Happy Diwali

DotThoughts, BigGeek and Chip wish you and your loved ones a very Happy Diwali and a Prosperous New Year!! I am missing being in India so much right now.. The phulbaaji and lavangi phatake and saap. Like I was telling a friend a minute ago, we used to have so much fun with saap that we forgot to choke on its fumes. Sigh. It's just so quiet here right now. No anaar and bhuichakras to see and no atom-bombs to wince to. And BigGeek and Chip are already in the land of nod :-(

Hope you are having a great time and eating yourselves into a sugar coma. And, as you can see from the picture above, the chaklis , thanks to the recipe left by Vinita in the comments of my last post finally are done! Thanks a lot Vinita!!! You saved the day :-)

Chakli Fail

It’s feeling like Diwali. The air has a bit of chill, but not too much. The maples in our backyard are looking absolutely divine in the mornings, as if the early sun has risen only to spray their tops in shimmering gold. There is a little crunch of leaves underfoot, the scent of Autumn in the air. This time of the year is a perfect time to celebrate Diwali. A few weeks later and it gets too cold, a few weeks earlier and it still feels like summer.

I look out the window. The cul-de-sac is quiet. School work and the chilly weather have driven the kickball players and bike riders into the routine hum of their homes. Across the street, where we live, it’s a different story. The Kingdom of DotThoughts has spun into high gear. Father and son have made a trip to our cavernous crawl space. Much to Chip’s delight. To him, the occasional trip to the dark musty underbelly of our home is like going to Ali Baba’s cave. And who am I kidding? I feel a small thrill too. Oh, look, the rattan basket that I bought to store raddi but used it maybe twice.. and over there, what’s that gleam? Ah! 25 foil pans I didn’t know I had and table cloths with “Happy Birthday” in rainbow colors. It’s like shopping without spending any money.

Chip and BigGeek haul a big black storage bin that says “Outdoor Holiday Lights”. Chip lets out a squeal. He has spotted a Santa House and a Singing Santa that we bought for $5 at a neighbor’s garage sale this summer. With the fervor of an event manager, he lugs that too. “No, Chip, that’s for Christmas. We’ll bring it up when we put up the tree.” I say. Now is the time to let you know that Chip is holiday-challenged. I can’t blame him. He is really not that into Indian festivals. Last year, he insisted on wishing everyone Happy Halloween instead of Happy Diwali. This year he wants to get all the Christmas things out and leave cookies and milk for Santa, for Diwali. Not yet, I tell him a hundredth time. First Diwali, then Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then, then Christmas. He crosses his brow and looks at me in disbelief. “Do you want the Halloween stuff too?” asks BigGeek from nowhere. Why not? I’ll put them up after Diwali. Chip is happy. We get out cardboard skeletons and a scarecrow and pumpkins and fall banners.

As Chip and BigGeek head outside to string the icicle lights, I turn to the faraal. I make faraal every year. No store bought stuff for me. For one, I love cooking, even though I admit with what our schedules are, all that cooking and frying drives me a bit batty. But, it just doesn’t feel like Diwali until the kitchen is filled with the scent of cardamom and tup and besan and frying and chaos. It just doesn’t. They say, our strongest and deepest memories are those of the nose. Diwali proves them right every single year.

I tell BigGeek, I cannot make unlimited faraal for everyone. I usually give a small goody bag of faraal every year to all my friends, so, it’s a limited quantity, and BigGeek usually is quite oblivious to the fact. But this year, I said the “limited quantity” out loud. BigGeek shook his head. “No, that’s not right; you can’t offer limited quantities of faraal. It has to be unlimited. All that they can eat.” My husband is obviously not afraid of me. To say such things at 8:30 pm on a weekday while I am going silently crazy. (If you have any ideas on how to make him quake in fear at my mere presence, shoot me an email)

He is banished from my immediate vicinity and I turn to survey the faraal. Ladoo, check. And they are yumm too. Chip has scarfed down one and is begging for more. Walnut burfi, check. This is a super simple recipe. My mother’s idea. Saucepan, chopped walnuts, fat free condensed milk and viola! Chivda, check. Chakli has been an utter failure. And I don’t know why, exactly. I have this steamed flour method that usually gives good results, but this time the chaklis have simply decided to dissolve in oil and laugh in my face. My attempt #1 was very frustrating and when no amount of repair made the chaklis as strong as my resolve, I, in a fit on temporary insanity, took the dough, added some methi and baking soda to it and baked them into cookies that were looked on with two pairs of very, very suspicious eyes. Attempt #2 is scheduled for tonight or tomorrow night. Wish me luck. Or better still, give me fool proof recipes that don’t involve exotic ingredients like moong flour.

