Box of Rain

Raj Kapoor and Nargis in an iconic still from the film Shree 420 (1955)

"Don't threaten me with love, baby. Let's just go walking in the rain."

- Billie Holiday

 

When I was younger, I saw life around me in its myriad hues. I saw it through a rose-tinted eyeglass I had crafted carefully through the years of my youth. And I believed in the romance of the rain. 

Calcutta is a city of bespoke romance. An oft-repeated event is customized to the individual skin. Like walking in the rain.

This fading, gloriously old-fashioned city is frozen in time. Fairy dust spewed by a mischievous imp floats around on some rare, wet, summer nights brewing trouble, drawing people together and spreading love. 

On such nights with a last magical stroke of the clock, time stops. Somewhere in the city, a woman big with child rests her tired muscles on a hard metal bed in between pregnant contractions. Her waters break in a frenzied gush. Almost in unison, the sky which has been still, breathless and silent till now, erupts in thunder, lightening and rain. The rains, they come. The lovers, they rejoice. They jostle for space under a single, slightly bent umbrella. their shoulders graze each other lightly, occasionally. It sends twin frissons of an awkward desire through two shy young lovers. They move away in embarrassment, only to be cajoled back into the space under the umbrella by the persistent pressure of Lady Rain, Patron Saint of Romance. 

 

An image from the newspaper of the wet streets of Delhi

Now I am older. I wear the bottoms of my trouser rolled. My days lie enveloped in a grey shroud. My deep slumber is interrupted by the ceaseless patter on candy striped window awnings. I wake up to a world pooled with slush, mildewed bread and green life crawling up my once-white walls.
I walk through flooded stretches of crater-sized potholes, markers of streets that once were. I collide with abandoned cows, cars with "Gujjar Boys" emblazoned on the back glass, bits of flotsam, bits of jetsam. I come home empathizing with drowned crows and bedraggled cats. I bring with me a trail of slime.
Romance just doesn't cut it anymore. My head crawls with hypochondriac nightmares. I can almost feel clumps of mould sprouting out from under my chin.
I crave for comfort food. I crave my mother's monsoon meals that cure everything from a case of blues to a cloudy cold. I crave the smells emanating from her magical kitchen that pierce through the grey blanket with the brilliance of a drop of sunshine trapped  in a multi-faceted crystal.
Every evening, I come back home and collapse on a rubber mat in a sodden tangle of rubber slippers, oversize umbrella and wet plastic bags and go over my wishlist before I can summon up the courage to let the damp out of my body and soul.

Wishlist

Khichudi:

Variously adapted and adopted as khichri, kedgeree, khicharee.
Food for the Gods. Simmered in gigantic cauldrons, it is the kind of yellow that feeds the masses and spreads festive joy.
Food for the body: A hearty and wholesome brew of the sort that is a cure for every ailment in its varying degrees of mildness and severity.
Food for the soul: the piping hot, bright yellow and glutinous mass is sunshine on a plate. Top it with Alu Bhaja (thin strips of turmeric and chilli coated potato deep fried in boiling oil), Beguni (batter-fried slices of brinjal) or Begun Bhaja (thick slices of brinjal fried in the same way as the potatoes), thick slices of fried aromatic Hilsa (the goddess of all that is fishy in Bengal) and/or a fluffy omelette stuffed with onions and green chillies. For this meal I would enter into a Faustian pact. This meal on a rainy day and my cup runneth over for now and evermore.

Onion Pakoras:

The crisp outer layers melt in your mouth to reveal the sweet onion bulbs inside. It is like popping a liqueur chocolate in your mouth and waiting for the surprise of alcohol melting all over your tongue. A delicate underpinning of green chilli and cilantro, a fine dust of the mysterious chaat masala and three bowls of tomato, mint and green chilli sauce form the  trusty sidekicks for the pakoras which launch an unabashed attack on the wet gloom. These golden fritters shaped like the tentacles of some alien octopi emerge onto the gray horizon like half a score visiting stars from a  neighboring galaxy.

Chicken Soup:

The strangely titled books such as Chicken Soup for the Latter-day Saint Soul have done little to take away from the ubiquitous comfort of inhaling the aroma of a large bowl of steaming old-fashioned chicken soup. The hunks of meat, the chunks of onion and carrot and the brown broth oozing with fresh flavours come together in a perfect opera. They sing to me of sunny days and warmer climes. This soup regulates the temperature around the cockles of your heart.

