The second Covid wave

As I received information via my Whatsapp group about the death of a classmate due to Covid, and my best friend told me today that she was hospitalized due to falling oxygen levels, I realized that this wave was hitting close to home.  Of course we knew, last year too, that the person dying was someone's sister, mother, beloved but it was not personal.  This year it has become personal.  Every other person dying is someone you know.  Every other person getting infected is some one you know.  At this point, three of my students have the infection and I worry about them every day.  

And to think this was all avoidable.  Complacency never pays off.  As the number of cases decreased, schools/colleges/universities partially reopened, life returned back to normal.  Lavish weddings became the norm.  Festivals were celebrated.  On the campus, we had to keep reminding students to wear masks but all our admonishments fell on deaf ears.

This year, sometime late February/early March, I made my way to one of the main markets to get my curtains repaired. I was appalled.  A loudspeaker was blaring message about social distancing, people were milling about, jostling each other, masks were either not being worn or were dangling around the chin, shopkeepers were helpless and it was a mayhem.  It was almost as if people had forgotten about the pandemic.

Then came the state elections and rallies were held with no social distancing, no masks, no precautions.  None of the political leaders walked the talk about social distancing and masking.  Finally,  the Kumbh Mela was held in Haridwar.  It was only when a Mahant died that the politicians thought it prudent to shut it down.

Even if the government (Central as well as State) had strengthened the hospitals, oxygen supply, testing...things could have been done in the past one year.  It is the callousness of it all that hurts and angers.

Chinatown family- Lin Yutang

 A dear friend asked me few days back about my favourite books based on India.  As I mused, my mind went into a tangent.  My favourite books of all time.   Today as I was talking to my brother, he reminded me of Chinatown family by Lin Yutang.

Of course!  That has to be  one of my favourite books.

My father had purchased a copy of this book possibly for Rs 1/- in the old days.  My mother, whose job was to pack and move, kept all the books in a Aluminum box ready to be moved as and when required.  On hot summer days, I would poke and pull out books out of the box.  Invariably I would pull out Chinatown family at least once every summer.

The book was hardbound in red colour.  It was simply a fascinating book not because of the story but because the beginning, the middle and the end was missing.  Later, the pages began to crumble so one had to be careful while reading.  

In a way, it was my introduction to immigrant America.  A very different America that was described in Little Women, another favourite of mine.

This was the America of an immigrated Chinese family.

Poring over the pages, I would re-construct the missing bits. 

The book possibly starts with the matriarch of the family recently arrived in New York with her two younger children-a son and a daughter.  The eldest son runs a laundromat with his father.  Later, he marries an Italian girl, Flora.  The middle son was no-good, the black sheep of the family.   The younger son, Tom, and his sister, Eva, start school.  Somewhere in the middle, the father dies.  The elder son and the mother take over the running of the laundromat.  The book ends with celebration of Chinese New Year and acknowledgement that Tom is going out with Elsa.  Or at least that is what I think the end was because the pages after the Chinese New year celebration were missing.

Chinatown Family remained with us for a long time.  Finally, just few years back, I regretfully had to throw it out.  All the pages had crumbled and one could no longer even read one page completely.   My brother reminded me that  it is available once more on Amazon.  But the charm of the red hard bound book with missing and crumbling pages is something that cannot be ever replaced.

 

 

 

Between the pages

One can generally make out if I have read the book in my possession.  Between the pages of such books one can find leaves/flowers put in for drying.  One can also find money.   These articles do not act as book marks.  They are just there because the book I was reading happened to be a convenient receptacle for it.  My family, of course, laughs at me.  Amma, till she was well, would generally go through the books and other unlikely places confiscating the money she found.  She made quite a packet out of this.

I thought I was alone in this idiosyncrasy.  Till I came across this article where UVA's book traces project tracks human interactions with physical books.  Tucked into books were leaves, hair, tracings, and of course annotations.  Ah! that makes me feel better.

