Condensed Greed

A random rummage in the refrigerator can be very rewarding.

Stumbling upon an unfinished can of Nestlé Milkmaid, for instance, means you can beat your children to it and be reminded of your childhood at the same time. And that’s what happened, the other day…

My brother and I grew up in Calcutta, often on Milkmaid, the can that was always there always there in case the milk supply failed or the milk itself turned sour (not an uncommon thing in those days). For our mother, it was the quick-fix substitute to making tea. Expensive, but efficient, provided you could get through the sealed can.

I have vivid memories of holding the can with my frail fingers while either parent would pull out a rusty can-opener and try to pierce the first tiny hole so that the hook of the opener could get a grip and start cutting the lid open. Sometimes, a hammer or the mortar (of the pestle jodi) would be called in as reinforcement and the tiresome process of opening the equally rusty can would begin. The opener would slip, a finger would be cut, Dettol would be applied quickly and we would resume the operation: what lay within was way too delicious to be abandoned because the worst part of the product was its packaging.

Once opened, the brother and I would stand aside and salivate. A teaspoon would go into the tea being boiled after which it was our turn to dig into the sticky, sweet condensed manna-like milk. Those were days when we didn’t have a refrigerator and the can was too expensive to be finished in one go; so, it would be stored away in the hope that red ants wouldn’t discover it and that it wouldn’t spoil. On many occasions, both have happened but usually a plate with water on which the can would be perched, sufficed.

Puritans will swear that the best way to enjoy Milkmaid is to let a tablespoon glide down your gullet with nothing else accompanying it. However, I had some other concoctions that made it even more irresistible:

• A slice of fresh bread with Milkmaid smeared on every millimetre. Or, on Thin Arrowroot biscuits.
  
• And then with Bournvita sprinkled on it to give it a chocolaty-crunchy topping.
• Pieces of Cadbury Dairy Milk (the only chocolate available then) dipped into the can and slurped while a trickle of condensed milk threatened to slip away down your shirt.
• Grapes or almonds dipped into it.

And once these were done, licking the can empty with the fingers being applied to good use made for the most satisfying spells on an otherwise boring day watching the pelting rain from our verandah.

All of this is still very doable. And thanks to Nestlé making the can easier to open with a tab, accessing the condensed milk is so much easier. Storing it still requires an improvised cover but if you’re as greedy as the kids and I can be, you won’t have much left to store.

Now, to try it with a dash of coffee and bitter chocolate…slurrp!

Of Times Past

Every morning, I have a date at eight.

(And, no, this isn’t one of those rhyming couplet thingies.)

I wait at a traffic light near my house in Gurgaon like a roadside Romeo, with a Mac on my back and lunch in the bag, shooing away auto drivers, stray dogs and flies. I wait for Pooja to turn up in her Accent and pick me up en route work…eight is early for me but better than nine, which is when another colleague, Rohit, sets off.

This has been my routine for the last two months ever since my mouse-like driver – paradoxically named Ganesh – disappeared to get his sister married off in Nepal and hasn’t turned up since. After the marriage of his sibling, his father died, tragically. And then his mobile phone died, happily. And with it, died any hope I had of recovering the eight thousand rupees he owes me. So, I became dependent once again on kith, kin and colleagues to drive me around. Why I don’t drive is matter for another mindless post but, for now, let’s come back to where I started…

Pooja is punctual. She’s also a lady. And, for reasons that cannot be shared socially, she’s usually hyper (unlike Rohit who is the most relaxed human being I have seen). All of which means that I cannot keep her waiting. So I have to reach the pick-up point at least two minutes before she does. It takes me four minutes to walk from the gate of the building to the signal. But the wait for the elevator in the building can take 30 seconds or three minutes – and, if there’s a power cut halfway down the four floors, add another two minutes. So I need to set out by 7:52 to make it in time. What’s life without a little precision, I say?

And no matter how fast one shaves and showers, breakfast must be gobbled, vitamin swallowed, watch, wallet and pen grabbed, wife waved goodbye…all of which will take precious minutes. Something in this routine will be forgotten occasionally.

That’s how I forgot the watch yesterday. For, perhaps only the second time in 34 years since I was gifted an Anglo-Swiss by my father. I’ve been a keeper of Time ever since though, sometimes, I think Time kept me. I’ve slept with a watch around my frail wrist; even perched it on a narrow ledge next to me so that I could see the time whenever I awoke at night (not that I kept any record of the wakeful moments all those years). Somehow, one felt naked minus a watch.

