Honest Salsa

After enduring painful monsoon traffic, bumps and snarls for almost two hours, I was famished when we reached a friend’s place over the weekend. I requested my friend instantly – much to the chagrin of my wife – for something to eat. As soon as we were served some snacks, accompanied with a bright coloured sauce, I was tempted to pounce. To my disappointment, the sauce was on the other side of the table and I asked my friend to pass me the nice looking chutney. 

Lo and behold! The outburst began. He scorned at me; handed me the bowl of chutney; explained the pains they had undergone that day to prepare that special salsa sauce for the first time and cautioned me of the tempest ahead (his wife would be joining shortly!) for me for having called this fruit of labour as mere chutney!

My wife looked at me with equal disdain. My hunger vanished. The cheese bites were stuck, akin to Adam’s apple, in the passage. I was feeling sinful. The poverty of language had never been an impediment till that moment; nor had honesty!

I have always been a connoisseur of good food, though, with experience, the appreciations have flown from heart rather than head. My emotional honesty has emerged over several years of travel and turmoil.

One incident just flashed on my memory screen. Soon after my marriage, when I started carrying lunchbox - romantically prepared by my wife - to office, I would religiously appreciate the food on return. Appreciation is a great motivation – the more I praised, the more spices she added - till one evening when my colleagues visited our home for dinner. In their enthusiasm to laud my wife’s culinary skills, they told her that the contents of the lunchbox were too spicy for me to handle and that i bought food from the canteen while they finished my tiffin.

The aftermath is best left to each one’s imagination!

However, this and many a travail later, i realized that honesty was a risky, yet supreme credo. The world is imploring upon the citizens – preachers and practitioners alike – to remain honest. The stick is also being used in form of watchdogs such as vigilance agencies. Nevertheless, the news of scams and scandals and shame of corruption continues unabated. These stem out of the involved individuals’ sense of loyalty being more towards self rather than others. On one of my posts Loyalty Bonus a friend asked whether it was wrong if one was becoming loyal to oneself rather than others. Honesty, literally meaning truthfulness, implies being loyal to oneself before showing allegiance to others. It is a compliance with one’s internal value system. The belief that one holds as paramount – be it simplicity or greed or indulgence or deceit or sensitivity or anything else – governs an individual’s definition of honesty. For a minimalist, simplicity would be honesty and for a mercenary, honesty would lie in the end rather than the means. The construct is subjective and practitioner has to take a conscious call between short-term pleasure and long-term happiness. At times, we perform self-manipulation to control others' responses to us with a momentary desire to impress or some eyes to ingratiate. 

Before the onslaught would start, i quickly banked on Google to find that salsa was a spicy sauce of chopped vegetables or fruits used as a condiment especially with Mexican dishes. Where were the Mexican dishes, i wondered? Chutney, I discovered, was an Indian condiment of mangoes, tomatoes, onions, chillies, etc. Had i defied truth by calling salsa as chutney? If I would have called it salsa sauce, would the taste have been different?

A minimalist by choice, i preferred to keep my arguments cut down by Occam’s razor and waited for my friend’s wife to arrive. I preferred happiness over pleasure or in other words, chutney over salsa! Having settled the mental conflict, I waited for the real duel. I do not know whether i decided rightfully or not but concluded that conflict of honesty would always remain. What would be the right stance – saying truth or subscribing to what pleases the world?

Ding-dong.

A few more guests arrived. A smile donned my lips as much as it adorned my wife and my friend’s faces as the discussion would now migrate to other subjects.

I sat relieved, saved from possible emotional wreckage! 

With an unanswered query – honest though, i lived to thrive rather than whither….

Curiosity sandwich

Being a father of two and a half children, most of my musings have tiny origins. While majority of my time at home goes in answering queries of my two children, my heart also houses a carefree half child, despite my being an adult. I am as keen on dancing in the rains as my children, i am as excited to watch Tom and Jerry as my kids, i am as zealous on enjoying a swing as my little daughter. Neither do I know the cause nor do I intend to discover. The half-child has encountered many onslaughts and curious eyes from the society. Yet it survives!

  

Recently, a leading media group announced a one day workshop on acting for children – No entry fee! My son was keen to join but my daughter was not. No one asked me but the child in me was also eager to attend. I expressed my desire in the family on the appointed day. A long debate prevailed - my kids trying to convince me that I had no purpose or eligibility to go there - not being a child. What will everyone think about you, dad?

Is age the only determinant of childhood? I pondered.

My son decided to attend. My daughter was double minded. My temptation poked me. As I reached the venue to drop my son, I also attempted to get an entry. The host – a firm lady – refused; saying that parents were not allowed. However, during the brief interaction she had with us, she was impressed by my daughter and wanted her to attend the workshop.

My daughter was, however, reluctant. I tried to convince her stating that this was a nice opportunity to learn from a professional actor in a small group. She did not budge. I threw bait saying that if she attended, we shall get her a new dress. Her refusal was cemented. I assured that I would wait outside and if at any point of time, she felt bored, she could come out and we would drive back home. She responded with a scornful look – rebuttal reinforced.

I was muted. As we sat back in the car to drive back home, I looked at her – the eyes were profound but derisive. I glanced aside. Pensively, as I positioned myself to start the car, a tear of thought rolled down my eye.

Am I forcing my curiosity upon her? Are my latent temptations finding a vent through her?

