Some days ago our cook went missing, and the onus came on me to fix a quick dinner. As is my habit whenever I am flummoxed, I called my mother- "Mummy, what can I make with Brinjal that is quick and edible?" Pat came the reply- "Make Jhatpat Baingan!" After I had got over my bouts of laughter, I got the recipe from her- shallow fry hing, garlic, dry pepper and turmeric; add brinjal, potatoes and tomatoes, some water and salt to taste, and close the pressure cooker lid. After one whistle, the miracle is done. While I was cooking, the smile never left my face.
I am married and my three siblings are 40 year olds with kids now; but a problem of any magnitude in any part of the world, and a prompt call is placed to mummy who sorts it out in a matter of minutes. Recipes are given, clothes designed, medicines prescribed and bickering couples put in place, all by that one lady sitting in a remote corner of India.
So many times have we wondered how someone as smart, talented and beautiful as her could sit at home and still be satisfied! But when one sees the way she utilises her creativity and time, one is left in no doubt whatsoever. Very few moments in her life are dedicated to leisure- a free afternoon brings her scissors and sewing machine into action, and a designer salwar suit takes form from an old sari which I would have given away to my maid without thinking. I have lost count of the times that I have been asked which boutique I bought my dress from, and replied proudly that it was designed and stitched by my mother. My most special memories are of days in school and college when I'd come back from a tough exam and find my favorite rasmalai or rasgullas on the table, all whipped up by that magician at home; they were better than the best of KC Das, mind you! Her knitting designs are to be seen to be believed, and not to forget, she is a very talented singer! Her wit and repartee make her a formidable opponent in any discussion. I remember a time when in the midst of a heated argument between my parents, I came to papa to get my report card signed. He shouted, "Go ask your mother who your father is!" Now, any other decent lady would have been reduced to tears at this, but my mother calmly pointed me to our ugly gardener outside and asked me to go get my card signed. That was it- the whole family rolled on the floor with laughter, papa included and reduced to tears all right.
She has always been a fiercely protective mother to all of us and especially to me, her youngest. I was born very sick, and doctors had no hope for me. She fought fate and nursed me right back to life. I was 4 when she fought again, and succeeded in getting a re-test for a dictation which I flunked because I did not feel like writing at that particular time- she informed the hapless nun from Kerala that pronouncing 'twenty' as 'twendy' was no way to stimulate a child into writing. A few months ago my husband & I had problems with our landlord, and she demanded his phone number to put him in place. We were greatly amused and needless to say, didn't share his number for fear that the poor chap would never be able to take another phone call without wetting his pants. She has always been there to support us as we face our battles in life; of course, she'd fight all of them herself if we'd only give her the bloody sword and sit back!
The cherry on this very special cake is a balanced head on her shoulders, which makes her a sounding board for her entire family. She has managed a household bustling with four children (not counting papa), a number of pets and all the accompanying responsibilites with love, sensitivity and sensibility, without ever showing a hint of strain or overwork, and still finding the time for all her creative outlets. How she does it all, I have no clue. But I do know that if she was not my very own Mommeeeee, I'd envy her like hell! And for the record, the Jhatpat Baingan was brilliant.....
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Meryl learns to bark
For people who want an introduction to my lovely labrador, please read 'Meryl enters our life'.
Meryl's life was perfect, we imagined- she had a loving family, and lived in a house with a huge garden. In that garden she chased around crows, hid bones in the mud, and rolled in the grass the whole day long. And since she showed no talent or passion for anything besides food and play, she was kept off all the serious work that dogs have to do at times- like learn tricks, play watchdog etc. For Meryl, every day was a holiday.
But every silver lining has a cloud, and Meryl's life had one too. She could not bark. She could growl, guffaw, and cough. But she could not bark. In the first year of her life she would often run behind our other dog, Chubby, when she barked and chased stray dogs, trying to imitate her. But all that came out was some sound with the accompaniment of air, like a 'foof'.
My mother's theory was that the air came out because Meryl's face had a lot of loose skin like other labs, which was filled with air. The rest of us said that the simple reason was that Meryl was a nincompoop. My mother stuck to her guns however, and kept trying to teach Meryl to bark. After many failed attempts and 'foof's, Meryl was nicknamed 'Fufu' and left to her own devices.