And so, over time, the watch became more than a teller of time, it was something to be worn – not as an accessory which is what it is for most people but as a teller of tales. Every watch I own (and there are seven) has a story behind it. Be it the Titan Moonphase that Shovon and I won during an Ad Club Quiz in Calcutta despite Derek trying very hard to ensure we wouldn’t win it for the second consecutive year. Those days, Derek was at his prime, non-political quizzing days whereas today he’s the one being quizzed by news channels. Or the HMT (yes, good old HMT) that was created during Contract’s 10^th anniversary in 1996…it still tocks, sorry ticks! Or the commemorative Tintin Swatch I gifted myself in Paris on a lonely birthday in 2008 2006…its strap may be frayed but the character remains.

I don’t look at a watch to see the present; I see the past.

Most people, however, wear a watch as a pure fashion accessory and glance at the mobile phone to see the time: did Nokia kill HMT? And that’s a pity because no matter how smart your phone may be, it’s unlikely to have any deep, meaningful associations of people, places and events from another life.  It’s cold, plasticky and detached; quite unlike the blend of soft, worn, warm leather and cold metal around the wrist. Somehow, a changing digit on a phone doesn’t quite mark the passage of time like the revolving hands on a watch.

But then, I’m probably in a dying breed of watch-watchers caught in a time warp while a very mobile world flits back and forth into a fickle future.

Time to go, I think.

And then there were words…

When Swapan sms’d me to ask if I would review his book, I readily agreed. And then, I procrastinated for reasons too complicated to explain.

Swapan is now a neighbour but has been a friend, colleague and competitor for almost two and a half decades; so, I have known him in more ways than one. And yet, I was surprised to learn that he had failed once in school.

Now, several weeks after carrying the little book around (it’s size, and much more besides, reminds me of The Little Prince that I was gifted in college) I sat myself down to review it. Actually, you can’t read This is all I have to say…you race through it and, before you realise it, you’ve reached the end. Which, I guess, is how it’s meant to be. So, you return to it to nibble on its maxims and, if they seem familiar, it’s only because they’re all (well, almost all) so very apt.

Swapan Seth's Book Debut

Swapan Seth’s style has always been pithy. And this book is very Twitterish: it’s alliterative from the start (“An assortment of angsts. A cauldron of concerns.”) aphoristic, crisp and often clichéd. But, as we’ve always been told in advertising, clichés invariably work. Advertising runs not just in Swapan’s veins but also through his pen (or iPad or whatever digital device he used while writing this 95-pager) and its impact shows in everything about the book. It’s been written to a brief; with a sharply defined core target audience (his two sons) and a larger – yet niche – set of folks in mind; its positioning is unique (which may also be a bit of an issue because conventional booksellers won’t know which shelf to stock it in) and it’s exquisitely designed by Bonita Vaz-Shimray whose use of a wonderfully-named font, MrsEaves, adds to the crunchiness of the words…. like almonds in muesli. I do feel, however, that towards the second half of the book, the designer got carried away and readability does become an issue. But packaging is essential for any creative person who secretly worries that his ideas may not otherwise be expressed as well as they were originally envisaged.

There are gems tucked away in this book: “Parenting is a relay race.” And almost the entire chapter on love: “One day you will find love. Or rather love will find you” are among my favourite lines. If, in any book or film, you can find even one line that you relate to instantly, consider yourself as having received more than what you paid for the book (Rs 195 in this case). I found some sections reminding me of others that I had read (the chapter on Friends brought back memories of Desiderata, for instance) but even if Swapan has been inspired by all that he has read (and his appetite for words is XXL) there is nothing wrong. James Webb Young, an early 20th century practitioner of advertising said that ideas are nothing but an original combination of old elements. And Ms Rowling is known to have written that words allow us to create magic like nothing else can… this book comes close to it.

There are, however, some things I would have done differently.

The title, for instance, seems to eliminate the possibility of another book – and that would be a shame. If this is really all Swapan has to say, I’d be surprised. I find the front and back covers trying too hard to impress the reader that some well-known folks have endorsed the book: not really required, my friend. I have a knack for finding typos and would like to meet the editor in Roli Books who let several slip through her pencil. Most of all, I would have liked to see the names of people who played a role in Swapan’s life instead of their being relegated to pronouns: a teacher and his first client as an entrepreneur are the only ones named.

The book is dedicated to his sons with a line “May love be the ampersand between the two of you” and perhaps that’s why I love the book: the ampersand is a delightful but undervalued character that connects almost everything epigrammatically. And I tend to overuse the word “and”… often violating the most fundamental tenet of Wren & Martin.

