Category: Reminiscences

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Tales of a Tiffin

Ask anybody with even a smattering of familiarity with India, and the name IIT is likely to evoke positive recall. The Indian Institutes of Technology have indeed carved a glorious niche for themselves in the annals of higher engineering education. In this modern world of all pervasive technology, the IITs are a matter of pride for India, with many of their alumni counting among the who’s who of business, industry and academia worldwide, adding to India’s growing soft power and prestige in the global arena.

The topic though is a different IIT, granting for some poetic license with the acronym. This is not the venerable institution, but it might well be one, in a manner of speaking, for it enjoys a similar eminent status in discerning international circles. This other IIT has also risen to prominence with India’s growing soft power. In so doing, it has made waves for India in the world of global cuisine. This is India’s International Tiffin. The Dosa.

The Dosa needs no introduction really. Its reputation precedes it, and naturally so. Sure, there are several other Indian snack foods, like the chaat dishes and the mithais, all deservedly popular. Amongst them all though, the unobtrusive dosa is arguably numero uno. It’s international stature only continues to swell with every passing day.

The dosa has certainly come a long way from its humble origins in the kitchens and tiffin houses of South India. It is the Indian analog of the Western crepe. The batter by default is usually made of fermented rice flour and black gram. You also have the rava dosa, made from semolina batter, and healthier alternatives with other grains, like millet or amaranth dosas. The dosa can be made crisp or soft, plain or with a variety of fillings (masala). It is usually served with piping hot sambar, a thick tangy stew flavored with vegetables, and one or more chutneys, fresh grated coconut chutney being the most popular.

Growing up in Tamil Nadu, there was no dearth of this most delightful of foods. You could have dosas for both breakfast and the evening tiffin, and even for lunch or dinner come to think of it. Eateries in the remotest towns and villages would serve the most magnificent dosas. In fact, the popularity of a restaurant had frequently to do with the quality of its dosa, and the dosa’s cousin, the idli. Several South Indian restaurant franchises, like the Udupi chain, would pride themselves on their dosas, which you could expect to be of consistently high standard. The quality depends on the batter of course, but the chef makes the final difference, for the dosa, ultimately, is a thing of delicacy. While a good dosa can be replicated with the right batter by a reasonably competent cook, the truly excellent dosa needs the kai pakkuvam, that spontaneous touch of hand innate to all chefs of fine standing.

Not too long ago in India, good dosas were generally to be had only south of the Vindhyas. North Indian eateries would almost always have a harder time serving up the same quality, and even if they managed to get the dosa right, the sambar or the chutney presented formidable challenges. Outside of major metros, dosas could generally be found in small town North India only if the place had a cosmopolitan population, like the steel city of Jamshedpur. But starting with the mid-eighties, and continuing into the 1990’s, the dosa’s fortunes began to climb. As more Indians began to travel and explore more of India, the dosa acquired the status of national tiffin.

Even remote hamlets could now serve up a dosa surprise, and among these, several were at travel hubs, like the canteens at stations on the Indian railway network. I recall distinctly the masala dosa at Rangiya, a sleepy town in faraway Assam. The dosa served in that lovely little rail cafe, after a journey of 60 hours from Bombay en route to Guwahati, was simply fabulous. Equally vivid are my memories of a small restaurant in the temple hamlet of Gaurikund, in the midst of a pilgrimage trek high up in the Himalayas. Lower down the hills, Mussorie and Rishikesh have been good dosa destinations for a while. But tasting the superb dosa in Gaurikund was a welcome change from the ubiquitous local breakfast staple, the aloo paratha. It lifted my travel weary spirits like magic.

Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi certainly helped boost the dish’s popularity by mandating soft dosa and chutney on the in-flight menu for every one of his numerous foreign junkets. And then one fine morning I read in the newspaper that masala dosas were a big draw at the National Stadium in Karachi, venue of an ongoing test match between arch cricketing rivals India and Pakistan. The struggling Indian team may have found the Pakistani spectators partisan, but the crowd certainly showed no such prejudice against this appetizing snack of South Indian origins, which for many of them was a first. Merit, inevitably, is always applauded! Whoever was the smart entrepreneur at Karachi had certainly broken fresh ground for the dosa.

In the spring of 2001, I journeyed through Nepal and Tibet, in the course of my first ever visit to sacred Mt. Kailash. At that time, Kathmandu’s Thamel district featured delicious dosas, courtesy a restaurant run by a most lovely Sikh gentleman. Upon entering Tibet next, we were surprised by a delectable dosa breakfast in the hill town of Zhangmu. The dosa had clearly conquered the subcontinent.

Beyond India, Singapore, with its long-standing populace of Tamil origins, and innumerable Indian restaurants, has always been a dosa happy hunting ground. You could also find dosas in the UK, with perhaps links dating to pre-independence days. But the surge in the dosa’s global popularity in recent times, especially in North America, might well be attributed to the growth of India’s IT services sector. A good bit of the software boom was fueled by South Indians, who in the course of their increasing travels within and beyond India, brought with them both their fondness and their insatiable demand for the dosa.

Today, you can find a dozen dosa outlets in places as far apart as Dallas and Seattle, Atlanta and Toronto. Chains like Anjappar’s and Saravana Bhavan, of course, can be found serving dosas in New Jersey and San Jose. Purists might well frown, but the American penchant for innovation has led to fun new adaptations like the chocolate dosa, the corn dosa and the spinach and cheese dosa. Much like Pizza Hut, there’s the Dosa Hut chain, with one of its outlets right next door to the venerable Ganesha temple in Queens, New York. The temple canteen itself is justly famous for its outstanding dosa delights, and home quality food in general. And not surprisingly, in the San Francisco Bay Area, we have a restaurant chain named for the dish itself, the Dosa, with locations in Fillmore, Valencia and Oakland. Beyond the scores of South Indian restaurants in Silicon Valley, there are Dosaterias now at Whole Foods Market, and then there’s also Vik’s market in Berkeley, a rare North Indian jewel whose dosa treats can give most South Indian dosa houses a run for their money.

