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Category: This-That (page 47 of 234)

Another Bite, Then Another

Banana Nutella Crepe

Banana Nutella Crepe

Wrote this post on my other blog, then thought that this blog would be an apt place for it as well.

It finally struck me a few days back as to why some of us tend to rush through eating.

I realized that the full intensity of flavor is only available in the first bite. Bite two, it diminishes. Bite three, it is even lesser and then some more. So, if you are the patient kind who takes thirty-two bites per mouthful, then Bite#32 is probably a bland cousin of Bite#1, virtually unrecognizable in flavor, texture, etc. As the mind senses that the food is gradually becoming less flavorful (read tasty), it prompts the hand to push in another spoonful (or forkful or handful) of food into the mouth. Thus, it so happens that even before you finish up the first mouthful of food, you have started on the second. And so on.

It says a lot about how sensitive the mind is to sensation, how it is always looking to be stimulated, and how it desires new experiences (sensory or otherwise).

It takes restraint and maturity to patiently chomp your way through thirty-two bites of food.

No Victim this one, Pushpa is a True Victor

When P's parents were visiting, we got ourselves the Hindi channel package from Dish Network. So it happened that one lazy afternoon, I turned on the TV and found Amar Prem. An old classic featuring the gorgeous Sharmila Tagore and handsome Rajesh Khanna, the movie showcases R D Burman's timeless melodies, excellent performances, great dialogues and a well-written script.

Pushpa is thrown out of her home when her husband takes a fancy to a younger woman. She has nowhere to go, lands up in the big bad city, and is forced to resort to prostitution to keep herself alive. But she has a heart of gold that remains untouched by the squalor and dirt she lives amidst. She enjoys the patronage of Anand, a rich businessman whose wife has stopped caring for him. Anand is a cynic but he is charmed by Pushpa's beauty, her soul-stirring voice and goodness of heart. Pushpa runs into an old acquaintance who's newly moved to the city. From him, she comes to know that her mother is dead. The old woman passed away months ago but Pushpa's contact in the village (a seedy character himself) didn't relay the news to her and pocketed the money she used to regularly send to her mother. As the acquaintance learns about Pushpa's profession, he is scandalized. He begins to avoid her. Pushpa is pained but she realizes that it is a simple consequence of her life choice. She meets the gentleman's young son, develops a motherly love for the child. She invites him to her home, feeds him sweets and snacks, sings to him and plays with him. He, in turn, cares for her as if she were his own mother. How else could he react? His mean stepmother spared no opportunity to show her dislike towards him. Ah, well. One day, the child falls seriously ill. Finally, it is Pushpa who secretly arranges for a senior physician to come visit the child and prescribe medicines. She pays for the treatment but doesn't mention a word to the parents. Ultimately, the father comes to know about it, he realizes that he judged too soon. His son's true mother was not the lady at home but the prostitute who lived down the street, for who else but a mother could tend to a child with such devotion and loving care?

The family is moving to another town. Pushpa is heartbroken at the thought of her "son" leaving her but what is she to do? Years pass, everyone goes his/her own way. The child is now grown up, a successful architect(?), happily married and a young father. He comes back to the same city, sets up house. His baby son falls ill and he lands up at the clinic of the same doctor who treated him years ago. Old memories resurface and now he yearns to meet his "mother," Pushpa. But no one knows where she is. The brothel is long gone. He begins asking around, runs into Anand who directs him to a lodge where Pushpa now works as a cleaning woman, scrubbing floors and washing clothes and doing the dishes.

The years haven't been kind to Pushpa. She is old and alone, left to fend for herself. One day, going about her chores, she comes to know about a penniless lodger, sick and dying. There is a doctor visiting the patient and his fees need to be paid. Alas, no one cares. Finally Pushpa takes the money out of her meagre savings and pays the doctor. As he leaves the room, Pushpa turns to the patient and realizes that it's her husband who's the patient. He's blind, poor, alone, virtually unrecognizable. He asks for a drink of water. As Pushpa pours the water into his parched mouth, he breathes his last. What an irony.

Pushpa's "son" and Anand find her at the lodge, everyone is reunited.

I am positive that I have watched this movie earlier but this time's viewing was special. There is nothing unusual about the story, agreed. However, I couldn't help observing that it has to be a very special "Pushpa" or flower (more precisely, the lotus) that lives in muck yet retains its fragrance and beauty. Pushpa never allowed her surroundings to sully her; she remained pure and innocent, her heart eternally generous and compassionate. She was mistreated by almost everyone in her life, yet she found it within herself to love and care for others.

Maybe we come to expect such behavior from our leading men and ladies but let's be realistic, it is no easy task. To keep one's innate goodness alive in the face of adversity and cruelty is a truly magnificent quality. That's why I feel that Pushpa was no victim of her circumstances. In fact, she was a victor.

One gem of a song after another… Amar Prem has so many of them. Here is a personal favorite.

My Love is Sheer Immensity

My love is sheer immensity. It is empty space, full and limitless and infinite, boundless and endless. It cannot be contained in a single person, one entity. It get stifled, suffocated. It begins to stagnate and stink. And decay, then die.

But the one who chose to accept my love is the most generous of everyone. He took it with both hands and threw it out to the sky, so it had all the space it needed. Without any adjustment, any condition, any compulsion. My love got its opportunity to expand and revel in its own self. And it came back to me. Gorgeous, generous, magnificent, spectacular.

What could I do but throw it back into the sky? And it embraced every being in this Universe, every breath of air, every second of time that ever existed. It touched the Sun, the Moon, the millions of stars and star fragments. And each one of them threw it back into the cosmos. And it continued. And it continues.

"Love is not an emotion; it is your very existence," says Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. Now I know what he means, yes I do!

How does Love taste?

 

Love tastes of home; of sweet steel tumblers of filter coffee; of banana chips fried in coconut oil with smoke rising off the surface; of plantain-chickpea fritters, plump and sweet. Of a simple plate of bottle gourd dal and steaming rice with a smidgen of lime pickle and lots of ghee. Of turmeric milk with ginger, drunk on cold mornings, accompanied with much tears and tantrums; of golden mangoes brought to the perfect stage of ripeness in dark cool store rooms; of piles of sweet sticky jackfruit, patiently removed from giant gnarly fruit, by experienced hands and generous amounts of oil. Of creamy pink paayasam, rich and decadent, fit for a wedding; of tangy green mangoes, eaten with a mix of red chilli powder, salt and oil.

Love is in my mother’s hands, my father’s eyes and their voices, raised with exasperation, concern, joy. Love spices and flavors everything Mummy makes, rendering it perfect and memorable. Love is what makes her cook for me and all of us, each day, every day. Love is a young father cooking simple dishes for his two daughters as their mother went to visit her mother. Daddy is no expert cook but the simplest dishes took on such outstanding flavor under his loving hands.

Love tastes like the scents of Mom and Dad and G combined into a wholesome burst of sensations, that never leaves me no matter how old I am or where I live. Love is me and everything I hold dear.