An Homage to India (a fictional piece) Part 1

To be at home

In bed, legs sprawled amidst yours

Crumpled sheets kicked off at night to keep cool under the rapidly rotating blades of the softly whispering fan above me.

Golden yellow light streaming in softly through sheer blue curtains,

Curtains that painted the room ocean blue with golden streaks of light escaping occasionally from between, as if the ocean itself were softly washing up against our walls, teasing them with its calm caress, taunting them with its enchanting disarray …Slowly nudging a brick and mortar structure to life, pointing out the pleasures the world outside held..

As sleep slowly lifts its hold from my eyes, I can smell chai from Raju chettan’s chaya kada downstairs; “Geeta’s canteen” he named it, after his daughter.

The scents in India are truly breathtaking, I must say. From the strong revitalizing scent of a good cup of chai/chaya (tea) or kapi (coffee) in the morning, served with any of the delicious breakfast foods like puttu with kadala curry or steaming hot idli or dosa or freshly made crunchy vadas with chutney and sambar, to the iddiyappam with delicious coconut hidden within!

Even as you walk down the road, past bus stops, especially in the mornings, you can smell the fresh jasmine that has been cautiously pinned to the hair of the women, the soft white buds in stark contrast to their slick black hair.

 Even the local flower vendors parked on street corners with their garlands of jasmine, marigold, roses, hibiscus etc intended for both adornment and daily pujas; their trays resting on top of their parked scooters are a colorful delight.

For some reason, I also enjoy the smell of just put out bonfires that the beggars and street-dwellers make to keep themselves warm at night; there’s something reassuring about it, it reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen where she used wood and coconut shells to light fires to cook kanji (rice).

 I spent hours at that stove, eagerly watching how she blew softly at the fire to fuel it and added more wood to keep it going. 

Still refusing to say goodbye to my bed yet, I wait and I can hear the sizzling sound of the dosa maavu being poured onto Raju chettan’s skillet, I can picture his expert hands slowly spreading the mixture out with his ladle, and then spreading butter over it and just as its sizzle subsides, spooning in his potato mixture onto the dosa and expertly folding it, ready to be served to his early morning customer whose eyes lay hidden twice; once behind thick plastic spectacles and once more behind his early morning newspaper that he frowns as he reads, perhaps hoping silently to predict from its emanating patterns  what the world holds for his grandchildren as they grow up. And as Raju chettan slides over the dosa and chai glass to his customer and then grabs his own, they talk, as they do every day, about the country, the state, the crimes, the politicians, about lost traditions and newfound technologies.

I hear the appachan from the bakery opposite the chaya kada, unlocking and raising the shutter of his store, his worker boy swiftly dusting off the shelves and the dozen jars full of biscuits and candy that rested atop the glass case in front of his store and just as he pulls out his broom to sweep the store, appachan begins his morning puja, lighting his agarpathis and as their sweet fragrance lifts up past my windowsill to the heavens above, he slowly closes his eyes in prayer, his palms together, his lips moving silently, asking God for a blessed day, for good business and no obstacles.

As the scent of dosas and chai and freshly baked bread, puffs and sweets slowly wafts in through the window, I finally open my eyes, pull myself off the bed and head to complete my morning routine. Once fresh and clean, I go to the kitchen to indulge in my daily self-proclaimed addiction, chai. Nothing can make a day better than a good cup of chai; the perfect amount of milk and water mixed with just the right amount of tea leaves, brewed to the perfectly dark milky color and enough sugar to sweeten the bitter brew. A good cup of chai can start conversations, soothe chills from the wettest monsoon evenings and with the additional touch of spices like ginger, cardamom or cinnamon, make it an experience worth coming back to time and again. And as I sit at the windowsill, watching dew drops slyly drip off weeping jade leaves onto the thirsty ground below, like a secret lover sneaking out as the morning rays seep in through open windows; I can hear you stir, inhaling deeply your first awakening breath, as if tasting life again, followed by rustling as you fight with the sheets to let you stay in bed, then stillness as you sneak in one last moment of shuteye before finally admitting defeat and slowly climbing out of bed. I hear you go into the bathroom and I pour out your cup of chai and set it on the table and then head back to my perch, to watch the hustle and bustle of the town below my windowsill.

When here in India, there is nothing better than people watching; there is always something happening outside. The traffic itself is a sight, like a thousand little insects worming its way through the muddy streets, dodging potholes, weaving past each other at whim, ever resilient to using any mirror that comes with said vehicles, each determined to make his or her way through town on their own, no help necessary, thank you very much!