Back in my college days at IIT Bombay, the affable Prof Chandrasekhar, Dean of Student Affairs, was fondly referred to as the Dosa, not merely by us students, but I suspect, by his own colleagues as well. It only served to reinforce for us the excellence of IIT, both of the institution and the tiffin. No IIT alumnus will grudge the dosa this sharing of appellations!

I sometimes wonder if we could have a sequel to the likes of A. L. Basham’s extraordinary tome of the 1950’s, ‘The Wonder That Was India’.  If Basham had to extend his time horizons to cover modern India, there are several things he would find worthy to write about. For sure, both types of IIT will feature prominently, the institution and the dosa. Both are stellar global ambassadors of today’s Wonder That Is India.

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Birthdays Unlimited

Birthdays were pretty tame affairs in the conservative milieu of India we grew up in. My mom, unfailingly, would indulge us with our favorite payasam, when any of our family birthdays came around. Till I was ten years or so, there were also new birthday dresses, and a bunch of candies to share with friends.

As for the adults in the family though, it was primarily a payasam treat and not much else. Except when an elder in the family crossed sixty years, or eighty and odd years (the shatabhiskekam,  marking the blessing of having seen  a thousand full moons). At these times, the extended family would gather for special religious ceremonies and celebration.

Things have changed dramatically. Nowadays, birthdays for kids, and even adults, are high-voltage events, with clowns, cakes, balloons and themed parties providing amusement and entertainment in ample measure. The simplicity of earlier times is gone. But there’s more to this than meets the eye. The complex culture that India is, even the simplicity of old was not without its merry share of confusion.

What we commonly refer to as the birthday is actually called the ‘English’ birthday. This is (ostensibly) the actual date of birth, and serves to mark records for the outer world of school and work. Straightforward? Not quite. Aside from English birthdays, there is also the star or ‘nakshatra’ birthday, corresponding to the asterism of the heavens one was born under in the year of birth. This star birthday holds significance from an astrological perspective. It has only a slim chance of coinciding with the English one in any given year. When it came around, mom would take us to the nearby temple, to make prayers and offerings on our behalf. The English birthday was for fun and cake with friends. The star birthday, in contrast, was quasi-religious and more of a personal affair. As a kid, I can recall the payasam treat on both birthdays.

For a long while, I thought this dual nuance was all there was to it for birthdays. And then, in my junior year of college, my horizons broadened in the most interesting manner.

In the summer of 1989,  a bunch of my classmates interned along with me at the stately Bharat Petroleum Corporation (BPCL) in Mumbai. The gigantic refinery was our first practical exposure to big industry, and as with most college summer internships, we made sure it was a time of nonstop fun. The BPCL internship was much sought after, both for its generous stipend, and for the sumptuous corporate lunch we could eat daily in the management cafeteria, for the ridiculous sum of 50 paise! Our days began at 5:30 am, when we would begin our two-hour commute from our college dorms. Switching bus, train and car, we would make our way through the early morning crush of suburban Mumbai, to reach the sprawling factory premises by 7:30 am.

Signing in, we would barely have time to catch breakfast, before reporting to the head of the department we were assigned, for the daily 8 am factory-wide bulletin. This session would be held on intercom, in the office of the individual department manager we were rotating through in our internship for that week. The bulletin consisted of unintelligible announcements about production schedules, piping leaks, volume targets and safety measures, and generally bored the pants off us. We would switch off attention for the most part, but towards the end of each morning’s bulletin, the announcer would read out the names of people in the factory who had their birthdays that day. This would usually be a list of under ten people, with the average being six or seven. Huddled around the intercom, the other interns and I would make this a little betting game for every morning. We instituted a grand prize for whoever amongst us would have the best accuracy of predictions for daily birthday counts, over the entire internship period. It was one of several little fun games we made up to keep our long days interesting.

The morning of the 1st of June dawned like any other day, the sky overcast with pre-monsoon clouds as we gazed out of the department head’s room we were gathered in. We each wrote our guesses for the number of birthdays to be announced that day in a common notebook, to be compared at the end of all the birthday announcements. After the drone of production updates and senior executive messages came the birthday list. Our ears now perked up for the all-important count that would decide our betting fortunes. We had our pencils and pens at the ready, to keep individual tally counts in our notepads for cross-validation.

The first few names, up to ten, came through loud and clear. In a few moments though, the count went past 15, then on to 20, then 25. Quizzical looks crossed our faces as we exchanged glances. We were after all, engineers in training, and claimed no pretense to knowledge of the fancy science of probabilities. Intuition told us however that this was already very unusual. As the count touched 30, we were certain this had to be a unique occurrence, an instance of that oft quoted probability term, the long tail event, or statistical outlier.

There was no letup though. Picking up momentum, the names now came in a swell tide. In no time we were up from 30 to 50. Imagine fifty folks with the same birthday! Then 75, and rapidly on to 100! We were wide-eyed in disbelief. A century count of people with the same birthday in the same workplace! Something remarkable had to be going on.

Being in Mumbai, the plant personnel were of mostly Marathi origin, reflecting the predominant lingua franca of the workplace. Shinde and Munde. Bhonsle and Bhongale. The names continued to dance and roll. Dongre and Khopade. My knowledge of Marathi surnames was gaining ground rapidly, enough, I thought, to create a companion volume to Maneka Gandhi’s famous book of names. There was the odd South Indian Rao or Shenoy, and a lone Mishra, but it was primarily a sustained cascade of Marathi names. I could as well have been reading off the telephone directory.

The birthday roll now picked up further momentum, even as the departmental manager began to chuckle at our incredulous expressions. It breached 120, breezing through 130, and soon sailed past 150. The tally marks in our slim notepads now overflowed into multiple pages. Cricketing analogies kicked in. This was the kind of blitzkrieg score many Indian cricket batsmen would have loved to put up against Caribbean pace bowling, in contrast to their usual single digit exploits.

