Stepping up to Plate

Food is one of the most innocent pleasures available to the human experience.It's a pleasure that does not detract from anyone else's happiness (except of course when Nigella Lawson makes it a point to eat chocolate cake on screen) A foodie and food share an uncomplicated, undemanding relationship, refreshing in its simplicity. And here I state the obvious--
 Atomicgitten loves food.
Apparently this trait had it's beginnings at the author's genesis itself. At one week's age, the only thing that got some reaction out of generally indifferent baby was the prospect of feeding. And then came the long wails at twilight because she was bored with milk and wanted solid food. Mother dearest realised quickly that the easiest way to quieten bawling baby was to stuff food down her gullet. Unfortunately for the baby's waistline, the trend continued far out of babyhood; but that can be the subject of another post.

Moving out of home territory ought to have laid a damper on my gastronomic hedonism. Fortunately for me, I seemed to find great cooks wherever I went. So much so that my tastes only grew more fastidious and my repertoire of eating more broad-based. (Though it must be said of the Mater that, when she deigned to accommodate these demands, her skills proved more than ample to the task.) If it wasn't poor Gitler who had her lunches usurped by us marauders, it was Kutty who was lucky to get a bite of her home cooked lunch after it made the mandatory pass. Then there was poor sweet Chitra Aunty who smilingly ignored our shameless gluttony and catered generously to our vethakuzhambu/sambar sadam/dosa/filter coffee greed. Life was a lovely thali waiting to be licked clean.

B.A passed into M.A and the age of shamelessly finishing off somebody else's lunchbox or 'dropping in' at a friend's place right in time for a meal came to a sad end. But the heavens continued to smile upon on my palate. I was gifted with a room-mate who was all but born with a frying pan in her slim hands. Besides being a certified expert in all things fashionable, Rikosama is also a chef of formidable skill. And while she is always more than happy to do all the cooking herself, we realised that the only way we could establish a mode of demanding food off her was to participate in the process in one capacity or the other. Hating dish-washing and having had a couple of tussles with prep work on a few occasions, the author took on the sous-chef role and enjoyed slicing, dicing, icing, flipping, dipping and generally tripping on the whole food extravaganza. Along the way some of the cooking knowledge seeped into my food steeped cranium but nothing enough to alarm. Trips home were punctuated by amused surprise and ill-concealed disbelief on the part of the family at reminiscences of hostel happenings.

It was only when the Mater took a spill in the bathroom and was rendered shorthanded that the author's culinary talents came to test. It was generally understood that my skills covered the broad spectrum of multiple styles of egg, instant noodles, sandwiches and the occasional curry but whether this could see us through a month and a half of sustenance was suspect. Besides, whatever skills I might have they could not hope to reproduce the palato-orgasmic nirvana  that Amma dished out and lesser mortals with shoddy vocabulary deemed to call just 'food'.The first 'proper' meal was partaken with some ill-concealed fear, but my mother and brother gamely bit the bullet and emerged minus food poisoning. The most surprised person was the author herself. Apparently all the gastronomic goodness she had been imbibing had accumulated not just in her love-handles. In the middle of receiving, she had also learnt to give.

We are presently in the season that emphasises the joy of giving. And after finally getting to the other side, the author can confidently guarantee that the joy of feeding is just about as much as eating itself.The author has been blessed with the company of several exemplary chefs in her life. It has not helped her waistline, but it does remind her of the enduring goodness of life, which I believe is a lot more important, if not attractive. A full belly goes a long way in easing the pain of existence. And with such exemplary examples of generosity, the author hopes that her plate and what she plates can prove as full of goodness as those she has had the good fortune to partake from. 

Speaking Words of Wisdom

Long post. Something to sink your teeth into.

Given the fact that the author's grandfather was a doctor, it is rather ironic that both she and her family share an anathema for the Hippocratic guild. Most ailments were greeted with little or no fuss, so much so that the germs soon got bored of our indifference and left the building faster than you could say "Elvis". A perfectly decent method, but the situation is a little different when the source of discomfort isn't  a real pathogen. And, when the epicenter of pain is located at the back of your mouth.

