Growing up with my daughter

My father never imposed his will on both my sister or me. We were free to choose the school we wanted to go to - Rosary School, which was 15 Kms away from where we lived as opposed to St Ursula, Nigdi, which was just four kms away. The courses we chose while in college and the people we chose to become. I am pretty damn sure he would have been happier if I had joined Telco instead of a startup and if my sister would have studied to be a engineer.  I can only begin to imagine how he managed those thousands he required to let us imagine what we wanted, for the hundreds of books I bought and for the subscriptions and the flights of fancy he funded. For a man limited by his own need to be free, he seemed to have a sense of what was good and what was not.

I have tried to emulate him in the last 4 years and 8 months. My daughter is allowed to break things, tear up newspapers, paint the floor, play in the mud and act like an excited puppy. She has discovered books she likes and things she wants to do. Has begun to draw Dragons ( her favourite ) and choose the movies she wants to watch. She helps me fine tune the nursery rhyme she will recite at school - Her contribution to Grey Squirrel - a poem she chose when we browsed together for things that would be interesting for her. When we found a little poem Grey Squirrel interesting but just a bit too short, she helped in adding the lines by about how the grey squirrel runs up the trees so tall but never ever falls.

Sundays are the days when I pretend I can coax a little bit of baking out of a 5 year old convection microwave oven. Influenced by Nigella and Racheal Allen and an overdose of the TLC channel, I involve her in the baking. So far she has sat patiently and asked questions on why eggs need to be added and why milk and butter and sugar need to be beaten and has helped in sifting flour - plain old atta - with baking powder and cocoa powder and has stood around watching the final product rise slowly and brown and then pestered me for a slice even before the cake has cooled.

This sunday we got a little ambitious and allowed Tamara to bake her own cake. While I grated apples and ground cinnamon for a light apple cinnamon cake, she mixed the flour with a bit of oats and then with cocoa powder and then added butter and sugar and milk and whisked up a sticky gooey slop. She patiently mixed and mixed and mixed and finally decided that it needed an egg - I had to help get the egg out of the shell and into her pan. Thereafter she mixed it further to make a fine mess, which she called a mud pie. I had to convince her to allow me to use an handblender and sprinkle a few raisins into it just for some fun :).

We baked it in a tin she buttered and dusted - it had more flour than required but then she will learn as she goes along. And along came a cake that was nice - nice for a almost 5 year old.  The forty minutes were agonized over why the cake is not jumping and if the eggs would break or if there is a possibility of an omlette instead of the cake.

After 45 minutes we had a springy moist dense cake, we decided not to wait for the cake to cool ( as usual) and sliced it and smothered it with some more chocolate 'sauce' and gobbled it up

The cinnamon cake I baked in her words was ok :(

happy banana republic

It is now 62 years since the idea of India exists. Hastily patched together by browbeating princely states and dividing on the basis of language, a nation was born. Also born alongside was a Cello Tape Nation - a jugaad of gigantic proportions.  We are a nation that will stumble and fall and yet at the slightest provocation pull out our thousand year culture and wisdom of the saints and gods and mortals all combined into a bhel puri of identity.

And we are a banana republic! An additional collector is burnt alive by a mafia in a small town around 300 kms from Mumbai. One third of the country is not ruled by the Government of India but by rebels who are better armed, trained and equipped than the people who are supposed to the Law of the country. The wife of a supposed dissenting voice gets arrested by the ATS while people who bombed, maimed and killed are running training schools for future terrorists. Three metros in the country has disfunctional roads, the national capital is also the rape capital of the country, the sparkling new hub of new economy India has a reputation where women are asked to get back home before it gets dark, traffic cops never man the signal, instead hide behind parked police vans only to dance onto the roads when anyone breaks a signal by mistake. Gandhi is a thousand rupee note, a half blind politician runs a broadcast mafia down south. His crony walked away with more money than the GDP of a small African nation. We have a prime minister who is learned but cannot take decisions, a beaurocracy that demands 25 lakhs for sanction for a lift in a building. There are more exploited kids at any signal in Mumbai than there are schools, the government makes people who want to build schools jump hoops for permissions. The gap between people who have money and the ones that live a month on less than the cost of a fine dining meal is widening.  I could go on and on.

And this morning I woke up at six and wondered if I should switch on the TV to watch the annual parade - decided against it. Why bother? when all that shiny hardware cannot get rid of the people who are ruining a fine subcontinent.

measured against the cost of a cup of coffee

Six months ago my daughter started regular school. We had trawled around 20 school starting from the Ryan Global at Andheri Lokhandwala to Don Bosco at Borivli. Our idea of schools is rather old world. I studied at a family run private school called Rosary School in Pune and my wife at the St Ursula School in Nigdi. Both schools did not have airconditioning, did not have new age labs nor new education methods. When we started talking to schools in Mumbai, the first turn off was when the lady at the reception asked us if we could afford a deposit of a couple of lakhs, refundable at the end of the child's school term - and no, interest would not be paid on the deposit. The others wanted to sell a lifestyle to us, one even claimed that our girl would not have to interact with the middle class kids and would not learn their manners! We settled for Maneckji Cooper School at Juhu. And that caused a rather odd problem - it takes 90 minutes to reach the school from where we live. We decided to move and till we found a new home (we did find one eventually) closer to the school, she would use my car - her grandmother found a driver who is from the church she goes to every week.