The count continued merrily, barreling past 160 and 175, then entered the 180’s. We were in sight of a double century! Then the last name rolled in, topping the birthday boy count at a magnificent 188. Fittingly, this matched the crowning score of Sunil Gavaskar, the Mumbai cricketing legend, in his swansong innings against the MCC at Lord’s a couple of summers earlier. In our minds, this rare shower of birthdays felt like having just witnessed the usually staid Gavaskar pulling out all the stops for a breathtaking innings.

The bearded department chief, seated across the room from us, was clearly tickled seeing our puzzlement at this enormous birthday coincidence. Allowing no further musing though, he bade us goodbye, and we decamped from his room, wandering into the plant’s long alleyways, searching for explanations.

Our hormonal brains quickly converged on a theory, working backwards nine months from 1st of June, to 1st of September. One of the bright sparks in the group ventured that 1st of September would have been some sort of collective action day, for synchronized festivities under the sheets all those years ago. Perhaps it was a mini (and literal) forerunner to the Summer of Love. It might have been a novel form of mass protest against a government family planning diktat or some such stupid socialist scheme of those days. Or perhaps, to take thumping advantage of new baby subsidies which may have been abruptly announced as being withdrawn after 1st June of the next year! Whatever the trigger, we were pretty sure it had to have been one long and sultry September night of flat out ardor and love making.

The question however remained as to why all the resulting babies would then come to converge on Bharat Petroleum as their workplace. That was still a big puzzle. Our 1st of September lovefest theory, colorful in its beginnings,  only flattered to deceive.

During our leisurely corporate lunchbreak, we then came upon the most obvious hypothesis, which while not as fancy in imagination, certainly appealed to our college mindset of tinkering with the system for everything. The cut-off date for school admissions all those years ago would have been 1st of June. Harried parents who were keen to get little brats off to school (and off their backs), would have, in keeping with the typical Indian enthusiasm for early schooling, brought forward several July, possibly even a few August and later birthdays to 1st of June. That would have given the kids a strategic head start to schooling, having several of them begin a year ahead of normal. These official records, tinkered as they were at the very beginning, would have persisted all the way through into later life.

The staff canteen in the plant had a birthday treat item on its menu. One way to verify this new hypothesis was to find out if there was a spike in the number of people ordering birthday treat items that day. And sure enough, when we checked in the afternoon, it was only the normal count, no different from any other day. Our second theory stood handsomely vindicated!

In India, therefore, especially for those born around different academic year cutoffs, birthdays can be a triply nuanced phenomenon. You have not just the English birthday and the star birthday, but quite likely a separate official birthday as well. You might also find the official birthday to be the same for a large number of folks in your workplace, a mass (and essentially fake) phenomenon! Call it madness, or practical ingenuity, we sure can confuse the heck out of the rest of the world, even with something as basic as birthdays. Even for the old guard who might prefer to avoid big bashes, one can make up by celebrating this big day  with triple fervor every year!

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Tomato Kumbh Mela

Tomatoes are a perennial favorite, especially in summer time, and there are of course several delicious ways to savor their bountiful goodness. For long, all I thought possible with tomatoes were grills and sautés, stews and soups, purees and ketchups. Till one fine day in Spain, when an encounter with tomatoes turned out, to put it mildly, beyond culinary.

Several summers ago, a group of us friends caught the European travel bug. Spain and Portugal, by popular consensus, was where we would peregrinate. Itinerary planning was given over to our ever-resourceful Hari Sathianathan, who set about poring over the maps to chart the course for our trip. Our jaunt was to last just over a week.

A quick glance at the itinerary revealed the names of several familiar places. Next to Valencia in Spain, though, was earmarked a day’s outing to Buñol. The next time I met Hari I probed him on what the side-excursion to Buñol was all about. His response was a mischievous smile, and then to evade the question, by deftly changing topic. I let it go, thinking best not to prod further, for it might just be that some places are best encountered sans any preamble and expectations.

Shortly after, our trip got under way, crisscrossing the Spanish countryside, touching Madrid, Seville, and beautiful Lisbon in Portugal. My Spanish vocabulary stayed confined to two magic words, ‘aqua caliante’, to help with my daily herbal tea regimen. After several such days of hot herbal tea, and evenings of fruit sangria, our road journeys brought us to Valencia, home of famed Valencia oranges. The next day was to be our outing to Buñol, and in the evening group briefing I finally heard the program. It was Tomatina, Buñol’s famous annual tomato festival. We were told the plentiful summer tomato harvest would bring thick crowds to indulge in a mass tomato throwing spree, and therefore to dress for any and all eventualities.

Early the next morning we took a cab to Buñol, reaching there in under an hour. It was just dawn, and we could already see swarms of people buzzing about the visitor drop off terminal. The streets wore a carnival look.  To weather a tomato deluge, I wore a bright cherry red T-Shirt and a flimsy pair of red shorts, sans underwear.  Best, I thought cleverly, to save my dwindling trip stock of all white underwear for after the festival. In retrospect, it proved to be a rather brave, though prudent decision.

We sauntered down a long downhill stretch of road, at the end of which there was a roundabout from where you could turn in to the center of town, with its narrower streets. As we came to the roundabout, we were witness, much to our amusement, to some spankingly good morning entertainment. Strutting about were two burly bare-bodied blokes, in pointed headgear, tight briefs and spiked boots, their outfits a bright tomato red. Their skimpy costume looked part Roman soldier, part Phantom. One of them read out orders from a scroll, while the other milled about submissively, tidying up odds and ends.

All of a sudden, perhaps to reassert authority, the scroll reader cracked his little whip for a tight slap to his companion’s not insubstantial bottom. The latter yelped in feigned surprise, proceeding to give his wide derriere a manly recovery rub. His booty cheeks blushed crimson, matching the solar orb just risen on the horizon. The scene was so extraordinarily comic we could not help but burst out in guffaws. Ignoring our irreverent bunch, the brawny duo went back to their show of order barking and subservience. Our excitement at the naughty spectacle of an enormous pink bum slapped red was utterly beyond limit.

