Waghoba – The Tiger who could cook

(This story and other children’s stories that may be published here are dedicated to Anna and other children like her who like to listen to "a new story every night".)

 

 

Once upon a time in the deep jungles of India lived a tiger named Waghoba. He was the only animal in the jungle who could cook his food on the fire.

Every evening he got his pots out and cooked mouth-watering dishes which he didn’t share with anybody. The other animals hovered around him as they ate their raw food. All of them were envious of Waghoba.

One evening, during the monsoon, a great storm blew out Waghoba’s fire. A monkey who was close by saw this and ran to tell his friends what had happened. They laughed on hearing this news and thought about how Waghoba would have to eat his food raw like the rest of them. Soon, all over the jungle the news spread that “Waghoba has lost his fire!”

Meanwhile, Waghoba sat in a quiet cave sadly licking his raw food. As night fell, the news travelled far. The monkeys told the elephants who were playing in the river. The elephants told the giraffes as they ate tender leaves on the tree tops. The giraffes told the hippopotamuses who lazed in the pond. The hippos told the birds who told the rhinos who told the bears....

After some time it was so dark that the animals could not see each other. They still carried the news to every nook and corner of the jungle. “Waghoba has lost his fire!” they whispered to all they met.

A monkey saw a cave and popped in to see if anybody lived there. On seeing the back of an animal in the shadows, he gently tapped on its shoulder.

“Hey you!” said the monkey.

“Hmmm” grunted the animal.

“Hey, do you know what happened today?” whispered the monkey.

“No” mumbled the animal.

“Do you know Waghoba – the selfish tiger who cooked his food and didn’t share it with anybody? asked the monkey.

“Hmmmm” muttered the animal.

“Do you know that Waghoba has lost his fire? Ha, Ha!” laughed the monkey.

On hearing this, the animal suddenly turned around and growled, “I AM WAGHOBA!”

The monkey jumped up and ran away as fast as his legs could take him! 

(Story inspired by an anecdote Dad told us about a man who burned his mouth while drinking tea. The news spread among his friends who joked about it. Finally, most comically, it was reported to the man himself! )

Pardon me?

“Everybody is raping...” says the librarian and her voice fades off as she turns around the corner of a shelf to return books back to their rightful places.

I am not sure I heard right as this normally soft-spoken and docile librarian is unlikely to make such a strong statement.

“Pardon me?” I say as I move closer to her.

“I said – everybody is taking books off the shelves all the time and I have to put them back” she complained.

I heave a sigh of relief as I realise that this is not going to be one more discussion about social crime.

.....

June, my niece, is a sincere student. She has the habit of putting up rules for herself on the fridge. While we are busy fixing dinner in the kitchen, she reads out this list.

“Number one: Read two lessons every day.”

“Number two: Finish homework on time.”

“Number three: Max should be baptised daily.”

Max is her dog.

“Excuse me? Why would you want to baptise Max daily?”

June doubles up in a fit of laughter.

Through her tears, she says loudly, “Auntie, I said ‘Maths should be practised daily.’”

.....

The alarm must have beeped as I reversed the car against a wall.

How come I didn’t hear it? – I wondered as I examined the damage.

It was then that I decided to go for an ear examination.

.....

“You have foreign objects lodged in your ears. Where have you been?” the doctor asks after she has examined my ears.

Hmmm, nobody has yet sponsored me to outer space. So I wonder what to answer.

She probes into my ears again.

“I can see circular grains in different colours” she clarifies.

That brings back a memory of an evening on the beach a couple of months ago.

.....

The sea was too tempting.

It was a hot day. Some Venezuelan friends were making merry in the sea but stayed close to the shore. My husband and daughter soon joined them. I tidied up our beach things and then casually waded in.

Suddenly a huge wave rolled me up in a powerful tumble and I touched the sand below. There was sand in my mouth and eyes.

I needed help but couldn’t call out.

I thought I was drowning and nobody knew.

Then a sweet voice called my name. It was Daniela – my daughter’s eight year old friend.

“Are you ok? Are you ok? It happened to me too. Come let me help you.”

She held my hand and helped me to the shore.

“Gracias, Daniela, you are an angel!” I said to her gratefully really meaning it.

That evening I tried to get all the sand out of my eyes and ears. But not quite.

.....

The hearing test result was not too bad. The doc tried to get the sand particles out with water irrigation. Some of them still remain and will come off with ear wax by and by.

Till then, I am enjoying the little everyday misunderstandings.

