On eating a mango

( This is a very controversial topic I have chosen to write upon . India , being home to one of the most delectable fruits ever , has been blessed with hundreds of varieties of mangoes . So , everyone has a favourite of their own . Mine is Langda . It may or may not sit well with another mango fanatic who loves , say , safeda . 

To each . his own , I must say . Lets bury hatchets and  praise our own mango sky high ) 

 Summer comes with blazing sun, sweaty people, flared tempers and sunburnt necks . Loo, the feared mid-day wind with baking properties , also downs shutters during daytime. 

It also comes with mango .

To any mango lover ,or for that matter, any Indian, all that was tolerable just for the yummy juicy deliciousness of mangoes .

Mangoes come in various shapes and sizes and colours. There are hundreds of varieties all over India. Some are so exclusive that they have foreign sounding names . Miyazaki, Alphonso . These conjure images of blonde beauties . 

Then there are the desi sounding ones .himsagar , bainganpalli ( safeda ) , dussheri , chausa , bijju , fajli , sindoori , totapulli and the long awaited boss of them all , langda . 

In my humble opinion, langda or malda is the best. Just the right amount of flesh, just the right amount of fibre and glorious taste . A taste that ( not unlike the food critic Anton Ego of Ratatouille) takes you tumbling across the years to a grass filled maidan of your childhood, where heaps of freshly harvested mangoes are piled up, adults are haggling over the price and you have already laid your evil eyes on the most rightly ripened , not too soft to touch , not too hard , just the right amount of yellow around the umbilical stump of the stalk . 

Then the sniff test . Every mango connoisseur swears by the sniff test . I swear,  every mango has its own signature fragrance . It not only identifies the correct mango for you , it also yields a lot of information regarding age , ripening status and of course the variety . 

Once , on  a long, summery, visit to the south of the nation brought about introduction of new names . Amaravati , Neelam and of course hapoos . Even there , the waxy filmed , green among the red -orange-yellow  coloured charlatans , was our reigning king . The superstar . Langda . 

Malda is a tiny hamlet / town in Bengal , mostly famous for dubious politics . However , the mango has made it a household name . 

Langda , its other , more popular name , specially in the north , is unfortunate to think how does a mango come to be named after a disability in a human is beyond me . The popular theory goes that a person , mango -besotted of course , climbed the said tree to fetch himself some ripe fruit , fell off the tree , broke his leg , and hence became Langda (lame ) . But it still leaves diehard fans like me scratching my head , as to when and how the moniker stuck to the poor produce , instead of the  greedy person . 

Long years ago , I think we were nearing Howrah railway station . We were driving on what maybe called a service road , underneath a flyover . A beggar was eating a mango . I have never ever seen any one relish a mango or any food that way . He shut his eyes against the heat , the sun , the dust and the honking , the pedestrians , the coolies , the chaos , and just focussed on licking the seed ( bone ) clean . The seed was already white from being scraped numerous times by bony teeth .It was akin to watching a dog gnaw a bone .  He would have cracked the hull open and eaten the dicot inside had it been edible

There are several ways of eating a mango  . People slice nowadays , and scrape off the flesh with a spoon . Wrong .They peel , dice and eat it daintily with a "fruit fork" or a toothpick. Sacrilege. They cut the beauty around its girth .(Aaargh. ) twist it and eat the two halves , the satan worshippers. 

Each of these is sin and veritable evil . 

A mango should be cut next to the stalk, wasting as little pulp as possible, then the hands and teeth should go to work . Even a single drop of mango juice dripping out through your forearm out via your elbow is a brownie point deducted . If you don't want Gryffindor to fail , you will slurp ,lick , do whatever you can, but every single bit of pulp , every fibre and every drop should be consumed. Inhaled, if possible 

That is how you will graduate out of the mango eating academy whose Dean was the beggar with shut eyes , devouring a single mango beneath the flyover in Howrah. 

To be busy , noisily.

 Right now, everyone is busy in this house. 

My parents are with me here, so they are busy. 

I am busy.My father is busy and my mom is busy too. My spouse who is normally busy in his government office, has come home and is busy . 

My father has bengali news channel blasting an animated discussion about a recent change of guard . But he is not listening. All the yelling and counter screaming is being broadcast. It dissipates in earnest to the general air of a placid bedroom. Rendering it volatile. Communal. Political. Vendetta roils in the air , coiling into corners like venomous snakes. He is busy folding his cotton towel. Smoothing out the creases . While Bengal burns . Not unlike the Roman emperor Niro . 

May I add, he is also hard of hearing. 

My mother is the eternal Bollywood fan . Her days begin with mournful love songs of Lata and others . "Mohe bhool gaye sanwariya "( my beloved has forgotten/ forsaken me ) the wails start pretty early. While a pretty dusk breaks over the green fields of Punjab, she mourns her Alzheimer ridden spouse. 