The crowds gradually grew thicker as we made our way towards the center of town. As we crossed over a small bridge, somebody called out saying no T-Shirts allowed for men. I paid no heed, but as soon as we came to the next street intersection, there was a line of young men tasked with enforcing the rule. Even as I tried to duck and dodge, two of them came up, one from each side, to rip my T-Shirt off in a flash. In less than milliseconds, my bright red T-Shirt was history. As much as I mulled over the loss of it, the dexterity of the act left me hugely impressed. A feat such as this would have taken hours of practice to be able to execute so flawlessly. I was now bare-chested and free to celebrate. We were soon amidst a crushing crowd, very close to the center of town. The heat was turning up, and at one point we almost had the beginnings of a mini-stampede, but thankfully everyone stayed put without triggering further panic.

On both sides of the streets were apartments packed with tourists awaiting the beginning of the fest. Elegantly dressed ladies, perhaps on a package tour, peered curiously from the safety of the balconies, as the throngs from below exhorted them to come down and join the fun. There was even a Bollywood film crew, camera all set up and ready to capture live action. Soon enough, the first truck piled high with tomatoes rolled in slowly through the center of town, its helpers tossing tomatoes generously into all sections of the waiting crowd. Like thick pellets of rain before a summer shower, the first tomatoes whizzed about in the air and burst on us with a pronounced pop. Their speed through the air was surprisingly fast, enough to sting, leaving you little time or space to duck. Before long, the truck came down the street past us, and we were bombarded by a hail of tomatoes.

A second truck came, and then a procession of trucks unleashing a continuous barrage of the red missiles, with people trying futilely to fend off the zippy projectiles before they landed. It was soon a complete free for all as everybody turned to pelting squishy red blobs and peels at each other, while effectively scrubbing chests and arms and legs with lycopene, the healthful ingredient released from all that tomato pulp in the heat. The streets were soon flowing streams of tomato mash, as scantily clad hordes of men and women made sure there was not a patch of skin on anybody that wasn’t tingling red. Excitement touched peak. Everyone was going to smell of tomatoes for at least a day or two.

About an hour and more of the tomato volleys later, the last truck made its way down the streets, and the sun smiled bright from blue skies on the red bodied mass of frenzy below. Ingenious humans had managed to put tons of tomatoes to massively cosmetic purpose in a riotous street celebration. If this had been in India, you might have been excused for thinking it was a religious fair or mela, where everyone had been showered with vermillion dust from above.

India is indeed known for its grand Kumbh Mela festivals, where millions dip in the confluence of sacred rivers like the Ganges to cleanse themselves spiritually. As much as it is a cleansing time, it is also a time for celebration, attracting devout throngs, curiosity trippers and every kind of tourist in-between. Buñol’s annual Tomatina with its packed streets is verily a kumbh mela as well, except that the communal scrubbing that ensues is not so much of souls as of bodies. The crowds are however no less enthusiastic, with a frenzy of fervor to match and exceed. Not all of them may be up for a sobering dip in the holy waters of the Ganges. They certainly know however, how to revel in this unique tomato kumbh mela, with immersion in a Ganges of lycopene.

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The Call of Kali

The last week has been one of reminiscences and nostalgia. I was back in Kolkata, that great throbbing city of feeling and soul, the city of my carefree younger days with its enduring memories. Arriving late in the afternoon, we couldn’t have hoped for a warmer welcome than that which greeted us at the Taj Bengal, the modern landmark of Bengali hospitality in South Kolkata’s plush neighborhood of Alipur. Dinner that evening was a languid and leisurely affair at the Taj’s showpiece restaurant, the Chinoiserie. The delectable spread would have done the veteran chefs of Kolkata’s Chinatown proud.

Culinary pleasures aside, the larger quest of this sojourn in Kolkata lay in the realm of the spiritual. The Divine Feminine, especially in her manifestations as Durga and Kali, is a vital presence here, and in the broader spiritual and cultural life of Bengal. Our plans for the next day were to visit two of the city’s most iconic shrines to the Goddess. First would be the historic temple of Kalighat, from which, as the story goes, the city derives its name. Next would be the nineteenth century temple of Dakshineshwar, intimately associated with the life of Bengal’s greatest sage of the modern era, Sri Ramakrishna.

We were up and ready at dawn the next morning, and were rewarded with an incredibly lovely spectacle of dark green foliage, thick purple clouds, and golden pink sunrays.  Sights such as this might well have inspired the imaginations of a Tagore or a Bankim Chandra Chatterjee. The latter’s Vande Mataram is in part an eloquent tribute to the beautiful monsoon moods of the divine painter.

Our hotel was just a few minutes from Kalighat, and we were thus at the temple even before it was 6 am. This turned out fortuitous, as it was a Tuesday, special to Mother Kali, which also meant heavy throngs of worshippers. Upon reaching the locale, we were met by a helpful priest, Krishnaji, and his couple of attendant priests, who showed our group to his home next door. Here, we assembled offerings for worship, including flowers, coconuts and sweets. Led by Krishnaji, we then set off briskly to the temple, ignoring insistent street hawkers and other local characters who offered various types of support and intervention for our visit to the Goddess. Krishnaji marched us through a set of entrances, and presently we were almost at the doors of the garba griha, also called the Nija Mandir, the inner sanctuary of the Goddess’s own home. The crowd at this point was quite thick, even for this early hour of the morning, and from here on our pace barely inched forward.

Entering in through the doors of the sanctum, we were joined by other lines of people, elbowing and crushing upon us as we squeezed and wound our way down the steps. The expert crowd maneuvering of several priests, including Krishnaji, who were actually smiling and joking through it all, eased the pressure, even as we looked askance at some in the crowd who tried to sneak their way forward. This was a real-time spiritual lesson in keeping your composure and letting go. Soon enough though, we were in front of the great Goddess, whose startlingly alive image was clearly the compelling force at the center of it all.

