Popcorn!

For children, cinema halls are more about popcorn than about the movie! You cannot skip the ritual. You get the popcorn before the movie or make a dash for it during the intermission. Today’s multiplexes are well stocked. There’s regular popcorn, popcorn laced with butter and for the ones with a sweet-tooth, popcorn garnished with caramel! The vendor scoops fresh popcorn from the glass-bin and hands over an enormous carton heaped to the brim with popcorn.

Popcorn is truly weightless. You would expect a carton of this size to carry enormous weight and require all your strength.  The anti-climax catches you by total surprise! You feel as though you are the giant Kumbhakarna. You can carry an entire mountain of popcorn and even blow the entire edifice away through a few forceful breaths from your nostrils! Many a hapless child has clutched the carton with hard hands, only to find the popcorn pop up…and out! It is simply too light to handle!

When your 6-year-old daughter volunteers to handle the popcorn, you allow her to carry and walk beside. Off and on, you pick up popcorn bits from the heaped top and munch. Your 6-year-old is worried, “Appa! Don’t eat all the popcorn! What will we eat then?” Popcorn makes you philosophical and you cannot resist some tidbits of wisdom, “You know, this whole world is a giant popcorn! It looks huge and frightening, but like popcorn, it has no weight, no substantiality. It cannot touch You, the real You! Remember this always!” Your 6-year-old looks at you, all confused, blinks a few times, but keeps walking!

Movie halls are dimly lit. The terrain is anything but flat- you must navigate through shallow steps, petite seats, and cramped aisles. The combination is deadly, especially when you carry popcorn that extends over the eye-level. As they say, there is many a slip between the cup and the lip. Several popcorn cartons never make it beyond the Everest basecamp. One tiny stumble is enough.  By the time you pick yourself up, popcorn has toppled and scattered, like tiny, white blossoms, all over the basecamp turf!

The rest of the movie-gang is ravenously hungry- waiting for the popcorn in their seats. Elbows and hands, palms and fingers- all dig into it with gusto. “Slow! Slow! There is enough for everyone!” you try reasoning.

There is something irresistible about popcorn. You keep munching and asking for more. The craving is insatiable, like fire fed with ghee. May be, it is the aroma, may be the crunchy texture or perhaps the heady mix of salt-and-pepper. At times, the hunger makes you terribly impatient. You are sitting in a corner, towards the end of the row, languishing at Ganga-Sagar. The popcorn carton is now at the other end, at Gangotri. How many hands must it pass through and how much content will survive by the time the river reaches you?  It bugs you. “Next time, I am going to buy a full popcorn, all for myself!” you take a firm resolve!

Cliffhanger movie plots with sudden shocks are a total no-no! All it takes is one startled jerk of the hand- the popcorn goes for a toss! Serious movies and popcorn don’t go together too. If you are seated beside a group of popcorn gluttons, all you hear is the incessant crunching and munching. The more you focus on the movie dialogues, the more popcorn you hear. You clench your teeth in anger, but the popcorn chomping isn’t going to stop anytime soon!

A watershed moment in my High School life revolved around popcorn. The teacher was absent for the day. In the newfound freedom, boys went on a rampage- toppling chairs, climbing over desks, and ransacking the entire classroom. Boys will after all…be boys! One of the students had a bright idea. With the ceiling fan running at full blast- he flung a packet of popcorn at the fan. The ceiling fan sliced through the packet and soon, it was raining popcorn! Students ran helter-skelter, their mouths held up, in a bid to catch the popcorn raindrops. The commotion was total.

The principal rushed from his office. His expression said it all. His lower jaw dropped as he surveyed the aftermath- a riot-hit classroom littered with popcorn shrapnel!

What followed next, is left to the reader’s imagination! Yes, there was punishment, there was “imposition”, there was lot more.

From then on, popcorn was banned in school.

Handling the pressure of a pressure-cooker!

Some of us approach a pressure cooker as one would, a dynamite that is about to go off. That’s how forbidding its appearance is. You see the cooker smoldering. It is working up to a crescendo by the second. The apparatus wobbles, the excess steam escapes through the sides and the “weight” on the cooker-top quivers. Any moment, like a steam engine that has sounded the horn, it is on the verge of blasting away…out of the station, firing on all cylinders!