I made karanjis yesterday and the golden crescents made me nostalgic and took me to my grandmother’s home for Diwali – the one year when she had decided to surprise everyone by making savory karanjis with peas. The Shankarpali caught whatever bug the chaklis had. They too dissolved and in oil and turned into a oily, crumbled pile of snarkiness. Attempt #2 will be made today or tomorrow. Or not at all. With chaklis, the magic number 5 will be reached. When the 5 items of faraal are done, I shall rest my old bones and dig in!

How is your Diwali prep shaping up? All set?

A picture post

Hot Spring - looks like a witch's caldron. Steam and bubbles.

Elk at the watering hole

Firehole Canyon Waterfall

Forest Fire!!!!




A wolf - See that look on it's face!

The Grand Teton Range.. Can you spot the err..

Don't remeber its name Waterfall

The American Bald Eagle

Mule Deer in the grass

Firehole River and Geyser

Bison - they are 2200lbs!

Colter Bay

Colors at the edges of Geysers. Thanks to Thermophilic Bacteria.

More colors

Grand Tetons

It’s funny how French lends an air of respectability to everything. We were driving along the scenic Jackson Lake to Grand Tetons. What does ‘teton’ mean, wondered BigGeek. Now is a good time to disclose the fact that I am the family’s trip advisor, guide and booking agent in one. I am the silly donut (as Chip would mischievously say) that reads up on places and creates spreadsheets and emails a copy to everyone on the party. So, I knew what teton meant: it’s that part of the woman’s anatomy that lies above the waist and below the neck. Naah. I didn’t tell him that. I offered him a half dozen slang words to choose from, but since this is a family blog, I have chosen to employ a pithy euphemism. Really? Said the BigGeek. It doesn’t look like that at all.

Thus began our quest to debate the intentions of the explorer who saw in this mountain range, a err.. grand teton. The Grand Tetons are how I imagine Switzerland to be. Impressive peaks breaking out into the wide blue sky. The sole reason I wanted to visit Grand Tetons was Ansel Adams. No amateur photographer worth her pixel would not attempt Adam’s famous picture at the Snake River Overlook. At the magic hour. When the sun has set but its light lingers on for a little while. I was all set. Batteries, flash cards, lenses, tripod. Everything. I was going to attempt an Adams.

Once we reached the Snake River Overlook, the sun was still pretty high in the sky. I waited patiently for it to hide behind the mountains and scouted the area. The Adam’s photograph was planted firmly in my mind. I had to find right spot and get that framing. How hard could that be?

Very.

I struggled in frustration. I changed lenses, played with tripod heights, crouched, bent, twisted to get the Snake River snaking beautifully from the foreground and twisting away to the mountain peaks. I clicked a few pictures but they looked quite ordinary. Simply No mojo. It was getting late and I clicked away furiously at every exposure, every length I could think of. BigGeek was getting hungry and the only restaurant around for 40miles would close at 9:00pm. I packed the camera equipment sullenly. Adams would have foregone hunger and thirst for the perfect picture. I thought. There was no way I could be a good photographer of I have to keep track of mealtimes, could I.

The pictures I had taken were all super terrible. Not one made the cut. Not one. Ansel Adams had better equipment .. or his amazing talent had more to do with it. Where did I go wrong while framing? Was it the light? Then I realized. Adams took (made) his picture several decades ago. There were no trees there. From the overlook, you had an unobstructed view of the river and the mountains. My view was partially blocked by tall pines and I had to work around that. Perhaps if Adams came here to this exact spot today, he would not give it a second glace. Who knows? I was a fool to try and copy a picture blindly. You have to see it with your heart (cheesy, I know). For the 40 minutes, I could not see what Adams had. Literally and figuratively. The scene had evolved over the years, but like the proverbial immigrant stuck in the decade when he left his country, I had sought to find the familiarity of the picture in the landscape before me.

The only thing left to do now, was drive to the restaurant and eat.

Big Sky

The thing about writing about a trip you took two weeks after you get back is that everything seems a bit old, you know? A couple of weeks ago, we travelled cross-country (in a metal tube that flies) to World’s first National Park. Yellowstone. We are outdoorsy people. Our shapes and sizes belie this fact about us, but it’s true. Cross my heart. We cannot spend a week sunning on the beach; for one, who needs a tan here, we have a perma-tan and its gets to be boring. Really, really boring. We need to “do” things and “see” stuff. And there is not much in terms of history (compared to say, India or Europe) here, but tons, I mean tons of natural wonders to see.