  

Coffee:

Not the kind that comes with smiling faces and elaborate maple leaves etched into its foam. Not the kind that makes you giddy with its decaf, low fat, mocha, caramelized, hazel nutted options. Just a (normal sized) cup of my mum's hand-beaten frothy and light coffee made out of Nescafe,  granulated and refined sugar and Mother Dairy's double toned milk and served in my favourite cup which is slightly chipped around the edges. Hot enough to sear the tender flesh at the edge of tongue. Hot enough to burn a chink into the gray armour clothing my heart.

Jalebi:

If a pretzel was born in India, it would be called a jalebi. However, it would be sweeter on the palate and more pleasing to the eye. This light and airy counterpart of the clunky European baked confection is a treat for every season. The hot molten jalebi breaks into a thousand delicate drops of sweet sugar syrup in your mouth. Hot jalebis fresh off the griddle served with a chilled kheer (a concoction made by boiling rice,milk and sugar) or a thick slab of vanilla ice cream are the stuff of a rainmaker's nightmare. They foretell days of endless sunshine without a drop of rain.

 

Gene Kelly singin' away in the rain

Checking things off my wishlist will mark a return to romance. The romance in simple things. The joy in a simple life. It will make me want to walk in the rain without a care. It will make me want to sing...in the rain.

In God's Own Kitchen (Part III)

A picture is worth a thousand words 

And there is a story always peeking around a corner.

It stands behind the curtains waiting for an audience

It hides in dark rooms waiting to be rescued

And it creeps through long corridors on stormy nights 

To ambush me and you. 

My stories have pictures

My pictures tell stories

Of a God that resides in coconut trees

And is sometimes benevolent and sometimes not.

Of a fisherman's songs

That match the ebb and flow of the tides

Of men with red and green faces whose dance

Chases away the hobgoblins of my nightmares.

Of food that makes you weep

With its aroma of love, loss and longing.

Of food that makes you love

And the memories that it evokes

Of a thousand tinkling laughs in a thousand glass bottles.

And so begins my story often meandering and often tall

Dear reader, do not judge me, for I might just trip and fall.

They twirled in a frenzy of skirts and swords
They bickered, they twittered, they growled, they jousted
They loved, they hated
They were men who played with dolls
They were men who fenced with papier mache sabres
They were the gods and demons from dusty old books
Brought to life by your grandmother's rusty voice
On hot summer afternoons
Cooled by bamboo curtains sprayed with scented water.
Stabbed, bruised and burnt, he collapses into a colourful heap of red, white and gold.
He dies with his eyebrows puckered in surprise.

The Chinese went in two by two...hunting for the fish that had vanished from their own seas.
They built giant creaking contraptions like the machines of Mordor. Sprinkled with fairy dust, the eye of a newt and the ancient songs of the sea, these nets were the scourge of the sea as well as the boon for starving fisherman.

In Fort Kochi, every time you see the sign which says Catch of the Day, its probably found its way to your plate through the Chinese Fishing Net. Every time you feast on the perfectly grilled fresh red snapper, think about how many hours ago it flopped to the floor with a last dying sigh after being caught in a Chinese Fishing Net? Every little crab that you ever ate around these parts walked sideways into a Chinese Fishing Net before appearing on your plate in a healthy shade of tomato red.

I always wondered why we never had gingerbread men in our country.I also wondered about the nomenclature of certain foods and why the only 'bread' in the little gingerbread man was in its name. I was more fascinated by the confection than the fairytale itself where the ginger bread man came to life. Through my travails, in the kitchen, I have peeled endless sticks of ginger. I have smelled ginger powder, eaten ginger candy, gorged on ginger biscuits, julienned ginger into elegant strips and consumed nearly a ton of ginger paste.

However, I have never ever seen a ginger bread man. And as the smells of this dried ginger factory percolated through my olfactory nerves, my heart filled with this unrequited desire to meet and eat a gingerbread man.

All Spice Market was home to the wonderful allspice, a miniature globe containing the whole world within its circumference. the Gods decreed that all the spices would drop their essence into this tiny, innocuous, mud-coloured ball and rolled it off the heavenly plates into the dense forests of kerala. With a plop it fell into the Brahmin's bowl of morning milk
And the rest as they say is all history

Thousands of years later I haggle, I shed tears and I swore like a fishwife to get my precious share of the queen of exotic spices - Mistress Allspice.

