Canteen

Last Sunday, I was reading an article authored by an innocent convict, who was acquitted after rotting circa 15 years in jail. The article was a candid memorandum of the atrocities the person had suffered. The physical abuse, mental harassment, unhygienic conditions and horrendous food; all mention in graphic details. After suffering two full years of canteen food - daily - I could indeed connect to his misery.

The article had mentioned that the rotis in the jail used to be such, that many influential inmates used it as a fuel to power their stove, on which, their sidekicks prepared chicken and mutton. 'How true', I observed, correlating with the canteen rotis we push down our throat. If offered to any stray, it will certainly bite the offerer vis-a-vis the offer. The colour of the rotis reassures that the cook is wholeheartedly against apartheid. The texture establishes, undoubtedly, that the cook is thorough masculine, depriving the poor rotis of the feminine softness. A few pedantic colleagues have made it a habit to rub two rotis to shrug off the tons of flour sticking them.

The brilliance of the culinary skills, nevertheless, is exhibited by the sabji in the menu. Irrespective of the vegetable used, the canteen sabji tastes the same. The potato is omnipresent. Salt is ever missing. Thrice a week, there is a serving off mix-veg with a notorious repetition of , Coccinia grandis, beans, carrot or bell pepper. Potatoes are the fillers, anyway. The subtle sourness of tomatoes and the twinge of lemon have become forgotten tastes of glorious past. While the quantity in the plate is substantial, it fails to satify the apetite, for the stomach - like the tongue - prefers quality.

Curry, incidentally, has variety. One day it's arhar, another day it's kadhi, chole, rajma or even moong. The cook being the same, is hence impartial. The curry lacks all essential Indian components viz. tadka, turmeric and coriander. Rajma and chole can certainly be excused. But then, the quintessential softness required in these two is mostly absent. I tried to switch to paneer - falling in for it's gravy - only to realise that my stomach hard booted.

As if this is enough, the canteen tea and coffee mock the very purpose of beverages - to refresh. The tea unmistakably bears an inkling of charcoal while the coffee tastes like sweetened milk. The pepper tea - once I was on the height of experimentation - tastes like granny's syrup and after devouring the soup, one gets bilious a la Chinese dragon.

Jai ho Canteen!

छान छान गोष्टी

Like all kids I enjoyed listening to the stories in my childhood. Grandfather being a great story teller, the joy was multiplied. He used to read a lot of books, just as he does still, so that his pesky grandson's unquenchable thirst for stories is gratified. Many times, he used to tell same stories over and again. At times, when I spotted the slack, I used to tell him with a wondrous face about already knowing the end. He used to grin sheepishly, pointing at his silver hair, blaming them for the amiss. We used to giggle and then proceed with a fresh tale.

As father got transferred, the routine broke. Mother discovered a fix. She bought a Marathi tell-a-story cassette. I was rather skeptical about the stories and the artists, for grandfather was the best story teller I had ever met! Luckily, the cassette came up to the expectations. Finding me happy, mother was encouraged to buy sequels of the cassettes. With time, as studies mandated to remain up in the night, while others snored, the younger kins took them over.

Occasionally, when I listen them now, alongside the new generation, I realise why I liked them. The stories were nice and the artists had delivered them well considering the prospect audience. Most of the stories were on the पंचतंत्र pattern, i.e., personification of the wild and summing up with a moral.

It may sound naive, but those stories did have a perceptible effect. The age, early teens, has a remarkable virtue of soaking up whatever is presented to the mind. As they say, one must always learn the good and befriend the good, so that the good prevails and one becomes a better individual, these stories, did their bit in imbibing good habits in the young audience. Apart from the story, the artists did play an quintessential role. A story read as a new item is hardly exciting. The cassette marketing company had diligently chosen renowned theatre icons. They all had a great command over the voice. Using gruff baritones for the negative characters, high pitched for the young, giving an impression of crying by exaggerated last syllables, et al. The complementary background music made the rest of the ambience. The sound of the sword taken out of the sheath, the swagger of horse, the beating of trumpet at victory and ilk. For the little child, it was wholesome entertainment.

Even after a hiatus of almost a decade those insignificant yet memorable moments can be rejoiced, for they offered pure entertainment in the return of smiling face. The cassettes certainly did justice to their names, the छान छान गोष्टी.

