AN ODE TO NATURE

Since the whole of last week, the nation, as a whole, has been grieving the loss of life and property to the fury of nature at Uttarakhand.  A beautiful place perhaps created by God when he was in one of his best and magnanimous moods stands devastated today. I am reminded of that lazy afternoon many moons ago….perhaps, this time of the year, when I first set my eyes on snow-clad mountains of the Dhauladhar range. Pristine white, with a dash of blue, juxtaposed with proud pine and deodar trees, the mountains solemnly looked down upon me through a haze of mist. I must confess I was pretty much taken in by the serenity as well as the general way of life of that hill station which was so different from that in our plains. A few years after, I was lucky to live on the hills, albeit for a short period, during my training for the job. The intoxication of the pine scented air, the cool climes,the laidback attitude of the people, the homely bakeries were all sorely missed once I got back to the plains. Often I would daydream of the little details- the clean springs, the swaying tall trees, the church spires, the tourists etc. all of whom are integral parts of hill stations.Don’t get me wrong.. I am not the mountain-hugging, trekking kind of person; I am fully aware how life can get tough up there. But somehow, the romance associated with them has clung to me. And thus, I managed to string the following words together.

                                              JOURNEY

Gurgling and murmuring, twisting and turning

The stream tumbles down.

Down the snowy Himalayas

Writhing past the verdant greens and thick forests

Stopping for a moment, just a moment

To take in the heavenly beauty of valley of flowers,

And sway to the music of humming bees

Who have just sipped the sweet nectar.

And then, admiring the tall deodars

Rising high and higher in the hope of stroking the clouds.

Then it moves past, stealing one last look

At the gaily flowers emanating their fragrance to every nook.

Here comes the gigantic fall,

The stream braces itself, breaks its lull

To hurtle down the huge boulders,

And join the cesspool below.

Where the tourists flock to gaze at nature’s wonder.

The children enjoy the frothing waters

Before they get distracted by the sweetmeat sellers.

Yonder sits the ageless sadhu

Enjoying his tobacco, contemplating yet another journey towards moksha.

Here on the stream rushes ahead,

Propelled by the speed of multicoloured fishes.

A definite restlessness, a tinge of anxiety exists

For the stream now yearns to meet the mighty river

Just like the soldier longing to go home

To catch a glimpse of his veiled beloved as she comes near.

The plains approach, the stream slackens its pace

Excitement mounts, the journey is approaching an end.

The stream takes a breath before the bend

And, reminding one of a baby stumbling forth to meet its mother

The stream leaps and bounds to embrace the river.

As I write this, the innocuous streams, placid lakes  and the merry rivers have turned menacing. A lot many lives are in danger, many more have succumbed to nature’s anger. Which makes me wonder-when will we learn to treat nature, our surroundings with the dignity due to it? When will we learn that our fairy tale romance with nature can go horribly wrong if we mindlessly fiddle with it all the time? Maybe, we will learn, some of us have already started. It is also important and it is better to be late than never for we have to keep the romance alive for posterity.

MY FAVOURITE PEEVE OF THE MOMENT

As a bureaucrat of some 5 odd years standing, I have realized that the very profile of the job demands and ensures continuous and consistent dialogic interaction with the public at all points of time. And being a part of the police service, one also realizes that this interaction is situated at a space when a person is distressed/disturbed/outraged in his/her private sphere and expects immediate redressal of the same. Of course, the machinery needs to swing into action immediately, but what suffices at the initial moment of agony is a protracted, patient hearing to the person’s issues. However, this is not always the case. The lack of proper infrastructural facilities at the police station, severe staff crunch coupled with exponential work overload often lead to instances wherein the troubles of the people get scant regard. Sadly so, because not only do their problems compound; they also lose faith in the efficacy of the administration to handle their problems. And specifically, when the problems relate to that of crime and criminals, life and property, one can very well imagine the extent of grievance of those people who haven’t been able to set the wheels of police administration in motion. It is precisely to deal with the issues and grievances of those people with the administrative machinery in general, that the idea of having a joint grievance session at the district level comprising of all senior officers of the district was conceptualized by the government  and is being implemented since the last couple of  years  across all the districts of the state.