But, for now, this is all I have to say and you should go find the book. You don’t have to be a lover, a husband, a copywriter or even a parent to enjoy snacking on Swapan’s words… bon appetit!

Fourth Law of Mamata Banerjee

Mohitoz’ Law #261

TMC now stands for Trounced Marxist Comrades.

(Earlier Laws of Mamata Banerjee are here)

Third Law of Mamata Banerjee

Mohitoz’ Law #249

Just because I’m the Railway Minister, it doesn’t mean the Opposition can rail at me.

Refusing to be derailed by the Opposition, Mamata Banerjee presents her maiden Railway Budget (image courtesy: http://www.ibnlive.com)

Law of Calcutta Book Fair

Mohitoz’ Law #234

(Inspired by the other Hira)

Despite popular demand, no stall will stock a copy of Facebook.

Second Law of Mamata Banerjee

Mohitoz’ Law #216

Just because my name means ‘kindness’, it doesn’t mean I have to exhibit it.

Arch-rival doesn't show any mamata for the late Jyoti Basu.

Law of Buddhadev

Mohitoz’ Law #142

Green makes me see red.

Law of Non Violence (a.k.a. Third Law of Calcutta)

Mohitoz’ Law #95

If you see two Bengalis arguing on a Calcutta street, one of them is bound to yell to his friends (in Bangla): “Dhorey raakh, dhorey raakh… naahole merey debo shaala ke!” (translated: “Hold me back or else I’ll kill the bugger!”

First Law of Mamata Banerjee

Mohitoz’ Law #73

Left is not right.

Law of Girls’ College

Mohitoz’ Law #69

A girls’ college will have more men than women hanging around its gates.

Corollary: A boys’ college will not have as many girls hanging around outside.

Second Law of Calcutta

Mohitoz’ Law #55

A liquor shop will invariably have a pharmacy located within 100 metres.

Law of Street Food

Mohitoz’ Law #46

The filthier the vendor, the tastier his grub.

First Law of Calcutta

Mohitoz’ Law #28

Bandhs will invariably be scheduled for Fridays. Or Mondays.

The Fishy Goat

Now, everyone knows that a Bengali’s first love is fish. River (not sea) fish because it’s “sweeter”. Fish with hundreds of tiny bones, in all shapes and sizes. Some gobbled in one gulp; others lovingly chosen at the maachher-baajar to be coldly chopped in precision-directed pieces. And God help the poor fish-monger who cuts the peti even a centimetre bigger than the width shown by boudi’s two red-nailpolished-outspread fingers.

The buying of fish is perhaps as much of a pleasure as its cooking and consuming and even though a fish market in Calcutta – or in Delhi’s CR Park or even as far away as Muscat – is smelly and noisy, haggling is very much the order of the day – especially when it’s hilsa time. Perhaps that’s why Unhygienix is so popular amongst the Bengalis (when Goscinny & Uderzo’s masterpiece was translated into Bengali, they named Vitalstatix as Bishalakritix – thank you Anchita and Wikipedia – but, for some reason I can’t figure out what Unhygienix became… ).

Unhygienix

While it is also common knowledge that fish and rice are staple diet for all Bengalis (thrice a day for some), some non-Bengali acquaintances are probably unaware that the scaly creature is also the centre of much debate during the evening adda on the ‘rock’. Especially if neighbouring Bangladesh doesn’t get generous and allow the Padma-bred illish to be made available at a particular price across the border. Very few, however, would know that the fish also occupies pride of place in a Bengali bride’s trousseau: amongst the glitter of jewellery and saris, shines a very dead, beady-eyed large fish. It’s considered auspicious, you see.

So much, though for the bhadralok’s first love. His second love is mutton – goat meat. Especially tender, young goat meat: kochi paantha (that’s pronounced with a chandrabindi over the ‘aan’).

There are, however, three fundamental differences in the Bengali’s love affair with fish and mutton.

First, fish must be eaten at least once every day. For the working, single Bengali babe in faraway Delhi, not being able to eat fish daily is a cause of severe distress for ma-baba back home. Mutton is a Sunday special. Sunday lunch ishpecial, actually.

Second, fish has to be bought from the same fishmonger unfailingly. There is a great deal of trust involved between buyer and seller here. And the sudden disappearance of the fishmonger for any reason traumatises his entire clientele. For mutton, however, the babu will go to any butcher who happens to be selling goats with more fat than anyone else, more tender and more fresh. All it takes is one of the adda-cronies to mention that he has heard of so-and-so mutton shop down the lane after the third right after the second left near the sweet shop opposite the paanwalla (note: all landmarks are usually food-related) and no effort will be spared to try it out. Glee writ large on his face, the triumphant Bengali will return home sweating but salivating with a kilo full of carefully chosen chopped pieces that are handed over to his ginni to be cooked as he wishes it that day. The red flesh, it would appear, is the man’s preserve.

