Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Hair

"Letting down my hair" - well, I seem to be doing that in various senses of the expression! :-D

Talk of a hair-raising tale.  I have been heir to the genes that code for this part of what I call "me".

As a kid, my mom used to keep my hair cut short and I used to be begging and pleading to grow my hair out looooooooooooong.  I could not wait for my hair to grow and would tie a towel on my head, tie both ends with ribbons and pretend it was my hair. :-P  Well, I have heard it said that the universe conspires to grant you whatever it is that you wish to have with all your heart.  Nature has blessed me with the right genes to ensure long, healthy hair.  So it was that my hair grew really long and I had two thick plaits when in school.

Somewhere during my pre-college days I got fed up of having such long hair and chopped it off.  I did not like the fact that my mom had to take care of it for me and I did not have the patience to do so myself.  Every weekend when mom tended to my washed, tangled hair, it was nothing short of torture.  (Due apologies to my mom - she took a lot of effort, but it was my hair that got tugged.  Am sure that was one reason for it growing so long).  Short hair was so much more convenient and practical.  Oh yes, the other side of the fence is always greener.  I gave off my plaits to two older friends who wanted to have hair extensions.  So that was 3 of us who were happy and a few unhappy people (including my mom, dad, many relatives and a few friends).  After all this behaviour did not behoove the heir to this rich, hairy legacy.  Besides, which self-respecting South Indian girl would chop off her long tresses?  (I can surely understand my mom being peeved after all the trouble she took on my insistence on having long hair)!

Chopping off one's hair came with inbuilt risks.  My niece who was just about a year old at that time kept looking at my face as soon as I came back home and could not decide whether she knew me or not, whether she wanted to come to me or not .....  Friends would ask "why?  you had suuuuchhh beautiful hair.  Not everyone is blessed that way!"  Oh sure, proves my point about the other side of the fence, doesn't it?  Yet another said "Oh, I would not have recognized you"!

It is not for nothing that I am born a Libran (according to the Hindu calendar).  I keep swinging from one extreme to another and am eternally trying to find a balance.  After chopping off my hair, I wanted to grow it out again.  I missed my long hair.  So the cycle was repeated till I decided after my master's that I really wanted to have my hair short again.  At the expense of my dad not talking to me for 3 whole days (till we had a visitor) I chopped it off again.  This time round, my hair was donated in the interests of culture - it were donated to my friend who is an dancer and practises the Bharatanatyam and Kathak styles of dance.  So my hair was never really wasted, was it?  It was always used for some good purpose. 

Round 3 of growing hair started soon after.  Somehow I could never maintain my hair at shoulder length and get it to look half decent.  I would end up tying it up into a pigtail at the back of my head.  So this time I let it grow really long - so long I could sit on my plait.  I had been a while in a hostel abroad, when I realized that I was losing a lot of hairs due to the change of water and having to sweep loads of them out of the carpet every weekend.  It just broke my heart.  So, off with my hair!  This time as a student, I thought I could do well with the money I could get selling it.  It fetched a pretty good sum.

Each time I cut my hair, I would miss my long hair and grow it out again.  Next time round, I just grew them waist length  and then started getting irritable in the summer heat when I returned home.  This time round I cut it off and ever since I have never wanted long hair ever again ..... till recently.  Of course my hair has grown long and shorter by a few inches from time to time and I have always feared the photograph on my passport would not look like me at various time points, but my travels have thankfully been pretty uneventful despite that.

Well, not too long ago, I once again started dreaming off and on about my hair growing really long.  This time I wondered whether there was any sense in my doing so.  What if I grew it and wanted to cut it off again?  So what?  As they say in Hindi "ghar ki kheti hai" (meaning it's your own farm - to grow or chop off as you like).  I would grow it and if I wanted to, I would chop it off.  The choice will always be mine.  In fact I would certainly cut it off - for a reason.  