The Secret of Rotis *

Prologue:
Empirical Evidences. I like those. One can state anything with unabashed confidence and it must be accepted, for it's based on Empirical Evidence!


The Act:
"Making Rotis is helluva junk job", that was my pet statement. Post enlightenment, when I had started cooking on my own, I had attempted a demeanour to make Rotis. I confess, candidly, that whatever I had made, it was everything, but a Roti. While putting the thing in the casserole, I bent it along its (assumed) diameter. To my horror, the thing made a 'takk' noise and broke off into two distinct things. I looked around my empty 2BHK just to check if anyone has heard that disastrous creak. Only the Feng-Shui had observed it, silently. I was relieved.

The incident was so demoralising, that I ate rice-dal-sabji combo for couple of days at a stretch. Takk! That was the sound that hounded me whenever I used to spot the Wheat flour can in the kitchen. The reminiscences of the sound were so dispiriting that had almost made my mind to convert the flour can in to the garbage can with the flour as it's first occupant. But then, fighting spirit is an in-thing still. So, I thought of giving the rotis another try.

This time, I exhibited the intelligence of consulting my mumma prior to staining my limbs in the dough. Mumma snapped, "Oh! Rubbish. Making rotis is no art. It's an act of worship. If you have faith, it will be round." I started with faith in my gut feeling. While I added the water more generously while kneading, but took care that the flour does not get wiped out in the flood. This time, surprisingly, the rotis were softer. Plus, the thing swelled from few spots. As far as shape is concerned, it was still towards the squarer side vis-a-vis the old-fashioned round. This continued for a few days.

Then one day, it struck me that mumma used to touch the dough with a spoonful of oil while kneading it! Next moment, I put a call. Mumma quipped, "My love, I thought you had that much of common sense to knead it with oil. It makes it more fluffy and soft! Oh Gosh! How could you pass all those glorified Engineering exams when you can't even learn such a trivial thing ?!!" Being a (forced) optimist, I took it as a patting rather than bashing. Apropos, I put oil. And as if a miracle, the dough was blended way softer than I have ever had done till that date. I tried the rotis. It was easier to roll them. I ate. It was softer. I could break off a piece using only three fingers of one hand! But the darned thing was still out of shape.

While I was happy with the taste and softness, the shape always make me feel low, incomplete, imperfect. That evening, I was doing it in a routine manner; rolling the rotis. By chance, rather than turning the dough lump for the roti by full 90°, I happened to turn it by a lesser degree. I rolled. I found the lump getting a rather circular shape over the squarer one I have always been getting. Then I realised the secret that the circular form is achieved by rotating the dough lump by subtle angles and then rolling it. I frowned; it was such a simple thing, the circular shape, can be achieved by putting equal pressure on the dough orienting outwards in all directions! That day, for record December 5, 2006, was the day on which my rotis were not only soft and tasty but also circular. Mumma was right. I must have faith in my brain.

Now, after one month or so, I find that the time required to knead the dough and then to make five rotis has been drastically cut down to around 20 minutes which was as high as 45 minutes 3 months ago. Experience does make a man perfect. Granted.


Epilogue:
I stand by every word written, the Prologue standing or notwithstanding.


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Comments-

Arianbyheart said...

Yet another milestone achieved by a bachelor who professes cooking when he is not saving the world from hands of evil. It is a happy feeling when an individual finally eventually achieves the golden combination of roti, kapda and Makan. Good going Sir. Am waiting to listen about your yet to be unvieled "Soup tragedy". So, what if starters come after lunch.

Unmana said...

LOL
I dread making rotis too. Thanks for the tips.?



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* Migrated from the erstwhile My Experiments as a Cook.

Why I Cook *

Whenever I visit home, meet an old friend, talk to a distant relative or if anyone - by chance - spares some time to browse through my Orkut profile, they unfailingly ask with genuine exclamation viz. What! You cook? Before I can put my point, the questioner pads another query. Usually, the query is either of 'Really?', 'Can't afford? (with umpteen exclamations, following it)', 'Are you lying / bragging / faking / (or some other similar not-to-be-used-in-progressive-tense type gerund)?', 'I can't believe it. Do you do, Tommy? (Tommy is - usually and understandbly- the pet)' or ilk. To put an end to such - rather discomforting, if not disheartening - quips, I am confessing, why I cook.

