Appa mulled over something as he drove us to his workplace that weekend.
I popped out my nose from the tinted windows of our Daewoo 90s as Amma warned me of the perils. The air stamps a mark in my memory to this day -briny, scented of sea, juxtaposed with whiffs of delicate Oudh scents from souq doorways and passing strangers with embellished Kummas.
I watched the sun pour over a city that was at the brink of embracing modernity; yet fervently gripping on to the old world charm as rows of whitewashed houses gleamed like pearls. All nestled in the paternal embrace of the regal mountains, gently overlooking the Gulf of Oman . Roads meandered between endless lines of date palm trees and the coy weaves of Bougainvillea trees, their magenta blooms decorating the earthen, beige walls that coloured the city. Accessorised with a glimmer, the souqs curled in to narrow, dampened alleyways of gold, silver, frankincense and saffron. The sounds were of distant hums and victory calls as the fishing boats celebrated full hearts and heavy hulls.
The sun gently sank into the depth of the distant horizon , as a sepia tone set through the city of contrasts; one of ancient forts; reluctantly peeking at rising skyscrapers; where every street and breeze held a promise of balance, self- preservation and humanity as the greatest testimony of progress.
Years later, in a moment of reflection in some corner flea-bazaar in South Bombay, I stood recognising the colors, backdrops and patterns from this city that had weaved eclecticism into my being.
We pulled up to the parking lot of Al- Bustan bakery, a French style patisserie that Appa managed at the time. This was a classic representation of
Prowling globalisation in Muscat mid 90s , where grilled meats, charred vegetables and Qubz (Traditional earth oven baked breads) were being occasionally replaced by western fantasies like Pain au Chocolat and eclairs. Modest, hand kneaded dough of Qubz now tumbled in great vats with rotating blades, accurately dosed with yeast. The ghost of tradition now hangs on the walls of glass and conveyor belts as uniformly formed pieces of Qubz marched into relentless machines.
I was exhilarated by the buttery aroma of fresh croissants, the hints of vanilla and caramel and occasional cinammon. The pleasure of perfect confections, treated all but one of my senses. My favourite chef, Tony uncle, moved with measured precision, dusting sugar on stacked layers of Mille-feuille.
Appa picked a loaf of freshly baked white bread, carefully inspected the edges with meticulous rigor and nodded in approval. I brooded that my fifth sense was unlucky that day and followed him through the door as the decadence faded behind me. The warm scents of baked fares still drifted as I hopped on the cobbled street outside. It was getting dark and my baby sister let out a wail. Appa hurried us into the car and sped away.
On our way back, he craned his neck to look at me momentarily as he shifted gears. “When term starts, this will be your new school” , he said, pointing at a neat, rectangular edifice with mosaic windows. Shrubs were pruned and the grass was neatly cut even shorter in the adjacent playground.
I shifted and crumbled within. “But what about Athira? Will she come too?” I asked as my eyes welled. I had only started collecting the five star stickers for excellence that Ms. Chitra was handing out.Just when I was gaining adulation, I must now be thrusted into new waters? Life’s tyrannous wayswere sprouting up more complex feelings of confusion and rage, unbeknownst to the five year old me. Hitherto hidden behind the oversimplified illusion of happiness; while playing with Amma’s Mann chatti (clay pot) and pretending like I had to feed my vagrant husband and meddlesome children.
Summer had rolled into that one doomsday, term beginning of Class One. Amma and I rioted through hair and sartorial perfection, as my first impression was on the line here. Deliciously crisp stripped shorts paired with a shirt as white as whisper. I had successfully negotiated my way out of pinning a handkerchief to my breast pocket, a minor convenience in Amma’s eyes but a symbol of shame in mine. She placed the blue bag on my shoulders, tied my laces and huddled me into the car.
The school gates loomed taller than what Iâd remembered them to be in passing. It was as if the world had metamorphosed into Goliath proportions. The sharp and commanding bells had children running hither tither and at the entrance of 1-A, Appa left his grip of my hands. My heart descended into gloom.
Mrs D’s friendly face and bright classroom walls were no respite to my sullenness. I sank in the sea of unfamiliar chatter, not endowed by natural exuberance by those around me. I was gifted with invisibility, a cape that I would adorn for years to come. I wanted to blend into the paint cans stacked in the play area. I smiled weakly at a boy who waved at me , I passed by rows till I stopped at one.
I sat down , already exhausted in spirit and looked at my bench partner. A girl with a kind, cherubic face and unspoiled gaze that shifted nervously between neatly pinned pig tails. Her eyes shimmered with luminous innocence. Welcoming without words, she pushed a steel tiffin box towards me.
“Take, I got it from home”she said. Hesitant, my hands trembled slightly as I picked one of this unknown treat. “Thanks, what'ss your name?”, I asked courageously.
