Some Reminisces & Hill Grange at Night

I was bad at studies. Or perhaps I should defer using the term bad and use “indifferent” instead. Or maybe I was just moody. There were many reasons for this. But the fact remains that I did not like the process of education; it did not appeal to me. I was introvert as a child; and I wished, more than anything else, to be left alone. This was impossible at home – for both my parents were inspired authoritarians and yet uninspiring educators. My relationship with them, especially during my childhood, was strained – more so with my father than with my mother. To cut a long story short, here I was, an uninspired student with nothing to look forward to except his books and knowledge gained from outer sources; a student whose school work all the while suffered because he found nothing really to look forward; and so, I was a very mediocre learner.

Matters came to a head in Class 8. Terminal examinations betrayed that something was indeed very wrong; and my mother descended in all urgency to find the source of error. It fell to Mr. Bhan to take her aside and give her a talking to. He explained to her that my chances for promotion to Class 9 were marginal given the present rate of my growth and my marks therein; Douglas Gonzalves, who taught us science, was almost equally forbidding. As a result of this, I was put into various tuitions both in school and outside of it; I believe that this, too, gave offence to many teachers in school, who thought that perhaps it would have served a better purpose had I not been taken out of their wing and placed in external coaching. But that is how it happened – and the only extra classes I attended in school were for Hindi and for French. Hindi tuitions were held early in the morning in Class 8C, on the first floor. My teacher was Mrs. Shaikh. For some reason, she was very fond of me; and while most students in regular class faced the sharp edge of both her tongue and the edge of her palm, I was spared, and indeed, often treated to words and gestures of kindness. Perhaps she understood my brooding silence; and my sense of alienation from my own existence.

My French coach was not Mrs. Pastakia, though she taught us French in class. On the contrary, it was Mrs. Padma Lama. She taught us singing in Class 8; she was authoritarian, disciplinarian and highly motivated; as well as being cynical and in possession of a deep understanding of human nature, and especially student failings. It is during attending her late tuitions after school where I was first exposed to Hill Grange at night; and even after 28 years, my adventures therein have left a deep, deep impression on me.

On days of NCC, my French tuitions started at about 5:10 in the evening. They often went up to 9. They ended usually otherwise at 8. On regular days, the classes were even longer; they begun just after 4 in the afternoon, and went up at times to the same stipulated time of conclusion. The venue was class 4C at the back of the school, adjacent to that odoriferous primary school toilet; the class was dimly lit, though not hard on the eyes; and in the quiet of these evenings, Mrs. Lama introduced me to the true scope of the French language. Mrs. Lama was strict; but she was also perfectly fair; and while infractions instigated her tongue into all manners of imprecations, work well done was greeted with a ready nod and sometimes even a short word of praise. Her praise meant a lot to me; and she, perhaps sensing that I was very timid, and needed motivation, very kindly took her Sunday afternoons off, before final examinations, to coach me in the intricacies of the French tongue. Her tongue was like a scorpion’s tail; and yet, I do not ever remember her hurting my feelings. She just did not cross into personal realms.

Her tuitions ended long after sundown; she lived close by in the “Sonarica Building”, off Peddar Road; I lived up Nepean Sea Road, adjacent to Simla House. Her journey home was a brisk and short walk. My journey was lonely, long, and tiring; when I entered home eventually, it was past the time to dine; and all I could do was to crash upon my bed – exhausted and quite numb. Yet, I looked forward to the journey home. Why? Because I took in the air of Hill Grange before my departure; and in that darkness of those evenings, Hill Grange was transformed from a busy bedlam beehive into a magical castle – filled with nameless and mysterious; yet joyous creatures and emotions of the dark.