I had been a regular blood donor till a few years ago.  Recently, due to certain health issues and the medications I have had to take, no one wants my blood. :-(  I was feeling pretty bad about this till I heard that one could donate hair to organizations for wigs for cancer patients.  In fact, I also read that Sunita Williams chopped off her hair in space to donate it to an ill child.  So my hair is going to grow till I can donate it to someone who would like to have it.  It would feel good to be able to give something that is entirely mine to give.  It would be one source of joy added to my life.

Is growing hair so easy?  Well, to an extent one has to be blessed with the right genetic traits.  That, however, by itself is not sufficient.  Growing hair out long implies that it has to be kept clean and maintained in a manner that makes it look healthy and shiny.  

The long and the short of it is that hair needs good care.  Here are some very simple and practical tips of day to day hair care at home.

• Dandruff can be kept out by applying very sour yogurt to the hair before shampooing.  Alternatively lemon juice can also be applied.

• Oil your hair well before shampooing.  It helps condition hair and is very cooling too.  Oil prepared with some ingredients like hibiscus flowers also help growth of hair  You can find the details here.

• Mixing a yolk of an egg with coconut oil and applying it to the scalp for half an hour to an hour before shampooing helps hair grow out faster while also conditioning it well.

• Washing your hair with soap nut conditions the hair and gives it a gloss without subjecting it to chemicals which can damage the hair.  It also ensures that your hair does not get completely stripped of natural oils.

• Don't plait or tie up your hair when it is wet. 

• Hair can be dried by tying it up in a towel and then letting it hang loose once all the excess water has been absorbed.  Alternatively, dry it out with a hair dryer (only if you must).  Ensure that you don't dry it too much with a dryer or you will end up damaging your hair.  Dry moderately and allow the remaining dampness to dry out on its own.

• Don't tug at your hair when it is wet in an attempt to remove tangles.  Use a good conditioner which will help untangle the hair.  Gently untangle whatever tangles remain when the hair is almost dry.

• Keep a watch out for split ends.  Keep trimming your hair so you can get rid of those.

Finally, hair, long or short is one's crowning glory.  Healthy hair is a reflection of good health.  While the texture and length of hair varies with individuals and their genetics, keeping them well tended and healthy is in one's own hands.  A healthy mop of hair can be an asset to the wearer or can be used to bring a twinkle into the eyes of someone who needs that hair on their heads.  You can do it too. :-D  

Submitted for the "Recharge your hair, recharge your life" contest

Santa's Gifts

Christmas is just round the corner.  Go to any major shopping place, office, mall and there are huge Christmas trees, all decorated with little boxes of gifts under the tree.  Not quite officially date for Santa to deliver the goods, but it just shows the enthusiasm that the festive spirit kindles.

Seeing the gift boxes under the Christmas tree reminds me of Christmas when I was young.  We are not Christians, but that did not deter my dad from telling me I could talk to Santa Claus and ask him for whatever I wanted.  The modus operandi was really cute.  I would have to park myself in front of an old Marconi radio that had pride of place in the living room.  Then I could talk into the radio (yes, Santa had equipment that could catch the reverse waves and hear me) and inform him of my wish list. Not to forget the promise that I would be a very good girl the rest of the year! :-D

A sock would be duly stuck under my pillow and I would be woken up in the morning to get my gifts from Santa Claus.  There would also be a note left there by him in extremely shaky hand writing (Santa had come in out of the snow, remember?) encouraging me to be good, praising me for having been good and the like. :-D  What delightful days those were!  That would be followed by eating plum cakes bought from Kayani Bakery on East Street, Pune.  Oh, were those simply delectable!  Of course carols would also be sung.

It was somewhere around the age of 13 or 14 that the secret of Santa was let out and I don't wish to delve into it too much - it is not a happy memory!

My Santa is now in Heaven with his Maker.  I have been as good a girl as I can given my circumstances and my human foibles Santa.  So can I send you my wish list?  I have only three things I want in the coming year:

Peace of Mind, Good Health and a reasonable degree of Happiness.  Nothing more.  Is it too much to ask for?  Santa, I am not going to hang out a sock, but the doors of my home will be kept open for you to come and deliver the goods.  The doors of my heart are always open.  Please force the doors of my mind also open if you find them a bit jammed to deliver the gifts.  Waiting eagerly for you Santa.