After a long grueling flight that took us to Ohio, then Utah, we finally set our hiking boots and backpacks and 2 cameras and 6 lenses and a tripod on the soil West Yellowstone, Montana. The county is called Big Sky. What an awesome name, I think that is. I would love to live in a place like this.

West Yellowstone is your not-so-friendly Western Town. Small. The place where they look at “tourists” with disdain or at least with a certain je ne sais quoi, which is ironical, because that seems to be the only source of income for this little town. Takes them a couple of days to warm up. After that, one is actually surprised to find out that the waitress-with-a –viper-tongue or the reluctant-coffee-man actually have the requisite muscles to mould their faces into a smile.

The first I ever read about Big Sky and Montana was in “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” when I was in college. The book has become a rather kitschy icon of philosophy. In not so insignificant ways, the book exhilarated me then, when I read it again a decade later, it sadly failed to have that effect, so a word to the wise, if you really really like a book, it’s best not to read it again. Not after a decade. In the novel, the protagonist rides his motorcycle, thinking about “Quality”, philosophically. It seemed like such an idyllic environment and the name of the county stuck. Big Sky. Like Big Sur. Another name, another place, another book. One day, I said to myself, I would like to visit Big Sky. More than 15 years later, I was in Big Sky, grinning.

Yellowstone is huge. We had 5 full days to explore. And we also wanted to see the Grand Tetons. To try and see the park in 5 days is impossible. So we decided to see what we could, but see it to our heart’s content. And if that meant going to a certain canyon and falls (Fire Hole Canyon) every day as we passed, so be it. It was not a race of been-there-done-that. Or those horrid two week tours of Europe: if it’s Wednesday, it must be Belgium, kinda of thing. That’s no vacation. That won’t life your spirits or make you purr and sigh and wonder about your place in the Universe and all that lark.

Yellowstone is a place with magic. Especially - without the crowds with their $3000 Canon L-series lenses- at twilight, shrouded by a velvet sky, the hot geysers spewing steam and hissing, boiling underneath – a place where the earth comes to PMS. If it decides to get mad, it will turn everyone and their kangaroos in Australia to toast. But it has kept its cool so far, thankfully. The park has over 250 lakes. They haven’t even bothered naming all of them. Countless waterfalls and canyons. Bison roam and graze and cause traffic jams. And gently walk towards your car while you sit there and wonder about how much harm can a 2400lb creature hitting your car at low velocities can cause. The bald eagles and ospreys sit atop trees while hundreds of people park their cars at the side of the road and get their expensive equipment and try and get that perfect shot a la National Geographic. We were no different. Wolves disappear into the maze of light and shadow in the woods. Their hungry eyes leaving you with pity and discomfort. Moose and Elk come graze lazily as the summer winds down. Winter is tough in Yellowstone. Of all the elks and moose and bison and wolves and eagles we saw, how many would actually make it to next spring? It’s a jungle out there.

Chip did remarkable well. He loved the place and he had picked a sturdy stick that became a fishing rod, walking stick, weed whacker and lawnmower with his mind. He made me follow a bison for a 1/2 mile on foot because he was tired of seeing its butt and wanted to see its face. He did not understand the bit about volcanoes or geysers or wasn’t impressed by it, but he found the wide stretches of burnt trees to be fascinating and tried to educate another 4-yr old boy about forest fires while standing in a line for bathroom.

We took pictures. In fact we took a LOT of pictures. 600+. Seriously. We are pixel crazy. But the daunting task that we haven’t got down to doing is to sort, correct and convert their sizes to from Brobdingnagian proportions to human. But the pictures will be stunning. And even if they are not, we demand you stay away from truth, or at least not ask us to come near it.
So, on a scale of things (things being as the national parks we have been to) where will I place Yellowstone? At #2. It’s a beautiful place, quite unlike anything else in the world, yes, but what captured our hearts truly and still has was Denali and Kenai Fjords in Alaska. That, my friends, you should plan to visit once in your lifetime.

The White Tiger

Summary
In essence, this is a story of how Balram Halwai, a man born in a backward village in the “Darkness” and his ambition to rise above his poverty – to not stay a prey, but be the predator – one with a belly. From a job of splitting coals in a teashop, he becomes a driver (chauffeur) to a US-returned son of a landlord. He commits murder, becomes a social entrepreneur (his words), and finally turns into a businessman. The book is comprised of a series of letters written by Balram Halwai to the Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao.