A tall and articulate priest played head cop, standing directly in front of the deity, orchestrating crowd movement and issuing orders, even as he pressed upon us for contributions to an offering box for charitable initiatives. He bade us touch the image of the Goddess reverently, and prostrate at her feet, allowing us a few precious moments of imbibing Sacred Presence. A powerful maternal energy pervaded the sanctum, revealing Kali as a fierce dynamo of compassion, a perennial catalyst for the ultimate happiness of every struggling being. One needed little convincing that this was indeed how the great Mother of the Universe would manifest authentically, delighting in the surging waves of devotion from sincere hearts.

Persisting in his enjoyable Bengali accent, the priest now raised the pitch of his appeals, that our proximity to the Goddess enjoined us to give generously, and the giving would go to a credible social cause for children. We were aware that outside of this innermost sanctum, there were other lines with more distant and fleeting viewing access. His insistence toned down considerably however, and morphed to appreciation when we complied with a reasonable offering. He now made sure we could edge our way out without too much trouble, which could have otherwise been a real challenge, so fervent was the enthusiasm of the incoming crowd. I felt both relieved and distinctly fortunate.

We made our way out to a hall where we could finish up our puja, with the breaking of coconuts and the anointment of tilak marks on our foreheads. Then, past the ever insistent and annoying line of beggars that tested our resolve for patience once more, we were soon back at Krishnaji’s, stopping to pick up trinkets and memorabilia from the several stalls in the vicinity. We were happy to now offer him and his supporting cast a modest fee for their tremendous help, and were bid a grateful and genuinely warm goodbye. Our early morning darshan at Kalighat, with its accompanying spiritual transactions, was complete.

After a quick breakfast at the hotel, we now made our way northward, opting for a faster highway route on the Howrah side of the Hooghly, or Ganges river. This drive entailed crossing the Ganges and back over the famed bridges of Kolkata, driving through the verdant Bengal countryside rather than the inner traffic of the city, and in less than an hour, we were at Dakshineshwar. This sprawling complex was where the nineteenth century benefactor, Rani Rasmani, erected a beautiful temple to the goddess Kali, in her manifestation as Bhavatarini, the Mother who liberates her devotees from the fetters of worldly existence. The image of Bhavatarini Kali housed here was the great pivot for Sri Ramakrishna’s extraordinary life of spiritual mastery and universal realization.

The arrangements at Dakshineshwar were more orderly, with long lines of people waiting their turn for darshan of the Goddess. The sweet smell of incense wafted through the large courtyard, even as the sun alternated with the clouds to create a play of light and shade. Expectation was writ large on everyone who came in to view the goddess, and then happy smiles and contentment. The dynamic image of Bhavatarini seemed to radiate a blessing of safe passage through this transient world, if only we could bring ourselves to a space of inner trust. A century and a half ago, her intense presence took over the life of Ramakrishna, his consort Sarada Devi, and the illustrious band of close disciples they trained to actualize his teaching, of service to humanity as service to God.

A visit to Dakshineshwar is not complete without a visit to the Ganges, and after darshan of the Goddess, we made our way to one end of the grounds where a flight of broad steps descended to the river. The flowing waters were pleasantly cool, and even as we dipped ourselves, the overcast sky began a mild drizzle. The scene was ethereal, of a gentle curtain of rain enveloping this holiest of rivers. As we walked back up the steps and exited the vast courtyard, it began to pour with the familiar vigor of the August monsoon. Walking like little kids under this magic cascade of rain, we knew in our hearts this was a blessing from up above. Hardly had we reached our waiting cars though, than the showers abated, while cool raindrops continued to float gently, glistening in the sunshine.

Sri Ramakrishna would maintain that the Divine Mother was both male and female, for the nearer one approached the Divine, the more one would realize He has neither name nor form. Going beyond modern feminism, the wisdom of that transcendent equality has in many ways permeated the cultural mores of Bengal, in both family and social life. Under the ever-watchful gaze of the Goddess, the women of Bengal enjoy a freedom of self-expression and action, at home and in public life, perhaps unmatched by any other region of India. On the streets of Kolkata and the villages of Bengal, they are probably safer at night than women are in many other parts of the world by day. In the daily life of Bengal, Kali’s foremost influence is seen perhaps in this genuinely natural equality.

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Metaphysical Candy Store

The Haight Ashbury district of San Francisco is famous as the birthplace of the counterculture, and the Summer of Love. Here, you can still catch a whiff of the heady air of the sixties. With its eclectic bunch of music stores, clothing boutiques, gift shops and eateries, the place has a quaint and charming character that is easy to like.

On thriving Haight Street is situated the ‘Love of Ganesha’ store, a large gift shop that blends in perfectly with the rest of the street and its curious crowd. This is a different space, bidding you put the harried and hurried world outside on pause. A catchy chant of ‘Jai Ganesha Sri Ganesha’ plays in the background, infusing the air with an auspicious vibe. The staff seem genuinely nice, and there’s refreshing coolers and snacks on a table. Mascots of the beloved elephant headed deity dot the store, announcing Ganesha’s cheery and welcoming presence.

Owner Noot is from Thailand, and Ganesha is after all, the pan-Asian divine mascot of good beginnings. Growing up as I did in India, Ganesha was always an integral part of the environs, an amusing elephant headed deity one prayed to for good luck. Only over the years did I begin to realize that Ganesha, much like the Ramayana, is also one of India’s great cultural exports, perhaps the first Indian icon to enjoy continental popularity across almost all of Asia.

