Fishy.

“Something smells good, Mom”, my eight year old son calls out over the music of “The Adventures of Tintin” that he is watching with his five year old sister. The smell interrupts my husband’s Saturday night semi-fugue state, induced by old Hindi movie songs, ghazals and single malt Scotch. My industrial grade Viking hood is doing the best it can, but is no match for the heady fragrance of dinner, cooking in bubbling oil on its way to a heavenly state of golden brown crispiness. I am frying Pomfret.

Wikipedia says pomfret is a perciform fish belonging to the family Bramidae. It is found in the Atlantic, Indian, and Pacific Oceans. I say, they have no idea what Pomfret is.

Pomfret is my mother, announcing on a Saturday morning, that my brother and I were to watch out for and stop the local fishmonger  as he made his way through the neighborhood. The object of our attention for the rest of the morning was a short, dark man with round eyes and a quick smile. His bushy mustache apologetically made up for a receding hairline. He usually wore a mundu, a long rectangular cotton garment worn at the waist, and a shirt, with a scarf-like piece of cloth wrapped around his head.. He would ride into our alley on a bicycle with a basket tied precariously to the back seat. He announced his presence with a loud horn – the sound a cross between a duck’s quack and a broken reed. It was in this basket, over a thin layer of ice, under dark green banana leaves, that he presented the manna from local rivers and the Arabian Sea, occasionally his prized catch, the pomfret. It is an exciting day for us because cooking fish at home was a show of culinary bravery for my mother. She had grown up with strictly vegetarian, staunch Hindu parents and had tasted meat only after she got married .She was adventurous enough to cook fish but was not confident about buying or cleaning it. That was Amma’s job.  “Amma” is Malayalam for mother and to us, it seemed like the whole town called her Amma. She was a stern lady of indeterminate age, who worked in our house as a housemaid/translator/spreader of neighborhood information. As soon as the fishmonger stopped in front of our house, Amma was dispatched to do the needful. She wiped her strong and heavily wrinkled hands on her work cloth and walked up to him. She gave the man a once-over as if silently warning him against any mischief. Then she peered into the basket and moved back the banana leaves. She picked up the plumpest, whitest of the fish and gave it a good sniff. If it passed her olfactory test, its gills were pried open. If it was nice and pink inside, Amma gave the man a slight toothless smile and picked a few more. The care with which she picked fish for us made us feel like royal children, whose food was tested for poison before it was served. After the necessary payment was made, all of us followed Amma to the back of the house where she proceeded to clean and prepare the fish and hand it over to my mother for further processing.

Pomfret is my father, ordering fish for me, at every restaurant that we went to, even when it was the most expensive dish on the menu. The love on his face, having ordered the best dish for his favorite child, in my opinion, was returned with a grin on my face, when the waiter brought the plate of crisp golden fried fish, head intact, eyes open, garnished with red onion rings, chopped cilantro and a lemon wedge. For my brother and I, eating out at a restaurant was a luxury, a status symbol. To have a special dish ordered just for me was hence, a momentous achievement. Over time, the restaurants changed from a “dining hall” of five or six tables covered with white table cloths over worn out reddish brown carpets lit by shabby chandeliers to avant garde restaurants in five star hotels in Mumbai but the ritual never changed.

Pomfret is little fingers, peeling off the crisp skin to reveal firm white flesh held together by a skeleton of long bones. The fingers do not have find and remove tiny bones that hide inside other kinds of seafood. The fish has been fried whole, with two short slits on each side where the marinade of garlic, ginger and turmeric, green chilies, cumin, coriander and salt has made its way inside. The skin is a crispy golden brown, while the flesh has cooked in a fragrant steam of the marinade, giving it a flavor even the finickiest of eaters cannot ignore.

The smell reaches deep inside me, taking me back to the land where I grew up, thousands of miles away from this beautiful prairie that we now call home. It is the link from my childhood to the life that I am trying to create for my children. It inspires me to make memories with them, which they can turn to, when they grow up. I hope that this fine specimen of the Bramidae family thrives and multiplies for generations in the saline ocean waters so that my children can share the joy of a perfectly fried pomfret and steaming rice with their loved ones, for years to come.

A different shade of green

     A line of old Ambassador cars greets you as you step out of Kochi International Airport. This is one of only two states in India where these rotund and sturdy cars of the 1980’s have not fallen out of favor. Sleek elegance, modern amenities and power are aspects not associated with this car, but their drivers do not seem to mind. Well-maintained city roads direct the fast and unruly traffic and billboards advertise mega gold jewelry marts and silk saree emporiums. As you make your way towards the rural interiors, you remember the caption on the tourism department’s brochure – Kerala, God’s own country. Roll down the windows - use your biceps, no power windows here - and inhale the gorgeous sea air, there is no doubt you are in a tropical paradise.

     No matter what the season, there is equilibrium between the water content in the atmosphere and the air so that there is just enough air to let you breathe comfortably but the humidity makes it thick enough to be palpable. Paddy fields, with thick sheaves of rice, sitting in puddles of water put on an intense display of green. Acres upon velvety acres are tended to by hand, mostly by women, who try to coax rice, the life blood of the region, from this stubborn plant. The straight, brown trunks of the coconut trees rise up tall with a head of lush long, yellow–green fronds. It is capped off with a big bunch of coconuts and stalks of small yellow fragrant flowers. The soft, flimsy stems of the banana plants support  wide leaves and big bunch of fruits which are loved by humans and animals alike. Elephants are the workhorses here, carrying loads of timber from forests with the same aplomb as serving in religious festivities in temples, decked in gorgeous livery. 