Avial, a simple, steamed vegetable dish transformed with freshly ground coconut and tempered with just a hint of mustard seeds and curry leaves. It is highly recommended that you eat avial while listening to Avial's (the Malayalee rock band) earthy rendition of Nada Nada complete with clanging guitars and metal tinged grunts and screams.

Uruli, the light of my kitchen, the fire of my stove, my faithful sidekick, my cauldron of delight. Oo-ru-Lee...the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Oo. Ru. Lee.

Hidden away in a freezer far from prying eyes and known only to a select group of die hard carnivores, beef is a rare (excuse the pun) commodity in Delhi. "beef" is also a dirty word in Delhi. Gau Mata would be a more appropriate title for this half goddess-half beast of burden. Our Gau Mata however, spends a large part of her time negotiating city traffic, scavenging rubbish heaps and languishing on the narrow dividers on arterial roads.

It is a strange journey from drinking cow urine to increase one's longevity (a practice made popular by Hindu nationalists) to eating the most succulent chunks of roast beef cooked in a mild coconut gravy and topped with a layer of crispy potato slices and fried onions. A strange journey indeed!

The red fire burned in his belly.  He clutched his sides in pain. It was an hour too late. He keeled over and collapsed in a heap.
The red, hot curry was always a dangerous idea. It had the seductive charm of a praying mantis attracting her mate. It would pull both skeptics and believers into its fiery pot of deceit.

"I told you not to mess with me," she said.
"I told you not to make me angry when I cook," she continued and patted him gently on his head.
"And I told you that you'd burn in hell, my love," she concluded with a sweet smile.

Postscript:
Just for a moment, I shall stop playing the fool
Only to say that the red fish curry is all about dreams of drool

Rub a dub dub,
Three men in a tub,
And who do you think they be?
The butcher, the baker,
The candlestick maker.
Turn them out, knaves all three.

The nursery rhyme that always came to mind, the song that fluttered on my lips and the image that floated before my eyes, like black spots appearing before a perforated retina every time I saw a bakery.

A strange three-headed monster or divine avatar
A freakish mutant or a lesser God
Gave birth to a hundred coconuts
That went forth and conquered the world.

A hundred coconuts sunning themselves in the sun by the sea.
A hundred coconuts oozing their sweet milk over the land.
A hundred coconuts nourishing the soil with its succulent flesh.
A hundred coconuts dropped out of nowhere.
Just like a hundred fallen moons from some distant galaxy.
A hundred coconuts were reborn as the quintessence of fish curries, pot roasts and custards.

A hundred coconuts cracked open to reveal a glimpse of a colonized world of the future 
Of kitchens in thrall of this alien fruit
Of cooks offering deep obeisance to this grand oval of green
Of mothers using the hard brown nut
As a charm against all evil.
Of little children sucking the last drop sweet coconut water through cheap plastic pipes.
Of big corporations marketing the coconut and its byproducts as new age organic mumbo-jumbo

A strange three-headed monster or divine avatar
A freakish mutant or a lesser God
Gave birth to a hundred coconuts
That went forth and conquered the world.

Priestesses of this temple and storytellers beyond compare, Anu and Aniamma are the keepers of this patch of paradise. There is a bit of magic in their lives as the simple raw vegetable turn to gourmet creations beneath their deft fingers. A sprinkle of this and a dash of that yields a spectacular symphony of flavours and textures. Grand conductors of the kitchen, they cajole you into taking a ride into their world. Love pours out of their kitchens, heat exudes from the food. The land screams its history and the river sings a song through their food. One of the last frontiers of a harmonious world, eating in their kitchen is a peaceful homecoming.

finis

In God's Own Kitchen (Part II)

Bananas

"Too thin for jelly and too thick for jam. An ambiguous, unclassifiable consistency, they said."

Arundhati Roy, God of Small Things (1997)

The classification of jam-jelly was not a dilemma to be pondered over on a holiday. Yet, as the dark red banana jam-jelly spread itself over my toast like luxuriant silk and exploded in a thousand microscopic shrapnels of  honeyed sweetness inside my mouth, I wondered about the often autocratic nature of classifications.