Mind Your Language

The author does not hold herself responsible for any sense of outrage felt by readers. If you are easily scandalized by the slightly off-colour language that is in common usage these days, you will do well to skip this post and go on to the next snippet.

English is a funny language (notwithstanding the fact I love it very dearly). It is sometimes really galling how some words cannot be used in their "legitimate" sense any more all because someone just decided to hijack the word to mean something very different altogether. Many an unwitting, unsuspecting person could end up with red face if they were to use certain words without knowing the "other" meaning.

The first time I experienced this was when I told a friend in the UK that "I wouldn't spend a penny" on something. She laughed and told me never to say that in front of a Brit. Apparently "spending a penny" was commonly used to mean visiting the toilet - one had to pay a penny when using public toilets in the past. Of course the fact that it cost 25 pence when I was there did not make a difference to the expression.

Yesterday a friend of mine told me she was in splits (meaning she had a hearty laugh, not that she split in two) when she read that I had to run for the "dicky" to understand some words which I did not understand. She asked me if I knew what the word meant. Now of course I did (for those who don't, please run to the nearest dicky and check it out yourself - I don't want to explain such an inanity here in graphic detail), but I had not thought of it when I very fondly referred to my favourite book of words by that name.

I think twice for this very reason to say "That is a really gay colour" or "I am feeling very gay" or "The mood at the meeting was really gay" or "He is really gay". The word has become really taboo, although its original intent was to convey a very happy state of affairs.

Take for example the word pansy. I can't say "Oh, how I love pansies" when I love a flower, simply because I would get strange looks.

Long ago I had read a book by Anurag Mathur called "The Inscrutable Americans" whose protagonist is an "innocent" student who steps out of his little village in Madhya Pradesh for the first time. Here is an excerpt of his letter to his parents. Note the misconception he had when he heard a commonly used slang.

At Customs, brother, I am getting big shock. One fat man is grunting at me and looking cleverly from small eyes. "First visit?" he is asking, "Yes," I am agreeing "Move on," he is saying making chalk marks on bags. As I am picking up bags he is looking directly at me and saying "Watch your ass." Now, brother, this is wonderful. How he is knowing we are purchasing donkey? I think they are knowing everything about everybody who is coming to America.
They are not allowing anybody without knowing his family and financial status and other things. And we are only buying donkey two days before my departure. I think they are keeping all information in computers. Really these Americans are too advanced.
But, brother, now I am worrying. Supposing this is CIA keeping watch or else how they can know about our donkey? Anyway please do not tell Mother and Father or they are worrying, but lock all doors and windows. If CIA wants to recruit me to be spy in Jajau, I will gladly take poison before betraying our Motherland. Then I am going out and cousins are waiting and receiving me warmly.

Imagine the situation if I were wanting to go to Alaska and someone were to tell me a certain jacket or anorak looked really "cool". Why on earth would I want to buy it when I wanted something to keep me warm?

How on earth could a skimpily clothed damsel look hot? Would she not be cold when she was so barely covered?

Or how can smoking be "cool" for that matter?

Talking of smoking, brings me to the topic of butts. Why would anyone keep butting onto the personal rights of a person smoking a butt and tell him to kick the butt (would this smoker understand the term or would he go and kick the butt of this "butt"er-in)? Or why indeed would he keep butting in and disturb someone who was already working his butt off?

Here was another situation where a friend went to the US and was stopped for checking at the customs. He was carrying some “darbha” herbs with him for some shraddha rituals which are performed routinely. He was asked what that was. He did himself in when he replied “it is grass” and had some lengthy explanations to give before he was let off.

So dears, I hope you will be very careful next time you use this English "tongue" (figuratively I mean, not literally).

Touchy Times

"I was asking my son to get married to anyone he wants to, so long as it is a girl!"    

Not a very uncommon sentiment I hear these days. It makes me wonder. We humans are a very confused species. 