And with part of Asia always having dwelt culturally in California, it is no surprise that Ganesha has found a home in San Francisco’s Haight Street as well. The store itself feels like a slice of Thamel market, Kathmandu blended with Mylapore’s Mada Street in Chennai, transplanted to California. Lest it sound like a purely subcontinental affair, there’s inventory here from around the world, from Brazil to Mexico, Morocco to Madagascar.

The large front section of the store is also its most sought after, stocking a stunning ensemble of crystals and gemstones possibly unmatched by any other retail store in America. On display are crystals of every imaginable variety, gorgeous and resplendent, leaving you with the feeling of having walked into a crystal museum. Of high grade quality, and in sizes ranging from smallest to that of a mini-cave, the crystals transform the space into a healing, calming sanctuary. The spiritual or therapeutic uses for each crystal are labelled helpfully, and there’s certainly a mineral here for everyone.

The walls towards the middle and rear feature a sizeable and excellent collection of tapestries and rugs. There’s a wide selection of clothing, several of them handmade from different countries. Accessories are of abundant variety, including belly dance scarves, Nepali caps and hats, and spring flowers for the hats. There’s dreamcatchers and windchimes, bells and singing bowls, and beautifully ornate tote bags. Statues and figurines, especially of Buddhas, can be found aplenty.

One of the store’s highlights is a delightful little meditation tent in the back corner, inviting you to take a break, relax and meditate. The altar is decorated lovingly with flowers and candles, and totems of several healing and spiritual traditions from around the world. The ambience is truly cozy and embracing.

The malas and beads collection is notable, featuring wooden mala bracelets, seed malas, and malas of semi-precious stones. There’s a fantastic array of smudges and incense, including some of the very finest incense from across the globe, and a nice stock of essential oils. The book chest, while not extensive, contains some great spiritual reads.

The more I explored, the more I had this feeling of having stepped into a most curious candy store for all things metaphysical. Tintin could well stop here for any last-minute shopping before embarking on his adventures in Tibet. A Harry Potter would find the store intriguing, his Hogwarts school a possible customer for its supplies. Coming to think of it, Ganesha, Lord of the elements, is in many ways a Harry Potter of the sacred realms. He would be completely at home in this trove of spiritual wares, for they are the earthly conduits for his benevolent energies.

More than just a delightful store though, the ‘Love of Ganesha’ is also a mini-institution for the community. Proceeds from its business go to support initiatives in several of the communities from where it sources worldwide. For whoever who might visit, the place surely leaves an imprint of art, aesthetics and spirituality. Every good street has a temple, and ‘Love of Ganesha’ is indeed a unique temple for the spirit of Haight Street to live on.

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Awakening

 

There I lay, quietly

In the light sleep that precedes the dawn,

Blurred images streaming by.

And suddenly, this beautiful maiden

Floating into my presence,

Caressing my hair tenderly…

‘All will be well’.

Ah, what sweetness and grace

Such kind benediction.

 

Gently rubbing the sleep from my eyes,

I woke up.

Heart aflutter and glad,

Still cocooned in the sweetness

Of the early morning dream.

 

The morning sun rose,

Spreading its light

O’er the countryside that is my home.

The rhythms of life and work

Settled into their cadence,

The  clear blue day

Humming in easy flow.

 

With all my chores accomplished,

I contemplated a long walk,

On my favorite country road

With its rolling ups and downs

That always promised a view

Of distant horizons.

 

Setting out with sprightly gait,

Seldom had I felt so boundlessly content.

No human in sight, nobody for company

Save for the wide outdoors themselves,

Bidding fair welcome.

 

Soon coming up

A steep climb of road,

I paused briefly to behold

The vista of the verdant country

Which lay at my feet.

 

And lo!

There she was,

This lovely maiden,

Walking up to me,

With the eager air

Of finding someone long lost,

Looking exactly

Like the damsel of my dream.

 

Eyes met,

And we melted into each other’s gaze

With the sweetest, most tender knowing.

No words exchanged.

My hand reached out, to caress her hair

Just grazing her cheeks,

When she vanished,

As magically as she came.

 

Leaving me engulfed

By a sphere of rainbow light,

Resplendent like the noonday sun,

And yet the pleasant coolness of the full moon.

The chimes of distant bells,

And a sweet fragrance,

Enveloping every little strand

Of my grateful being

With a long forgotten happiness.

 

I had finally woken up.

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Random Acts of Kindness

My favorite story of kindness dates back to a rainy July day in Calcutta, sometime in the mid-nineties. The monsoon had been bearing down hard all weekend, but come Sunday afternoon, as can frequently happen even on the wettest of days, there was a brief letup in the rains. From amidst a canopy of deep purple clouds, a little patch of blue sky peeped out to tease.

Having been sequestered in by the rains, I promptly grabbed the chance to step out, with a long stylish English umbrella for accoutrement. Dodging and occasionally wading through pools of water, I ventured on to the main road, and started trudging towards a popular tea shop a little over a mile away. This shop served an immensely satisfying sweet and spicy tea, in eco-friendly matka cups, which was eminently worth braving the wet weather for. The road was empty, with nary a soul in sight, and the green landscape and cool breeze, with the mildest of drizzles made it a perfect Sunday afternoon excursion.

Sauntering along, I soon saw a little kid, on the opposite side of the road, his tiny frame tugging a large bag of enticingly pink, fluffy cotton candy on his back. He was seven or eight years old at best, for the bag was almost as big as him. Perfect occasion for a little indulgence! I floated across the road, and in no time was chatting with him as to what he was doing all by himself on a day like this with nobody around for business. With a charming smile, he shot back saying ‘But you are here, aren’t you. You can be my first customer this afternoon’.

I happily accepted his suggestion, and was soon finishing up a truly delicious little treat of candy, when I remembered to ask him how much it cost. Twenty paise, he said, which in today’s terms might be something like two cents, and certainly no more than a dime at best. Reaching into my pocket for the change though, I was aghast to find I had left home with pockets empty. Twenty paise, while small change for me, would certainly matter to a kid hawking candy.