When it comes to wisdom teeth, here's a word of advice- don't let it be.

The mater's tryst with toothache crumbled the foundations of her dental state. Literally. She opted for dental care only after the tooth began to actually crumble into little shards-- up until then it was the classic clove oil /ice treatment. Having worn her wisdom tooth down to a stub, and rendered her face asymmetrically swollen, she finally swallowed the bitter pill that she needed help with her dental work. As it turned out, it was quite a bit of work. In keeping with the family character, her (now) tiny wisdom tooth had roots that ran deep, stubborn and twisted. The dentist probably wrenched his shoulder trying to get the tooth out, and it didn't help that he had an angry twelve year old staring daggers at him for the unspeakable violence he was inflicting, no matter that her mother's mouth was insensible. Following a tug of of war, which left the dentist bathed in sweat and heaving for breath, my mother emerged  cotton-mouthed, pain free and generally rejuvenated. Even the returned feeling to her benumbed mouth could not compare to the agony from before and she had admit she was much better. Following this episode, dentists were deemed ok. Sort of .

Which would explain why the advent of an impacted wisdom tooth in the daughter was greeted with prompt marching orders to the nearest dentist.

In a clear case of a spatial paradox, my big mouth's jaw was too small for all the wisdom bursting out of it. True, the molars had begun to make their presence felt quite a while back, but their no-pain-no-gain policy was largely benevolent, allowing for life to continue uneventfully regardless of space crunch issues on the jawline. Unfortunately, the right-wing tooth decided that it was time to go Lokpal (Lok-pallu. hehehe.) and demand justice. It ached, throbbed, got a swollen sense of self, generally became a pain in the head. And would have been ignored as usual if not for the fact that phone calls had to be conducted through gritted teeth all the better for not moving the jaw-- apparently this is a dead give away even if you are a state and bad phone-line away. The maternal instruction was augmented by additional exhortations from other quarters which gained traction from the simple agony of angry tooth. The final blow was the fact that a hunger-driven sortie to the mess saw me effectively destroying multiple appetites through my pained winces at every chew. A day of cold compressing and badly disguised phone-winces later I had to accept the sad truth: It was time to see a doctor. Damn it.
Then came the inevitable verdict.
The tooth had to come out. Urgh.

Let me clarify the context. The only time I'd gone for a tooth extraction was waaaaaaay back when my age was still a single digit number. All dental escapades that followed, were conducted by yours truly (I distinctly remember pulling out both my loose canines on the same evening simply because I was bored.) The thought of a dentist navigating these uncharted territories was a huge breach of privacy. Besides, being in a dentists chair is a supremely undignified position, splayed like an upended beetle with your mouth is wide open,constantly worried that your over-sensitive gag reflex will kick in an spew out. It didn't help that my brain, usually reticent and retiring, chose to to efficiently relay my tenth standard Ogden Nash lesson word for word. And when that memory was pushed aside, it decided to remind me of this movie. Ah the vagaries of the mind.

In all fairness, the most uncomfortable part was getting the anesthetic injection. Your mouth has been subjected to a lot of things, but being poked in the gums with a sharp needle is not one of them. Understandably, the reaction is not the most pleasant. In any case, the introduction of chemical assistance rendered the entire right side of my face, and a large part of the left, impervious to all sensation. It would have been a good day to get my threading done, had circumstances been different. Now that the face was properly benumbed, there was no more stalling. Extraction time. Once again Ogden Nash's infernal poem ran slides in my head as the doc pulled on his mask and took out what looked like a wrench-spanner hybrid and a pygmy chisel-lever. Just as the good doctor leveled the first blow, the author's mind began providing a beautiful background score of the magnificent Reethigowla Ragam she was learning at the moment ( and which will now probably be permanently associated with dentistry). Ah the vagaries of the mind.