A beautiful concept indeed..but does it actually work? Having sat through many such sessions, I feel that considering the heavy footfall of the people, their profound expectations and the setting of such sessions, I don’t think the purpose is being served in the true sense of the term. First and foremost, the setting. A motley of senior officers gathered at a conference hall in the morning of the first working day of the week. Some still dealing with weekend blues, some more having made that trip to their native places  have grudgingly trudged back to work and some quite excited to see colleagues and friends from other departments and waiting to catch up on some workplace gossip. Tea does its faithful rounds and so do packets of paan, seasoned betel leaf-the source of survival of many government officials posted along the coast. And if some god fearing officer has chanced to make that early morning temple trip, plates of prasad are dutifully circulated. Of course, with 30 odd officers present in the same room, phones keep incessantly buzzing as do the hum of the orderlies and peons in the background. Frequently, an urgent call comes..the senior officer hastily summons his deputy and leaves. The arrival of the deputy calls for yet another round of tea, chatter and further bonhomie. The scene outside is equally colourful. Media persons are present in full strength to encapsulate the ignored miseries of the people who have come from different parts of the district. Petition writers are seemingly busy drafting out the grievances in the terms and language to ensure that their customers get their due. Touts hover around trying to impress upon the aggrieved their contacts with the who is who of the district machinery and what miracles they can conjure up for a small sum. And then, there are the people. In hundreds, having come from towns, villages and hamlets. Sometimes with their families, sometimes alone. Waiting to get a chance to appear before the movers and shakers and get their work done in a jiffy. Some with genuine issues, some for the heck of it. And with such a gathering at one place, can you keep the hawkers behind? Right from balloons to vegetables to pens to assortments of snacks, the hawkers peddle everything and earn a handsome profit. For where will the people go till they have been heard?Hey, it is the weekly fete for all of them!

But then, the purpose of these sessions is pretty solemn and serious. What has not been redressed at the lower level is grave and requires the immediate attention of the senior officials. But is the purpose met? Not when people in tens and twenties come thronging into a not so big hall with officials cloistered together. Not when everybody is speaking all at once. Not when there is somebody overtly dramatic at your neighbour’s elbow and you are more attracted to his/her antics to pay much attention to the one standing next to you. Not when even the aggrieved are answering phone calls along with your colleagues. Not when the complainant is telling you his story of woe and a pesky media person is jostling his camcorder to capture your repartee. Not when 5 people at once are jostling for your attentions. Not when one of your colleagues is losing his temper at some person for coming up with made-in-air grievance. Not when your colleagues are discussing the current movie in town or that the tea has no milk in it. Not when you are feeling uncomfortable, suffocated, utterly irritated and confused all in one go. The purpose is definitely way off the mark.

I have my sympathies with the people who spend their time and money and make efforts to come to the district headquarters to be heard by the district officials. I so want that their problems get solved; that they don’t make such a trip again as they do at present. But then, there is something so amiss with implementation of this concept in a real life situation. When a person comes to me with an issue, I would like to hear him out in quiet, somber surroundings where I can critically analyse his problem, involve him in a dialogue and then think of something which would be the best possible way to assuage him. Also, I would like to ensure that the person gets his privacy in talking about his issues which may not be possible in such a jamboree kind of setup. Also, I would like to hear out a person at a time and space where my faculties are intact. Not when I am not at peace and comfort with myself. Not when my most favourite peeve of the moment is attending those grievance sessions where I hear less, comprehend little and cannot think of doing much. Simply because, the setting, the atmosphere and the general climate is not so conducive. Yes, one can invoke that magical word that we, the young bureaucrats, are frequently burdened with: motivation!  I do feel severely guilty at times, but then I remind myself that Abraham Maslow also agreed that motivation can have its impact only when the basic, hygiene factors are met and satisfied.

So I console myself, get peeved further and resign myself to attending the next joint grievance session on Monday.