He was repacking his wares to go. I requested him to wait for a few minutes, so I could dash home and come back to pay for the candy. He paused for a moment to look at me, and then said in the sweetest and most sincere of tones, ‘My home is far, and I have to be going now. You really relished that candy, so take it as a little gift from me, and let the payment be. But please promise me that someday in your life, you will do something similar, for someone you might encounter, just by chance, like we met today’.

Hoisting the bag on to his back, he walked away in the gently pouring rain, with no raincoat or anything else to shield him. I looked on wistfully, enveloped by the gentle rain, and the softest and most spontaneous kindness.

Kindness knows no boundaries of land or clime. Many years later, I was in Virginia, and heading out early in the morning to work, a little rushed for time. As I quickly reversed my car from the parking lot, I just about managed to notice a passing car behind, but it was too late. Even as I slammed onto the brakes, I couldn’t avert a solid little side-on impact to the other car. Stepping out, and apologizing all the while, I saw a little old lady come out of her car, and promptly offered her my driver’s license and insurance detail, admitting my fault completely. My morning hurry had just tickled the well-established statistic of most car accidents happening in the parking lot.

She shrugged, looked at me, looked at the dent on her door, and without even the slightest trace of upset, said, ‘Young man, this kind of thing does happen to everybody some time or the other. Will you please remember to be careful going forward. I will handle the dent to my car on my own, not to worry on that count’. Again, a sweetly random outpouring of kindness that left me touched, humble and grateful. In my personal scheme of things, the happiness genie would for sure visit and stay with that little lady forever.

If we contemplate our lives, each of us might discover that we have been graced with unexpected kindness multiple times over. Who among us would not want to pay it forward? The gestures have no need to be grand or imposing. Even a kind look, a soothing word, can brighten and sweeten someone’s day when they least expect, yet perhaps most need it. The smallest random kindness can for sure connect hearts and ennoble our humanity like nothing else can. It’s a most reliable, precious link to our happiness.

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Mumbai’s Rhythms, Human and Bovine

Mumbai, or Bombay for old timers, is India’s version of the Big Apple, heir to a still visible Victorian legacy juxtaposed with eternal Indian ingenuity. One can almost touch the pulsating energy in its air, thick with ambition and enterprise. This is a city that never sleeps, with Bollywood for a glittering dream machine. The city is also synonymous with big Indian business, having played home to the legendary Jamshedji Tata, whose vision bequeathed to India its very first modern industrial empire.

I’ve often wondered what makes Mumbai tick, the city’s secret sauce, so to speak, that sustains all of its tremendous bustle and activity. The city bucks the stereotype of the average Indian metropolis, and is perhaps, in many ways, a closer cousin to Tokyo. Just as Japan is culturally the most Westernized of all Asian countries, Mumbai is the most Westernized among India’s cities. There’s a clockwork precision to Tokyo that Mumbai tries to emulate, and fairly successfully at that. For Mumbai, far more than the rest of India’s cities, thrives on a remarkable orderliness.

Take queuing for instance, something one might take for granted in the West. Most of India would prefer a non-linear approach to get ahead with life in general. The Indian mindset is smartly endowed to figure out the shortest path through any and every situation. Mumbai, by contrast, queues up for just about everything.

The lifeline of Mumbai is its suburban rail network, which like Tokyo’s, is one of the world’s busiest, transporting millions of people day in and out with relentless efficiency. Mumbai’s rail network, with all of the feeder systems that support it, does a stellar job of keeping the whole city on the move with a palpable rhythm.

The exception to orderly queueing, curiously, is for the actual suburban train ride itself, which can demand an act of genuine acrobatic dexterity to board and exit. Rest assured, however, that this is for good reason, and there is a still a certain knack to the process, which requires positioning oneself strategically to ride with the crowd’s momentum. Embarking and exit is then simply a matter of being swept in and swept out with the tidal surge of humanity. For coaches with crowds packed like sardines, this system works far superior to queueing.

Once on board though, you will find that that order settles in rapidly. If you rode in the same coach on the same local train every day, you might notice the same straphangers occupying the same spots, as if theirs by right. Not surprisingly, a lively community bond ensues, forged by this daily commute. Such bonds have lasted, in many cases, through entire working lives of 30 years and more.

Once the frenzy of the morning rush hour subsides, it’s prime time for Mumbai’s dabbawallas to swing into action. The dabbawallas operate a meal delivery system that can justifiably be called Mumbai’s pride. Their noble enterprise delivers hot lunches from homes to offices every working day. Hundreds of thousands of dabbas, or lunchboxes, make their way from people’s homes to their offices, picked up late morning to be returned early afternoon. Come rain or shine, hosts of clanging dabbas can be seen on bicycles or transferring on to the local trains, ferried by the intrepid fleet of dabbawallas.

Notwithstanding the humongous scale of operation, instances of mismatches or missed deliveries are exceedingly rare. The reliability of the century old system of the dabbawallas continues to confound modern day pundits of logistics. Many an aspiring Silicon Valley food delivery startup can take a leaf out of the dabbawallas’ book, and they have been the subject of several business school case studies.

Many of the dabbawallas are barely literate, and the stipend for their tireless efforts is hardly enough to make ends meet. Yet, they bring to their job a proud and passionate work ethic, and an almost religious sense of mission. A scriptural simile is appropriate here. Just as in a herd of a thousand cows, a calf unerringly finds its own mother, Mumbai’s wonderful dabbawallas ensure that each dabba finds its exact owner to bring them nourishment from home.

Speaking of cows, this is where Mumbai gets truly interesting. Humans and cows have coexisted happily for millennia in a rural and pastoral setting, with cows free to roam and graze. City cows in India though are a stressed and challenged lot, uprooted as they are from their carefree natural environs and having to contend with the dangers of modern traffic. Bombay’s cows are however champions of the game, with street smarts to surpass even their human cousins. In this respect, the cows of Ghatkopar, a Central Bombay suburb, must take honors for a most impressive spectacle of bovine order.

