Madi

Madi…మడి ...मडि

People from Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu and some pockets of Karnataka will perhaps understand what this word means...
Madi...this Brahmanical way of life originated from the concept of ‘purity’…a concept which, like all other traditions, lost its meaning in later years with its rigid and blind adherence.
Essentially madi meant keeping a distance from and not touching anything considered impure or unclean.
How it was practiced:
My grandmother would rinse her 9-yards saree the night before and hang it in the kitchen. The rod that she hanged it to dry would be placed way above anyone’s reach…close to the ceiling. To dry out one’s garment at that height was tricky indeed and was done with the help of a long stick pushing the garment hither-thither till it slid smoothly without folds over the rod. This practice also meant that the cloth couldn’t be touched by anyone else and become impure.
The next morning, after a bath, she would come, wrapped in a wet saree, heading straight to the kitchen, discard the old saree and wear the clean saree off the kitchen rod. This was normally worn as ‘adda-kacha’ meaning a garment that runs between your legs, dividing your legs trouser-like, giving you the liberty of free movement.
This was madi, a state considered pure. After attaining this pure state, you are not supposed to touch anything till the cooking and eating was done. No touching of beds, bed sheets, previous day’s discarded clothes, curtains, sofas, another human being… Considered safe was a chair with its cushions and covers set aside.
Once the cooking was done and the food eaten, you could change to another saree and then free to touch anything.
Breaking of Madi by accidently touching one of those not-to be-touched things or people meant a bath again and, as there was no back up madi saree, continue cooking in those wet clothes, sometimes shivering in the cold winter mornings, and with water dripping all over the kitchen floor.
Madi is even considered broken if you attend to nature’s call and you'd need a bath to purify yourself again.
Come pooja or festival and the rigorousness increased…more madi, more arduousness in following it, more fervour…
The flowers, coconut and all other things meant for pooja were to be strictly kept separate from cooking and dining areas. If any of the pooja stuff was kept on the dining table by mistake, it was considered impure and had to be washed before using it for pooja. The oil for pooja lamp was kept separately in the pooja room and was not to be touched or used in kitchen for cooking purpose.
Large canisters of oil or pickle could be touched only after madi and not any time we wished to use some.  Small quantities were kept in jars for everyday use.
Some madi rules during eating…
Serve food with left hand but every time you  touch any cooked food, wash your hand. This meant you had a puddle of water on the floor at your left by the time you finished your meal. All meals happened sitting on the floor, of course. Serving uncooked food like oil/ghee/salt/pickle/curd did not mandate washing your hand. Later, and especially after the meals started happening at the dining table, this ritual translated to tilting your glass of water ever so slightly…just enough to wet your fingertips! Who’d want those puddles of water on your table?!
My grandmother though, never ever in her life time ate at the table. The tables only get wiped, they never get washed like the floor, no?
In the night again, the madi saree was ready for getting rinsed and dried again. This saree was not washed along with clothes of the entire household.
This practice was carried through her lifetime.

16th July, our Carmel Feast

Those were the days, my friend!

Carmel School. Picture taken on my last visit to school  in 2010.

We celebrated Teachers' Day, Childrens' day, Annual Day ...etc. in our school but Carmel Feast  was a very, very special day for us.The whole year we'd be looking forward to celebrating this wonderful day.
Preparation would begin at least a week before. The class teacher would help plan the dishes for the day. About 10 dishes or so to be divided among the thirty of us. The feast would have varied and special items from each state we were from. There would be puris, the aloo bhaajis, sambar, pulavs, rice etc etc. We would raise hands to volunteer for the dishes. Those were not the days when we ever thought of buying anything. It was all labor of love (the mothers' obviously).