Surrounded by the swaying fronds of young banana tree and lulled into catlike contentment after gorging on  flaky and tender banana fritters and uncountable cups of fragrant filter coffee, I thought what better place or time to ponder than a holiday, and what better subject than the one nearest at hand, namely the banana.

Before I came to Kerala, I used to think Bengalis were the only race who had perfected culinary experimentation with the banana.  Not only did the average non-intrepid Bengali eat everything from the stem to the flower, he also ate his meal on the ample, freshly washed leaves of the selfsame plant.
Food and religion mingle imperceptibly in our country and this ubiquitous culinary staple is swathed in a nine-and-a-half yard yellow cotton sari and transformed into a blushing young bride, the kola bou. She carries the spirit that is to infuse the Goddess Durga with life on the dawn of Maha Saptami and is also Ganesha's wife.

The intrepid Bengali cooks his fish coated with mustard in a banana leaf packet. He makes his creamy cottage cheese confections in little banana leaf moulds. He minces the raw banana and combines it with spices and chillies to simulate a dish of spicy meatballs redolent with all the aromas and textures of a rich gourmet meat. The banana is Bengal’s edible gold. It is the dream of every Bengali domestic goddess to perfect the mochar ghonto (a spicy vegetable preparation with the banana flower and pieces of coconut) or the crisp and tantalizing mochar chop (spiced cutlet made with banana flowers) to complete the rite of passage necessary for kitchen queendom.

I thought this love for the banana plant was singularly unmatched. That was before I came to Kerala.
Here, the fruit is is the stuff of lore. Grown in every backyard, big or small, eaten in nearly every form sweet or savoury, the banana is an omniscient presence.
The wide leaves of the banana plant seem to enfold the whole land in a protective swathe offering solace from any storm.
Right through its lifespan from a firm green youth to an overripe yellow maturity, the banana grows from food staple to cultural icon. it provides economic and emotional succour.

The banana fruit carries memories...of grandmothers in warm kitchens peeling piles of sweet, ripe bananas to make delicious puttu (a combination of rice flour, coconut and steamed bananas) for breakfast. It carries with it the smell of woodfire that permeates the narrow backwaters where rural country boats laden high with freshly plucked bananas, make their way to the local markets. It is a harbinger of good fortune and a good crop, a familiar green stain along the whole coastline.

There are chips and chops, jams and jellies, cakes and candies. Violently chopped, cruelly minced, brutally beaten and mercilessly whipped, the banana fruit is tortured till it yields new culinary fantasies.

In Kerala, God cooks with a long ladle. The banana steeped in the smells and juices of the indigenous spices is simmered and stirred into delightful bite-size pieces of heavenly manna.

Gluttony is one of the deadly seven and needless to say I am a sinner.
I stole one banana from a perfect pile of the tiny golden-yellow fruits.
I licked my fingers clean after nearly inhaling an exceptionally crisp and succulent pazham pori (fried bananas in a sweet batter) in a single bite.
I swallowed the tenth slice of toast slathered in banana jam lost in Arundhati Roy's exquisite metaphors on the selfsame jam.

"Come, Mister tally man, tally me banana
Daylight come and me wan' go home."

While the sometimes heart wrenching, sometimes heart warming and always foot tapping Banana Boat Song was not quite my theme, I did sing the song sometimes. As I travelled around Kerala, sometimes I tired of my own romantic notions. Sometimes I tired of the picture perfect landscape. Sometimes, I longed for the searing heat rather than the mellow rain. Sometimes I wanted a rotten banana to fall in a wet sploosh at my feet as an indication that even Gods could have feet of clay.
And almost on cue I would collide with the most beautiful stretch of backwater, eat the most perfect karimeen polichathu (fried spicy pearlspot) or chance upon the friendliest local full of stories. Like a chastised child I would hang my head in shame, for I had attempted to hunt for imperfection in God's own country.
More importantly, I realized that this land was stacked with the sights, smells and tastes redolent of my own hometown. All I had to do was scratch beneath the firm fibrous skin...
And the sweet hint of banana formed the perfect bookend for these discoveries.