AH! THE MONSOONS

The sun has been pretty merciless the last couple of months; the humidity coupled with the heat has taken its toll on mood swings and general well-being. Precisely the reason why when I took a short break from the work station last week, I was pretty much glad that by the time I am back, the monsoons would have arrived calming the seething earth. Not that I am terribly fond of the rains. The incessant downpours, the resultant squalor, forced confinement etc do not do much to my spirits. Additionally, rains also unfurl the welcome banner for all kinds of creepy crawlies to make their way into your house…all the time I lived out of home, monsoons would give me sleepless nights for the fear of serpents making their way into some nook of my room. Not that I haven’t tried to make friends with the rains. In fact, one look at all our movies glorifying the romance associated with the monsoons makes me feel rather guilty. As a student, I even attempted getting drenched a couple of times in the downpour..it is another story that I ended up with a severe skin rash each time. Being a non-tea drinker, I could never fathom the joy of drinking masala chai to the tune of falling raindrops. Or for that matter, the adventure of negotiating your way through ugly puddles while trying to manage an umbrella over your head. Romance, fun and gaiety are the last thoughts in my mind once the rains arrive. In one of those rain-induced moments of melancholy, sprung this little poem.

                                                       MONSOON SHOWER

Dark, heavy clouds loom across the horizon,

I crane my neck for a last glimpse of the disappearing sun,

Twittering birds take shelter, the peacock opens its fan in all its splendour.

As I stand by the window, in my heart echoes the clap of thunder

A wave of desolation drowns my being

The sprays of rain unearth those buried memories

Of walks on puddled roads enjoying the rain

Ah! The sensation of raindrops falling from neem leaves..splashing onto the face,

And the pleasure of seeing your delighted smile

Gave me the strength to walk that extra mile.

Your eyes mist as you sip the fragrant tea

As I sit adoringly at your knee.

The ecstasy of love, the joy of life, the feeling of happiness

Is experienced in those tender moments of togetherness.

You have now gone; a gaping void is left behind

Dark as those dark clouds and bleak as the daily grind

The monsoon brings rain, it also brings tears

The world outside and I become one,

The world outside is drenched in rain, I in tears

Mourning the loss

Of days of sunshine that have drawn to a close.

However, when the sun becomes too overbearing, one cannot help but yearn for the skies to open up and drench the earth. Once back from leave, I was pretty upset that the rains and the subsequent relief is yet to come in full force. But while swimming under the gaze of a lazy, waxing moon this evening, I was again preparing to miss those languid balmy evenings once the waters come gushing from above and force me to twiddle my fingers indoors.

AROMATHERAPY- OF A DIFFERENT KIND

At a family gathering recently, we were discussing about first impressions that can be culled out from the looks on our faces. Some whacky minds worked mischief and soon, everybody present was a part of the game. When it was my turn, it was unanimously agreed that I gave the impression of a well fed pampered cat with nose high up in the air..never mind that the nose was a pug! Talking of being well-fed and pampered, my earliest memories of childhood are of sitting bleary eyed in our balcony after the afternoon nap with a huge glass of milk( with that yucky abhorrent Horlicks dunked into it in generous measure) and two fat slices of homemade cakes. Like all children, I used to hate my glass (which actually resembled a bottomless pail) of milk and the torture of gulping all of that twice a day was a huge chore. That is when my mother, all of 23, learnt to make cakes for her little one..so that the milk ordeal passes through easily. Plus all the added pep talk of how the combination of milk and Horlicks would turn a predominantly shy, quiet me into some mythical conqueror of sorts! I don’t really remember how much I believed in all that but yes, my mother’s regular baking sessions twice a week which ensured consistent cake supply made my milk drinking sessions a whole lot easier..actually a cakewalk!  And thus started my infatuation with the world of cakes and baking.

Having been solely dependent on my mum’s culinary skills all the while to satiate my taste buds, I ventured into that alien, scary laboratory commonly called kitchen after my Std 10 exams. Two left hands at cooking, clumsiness and a general lack of aptitude ensured that my family was getting more than its regular quota of guffaws at my expense on a daily basis. Not to give up but thoroughly fed up with the task of distinguishing between one spice and another, I decided that it would be much more fun and easy to do what I have loved seeing my mother do all those years…baking! The time-trusted oven was brought out and I began my foray into the world of baking….and I haven’t looked back since.