Our driver is an odd man. He used to drive a tempo - he drives the car like he would drive a tempo even today after 6 months. He has three children - a daughter who is married and two sons who have dropped out of school. He stays in a 'kholi' - a one room dwelling close to where I live. I call my driver odd because he always has some relative who in his words - off ho gaya - the closest translation is the relative has passed away - the 'off' signifying the 'switching off ' of the relative. So far 8 of them have switched off and each time he has wanted an advance. Usually half his salary around the 15th of his month. A month ago I finally asked him how many of his relatives are left? He did not say much, when I asked him if everything was fine with him, he told me about Rs 10000 he had borrowed from some marwadi, and that he had to pay Rs 500 every month as interest. I used to pay him 6500 a month at that time - the amount he asked for. If he paid 500 to the marwadi, he would have Rs 6000 left for the month - Rs 200 a day for a family of 3. Measured against two cups of coffee at the Costa Coffee Shop a day, his family lives on as much as what I pay a month for coffee!

Its a no hope situation - two sons - both dropped out of school when the failed their exams. They do nothing - no hope because there is no way for them to complete their education. We decided to help him pay off his debt. Increased his salary so that he can repay spread over a year or so. The next question was whether I could give up half the cups of coffee a month and use that money to pay for the two kid's education. I am not sure if I want to do it. I am not sure if I want to take that commitment. What if they waste that money? And are really not interested in studying? On the other hand what if they do study and get some part-time jobs and raise their living above the desperation they are in.

It is like investing in a uncharted startup.

Any suggestions would be welcome.

The India of the middle class

Beyond the vastness of Mumbai, Delhi, and Delhi lies an India that has defied explanation. People with more sense than me have tried and failed to fix a definition to this India. This India has sometimes shown its face when a small town Indian wins a medal at a sporting event or gets selected for the Cricket team. However this India is largely ignored by the people who are hard at grind in the so called metros. This India reaches out and kicks you in the butt when you step outside the confines of a sealed, artificially cooled cab or the hotel room or the centrally fumigated office block.

That India is still outraged by the scams, the people are essentially decent and live in the mortal fear of losing their dignity. That India gets embarrassed when faced with the guy behind the counter at a Gloria Jeans Coffee shop who asks them what kind of coffee they want. Or the India that shares a idli platter because they cannot fathom why 3 idlis and 5 varieties of chutney would cost Rs 90 when they get the same for Rs 15 back home.

My dad ran away from home to escape a hopeless existence in communist Kerala in 1960s to first Mumbai and then settled down in Pune. He married, had us kids and died a peaceful death. He never adjusted to the big city living, never could understand why we did not want jobs in TELCO or why we were so restless. He I suspect was suspicious of the kind of work me and my sis did at companies that were not names he recognized.

India of the middle class is now threatened.


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My body is somewhere at 8 am in the morning while I am physically at 2 15 in the afternoon. That is the effect of waking up at 3 am to catch at 6 am flight. You might think I am crazy to reach the airport at 4 15 am. I love reaching early and having the airport to myself. It allows me to slow down and enjoy my coffee.

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Here is something I loved reading : Acute Angle by R Sukumar of Mint

I however disagree with R Sukumar when he says that the easiest way to obfuscate the issue of corruption in governance is to highlight corruption in other spheres, and journalists and bankers, the protagonists of this week’s scam, are soft targets.

My take is that finally the murk is out in the open. Many of us suspected all along what the tapes have shown. India is fast becoming like Russia where a few have all the powers. I just wish someone would do a wikileak on all the scams. It would be easy, am sure all the information is available for a price.

three cities, two movies and one funeral later

In the last 20 days since my last blog post I have driven down to Pune twice, been to Hyderabad and generally moped around Bombay / Mumbai.

Driving down to Pune is like planning to go to war for me. One has to decide the exact time and the route to be able to make it to Pune or back in less than two and a half hours. I start at 6 am mostly and drive like my tail is on fire before the road hogs get onto the roads and cross into Pune by 8 30 in time for breakfast.

Lately however I have been tempted by the Misal Pav served at the Expressway pit stop. Its oily, spicy, acidity inducing and makes me swear that I will never eat it again. I give in to temptation each time. Compared to the MacD and the CCD stuff this is potent, earthy stuff.

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My daughter missed Diwali again this year. In her 4 and half years we have seen a death every year. So technically she had celebrated just once when she was a year old. I have promised her that the next year she will be allowed to do what she wants and she will get to do bang bang with fire even if someone else kicks the bucket in the family.

On the way to Pune this year, I was informed about the death of a close relative. Diwali day was spent at the home of the uncle in the company of people I do not really know. It seems I look too alien to be a Malayali and too snooty for people to strike up a conversation. So I sat or stood or leaned around the cars and the chairs and the walls calling people, informing them, arranging for the food for the family.