And maybe this is why I do not quite like e-books.  One can't tuck in things!

Looking for Miss Sargam- by Shubha Mudgal

Several years ago, my colleague and I went to meet an esteemed retired professor who holds sway over Indian science.  We wanted to invite him to a program that the school was conducting.  On the way, my colleague told me that after issuing the invitation, I should get out of the room because he was going to beg, plead, cajole, whatever you want to call it, with the esteemed professor.  My colleague wanted to become a member of one of the academies of Science in India (We have three academies.  Don't ask me what they do).  Without the support of esteemed professors, there is no chance of getting into these academies.  My colleague was willing to do whatever needed to be done to get into the academy.  After issuing the invite, I got out of the room and my colleague started his cajoling.  There was some give and take.  Some experiments do be done, a student to be mentored...my colleague agreed to everything.  Six months later when the academy announced its new members, my colleague's name was conspicuous by its absence.

I was reminded of this incident when I read the story entitled "Manzoor Rehmati' by Shubha Mudgal.  This is one of the stories in the collection "Looking for Miss Sargam".   Manzoor Rehmati wants a Padma award, the honor bestowed by Government of India every year on Republic Day, and the one person who could get it for him was a senior musician named Khan-Sahab.  Khan-Sahab, by dint of deft handling of the government and politicians (never offer any firm opinion on any thing) was on Padma committee.  He decides who should be given the award and who should not be.   Khan-Sahab declares that he would help Manzoor Rehmati.  But, Khan-Sahab wants the compositions of Manzoor Rehmati's father.  Manzoor Rehmati gives it to him.  And we know how it will end.

Looking for Miss Sargam captures the foibles, the aspirations of the New India.  Miss Sargam is a recluse.  No one knows anything about her.  Hints are dropped about her through the book and we, the readers, are to make what we want of Miss Sargam.  Meantime, there is a PR person who wants to organize Aman Bol (Say Peace) concert featuring a Pakistani Singer and an Indian Singer.  There is a Mataji, head of a devotional sect, who would do anything to help a devotee.  There is a small time swindler who manages to dupe aspirants before doing the vanishing act and leaving his collaborator, a small time musician from a small city, to face the music. 

Written in a mixture of Hindi and English, it was an engaging read because I could relate to the events/people, to the appalling dishonesty that many display.

Using fridge for experiments

After 9 months of close down when the School reopened we found that the cold rooms, which maintain temperatures at 4oC, are not working.  Some of our experiments require a cold room.   When I went to the lab last week, I found my students hastily making space in the fridge.  As I watched bemused they quickly set up the equipment on the lower shelf.  There was slight dent made in the fridge door allowing the electric wire to pop out which was then plugged to the power source.

It was a good use of the fridge.  Just for the record: It worked!

Samaithu Paar (Cook and See)- Cookbook by Meenakshi ammal

Amma learned to cook only after her marriage.   As Appa was in a transferable job, she was cut-off from her family for most part of her life.  With no telephone, letter being the only mode of communication, her cooking evolved by trial and error.  Later when telephone became available, she would sometimes call her favourite sister-in-law to consult about a recipe.  For the most part though, she was dependent on Samaithu Paar (Cook and See) cookbook written in Tamil by Meenakshi ammal.  There were three volumes of this book with the recipes catering specifically to the Tamil Brahmin Community.  It was Amma's Bible.

Festivals were always crisis times because each festival has a prescribed menu.  Amma would frantically thumb through her Samaithu Paar book, trying to figure out which volume had the recipe, reading and re-reading as she tried to get a hang of it.  I would be co-opted as the the helper to grind spices or rice or whatever needed to be ground using the traditional stone grinder (called Aatu kal in Tamil. The apparatus consists of a stone base with the middle hallowed into a cup like shape and a stone pestle).  Together, and sometimes with Appa roped in, we would stumble through the prescribed menu.  When Amma  finally put it all together before Gods as offering, there would be a huge sense of accomplishment.  We had done it! 

