Flour, Butter and Whisk-Part 2

So with the introductory disaster, gathering up my wits to bake for the second time, proved a more daunting challenge than I had anticipated. My friend, Indrani, who was a trained chocolatier and a baker, asked me to give it another try. She said of the like “success is most often achieved by those who do not know that failure is inevitable.” I told her that she was quoting, Coco Chanel. So she turned around, gave me a hint of a smug and said with her hands throwing up in the air dramatically, “the highest purpose of intellectual cultivation is to give a man a perfect knowledge and mastery of his own inner self!” Okay, she was quoting again but that wasn't a bad speech after all. However, I don’t know whether it was her inspirational speech or my zeal to prove to my mom that I wasn’t that bad, gave me a renewed enigma of hope. But this time, I was determined about not deploying a premixed mixture. Probably I thought it wasn’t made for my level of expertise!

Anyway, since I wasn’t sure from where to start, I turned back to the most reliable source of information, ‘You Tube’. But, the most reliable source, had a barrage of choices to offer, and my head was spinning by the end of the day. Spirits dampened, motivation deluged, and reality setting in with a looming question, where do I start from?

I settled for the basic sponge cake recipe, more so, because it was the easiest of all.

So, now that the recipe was marked, the next probable step was to get hold of all the ingredients. Now, remember my first tryst with the whole cake making business started with a premixed mixture; hence, I wasn’t quite sure of what actually goes into the cake. Yes, I had seen my mom baking, but, who cares about the foreplay, I was interested only in the end result.

Finally, that all the ingredients were in place, I was ready to get ‘my hands dirty’! So, in went the components one by one and finally my batter was ready. I gave it a quick mix with the ‘whisk’, pulled it up to check the consistency. Satisfied with the viscosity of the batter, I lined the baking tray with stripes of butter, and dashed it with some flour and poured my batter into it. As before, I wasn’t giving myself an invisible pat on my back or silently congratulating myself on my accomplishment. Rather I sent a quiet prayer above, put my baking tray inside the oven, and hoped it wasn’t a disaster, again.

I was nervously tramping back and forth the entire perimeter of my kitchen, biting my nails off, hoping this wasn’t the end of my baking adventure. My cake had been baking for about 15 min now. I was calling Indrani every 5 minutes giving her a live telecast of the bake. Her reassuring words were falling in deaf ears. My mind was busy procrastinating the degree of the catastrophe!!  Finally, I smelled the cake. A sweet aroma which was so indulging in itself that I could drop all my work, and wait impatiently to dig in. An aroma which could make anyone feel better about the world.

I was fretfully hovering in front of the oven, waiting restlessly for my cake to cool down inside the oven, before bringing it out and checking on it. The 20 minutes wait was making me jittery and anxious. Probably it was the longest 20 minutes of my life. Finally, the interminable wait was over. There was a sudden mood of frenzy and magic all around the room as I opened the oven door. The billowing smell of crystallised sugar and flour still lingered in the air like jet trails. And then there was the smell; the smell of hope and fulfillment, the kind of smell that brought people home, the smell that had the imminent strength of swiping people off their feet.   

As I sliced the cake, the hedonistic pleasure that I was deriving with each slice, was inundating me from within. I was so swamped up in the feeling of accomplishment and gratification, that I was carried away into a state of oblivion. As I took the first bite, time stopped. I simply closed my eyes and let the cake melt in my mouth. And as it did, realisation of the extent of indulgence that ‘baking’ brought in my mom, suddenly seemed meaningful. 

Flour, Butter and Whisk-Part 1

What do you think when you hear the three words: Flour, butter and whisk? Well certainly ‘Cake’. What did I think when I heard these words: waste of time.