Leave alone life long partnerships .... let us talk of simple friendships. Time was when a guy with his arm across the shoulders of another guy on the road singing "yeh dosti hum nahin todenge" (we won't break this friendship) was a common sight and people used to envy folks who had such friends and friendships. Two girls sitting together, holding hands, giggling together, sharing confidences, looking conspiratorially at each other ..... well, silly girls sharing girlie confidences for some, so sweet for others.

I received a cultural shock when I was studying abroad. A friend of mine (a girl) once just touched another friend (a girl) from Australia and the usually chummy, jolly girl reacted so badly - almost as if she had been bitten by a snake - that the "touchy" friend felt really hurt about the touchiness of the "touched" friend. We wondered what had bitten her. Anyway, a cultural lesson learned that day - boys don't touch boys and girls don't touch girls. We had to relearn our moral science/social science/cultural science or whatever science that was. In India it was boys don't touch girls, girls don't touch boys. No, they don't even look or smile at them; forget it, they don't even think of them!

That was about a decade and a half ago. A decade has wrought a lot of changes on our decadent society. We are going the evil Western way. Now listen! We have progressed. We have become very "civilized". We may know about gays, but that does not mean that we walk around hand in hand or with our arms around the shoulders of friends of the same gender when we are feeling particularly "gay" (meant in a different sense of course)! Otherwise we may be mistaken for gays! And our society is too puritanical (despite being Westernized enough to eat burgers and to wear Nike shoes) to tolerate gays. So does that mean we can walk hand in hand with members of the other gender? Oh no, noooooooooooooo...... we are Indian, remember? If you don't, the moral police will be only too glad to remind you of the fact!

So whom do we touch??????????? 

Ye Re Ye Re Paavsaa! (Welcoming the Rains)

Strong gusts of wind are blowing outside. It is a grey, cloudy, cool day outside. Just the kind of day I love. Not too hot, perfect to go out for a walk. The heavy clouds herald a heavy shower of rain - may be sometime later on in the afternoon. I am lying huddled in bed, lap-top perched against my knee wearing a warm sweater and a pair of socks. My mind travels to another time, another place in the past.

Ah the monsoons. What a lovely time of they year! The scorching heat of the summer is a thing of the past and so are the dried up branches of the shrubs and trees. The rains have brought with them a relief to the parched souls, the earth has turned a verdant green.

It is time to go back to school wearing a little red duck-back raincoat. Oh how I love my little raincoat. I feel so loathe to take it off. Monsoons mean the re-opening of school, levelling up in school (gosh, the farmville2 lingo seems to have become an inherent part of me ), new books, new teachers, sitting inside the classroom and looking out at the skies crashing down in walls of water.

Weekends spent curling up in bed under a blanket with a book in hand, and waking up in the evening to a cup of tea and some warm snacks - ah what luxury! Monsoons mean sitting in the kitchen with mom cooking something yum and the sound of the rains going pitter-patter on the tin chajja outside. The rain stops and it is time to run out with other kids and float paper boats down the rivulets of water flowing along the road sides. (We are not allowed to go and get wet in the rain. :-(We are told it is alright to get wet in the first rain of the season; getting wet in the rain after that can make one ill).

Monsoons herald the festive season with Nagpanchami heading the list. "Nagobala doodh, nagabola doodh" one hears the snake charmers calling out early in the morning, asking folks to come out and feed snakes with milk. The real joy of the day is adorning one's hands with mehendi (henna). The fresh green colour of henna and the aromatic smell are so pleasing to the senses, one can only know it through direct experience.

College days.....Monsoons also mean riding to and fro to college on a bicycle through small muddy lanes, coming back home with clothes covered with mud from being splashed by passing vehicles or coming back soaked to the skin, with mom and dad ordering me to first go dry my hair and change my clothes and mom handing me a hot cup of coffee. The years pass by. Monsoons still mean my getting soaked in the rain on my two-wheeler, but now the cold slowly starts getting to me through my clothes.

Sigh. This year, there have been strong winds each time it rains. The winds that I once loved, is now shut out by windows which are kept shut. The rain lashes against the window panes. My bones protest violently against the wind and the cold. No more question of going voluntarily and getting wet in the rain. I huddle under the blanket with a sweater and socks and a cup of hot coffee in hand and a lappie in my lap, telling the world what monsoons mean to me.