Prior to September 2, I was of the school of thought that cooking is blasphemous. A proletarian deed one should never indulge in. The thought of staining my fingers with the gluey wheat flour dough-making (sounds like dove-making, isn't it?) process, always sunk my heartbeat. The musings about the labour of chopping vegetables made my muscles sprain. The dreaded dreams of boiling and reboiling of the (darned) milk had made me wakeup, scoffing. I had felt awful. Honestly.

But then one fine day, I was struck with enlightenment. I searched around for the Banyan Tree, instinctively. I could only manage a to see a baniyaan dangling across the rope. Anyway, I had got the bulb lit. What I had realised was a very mundane fact, that if I can solve horrendous mathematical equations, make preposterous Engineering Drawings, learn disoriented Object Orientation, write forgettable piece of code that (surprisingly) function just well, give spellbinding motivational lectures to colleagues, watch Hindi films (it requires huge patience and efforts to keep oneself sane throughout), et al, then why not cooking? I should. And, thence I put the foot forward on the journey of becoming a chef.

Post lighting of The Bulb, I realised that to be able to cook is a great boon. I can straight-forwardly avoid ICH. I can avoid Rajma, Paneer and similar dishes that my stomach welcomes with horror. I can cook anything, any time and any combination as per my whims and fancies. Mumma appreciates for at least one thing since my birth. Father feels relieved that if ever my prospect wife says quits (of course, temporarily, for Maharashtriyaan ladies never kill the goose who lays golden eggs), I shall not be at His (or again, ICH's) mercy. Sister feels damn agog for I have forestalled the need of her learning cooking. Friends (male) get a more severe heartburn. And the best of all, damsels (do a google on 'define: damsel', please) find it like a godsend ! So many benefits, just one deed, cooking. Hah! I'm Loving it.

And, in(tro)spection let me know that I am a good one at cooking. In fact, now I say that it was, like, in my genes, to cook well.

You are welcome. Have a dine.


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* Migrated from the erstwhile My Experiments as a Cook.




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Addendum


I found this interesting blog post. And, yes, I most certainly approve of it.

Khaike ... Halwa Hamra haanth kaa.. *

One fine morning I decided to have Halwa. Let me confess I have a COD for all kind of sweets. Life is full of sour and bitter things, courtesy millions of anonymous factors that neither we are aware of nor we should bother about. Let Him do at least something apart from creating the world. :) One should eat sweet to stand out of all the bitterness.

Anyways, the point to ponder is Halwa. So that fine morning I had a obsession for eating Halwa. And I began. The deep fry pan was in place on the gas range. While the pan got heated, I poured a cup-ful of Rawa. It's a grainy version of the wheat floor. The next step was to keep tilting it with the spoon till it assumed a tad brownish hue. An out and out boring job. The taste however demandshard work. After say 3-4 minutes, when the Rawa started looking as desired, I added a spoon and half of Pure Ghee. Repeated the same tilting activity religiously for a minute more till the two items became a homogeneous mixture. Now came the real interesting moment. I had to add three items simultaneously. There I messed up with my memory. I wasn't sure which one to put before the other. However, being a force-trainedentrepreneur , I took a risk. To be precise, a calculated one. I poured water, the first. The quantity was commensurate to that of the amount of Rawa being taken. Then came gushing Milk straight from the Mother's Dairy. Suddenly the mass inside the pan sizzled and transmogrified into a semi-solid lump of mass. Of course, I was awed. A moment before it was a fine grainy thing that I could tread through with agility but now suddenly, it wasun-penetratable. Sugar! My inner echoed. Listening to my conscientiousness, as always (taught by my Master), I augmented the thing with a cup-ful of Sugar.

Immediately, the semi-solid mass gained fluid properties. I mean, it didn't become liquid, but it became more treadable. I kept on stirring the entire stuff for a while, in a way that the sugar is mixed properly aka homogeneously. By now, the smell of the Halwa had already getting exuded from the pan. Wow! it smelled just Muuaaah! After a while of the tilting session, I closed the gas. The jaw was dropping, needless to say.

The product was irresistible. So, the next step is but obvious. I ate it, voraciously.


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* Migrated from the erstwhile My Experiments as a Cook.