When I was in school and college, coming back home to the smell of cakes and cookies used to be very comforting. It made home feel more homey, warm and a wonderful cocoon to be in. And of course, nothing could beat the ecstasy of gorging on them and especially coaxing mum to give you a slice more than what your sibling got. Once I learnt how to manage my flour, sugar, oil and the works, I baked sporadically through my college years. It always felt nice to look up in magazines or beg my mum for recipes and try out cakes and cookies and patties with different ingredients. I recall that once I had tried out a vegetable patty with a strawberry flavoured wrap (which was basically a recipe gone wrong) and had fooled my family into believing it was some speciality dish….and also polishing all of it. It is another story that I had dutifully sacrificed my own share…for my own and greater good.

After some years away from home, baking again stole my heart away when I set up my own home, hearth and oven. Internet and blogging had taken the world by storm and cookery blogs were a blessing to all novices like me. After grueling hours at work, it was a flight to a different world: reading blogs, copying recipes, adapting them to your own kitchen et al. Not that I have turned into a consummate cook or an expert baker but it is difficult to put in words what the aroma of my batter baking in the oven does to me. It takes away all the fatigue of the mind and body, makes me take a trip down the memory lane, fills me up with a sense of purpose and simply, exhilarates my being. The task of sieving the raw flour with the baking powder; blending the sugar, oil, flour and all other concoctions in the right measure  and manner takes my mind off the mundane and concentrate on creating something. And when things and emotions have taken a severe beating, it is time to bring in the exotica. The dark brown sugar, melted chocolate, cranberry juice and Old Monk rum( ok..i am a teetotaller but when it comes to my cakes, I am shameless..have also managed to convert family on the same lines) which go into the batter along with cinnamon, nutmeg apricots, walnuts and almonds make heaven seem just a step away. Considering that I have lived in some of the remote parts of the country after taking up the job, fancy ingredients are not easy to get. So whenever I am out into civilization, it is time to horde up. Predictably, in all my return trips my luggage resembles more of a desperate grocer’s than that of a normal, working lady. Till date I have tried my hand in everything..red velvet cake, shortbread cookies, orange cinnamon cake, chocolate rum cake, raisin cake ,peppermint cupcakes to name a few. And, it is a wonder standing in front of the oven watching the batter rise up, firm and turn a lovely shade of golden brown. While all the time your nose is filled with a delectable aroma..almost akin to old world romance, timeless passion. Baking has now become my last resort and therapy in lifting my spirits and filling me up with the much needed joie de vivre. So much so that when the year 2013 announced itself with a whole lot of professional complexities, I began teaching myself to bake breads with vengeance. Waiting for the yeast to rise up and foam was like waiting for my exam results to be out and hanging by the oven door to check the texture of the bread was like..umm..waiting for your college crush to turn up. And now, family and friends swear by my baking….it is indeed a pleasure to be appreciated for doing things well for which you never really had a knack in the first place. Blossom Kocchar brought aromatherapy to Indian ladies but I must say that I never believed much in it..till I began baking..till I became addicted to the aroma wafting from the oven..till I realized how much it calms my senses and balms my sagging spirits. It is my own aromatherapy..my little joy.

However, I must admit that though I do bring out wonders from the oven, what makes me grin like a pet cat bred only on cream is when my mum takes charge and churns out her simple sponge cake. That is the stuff love and affection and gluttony is made up of. Now, I am waiting for my baby to grow up and say similar things about me.

MY LITTLE TRYST WITH FAITH AND RELIGION

The sun is blazing away in this part of the country forcing people to stay indoors for the better part of the day. Maybe to give them ample time to gorge on mangoes, watermelons, litchis and all the fruity wonders that nature has to offer at this time of the year. Maybe also to plan ahead for the festival season which is scheduled to begin shortly with the magnificent Jagannath Rath Yatra. The preparations have already started: the Lord has been taken around boating in ponds in different parts of this district as a part of the time honoured customary rituals which precede Rath Yatra.  Speaking of which reminds me of another Rath Yatra many summers ago in a totally different setting. I was a few months old in my first posting in South Odisha when I got to know of a Christian festival dedicated to Mother Mary which was to be celebrated in a remote part of the district sub-division where I was in charge. Having studied in a conservative Catholic missionary school and having gone through numerous catechism classes, I took pride in having a fair knowledge of Christian beliefs, rituals et al. But a Christian festival after Good Friday was news to me.