.....

Vasai Fort Revisited

A white plastic plate floats in the little stream made by the heavy rains. A fat frog hitches a ride on it.

The plate bobs up and down as it meanders through the thick vegetation that has invaded the old fort in the monsoon. On low spots little pools of clear water had formed. The vines clinging to the fort walls and the palm trees made their artistic reflections in the water.

We follow the plate till it is arrested by a cluster of white water lilies growing in a tiny pool. There are other plastic plates there pretending to be lilies. They have a slim chance of becoming lilies anytime soon because plastic is a tough material and takes forever to disintegrate.

The plastic plates seemed so out of place and ruined the moment of absolute beauty for visitors.  As we moved to the interior of the fort, we noticed more such evidence of human carelessness. We also noticed that there were no waste bins to collect rubbish anywhere in the fort.

It is an old fort built by the Portuguese centuries ago in the small town of Vasai near Mumbai. It has now fallen to ruins, but it offers spectacular views of the narrow creek and brings quiet to the mind. It has some majestic spots with high arches, massive doorways, huge churches, graveyards, tunnels and passageways.

While growing up, we used to picnic in some of the quiet spots. It used to be a special treat. Some adventurous children would ignore warnings and go around searching for hidden treasure amongst the tunnels which ran inside the fort. During those years, we carried fruit and other cooked food in baskets.

Sometimes there were rumours that ‘foreigners’ have come to visit the fort. In our small town where foreigners were hardly seen, it was always a curiosity to see what the white people from the West looked like, how they dressed, and how they talked. Groups of boys would then visit the fort ‘to see’ the foreigners who took pictures of them! The ‘foreigners’ were probably researchers from the West or the Portuguese descendants of the people who lived in the fort long ago.

Being close to Mumbai, the fort offers a historical setting for Bollywood films too. So people in our villages would go to have a look at the film stars who fought mock fights or danced around the trees singing songs in the rain.

A few years later, as young lovers, we sat in the nooks around the fort and made earnest promises that would last a lifetime and beyond. The fort was our silent witness as it had been to the young people from several generations.

We visit the fort every year. We have watched changes over the years – buildings being built inside the fort walls, a wall that crumbled in the rains, and an aged tree that fell in the storm, and so on. Echoes of local children playing cricket resound throughout the fort whenever we visit.

Most of the locals intend to conserve the natural beauty of this monument. Somehow.

 

Mum's Sarees

It was like witnessing a sacred ritual.

After pleating the saree pallu folds, Mum pinned them and laid them out on the bed. Then she carefully tucked the other end of the saree into her petticoat. The front pleats were done with measured accuracy, pinned, and slipped into the petticoat, just a little to the right of the navel. Lastly she took the pallu end of the saree, triumphantly tossed it over her shoulder, and pinned it there. Then turning to the mirror, she preened while straightening and smoothing away any awkward folds.

Mum has a good taste for dressing up and wears the most elegant sarees in the most graceful way.

I watched and learned to drape sarees just by watching her. Once every year, she laboriously starched the cotton sarees and aired the precious silks. Every summer the cotton sarees were freshly starched with the water left over from boiled rice. Every spring the silks were put out in the sun to release the musty smells and moisture. On those days our tiny backyard looked quite festive as yards and yards of colourful sarees hung like buntings on the clothes lines. Some older cousins whispered that there were threads of real gold and silver woven into some of these sarees! Some sarees were two-toned and displayed different colours in the sun and the shade. We loved to play hide and seek around them and if our faces brushed against the sarees, it felt like a gentle caress from mum herself.

As a little girl, I liked to hide in the folds of her saree. I would enclose myself in a little tent I made from her pallu to avoid glances and enquiries from strangers when they visited us. Every weekend mum took me with her to the open market. Once there, she would move briskly from stall to stall buying and bargaining. It was difficult for me to walk quickly, so I used to trail along holding the long suspended end or the pallu of her sari. For comfort. It was my lifeline. The familiar vendors and other onlookers always smiled knowingly when they saw us. 

One day while mum bargained for fruits, a monkey in the centre of the market caught my eye. It was a curious fellow and imitated every action of its keeper. It even checked the keeper’s daughter’s hair for lice and slapped her if she turned her head. That amused me and I watched with total absorption. A while later, the keeper’s family said goodbye. So did the monkey by waving its paws. They wrapped up their belongings and left.