One summer night, the much awaited miracle happened. Our bedroom and our parent's bedroom had a common balcony, and we had left the doors to it open as it was very hot. The two dogs were sleeping out there. Late in the night, Chubby let out a solitary bark. And as always happens in a colony with many dogs, all her canine friends started howling and barking in unison. All that is, except Meryl. Now, I am sure that one cannot feel more left out than this. A late-night barking party, with every dog who is somebody attending. And the dog sitting beside her leading the pack. Imaging the sense of futility, the sheer frustration at not being able to get a sound out!
After the barking ended, all was silent again for a minute or so. We had all been awakened by the commotion, and were tossing and turning to get back to sleep. Just then, Meryl let out a low growl, followed by a louder and more assertive one. And then came a big, wholesome, 'WOOF'. This was it! The whole family got up in their beds to give a sitting ovation to Meryl! She was so taken aback by our reaction that she let out another tiny 'woof' and kept quiet for the rest of the night. From that night onwards, 'Fufu' could bark as well as any dog. But the name stuck for the rest of her life.
Meryl's life was perfect, we imagined- she had a loving family, and lived in a house with a huge garden. In that garden she chased around crows, hid bones in the mud, and rolled in the grass the whole day long. And since she showed no talent or passion for anything besides food and play, she was kept off all the serious work that dogs have to do at times- like learn tricks, play watchdog etc. For Meryl, every day was a holiday.
But every silver lining has a cloud, and Meryl's life had one too. She could not bark. She could growl, guffaw, and cough. But she could not bark. In the first year of her life she would often run behind our other dog, Chubby, when she barked and chased stray dogs, trying to imitate her. But all that came out was some sound with the accompaniment of air, like a 'foof'.
My mother's theory was that the air came out because Meryl's face had a lot of loose skin like other labs, which was filled with air. The rest of us said that the simple reason was that Meryl was a nincompoop. My mother stuck to her guns however, and kept trying to teach Meryl to bark. After many failed attempts and 'foof's, Meryl was nicknamed 'Fufu' and left to her own devices.
One summer night, the much awaited miracle happened. Our bedroom and our parent's bedroom had a common balcony, and we had left the doors to it open as it was very hot. The two dogs were sleeping out there. Late in the night, Chubby let out a solitary bark. And as always happens in a colony with many dogs, all her canine friends started howling and barking in unison. All that is, except Meryl. Now, I am sure that one cannot feel more left out than this. A late-night barking party, with every dog who is somebody attending. And the dog sitting beside her leading the pack. Imaging the sense of futility, the sheer frustration at not being able to get a sound out!
After the barking ended, all was silent again for a minute or so. We had all been awakened by the commotion, and were tossing and turning to get back to sleep. Just then, Meryl let out a low growl, followed by a louder and more assertive one. And then came a big, wholesome, 'WOOF'. This was it! The whole family got up in their beds to give a sitting ovation to Meryl! She was so taken aback by our reaction that she let out another tiny 'woof' and kept quiet for the rest of the night. From that night onwards, 'Fufu' could bark as well as any dog. But the name stuck for the rest of her life.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Meryl enters our life
Before anything else, let me thank Neelkantan for inspiring me to start my own blog...had been looking for a writing outlet for a long time now. My first set of blogs is a tribute to my late she-dog, Meryl. This is nothing fancy...just a memoir, a way of remembering a very special dog with fondness. But then, some things that Meryl did would have been a smash hit, had a movie been made on them. So, as and when I remember something funny about her, I'll just write and post it. Hope some dog lovers will enjoy reading about these anecdotes, as much as i enjoyed experiencing them. Readers, please let me know how I can change my style of writing to make the anecdotes more interesting.