The day of the feast...there were no classes that day!
I recall distinctly the one we celebrated when we were in the 6th class. The desks were all lined against the wall, leaving a vacant square in the middle of the room. A few desks were arranged in the center. Each of us bought a piece of white cloth from our home and used it to cover the desktops. Some girls made an elaborate rangoli at the entrance. The food itself was presented in some pretty dishes on the center table. All those uncouth newspapers, and vessels the food came in were stuffed behind the desks, out of sight.
Plans to decorate the classes were made in advance. We used flowers, balloons , ribbons ...whatever we could find at home and mothers permitted us, to bedeck the classroom. The artists of the class drew elaborate welcome  messages and designs on the blackboard using white and color chalks. After we were done, it was our turn to peep into other classes to see how the competition was faring...the other section being our biggest rival in this case.
We now waited  excitedly for the teachers to come in. 3-4 teachers visited each classroom. They evaluated us on the decoration and presentation of the room. We girls all sat in a very disciplined manner at our desks waiting as they ranked us.The quiet discipline didn't last long though. "Miss! Miss!" we cried out pointing to various small things that the teachers might miss...so desperate were we that the prize for the best presentation be ours!
It was only after the teachers  tasted our food and left, did we have our lunch. The variety of food was indeed a feast. I remember distinctly a Kashmiri girl in our class bringing Dum Aloo...big stuffed potatoes in a magnificent gravy! Till date, the memory of that awesome taste lingers.
The warmth, the exuberance, the sincerity and especially the non-commercial way in which we celebrated this feast evokes fragrant memories which will last forever and ever.
Miss you, Carmel Feast and all those lovely school days!

Mango pickles: the types

This question put up on the facebook asks me, "How many kinds of pickle you remember being made from mango?"
This makes me go back many, many years ago to my childhood, to those days when all we had to do was enjoy the fruits of my mother’s labor.
Summer it was and my mother all geared up for the big mango pickling season. Each region has its own way of preparing and naming the pickle.
Having her roots in the Visakhapatnam region, all our pickles were named avakaya…whatever be the vegetable used or whatever the method of preparation be.  And we made pickles with mango or lemon at the best. Didn’t go beyond that. We at Rourkela, a cosmopolitan town, had the fortune of mixing and making friends with people originating from all over India. And the best part of it was, being away from AP, all Telugus stood united in all that we did. There was a rich exchange of culture, including recipes from different regions. But the recipes for pickles were seldom sought. They simply made it for each other. So we ended up having ginger, drumstick, brinjal, and cauliflower pickle from our Telugu friends...not to speak about other pickles we got from our friends from other parts of the country.
When it came to preparing the pickle, my mother had a rich repertoire of recipes.
The easiest of them all was ‘Pachi Avakaya’ or the raw pickle, named so because of the fact that it wasn’t put out to dry in the sun. Mango cut into about 1” by 1’ pieces and mixed with mustard powder, chilli powder, turmeric and methi seeds…sometimes, garlic...all these then dunked in lot of mustard or sesame seed oil.
The next was ‘Endu Avakaya.’ Mango was cut into four pieces along its length, mixed with the same powders as pachi avakaya and let to soak in it for 3-4 days. After that it each piece was wiped and set out to dry in the sun. Come evening, it was put back into the mixture to get moist and absorb all the flavors once again. Next morning, the same process was repeated till all the mixture of powders was absorbed. Of course, many of the dried mango pieces would disappear as we kids would keep eating those deliciously dried mango pieces rich with the absorbed masalas. After this, the long mango pieces would be cut into 1’ x 1’ pieces and stored. The sun-dried pieces of mango with its sour-sweet taste have always remained a family favorite.

The third one I recall was the kayaki-kaya…meaning the mango pickle prepared with a whole, uncut mango. Each mango was slit with a plus mark on the top, ensuring that the cut doesn’t reach the bottom of the mango and all the same masalas as above stuffed into each. These mangoes are allowed to rest for 2-3 days and then put out to dry in the sun. This process continued till all the moisture was absorbed into the mangoes. At the time of a meal, the mango was cut into pieces and served. The ‘oota’ or the thin oily masala mixture that oozed from these mangoes was much sought…to be mixed with hot rice and eaten contentedly.
Then there was mamidikaya koru. This was made by grating the mangoes. The mangoes were all grated, spread on a sheet and set to dry out in the sun. 2-3 days of hot sun was enough to dry them out. Later they were brought in, and mixed with fried methi powder and mirchi powder. Jaggery syrup was prepared and added to this mixture. This was then garnished with fried mustard seeds and red, dry mirchi and aesofetdia.
But before any of these processes were started, there was an eagerness to taste the fresh mango of the season and mother would cut mangoes into small pieces to make temporary avakaya with it. Cutting them small enabled them to get soft quicker and have us have a go at it.
All these pickles used to be stored in long, big jars and required quantities were transferred into smaller jars for regular use. The big jars were all considered ‘Madi’ items…to be touched only after a bath and never randomly at any time.