I clung to the saree pallu as usual and trailed along. A while later I realised that I had not heard my mum’s voice for a long time. I looked up and saw that at the other end of the saree pallu was a strange plump lady, so unlike my mum. I opened my mouth to howl but no sounds came, so I sobbed bitterly instead. It seemed like my lifeline was cut off. How could I have lost my mum? Has anybody turned her into this strange-looking lady? Or worse – has she been kidnapped? I was inconsolable.

The strange lady looked at me clinging to her pallu and asked tenderly,

“Are you looking for your mum, little girl?”

 I looked so grief-stricken that she must have guessed so.

Then her questions poured out.

“What is your name? What is your mum’s name? Where do you stay?”

I did not answer a single question and just looked at all the questioning faces through my cascading tears.

People asked around, “Has anybody lost a little girl?”

After what seemed like a century, I saw my mum’s gentle face in the crowd. My voice then broke and I cried loudly and bitterly. She claimed me as her daughter, smiled and thanked the lady and pacified the other people. Then she bent down, pulled me close, kissed me several times, wiped away my tears, offered me a peeled banana, and lovingly explained that I must have let go of her saree pallu  at some point and then grabbed on to the other lady’s pallu.

Mum laughed away the incident and said that such things happen in life and taught me to believe in the goodness of strangers.

Now I have a  little girl of my own who watches me whenever I drape a saree.

Lunchboxes

Children have a great sense of beauty and presentation.

They love food with bright colours arranged in artistic creations.

However, some of them come home from school with half-eaten lunches to say:

“Mama, what was that in the bread today? It smelled awful.”

“Mum, the apple slices went all brown. So I didn’t eat them.”

“Ma, I have a wobbly tooth today. I couldn’t bite. I wish you had given me something softer to eat.”

Tired of such complaints, I decided to let my eight-year-old design her school lunches and snacks.

Together we made some rules:

1)     All food should be home-cooked.

2)     No non-biodegradable packaging material like aluminium foil and cling-film to be used.

3)     No food should be wasted.

We did have a great time designing, cooking, and presenting. And yes, the lunch and the snack boxes came home empty.

Here are some of our lunchbox ideas:

Apple cupcakes, chappati and egg rolls, grapes, cucumber

 

 

Dosa and egg rolls, banana cake, melon and cucumber

 

Chappati and egg rolls, atta laddo and bits of marshmallow, rambutans, banana

 

Fried rice, dosa and cheese, cucumber, tomato

 

 

 

 

The Waterfall

The Zen Master leads me to a waterfall.

For what seems like eternity he just let’s me watch.

The sky is bright, the river flows steadily, and the sound of the water is deafening.

“Observe a single drop of water” he says finally.

“It flows with the water smoothly till it comes to the cliff. Then for a brief time it becomes a drop in the air. But it is still water. Eventually, it returns to the smooth flow of the river and merges with the water.

“Your life is also like that drop. It flowed with the Oneness of Life before you are born. Then for a time you break away from this flow but you still belong to the Oneness of Life although you do not realise it.. And then, after death, you flow smoothly again.  

“For that brief time when you become like the drop in the air, you have human fears and anxiety.

“Our life and death are the same thing. When we realise this fact, we have no fear of death.”

 

Your Comments

Hey Sis, can you allow comments as guests on your blog? -- Moon texted yesterday.  

Will check.

Sorry, Moon. Tried but no success.

Aside: My little sis, whom we fondly call Moon, is a computer whiz while I am a dinosaur at high tech.

Have been reading your blog. Great job!

Glad you liked it. I am planning to write a post daily.

Is there a problem with the comments entry? Everybody has been emailing their comments to me.

Yes. It forces you to use your email account to post comments. There is no option to post as guest.

OIC. Any email or just Gmail?

Just Gmail.

Well, perhaps that’s the way Blogger works.

Check the settings.
Let me know if you want me to have a look.

Yes, please.

I’ll need your blogger id and password.

So I give them to her.

Aside: It’s such a great feeling to know that you can trust someone so much that you can give them your passwords without thinking twice.

K

Thank u. Going for a walk. Ciao!

K... I’ll take a look. Bye.

Aside: So I take a walk while Moon fumbles with the settings

Sorry dear. Did not have any luck with the comments. I think the template is blocking the comments settings.

Hey, no worries. Thanks a lot anyways. I just write for the pleasure of writing. I hope you like it too.