Quite aptly, my father has indeed begun forgetting. Years , events , details are blurring into each other. But he hasn't forgotten her. Not yet. 

Right now, Mohammed Rafi croons a lively shammi kapoor jiggly dance number. 

Sitting outside in the balcony, watching peacocks scuttling on the road , and hornbills sagely ensconced in high tree branches, her phone proclaims to the world " chahe mujhe koi junglee kahe" ( may the world call me a boor ) 

However, she remains chair bound , walking around with the aid of a walker . Slowly, dragging feet after feet , like a shadow, gradually melting away , feet first . 

My hubby after a long week, is lying prone on the cool tiled floor, slapping his chest.  Emitting a wheeze periodically. He is watching a slapstick comedy on his phone. Laughing. His laughter gets stuck somewhere around his diaphragm. It has to be brought out. Forcefully. Like a comical Hiemlich's manoeuvre.

 I am chasing a fly .A fly that won't die . After raucously replacing utensils on the shelves , after making countless teas  , as per varying tastes . 

Even tea making is an exercise in memory. One black tea , one green tea, one milk tea with mild sugar, one very milky tea with lots of sugar and one cup of lukewarm water. 

Even the accompanying snacks vary. The mild sugar tea has to be paired with one jam toast, the very sugary tea with two, lukewarm water with two sugar encrusted nice biscuits, green tea with salted ,oil free peanuts and the black tea is to be paired with whichever snack is most abundant.

The fly lands on my brand new cup. I wait for it to move. A dead fly and a broken cup do not go together. It lands on my nose .

I can't slap myself. Even if I want to. So I wait. 

As I continue to swat the black marble slab of the kitchen counter, I try to listen.

To my hubby's comic cacophony, to my father's impassioned speeches emanating from his phone, to Mohammed Rafi talking about unrequited love, and I can't hear anything.

An oriental magpie cheeps on a dead neem tree outside.

I walk , trance like, and watch the magpie. Fly swatter in hand .

Outside a house full of medley of noises .

All familiar. All strange. All inaudible. 

All at once. 

An auto ride to remember

 A thick mane of hair faces us . The locks curl up to the base of the neck in a fetching, well oiled , well combed fashion . It is also caressed lovingly by the right hand, which has three glittering gold rings adorning three fingers . The forefinger, the thumb and one other finger . It is difficult to keep track of the finger as we are careening down a road full of the usual humanity and their detritus, which one encounters in every Indian road .

There are numerous obstacles, women in chador, shuffling across, urchins darting in between adults legs , playing a dangerous game of either chase or hide and seek. 

Blind beggars straying into the main street , with arms outstretched, a doleful dirge on their lips. A shriek later , wide eyed and panting , they curse profusely , but we are out of earshot by then . 

A man in impeccable suit and tie . talking on phone , athletically dodges , and raises his fist aggressively , as seen in the rear view mirror . The driver chuckles . We can see his shoulders shake .

We cross giant cut outs of his inspiration , a moustachioed  , well built , south Indian movie star . A cigarette hangs limply from his fleshy lips . smoke rising in thin wisps , he is wearing an auto driver's khakis , sleeves rolled to display shining , bulging biceps , on which is balanced a tiny auto , daintily landed and almost missed like a yellow and black hornet . 

The driver bows , acknowledging the greatness of the wasp bitten , biceps wielder . 

In our country  , movie fandom is crazy . We take hero worship to a whole new levels . The movie stars  are venerated like Gods and have temples made after them . 

I wonder what happens to these temples once some scandal ( with unerring regularity, very paradoxically ) breaks out , concerning these "Gods" .

At bends , we cling to the rods provided above our seats , for this exact purpose . To prevent Passengers from being jettisoned out into the gravel and the dust . A lighter human would have been swept off his or her feet . Thank God for body weight .

At bends the three wheeler becomes a two wheeler , and we are dosed with the exact amount of adrenaline that formula one drivers possess when they " drift " . A drift is not to be messed with , as pariah dogs languishing in shallow pools discover much to their chagrin . Quick reflexes save them and we are followed by raucous barks . More shoulder shakes , more mirth . 

Our plaints of " bhaiya  dheere chalo / abhi bahut time hai " is met with stoic silence / stone walling / linguistic incomprehensibility . In other words , entreaties fall on deaf ears . 

Fervent prayers for our destination ( Railway station ) to materialise out of thin air , like the famous room of requirement in harry potter is answered and a cream and gold dome is seen rising in the distance . Several rapid swivels around bulls permanently seated like a living statues in the centre of the road ( now the driver curses , and smoothens his hair again ) , a hasty greeting shouted to a fellow auto wallah , a fellow monarch of the "kingdom of roads " , a heave of the bucking auto later , we have , incredulously stopped . 