Meryl was a pedigreed labrador, gifted to my father by his friend. Now, if Kennel Club of India had a certification for Dog Lovers, I am sure my family would make the A-List; but for Meryl, we were entirely unprepared. We already had another bitch called Chubby- a cross breed spaniel that I had picked from an unwanted litter in a friend's house. Chubby was much loved by all of us and was now in the prime of her life; we were in no mood to divide our love and attention between two dogs. We had always been a one-dog family till then, and saw no reason to change the trend. Besides, though Meryl was brought in by my father, the responsibility for her care would eventually fall on my mother; and managing two dogs, besides a household with three kids (fourth away from home) was too big an ask for her. Anyway, my father always has had a penchant for 'royalty' and 'pedigree', and his stubbornness prevailed in the end.
Meryl's first day in our house was nothing short of a disaster. Her very sight was a disappointment to start with. She was nothing like the cute and cuddly puppy we had all thought she would be; we had imagined an added burden, but a sweet one all the same. She was 4 months old, well past the little pup stage, with a questioning face, long and gangly legs, ears bigger than her face, an ever drooling mouth, and a vigorously wagging tail. As we looked on with resigned disappointment, she happily trotted around the living room, sniffing at each of us, trying to establish some familiarity with the people and the place. As she passed the center table, there was a swish of her tail and a sickening sound of breaking glass; her tail, which seemed to have a personality of it's own, had thrown a glass of water from the table. Meryl was in, with a smash.
Her entry into the house had it's political manifestations as well. There were now two factions in the house- one was my father, whe sidelined Chubby entirely and showered all his attention on Meryl. The second had me and my sisters protesting against this blatant display of racism (Meryl was golden and pedigreed, while Chubby was black and cross-breed). We reciprocated by showering all our attention on Chubby, and started a Meryl-abuse campaign. Chubby was hoisted permanently on our bed, her 'neglected' head on our laps, and Meryl was chased away if she so much as entered the room. My mother was the neutral party, endeavouring to give equal attention to mascots of both the groups. Ironic, considering that she had the most work because of the dogs. But then, that is why mothers are mothers, and the rest of us are just ordinary people.
All said and done, Meryl was only a dog. She was not interested in politics- all she wanted to do was play with us. Now, how long could one resist that? And she was charming- typical labrador wrinkles on the face, a frowning forehead which gave her an ever thinking look, limpid eyes, and a perenially wet nose. She was very gentle and warm, and it was heaven to snuggle with her.
To top it all, she was, without knowing it, incredibly funny. Her life revolved around slices of bread, and she would go to the extent of plotting and scheming to get them. Eveytime I saw her sitting idle instead of chasing lizards on the wall or crows outside, I would imagine her cooking up something new in her mind. She tried many ways of enhancing her bread income. She learnt to perform some dog-tricks first. Then she started to get in the morning paper in exchange for a slice, and then the evening paper as well. On days when the newspaper would not come, she would sit at the gate for hours, waiting for the newspaperman. She probably waited more for him than his own family at home. At times, when she felt hungry in between, she would just pick an old paper from the rack and bring it to one of us. One of her more ingenious ways was picking the day's paper from the table, walking out to the gate with it, and bringing it in again, pretending it had just come in, good as new.
Overtime, my sisters and I grew to accept and love Meryl...but my father continued to be partial against Chubby. Thankfully, this phase only lasted for a few months. My father had a habit of going out for evening walks, and at times he'd take the dogs along. On one such evening, papa was walking with the two dogs, down a lane in our officer's colony. There was some construction going on outside one of the houses, and on a pile of sand were lying four street mongrels, lazing about. At the smell of two approaching dogs and a man, all of them were instantly alerted, and with a war-howl, attacked the trio. At this attack, what was a threesome walking in harmony in the same direction, suddenly became a tug of war. Chubby pulled at her leash, trying to break away and attack the pack, and Meryl also pulled at her leash with equal aggression, trying to break away and run in the opposite direction, abandoning my father and Chubby to their own fate.
This tug of war helped to balance my father's affection for both the dogs, and he held Chubby in high regard for her courage. He often chided Meryl for running away that day, a criticism which she little understood, offering her paw to him for shaking, or rolling on the grass, ever hopeful for the next slice of bread to come her way.