The rail tracks in Bombay, running through its suburbs, are for the most part unfenced, and several people tempt fate daily as they cross over from one side to another. The rail stations on the network, of course, have pedestrian overbridges and subways to cross over safely. For example, if you needed to cross over from one side of Ghatkopar to the other as a pedestrian, the rail station at Ghatkopar is one place to do so, and thousands of pedestrians use its overbridge daily.

As you enter the station to cross over the bridge, though, be not surprised if you find yourself in the company of cows coming and going freely in either direction. These are Bombay cows, and like the human residents of the city, busy and hard pressed for time, and difficult to schedule appointments with even if you tried. Yet, unlike some of their foolhardy human brethren, no cow crosses the actual rail track, always using the pedestrian bridge instead. Cows and bulls routinely make their entrance, to climb up the ramp, saunter across and come down on the other side with nonchalant ease and familiarity. There’s no one to point or direct, but every cow conducts itself perfectly as if following the signs.

Swishing their tails about to keep away the ever pesky flies, the cows of Ghatkopar have crossed in this manner for generations. It is a curious sight indeed, especially in the rains, to watch a seamless crowd of humans and cows, coats and tails, horns and umbrellas, marching in jolly stride. Bipeds and quadrupeds might even exchange notes as they go about their daily commute. Rumor has it that savvy stockbrokers in the crowd interpret bull language for trading tips on the bourses.

Monsoon rains can sometimes make it challenging, especially for inexperienced calves, to find their footing on the wet and slippery ramps. Some of them choose to therefore make a speedy and carefree descent, where even the burliest of human commuters must make way with alacrity. A little monsoon fun is always in order.

All told though. Mumbai’s cows are probably the smartest of city cows anywhere, with a discipline that would do humans proud. Bovines and humans share a most easy and familiar bonhomie as they go about their respective daily business. This forever funny spectacle has to place Mumbai in a league all its own.

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Soul Déjà vu

In the everyday course of life, our experiences can range from the comfortable and mundane, to the challenging, to the startlingly new. For children, of course, all of life is an exotic discovery, starting with the surroundings of home and family, to every new and enticing color, flavor, sound and sensation. With time, the freshness will fade to make way for the familiar, but perhaps never completely so…for even if things stay the same on the outside, our view of the world evolves, and we see it through ever changing lenses.

Somewhere along this stream of life’s interactions, most, if not all of us, might have at some time or other encountered an experience of déjà vu. Seemingly new situations on the surface, something about these déjà vu occurrences feels uncannily, even overwhelmingly familiar. As  a déjà vu situation unfolds, one feels like the past has vividly stepped into the present, resonating and triggering recall from distant archives of memory.

You happen to visit a place for the first time, and it feels like you are simply rediscovering environs you have known before. As a kid growing up in Chennai, I had heard of Mumbai and its famous Marine Drive. When I did visit this lovely beachside promenade for the very first time, everything about the place felt like I’d been there already.

Similar was an occurrence later in life when I first moved to New York City. As I hopped off the Manhattan subway into the bustling beehive of activity that is Canal Street, the sights and sounds and the overall ambience impressed upon me the very definite conviction of having been there before.

My very first Sanskrit class in primary school had a situation which in hindsight seems a little curious. Something about the teacher and learning a new language felt very naturally familiar, and got me all eager and attentive. At one point, the teacher paused to ask the class the word (in Sanskrit) for ‘I’. Though not consciously having heard of the word before, I fairly jumped out of my seat to answer ‘Aham’, as if by spontaneous recall.

I’ve often wondered what triggers this phenomenon of déjà vu, and from where it might bubble up. For a start, let us consider a fairly common ‘new’ situation, as happens when we shift residence to new surroundings, or start work at a new place. In the first few days the landscape is pretty unfamiliar, and we have to navigate our way around quite consciously as we try get accustomed to the environs. At some point though, the place becomes ‘known’ territory, and we slip into auto pilot mode and merge in with the surroundings.

There is one explanation for this shift from ‘new’ to ‘familiar’ which I’ve come across. It builds on the fact that each of us carries a unique vibrational imprint which we exchange with our surroundings. As these energetic impressions from us accumulate over a few days in the new place, the place gradually becomes less alien, as there’s enough of our own imprints now in the environment, to welcome and make us feel ‘at home’.

This explanation is indeed quite intriguing. If we extrapolated this hypothesis, with the possibility that some of these imprints persist long enough, perhaps to even carry across lifetimes, we might just have found a metaphysical explanation for déjà vu.

Generally speaking, déjà vu occurrences are specific to the individual. There is also however déjà vu that happens on grander scale, as is the case with places of sacred geography. People have taken a holy dip in the Ganges and other sacred rivers and lakes since time immemorial. One can imagine the collective vibration of humanity from ages past, waiting to greet everyone who visits these sacred waters today, with a crystalline flow of blessings. That collective vibration could well have included our own.

Likewise for the solitude of pristine nature, which is imbued with the vibrations of saints and mystics and angels that resonate with the harmonious vibrations of our higher nature. The high Himalayan ranges and open spaces of Tibet can thus be teeming natural hotspots for déjà vu, as those fortunate to have soaked in the vibrations of these magical places will heartily attest to.

I also think of the déjà vu of legend. Whoever heard the music of Krishna’s flute was transported by an ineffable sweetness. Whoever might hear such music today is transported similarly to the sweet pastoral Vrindavan of the mind.

Perhaps the ultimate déjà vu is afforded by the inward journey of meditation. Mystics through the ages have made the extraordinary inner journey of penetrating through the veils of personality, to gaze upon their innermost being. With one voice as it were, they speak of this vision as the supreme homecoming. In a sense, this place is wholly foreign and uncharted, as there is nothing so perfectly hidden from us as our very own nature. But once glimpsed, even if fleetingly, they who have dwelt in this grandest déjà vu of all have called it the most intimately familiar place in the universe.