We walk on jelly legs as we have been floating around the city , on a carpet of wishes , driven by a crazed khaki wearing genie , and  the terra firma feels mildly strange. 

Complaints

 So , it is a cold , wintry , windy day and you have been apprised of a perfectionist better half about a flush not working , an inlet pipe leaking and that a "complaint " has been launched and that people from the notoriously inefficient plumbing services are due to arrive midmorning .

Now , I have learnt a great deal about the anatomy and functioning of flushes , commodes , and facilities ever since we moved into this house . 

Something or the other always seems to malfunction . It is tragic ( for the residents and repairers ) , hilarious ( for a third party viewing from the outside ) , and irritating (for all) . 

Two weeks ago , we noticed a continuous stream of water falling from the WC into the commode . So , the plumber was called and the leak stopped . The leak stopped to the extent that the WC stopped filling up adequately . 

A complaint was raised again . Two over enthusiastic and ill informed individuals ( not plumbers ) got to work . They disconnected every possible pipe and reconnected it back again . Now the inlet pipe was leaking and the ball valve was found irrevocably twisted ( See what over enthusiasm does to lives and ball valves ) 

Another complaint has been raised . Ball valve and inlet pipe changed . 

Now the WC is not leaking from the inlet pipe , but into the commode , while refusing to fill up fully . 

Hence back to square one . 

In the meanwhile , we had several other complaints . Seepage on several walls , including the upstairs neighbours , water trickling down from the sides of pipes , seeping into walls , creating fungal patches everywhere . 

The largest patches are in the bedroom , where the severity of winter causes a very real fear of sinus inflammation and fever and malaise . 

In fact , people have been falling sick with alarming regularity . 

So much for a brand new house . 

Girls' college

 Girls' colleges in India suffer from a variety of malaise . 

To keep the girls "safe" , you have to keep them in covers . The quintessential quandary of burqa. How does a woman live and breathe in a world full of lecherous glances / thoughts/ people / vermin ? 

Malaise number one: in order to keep "vultures" from circling, they are located very far from the main road . So Google maps will take you off the National Highway, onto a single road , amid trees and foliage , nestled deep in the pind ( rural area ) , thereby making it all but inaccessible. Not just for the " vultures" but also for the girl students . 

Number two: the faculty should comprise of mainly women for obvious reasons . Plus the grade four and house keeping staff too . 

Isulate , if you can't insulate, at least pretend to. And cushion. Appoint old men as bus drivers , khalasis , chaprasis , gardeners . Of course, the principal should be a lady. 

I am in  one such college. A certain exam is being held here . 

That is all it is used for right now.

Examinations .

It no longer imparts any education to anyone . 

The college died during COVID when it was shut down. Some deaths in the senior faculty, drying up of funds and the college went belly up. 

My father Giani ji

A speck of blue turban

in a sea of unfamiliar faces

and i knew i was home.

Tall , majestic, greying

and eyes that breathed

compassion

attending to everyones needs

simultaneously

lending an ear here

and a hand there

hands broad knuckled, gentle

patted aberrant babies to sleep

mended broken toys

wrote countless documents

turned pages ; held hands

lifted babies ;fixed leaking taps

chopped onions

and prayed

brow ever so white

and pure

a smile ever so genuine

a laughter ever so true

a speech ever so profound

a heart ever so full of

love and warmth

whence forth the time materialised

to help grandchilren with their home work

to help grand mother in the kitchen

to make family videos

to assist grown up sons in their paper work

in their family

to arrange for weddings and funerals

to never forget any birthday or anniversary

to give and give some more

To be there for everyone

to be transformed into a real ,

breathing benediction ; an angel

in human form

to depart

when everyone

is fast asleep

a pat here; a sheet gently pulled

there

a softly spoken goodbye

that is how

the man who i call

my father

lived

and died.

A winter lesson

 Harbouring a dream is a dangerous thing 

It bites , kicks , roasts , and stings

Above all, possibly most importantly 

It won't let you slump , slouch and die 

It will keep you alive, clicking 

Keep your tiny clock ticking 

But yourself you'll keep kicking 

If you lag behind, you'll be sighing 

Wring your hands, pick on your flaws 

Know yourself, friends and foes 

No one can help you, no one will 

For its all in your mind, be still 

Above all, welcome stillness 

In a chaotic world of silliness 

Of this and that, rights and wrongs

All your  unspoken thoughts,unsung songs

Free yourself from shackles of what if 

Life is a main course, no appertif

You have lived okay, come this far 

On a wintry morn, leave the door ajar 

Listen to the chill draught chortle 

The freeze , the shiver, the luften 

A lesson from nature, we learn 

To pass into oblivion, the green 

With silence and grace and quietude 

Let your work ( if you have any) , prelude 

Speak up for you, like fallen leaves 

Frozen ground, dripping wet eaves