Am not sure how much of this culture I have been able to transfer to the next generation…of how much they realize the sanctity of making them all religiously and laboriously at home, year after year.
 I have the convenience of using all ready-made powders and make just the mamidkaya koru and Pachi avakaya. Some where guilt hangs…that I don’t work as hard as my mother did and that I deprive my children of eating so many varieties. They get to eat only when they visit ammamma (grandmother) :(
Also refer to my previous post on the actual making of the pickle.

The religion of pickle-preparation

The Telugu-speaking need no introduction when I speak about pachadi or avakayi ( chutneys and pickles). We live and die by them.

Now that the season of pickle preparation is on, my mind goes back to my childhood days when pickle preparation was almost like a ceremony. Summer would bring raw mangoes into the market. We would start the season with mamidikayi pappu (raw mango-mixed dal) and mamidikayi pachadi (raw  mango chutney). Further, before the right mangoes for pickle preparation hit the market, mother would make something that she'd call the temporary pickle which would be prepared like the conventional pickle but with much smaller pieces so that it was ready to eat as soon as possible.  

The pickle preparation would start with elaborate planning. How many varieties of mango pickles to be prepared? How many varieties of mangoes need to be bought? But even before buying the mangoes, more elaborate preparation awaited. Transfer last year's left over pickles, if any, into smaller jars and wash and keep all those big glass and ceramic jars out to air in the sun. Buy mustard seeds, buy red chilies and dry them out in the sun for 1-2 days. Once the chilies were dried and crisp, mother would pound these in the mortar with a long wooden pestle.There was also a belief that unless mustard powder was quickly mixed with salt, it would turn bitter. Salt used then was the crystal salt. These powders were then sieved through a cloth to ensure that the finest powders were used for optimizing the tastes. 

After the jars and powders were ready, father bought the mangoes. Different varieties of mangoes were used for different types of mango pickles but the first and the sourest ones to hit the market were used to make 'Pachi Avakayi' (Raw mango pickle). Other varieties would involve the sun-dried and other varieties of pickle.

Cutting and preparing the pickle was a family affair. Mother, and sometimes father would cut the mangoes into halves. We kids would sit around with screw drivers in hand to remove the 'jeedi' and the 'pora' (seeds and the thin plastic-like layer surrounding the seed) carefully from the halves and then the mangoes would be cut into smaller pieces, each mango yielding about 15 pieces. Mangoes with any kind of scratches or cuts were declared unfit for pickle. We kids would hang around just for that opportunity and quickly grab those pieces; a small portion of salt and chilly powder in our tiny hands and the sour mango pieces dipped into and eaten with great gusto. 

Once the pieces were cut, then the process of mixing would start. Mother would measure and pour out a mound of red chilly powder. On that would come the green mustard powder, followed by the white salt, the yellow turmeric and then the creamy brown asafoetida powder. I would watch with wonder as she would hand-mix these colors together. The colors would slowly blend with each other till they formed a uniform reddish-brown texture. The huge jars were brought out. Handfuls of the mango pieces scooped up with mixed powder and shoveled into the waiting jars. When the entire amount of the mixture and the mangoes disappeared, mother would pour out the thick dark mustard oil all over the pickle. We would want so eagerly to taste it  but were asked to wait for a week while it got ready.
Most of the time, this whole thing was done after lunch. Remember, there were no excuses saying that I need to do so much today and hence," let's get food from outside" business in those days :) Mother had to cook, we had lunch, dishes cleared away and then the process would start.
Mother would mix the contents of the pickles a couple of times to ensure uniform pickling. And the day she declared it done, we used to eagerly wait at the dining tables to savor the first taste of the season's pickle. Hot white rice, a dollop of avakayi and hot ghee mixed together, eaten while biting into the mango pieces still crunchy and  relishing each mouthful of the great spicy, aromatic experience...heavenly!

My tribute to the tradition this year: a mini ceremony with 6 mangoes

Friendship

Came across this wonderful poetry and was taken through a nostalgic trip down memory lane.

Friendship was either 'katti' or 'mitti' in those days. Put your thumb under your chin and flick it a couple of times and it was a 'katti' meaning end of friendship. 'Kattis' would last a few hours or maybe till the next day. Things were forgotten and forgiven quickly as you needed that very friend to play with the next evening. Wagging of your little finger showed a 'mitti' and your friendship was instantaneously resumed.

What happens to all those stories of  friends &  best friends--'kacha dost' and 'pakka dost'? What happens to those promises of ever lasting  friendship? What is it in the adult world that does not permit such friendships any more? Why is trust so hard to come by? We have never seen a more well-networked generation. Yet, I believe we are the loneliest of people.

