In search of Mississippi

In search of Mississippi

 

                      Minneapolis is a beautiful, placid city of ups and downs that make the drive exciting and adventurous. It was interesting to know that this twin city, the other being Saint Paul, was named by the first school teacher of the city. I wish the school teachers in our country were enterprising and powerful enough to name places. One lazy afternoon, when we had nothing specific at hand, someone suggested why not take a peep at the river that was flowing through the city since it had a long history.  The lunch at the crowded, Italian restaurant was quite palatable and filling and a nap at the hotel room wasn’t wise because you don’t get to visit such places at your will and pleasure. Britto was very much willing to take us around and show places. An excitement in our face seemed to reward him much. You should be fortunate to be accompanied by people with such spirit of wanderlust. So, off we went, just three of us in search of the fourth longest river in the world. My poor academic wisdom had whispered that Mississippi was the longest. Travels teach you better than most teachers and help you keep a good memory of that as well. I learned that the Nile in Africa, the Amazon in South America and the Yangtze in China take the pride of the first three credits. Britto’s frequent texting through the GPS while driving through the disciplined traffic did alarm me but he was dexterous enough to drive us safely in that alien city. It took us long to reach our destined spot only to realize that after all we had been misled by the technology. The abandoned waterfront with nobody at sight forewarned us about our misadventure. We got out of the car and moved on our toes eyeing the trash all around. Helplessly, the misled technology was once again consulted and we quickly made a retreat and came back where we started.  Random motoring is sometimes very fruitful and soon we were on the bank of the great river. Surprisingly, there were hardly any curious tourists anywhere in sight in spite of the elaborate walkways and view posts. The river was quite unpretentious, neither boasting of great width and expanse  nor flaunting man made vegetation, very much American-like to be precise. It was amazing that this modest stream was passing through 31 states of the USA flowing quietly, free from  any covetous desire of people inhabited on its long stretches of bank. I couldn’t help thinking about the fate of Kaveri and Krishna with the frequent spells of bickering between governments ruling the states and the innocent people falling victims to the vagaries of selfish politicians. How magnanimous were people and law makers here! Probably because water is so ubiquitous in America. Linking rivers is a very popular manifesto easily voiced but never even considered or discussed issue in India. Looking at this great river mutely flowing with selfless charity, I stood there long and ruminated the message it was offering to human kind who thoughtlessly grab all the benefits without any reciprocation whatsoever. Many generations have reaped their gains. The Mississipi seemed to echo the famous verse of Tennyson “Men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever”. How marvelous Nature’s lessons are!

 

 

My dosa misadventure

My dosa misadventure

                       My wife had to join my expectant daughter who was settled abroad and I assured her that I would certainly manage my affairs and that after all, I was not a child.  I was determined not to pay any exorbitant bill for a meal in any of the restaurants nearby. So, adopting a style that only I could comprehend, I jotted down in a note pad the recipes of the usual dishes she used to make and kept the written treasure safely somewhere to be retrieved as often as I could for my sustenance.  I spent an entire sleepy afternoon labeling the umpteen containers that were stacked in every conceivable corner. All kinds of insects erupted from nowhere, obviously disgruntled by unfamiliar provocation. When all the preliminaries were laboriously completed, my wife wore a now-you-can-manage look that emboldened me to sport the expression of an expert chef. My neighbours cast a compassionate glance at me when my wife bid good-bye to them. I kept telling myself that managing a few months without her would do good for both of us. But a great drama unfolded on the first morning.  When I eyed a large can of dosa batter that was thoughtfully stored by my wife, I was rather optimistic about the prospective breakfast. I nearly burnt my fingers when I steadied the griddle to get my very first dosa. The fluffy batter when poured on the hot griddle, however did not take the promised shape.  It required a lot of nerve and strain to evacuate the adamant and awkward stuff from its inhabited place. One could hardly recognize the heap of mess there. Hurriedly I disposed it off and tried my luck once again. This time I managed to spread the batter almost in a shabby round. The gaping holes all over it did not discourage me. I kept murmuring that no guests are being entertained and so the inadequacies of my dosa  caused by my newly acquired, amateurish culinary skills would be rightfully excused. The steel spatula in my hand wore  a helpless look since it could not turn the dosa upside down.  A couple of times the object of my interest inclined to the edge of the griddle ominously. But before it was burnt by the fire underneath, I managed to get it back to its rightful place. I wish I were watching my wife when she was performing this miracle. After many disasters, to my utter gratification, a perfect dosa was getting ready, brown and round. I congratulated myself on mastering this art in the kitchen. Humming my favourite tune, I removed it from the hot griddle. All of a sudden, while I was maneuvering it towards the plate nearby, the unforeseen accident occurred. The crisp brownie disappeared into the can of batter and got drowned.

Alarmed, I did not know how to retrieve my ill-fated dosa. With a spoon and spatula I hopped here and there.  Fortunately, none were there to read the expression on my face. How would I narrate this tragic tale to my wife? I could not but recall those listless days when my wife would announce from the kitchen that my breakfast was ready. She even repeated her calls so as to make me put away the newspaper in which I would lose myself. There were occasions when I suggested her that the dosas came better if she had done this or that. Quietly I swallowed whatever I had made that rainy morning, cursing my fate. A great salute to the angels that monitor this small kingdom.

                     

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Back home

Back home

When the realization struck me I suddenly became heavy-hearted. My two month odyssey in the vast land of the USA was heading towards an aurevoir. The curtain  was slowly falling.  The slaphappy vacation during which I saw places, savoured multi-cuisines , shopped like an insouciant  child, the blissful evening walks, weekend adventures – all these were to be wrapped up within a few hours. The flight back to India was only round the corner. Though the prospect of sharing my wonderful experience and meeting my kith and kin after two full months kept me on an edge of excitement, the dull ache of leaving was quietly felt somewhere. The last minute shopping was less electric, the endless zipping and unzipping were wearisome; the airport rituals less adventuresome; tear screened farewells were more perturbing…… A twenty hour forced upright posture between night and day, frequent installments of heterogeneous victuals  dexterously packed in scanty trays, periodic tours to miniature comfort stations, hopping through endless, carpeted transit lobbies, queuing  with anxious, cosmopolitan strangers and the unceasing , monotonous drones of the engines – all these eventually led me to the familiar terrain. The huge crowd waiting with eager eyes, and the honking cars further convinced me that I was treading  on my motherland. Soon I was breathing in domestic dust that had adequately immuned my system. The transition was smoothe. The noisy zig-zag traffic and the very visible accumulated litter welcomed me to my affable, own country. East or west, home is best.