I recalled Kahlil Gibran, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you.” I reconciled and decided to return home. As the mental conflict settled and I switched on the ignition, the left brain jumped into action. Passion varies from individual to individual and there is no reason why my daughter should also like what I am fond of. However, without adequate exposure, her curiosity would remain half-baked and remain confined to a narrow world. For a passion to be born, for excitement to be eternal, for thoughts to travel and ideas to be immortal, the person ought to be exposed to an unfettered environment with diverse options. By impressing upon my daughter to attend a one day workshop I am only trying to introduce her to a possible new dimension.

I switched off the engine. I told her – a bit firmly - that she would get refreshments if she attended the workshop. Her eyes opened wide. That was the first time since morning that my arguments could perhaps penetrate her mind without refutation. I looked at her eyes again – profound again but shining with hope now. I sensed victory. I garnished my offering. I told her that I would request the host for an extra burger for her if she agreed to attend.

She opened the door of the car and started walking towards the venue waving her hand smilingly. I could see the extra burger in her eyes. I was left to wonder whether the burger was too heavy for her.

Both acceptances and refusals are transitory for a child. She refused because she was not keen at learning that art. She agreed because she was tempted to an extra burger; nee, perhaps, she agreed because she was overpowered by her father’s eagerness.

Curiosity is a state of mind which ought to be devoid of age but not experience. By forcing an opportunity on her to get new experience, did I stamp a seal of my passion on unmoulded dough or did my persuasion have merit?

As I pen this, I remain inconclusive whether it was her temptation for the burger or my spirit of enquiry that won?

The truth remains sandwiched between two buns.

Anxious.

Packaging a culture

Recently, one of my friends, now settled in US, was on a family holiday in India. We met after several years in our hometown in Punjab. My teen aged son has been fascinated about that country of dreams and loaded my friend with queries. His son, an American citizen by birth, was equally inquisitive about his parents’ motherland and posed many a difficult questions. At the peak of our conversation, when I asked this young American about the good things in US, he narrated the traffic discipline, cleanliness and social support system. At a tender age of 13, he had an eye for detail. I got curious to know his findings about India. And indeed, the moment I asked him what was the best thing he found in India, he obliged by replying instantly “Jaggi Sweets”¹

We all roared with laughter. The Indian blood had not lost its passion for original flavour! My friend has always been a person with a discerning palate. The legacy had traveled.

Tongue is a great carrier, we realized!

The young lad’s reply took us to the times when my friend would travel abroad and carry a number of paranthas², frozen in India, and to be reheated in US to bring to life the aroma of mother’s love. We migrated into the thought process of our children - each one fascinated by something else in the other country. We talked about our efforts in bequeathing a heritage, upholding identity as well as recognising diversity amidst globalization. My son wants to be more American to accomplish his dreams; his son wants to be more Indian to fortify his family. There is anguish in this irony.

The labour pain is not solely ours. Since time immemorial, nations have been trying to propagate their cultures within and outside. The sensitivity on the subject is not new. UNESCO passed a Convention for safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage many years ago. While there are several stakeholders in preserving the tangible heritage – architecture, relics and places, it is the intangible cultural heritage – oral expressions, language, arts and crafts, rituals, traditions and practices, festivals and foods – that travels on fluid grounds.

Lifestyles have transformed with the advent of technology. Social systems have evolved to facilitate the preservation of intangible elements of lineage - children are taught languages, expressions and rituals through demonstrative videos; traditions and festivals are celebrated in all geographies though on varying scales; music and dance is available online; packaged food or ready to eat meals are available across the globe. The tangibility divide is getting erased.

My friend’s son knew more holy songs and festive practices than my children. Deepawali³, which is a two-three day affair for us, is a grand celebration with them. Their emphasis is on the fact that the inheritors should know every minute detail about their pedigree. I could not resist asking my friend that why did he want his children to learn about Indian culture when they are settled abroad and celebrating foreign festivals with as much as fervor as the Indian one’s? I further queried, “Why are you turning a cultural philanthropist when it comes to sharing of inheritance?”

An eerie silence prevailed, only to be busted by the Breaking News on television.

The Indian Postal Department shall sell water bottles containing Gangaajal⁴. We looked at each other. That was not mere bottling of water; that was packaging of a civilisation.

Thousands of Indians hitherto travelled miles to fill a container of Gangaajal and store it in their homes for various holy reasons. The government was now becoming patron in facilitating the preservation of a belief.

Water is physical; loyalty is ethereal. Besides the food, even faith was now being beautifully draped and distributed. The cultural insecurity had been insured with the Government imparting an impermeable seal of sanctity on water bottles.

Is the haulage of conviction an individual choice or a national necessity? I wondered.

Is this patronage merely a marketing mania? Or did the government need to start this because individuals – me and you - were failing to transport the fabric of faith?

In such circumstances, am I justified in asking questions of probity to my friend?   

A call for tea interrupted my thoughts and punctuated our conversation. It remained inconclusive thereafter as we spent some merry moments with families.

A few days later, I learnt that, instead of paranthas, my friend had preferred to carry with him two packaged bottles of Gangaajal. Perhaps, it was just another way to preserve, percolate and permeate the intangible legacy of values - the emblem of people’s cultural identity!

I am left to conjecture the answers to my questions….

Any help? 

1. Jaggi Sweets is a famous sweet shop in Punjab
2. Paranthas are stuffed Indian breads, fried in ghee.
3. Deepawali is the most famous Indian festival
4. Gangaajal refers to the water of river Ganges (Ganga, in Hindi), which besides being the lifeline of half of India, is worshipped as Mother River. Gangaajal is used for ablutions by many Hindus across the country.