Apropos *

Cooking food, arguably, is a daunting task. Transformation of a raw vegetable into a cooked palatable is surely a thing. Like others, I am gifted with great parents. They never let me feel the heat of the stove, till the time I was in their lap. By the grace of God, the aforementioned time extended as long as 21 years. Consequently, I developed an affection for processed food, the processor - naturally - was my mumma. I am proud to share that I love all kind of food. The range starts from sweets to sour and from fried to baked. While I have special affection for the sweeter variety, the bitter ones viz. करेला, are the ones I consume with not-so-equal rejoice. The point to note is, I consume it.

When it comes to cooking, however, it's my fiefdom. So, no करेला and no नीम चढ़ा. It's pure taste. Nothing else.

Now, this is no joke. Yes, I can cook. If you are still grinning, assuming that I am offering a pun, then, I must say, it's a deep insult of a great chef-to-be. OK! So, now you feel that I am indulging in braggadacio. It is but necessary to market your skills, dear friend. Didn't your bskul (the SMSed version of language distortion for the poor and humble Business School), teach you this? So, here I present you all the next chef-to-be, in making at present; that's me.

So, keep on pestering this place for new recepies and cook-tips. And stop grinning. I am serious. The Cooking Begins.


___________________________
* Migrated from the erstwhile My Experiments as a Cook.

Rakesh

Utility men are available in plenty. As per the law of economics, whenever a thing is available in plenty, it's value depreciates. Hence, importance of a utility man is not much than another insignificant mortal. Rakesh is one of such men. In the morning he cleans the cars and bikes in my apartments. For the rest of the day, he irons clothes. If required, he lends his services as household labour. On every Thursday (in his lingo ब्रिस्पतिबार), he takes a weekly off. Everyday, same routine; without fail, year over year.

As an unwritten yet accepted axiom, no labour intensive job gets well paid. In other words, payment is commensurate to the use of brain, excluding, of course, the Indian IT MNCs. Once, I quizzed him over the monthly charges for cleaning my bike. He quoted, 100. I had found even that unworthy for the job. As I am the sole occupant, the need to keep the bike polished - i.e., impressive - wasn't (alas, isn't) high in my list. A fortnight after I occupied the apartments, I notified the security guards for informing the maids and utility men for domestic paraphernalia. They pointed at Rakesh, who was ironing clothes with his coal iron. The sight of the coal powered iron miffed me. A few years back, my clothes were perforated due to similar variety of iron. The guard added, that he probably charges 5/- per set of clothes. Exorbitant, I concluded instantly and proscribed myself from employing him to iron my clothes. While I had gone gaga over rising inflation - it increase the dearness allowance component - now I cursed it wholeheartedly.

Couple of months later, my iron broke down. Grudgingly, I had to revert to Rakesh. One evening, I strolled to his workplace. It was nothing more than a rudimentary wooden platform, probably, a makeover table constructed of thrown away wooden pieces. I offloaded the pile of 18 clothes and requested to deliver by next evening. He swung his head in affirmation, accompanied with his ubiquitous grin. Next evening, he presented himself with the clothes; neatly tucked in the cavity of his folded hands and painfully protruding ribcage. As I opened the door, he again sported a ear to ear grin and stuffed the clothes in my hands. I enquired for the amount. 'जित्ते कपडे उत्तेइच पैसे! और का ?', was his innocent reply. I stared at him, rather in disbelief. I fumbled with my wallet, picked two 10 notes and kept in his hands. He started to search for the change. I asked him to balance it next time. He smiled, and left. Closing the door, I cursed the guard. While placing the clothes in the wardrobe, I audited the quality. The job was done nicely. In vain, I thought as I fumed, I was ironing the clothes for so long.

Another day, I inquired him where he bought the coal from. He quoted names of some nearby villages and deliberated on the path to reach there. On my further prodding, he disclosed that the coal comes for 14/- to 18/- a Kg. He also shared that he polishes 20 vehicles every morning. Brief calculations revealed that total income must not be exceeding 5000 or 6000 a month. On that, he was supporting a family of 4. The wife helped him in ironing. The kids, being too young, were worthless, at least from financial perspective. Even when I live alone and don't spare a penny for my parents - father doesn't (and will never) need - my monthly expense exceed Rakesh's total income. I live with a grudge that I earn abysmal and confide with my colleagues that our management must be 'managing' the Best Places to Work trophy every year. This utility man, however, earns trifles in comparison to me, yet, his face has a intriguing tranquil. I never discovered him in sorrow, ever! He doesn't hide anything under the sheath of his smile. He doesn't have anything to! His eyes doesn't exude the characteristic plaintiveness commonly prevalent in such men. Rakesh hasn't read any ancient scriptures, still, he has discovered - perhaps ingeniously - that, relinquishing desires rewards happiness.