Kothimbir wadi

Monsoons are here.  Cloudy days, chill winds ...... This is the time to lie curled up in bed by the window under a nice blanket with a book in hand and a plate of some thing crisp to munch; or sit with a friend on the portico watching the rain soak the trees and the lawn with a plate of crispy brown pakodas and a cup of steaming hot ginger tea.

Talking of crispy brown pakodas, my mind suddenly leaps back to kothimbir wadis - corriander cakes - a Maharashtrian savoury that I had almost forgotten.  Of course in the past it was always bought out from the nearby shops.  So I decided it was now time to learn to make it myself.  There were many variations of the recipe on the internet.  This was the simplest and quickest variation I chose to try.

Ingredients:

1 cup finely chopped corriander
1 cup besan / chickpea flour
Turmeric - 1/4 tsp
Salt - to taste
Red chilli powder - 1/4 tsp
Jeera (cumin) powder - a pinch
(The red chilli powder, jeera powder can be substituted by roasted cumin seeds - green chilli-ginger-garlic paste).

Procedure:

Mix the besan with just enough water to a fine paste.  Add the turmeric, salt, red chilli powder and jeera powder to it.  Mix well.  Then add the chopped corriander to this mix.  

Pour this mix into a greased vessel and microwave it or steam it in a pressure cooker so that the mix is cooked.  Cut the mix into diamond shaped or squared shaped pieces.  These can be eaten as they are, shallow fried or deep fried.  Eat with green chutney or tomato sauce.

Banana inflorescence (Vazhapoo Parapusili)

The banana plant is very versatile in that every part of it can be used in some way or the other.  Everybody is familiar with the fruit and hence there is no need to mention it specially.  The leaves of the banana plant can be used as disposable, bio-degradable, eco-friendly plates to eat from.  But how many people know that the stem and the inflorescence of the banana can also can be prepared in different forms?

Source:  Google images

Cleaning the inflorescence of banana:

Remove the large red bracts of the inflorescence layer by layer. Each bract covers a bunch of florettes. Remove this bunch. Take the florettes individually and remove the stamen and papery transparent petal from each of them and discard. (This is a tedious job, but the final results make the effort worth the while). Keep repeating till all the red bracts are removed and you come to the central white part of the florette. Chop the florettes finely and keep in a bowl of water with 2 tbsp of yoghurt in it (to prevent it from getting black through oxidation). Then discard the stem of the inflorescence and chop the inner white part into small pieces. (There are many video clips on Youtube which demonstrate the procedure step by step).  snapguide.com/guides/clean-a-banana-blossom-flower/‎ ,  http://www.nithyasnalabagam.com/2013/05/how-to-clean-banana-flower.html  Wash the banana florettes with fresh water and strain when ready to cook.

Ingredients:

Banana inflorescence

1/2 cup tur dal (pigeon peas)

1/2 cup chana dal (bengal gram)

1 dried red chilli

1 small piece compounded asafoetida (hing)

Oil – 1 tbsp

Mustard seeds – 1 tsp

Asafoetida – 1 pinch powdered

Turmeric powder – 1 pinch

Salt – to taste

Procedure:

1/2 cup tur dal

1/2 cup chana dal

1 dried red chilli

1 small piece compounded asafoetida

Dry roast all these ingredients together and grind them coarsely in a mixer. Sprinkle about 1/2 -3/4 cup water on this ground mix and then pressure cook it. Take it out when it has cooled and break it up into a powder.

Take a tablespoonful of oil in a kadhai (wok) and heat it. Add mustard seeds and a pinch of powdered asafoetida to it. Add the washed banana florettes to the oil once the mustard seeds have popped. Add salt, a pinch of turmeric powder and then add the mixture of tur dal and chana dal which has been pressure cooked and prepared.  Mix well.  Close the kadhai and allow to cook for 5-10 mins.

The dish is now ready to eat.