Dear readers, I apologise because I cannot presently provide a common platform for your comments unless you choose to sign in with your Gmail account.  Or else you can send me comments related to this blog at lemonandfreshmint at gmail.com. The use of 'at' for @is another wise tip from Moon to avoid receiving spam.

Many thanks to Stephen, Aaron, Avanti, Robin, Meena, Pooja, Priya, Alessandra, Akshara, Giusi, Aruna, Denise, Lynne, Neelam, and Hiranmayee.

You have all made my first attempts at blogging worthwhile with your feedback and positive comments. It adds zing to my writing.

Living 'On Camp'

Some diary entries about living on PDO Camp in Muscat

January

A child enthusiastically screams, “Hey that is where we live!”

Other passengers gaze down to take a good look as the plane lowers down and charming villas dotting the Ras al Hamra hills near the Al Fahal Island come into view. Some of them look back at the child and tell him that it must be like living in a holiday resort.

 

February

At a coffee morning, plans are made for a charity fair to raise funds for a mobile library project that will reach the children in the remote villages of Oman.  The ladies are from eight different nations and are excited about selling food and craft from their home countries.

The fair is a big success and the ladies bask in the glory of having gained good karma.

 

March

“Rain Mubarak!”

We wish others who are out in the summer showers as we snuggle into our flimsy raincoats. The air is charged with joy and hope. A week later we even spot wild mushrooms robustly jutting out of thick plastered sun-baked mud on either side of the walking path. Gigantic dark clouds move laboriously over the mountains. On the hilltop, we are in a misty cloud too. Suddenly it gets too hazy and windy. Clutching our raincoats tightly as the strong wind threatens to tear them away, we walk homewards. Not a car in sight.

April

We are on a “photography walk” with some children along Nimr Street one evening. Suddenly, we spot a peacock! He was just there walking – unafraid and alone. As we focussed our lenses on him, he turned out to be camera shy and hid behind cars which were parked along the street.  Amidst the greenery of the valley and the quietness of the street, he must have felt quite at home. We still wonder how the peacock got there.

May

On the beach, swimmers are cheered as they arrive on the shore totally spent after their Al Fahal Island Swim. They have been training hard for this day. For some, it’s just something they needed to ‘tick off’ from their list of ‘Things to do while in Oman’. They share notes about the creatures they saw underwater and the strength of the current that morning. They were all thrilled at having braved the challenge of swimming 4 km in the open sea.

After some refreshments, groups huddle together for photos which are instantly posted on Facebook.

 

June

While we are washing the car, we see maids pass by on their way to work shielding themselves from the sun with their umbrellas and sharing the latest on-camp gossip.

A lady approaches. She is all dressed for a walk in the afternoon – shorts, vest, and bandana. As she comes closer, she looks like a ghost walking. She is pale and lifeless and her lips are blue. “Water” she barely manages to say the word and leans against our wall. She has been climbing the hill in the heat of a summer afternoon. Probably a newcomer, we think, and offer to drop her home. She drinks the water gratefully and walks away.

 

July

School’s off!

Lonesome ‘bachelors’ walk, run, get together to while away the burning summer days while their families have left on annual visits to their hometowns.

Hummingbirds of metallic colours feast in the garden on cactus blooms.

August

The first thing we wanted to do on coming to Oman was to see the famed frankincense trees. Oman, we were told, is the land of frankincense which was more precious than gold in ancient times. However, we read that frankincense trees mostly grow down south in Salalah. So during the Eid holidays we head towards Salalah.

On our return, we come across a frankincense tree in the Sohar Garden at the PDO Club. While taking an unfamiliar route on our daily walk, we spot a few more near Izki and Fahud Streets. Talk about having to look all over the country for something that is growing in your backyard. Now we know how to spot the flaky branches and the thick unpretentious leaves with dangling flowers. Despite all the fame, this tree is modest in appearance and is often overlooked as one of those wild desert trees which sprout all over the countryside.

September

A new school year brings new faces to the camp. Some are on their first deputation to Oman and some have returned for another stint. Scores of introductory coffee mornings are held and there are new names to remember.

Young Omani couples sit on foldable chairs and whisper sweet nothings as they gaze at the sea from the cliff at the end of Fahud Street.

October

A skeleton hangs from a tree in Maha Street and dances to haunting voodoo music. Young and old, dressed for Halloween, go ‘trick or treating’. We follow a lady in white who suddenly turns around to bare her fangs and a bloody mouth.

In the backyard, our cat plays with a live scorpion.

November

The night sky shudders with a burst of colourful lights. It’s the annual PDO Fireworks night.