Being a baker wasn’t always a word in my dictionary. I found baking a waste of time when there were a plethora of choices in the stores. I remember as a young girl, I would see my mother with earnest intent removing her pots and pans from the rack to reveal her baking bowl from behind, eyes brightly shining up to the view, putting it down carefully on the work top and getting ready to get her hands dirty. She would then take out the ingredients one by one: flour, butter/oil, sugar, vanilla, ‘the whisk’, and finally a war cry, ‘today is cake day’! I wondered what was so mystical about this that would make my mom, an otherwise earthly being, transform into a creepy, out of the world anthropoid the moment she saw her ‘baking bowl’. I wondered what was so indulging in ‘baking a cake’! Whether it was a birthday celebration, or a night before travel, baking always transformed my mom. And I wondered!!

Often my mom would be whining and reiterating as to why I do not sit down, and learn the ‘art of baking a cake’. I would in turn yell, like any other teenager, ‘I have better things to do than bake a cake Mom’!!What better things, well that is a separate topic of discussion, altogether. She would say that one day I would be having kids and if they wanted to eat some home baked cakes then what would I do? I said, ‘who cares’…

I remember the first time I attempted in testing my baking skills, I promptly went to the baking store, got myself a premixed cake mixture and walked home feeling accomplished. Reaching home I enthusiastically took out ‘My Baking Bowl’ and sat down to mix. We had recently got a convection microwave and I thought what better way to test the feature than 'Bake a cake'! It isn’t that difficult after all, is it!! So I gave the mixture a good mix in the blender, poured some milk into it, added some chocolate chips and Voila!! My cake batter was ready to go into the oven!! I had followed the ‘method of preparation’ on the carton quite diligently. No room for any mistakes. So off to the next step; greased the pan, smeared it with streaks of butter, and dusted it with some flour. Then I poured in the batter into the pan, with a slight hesitation of whether the batter was right as it was a bit too runny. But soon I fanned away my fears and gave myself an invisible pat on my back for this accomplishment, and placed the pan inside the oven. Temperature set, time noted, a job well done!!!

My cake had been baking for almost 30 min when I emerged from behind a book to inspect on the progress. It was a moment of truth, my moment of truth. Moment that would put all fears of my mom, to rest. Moment that would hereby prove that I am not a lousy baker after all.

Even before I entered the living room I could smell something burning. And since there wasn’t anything cooking apart from the cake, it was quite obvious what was. The living room was filled with smoke. I quickly turned off the microwave, and waited patiently for the heat to subside so that I could further on the inspection and introspect what could have possibly gone wrong with my batter, and my cake!! I did everything by the book, then, what possibly could have gone wrong? As I removed the pan from the oven, the room was again filled with smoke. I slowly took out the baking tray and all that I saw was a black, burnt, mass. Cake!!Not even near it!! The living room smelled of burnt cake the entire week, and I proved a lousy baker. However, I opined and it stayed, ‘cake from a store is much better than baking one’…Sigh!!!

India's daughter - A film well made, a title badly chosen

It was a day long tussle between uploading and taking down. A bold documentary, which has now caught the 'living room syndrome' of a nation, just as the event, which led up to the making of this documentary in the the first place. There had been something cataclysmic about the horrific, brutal rape and subsequent death of a para medical student on 16th December 2012. An event which had shaken us from within. It is not that it was the first time, not that it happens only in India, not that it was the only paradox that Indian women or women in general have to go through everyday, but what shuddered us up was the extent of brutality it involved. The extent of inhumanity involved. Not only her modesty was violated, but also her organs which would have still functioned and made her live was torn and pulled out brutally from her body, wrapped in a piece of cloth, and thrown out. As if it didn't matter, her modesty, her views, her right to life, it just did not matter. What mattered was the perpetrators right to violate her modesty in the name of culture, violate her body in the name of teaching her a lesson on how to be a woman, violate her right to life. The documentary was well made till it was given its title. Is rape an 'Indian' event? No it is not. Rape is a worldwide phenomenon just like global warming. It is not restricted to a specific country, or religion, or race. 