(The banana flower is rich in vitamins, flavonoids and proteins. The flower has been used in traditional medicine to treat bronchitis, constipation and ulcer problems. It eases menstrual cramps. The extracts of banana flower have anti oxidant properties that prevent free radicals and control cell and tissue damage.

Read more: Medicinal Properties of the Banana Plant | Medindia http://www.medindia.net/patients/lifestyleandwellness/medicinal-properties-of-the-banana-plant.htm#ixzz2VKfyq3g8)

Momma, Dear Momma of Mine

"Yes Amma, I have had my coffee.  Yes, I have eaten my lunch.  Now you eat that food up.  That is for you".

I look into your face and try to coax you to eat.  Suddenly the tables seem to have turned.  You are my child, I am your mother.  I feel a wave of protectiveness towards you.  I want to pick you up, cuddle you like a baby.  You are so frail my Momma.  You look like a little bird which will fly off on the wings of the slightest breeze.

But somethings do not change.  "Have you had your food"? you ask me as soon as you see me.  Even through the mists of your foggy mind you do not forget your concern for my well being.  We sit together.  You try to tell me something.  It comes out no louder than a hoarse whisper.  I try to listen.  What do you want to tell me Ma?  You don't remember words.  You make up your own.  Some words you remember.  But the stories you tell are also made up - situations of your own making.  You live in a world of your own.  No one can enter there.  We sit and look at each other.  I allow you to examine my palm.  You trace a design on it.  You examine the floral pattern on my dress.  You start pleating my kurta.  I just watch you.  I love it when you touch me.  Every moment with you is a treasure.  Pity I can't spend more time with you.

I get up to leave.  "You don't have to go.  Sleep here" you say.  It breaks my heart.  "No Momma, I can't stay.  I have to leave.  I shall come back soon.  I must go home before it is too dark".  "OK" you say.  "Go carefully".  Even through the haze your concern for me surfaces.  It has become ingrained into your psyche.

I am part of your Ma.  50% of me is made up of you.

My mind harks back to my earliest memories.  It's a hot summer afternoon.  You and I are lying on the floor. I wake up and look around.  You look at me, smile and pat my tummy. :-)  

You are eating your lunch.  I toddle up to you, point at your plate and demand brinjal.  "You have already eaten your lunch" you tell me.  "I want more" I demand.

You wake me up at 6.30 in the morning.  You have been up much earlier and been cooking to pack lunch for me.  I have to catch my school bus at 8 a.m.  I get up take my brush and hold it in my mouth and doze off.  You come and shake me awake.  I start eating some toothpaste.  I love the taste.  You chide me and get me through the routine.  I sit in the corner and await the hot phulkas which I have for my breakfast.  You pack my lunch box, check if I have taken everything, plait my hair and come along with me to drop me off at the bus stop.  

I come back in the evening around 4.30.  You have some snacks awaiting me.  You have made them yourself.  Not for you the convenience of ready cooked snacks from the shops.  Then comes my homework.  You sit down with me and ensure that I finish whatever homework there is for the day.  Sometimes you ask whether you are studying or I.  You have literally held my hand and taught me to write.  You have made me do page after page of cursive writing to make me write neatly.  You are a stickler for neatness.  It shows in my written work even today.  

"I was not allowed to finish my studies" you tell me.  "Study well.  Study as much as you want.  We won't stop you.  Achieve whatever goals you want".  You want me to have what you could not.  The fact that you were made to stop studying to get married at 20 still rankles in your mind.

Dinner is served and then you and dad clean the vegetables for the next morning.  

Mom, I remember you grinding batter for idlis on the traditional stone.  I remember you grinding rice, masalas etc on the stone.  I remember you and the maid actually scrubbing the floor with soap and water. Your kitchen was always spic and span.  How did you manage mom?  You were prone to frequent head aches and had a bad back.  That did not prevent you from slogging from morn to night.  We had a stream of visitors at home.  You took care of them without batting an eyelid and loved having them over.  How did you do it ma?

You helped raise your grand-children till quite a late age.  You looked after dad like a nurse when he was laid up in bed with cancer.  Day and night you slogged looking after him, washing sheets ........  You yourself were no spring chicken at that time.

