly, the one and only truth;
Exquisite Amti-bhat,
on a wind swept monsoon day,
amidst the rural green,
straight from the stove..."

And the rice grains,
watch each other,
blush,
throw themselves in the Amti,
and say
"Aiyyo ! What a life !
What a life !".......

Reaching in Time....

The Kaas plateau in the district of Satara in Maharashtra, is covered with beautiful wildflowers during the monsoon season, and has been a preferred choice of millions of folks, who come to photograph the colors. While 4 wheeler movement may be monitored and controlled,  it is difficult to control those who traipse through the land, unmindful of  what gets crushed below, and leaving depressions in he soil.

Blogger friend Magiceye's attention was drawn away from the flowers, by these beetles, and he posted about it here. 

He calls them Jewelled Beetles in Kaas. 

Thereby grew an idea.....

(photo by Deepak Amembal Magiceye)

It's
the importance
of
the auspicious moment,
decreed by
the all pervading
wiry holy  brown  and  red
on the ground,
and blue stars above.

Gangubai Beetle
and
Yamutai Beetle,
swathed
in  nine centimetres of
peacock blue
traditional silk,
hurrying and rushing
to attend
a wedding at
The "Kaas Heritage"
and hoping to reach in time...

They hadnt known
about
the potholes
and gaps
in their world,
so far
a speciality of Mumbai.

And now
Vasantrao Beetle
has had to rush back
to return
with
their walking sticks....

Its all those
cars and people
traipsing
all over Kaas.

I guess they miss their potholes ......

Designer Teas.....

Blogger friend Braja posting this as part of the Thursday Challenge series (subject : blue). A platform tea stall at a wayside railway station Krish(na)nagar, in West Bengal, or should I now say Poschim Bonga....

As she says :

"Beyond rustic simplicity...the stove top smeared with cow-dung for purity; a hole in the top holding hot coals; a pot that you'd only find in an antique store in the western countries; the smell of freshly brewed chai, served in tiny clay cups, complete with creamy milk and the perfect amount of sugar. Cost, 1 rupee. Experience, priceless..."

(photograph by Braja Sorenson)
....and sitting
on your haunches,
crinkled eyes,
a bit of
blowing
into the tea
spraying
into your moustache;
the ginger
invigorates,
as you have
your daily
worldless conversation,
with
a
lifelong friend,
who helps you row
your boat across,
day after day......

One Monsoon, Two Teas....

My blogger friend, and expert source on places of interest around Pune, Harekrishnaji, has been enjoying driving around the countryside west of Pune, and stopping at unusual places, to photograph nature, and sometimes, some other interesting folks, who strangely, end up enjoying the same things he does ! In a different way.

That makes you think .... and write verse....!

First thought of in Marathi, and then composed in English...


(photo by Harekrishnaji)
थंडगार वातानुकुलीत गाडीत
गियर बदलत
पावसाळी खड्यातून
बाहेर पडून
आसम्न्तातले धुके बघत
हिरवाइत बुडून
मैलोमइल हिंडून
ते चहाच्या शोधात असतात .....
आणि
रोजच
वातानुकुलीत डोंगरातून
लाल बस ने शाळेतून घरी येउन
एका पक्क्या घरामागे
म्हशीची धार काढून
टप टप गळणार्या झोपडीत
चुलीशी बसलेल्या आपल्या आईला
नेउन देउन
सगळ्यान बरोबर चहाची वाट बघणारी
हि दर्वाज्यातील चंद्रमुखी .....



Cool 21 degrees
draughts
wafting through the innards,
he changes gears
to navigate
through the
monsoon
potholed
mountain roads........

Dumbstruck
in a mist,
and overcome by the green,
they search for a place to stop
for a cuppa....

And
somewhere,
everyday,
she travels
back
from her distant school
in a red state bus,
breathing deeply
of the airconditioned mountains;

As she
now rushes,
to the side of her cottage
behind the main house
to milk the buffalo,
and deliver it
to her mother.

In the mud stove
of
a leaking kitchen,
a tea is happening
for the family,
and she
Chandramukhi,****
waits,
her turn,
smiling
at the door.

****Chandramukhi : a pretty woman with a face like that of the moon....

Three-Stone stoves of life....

My blogger friend Harekrishnaji, visits all kinds of nice eating places across various towns, from 5-star buffets to places where they organically cook native food of my state. This is his depiction of some fragrant rice cooking on a typical 3-stone stove, fired by wood.

While folks cook this way on camping trips and stuff, for some people across the country, this is the only way they know, because its their only source of fuel.......

The original poem was in Marathi. As usual, the English effort follows.


आयुष्याच्या चुलीचे तीन दगड,
आईवडील,
सासूसासरे ,
आणि नवरा ;
कधी चटके, कधी धूर ,
कधी फोडणीची तडतड ,
कधी आनंदाने उकळणारी आमटी,
एखादं भाजणार बोट ,
शिजणार्या आंबेमोहोर चा सुवास,
चुलीत शिजणारे छोटे छोटे बटाटे ,
कधीतरी एखादं जळक लाकूड ढकलावं लागत ,
कधी कधी मोठा ज्वाळ होतो ,
कधी तर फुंकणीने
कुणाच्यातरी हातावर फुंकर घालावी लागते,
अगदी डोळे पाणावतात ,
आणि जेव्हा ती
कौतुकाने आपल्या मुलांना
गरम भाकर्या करून वाढते
तेव्हा
चुलीचे तिन्ही दगड
दीर्घ श्वास घेउन,
ज्वालांना गप्प करून
हळू हळू सुखावून
शांत होतात

A raging Fire
amidst
the
3 Rocks and Stones
of Life:
her in-laws,
her parents,
and
the husband........

A few burns, some smoke,
perhaps
a sizzling
hot dressing;
maybe
a curry boiling in glee,
suddenly
a finger singes,
as the
Ambemohur rice cooks,
and
small baby potatoes
bake and brown
amidst the stones.

Sometimes
a need
to shove in
a length of burning wood,
occasionally
a sudden conflagration
in burning gold,
and someone
quietly bends,
and blows
air,
on a hurting hand,
amidst the watering eyes.....


She turns back,
to
make fresh bhakris,
hot off the gridle,
for her kids....


With a deep sigh
the fire relaxes,
and
the three rocks
nod in appreciation,
as the
little ones
polish away their plates...