In God's Own Kitchen (Part I)

"Long before the time of Christ , the lure of spices took traders and seafarers to the verdant coast of Kerala on the Southern tip of India. The port of Cranganore was bustling with Greeks, Arabs, Syrians, Jews and Chinese merchants who lived in harmony with the people of the region."

from The Suriani Kitchen by Lathika George

I was merely following the century-old footsteps of a million or more travellers from across the world who had come to the Malabar Coast in search of its rich spices, in search of trade routes and in search of new lands. Vasco da Gama arrived here in 1498 carrying with him a new history for the land and opening up the hidden heart of Kerala for the world to see.
It was a humbling thought to arrive into this context. I was not even a punctuation mark for a footnote in the pages of history. Yet there I was watching the different shades of green materialize under me, as the aircraft bounced its way through patches of rain clouds with all the wonder of an old sailor spotting a new continent after months at sea. There I was to write my personal history, to stock my personal larder with spices and to eat my way through the land.

I had all the trepidations of a first-time solo traveller in an alien land, yet Kerala opened herself to me and enveloped me in her musky, spice-laden bosom. The lush wetness of the land, the smell of freshly ground coconut and the frenzied beats of a Kathakali drummer followed me as each day faded into a still evening pregnant with her devilish brood of thunder, lightening and rain. 

The days meandered through museums, churches or rides in a vallom (country boat), yet, all the history and diverse culture of the place with its Dutch, Portuguese, Hindu, Muslim and Syrian Christian influences came together like perfectly joined jigsaw pieces. At meal times. Every meal was a discovery. Every bite was like flipping through pages of history and charting the journey of the myriad settlers from their countries of origin to the Kerala backwaters. The little oasis they would build in a new land comprised a handful of traditions, a few articles of clothing and the food. They would eat their way back home through channels of memory and dust.

Meanwhile I attempted to travel to the same countries through the self same food. The food I ate was a far cry from my own initiation into Kerala cuisine which was at a hole in the wall called 'mallu dhaba' tucked away in a dirty refugee colony in Delhi's North Campus. The Sunday biryanis and the spicy beef fry used to be a much-awaited Sunday treat, adding regional flavour to our drab Indian aka generic north Indian meals.
However, the real thing was another story altogether. Upon entering the Kerala kitchen, I  was like a child unwrapping the surprise of a gift within a gift or opening up a Russian nesting doll in wondrous joy.

People believe travelling alone opens up some window into your soul and lets you poke around and examine the weather in there. My soul searching yielded a primeval bond with my dinner plate. I created grand culinary rituals for myself. I wrote my grand culinary masterpiece with an imaginary quill as I walked through the quaint cobblestoned paths of Jew Town in Fort Kochi or wandered through a spice market in Mattancherry or examined a nutmeg fruit up close in a farm in the backwaters.

My earliest foray into the kitchens of Kerala was through Lathika George's gem of a book, The Suriani Kitchen: Recipes and Recollections from the Syrian Christians of Kerala. My own creations  drawn from this book were crafted with supermarket produce - packaged low-cholesterol coconut milk, dessicated-beyond-recognition coconut powder and frozen steroid-injected chicken and beef. The dishes that I served in my clear Borosil dishes and fancy china were a pale shadow, much like a disappointing adaptation of  a favourite novel.

How could I, a city bred cook even begin to attempt the Fish Moilee with beautiful fresh fish caught that very morning from the surrounding lake and delivered by the local fisherman himself? How could my fat chicken legs gleaming dully with a sprinkle of olive oil compare to the leaner and infinitely flavourful country chicken cooked in the milk from tender coconuts picked from trees growing in the backyard of every traditional Kerala household?

Cooking lessons and female camaraderie went hand in hand around these parts. Diana Jerry from Noah's Ark Homestay and Aniamma and Anu Mathew from Phillip Kutty's Farm were my wonderful hosts who welcomed me into their kitchens and their lovely homes. They shared recipes handed down through generations of mothers and grandmothers in the great oral tradition of all epics.

As I stood in their kitchens where everything was freshly plucked, freshly ground, freshly creamed using old fashioned methods and with old fashioned tools, I felt like a paltry pretender surrounded by my robotic gadgets measuring everything down to last precise pinch of salt.  Truly, they belong to the generation where 'andaaz' is almost a genetic gift and me with my imperial and metric scales felt like a flawed creature.



I discovered the delights of Kerala in these cavernous  kitchens where the women of the household often cook up a storm indoors, which is in perfect harmony with the thunder and lightening outside. Their cauldrons or urulis (the fantastically spacious aluminum cooking vessel) yielded meals fit for the gods themselves...at least the Gods of Small Things who live around these parts.