What worked for me
The language. It’s witty, sarcastic, vivid. Very, very irreverent. The “Darkness” where Balram is born and lives is all too plausible and disturbingly familiar. The images of Delhi or the “Light”, as seen through Balram’s eyes are graphic – especially the scene when he sees a masterless buffalo and the lifeless load in the cart it drags. Balram’s state of mind, his observations, and his thoughts are superbly crafted. The plot is simple – or rather there is not much of a major plot here, but a series of episodes or incidences. Yet, the book is a page turner and I was sufficiently invested the characters: Balram, his US-returned employer Ashok, his mini-skirt wearing wife Pinky –all try to break out of their own “rooster coops” - all evoke a sympathy but on very different levels . I liked the fact that the book has layers of meaning. While reading it, I didn’t think much of it, but the fact that it was on the back of my mind for a week, denotes the contrary. I like books that upon chewing them a day or two present undiscovered facets and meanings. It’s like a mini treasure hunt.

What did not work for me
The book is a series of letters that Balram writes to Jaobin. Why? There is no plausible reason for this offered in the book. It felt like a cop-out – a means to bash China while the author bashed India. That is the biggest problem with the narrative. Also, given the scope of the book: India, its dichotomy – Gurgaon and real “gaon”, corruption, caste struggles, poverty, the observations sometimes seemed a bit naïve. Or Jaded. Or both. Corrupt “public servants” sitting under framed pictures of Gandhi is so 1970s filmy. It’s such an overworked idiom. Which led me to think, that perhaps Adiga was aiming this book for an entirely different readership? Not Indians like me, or not Indians at all, but aiming it at the “western” reader who thinks India is all saris and spice. And elephants. Well, there are several mentions of the buffalo in the book, so at least in that regard he is not too far off.

Hot or drop
Hmm. Tough one. If you have nothing else to read, do pick this up. It’s a slightly disturbing read. If you are like me, an Indian, who grew up in India, I wouldn’t ask you to go out of way to read it. But if you do pick it up, it will remind you somewhat of Goodfellas.

C6H10N402

I have a fairly severe addiction. To the above mentioned substance. While I don’t abuse the substance per se, I definitely do need a fix on a diurnal basis. As BigGeek and Chip have learned through hard and nasty experience, its best to stay a few arm lengths away until I have imbibed my daily quota and my brain cells have all been sorted out nicely.
This morning as I drove to work, my head ached, my feet tapped themselves. Thank god there was no traffic, I would not have hesitated to run people over. Just kidding. Or not.

Withdrawl looks like this and does not feel good at all.

I went into my cube, fished out my bag and counted dimes and nickels and pennies. I needed $1.60. I found it, ran back down and entered the cafeteria.

Oh! Blessed Caffeine.

Here I am now, bright and chirpy, having downed 16 oz of the finest Columbian that has made its way here through Seattle. My brain can finally get down to work, and people around me are safe. I am fairly tame when I am well caffeinated.

I have been drinking coffee ever since I remember. No, seriously. My mother, many decades ago, weighed the cons of coffee to the pros of milk and decided there was absolutely no harm in stirring a small teaspoon of NesCafe into my morning milk. Which was the only way I drank it. And wait, before you roll your eyes at me, my mom prior to the NesCafe, would try and stir malt-extract-with-fish-oil into my milk.

Anyone remember what it was called? Gluta-something. Blech. Tar tastes better. I still carry emotional scars of the Gluta-something days. After that, I refused to drink milk. My mother claims I refused to drink milk way before that and that Gluta-something was a way to improve its taste (what was she thinking?) and get the additional nutrients into the skinny-minny that I was (I am not any more; I wish I were, but am so not).

So, after going down the rungs by trying to get me to drink Horlicks (yuck), Complan (still yuck, it should be named Complain, not Complan), Bournvita (not bad, but still a bit yuck), she finally settled down on Nescafe. Which sowed the seeds of my addiction.

I try and wriggle my way out of staying overnight in households where they don’t worship the altar of caffeine. Or at least brew a good cup every morning. My dad makes a mean cuppa of filter coffee and my mother-in-law is kindly disposed to it as well. She drinks Bru – which is not bad at all and she whips it up to a nice froth.

In our household, we are a bit snobbish. Beans are carefully selected. We are partial to Colombian. Freshly ground every morning and then brewed with two unbleached filters into a thermally-insulated carafe. Not the hotplate ones – they burn the coffee. Any variations in the quality of water (yes), coffee or filters is met with pouring the brew down the drain, intense cursing, severe withdrawal and re-brewing.

Which is what happened this morning. BigGeek half made the coffee. He rinsed the carafe, and poured water and left it at that. When I came down, I rinsed the carafe, filled the water, ground the beans and brewed. The resulting brew would have put dishwater to shame. It was dilute and BigGeek had used “smelly” water and so I had to throw it out (or water my plants with it). There was no time to re-brew which is how this post started.