So took a break yesterday from writing, as I had big shoes to fill, was part-time Kasturi, who has gone on a pilgrimage for 2 days. Aren’t our support staff at home, among the most important people in our lives.
As I walked to the park today, noticed a lady putting Rangoli outside her gate – a familiar sight in South India. I have been a fan of Rangolis since I can remember – used to pester my grandmother, aunts and cousins to teach me, during my summer holidays in Bangalore. In my grandfather’s house in Malleswaram, before festivities, the open area between the main house and the gate was cleaned and then coated with a mixture of cowdung and water. Seeing me crinkling my nose, I still remember my Grandfather smiling and telling me that it was good and kept insects away – an organic pesticide. After a few hours, elaborate rangolis were made on it by my grandmother and aunts.
The Rangolis vary from house to house and day to day, with special ones for festivals. They also tell you about the mood of the lady of the house, these days of the maid of the house – from random scribbling to beautiful motifs. Just like, how my tiffin box tells me about Durga’s mood of the day. From thoughtfully packed 4 different varieties to 2 dishes thrown together carelessly in a hurry, I have seen it all in the last 23 years – Infact, have been subjected to burnt chappatis too a few times. I know when she is happy or sad or irritated or worried, by looking at my lunch.
I remember a Iskcon Prabhu discussing about the importance of the state of mind of the person cooking our food. I used to play a game with my daughters on the Sundays that I used to cook – in an attempt to get them interested in cooking – they were to guess the ingredients. I must have mentioned just once in the end, that the last and most important ingredient was love, and since then, Aditi never fails to mention it. I guess that’s the reason, even after decades, we are so nostalgic about the food made by our loved ones. My maternal grandmother’s Aloo paranthas, my mother’s besan laddoos, my aunt’s akki rotis, another aunt’s ladyfinger gojju, my mother-in-law’s pickles and the list can go on and on. Do you also have such favourites and get nostalgic?
During my next lap in the park, I notice an elderly man, chanting and circling a tree with a small pot of water in his hand. I think it was a Peepal tree. Again a common sight in many temples all over our country. Supposed to bring prosperity, good luck and even fertility, all these beliefs, seem to have been passed from generation to generation.
The gang of three who were talking about Akki roti the other day, passed by me. One of them, was talking about his father losing his memory and how difficult it was getting for the rest of the family. Very recently, my 90 year old dear uncle, after a fall and under medication, had failed to recognise me once – it had rattled and worried me. Though he is fine now and I have met him after that, I see the challenge that my cousins face everyday. Unfortunately as our families are becoming smaller and more members are working, caring for the elderly is getting difficult.
The flower cart in front of the temple reminded me of the Gandhi bazar market, we had visited on Sunday, with varieties of loose flowers, Tulsi and garlands. Also, memories of my walks to the temple and Malleswaram market with my aunt. I used to miss the flowers so much in Dubai, more so during festivals, especially Krishna Janmashtami. But my Pakistani driver would manage to get some varieties along with other Pooja items from the shops near the temple in Burdubai mostly run by Iranians. With the vibrant Indian community there, always had a housefull during the Pooja and women of different faiths attending the Aarti. Once the girls were born, there was more fun, with Durga dressing them up as Krishna & Radha, and we using their feet to stamp as Krishna’sfeet entering the house. My Krishnas would usually hop and jump into the house.
The Lady who talks to herself was sitting on a bench looking more disturbed today. She was foraging into a bag that she always clings on to and suddenly stood up as I passed her. I made eye contact with her for a moment before looking away. We avoid eye contact either when we are scared of what we see in the other’s eyes or we are scared of what they may see in our eyes. I really really hope she finds help – why is mental illness such a taboo in our society.
When I saw Bhollu limping, I realised that I had never seen him walking. He would always be sitting or sleeping in the middle of the walking path. I slowed down to observe him – there didn’t seem to be any wound, so maybe it was an old injury. I was telling Aditi just yesterday that our Bhollu was a party animal with a hangover every morning – maybe it was his injured legs that make him rest so much. Arent we so fast to judge and draw conclusions. One failure brands someone a loser and one success a hero.
I am still irritated with the Pooja on Appa’s death anniversary. This contract arrangement, though convenient, seems so impersonal – the two Brahmins supposed to represent Appa & his father, were busy from time to time with their mobiles, or greeting others, one even sipping coffee, during the rituals. I almost lost my temper – this is not how it should be. Appa used to fast from the previous day and sincerely follow all traditions, whenever he performed these Pujas for his parents or brothers. Since then, I have been trying to convince Amma that we should do it at home next time and more carefully select the priest and his team. I completed 4.5 kms and joined Aditi to walk back home. To set records right, Ajay is not old, he is as young as I am.
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