The food was a very simple gruel of rice accompanied by a vegetable without any spice. The only concession was the mango pickle served as an after thought. Our plan was to have Diwali lunch at home with my in laws. Almost grudgingly I spooned a mouthful and it was brilliant. Maybe it was the ambience, maybe it has to do with the somber atmosphere around the place - death has a way of stupefying people affected. The gruel humbled me, it was nourishing and  filling. It did not make me feel sleepy like the festive food would have. I almost never attend events in my family. I cannot bear the politicking and the need for social graces. But this year I have mellowed down to allow people to talk to me. And connect.

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26 years ago I used to live in an areas known as Dr Amberkar Colony in Pune. It was built for the followers of the original reformer of India. My neighbours we all Buddhists and most ceremonies started with Dhammam Sharanam Gacchami - the real meaning of which was understood by me much much later. This Diwali, the day after the funeral I travelled back in time. Drove along the roads that  were familiar - I used to walk to my school everyday - a distance of 5 Kms. Every little bit has changed - even though there are trees and walls and paths that have survived the concrete mishmash pune is becoming.

What did not change are Rajeev Dubey and Kavita Jain. They studied with me in the graduation years at Wadia College. My milestones of those years have these two along with Swati B and Poonam Ponde scattered in memories - of love and passion and jealousies and anger and despair. Of being blooded into being a Kishore fan, of Asha's voice and growing up. I met the families of Rajeev and Kavita for the first time. The feeling is strange. Of seeing the in between years in the faces of husbands and wives and children. Of not knowing whats protocol with people who have known your worst and best. The 17 years of not being in touch melted away. The years never existed when they sang Kishore - Asha duets.

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Hyderabad airport is like home now. No the toilets do not smell of ammonia, the people speak good Hindi and you do not find Biryani stalls at street corners. This is the third city thats becoming close to my heart now. I love the pace and the people in Hyderabad. Will explore the city soon and find the quirks that make it a human place as compared to Mumbai.

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Loved The Social Network and HP7. TSN for the director's ability to take a bad book and make a quote worthy cracker. Will be writing a piece in defense of Mark Z soon for the business blog I write for.

HP has grown up. No more silly brooms and wide eyed wonderment. I plan to start reading Harry Potter Series to Tamara when she is ten. She will be able to enjoy the series before she gets hijacked by something called Twilight or its equivalent when she is 15.

Dinner time heaven

Did not want to eat out or order in. Made some spiced rice stuffed in red bell pepper, grilled cottage cheese in chinese spice and sesame seed oil . Just the pics. If anyone asks I will post the recipe.

The home has a nice fragrance of a slow roasting bell pepper, whips up quite some hunger. What a Sunday this has been.

Spiced Rice

Cottage Cheese ( Paneer ) grilled in Sesame Seed Oil and Chinese Spice Mix

Rust colored chunks

Done Perfect

Red Bell Pepper Stuffed with spiced rice being grilled

Nice!

Trust me this tastes Fab!

 Maybe I should just turn this into a food blog :)

Cooking is good for the soul

Here is a breakfast that is good for the soul, stomach and tongue. Just because your missus, kid and mom went off on a holiday to three different locations does not mean you have to depend on omlettes and bread or cardboard cheese sandwich at the local cafe.

You do need to have a bit of the following in your home first.

1. Two cups of macaroni / penne / linguine pasta. I used the whole wheat brown spagetti.
2. Extra virgin olive oil as per requirements
3. Salt - half a tea spoon - or according to taste - use less and adjust
4. Half a tea spoon pepper corns freshly ground - if using packed variety, please roast it to release the peppery aroma :)
5. Mushroom - supermarket variety - sliced very thin - about 5
6. Lime / Lemon juice - half a lemon / lime
7. Lemon / Lime rind - use a common steel grater available in any Indian kitchen and carefully scrape the green part of the lemon, white part is bitter - use half the lime / lemon. This gives a really great flavour and aroma
8. One very large garlic pod. or three small garlic pods chopped / minced fine - really really fine
9. About 8 stalks of coriander leaves chopped fine. Italians use parsley, we use kothimbir.
10. Cheese cube - amul is fine - or parmesan - grated

Boil some water in a pot, add a teaspoon of salt and two teaspoon of olive oil. When the water starts to bubble, toss in the pasta and cook as per instruction on the pack. Whole wheat linguine takes around ten minutes to cook.

Mix sliced mushroom, lime juice, olive oil, pepper, salt, minced garlic, lemon and rind, and chopped coriander while the pasta cooks. You can mix these upto an half hour before so that the flavours mix really well. When the pasta is cooked, take about half cup of the hot water and keep it aside. Now drain the pasta and do not rinse it with cold water like you normally do. Cover the mushroom mix with the pasta and let it be for 5 minutes. The heat from the pasta and the little water that gets into the bowl will cook the mushroom without it losing colour or taste. If the pasta mix is dry use some of the water you kept aside.

Toss well, sprinkle the cheese and eat with some green tea. It is good for the soul.

The original recipe is from Nigella Express show on TLC and I have just adapted it to Indian conditions.

The breakfast with the Sunday Hindustan Times was the best thing that anyone could get. Like I said, its good for the soul.