Meryl was a pedigreed labrador, gifted to my father by his friend. Now, if Kennel Club of India had a certification for Dog Lovers, I am sure my family would make the A-List; but for Meryl, we were entirely unprepared. We already had another bitch called Chubby- a cross breed spaniel that I had picked from an unwanted litter in a friend's house. Chubby was much loved by all of us and was now in the prime of her life; we were in no mood to divide our love and attention between two dogs. We had always been a one-dog family till then, and saw no reason to change the trend. Besides, though Meryl was brought in by my father, the responsibility for her care would eventually fall on my mother; and managing two dogs, besides a household with three kids (fourth away from home) was too big an ask for her. Anyway, my father always has had a penchant for 'royalty' and 'pedigree', and his stubbornness prevailed in the end.
Meryl's first day in our house was nothing short of a disaster. Her very sight was a disappointment to start with. She was nothing like the cute and cuddly puppy we had all thought she would be; we had imagined an added burden, but a sweet one all the same. She was 4 months old, well past the little pup stage, with a questioning face, long and gangly legs, ears bigger than her face, an ever drooling mouth, and a vigorously wagging tail. As we looked on with resigned disappointment, she happily trotted around the living room, sniffing at each of us, trying to establish some familiarity with the people and the place. As she passed the center table, there was a swish of her tail and a sickening sound of breaking glass; her tail, which seemed to have a personality of it's own, had thrown a glass of water from the table. Meryl was in, with a smash.
Her entry into the house had it's political manifestations as well. There were now two factions in the house- one was my father, whe sidelined Chubby entirely and showered all his attention on Meryl. The second had me and my sisters protesting against this blatant display of racism (Meryl was golden and pedigreed, while Chubby was black and cross-breed). We reciprocated by showering all our attention on Chubby, and started a Meryl-abuse campaign. Chubby was hoisted permanently on our bed, her 'neglected' head on our laps, and Meryl was chased away if she so much as entered the room. My mother was the neutral party, endeavouring to give equal attention to mascots of both the groups. Ironic, considering that she had the most work because of the dogs. But then, that is why mothers are mothers, and the rest of us are just ordinary people.
All said and done, Meryl was only a dog. She was not interested in politics- all she wanted to do was play with us. Now, how long could one resist that? And she was charming- typical labrador wrinkles on the face, a frowning forehead which gave her an ever thinking look, limpid eyes, and a perenially wet nose. She was very gentle and warm, and it was heaven to snuggle with her.
To top it all, she was, without knowing it, incredibly funny. Her life revolved around slices of bread, and she would go to the extent of plotting and scheming to get them. Eveytime I saw her sitting idle instead of chasing lizards on the wall or crows outside, I would imagine her cooking up something new in her mind. She tried many ways of enhancing her bread income. She learnt to perform some dog-tricks first. Then she started to get in the morning paper in exchange for a slice, and then the evening paper as well. On days when the newspaper would not come, she would sit at the gate for hours, waiting for the newspaperman. She probably waited more for him than his own family at home. At times, when she felt hungry in between, she would just pick an old paper from the rack and bring it to one of us. One of her more ingenious ways was picking the day's paper from the table, walking out to the gate with it, and bringing it in again, pretending it had just come in, good as new.
Overtime, my sisters and I grew to accept and love Meryl...but my father continued to be partial against Chubby. Thankfully, this phase only lasted for a few months. My father had a habit of going out for evening walks, and at times he'd take the dogs along. On one such evening, papa was walking with the two dogs, down a lane in our officer's colony. There was some construction going on outside one of the houses, and on a pile of sand were lying four street mongrels, lazing about. At the smell of two approaching dogs and a man, all of them were instantly alerted, and with a war-howl, attacked the trio. At this attack, what was a threesome walking in harmony in the same direction, suddenly became a tug of war. Chubby pulled at her leash, trying to break away and attack the pack, and Meryl also pulled at her leash with equal aggression, trying to break away and run in the opposite direction, abandoning my father and Chubby to their own fate.
This tug of war helped to balance my father's affection for both the dogs, and he held Chubby in high regard for her courage. He often chided Meryl for running away that day, a criticism which she little understood, offering her paw to him for shaking, or rolling on the grass, ever hopeful for the next slice of bread to come her way.
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