The wisdom tooth, like beloved Will's love, does not "...bend with the remover to remove...". True, there was no epic battle as in the case of the Mater's molar, but the dentist did have to put in a couple of extra ounces of muscle into the task. The tooth did not want to come out and its roots clung stubbornly to my jaw. The dentist dug and pulled and twisted and pulled and poked and  pulled and tugged and pulled and pulled, trying to shake the tooth out of its foundations. My mouth, desensitized as it was, twinged in sympathetic discomfort.  And some annoyance too, since the doctor's enthusiastic levering was stretching the mouth in to unbelievable shapes. Through all the pulling and chipping and poking, the author's consciousness, still pleasantly serenaded with classical music, fixed itself upon the fact that the doctor had the kind of perfectly curved eyebrows that were positively wasted on a man.  Once again, we wonder at the vagaries of the mind.

Just as I was beginning to draft a complaint to the powers that be regarding the dentist's unfair eyebrow advantage, with a last wrenching tug the tooth came out. And what a tooth it was! Large with solid curved roots that could and did hold its ground, it was the Leonidas of my dental Thermopylae: no wonder it was causing so much trouble. But I didn't have much time to contemplate the beauty of my lost wisdom. Bereft of the distraction of mental background music and curved eyebrows, the senses were suddenly assaulted by the nauseating miasma of acrid chemical, the bitter taste and smell of latex gloves and the overpowering scent of blood that flooded the mouth. This general discomfort was compounded by the insertion of large wads of cotton in mutilated area which promptly set gag-reflexes jumping .The author was suddenly very glad she hadn't eaten anything before the performance. Tamping down on the rising bile was made difficult by the fact that all the muscles on the gagging side weren't listening to you. Providence kept the contents of the stomach where it belonged and the dentist escaped unscathed. Cotton in place and blood wiped away, normalcy was more or less regained except for a slight tendency to lose control over the right side of face and the very real danger of drooling and not knowing it. Communication for the large part was carried out with animated head shakes, expressive eye-rolling and an erstwhile unplumbed talent for dumb-charades; a very amusing turn of events for spectators like the pharmacist and his assistant who seemed to have great fun trying to figure out what I was trying to say.

Opting to walk rather than trying to communicate destination and fare to autodriver-bretheren gave me the time to contemplate the fate of the tooth. I had tried to redeem it as a souvenir of the experience, but it had already been disposed of. I suppose in a sense I mourned it's loss-- that overlarge piece of enamel that clung  so tenaciously, so desperately to a jaw that simply could not accommodate it, now lying at the bottom of an alien dustbin. But then again, it would only have decayed in the claustrophobic cavity of the jaw, destined to being whittled into a tiny half-shard of itself, that would only get attention through pain and torture. Better by far that it free itself in this early age, strong and white. Or so I tell myself. Returning to hostel, to what would be the first of many bowls of cold oats, I toast the lost tooth: your memory lives on in all the grains of rice that will inevitably end up in the shallow niche that you left behind, reminding me that gaps will be filled whether you want it or not. Rest in (one) piece.

Rain Lovesong

Many thanks to Resham George for the title and the lovely song.

Living most of your life in a desert and later in two decidedly arid cities, makes precipitation of the torrential kind a delightful treat. And since, like in most things, the Author tends to work in extremes, this fascination for rain tends to tip towards eccentric.

Simply put, I love the rain.
I can make a literary case for it: Rain is like a physical manifestation of Wordsworth's much quoted "spontaneous over-flow of powerful feelings".Only it doesn't wait for tranquility. It arrives when it does, and does not give you a choice about whether or not you are ready for the downpour. I suppose that too is a part of the charm. Rain does not allow secrets; it drenches you completely, seeking the fissures in your soul and filling them to the brim. It renders all the time you spent worrying about what to wear useless because at the end you'll still just "...look like a  cat that stuck its nose into a socket that shocked it" (once again, thank you Resham George). And yet the rain loves you, regardless-- and probably because of-- the fact that you really can't hide from him. Of course he can be quite frustrating. Like when he signals his arrival with so much promise employing all the fanfare of flushed skies, thunderous laughter and lightning smiles only to go speeding away on the wings of a smirking wind. Worse still is the half-hearted rain where he is just showing waaaaaay too much attitude. Times like these you wish the rain was an actual person rather than a personified entity so you could give him a piece of your mind. Yet, even as you pout in disappointment, you know he's probably doing that only to see you pissed off and looking like an idiot. Humph.