The sailboats at the beach on a Thursday morning are a magnificent sight. The primary-coloured sails stand out in contrast against the blue of the sea and the brown of the mountains.

We climb over a hill at the club and come across a little beach with the prettiest sea shells.

December

Outdoor sports are a big hit with the dip in temperature. At any time of the day, people are walking, running, cycling around the camp. New police recruits are also seen every evening taking their sprint in batches.

A pure white butterfly flits from bougainvillea to frangipani – unable to make up its mind.

....................................................................................................................................................

(This post was first published in Outpost Muscat Newsletter Sept-Oct 2013)

 

The Story of the Title of this Blog

 

“The title doesn’t match the content in your blog” said my best friend today.

“Well”, I told him, “Wait till you hear the story of the title.”

It all began in the Turkish House Restaurant in Muscat on a chilly February evening.

“The drink is complimentary” announced the waiter as he courteously served our dinner.

“What is it?” we asked him as we eyed the tall emerald glasses dripping with condensed droplets.

“Its lemon and mint, totally Middle-Eastern” he smiled as he busied himself.

Our glasses tinkled as we raised them to say “Cheers!” It was our wedding anniversary.

The first sip was like a moment of epiphany.

 

 

 

The citrusy freshness of the lemon combined with the zing of fresh mint leaves and the sweetness of honey was something we had never tasted before. It reminded us of the Arabian nights and the Silk route. There was something essentially traditional about the drink. We drank it like it was part of a religious ritual.

Ever since then, every time I make it at home, we return to that wintry evening in the Turkish Restaurant. All my friends who have lived in the Middle East probably have similar experiences about this wonderful drink. The lowly lemon, the modest mint, and the humble honey - all have their merits in herbal remedies too. However, when put together, it is an extraordinary combo.

For some, this drink is like a magic potion which fires the imagination and makes creative juices flow.

It inspires me to write. 


The Recipe:
(Yields 2 glasses)

1 lemon
A handful of mint leaves
1 tablespoon honey/sugar
2 cups water
Ice cubes and a pinch of salt, if desired

Well, you simply pop all these ingredients into the blender and voila! You are ready to say "Cheers!"
But remember, there is a strict order in which you put them in the blender.
Firstly, in goes the honey/sugar.
Add lemon juice.
Add salt.
Add water.
Add mint leaves.
Blend.
Pour out in glasses and add ice cubes.
If, however, you blend the mint leaves first, the colour of the drink becomes a very unappetising brown.
Enjoy your zing.



(There is plenty of space to scroll below. I am still trying to figure out how that happened. Please ignore.)


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cecilia’s Eco-friendly Bags

Cecilia, my aunt, is deaf and dumb. She makes a living by sewing nightdresses and children’s garments. From the patches that are leftover after making these clothes, she makes bags. These are colourful, useful, handy, soft, strong and very eco-friendly. They remind us of a world gone by when old grandmothers would bring us bananas in cloth bags and handkerchiefs.  

 

 

 Whenever she visited us, she gave me one of these bags. They were quaint bags with beautiful circular shapes. She made them in different sizes too. Slowly, as the eco-friendly spirit in me grew, I started using these bags for all purposes – for carrying groceries, clothes, toys, books. I would carry them with me whenever we moved to a new city and new friends that I made there would greatly admire these old-worldly little bags.

 And then last winter, Priya asked me to get some bags made for her on my next trip home. She wanted to give them as gifts to some of her relatives in the Netherlands and to her friends in Italy. She said she would pay for them because she absolutely loved them. So I asked Cecilia to make a hundred bags. Priya took most of them only leaving for me a sample of each colour and pattern.

 

The trend soon caught on and there were other friends who wanted to place orders with Cecilia. Some of them wanted rectangular shapes, some wanted a particular colour, some wanted interesting prints, some wanted them lined and some others just wanted to be surprised with whatever Cecilia created. She is a very talented lady and uses her aesthetic sense of design and precision to create these wonderful bags which became so popular with friends from all over the world.

 

The uses for these bags have multiplied over the years. I sometimes use a particularly gay one as a gift-wrapping so that the receiver gets two gifts at the same time. On occasions when I sent meals for sick friends, the boxes were packed away in these bags. I have the habit of always carrying one of these bags in my purse folded neatly so that it seems just like a little handkerchief.

 

There is a classic quality to these home-sewn fabric bags that cannot be imitated by the finest plastic bags.