However, even though atrocities towards women isn’t country centric or religion centric, yet when a documentary made by BBC on the mentioned crime that caught the imagination of not only the people in India but also of the world, brought out the hypocrisy of the self-proclaimed ‘superior class’. Patriarchal values and mentality is so deep rooted in our society that whenever anyone tries to hold up a mirror to show the patriarch the real image, what he rightly does is close his eyes pretending if he doesn’t see it no one does. If we want westerners to know about our ‘Indian culture’ let them know it the way it is. Why do we want to customise the way they see us. When we agree to give a visa to them to come and visit us, then why take away the right of analysis. These people come from countries where they are allowed to hold opinions, come here, see things, and make judgements. And if they see rape and religious intolerance then so be it. May be you are in a denial mode but he isn’t. What are you ashamed of? Are you ashamed of your culture where if a woman is raped then she has invited it? Are you ashamed because you think that she was raped because she chose to dress differently from your mother? She was raped because she chose to live her life independently? Or you are ashamed because you think that by redressing that rape by marriage to the culprit is what your so called culture is. You are ashamed because you are scared that the world chooses to differ. You are ashamed because you do not hear an echo of your school of thought with the world. You are ashamed that the sick mentality of your sons will come threadbare. A perception which sees women as only sex objects. Objects who do not have any voice of their own. Objects who should act and dress in a certain way that you want them to. Where in the name of celebration and right you choose to violate her body and her emotions and she does not even have a right to protest. Where in the name of being a husband marital rapes take place. Where in the name of being a teacher a student’s trust is broken. What culture are you talking of where the ‘moral guardians’ of our society preach that a certain section of the society in the name of religion should go and rape women of other religion even if it means raping dead ones. What cultures are you talking of where you regard a bovine as your mother and rape an actual one? What culture are you talking of which is so bigoted in its thought procedure? What culture are you talking of where we defend ‘our sons’ saying that boys will be boys and they will make mistakes. Mistakes which cost a human not only her honour but also her life sometimes; when if spared mistakes which will traumatise her all her life. Mistakes which allow the perpetrators take away her right to her own body. Yes, it is a mistake; an unforgivable mistake, an unpardonable mistake. A mistake which is the result of your underlying sick mentality. And when the ‘westerner’ rubs it on your face you shout ‘BAN IT’!!

Whether we choose not to see our ‘culture’ so blatantly doesn’t change anything. India or elsewhere, every society needs a sea change. A change in the way men look at women. Change in the way husbands treat their wives. Change in the attitude where we not only tell our daughters to behave like a woman, but also where we tell our sons how to treat a woman. The only valid and prime objection to this two days old drama is that the case is under subjugation. Hence, it is important for restricting it from main stream media lest it might influence the logical end. But banning it is unacceptable. Reasons like it was shoddily researched, or it has a potential of unleashing nationwide misogyny and misandry, or it demeans national honour or will incite mobs is not only uncalled for but also atrocious. Legal objections to the interview might seem reasonable when it stretches on having an impact on impressionable minds. The unremorseful accused who instead accuses the victim for his demeaning attitudes and actions. The blatant sick nauseated mind-set of the lawyers who are representing the accused. The parents who weren’t even sure of whether their child was alive or not defend him by refusing to be accountable for his actions. But are we Indians a bunch of thumb sucking imbeciles whose way of thinking can be indoctrinated by a documentary? Why do we say it is voyeurism whenever a rape victim or her family comes forward to take it further? These films might not bring in a change but certainly these films, documentaries, and articles push forward to bring in some change on a war footing. They are crucial contributors in bringing in this change. They are like catalysts which will help in bringing in the change. Change against sexual assault. Change in the mindset. We seem to assume that the fight ends when we bring in the laws; often the FIRs are the first steps to the long walk towards freedom and justice for the victim who is besieged by character assassination to oblivion.  