Thing is, you don't stand a chance against  so much exuberant bonhomie. The rain, in his overwhelming loving, washes out everything leaving you clean, pristine and strangely rejuvenated. Even the dirt is a happier brown after a good downpour. The rain drowns out all the doubts, the anxieties and replaces it with either the soft, comforting whisper of a gentle shower, or the excited applause of a million droplets, or the exhorting teasing of a bullying deluge. The rain renews, revitalises and reminds one that there is nothing so bad that a good cloudburst cannot wash away. The rain hugs you close and lets you expend your emotions, letting your tears meld with his or rumbling an answering laugh to yours. And then there is the quiet content of sipping a cup of hot chai  while watching the rain run riot, soaking in the joy of knowing that there is always beauty in the world. Even if it does cause power cuts and jams traffic.

I love the rain because it reminds me that regardless of how small you are in the wide world, the world still loves you. That small raindrop that hits your face is a kiss from the universe, telling you that there is still something to look forward to. The wind has been picking up outside my window and I expect to hear the soft rumble of thunder some time tonight. The first rains are finally arriving and life, once again, is made possible.

Sublimation

Something fished out of the archives.

It was all so clear in her head.

She would slip her arm into his, look straight into his eyes so he would know she wasn’t joking and say the lines with the blasé seriousness of someone making a general suggestion on the lines of adding more blue in the wardrobe, a better haircut, the effectiveness of odomos over mortein, a walk around the perimeters. The harmlessness of the tone would befuddle him into indecision, beguile him into consideration, and then bewitch him into acquiescence. A possibility, that’s all. But a possibility, all the same.

And she was confident in her ability to weave an eloquent spell. He would perhaps consent to the careless cadence of her voice or to the simplicity of her logic or the silky smoothness of the summer night. It was all so perfect in the infinite canvas of her flamboyant fancy: A beautiful dance of truthful artifice, performed in perfect grace like an ancient bolero on a spicy Spanish evening. There was no way he could elude the spell. He wouldn’t want to.

Confidence overflowing, she placed a hand on his shoulder and got ready with the practiced opening line.But as she looked into his lambent eyes her tongue cemented itself to the roof of her mouth and the words beat a pulsing brand against her closed lips. It wasn’t dissemblance; she believed every single one of those unsaid words. But the cost of it stared out from his trusting eyes. The steady guileless vulnerability that made him seek her out glinted like the edge of a knife as she tried ineffectually to put her plan into action. People told her he was ripe for the plucking. He would comply simply because he was so alone. Besides, he trusted her...

And the unsaid confessions crackling noisily in her mouth were swallowed in a dry, husky trail of vain hopes withered yet again.

He was waiting for her to say something, but she couldn’t free her otherwise glib tongue. “Why so serious?” he joked and she choked out a convincing chuckle. The conversations flying around the sputtering bonfire permeated the air with a banked buzz, filling the blank spaces left behind by the words she didn’t say. Someone laughed, someone else cried, someone debated, someone else berated. His quiet sadness lay wide open in the noise, crowding her expanding heart into a tight little corner, where it crumbled like dry earth, emptying its overcrowded insides into her more crowded soul. His head hung low, and the words hummed sadly in the baritone thrumming of the blood in her veins. She laid her hand on his and he smiled that familiar sad smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” he says. She smiled eloquently, her lips replete with meanings he could never guess at or wouldn’t see. They hugged each other close with the sincere, comfortable camaraderie of true friends that filled empty spaces regardless of unsaid words. He sighed a quiet sigh. And unseen she sighed silent words, letting them diffuse into the dark night to find their home with the other voiceless words, floating away into the starry expanse of open sky while she remained earthbound in incomplete embrace.