The festival was to take place in a cluster of villages located at the foot of the hills with jungles bordering them. We reached there around dusk and the festival of Mother Mary was to begin late evening. I guess I was as enthusiastic as the simple tribals about the festival….simply because I had never heard of anything like this before. Imagine my amazement when I found out that it was basically a Rath Yatra of Mother Mary to be taken out in a candlelight procession by the villagers! When the time arrived, the meager electricity supply to the hamlets was cut off. And then, the figure of Virgin Mary dressed in a white sari with bangles on her wrists was installed in what appeared to be a prototype of a rath-chariot decorated in gaily colours and pennants. Only a discerning eye would make out that it was Mother Mary and not the Hindu goddess Saraswati. The head bishop sat on the chariot replicating a charioteer and the chariot was to be dragged around the villages by the devotees led by a candlelight procession. What was even more amazing was that the devotees and patrons of the local church were merrily singing carols to the tune of some popular Hindu hymns. Even the words were more or less the same, just tweaked here and there to honour the sentiments of Christianity. Once the procession started, I felt there was not much difference between this Rath Yatra and that of Lord Jagannath save the dress of the priests and the numerous candles. The enthusiasm, the fervor, the rituals were all the same.

Being a student of Social Sciences, I had read numerous research papers on the process of Sanskritization in the Hindu caste system whereby, simply put, a caste group adopts the way of life of another, more favoured caste, and by doing so, over years and centuries, gains more acceptability in the society. However, what I was witnessing was the process of Sanskritization of a religion to gain more acceptability amongst its new found followers. I spoke at length to a few women there; they or their forefathers had converted to Christianity. They were named Isabel or Maria or Elizabeth and called their children Jeremiah or Joseph or Francis. But they prominently sported vermillion on their foreheads and red bangles on their wrists- distinguishing marks of married Hindu women. Upon querying them further, I realized that they observed all Hindu festivals along with the Christian ones and didn’t see much of a difference between Vishnu and Jesus. Just that the place of worship had changed and being part of the new order, they attended sermons every Sunday and their children had access to good schools.

This made me think that we might follow any religion, change our religions but what is most important and what makes the world go around is having faith. Faith in the world order, faith in sterling social principles and faith in an omnipresent and omniscient power that we call God. In times of religious strife and intolerance, it is a wonder to see a religion actively adapting itself to local practices to suit the emotional palates of people. For all religions bow before the shining faith in the minds and hearts of the masses. And that is why a great thinker of our times believed that having faith would lead to a world order based on the principle of Vasudhaiva Kutambakam.

Meanwhile, let us keep our faith and bring in the mangoes...

                                              NEW  BEGINNINGS

When we walk down the corridor of life, sometimes strolling, sometimes running or rushing through, it is always a pleasure to meet a long lost friend around some corner.Our emotions spill through and lovely memories warm the cockles of our hearts.This is exactly how i felt when I chanced upon this blog after almost two years.Much water has flown down the bridge since then...but it was a wonderful feeling coming back to something which I had created and had wanted to cultivate further.In the humdrum of daily existence, my links with this blog might have frayed but definitely not broken. Because it is a treat to come here and write..and share. Having never even written a diary, putting down personal or even professional feelings is a task, but I shall try harder this time.

I started penning poems around the same time I started working.The more the work pressure, the more used to be the untamed urge to create something poignant or beautiful. Around the time that I was reading my favourite novel, River God for the nth time and sharing the pain of one of the protagonists who never gets to know his father, I  wrote this little piece in memory of all those children who never could be around a parent sacrificed in the altar of strife and war.


                                              THE TOMB

The tomb stood still,
Its mossy surface basking in winter's sun,
Silently watched by the dead soldier's son.

the young soldier had fought many battles,
Had tolled countless victory bells,
His sinews were caressed by scars,
Belying his young age, his rakish charm.

Countries he travelled, legions he conquered,
Lustily cheering as the trumpet of victory bellowed,
The days were tiring, the nights sublime,
Amidst the sweet blossoms of this cooler clime,
Memories of his young wife, unborn child
Haunted him, made him restless.