The film, with all its flaws speaks truth so blatantly that the ‘Indian Patriarchal Society’ feels threatened, that no wonder the most offended are the Indian men. Delhi is the living room of the ‘elite’. It articulates the thoughts and the aspirations of the rest of the country. They are the ones who own the decision making syndrome of the country’s population. That way no one can question their superiority in governing the masses. And if that means curbing the truth, because it is unacceptable in general, then it is the ownership of the ‘Elite’ to make sure. But however unacceptable the truth is, closing your eyes and thinking that no one is watching is not helping. Everyone is watching. The country is watching. The world is watching. And if the government is determined to develop India, then it must start empowering its women and empowerment will come in when it makes sure each and every woman feels safe in her own motherland. Everytime she leaves her home, she should not be looking constantly over her shoulders. She should walk the road without a care for the world. The documentary is a very well made one. The only flaw is the title. Rape in not ‘Indian’. Rape is an international crime. ‘Nirbhaya: The story of a daughter’ is what I think it should be named or renamed. 

Secret Words

They said I was too young, I said experience is the best judge not age. I carried on with what I thought was right. Life was so beautiful. The grass was green, the roses were red, the sky was blue. Oh! Life is so beautiful!!

They called me back, but I moved on. They told me I would sink, but I didn't care. They said it wasn't worth it, but I cared. Helping one to cross the river with the feet in two different boats is what I chose. Was I lame? Was I ignorant? Was I an imbecile? No I was in 'Love'!! Who cared about what's in the future when I can make future myself. Future with two of us. Future unseen. Future which was shrouded in the safe blanket of love. Love that will make us go through. Life with Love was worth living.

They said you will get hurt. I said Love is blind and lovers can't see. Life was a valley, in the ridges of the high mountains covered with green grass and endless swarm of colourful flowers around and surrounded by tall trees of love. I won't get hurt. All I will get is love and all that I have to do is love back. And so I did...

"What are you? why should I love you? What is there in you that I should love you back?"

Alas! The bubble of love was popped. Life had been brutal. It had shattered the fragile love into pieces. Trust broken. Damage beyond repair. A knot of infinity. Ad nauseum ad infinitum.

They said it's better to love and lost than to have never loved at all. I say if you fall in love with the wrong person you are good if you have not loved at all.

Travel and Living-Chapter 2-Darjeeling

My passion for travel was not an overnight transition especially when it wasn't a genetic disposition in my case. My parents weren't very enthusiastic travelers. For me travelling in my growing up days was travelling to my ancestral places for the vacations carefully divided between halves between the maternal and the paternal sides. One off vacations would be ones which weren't traveled to the seemingly familiar places. One such place I remember from my school days was our travel to Darjeeling. Adventure travelling had always intrigued me. Especially the ones in the hills. The deep valleys plunging down the hills, the view of the mighty Kanchenjunga, the view of the sunrise from Tiger Hill, Darjeeling is a place with which you call fall in love with almost instantly. It was a town of British colonialism with extensive tea plantations. The love for the black tea that can be dated back to the colonial rule and which is still prevalent not only in Great Britain, but also in this small town. Black tea with renewed fermentation techniques gives way to the the famous 'Darjeeling Tea'.

I remember for our journey to Darjeeling we had taken a overnight bus journey to Siliguri from Durgapur. I wouldn't say it was the most comfortable bus journeys I ever had, in fact not even close, given the state of the roads. However, I did not mind it much because it was a journey that I was making to unfamiliar surroundings and also because it was to a place which I found the most fascinating, a hill station. I still remember the hair pin turns from Siliguri to Darjeeling which made me puke several times during the journey. Yet I was enjoying the journey. The endless tea estates, the mountains, the small streams here and there, the sound of laughter from the back of the car. It was a journey of a lifetime for me. An entirely different experience.

Spread in ribbons of the Mahabharat Range or the lesser Himalayas, surrounded by stretches of emerald green tea-estates with a white jaded Kanchenjunga in the backdrop, there is more to Darjeeling than only the tea. It still has a train service which runs on steam. The remnants of the once popular mode of transport is not only enchanting but also very exciting, especially because it runs through the most picturesque landscape of the state. The famous Batasia Loop can be done on this Toy train. Posing infront of one of this famous 'Engine' was like witnessing history. Exploring the Buddhist Monastries, or sipping 'black tea' from the tea stalls when your energy starts to flag, Darjeeling is a traveler's paradise. And it certainly was no less for me too.