In with the new

A lot of India has been celebrating New Year over the weekend. As Tamilians, we did our thing on Saturday, with food and a certain amount of fun, a certain oddball reverence and some semblance of tradition, though skewed to suit our fairly modern attitudes. But, what with it being a working day on April 14 and with crises of work reaching their usual weekend crescendo, and my own inability to handle both work and my portion of home-chores without forgetting trivialities such as how much water to put into khichdi or when to turn off the gas under the ghee, it was a bit of a rush and the pother overtook the good sense and planning.

It all began the previous evening, when I was getting the kheer ready. It came out perfect, with the right consistency, the right amount of rice, the right proportion of sugar, the right number of threads of clotted cream and the right sprinkling of saffron, touched by a tinge of wholly unconventional nutmeg thrown in for devilment. The planning for the khichdi and the kadi, the crunchies and the afters was superbly timed and prepared for, with some sudden eventualities allowed to occur if they absolutely had to. The new tribal-craft bedspreads I had bought at an exhibition and was hoarding were taken out and put in the bedrooms, ready for use the next morning when the beds were made. My clothes were decided on and Father’s wardrobe examined for anything new that he could wear. Even Small Cat was included, with a swanky new collar ready to be clicked into place around her pretty little neck.

And then, like the world according to Murphy, things went left of centre, in their usual unpredictably crazy way. When I woke in the morning, I was still bleary with lack of sleep because I had been battling a persistent mosquito who did not understand the implications of “shoo”, repellent ointment or bug spray. Then, just when I was starting to think about taking out the sari I was thinking of wearing, I found that I had to drive myself to work and, between that fact and the other that the time I would be in the office would be long and frazzled, I chose the safe and comfortable option of jeans and a Tshirt instead. When I was headed to get that pressed and neat, the iron rebelled and refused to work. Finally, I just left, muttering direly to myself and thinking nastily about how this would be the perfect day for the car to choke or another taxi to get suddenly and painfully intimate with my little chariot.

Mercifully, the car worked fine, humming cheerfully and undauntedly along. The work day was long and arduous, with more than my usual share of editing done to my own satisfaction, and I managed to get out at a respectable hour, with time enough to go home and make dinner. Now there was a less happy story, which will need a little patience and time to tell, apart from a whole lot of my well-stored sense of humour.

It began with the khichdi. The rice and dal was picked and ready - bless Father – and I started it cooking, along with a judicious handful of spices and a prayer. Then I got the bondas ready to cook – spinach, paneer and potato balls with a coating of gently tangy besan batter. They came out perfect, as expected. The khichdi was perhaps rather too well done, but the resultant gruel was delicious. Unfortunately, when I was ghee-frying the nuts and raisins for the kheer, I forgot about them and we got somewhat charred bits of charcoal dotting the pale gold of the payasam in our bowls. And stuck in our teeth. But the piece de resistance – to which Father exhibited a strange resistence - was the kadi. Having made it only once before with the expert guidance of Madhur Jaffrey in constant attendance (in the shape of a book, not in person, I must hastily add here), I had little clue, but decided to wing it. Wing is about right. It was absolutely delectable where taste was concerned, but could perhaps be better used as a means to stick together old books that were falling apart. If reinforced concrete was used to stick together paper, of course! Father has made his acerbic remarks on the subject, but I maintain that if his eyes had been closed, he could have thoroughly enjoyed the taste and never mind the look!

But we ate, we chatted, we thought fondly of Mum and played with Small Cat, who burped happily after her snack of a new brand of cat-treats. And we all believe that the New Year will be a good and happy one. As we hope it will be for everyone else in the world.