That day was cold, the battle grim
Bayonets clashed, fire met fire, 'twaslike a terrible dream.
The soldier was tired,weary to the bone,
But duty beckoned; the warrior had an allegiance to the throne.
Musket in hand, he rushed forward,
Death smelt him and dealt a blow hard.
The soldier succumbed.
Glory was his and so was the pain,
He humbly closed his eyes to the winter's sun,
Eyes that would never see his newborn son.


The tomb stood still,
Its mossy surface basking in winter's sun,
Silently watched by the dead soldier's son.
The son thought of his valiant father, a warrior second to none,
Resting in his tomb today,but his spirit lives on,
For the son has donned the soldier's mantle.
Wars he shall win, sabres he shall rattle,
Bring laurels for his dead father
Whose tomb stands still basking in the winter's sun.

Conference Nuggets.

I have been out of the loop since long..was away at Bhubaneswar to attend the 4th National Conference of Women in Police. it was indeed a great experience:meeting a number of senior lady police officers about whom one just reads or hears about. these are the women, who in their heydays, took it upon themselves to storm the uniformed male bastion and distinguish themselves.Personally,I was much impressed by their style and verve...Wow,ladies!!

The conference had a record participation of policewomen. The issues discussed, I am sure,have been raised numerous times before..right from lady constables to lady DGPs-harrassment at workplace, inconsiderate bosses and even more insensitive colleagues, lack of infra structural facilities etc.What struck me funny and ironic was that women were complaining to women and sharing tales of woe regarding their chauvinist male colleagues. There was no male police officer in attendance,at the most, retired male IPS officers who have little or no say in modifying the present system.

I believe that if we are really serious about ensuring a healthier workplace for our policewomen, we need such conferences to be attended by a smattering of women delegates and a larger number of policemen. Let them also hear publicly the tales of woe of their female colleague, let them also realize that just like their wife, sister, mother and daughter, that woman in uniform is also a "woman". I am sure and confident that we, the women in uniform, do not need male sympathy but yes, the workplace becomes a hell without their understanding and sensitivity towards our cause. And our problems will not be resolved by these formalized"kitty" sessions.
Bring in the men, gals! And then the change shall hopefully follow.

Birthday Bonanza

I have vivid memories of my last birthday...endless law and order duty, a botched up dinner party and sullen family and friends.Which taught me to appreciate the little pleasures of life whenever they come my way.

Today, exactly after an year,the pace of life is quite languid.Of course, the morning began the way sunday mornings invariably are for a policewoman. Something unpleasant inadvertently happens on saturday nights or on early sunday mornings and then, the entire sunday is consumed in a clean-up exercise. This sunday was no different.So, this morning also required a major fire fighting exercise. what with making numerous phone calls to avert an unpleasant situation and receiving again, scores of calls from far-flung family and friends enthusiastically wishing a happy birthday!

By mid-morning, crisis was averted and thoughts turned to celebrating the birthday....I am a year younger today!! Living in a nondescript dusty village town, I couldn't hope to go to a restaurant to have a quiet lunch/ dinner. So, husband and i decided to have the works at home...quite optimistic..hmmm!!

I put on my chef cap(apron to be precise) and rustled up quite a birthday lunch. Zafrani Badam Pulao,Butter chicken,Vegetable manchurian and boondi raita....Yum Yum!
Again, being quite a novice in the art of cooking, did quite a bit of research...picked up the recipe of zafrani pulao from another blog, chicken makhni was sanjeev kapoor's recipe and veg.manchurian, my mother's patent. Feeling quite lazy to give in the recipes today but shall do it eventually.

By the way, calorie counting has taken a back seat today..going to gorge on chocolate ice-cream. Mmmmm...for the gourmande in me..what better way to celebrate a birthday than to gorge on good food. Shall put in extra workout tomorrow.

Where is our moral fibre?

A few days back,a case of rape was reported in my district.The victim was a 13 year old village girl and the rapist, a 65 year old man, a co-villager, whom she referred to as "dadu". when I met the victim, she was still in a state of shock. She had apparently gone to the jungle in the wee hours of the morning to collect firewood,"dadu" had followed her. He abducted her, raped her and then took her away to a neighbouring town where they were finally apprehended by the police.The victim's family was immediately informed and she was sent to a Home for children. The distance between this town where the victim was apprehended and that of her native village was around 80 kms.The father took 3 days to arrive at the Home and claim his daughter. The reason?