Listening to this very simple poetry brought  a tear to the eye and the memory of  all those small meaningful things now lost for ever.

Carmel School, Rourkela

Some 5 years back when the school celebrated our (silver jubilee) alumni meet I was not aware and hence did not attend but happened to see a picture of our school in the internet. That picture was instantly downloaded and was my desktop picture for a long time. That’s the bond that I will have forever with my school.

When I stepped into the school after all these years, all else was forgotten. I wanted to first go and visit my classroom but held on patiently. But once beyond Sister’s room, I bounded two steps at a time to go to ‘my’ classroom…XB. My steps faltered as I stepped into the same class room after all these years. The first image was that of Mrs. Bose sitting in that chair and knowing that she was our class-teacher and the first day in her class…uff...soooooooooooo many memories…can go on…I literally started jumping up and down JUST to think that I was back here. Everything came rushing back as Valson and I recounted all those days.

I was excitedly pointing out the different things/places and it is thanks to my son who unknown to me was quick in capturing all those memories which excited his mother so much. I am so glad my son was there with me as he could actually see where his mother studied. And did I imagine all those years ago that thirty years later my son would stand in the same place where his then 16 year old mother’s feet had walked?! Amazing feeling. For those 40 minutes everything was forgotten as I floated dreamily to each of these special nooks.

It just DOESN’T seem like 30 years. Especially when you revisit, all those years simply vanish.

Going back to Rourkela

1992 was when we people left Rourkela and after that I never went back. Every time longing to go back and re-live those carefree days. My breath, my life, my existence everything seems to have been left behind in the air of Rourkela.

Being a part of Rkl-mates group, there was a get-together planned of people from across schools. I was truly looking forward to it hoping to meet some of my class mates.At the same time I was prepared to be disappointed with the meet and it truly was. But the point was to be at Rkl and that succeeded.

As I stepped on to the Rkl soil and took a deeeeeeeeeep breath of Rkl-air, I was vibrating with life. The 22nd of December when winter had begun and the breath condensed into smoke circles...As I stepped outside the station, I tried to look back and recall whether the railway station was the same or had it changed? The rickshaws outside were still there. Our hotel was at old Rourkela...imagine coming home and having to stay at a hotel!

As I entered the township, my eyes were greedily lapping up the ring road scene...not sure of where it started...some roads seeming familiar and some unfamiliar...as we were taken through the Engineering road with which I wasn't too familiar even then..all that I knew very well was the road from sector 20 to Old Rourkela...the road which led to our college and the road from Sector 20 to Carmel school via IGH & Nehru maidan. It seems the Nehru maidan is no longer used for the Dushera celebration when we kids used to gather to watch Ravan getting 'killed' year after year by 'Rama'.

The sad part was seeing the houses which were our first homes in such dilapidated conditions. What were the vast beautiful garden where we played seemed to have shrunk to just a pocket sized piece of land.Had the house and the accompanying space shrunk or is it because I was seeing it after so many years? The gardens which had won so many prizes for being the most beautiful one in the township...

Meeting people from back then...so much has changed and so much has remained the same...but what I came back with is enough memories to last me this life time.

Gayatri Mantra

Gayatri mantra has a special place in my heart. SKDAV College, where I did my Intermediate has (d?) Gayatri mantra as it's Assembly prayer.
When I used to chant it at home, my mom used to wonder how the girls are allowed to chant the mantra which is only supposed to be chanted by the boys post the thread ceremony...
Nevertheless, we chanted the mantra for the two years that we were there.
And I continued chanting for a long time in the way the Oriya Head girl used to chant in our college.
Years later, when I actually bought a cassette of Gayatri mantra, I realized that all the 'b' s were actually 'v's...
Never mind, I thought, God understands Oriya too!

Nostalgia

Imagine the excitement of meeting your classmates & friends after 25 years! I registered myself on the yahoo groups and found, to my amazement, many of my childhood friends & classmates.
When I watched the pictures of my friends 25 years later, I got a weird feeling.
A while back, I had received a mail of the current Indian film celebrities with imaginary images of how they would look 25 years from now.
I got the same feeling looking at all these photographs. Etched in the mind were the images of my classmates and friends as they were 25 years ago. How could they look like this now? It was a like I was seeing a distorted version of my friends.
Though overjoyed at seeing them after all these years, I shudder at the vulnerability of human mortality.