Dad passed on.  You carried on with a stiff upper lip.  You refused to come and stay with either of your daughters.  You insisted on living on your own.  Why Ma?  Loneliness finally got you.  The dreaded "A" hit you.  

Now you need to be looked after all the time.  All your life you only gave.  Life always has a way of balancing things out.  It is now your turn to take.  You need to be cared for.  

I look into your face and try to coax you to eat.  Suddenly the tables seem to have turned.  You are my child, I am your mother.  I feel a wave of protectiveness towards you.  I want to pick you up, cuddle you like a baby.  You are so frail my Momma.  You look like a little bird which will fly off on the wings of the slightest breeze.

I love you my darling Momma.  More than words can ever say.  Thank you Momma, for being my Momma.

Beat the Heat - Dadpe Pohe

Bangalore is ablaze and when I say ablaze, I mean literally ablaze.  The summer heat is bearing down oppressively making me want to immerse myself in a pool all day long.  Now that not being possible, I have to think of other ways of beating the heat.  Chappatis are more or less out of fashion in my home.  Everyday it is a menu of curd rice, some other variety of rice, raita .......  Cucumbers are in special favour.

Rice everyday can get pretty boring unless something else is added to the menu to provide a variety.  One of those foodie dreams took me back to my neighbour's house in Pune, where on a summer afternoon I had eaten this delightful, yet easily made stuff called "Dadpe Pohe".

Conversion of thought to action does not take much effort especially where a foodie is concerned.

So here is the recipe.

Ingredients:

Poha (puffed rice) - 1/2 kg

Coconut water - 250 ml

Fresh grated coconut - 1/2 a cup (adjust to individual requirements)

Raw mango - 1 small or 1/2 medium sized (add to taste)

Tomato - 1 medium

Onion - 1 medium - large

Groundnuts - 1 tbsp

Mustard seeds - 1 teaspoon

Oil - 1 teaspoon

Green chilli - 1 medium

Corriander leaves finely chopped

Procedure:

Wash the poha through a sieve.  Allow it to soak in the coconut water.  Add chopped tomato, onion and finely chopped raw mango.

Heat the oil, add mustard, allow to splutter.  Add the groundnuts and fry.  Add the chopped chilli to this.  Allow the mixture to cool.  Add to the poha and mix well.

As is evident, it is simple to make (just think how convenient it is when you have unexpected or even expected guests :-D), healthy and yummy to eat.

Violà, its ready to wolf down.  Slurp slurp ..........

You are all set to beat the heat. :-D  Enjoy.

My Experiments With Cooking

Disclaimer: Everybody is advised to read this write-up only if they feel up to taking some shocks. The author does not intend to willfully offend anyone's sensibilities, having said which she does not guarantee the improbability that that might be the outcome. Any such effect is purely unintentional.

That I am a gourmet (and admittedly a gourmand) is a well known fact. A gourmet is one who appreciates and enjoys good cooking while a gourmand is one who can't lay off food. My motto is "I see food, I eat it" (my definition of sea-food diet). I have tried various kinds of diet, but this is the only one which I have managed to faithfully stick to and which has worked for me. (As I write this there are some lovely smells floating out of the kitchen, making me weak in the knees).

So coming back to the point, although I have always loved eating, I cannot say the same about cooking. I was a very hard nut for my mom to crack. Somehow I was an avowed women's libber in my school days and did not like the fact that people expected only girls to learn cooking while men could expect to be waited on (at least it was my perception of reality those days). So I pig-headedly refused to go anywhere near the kitchen , while continuing to eat like a larva.

While the mysteries of cooking eventually did begin to intrigue me, my big fat ego would not allow me to admit to mom that maybe I would not mind some lessons in cooking .

So one day when I was in Std. X, she went out with my neighbours to see a film, while I was left at home to study. That did not go down too well with me and I decided to entertain myself at home. What better way of doing that than eating some nice. My mind thought up a wonderful dish to eat - fried potatoes. I wanted to make it like what my friends brought in their lunch boxes. How does one fry potatoes? Well, simple. One took a wok (kadai), chopped up potatoes, put them into the wok and onto the fire, closed it with a lid and presto!!! After a while, there would be delectable potato fries coming out of the wok straight into my waiting mouth. (I could almost imagine the trajectory it would follow).