“Be sure to switch it off after 6 whistles!” wife instructs and shuts the study-room to teach a virtual class. You hear the first whistle loud and clear. You go off and sit with your laptop. Amnesia sets in. You lose the plot entirely. Suddenly, you hear a voice from the other room, “How many whistles has it been?”

Whistles? You said whistles? You cannot recall a thing. There is sudden panic. In these situations, I have found “Four whistles!” is a safe answer for the viva-voce question. It is neither too less nor too more. Wife has a different count. “I heard 8 whistles already!” You have half a mind to argue, “If you are anyway counting, why don’t you switch it off on your own?” It’s like a Mathematics teacher who forces a mental-sum drill on the students, just to keep them on tenterhooks and busy, with absolutely no bigger purpose.

Sometimes, long-distance help is needed, when the spouse is away, and you are handling the cooker for the first time. You suddenly find there are many pressure-cookers at home. Did they somehow multiply on their own? There is a pressure-pan, a mini-pressure cooker, an old mid-sized pressure cooker and a new larger one. Which one do you use?

A pressure-pan looks ideal. But once you stack a vessel of rice and another container of “dal”, try as you might, you cannot fit the cap over the turban. You move to the mid-sized pressure cooker.  The lid is too loose. “Try a different lid. One of them will fit right”, says the long-distance voice. It’s like having a dozen keys in hand, to open one lock. The trial-and-error method is hard work, bordering on futility. “None of them work!” you respond, all frustrated. “Did you fit the gasket?”, comes the voice from the other end.

Gasket? Gasket! How did you forget that rubber “hula-hoops ring” that goes into the insides of the lid! Finally, everything is prim and proper- the cooker base contains half-inch of water, the vessels are stacked, and the lid is closed snug. The stove is lit. You wait- 5 minutes…10 minutes and more. The theory is- steam will gush out from the cooker-top- that’s when you must fit the “weight” to the snout. It never gets to that point. It’s like a firecracker that shows signs of promise, it flickers from time to time to announce it is still alive but refuses to progress to the fission-point.

The long-distance advice is vague and inconclusive. “Stretch the gasket a few times. If that does not help, strike the sides of the lid with the tongs. It will keep the steam from escaping.” By now, patience has run out. Can we have a simpler gadget please? “I think I will have bread-jam for dinner and finish off!”- you announce, turn off the stove and abandon the cooker.

A pressure cooker has several touch-points, touchy points! Fitting the “weight” to the cooker-top is not elementary. You worry whether the steam will singe your hand. Your feet refuse to go any closer than a safe, 4 feet, pandemic distance. If the water is too less, it can burn the content and the cooker. If the water is too much, it rushes into the rice vessel and now, the rice emerges with a head-bath, all wet and soggy. It is tight-rope walking all the way.

In particular, the pressure cooker is like your 2-year-old that reserves its tantrums for the most trying time. You have just switched off the cooker. Time is at a premium. You want to quickly open the cooker, gobble up the rice and head out. You try to remove the “weight” from the cooker-top. It is moody- it fumes, spews steam and more venom, and tells you to back off. A minute later, you try again. You get the same response. This is too much. In a rage, you use brute force and yank the “weight” off.

Punishment for the wrong action is swift and severe. The cooker turns into an angry volcano that has been stoked. “Dal” from the vessel spews out like lava. It is ejected from the cooker-top with such ferocity, that the kitchen ceiling is now coated with a fine “Warli-Art” design!

As for the cooker content- the rice still feels like hard grain and the dal is just as crispy. What do you do now?

Bread-Jam…bread-jam…is your all-weather…true, faithful friend in this whole, wide world.

 

Train to Bangalore

Today, the Vande Bharat and Shatabdhi occupy the pride of place, when it comes to trains from Chennai to Bengaluru. Turn the clock back by 4 decades. The train that enjoyed such celebrity status was "The Brindavan Express". Brindavan Express lived up to its name. Like foliage lit in the midday sun, the Brindavan Express shone- colored in contrasting shades of bright yellow and green. It started at around 7 in the morning from erstwhile Madras and reached Bangalore by 1 pm.