The Filing

Dealing with any government office is always a nightmare, or at least perceived to as. Perfunctory clerks, their unfriendly - at times, uncooperative - attitudes, long queues, ill lit premises, abominable stench, colourful language and similar attributes are prototyped with the government offices, in general. Hence, when my friend decided to personally visit the sectional Income Tax (I-T) office to deposit the I-T Returns, I had a sepia tinted reverie of the purported office. I checked the website of the I-T department. They had provided an option to submit the form online. I consulted a few experienced colleagues regarding the online option. Their replies were not very encouraging. I resorted to ET. It carried a report that the TDS submitted by corporations since the fiat issued in October'06 had refunds to the tune of 27 thousand crores due (yet). I decided to file manual, pronto. Besides, the Finance department in my corporation had done a good job in preparing Form 16. The requisite values were properly listed and well highlighted. Filling the ITR-1 hence came out to be pretty simple affair. However, I must mention that the IIM graduates who have reportedly helped in redesigning the I-T return form have gobbled tax payers money for no good. The form is as silly as it was last year. They have increased the number of forms viz. ITR-1 to ITR-8 and added a funny acknowledgement form - ITR V - that is almost a replica of ITR-1.

Ergo, both of us went to the sectional I-T office today. When we had tried our luck to find its address on I-T website, it showed an address that later turned out to be the address of the I-T help centre and not the I-T office. The only grace was, the experienced colleagues had forewarned us about the outdatedness of the site and informed us about the correct office address. Luckily, it happened to be quite close to my office complex. With the form ready and address handy, we chalked out the plan to go and file the return. The horrid reverie made a fast forward again, nevertheless.

After a three minute drive, we reached the I-T office. Surprisingly, there were no queues. My friend went to the nearby grocery shop and ascertained whether the office under the board of I-T Department was open. Bewildered, we went inside. Surprise number two: The rooms were AC and there were coolers in subordinates' halls. Moreover, the cabins had fine upholstery. The junior staff was sitting in well lit workplaces too. We both looked at each other, bemused. This time, I asked the bystander whether we were in right office. He reassured. We probed further. A person or two were standing at a counter. On closer inspection, we spotted the ITR-1 and ITR-V in their hands; stamped. We enqueued. In less than 3 minutes, the officer behind the glass partition requisitioned for my forms. Click...Click...Stamp...Stamp...Stamp. He returned my the ITR-V form back. Process over! My friend had not even taken his forms out by then. To my astonishment, while he fumbled, the officer serviced the person behind him in the queue. My friend, for that matter, is a tech savvy guy. He is quite unused to such hardships of life; paper forms, signatures, et al. He had preferred the online submission route, ignoring my apprehensions of the Luddite I-T department staffers. Hence, he was to submit the system generated acknowledgement cum return form at the counter. When he did so, the officer, whom I was yet looking at, with an awe of admiration, reverted back to his usual incarnation. 'Not accepted here', he retorted pointing at the form duo. My friend quoted the online submission route. He replied with audible grunts. After fiddling with the papers for a few seconds, he tossed them aside and demanded Form 16 to be attached therewith. I reminded him of the notification that the returning officer is to detach and return the Form 16, in case it is supplied superfluously. He shot a curt glance. Offended or otherwise, he grabbed the bunch of papers repeated the click-n-stamp activity again, mechanically, and thrust them back in my friends hands. We thanked, rather generously, and slipped.

As they say, great an effort you entail, the dog's tail never dodges. Let's be optimistic though. :)

Impersonal Loan

A friend of mine lately had some urgent financial requirement. As it didn't qualify of any of the standard category of the loans viz. house, vehicle, education, et al, he had to opt for a Personal loan. Now, personal loans are insanely exorbitant. The rates vary from 7% at the lower end to as high as 17% per annum. As a natural choice, my friend was premeditating for such financial institution that offered lowest interest rates. Nevertheless, he dug up a survey - all by himself - about the prevalent rates and payback options. His thesis was pretty entertaining.