Third, fish is cooked in a zillion ways. With mutton, though, there is little variation. And Sunday mornings are usually spent preparing for the maangsher-jhhol or kasha-mangsho while the afternoons disappear sleeping it off.

Fish and meat don’t usually meet on the table at a regular meal unless there are guests coming over, in which case both will be cooked – sometimes, along with the inferior chicken as well.

Today, though, Bengalis are both, disturbed and delighted. In Tumkur, Karnataka, where Mohd. Pasha is presumably a popular fishmonger, he has discovered that his pet goat eats his stock of fish on the sly! Now imagine that… in this day of ‘buy one, get one free’, imagine being able to cook a goat that has been brought up on fish. That’s two culinary pleasures in one. Flights to Bangalore from Calcutta are probably overbooked with everyone hoping to outbid the other and bring home this fishy goat. This evening’s adda will be less about Lalgarh and the Lankans versus the Pakistanis – there will be much conjecturing about this odd creature’s taste. And the dadu will shake his bald head and wonder yet again what the world is coming to…

Kasha maachh anyone?

Star Trekked

Growing up in Calcutta in the ’70s, climbing up to the rickety roof of our ancient home was a regular feature. The fragile aluminum antenna connected to the Televista TV set was prone to swinging in the wind much like a weather-cock and needed tying down periodically. Over time, with help from my surprisingly-sure-footed mother, I’d perfected the art of pointing the antenna in a direction that would enable it to catch not just Doordarhan’s signal but the stronger Dacca TV station. In those days, we spelt the two cities this way and not with the harsher K’s as they do today.

Even though the TV set was a black & white one, American serials like Dallas, Dynasty and Star Trek kept my brother and I enthralled: it was also our only other glimpse to the ‘promised’ land – apart from the Westerns and war films we saw at Globe or New Empire or Lighthouse (none of which exist as movie halls today). Dallas and Dynasty precluded Ekta Kapoor’s soaps (I have to endure at least one episode of her prolific productions someday) but it was Star Trek that came closest to giving me a high. Much like walking out of The Guns of Navarone, ready to take on the world, Star Trek would open up the teenage mind with the possibilities of “going where no man has gone before” and conquering both space and time. I fantasised in vivid detail about inventing ankle-strapped rockets that would allow me to fly and steely-eyed stares that would help enter the minds of evil villains and defeat them without lifting a finger. That’s the great thing about willingly suspending disbelief for a couple of hours and sitting in a dark hall to escape life. My fragile body didn’t mean I didn’t have an active imagination in which I would single-handedly defeat every crook as I flew through the air wearing my underpants over my tights (that, after all, is the signature of all superheroes).

So, this evening, I decided to relive those moments and made my way to a movie hall here in Gurgaon to watch JJ Abram’s version of Star Trek in solitary splendour. Like an excited kid, eager to catch every ad and trailer, I sat through the preview of the forthcoming Harry Potter fantasy and settled down as the Paramount mountain and stars formed on screen… I was back in Calcutta in the ’70s again! Geo-chronological barriers had been crossed.

Only, this time, I was disappointed. If they make Star Trek and it doesn’t leave you exhilarated in the clichéd victory of Good over Evil, it ain’t Star Trek. It doesn’t even come close to Star Wars. Sure, it has more grandeur and special effects but it left me cold. Perhaps Morgan Freeman as Admiral Pike would’ve helped? Or Bruce Willis as Kirk? Leonard Nimoy’s fine as Spock, though except for one teeny-weeny problem: he doesn’t say “Beam me up Scottie”. Nor does anyone else.

Let down, I was. Unlike how I’ve felt watching any of the Star Wars sequels or Die Hard or Armaggedon…

One hundred and twenty-seven minutes later, munching a Galaxy chocolate (appropriate huh?) I trekked back home over the crumbling pavements of unlit Gurgaon streets, wondering whether I’d be mugged by drunken louts emerging from the many ‘Government-approved drinking places’ this city has. There were no stars to be seen because a dust-storm came without warning, making me wish I could enter a time warp and transport myself away.

As Spock Sr says in the film, I’d like to have the best of both worlds. Only mine wouldn’t be those of logic and emotion. But of fiction and science.

For now though, I’ll settle for some red wine followed by yellow daal.

Cheers!