After a while of waiting, I opened the wok and checked inside. The potato did not want to part company with the bottom of the wok and it did not look like what mom made. Nor did it look like what my friends brought in their lunch boxes. I decided to take no more risks. Mom might arrive any minute and it would be a major loss of face for me to let her know that I had tried my hand at cooking. I picked up a piece of potato. It did not quite follow the trajectory I had imagined it would take. It made a brief halt in front of my eyes. Then I thought, maybe it might be alright after all. I gingerly took a bite. It was completely raw. What could I do? If I chucked it in the bin, mom would certainly spot it and my cat would be out of the bag. So with all the courage and adventurous spirit of a new teenager, I chucked the whole stuff into my biological bin. It was strong enough to biodegrade it without anyone noticing. Then came the next step of cleaning the wok and even if I say so myself, I did a sterling job of it and put it away, hoping that all evidence of the crime was wiped out.

But I realized two facts that day. One was that I would not make such a good criminal after all. Second that our CID should have made it a policy to employ only mothers. After all God provided them with a sixth sense and eyes behind their heads as well as other powers of ESP (Extra Sensory Perception). So it was to my utter chagrin that mom comes into the kitchen and asks me "Did you try cooking something today"? And being a useless liar, I decided to give her the facts straight. After that I was put through an interrogation about how I made the fries. When I told her, she said "Have you never watched me do anything? Don't you know that you need to use some oil and spices and that you need to sprinkle some amount of water to allow vegetables to cook? Why could you not ask me? Would I not have taught you"?

The years went by. When I left home for the first time, i was determined that if I were to ever feel homesick for any reason, lack of my favourite foods would not be on that list. Thus it was that I got the recipes for all my favourite items from mom before I left, and I must say it stood me in good stead. I did a pretty good job of feeding myself.

The only problem was that I did not have so much time for cooking and many of our vegetables were not available where I lived. Once when I went to the doctor with recurring headaches and tiredness, he said it must be lack of proper nutrition. I felt very sorry for myself and went shopping for vegetables at "Safeway" and decided to make a mixed vegetable soup for myself.

Once back at the hostel, I found that my pressure pan was not large enough to hold all the vegetables and borrowed my friend's pressure cooker. The soup was made and was pretty tasty. So I shared it at the communal table with my friends at dinner time. We had it for one day, then the next and the next. I had it alone on the fourth day. Finally I decided I could do without such "healthy" soups. What was I to do with the remaining stuff? It was in this way that the soup found a resting place in my freezer.

A few weeks passed. After about 3 months, I decided it was time to check out on the state of the soup. I pulled out the container and defrosted it. I did not know what to do with it. So after a bit of I had a brilliant . I added some orange masoor dal, some onions and masala and seasoning to it and pressure cooked the stuff again (just to make sure it was safe for consumption). An American friend walked in, took in a whiff of the air and asked what smelt so good. That was my chance. She was given a generous helping of the stuff and she walloped it up with great relish. I was relieved. It was not just edible, but yum. So the "new" dish made its way back to the communal table.

When asked what it was, I told my friends to taste the stuff and take a guess (nothing works like a bit of suspense). After they had finished, no one could guess. So I finally spilled the beans and was met with a horrified silence. "What? It is 'that' soup”? What if something happens to us? You – a microbiologist?" I assured them that the microbiologist had carried out a quality control test on it before it was served up. Besides I had part taken of the stuff myself. So that should be proof of the fact that it was safe for human consumption. Besides the proof of the pudding (dal in this case) was in eating it, wasn't it? And after all they had all declared it to be yum – and that was just 5 minutes ago.

To cut the story short, there was still some dal left and my friend whose culinary skills extended to cooking rice, offered to do me a favour and finish up the stuff the next day. So that was how my "healthy" soup was finally cleared up, with no detrimental effects whatsoever to anyone.