“Geeta” . Her eyes shone more, eager for a reaction as I slowly sunk my teeth into the golden orbs of a moment of warmth. Soft, grainy, unknown, each morsel felt like comfort and familiarity, finally. I met her gaze.
“Mummy made them” she gleamed with pride. Till that moment, I had only known of Tony uncle to be a gifted confectioner, and in no memory I had encountered this delectable treat. In awe, I asked her “What is this? These are so delicious”.
She giggled as she tossed her plait behind her, said “Besan laddoo”(gram flour sweet meat )
On several lunch breaks, she would open her box as though it was a secret treasure trove and as her cheeks blushed and eyes lightened, she would say “Anu, Mummy made these for you.” I would lighten up and snatch them, sinking my teeth into the warmth of the ghee and noting hints of spices, no longer bothered that I had been chided for my shyness by Mrs D earlier in the day.
That morning, groveling through an uncomfortable rush of little demons, I reached my usual spot. My eyes wandered to meet my friend. She looked solemn, her shoulders curled inward and outlined by her pig tails. Her eyes, otherwise lit up, looked like dark pools of unshed sorrow. I sat beside her and touched her shoulder; “Geeta, what happened?” Her eyes, now red, met me. A single tear traced a path down the curves of her cheek as a quiet betrayal of her pain. Her voice quivered as she said, “Anu, I have no brother to play with at home.”
I jumped, emboldened and confident that I could relieve her of this burden, confidently professed, “No problem, I will come to your place and play with you.”
I was invigorated as her laughter echoed and spirit rose.
I had promised to visit during Ganesh Chaturthi, a festival that was deeply close to Geeta’s family traditions. As I hailed from Kerala, I had no former experience of vibrancy, extravagance and grandeur.
Onam, the state festival most widely celebrated by the Malayali community in Muscat, would often not be marked by grand parades. We did not witness Vallamkalli (Boat race) or fiercely compete in games like back home.
Quite contrary to that, we would squat around line of sadhya meals, quietly end with payasam. The air loomed with an unspoken longing for home.
I know, from a ‘Know your Festivals’ book which was my only view to a world beyond mine about Ganesh Chaturthi. A grand celebration of devotion that came with great frolic and procession. I sprung in joy at the thought of a day with my friend.
The sights of her home were novel to me. They formed impressions, like a gateway to a new world. This was my first tryst with cultural diversity and acceptance of the unknown- I saw the adorned temple at the corner of her living room that cherished idols of Lord Ganesha, heard rhythmic chants from devotional prayers, smelled sandal and fresh mogra, observed the labrythine rangoli patterns that shifted colors in the slanting light of dusk.
My senses forayed into unchartered province in her home as a tapestry of discoveries invoked new memories; one of brass vessels gleaming in the kitchen, simmering Varan (lentil) on the kitchen stove and the flickering lamp in front of idols in the kitchen. The aromas amalgamated - flowers, masalas and all.
Every nook of her home replete with piety, love and compassion. In retrospect, her family warmed the home with timber of kindness and grace.
Her mother, a lady with kind eyes and round cheeks just like her, cooked sumptuous Maharashtrian meals. That day, the spread was festive Modak, thalipeet and Puran Poli; every bite was woven into memory, a celebration of inclusion and portal in my palette that left a benchmark for the best flavours of Maharashtrian Cuisine. Even later, in my Sahyadri quest for authentic food, I would often shut my eyes to quietly conjure these tastes imprints as the perfect frame of reference.
I gazed into the kitchen. Aunty was swirling golden flour in a heavy bottom pan. A nutty aroma wafted and the ghee melted in, coaxing out warmth and wrapping the space in comfort. She moved her hands swiftly to shape the soft mixture into globes and lovingly handed one to me.
“Besan laddoos, for you”, she said with a loving smile.
Seasons turned. Geeta and I parted between seven oceans but bonded over stories of scraped knees and shared lunches. Our comfort and camaraderie permeated as we evolved through times. The city of Mumbai reunited us as we laughed, quipped and shared tales of whims and woes of adulthood.
Our palettes had travelled the corners of the world, sensibilities had now shape-shifted far from our childhood identities. As we sauntered across the chaotic gullies of Mumbai, the city buzzed with relentless energy. We crossed Irani cafes and street stalls, only to hop into a fusion eatery that intrigued the locals. Zucchini noodles. Vegan Brownies. Fruit Teas. Jest and conversations about transformations, memories and choices.
I sat across the table and gazed at her as if she was the wide eyed, shy girl from class One. “Geeta, I have always looked far and wide, for one dish that seems to fall short, no matter where I try it”.
Her eyes gleamed in pride , her smile narrowed the corners of her eye as she paused to look at me. “ You should come home, Mummy has made them.”