Green Mango Delusions

Little droplets of sweet chutney

Dribble down my chin.

Thin slices encrusted with red chilli 

Burn their fiery way down my gullet

Chunks of fruit in a chicken and coconut curry

Do a little pirouette across my dinner plate. 

Roasted with a dash of spice, water and ice

It makes me swoon in sheer delirium.

You lie scattered all over my backyard on little squares of yesterday’s news

The jars of golden oil remind me of magical Arabian nights and forty broiled thieves

The process of pickling has begun.

I trap your memory in muslin-covered bottles.

Chase your shadow in candy bars, essences and fruit leathers.

Invoke your spirit with soaps, perfumes and aerated drinks. 

When the summer has receded into the innermost whorls of the last autumn flower.

I take that last bit of pickle from the jar

And close my eyes to share the delusions

Of mad dogs and Englishmen who go out in the midday sun. 

Ode to a Sun-Dried Tomato

Gently kissed by the sun,

You are like the light sprinkling of fairy dust

That creates a midsummer night’s mayhem.

You are the harbinger of that perfect wine-drenched afternoon

Redolent of the aromas of a Neapolitan kitchen.

You add a certain je nais sais quoi

To plates across the world.

Bottled to preserve the sunshine,

Your Midas touch

Transforms a modest slice of bread

Into an expensive dish with an unpronounceable name.

Like an artist’s palette,

You infuse colour and life

Into the smoked and dried winter meats.

Bringing a hint of summer artistry

Into the empty, grey canvas of December.

A little brown paper bag full of joy,

You, my lovelies,

Are the esoteric fifth element;

Of fragile terrines,

Of fragrant swirls of handcrafted pastas,

Of rich and mysterious sauces,

Of crisp garden salads,

Of beautiful meaty casseroles

And of dainty hors d’oeuvres

A delicate creature of whimsy,

You are crushed by men with deft fingers.

This little act of violence

Leaves little slivers of red trim in its wake.

You vanish without a trace

Down the serpentine belly of the city

All that remains is 

A dark red seed, a bit of pink skin

Along with crusty ends of   

Wood-fired pizzas

And drippings of cheese

On smooth wooden table tops

In warm attic cafes

Along cobbled alleys

In the markets of my city.

a pinch of salt

This was written a long time ago. Its back on this blog because it is perhaps the life blood of the kitchen and hence a pivot for my tales...


This salt

in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me,
but
it sings,
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.

from Ode to Salt by Pablo Neruda

These humble, modest grains rose from the sea and went forth and multiplied. Sedimented, mined, dried and boiled, the earth yielded its salt painfully, grain by grain. This "white gold" marked the beginnings of our culinary history and rescued our meats from decline and decay. 

Salt has been referred to precisely 35 times in the Bible. Eating habits in Islam recommend salt before and after every meal.

Wars have been fought over salt. Slaves have been bought and sold for salt. Salt has been taxed. Man over many centuries has levied the tax and has revolted against the tax in turns. Roman soldiers were paid in salt and well, the modern word salary has its convoluted roots somewhere at the bottom of a salt cellar.


I could put little piles of the different types of salt aside for every day of the week for the next whole year and I would still have some left over.

There are salts for every reason,
Salts that cause treason and 
Salts that there are rubbed into a lesion.


They come from every country. Seeping out of the cracks of the earth, these Celtic salts, French sea salts, Hawaiian sea salts, glittery African salts, Italian salts pour themselves out over the maps of the world.
There are coarse salts that cling to the tongue after the meal has long wound its way down your food pipe. 
There are flake salts that sprinkle themselves over delicate gourmet dishes like light snowfall on a crisp and bright winter day.
There are table salts which like marching bands gather together in symmetrical crystals in their mass produced jars and do a little functional jig over the daily bread.
There are sea salts and smoked salts. These are creatures of romance that walk with your perfect cut of meat or richly exotic farm fresh salad leaves and vegetables like lovers in the rain sharing a single umbrella, revelling in the moment of complete togetherness.  
Just like a brilliant auteur crafting the work of his lifetime out of seeming nothingness, man in a flash of genius excavated the the pink Peruvian salt from a nearly inaccessible spring deep in the mountains of Peru, which is then carried down the slopes as bricks on the backs of furry llamas.
There are sociologically accurate salts, which, by its very presence defines what is kosher what isn't.
Then there is the wildly exotic caviar of salts – fleur de sel which is hand-harvested in special ponds and scraped off before it can float down to the bottom, a feat as arduous as the quest for the Holy Grail. 
There are the esoteric dead sea salts – salts that share space with blood red hibiscus flowers and vanilla scented candles lining the edges of cavernous marble baths. An exercise in luxury.