All the time that the victim was in the police station and narrating her tale of horror or dealing with her trauma and shock at the Home, her father was negotiating with the accused's family..for money! The father wanted Rs.50,000 not to push charges against the accused.A village panchayat was convened for the purpose;the deal fell through when the accused's son-in-law refused to go beyond Rs.40,000. The father waited for another 24 hours in the hope that the accused's family would come around...when nothing materialized, he howled rape and went to get his daughter.

Having been in the police service for 3 years now, a case of child rape doesn't shock me beyond measure. Of course, the sense of outrage persists coupled with piety for the emotionally scarred child but yes, i dont get sleepless nights as i used to in my initial months in the service. What bothers me, tears me apart is the attitude of the parents. Time and again, i hear of parents demanding compensation for rape! And village panchayats considering it!! i feel ashamed of my race, my people. Can there ever be compensation for rape? Is any compensation enough? And how does the parent face the rape victim after taking the compensation? I agree we live in a society where most of our people are wallowing in poverty,cannot deal with the insensitivity of the police and the complexities of the judiciary.But i refuse to take poverty as an excuse for a largely absent moral fibre. Why do the same poor, oppressed people rush to the police station or knock the gates of the court when the compensation money is not paid and the accused makes good of the bargaining time and flees.

Being a student of Sociology, i have come across numerous articles dealing with the weakening morality and diminishing values in an urban society. But what about the moral strength of our villages-our shrines of culture? why are they degenerating so fast into blatant materialism and shallow emotionality? I am no one to sit judge over their conduct, but yes, one does feel moved by the sight of a weeping child, complaining of pain and hurt, traumatised and tortured oblivious to the fact that her parents have been bargaining a few fistfuls of currency notes to 'compensate' for her pain and trauma.In my opinion, they are committing an offence more heinous and despicable than rape.

This is definitely not our "Shining India" of the 21st century.

Kesariya Phirni

Husband is around these days...and work is hotting up..what with increasing naxal violence!I needed a break from the gloom.....so me headed to the kitchen. Hubby has a prominent sweet tooth...so, i browsed through a few foodie blogs, added my own variations and kesariya phirni happened..made it the first time and i swear, it was yummylicious.... so here is the recipe.

Ingredients:-

• 10 tbsp basmati rice



• 1 litre milk



• 3/4 cup Sugar



• 4-5 strands of saffron



• 2 tsp green cardamom powder



• 1 tsp rose water



• 1tsp kewra water



• pistachio slivers, cashew, raisins.

Soak the basmati rice in water for 1/2 an hour. Spread the rice to dry. Make a coarse paste of 5 tbsp milk, rice and cardamom powder. Take care to ensure that the paste is coarse and not fine. Meanwhile, soak the saffron strands in 2tbsp warm milk. Boil the milk and reduce it to 3/4th. Add the sugar, as required. Now, add the coarse milk-rice paste to the milk and keep stirring. Let the mixture cook for a few minutes. Now, add the saffron to the mixture. Stir well and take the mixture off flame. Add the rose water, kewra water and stir in the pistachio slivers, cashew and raisins. Chill and garnish....I garnished my phirni with pomengranates and dates. It turned out to be fantabulous....and promptly vanished the next day. i have attached a snap of my kesariya phirni.

Come September...

September, i read somewhere, is the month of fresh beginnings, of hope and renewal. Come september..and i was overtaken by the urge to start something..anew, something i had never done before. So, here i am with my blog to share my thoughts, experiences and trysts with my passions....life, food and poetry.

Currently serving my first term in bureaucracy in a typical, moffusil town in the backwaters of India, I find myself in a reflective mood.Since work is not so taxing and I am a married bachelorrette,(hey, i didnt like the word "bachelor") I have time to indulge my interests which were not possible in my hectic student years at delhi. i have experimented in my kitchen...I am a foodie all right!;dabbled with poetry, taught myself glass painting while dealing with the life, times and travails of the common man on a daily basis. My posts would be a reflection of these..and more! So long..till then..
I made yummy phirni yesterday..would post the recipe in my next post.