     Then, there is the water. Tucked away in the southwestern corner of Indian peninsula, Kerala has a long coastline along the Arabian Sea. This is the landing ground for the majestic monsoon, which gathers up from the Indian Ocean, drenching the land for most of the year. Water collects everywhere; in small ponds, lakes and gurgling streams, filling up with water lilies and buffaloes in the blink of an eye. Three large rivers traverse this small state spilling their energy onto the shores and into the people. The vast waters of the Arabian Sea to the west of the land mass form the perfect backdrop for the tiring sun to rest, every evening, bathing the coconut groves and rubber plantations in a surreal golden hue.

The houses are modest, complementing a population that is cultured, conventional and hardworking. One or two story concrete buildings, painted in light colors with red tiled roofs. A compound wall marking the property line and a gate, usually an intricately welded iron one, making you pause before you enter. The yard is dirt with bushes of brightly colored flowers along the walls. Hibiscus, gardenias, jasmine and roses vie for attention under the tall presence of coconut palms and jack fruit trees. The scent in the air is primal, of a happy balance between nature and its human tenants. Technology and the progress that modern amenities promise have found their way to this remote corner of land but the culture of respectful indulgence in nature’s bounty has created a harmonious lifestyle for its population. With as many people wearing the latest fashion in jeans, skirts and pants as there are men wearing the cotton mundu and young girls wearing the silk white and golden sarees, God’s own country is not stuck in time. She is relishing time, as it flows like the deep waters of the Periyar river towards the sea.

Back To School

“Can I wear this right now, Mom?” My seven year old son asked me at the checkout counter, fully expecting me to say no. He had a brand new back pack in one hand and a big bag full of folders and pencils and supplies in the other. I started to say no, out of habit, but I stopped myself. His enthusiasm and genuine excitement rubbed off on me and we walked out of the store with him wearing a new jacket and an empty backpack on his back.

     In case you missed all the advertisements, it is Back to School season! With just a week left to go before school starts, we braved the pouring rain and similarly motivated families to go shopping for clothes and school supplies. The atmosphere in the store was akin to Christmas. Bright signs and flags marked the way to a large section of the store dedicated to Back to School items. Some frequently bought items were packaged together into convenient bundles for hassle free shopping. There were three or four rows of shelves for just binders and folders. Pencils, crayons, markers and sharpeners were spilling out of cleverly placed end caps. Overall there was a mood of gaiety and celebration all around. 

     This made me think about my back to school routine. I spent most of my childhood in a small south Indian town which had one hospital, four churches, two temples, a small vegetable market, one bakery and one stationary/book store. Summer vacation ended around the last week of May and we made that first trip to the school, before the school began, to get our school uniforms. That was the beginning of the week long ritual to get ready for the new school year.  A list of textbooks and notebooks was provided by the school but everything else was optional and left entirely to the financial ability of one’s parents. Pencils were mandatory till the third grade and after that; we could only use fountain pens. That meant bottles of nasty smelling Camel brand blue ink also made their way into the shopping bags. Backpacks were made of durable canvas and were available in basic colors such as black, blue, beige etc.  Pencil boxes were fashion accessories. In the higher grades, we had to buy the geometry box with a compass, divider, ruler, Set Square, protractor, eraser and a pencil sharpener. Mechanical pencils were a big deal, available in bright colors and usually “imported”.  Being that the highly anticipated southwest monsoon usually made its entrance around the same time as the school started, raincoats and umbrellas were a necessary purchase. A stop at the local Bata store for a pair of black lace shoes and white socks completed the shopping trip.

      The second part of the ritual was a family affair. We would lay out the books to be covered and labeled. Rolls of brown paper were taken out along with sheets of name labels. My parents would cut out the brown paper needed for covering each book and meticulously cover and tape that book. Warnings on keeping the books neat and organized ensued. When they thought I was old enough, I was trusted to cover my own books and a few of my younger brother’s. There were single lined notebooks for Social Studies and Science, four-lined books for English and two-lined books for the two local languages, Hindi and Malayalam.  While my parents worked hard to make them look academically dignified, I would open up textbooks and browse through lessons on the Human Body, Differentiation, Robert Frost and the vast maze of newsprint that was to be my companion for the next year. The final touch was the label. Very basic in form, this was a rectangular piece of paper with pre-printed lines for Name, Std., Section, School and Subject. With each passing year, new and exciting innovations occurred in the field of the labels. One year it was sticker labels while another was all about Mickey and Minnie and Donald Duck or bright floral prints or cute animal themes. My father would then write our names, proudly and neatly, on these labels, with more instructions and warnings to keep the covers and labels on the books at least till the first Terminal examination. Then all the books and pencil boxes were put away in the respective schoolbags, awaiting the start of yet another exciting year.

       The school lists have changed, the supplies options have upgraded significantly but the excitement and anticipation of going to a new class with some old and some new friends, is still the same. For my children, at this age when getting the right pencil grips, erasers and sharpeners is as critical as finding out who will sit with you in the class and on the school bus, which kid you will have to avoid and what the new teacher will be like, back to school shopping is an important event, as it was for me. I am looking forward to the new school year and I smile as we join this last minute frenzy of back-to-school celebration.