In that primordial darkness lit by a faint glow, Hill Grange was like a puddle of blackness in the pool of light of Cumballa Hill and Peddar Road. Before leaving for home, I would often pause, in the darkness, anywhere in school; and I would take in the calm and absolute quiet of my surroundings. The new building would be dark; a bulb, however, would be burning forlornly above Mr. Pinto’s office, adjacent to the canteen. A lamp would also be burning on the first floor passage between the staff rooms and the class rooms further on; I mean the passage that eventually lead to Miss Kelly’s quarters. For reasons unknown then, but on introspection, probably for some inner calm and quiet, I would sometimes make my way up to the first floor or even the second floor to take in the darkness. Darkness on the second floor was near total, except for the puddle of light that fell out on the passage from within Mr. Reuben’s quarters. Peace was complete. I could listen to the blood ringing in my ears; and I shall never forget the sound of distant radio playing “Vividh-Bharati” programmes of the late evening. Sometimes this quiet would be interrupted by the clang of cutlery from the kitchens; perhaps I was also at times distracted by the smell of some heavenly dish being cooked therein; at other times the quiet was broken by the jangle of a telephone ringing in Miss Kelly’s rooms; there was also a far away sound of disjointed conversations – undoubtedly taking place between people happier than I was; but oh! The peace. The quiet. The calm!

At this time, the auditorium was like the surface of the moon, though a smoother one. It was half lit; and it was surmounted by the yawning darkness of the stage. The air would be fragrant with the smell of flowers; a shadow flying in that half light would reveal a stray bat seeking its dinner; a stray flutter in the leaves of a tree indicated late arrival at a crow’s nest. On top of the auditorium would be an immense and comforting blackness of the night sky; on a cloudless night, many stars shone forth their blessing onto me; and with their twinkle, made my darkness comforting to bear. I have never laid myself down on the floor of the auditorium to look at yonder stars and galaxies, far, far, and even further away; and I wish today I had done so. Perhaps I would have been rewarded with a timeless insight – wrapped in the embrace of my school, my sky, my stars and my own child like legacy that the passage of each moment created and left complete; and yet, undone.

The old building by my side, on these evenings, would be dark; but never forbidding. The wooden stairs that led to the first floor office of the old building often beckoned at me; and up these I sometimes climbed, surrounded by a magical half light, taking care so that I did not give myself away by the creak of my shoes on the ancient wood. There was an indescribable smell in the air then; of books and furniture cooling down after a hot day; of sap from jackfruit tree; of dried ink on blotting paper; of the remnants of perfume left behind by office bearers; and of the ethereal presence of students who had passed that way – nameless faces; the redolence of their hopes; the odour of their straining efforts; of their passage through the very fabric of existence; through the cusp of a lifetime; through the bosom of eternity.

Often, before I made my way down again, I would walk up to the threshold of my favourite room – the great Hall. It was at times illuminated by a single lamp; at other times, it would be dark – with a puddle of light falling on its threshold – from a light in the anteroom outside Miss Kelly’s room. At times the silence here would be broken by the urgent tinkling of a hand-bell; that was Miss Kelly as she summoned someone from the household staff to run a late evening errand.

The magic would be broken as realisation filtered through, invariably, that my home was elsewhere; and I had to make haste to depart. The walk down the slope was utterly lonely; yet, never has solitude seemed more welcoming, enveloping and comforting; never have I ever felt such a sense of belonging as I did then. To Hill Grange are dedicated my most enduring memories; and to this edifice, now silent and dark forever, must go so many experiences which have helped shape me and so many as you as the men and women we have all grown into.

Moments form up as seconds; seconds as minutes. Minutes roll into hours, which turn into days, weeks, years and decades. A child grows into another childhood; then, it grows into a man or a woman – it grows into Mankind. Memories are the only living record of this rite of passage – not only through life as we know it, but of existence, as it shapes us. And so it must be.

On Chinese Cuisine & Ling’s Pavilion

PROLOGUE

I must write upon Ling’s Pavilion. It is here that I learnt, nay, was indeed taught, upon what Chinese cuisine is – and the art of appreciating it. Many restaurants and purported China Towns in India have been branded in the past as having introduced and propagated “authentic” Chinese cuisine. While some of these claims may partly be true, I must aver that Chinese, as is eaten in China, and in Chinese homes, is also produced and served in Ling’s Pavilion as part of their usual offering. As I write, my thanks must go to Baba Ling, Nini Ling and to “Johnny Uncle” as my daughter would call him. If Bombay, Mumbai and India possesses extraordinary restaurateurs in Baba and Nini Ling, then surely it has possessed one of the most aesthete, knowledgeable, generous and comprehensive teachers of Chinese cuisine in Johnny. Johnny has since retired; Ling’s Pavilion suffered bereavement. Ling’s Pavilion was introduced to me by my wife, who knows of cooking, cookery and cuisine. