The No-Fail Pav Bhaji Recipe

This post is dedicated to Alka Grover, who shared this brilliant recipe. I love you! <3

Pav bhaji is my second-most preferred comfort food (after idlis). Growing up in one of the busiest localities in Kolkata, yummy pav bhaji was easily available. When I moved out of the city, finding good pav-bhaji was a pain. Most places make pav bhaji in mixed-vegetable style, with too much masala thrown in. I crave to have home-made pav bhaji that brings together sweet, sour, spicy, and tangy together beautifully in a buttery concoction. And then one day, I had the pav bhaji that Alka auntie makes and I became an instant fan! Now that I barely get to see her, she shared her recipe with me. This recipe gets recreated in my kitchen at least once a week. It takes me up to an hour to do everything and there's enough bhaji for 2-3 people. 

Here you go!   

INGREDIENTS:

Vegetables:

• 4 medium-sized potatoes, boiled 
• Cauliflower, peas, beans, lauki - about the same quantity as the potatoes; steamed (pro-tip: do not use carrots as it changes the taste considerably. I personally do not like the texture of laukis so I avoid that too. Also the only veggie that you absolutely must have is cauliflower)
• 4 tomatoes, chopped (the redder the tomatoes, the lovelier would be the color of the bhaji!)
• 1 medium-sized onion, chopped 
• 4 cloves of garlic - peeled and finely chopped/ grated
• 1/2 inch piece of ginger, grated
• 1 lemon
• Some green coriander for garnishing

Masala: 

• 1 tsp salt (adjust as per taste)
• 1/2 tsp ground zeera
• 1/2 tsp ground dhania
• 2 tsp pao bhaji masala (I only use half the quantity so that it's less spicy)
• 1/2 tsp ground fennel seeds (optional)

Others: 

• Oil for cooking onions
• Butter
• Pao!

COOKING INSTRUCTIONS:

• Heat a little oil in a pan and add chopped onion. Fry until the onions are brown. I used to earlier use a non-stick pan but switching to a thick bottomed stainless steel pan makes the bhaji much smoother.
• Add ginger and garlic and stir for a minute
• Add the tomatoes and cook on medium heat for a couple of minutes. Add 1/2 tsp salt and cover with a lid so that tomatoes become a little tender.
• Meanwhile, peel and mash potatoes and the steamed veggies. I generally grate them!
• When tomatoes start leaving oil, add the dry masala, stir and add the veg and potatoes. Cook on slow fire. Once nicely mixed add half a cup of water (more/ less depending on the texture that you want).
• Add 2 tsp of butter. I usually add half the quantity though! 
• Taste and adjust as per taste. Turn off the gas and add lemon juice if you want it to be tangier. On most days I find it to be fine without the lemon juice.
• Garnish with chopped onion, tomatoes and coriander leaves.
• Eat with buttered toast or pao.

Diary of an (almost) Mountain Girl

This post has been overdue for a few weeks now. In these weeks, several thoughts about what would comprise the content of this post have churned in my head endlessly. So much so that I don't know where to start anymore. Perhaps I should start by saying that I feel at home. 

The COVID situation aside, the other huge change that has happened in my life over the last few months is that I've gone to being a mountain girl from being a city girl. I haven't considered myself to be particularly lucky, but the fact that I moved to the mountains just a couple of weeks before the lockdown is a rather compelling argument against it. After spending a miserable couple of lockdown months of being at barely operational hotels, I finally managed to find a cozy rented place. A couple of social media posts about this achievement have led to endless queries from friends and family (and ex-colleagues, and just about anyone who has seen posts). Even though I suffer from the grandma syndrome (repeating the same story over and over again with the same amount of enthusiasm), it was getting a little bit out of hand. Hence the need for this grand post. A long stairway of forty-something steps leads to the house. Although a little tiring, it's a beautiful stretch with foliage on both sides. It looks rather dreamy on a rainy day and on the sunnier days it is absolutely stunning!

During my first visit to this place, I was charmed and breathless in equal measure. So much so that it completely slipped my mind that these beautiful concrete steps would gather moss during the rainy season. This particular slip-up caused close encounters with several situations where I escaped slipping on these stairs by a whisker. On one particular instance, I decided to wear my trekking shoes (pro-tip: trekking shoes and moss aren't really on friendly terms). About halfway I froze in terror. I knew that if I took one more step I would slip and break a bone or two. After having stood there for a full five minutes (and perspiring profusely), I decided to take the plunge ahead. I didn't take a fall that day but no points for guessing that my trekking shoes have been eating dirt ever since.

Once you brave the trek up, you reach the entrance to my house. It is a part of a bigger structure which houses the landlord and his family. The roof of my house serves as terrace for the landlord’s family. The entrance to my place sometimes reminds me on hobbit houses because it is noticeably smaller than the ordinary entrances. The ceiling is also quite low, so much so that when I extend my arm I can easily touch the ceiling. I’m 5’2”, so you do the math. 

In keeping with the general feel of this hobbit house that I inhabit, almost everything in the house is small too. This is especially true of the kitchen, which has a shared wall with the entrance to the house. It’s one of the tiniest kitchens that I’ve seen so accordingly all the utensils and storage containers are also super tiny. So are the cups in which I lovingly serve instant tea to guests who come over. The rather polite people who tend to be my guests are always visible surprises at the size of the cups that I serve tea in, even though they never voice their surprise. On the days that I’m feeling fancy I take out the fancy carafe that’s just about enough to brew two cups of fancy marigold-lemongrass green tea that has become a staple in my household. The water for either kind of tea is heated in my miniature of a kettle that sits comfortably over the deep red refrigerator. This fridge has been one of my more extravagant purchases here (other than the mattress, that is, but we will come to that in a bit). 

The kitchen space is a semi-enclosed space and the same area also houses a wooden table with four chairs. In my zeal to maintain the feel of the hobbit house I nearly discarded it to bring in a table about half the size of this one, but better (financial) sense prevailed. Now this area doubles up as my workspace; the table big enough to accommodate the all-in-one printer/copier/ scanner that I can’t operate without. Serendipitously, this is also the spot in the house that has the best network. 

The best part? When I sit at the table, the glass windows open up a beautiful view of the mountains. If you stand by it, you can see the flight of stairs leading up to the house and the main road where it connects. And the Shiva temple that has recently been renovated. On particularly cloudy days, the clouds simply barge in through the windows, intruding upon my privacy in the process. Bright sunny days are a very good reminder of the privilege that I have right now. To be honest, it’s a little surreal to be living in a place as charming as this. There are days when I find myself in a moment of disbelief. It is in these moments that I take a pause, soak in all the beauty and thank my lucky stars!

An integrated arts approach

So I've decided to get back to blogging after ages. Obviously, the restart had to happen with a very special entry. 

I’m both nervous and excited about this journal entry. Nervous because there’s so much to write about, that I’m not sure if I’ve even articulated it all in my head or not. Excited because oh god, why didn’t I do it already!

I’m sipping some green tea as I write this in the yellow light of the camphor diffuser in my room. It is only befitting that I play one of the thumris that have been repeatedly transporting me to another space and time. So I play Shubha Mudgal’s Balam Tere Jhagde Mein. The central idea of this thumri is nothing new. In fact, the idea has been used and re-used many, many times over. But to me, somehow this seems to be true. It manages to stir something inside of me in a way that no other expression of the same sentiment ever has. I can almost visualize myself as the nayika going through several intricate, interconnected emotions as she sings this thumri sitting under the dark night sky punctuated with stars.

There was a time when I used to relate to the kind of music that resonated with my current mood. Now the connection happens because the song evokes a particular emotion, which is free of the mood that I'm going through at that moment, or any particular memory or person. So even though I can visualize myself as the nayika, there is no nayak. Irrespective, the moment seems to be complete in itself.

The realization - that I feel differently as compared to most other people – is something that occurred to me much later in life. That the smallest things make me really happy. Or that I get hurt more deeply than others. That even my everyday emotions are more intense than what most other people feel at the most emotional moments. In college, I used to write poetry in Hindi. I’ve been trying to disown it for over a decade now (it exists in the digital world in the form of a blog), only to go back to it occasionally. I think this need to disown is rooted in two reasons – one, most of the ideas and expressions are quite clichéd and I’m truly embarrassed about those. But also because I don’t know of many people who would understand the truth of the emotion behind those. I don’t mean this as a comparison, but how many people connect with the gazillion emotions that the nayika goes through as she sings Balam Tere Jhagde Mein Rain Gayi?

I now hear the soulful voice of Prabha Atre, wondering Kaun Gali Gayo Shyam. A couple of months ago, when I still in Gurgaon, I was learning a thumri composition in my Kathak classes, in which Radha pleads to Krishna. I would always imagine myself as a rather irritated Radha. But as we started unraveling the layers of the composition, came the realization that how it is not a singular emotion but rather a cluster of ‘micro-emotions’. Radha is (mildly) irritated for sure, but there’s so much more than that. There’s love, lajja, pleading, helplessness, and so on. This is new because earlier I didn’t spend as much time with a composition to be able to ponder over all the different possibilities. So now when I hear Prabha Atre’s voice, it is not just a singular emotion that I sense. It’s a series of transitioning emotions culminating into a sort of euphoria that is created when you’re one with the art that you’re experiencing.

There’s more to this. In the last few months (during the lockdown), I was able to get myself a pair of ghunghroos and a space for riyaaz.  I’ve been devoting time to my daily riyaaz. I’ve realised for the first time that drut lay or tatkaar solah gun isn’t something to be afraid of or be intimidated by, but if befriended it can infuse you with energy. It feels as though some things have started coming together inside of me in ways I haven’t experienced before. For instance, Kaun Gali Gayo Shyam helped me in identifying and articulating certain bhaav that existed inside of me, but the dance vocabulary that I have built also helped me in expressing it through my body. Not just in terms of mudras and body movements, but also in terms of my facial expressions, body language, and so on. And it is probably the effect of my yoga sessions that as I wonder Kaun Gali Gayo Shyam that I pause to notice the deep exhale that corresponds with my sigh of having no knowledge where Krishna is. Sometimes I feel like this is one of the storytelling sessions that I do with kids. I pick up stories that resonate with me, because then when I’m reading those out to children, I’m not faking anything. I’m simply sharing with them how I truly feel about the story. This is important because I feel like children are very good at spotting the fake.

In an interesting turn of affairs, I’ve started relooking at all my Hindi poetry from over a decade ago. And I’ve started recording it in my voice. And in a moment of feeling/ emotion/ inspiration, I composed a new one just a few days ago. This came as a half-surprise. I mean come on, it's been there all along; I’ve tried to brush it under the carpet all this while. The part that did come as a surprise was that this is something that I can still do. I always thought that writing Hindi poetry was something that I did when I was younger and that all the ‘creative juices’ had dried up, but clearly not!

Growing up I mostly listened to Bollywood music, which included the likes of Kishore Kumar and Jagjit Singh. I attended weekend Kathak classes when I was in primary and middle school, but most memories of the classes included dancing to the beats of the tabla. There was some exposure to folk music through wedding songs and so on. There were also occasional community meets where performing artists were invited to present plays on themes like Meera or perform a Rajasthani dance sequence.

I think my first close exposure to Hindustani Classical Music was through what I am going to call commercial classical music. I think some credit to Bollywood is due here. I can actually think of two specific movies – the first one is Devdas. God knows how many times over I listened to the entire album! At this point, I’m struggling to remember an earlier or more powerful memory of music having an indescribable effect on me. Listening to certain tracks would lead my mood to spiral downhill, into a state of sadness that would last a while (I want to use the word mood vacuum here, but I don’t know if that makes any sense!). To this date, I’m wary of listening to more than a couple of tracks from this movie at one go. The other movie is Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, primarily for its composition Albela Sajan. I really liked the ‘mood’ of the song, only to realize very recently that the ‘mood’ of the songs is evoked by the raga of a composition. So I now know that I enjoy certain ragas quite a bit. I’m also beginning to understand my preference for certain types of compositions. For example, when I first listened to a thumri, I didn’t realize that my liking wasn’t simply for that particular composition but that it extended to the entire genre of thumris. And now I know I like Shringar Ras compositions.

I don’t think I can bring this entry to a close without a mention of Pt. Kumar Gandharv. About 3 years ago,  Hindustani Classical Music was completely foreign territory. I first heard a Meera bhajan that his grandson, Bhuvanesh Komkali, was teaching to some school kids. I still don’t know what was so special about it all – was it because I was with all those school kids in the room flooded with sunlight? Was the magic of Kumar Ji’s music and the fact that his grandson told me that his grandfather used to sing this to him when he was very young? Or was I simply carried away with the bhaav of the nayika captured in the lyrics? But it did leave a deep impression on my mind and my heart. I was so overwhelmed that I remember having to fight back my tears. I didn’t quite manage to find a recording of the bhajan, but I heard it at a couple of concerts after that – one at an auditorium and another one online, and I choked up on both these occasions.

About six months ago, a friend shared some gems from his music collection. These included some thumris – I listened to a few of those and I just couldn’t shake off the feeling of intoxication! He also shared a collection of Kumar Ji’s Nirgun Bhajans and I felt that there was a certain sense of simplicity and truthfulness about them, which made me feel at home. These didn’t intimidate me the way most other classical music does and  I wondered why that was the case.

Then almost as though by design, during the lockdown period, I chanced upon a fantastic collection of essays written about Kumar Ji's music. A couple of things stayed with me – that how he was a child prodigy, but also a huge question mark on the tradition of Hindustani Classical Music. That his music was that of struggle. That the ‘truth’ in his compositions was by design. That he wasn’t just a singer, but a poet, a painter but many other things rolled into one. A lot of things suddenly started making sense after reading just a couple of chapters. There was a distinct realization that what really is the aim of an integrated approach in the arts and how does it bring together the various parts of an individual together as a ‘whole’ in terms of mind and soul. This also means that music isn’t just another thing that I’m setting out to do, but it’s an integral part of the journey that I’ve already embarked upon! 

Book Review - Dream Writer (Tulika Books)

Book: Dream Writer
Publisher: Tulika Books
Author: Sandhya Rao
Illustrator: Tanvi Bhat

The story of Dream Writer revolves around the protagonist Shobha, who sees varied, colorful dreams with unusual characters – a boy who talks to fishes, furry cats and the sound of clacking needles. However, she is always woken up before she can see the end. She’s eager to know how all of her dreams end. A conversation with her English teacher helps her in navigating through her complex flights of fantasy. 

But this girl with adventurous night-time dreams is physically disabled. The interesting bit – there is no explicit mention of this anywhere in the text (the closest word to describing this is ‘wheeling’, but since there is hardly any other context provided, it is easy to miss this). The focus is always on Shobha and the discovery and expression of her dream world. That she is disabled is sort of a ‘hidden’ element of the story, and the text relies on the illustrations quite heavily to convey this. If ones read the text without the illustrations, it could be the story of any child.

The first prominent visual of the wheelchair features when the story is already halfway through, lending it some shock value. When I read the book, I was distinctly surprised to see the wheelchair – so much so that I flipped through the previous pages to see if I had missed any clues and indeed I had. The wheelchair was there in the previous pages too – the handles of the wheelchair appear in the background when Shobha is introduced for the first time. It appears again on the page where she is looking out of the window. I was really intrigued by this – was it by intention that the wheelchair did not feature prominently up to a certain point? So I decided to conduct a little experiment. I read out the story to a friend (a theatre artist). He too noticed the wheelchair only when Shobha is actually shown sitting in it.

The other interesting thing was that I felt a change in my reaction once I realised that Shobha was a disabled child. Neither the cover nor the book description had prepared me for this. Suddenly the story became more than just the story of a young girl with unusual dreams. It felt as though there was a distinct need to take notice because there is a certain way that you’re supposed to feel about a text like this. After some reflection, I felt good that there had been an attempt to portray Shobha as a child first and then a person with disability. Her days are relatively normal – her sister ‘kicks’ her out of bed, her father chides her about dreaming distractedly as he shaves in the morning, her cousins falling over each other and so on. A review by Prabha Ram captures this beautifully: “The slightly poignant touch added to the pictures reveals a parallel thread that the reader sees unfolding – a hidden story element that does not needlessly parade pity, but one that speaks the state as is and deserves five stars for the not-at-all-heavy handling of it.”

My response to this book has evolved through multiple readings. There are other elements which I’ve started taking notice of. In her dreams (which are often a reflection of the subconscious), Shobha is always portrayed as a person without physical disabilities. In a book which relies so heavily on illustration to bring out the theme without stating it explicitly, this makes it feel like there is something that doesn’t add up. While on one hand dreams are supposed to be ‘dreamy’ places which don’t always reflect reality, on the other hand this portrayal runs the risk of suggesting that the ideal or aspirational state for a physically disabled person is to be ‘normal’ (as is reflected through her dreams). 

The text also made me partially re-live the feeling of bafflement that unusual dreams leave behind, just like the illustration in which all of Shobha’s dreams come together – beautiful, but somewhat messy. Not everything made sense at one go and I had to go back several times to be able to connect all the different threads. Just like dreams. 

I would use this book with the age group 8-10 years for a read-aloud activity and open it for discussion afterwards. I think the book provides the opportunity to talk to children about two things in particular – to talk and think about their own dreams and explore their feelings about those. Second and more importantly, it can help open up a discussion around disability. Some of the prompts to help open up the discussion could be:

On Dreams:

• Why do we dream? What do dreams mean? 
• Do you the dreams that you have seen?
• Why did Shobha dreamt about the things that she dreamt about?
• Did you connect with any of her dreams?
• Did any dream illustration stand out to you?

On Disability:

• Would the story be any different if Shobha wasn’t disabled?
• When was the first time in the story that you realised that Shobha is physically disabled? Did you feel any differently when they found this out?
• Have you noticed a difference in people’s attitudes towards differently abled people? How would you feel if you had a friend like Shobha?

This article was first published on Parag's blog (https://www.paragreads.in/dream-writer/ on 12 June 2020)

Notes from setting up Ayang Trust Library - Part 1

I’m lying down on a black and red mattress as I write this. Two mattresses, actually. Just finished lunch. Today was a relatively easy day. I got up at seven, made some breakfast and lunch, went grocery shopping, gave instructions to the artist who’s been brought in to do some artwork on the walls. It’s something from a book called Little Laali by Tulika Books I think. I’ve picked out the image where the little girl is getting drenched in the rain. The artist has already sketched the painting and will return tomorrow to do the paintwork. One of the painters is covering the layers of brick and cement with plaster. As we ate lunch, we talked about the rigor that traditional theatre requires. So much is still left to do! I’m seriously wondering if everything would be done by 20th August, the launch date for the library.

A packet as arrived today from Delhi, from Mridula. What a coincidence! I gladly opening it, to discover a treasure of Duckbill books. These would be a wonderful addition to the library. I really hope that someday children start reading these, because these are probably beyond their current reading level. The library here is going to be for everyone. This is a two-room and balcony space for Ayang Trust. On rent, I think. The balcony space is for the library. The place is still under construction so I’ve become involved in decisions like what would be the display area, what the shelves would look like etc. the carpenters here haven’t worked on a project like this before so I’m also getting into finer details like width of the shelves, incline, gap (vertical) between two shelves and so on. It is quite interesting, although exhausting at the same time. The carpenter primarily speaks Assamese/ Mising which I’m totally clueless about. So usually someone is required to translate so that we can communicate. We decide to put shelves on three walls - all on one side (the only permanent/ brick wall side that the room has). I’m a little concerned about the fact that there is a tap very close to one of the shelves (maybe 3-4 ft). I would ideally like to not have the shelf this close to the tap, but we don’t really have much of an option.

Shelves:

• Width: 8”
• Gap: 4”
• Shelf Height: 1 ft/ 1.5 ft

The place has bamboo vegetation all around and that will reflect in the library space as well. 3 out of 4 walls would be partially/ fully made of bamboo structures. On two sides are drop-down bamboo curtains and the third would be a fixed bamboo wall. We’re also going to have plants in the corridor, right next to the stairs,

The teacher in charge here is Rakesh, from The Hummingbird School. He is already familiar with some aspects of the library and is especially excited about displays. He has also done accession numbers for Tulika Books that the team at Ayang Trust has procured.

The Wind and the Stars

I knew that if the car came to a sudden stop I'd end up breaking a bone or two. But in that moment, nothing else mattered. All I could feel was the slight chill in the wind that crashed against my face as the car raced along. And his fingers entwined with mine. I was standing through the sunroof and looking at the road ahead, quite drunk on happiness.

"Can you see more stars now?" he gently asked. I don't remember him parking the car along the roadside. Just this, that when I looked up, I saw a zillion stars twinkling against a dark sky. I rested my back against the roof of the car and stared. It was beautiful. I tried to remember when was the last time I did that, but couldn't. I thought I'd thank him when I was slightly less tipsy.

I'm guessing that it was a while before we said goodbye, because I don't remember that either. "I'm glad you came", he said. I was glad too, I told him. What I didn't tell him was that I was going to remember the wind and the stars for a really long time. 

Home Again

A thousand thoughts breeze through my head as I write this. I'm flying back home tomorrow. The word has changed its meaning over the years. I was home before I came to another country. Right before that, I was home at a girls' hostel. And I was home at my parent's place too, before I left for good.

Right now, a swanky downtown apartment is what I call home. People at work who are unconditionally nice are family. And I'm feeling emotional as I leave them behind. Well, not really - I'll be back in precisely five weeks. But then.

It's the same feeling every time - excitement mingled with a little twinge of parting with something. I have to admit, I do feel anxious - what if I've changed enough to not blend in effortlessly? What if I've changed enough to not feel home at all?

Phew. I do need to party tonight; keep these thoughts at bay. And think of all them smiles that will come my way, real soon.

You want to hold me, keep me from going away. You try to keep me under bondage, forgetting that you can’t, no matter how hard you try. I might temporarily take the shape of the vessel you cage me into, but very soon I’ll find a crack and I’ll get away. I travel to new countries, exploring the new and the unseen. En route, I merge with the mighty and the humble alike, losing my identity and becoming a part of them.  

You want me when the heat is unbearable on a summer day, like sweetness exploding from cloudy skies.  When the pain is intense, I’m the bitterness flowing from your eyes. I can be a life giver and preserver, nourishing the seeds you sow. When angry, I can wipe it all away.

You know me. I am water.

And then it was all over..

I thought I had erased all your memories. But today, when I pulled the last splinter out of my heart, it hurt again. Everything came back to me - love, hatred and the pain. The latter was so intense I thought I couldn't breathe anymore.

It took me just a fraction of a second to realize that distances don't matter. No matter how much I run away, I still think of you. I've given up on the idea of us, but you still have the ability to hurt me beyond repair.

You've broken my heart yet again, I'm just hoping that this is the last time.   

The day everything changed

On my way back from work, I stopped by a park. The simple act of lying down on the tender grass and looking up at the bright, blue sky filled me up with peace. So much, that I could feel the mist in my eyes. This was going to be my life now. Bright and clear. Full of possibilities. Everything that I had ever wanted suddenly seemed within my reach. Without any worries.

Kept fighting my tears till the time I reached back. And then, I didn't fight them anymore. Dialed the phone and let them flow. Heard a voice on the other end.

I was happy.