When I went to US for Ph.D., I was presented with my own copy of Samaithu Paar or Cook and See.  My copy is in English as I cannot read or write Tamil.  There are no pictures, measurements are in obsolete terms, and recipes are written in very quaint language.  But it is a book that helped me start my life in the University town.  

Over the years, I have referred many cookbooks and food blogs but Samaithu Paar remains the book to be consulted in times of crisis.

Today was one such day as it is a festival called Thiruvathirai. I do not know much about its significance other than it is for Lord Shiva.  Festivals in our house were celebrated not for religious reasons but for the food. The traditional menu for this festival is a rice sweet dish called Kali and a vegetable stew called Kootu.  The past many years my Periamma (Appa's eldest brother's wife) was in Delhi and she would call me over to have the lunch with her. This year she is not there and I decided to make Kali and Kootu.  I looked up the food blogs, consulted my sister-in-law but the fear of the unknown remained.  So this morning, I took out the worn out copy of Samaithu Paar and with its gentle guiding managed to make both the dishes. 

 Sumitra came in just as I had finished cooking.  She was the first to taste both the dishes.  According to her it was tasty.  So mission accomplished.

 

What is in a name?

 Shakespeare said a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Indian politicians of course have a different take on it.  Calcutta became Kolkata, Madras became Chennai, Bombay became Mumbai and so on so forth.  Occasionally, there will be a demand to change the names of cities with Muslim names.  Of course, it became a reality in UP where Allahabad was renamed Prayagraj.

Shiv Sena, the ruling party of Maharashtra, has recently decided to do away with localities that have caste names. 

Tamilnadu has been ahead in this.  In 1979, MGR, then Chief Minister of Tamilnadu, decided to remove caste surnames from road/street names.  They also decided to remove the honorifics bestowed by the Britishers.  So Sir CV Raman Road became CV Raman Road.  Dr. Rangachari Road became Ranga Road (I do not know why Dr was removed.).  Dr. Nair became Doctor road (Nair being the caste surname had to be removed).  Sir Desikachari and his wife Lady Desikachari each have a road named after them.  Lady Desikachari road became Lady Desika road and Sir Desikachari became Desika Road.  My brother mourns his loss of both Sir and Chari (caste name) in one go.

In Delhi, road names give you a glimpse of the rich history-global as well as Indian.  After the assassination of Olaf Palme, Swedish Prime Minister, one of the roads was named after him.  JNU, of course, stands on Nelson Mandela Marg (Marg = Road in Hindi).  There is Pritiviraj Road named after Prithiviraj Chauhan one of the early Kings of Delhi, Lodhi Road is a nod to the Lodhi kings who ruled, Akbar, Shahajahan, and Arungzeb Roads were named after the Mughal Emperors.  Unfortunately, Aurungzeb is currently persona non grata.  When APJ Abdul Kalam, the erstwhile President of India, died, Aurungzeb Road was renamed as APJ Abdul Kalam Road.  It makes no sense as this road straddles Akbar Road and ShahJahan Road.  There used to be Dupliex Road (nod to the French Governor General) but it got converted to Krishna Menon Marg.  Similarly, Curzon Road, named after Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of India, got converted to Kasturba Gandhi Marg.   And the biggest idocities of all was to rename Connaught Place and Connaught Circus (named after Duke of Connaught) after Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi by Shiela Dikshit, then Chief Minister of Delhi.  Fortunately, people are smarter.  We simply call it CP.  Then there are road names whose origins are lost in the mists of time.  We have no clue about the origin of Ch, Jhandu Singh Marg.

The best story of road name, however, comes from Kolkata.  At the height of Vietnam war, the Left Government of West Bengal decided to change the name of the road on which the US Consulate stood.  Overnight Harrington Road became Ho Chih Min Sarani (Sarani = Road in Bangla).  Needless to say, the Americans were not amused.