As any other cellular customer, he also keeps getting unsolicited calls from financial institutions regarding personal loans and ilk. This time, he decided to deliberately pay heed to them. An executive from a Sensex market cap topper (privately owned yet publicly listed) financial institution said on such a call that he can avail a lakh rupee loan to him at 17% interest compounded annually on reducing balance. He refused the offer right away, quoting financial unviability. Half an hour later, the same executive came up with a 15.5% offer! In the meantime, he had visited another institution - incidentally, a PSU- that offered the loan at 13.5%, other factors remaining same. When my friend persisted on reducing it further, the executive quipped that he will need to pay a processing fees elsewhere, which is inclusive in this offer. Besides, he said that he will personally visit him for the signatures and ilk and the loan amount will be credited to his account via ECS. He went back to the PSU people and inquired about the processing fees, which they denied levying of. Merrily he decided to trust in the PSU. When that executive called again, he denied politely·

Next morning, he presented himself to the Branch Manager (BM) of the PSU institution. The BM smiled wryly and said that he just need to open and account and that's it! The loan amount shall be instantly transferred into it. Agog, he requested for the account opening form. It was a dozen page form demanding plethora of documents including Identification proof, Residence proof, Employment proof, two month salary slips, last three I-T return receipts, attestation of the loan form from a guarantor and all aforementioned documents from the guarantor too. eh... Did I mention that all of them were to be countersigned by both the loan seeker and the guarantor? Of course, all this wasn't demanded at once and in the beginning. My friend had to shuttle between his office and the bank branch at least half a dozen times. In the end, the BM demanded the Salary Account to be transferred to the loan disbursing branch for it will easy for them to deduct the requisite amount of EMI, hassle free. As if it wasn't enough, the BM finally asked my friend to visit the main branch of the institution to get the loan cheque. When my friend quizzed him with a puzzled face the BM offered him a repartee in a unmoved businesslike manner, 'Ours is an extension branch for the exclusive service of the enterprise you are an employee of. We don't disburse such high amount loans. Thank You.'

Master is always right, Quality comes at a price.

tee-bhee

The morning news paper read today that government is planning to levy a licence fees amounting half a thousand rupees for viewing television. The purported reason is to turn the government owned entertainment(!) agency, the प्रसार भारती, from red to green. It's a different observation, however, that this move has turned viewers' faces red. As per the fiat, the amount garnered by slapping the levy shall be used to upgrade the pay scale of agency's 38,000 odd employees to government pay scale and provide 'other benefits'. Moreover, the move shall rake circa Rs.23,871 crores from the pockets of the viewers. Entertaining, it is, indeed. The government owned entertainment agency was enacted by a Parliamentary Act which has a section that entitles the promoters of the company, in this case, representatives of the public - otherwise called the government - to loot (oops! charge) the public this way. The viewer base of the agency owned channels, beamed free of cost, is abysmal. This means, the agency will be charging the levy for viewing channels other than it's own! A couple of weeks back, the honourable Information and Broadcasting minister issued a fiat that watching cricket matches is a must for every citizen of India, hence or otherwise, the private satellite channels must share the match feed - which they have acquired exclusive rights for, by commercial competitive bidding - with the प्रसार भारती channels. So competent are the employees of the agency for whose upliftment, the levy is being levied. Furthermore, a proposal of levying 10% licence fees (~896 crores) on TV and Radio manufacturers is also doing rounds. It's an perfect illustration of a archetypal socialist ideology: Milk the cow to the full (stop of her life).

Figure this: Rs. 24,677 crores raised such if invested in making a new power plant can easily finance a 5000MW greenfield project, at prevalent costs. A full thousand megawatt more than the much touted Ultra Mega power plants, which are gaining more attention for bidding fiascoes rather than speedy implementation. It will well alleviate power crisis of many states, though to a little extent. Besides, it will generate employment for many citizens of India, mostly those, which don't watch either cricket matches or any of the प्रसार भारती programs.

Master had always cursed me for bugging him on weekends, for I don't have a TV and no plans for buying it ever. With government coming in support of my decision, Master is feeling down and out with his 500/- TV.