Memorizing the names of the stations from Madras to Bangalore was easy. Unlike other routes, the prominent stations have stayed the same. The list was short-  Basin-bridge, Arakkonam, Katpadi, Jolarpet, Bangarpet, Bangalore Cantt and finally Bangalore City.

Just after Arakkonam, a childhood fantasy took over- you had to look out of the window for "the fork". One track went straight to Mumbai, while the other swerved to the left to reach Bangalore. It reminded you of Robert Frost's poem- "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel on both!" When on the Dadar Express to Mumbai, just like the poet, you wondered, what if you were on "The Brindavan" and took the left fork? What exotic towns you would pass by, and what awaited you at the destination?

Katpadi Junction, with its township of Vellore, had a different look and feel. A roll of hills greeted you- hills that were mostly bare and pocked with grotestque boulders. You were reminded of the "Train song"- written by Harindranath Chattopadhyay and popularized in a Hindi film by Ashok Kumar- "Rail gaadi chhuk-chhuk-chhuk-chhuk". One of the lines in the song went as follows- "Vaaniyambaadi-Katpadi....Katpadi-Vaaniyambaadi". The names of the stations, in alliterative arrangement, gave the song, a feel of a train on the move- a train that rumbled over vales and hills. It was this Katpadi Junction that supplied text to this epochal song!

Jolarpet- you liked the ring of the station's name. You couldn't be morose and say "Jolarpet". Jolarpet had such a jolly and peppy feel to it- like a horse on a gallop! By the time you reached Bangarpet, you had crossed the border. The script on the station signboards changed from Tamil to Kannada. To some of us, both scripts looked equally foreign, except for a minor detail- if the letters were more curvy, it had to be Kannada, else, it was hopefully Tamil.

The stretch between Jolarpet and Bangarpet had a family centric detail. My maternal grandma had her chain snatched in this sector, during a night-train journey from Chennai to Bangalore. "Why did you sleep with your head by the window, grandma? Did you see the thief's face? Did he look like a villain in the movie, with a moustache and an evil grin?" we pestered grandma. From then on, any train journey, meant following this cardinal rule- "Thou shalt not sleep with your head by the window!" Incidently, grandma managed to get her chain back after weeks of absolute suspense, when she was on tenterhooks! 

Jolarpet to Bangarpet was scenic. It was free from habitation for most parts, the terrain was undulating and dotted with hills, all rock and stone. During the rainy season, you wondered, what if a slippery rock came tumbling down from the hill-top? I asked my sister if such possibilities existed. Her reply was brutally honest, "Yes, we will all become chutney!" 

To someone in Chennai, going to Bangalore was like a trip to Iceland. You prepared for it elaborately. When you got down at Bangalore City, you were more than fully dressed- long sleeves shirt, trousers, a thick sweater, and a monkey-cap. Thankfully, the gloves were finally abandoned- you could always stuff your palms in the pocket, if it got too cold.

Finally, here you were, in the Garden City! The city lived up to its name. A canopy of trees arched over the roads. In summer, the Gulmohar was in bloom and for a tourist, Cubbon Park and Lalbagh couldn't be missed. And yes, it was biting cold- at least, by Mumbai or Chennai standards. 

Some of your favorite Cricketing heroes hailed from Bangalore. There was the master artiste, the wristy GR Vishwanath (GRV) and the wily bowler, BS Chandrashekar. Apparently, Chandra was so mysterious, he himself had no clue, which way the ball would turn! The batsman, of course, had no chance, bamboozled by Chandra's googlies and top-spinners.

GRV was a class-act. He was a thorough gentleman- a veritable Yudhishthira in the big, bad world of Cricket. He recalled an opposing batsman to bat again, after he was declared "out", because Vishwanath was sure, the umpire's decision was incorrect! Bangalore did that to you- a city with a salubrious weather, that ensured that its citizens stayed equally cool, gentle, and amiable. 

Much water has flowed under the bridge- Bangalore can scarcely be recognized now.  

Bangalore of yore stood out as one of the prettiest pictures in your childhood photo-album. As you peruse the album, your fingers rest and caress the picture- it is indeed a throwback...to an earlier, angelic age!