(wood-engraved illustration by Gustave Dore)

And there are ofcourse the legends of  sea water, shipwrecked sailors, thirst and hallucinations. Most of it made famous by salt. And some of it by Samuel T. Coleridge whose lines echo through my mind every time I'm on a boat.

Water, water, everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink; 

Water, water, everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink.

The fact that two thirds of our planet is covered with this salty undrinkable sea water is not a very cheerful thought. 

Salt and a Blonde called Honey

1. Honey is a pretty blonde with a delicate temperament. She wilts in the heat and swoons at any kind of excitement. She is revived from her fainting spell with the help of smelling salts. 
2. Honey is a pretty blonde who is sensitive and highly emotional. She often dissolves in large lachrymal puddles composed of water, mineral salts, antibodies and lysozyme.



Salt is an experiment in lexicology – from the lively wit of a notable Athenian to an indicator of class dynamics.

Salt is a salve for the digestive glands – from the old fashioned salt water potions to the modern day flavoured fruit salts. 

Salt is a powerful magical charm – from basic protection against the evil eye to extensive use in african hoodoo practices.

there is the salt that delights when it is rubbed on small pieces of raw mango and secretly gorged on during hot summer afternoons

there is the salty ham and chorizo which complements every sandwich, salad and gourmet meal.

there is the salt that is applied on loitta or bombil fish which is dried on lines as the wind carries its powerful smell to the corners of the city. This rather acquired taste favoured by Bombaywallahs and East Bengalis and presented as pickles or curries for the colonizer and Anglophile.

There is the salt I have carried with me in packets as my personal talisman against vampiric leeches. 
There is the salt in my tin that I have every once in a while mistaken for snow white castor sugar. And thus, I have had a salty chocolate pudding, a lovely vanilla cake dusted with fine salt, a salty chocolate and peanut butter milkshake and many cups of perfectly brewed fine Darjeeling tea with a teaspoon of salt.    
There is the salt that sits innocuously in a battered china salt cellar on my table which inspired me to write this piece. This salt changes its consistency almost daily with the weather. Nearly every morning there ensues a herculean struggle at the breakfast table.  Me on one side trying to get a few grains out through the five evenly spaced holes and the salt cellar on the other, a hardened and formidable opponent resisting at every step. 
I have never been successful at getting a perfect uniform sprinkle out of my salt cellar. I always stared enviously at the waiters in restaurants who would sprinkle salt over my fresh salad with a deft flick of their wrist. The chefs on TV would dust their beautifully crafted concoctions with salt, ever so elegantly while I sat across the television set working myself into a nervous frenzy in trying to extract even a few grains of salt from the dratted shaker. 
This old china salt container has some great nostalgic value for my mum and thus it was never discarded and thus, my travails continued. 
I subjected the salt container to much violence and yet, it stood intact and unyielding.
I applied home remedies to it by putting in a few grains of uncooked rice to keep it dry and powdery. And yet, the salt stayed inside never to see the light of day.   
I tried wrestling. Brute force achieves little and the beheaded salt cellar vomited all its contents on my perfectly fried egg.
I tried being gentle and tapped it lightly while poaching my egg. And all I got was a bland egg for my efforts. The salt itself had become a wet and soggy lump that was clogging every single opening of the shaker.
The only reason I saved this salt cellar from the dustbin was because I realized it had character. It taught me the values of patience and it made me appreciate the small things in life. 

Every once in a blue moon, there was the perfect egg with the right amount of salt, the perfect cucumber sandwiches with the perfect amount of salt and the perfect crispy Aloo Bhaja (fried potato strips) lightly dusted with salt. These rare moments made precious because of their scarcity, tinted the world in shades of rose. It was a perfect moment when me, my eggs, my cucumbers, my Aloo Bhaja, my salt and my salt cellar existed in complete and beauteous harmony with the larger motions of the planet. 

My little homage to salt is dedicated to such occasional moments of truth.