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.

Christmas in May

Christmas in May

                      Come December, the mood sets in with the advent of cold breeze, church anthems, twinkling embellishments and all other rituals that softly carry us through the month and reach a crescendo on the eve of day of Nativity. But we drifted into that extraordinarily special mood even before seven months when we visited Frankenmuth, a small, thinly populated, quiet town in Michigan. It seems half of its population ( around 5000 only) has German connextions. The Bavarian hospitality renewed and refreshed the visitors’ memories of the celebration all along the year. A host of celebrations await visitors here throughout the year.  As we strolled leisurely into Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland, supposed to be the  largest Christmas store in the world, which houses the innumerable images of December, we were transported into another world of light and music. Thousands of souvenirs awaited patronage but visitors seemed a little hesitant because of their fancy tags. Christmas trees of all colours and  all the possible concepts of gift giving came alive in front of your eyes. Tempted to make all of them our own, we walked out empty handed and wandered to a stone chapel nearby. The familiar Christmas carol, Silent Night wafted all around us  and as we walked on, we saw the song inscribed in small stones in all the languages of the world. The story of the origin of the song was printed in pamphlets kept in the chapel – how the song was originally played to the accompaniment of a guitar since the church organ was under repair. We returned to the city for a night ride. Though the store was closed at 5.30 p.m. the night was bright and colourful with decorations everywhere. To crown it all, a hot air balloon show, which attracted a huge crowd awaited us. The hot glow of fire was some comfort to us since the sudden chill wind caught us unawares. The cold weather went hand in hand with the December setting. With a sense of accomplishment and good fortune, I took leave of this town with many tales to share with my family and friends.

Child Safety

Child Safety

                      Every living organism protects and nurtures its young ones. It is surprising how birds meticulously gather material to build nests and foster their offspring with tender care and nursing. Probably man learned this art from birds and animals. And the Americans seem to have aced this, for child safety is a genuine priority here. It is more evident on the roads. No child is to be in any car unless it is comfortably fastened into a seat, specifically designed by manufacturers. How so ever fond the child’s parents are, the State will have no compromise whatsoever. It cannot be cuddled into the maternal console or even by itself on the front seat to share its stories with the father. Until it is eight years old or tall by four feet and nine inches, it is forbidden to fancy an ordinary seat. The expectant mother cannot go into labour without a car seat for the new arrival. Similarly, a great drama unfolds when school buses stop on the roads to accommodate or unload the little angels. These yellow buses are distinct from other buses by their design and shade. Wherever this happens to be, all vehicles except ambulances are to come to a grinding halt on all lanes. Only after the school bus driver chooses to move, others have to follow suit. This national protocol highlights the priority given to children’s safe transportation. No trader is permitted to sell  tobacco or spirit to anyone below 16 years of age. A child’s hesitation to go home or to school fearing physical intimidation may result in serious legal consequences to a parent or a teacher. Someone who had attempted or perpetrated an inappropriate overtuture on children not only deserves harsh sentence but also carries with him an anti-social stigma throughout his life so that he is tracked, watched and notified to the community in which he happens to live after he completes his term.   A salute to those cute dew drops. As someone said, it’s not enough to love the children, it is necessary that they are aware that they are loved.

Flower day

One day flower mela

               

              Flower day at Eastern Market, Detroit is an annual event, usually on the third May Sunday, marking the departure of an unwilling winter. There is a sea of people and plants. The whole market area is flooded with  people in their casuals, sporting all kinds of movable paraphernalia, some of them proud with handsome bargains making passersby envious of their gut and luck. You could hardly distinguish a seller from a buyer. Branding them as farmers, people were making hay while the day lasts because you should wait for another year to meet the same crowd. Even in their hectic negotiations for dispensing their merchandise, they never forget their friendly American smile. The beauty of this market is that everyone is pleased – vendors, takers and onlookers.   Wherever you turn, colours of all shades smile at you, inviting to spend your dollar lavishly. What is festivity without food and music? They were in abundance, sometimes complemented with dance and rhythm. I noticed something very odd here on this Sunday morning. Not an Indian anywhere in sight. Probably basking in the summer sun after a hard week’s labour.

               

            

A different tour

Tour of a different kind

               

                The advantage of a conducted tour is that you don’t waste time and much money. The guide deftly draws your attention to specific and interesting details and subtly skips some other things which warrant more time and effort. If you are lucky you get the right guide and thankfully carry some memorable visions and keepsakes. Well, this is a tour of a different kind. I was guided by a senior matron along with half a dozen would be mothers through the clean and sanitized corridors of a hospital. One may wonder what could be the appropriate occasion for a tourist to be in a hospital unless  some sheer misfortune came by his or her way. I was happily accompanying Britto and Pearl on the latter’s obstetrical tour. The object of such tours for which appointments are precisely made was to acquaint would be mothers and their kins to face the hour with equanimity so that those involved could shelve their panic and trepidation at least for a while. This is being practiced in this country, giving meticulous care and concern for expectant mothers so that they are reassured about the safety of both the babies and themselves. Regardless of the calling hour, you are advised where to park your car, where to report, where to wait, where to pass through the labour, where to be convalescing for a day or two etc. At the end of an hour, the tourists sport looks of composure and remarkable sangfroid. They bank on the caretakers with implicit faith and indubitable trustworthiness. I wish such tours were arranged back home too! I doubt whether our already narrow corridors could withstand this new crowd and it is possible that some of the tourists might change their mind about their destined hospitals. Less said is better.