Cockroach yuddham...cockroach yuddham iva!

They say- “rama-ravana-yor-yuddham…rama-ravana-yor-yuddham…iva”. The battle between Rama and Ravana was one of a kind. It was so engrossing, matched in both skill and valor, that a comparison was impossible. If it had to be compared with something, poets say, it must be with itself as the yardstick!

The battle with a cockroach falls in the same category. For every head of Ravana’s that Rama felled, another reappeared. A cockroach is much the same- you can never get him. Even if you do, in his place, a dozen reappear, till you totally give up. Cockroaches are tenacious fighters.

The cockroach and the Vaanara Vali have one point in common. The moment an opponent appeared before Vali, he had a special boon to drain half the opponent’s strength and transfuse that strength to himself. That made him doubly powerful. The cockroach has a similar power. The moment you see him, a wave of disgust runs through your being. While you wring your face in revulsion, your reflexes get slower, and you operate in slow-motion. By then, our friend has beaten you fair and square, and escaped to safer shores, never to come back for the day!

Sometimes, the ammunition at hand, is suspect. You grip the broom aloft like Bheema holding his mace, itching for a fight. You hold the pose, all alert, standing with your feet apart. You egg the cockroach to come out of his hiding, “Hey cockroach! If you are a man, a real man, come out! Come out…and fight!” You slap your thighs, pump your chest, flex your biceps, twirl your moustache, knot your dhoti, and swing the broom in the air. You let out a war-cry, “Dei...dei..cockroach! Vaadaa! Come out!” The cockroach makes no move. He watches you intently with his beady eyes.

It is a game of attrition. Who will blink first? The cockroach has all the time in the world. He will stay behind that dosa-pan, till the cows come home. You give up. Gingerly, you disturb the dosa-pan. He runs like Usain Bolt. Bheema has too many things to do. His mace is upturned, like a batsman with a high back-lift. He must get the broomstick down, all the way from the shoulder and strike the target. He does…with all his might.

In the process, the mace shreds to smithereens. Such is Bheema’s…Vrkodara’s ferocity. The tape from the broomstick handle snaps, the broom falls apart,  the individual twigs scatter and the kitchen is littered with a fine broom-dust.  It is a total mess. You stand weaponless and helpless with the broom-tape in hand. And what about the cockroach? He makes a quick escape, and taunts you, borrowing words from Kamba Ramayana, “Indru poi naaLai vaa!” (“Go home today, rest and come back tomorrow, with a fresh weapon, for a fresh fight!”)

Over the years, the cockroach has upgraded his skills. He is adept in the art of urban warfare. The kitchen shelf is his favorite den. The shelf is packed with spoons, plates, cups, a coconut-grater, a pressure-cooker and all kinds of “kandaa-mundaan” (meaning absolutely useless tinsel).  Once our friend disappears into this maze, how are you going to find him?

You take out one item at a time, emptying the entire shelf cautiously. He may strike at any moment. The kitchen floor is littered with all the debris. The cockroach is nowhere. Where did he go? Where did he go? You stick your head in, and peer into the shelf- there is no trace. He has simply vanished into thin air, leaving you high and dry!

The other possibility is worse. He launches a surprise attack. By now, the kitchen floor is a minefield. While you stumble and hit your toe against the dosa-pan and howl in pain, the obstruction works in his favor. He successfully darts across the room, twiddling his thumb at you!

Drone attacks are not new. Cockroaches have used them from time immemorial. Just when you are about to pin him to the floor, he takes the aerial route, and flies straight at your face! What will you do? What can you do? You run for cover, with the broom between your legs!

In the rarest of rare cases, you manage to strike and strike hard. He lies still. You pump your fist with- “Yes! Yes!” “Veera raaja veera…shoora dheera shoora…” plays in the background. You announce to the entire home that you finally got him. You come back to inspect the aftermath. The floor is squeaking clean. Our friend is nowhere. He pretended…he pretended…he was down and out. When you went the other way to exult, he made a quick getaway!

You clever chap! Cockroach ji…tussi great ho…cockroach sir ji!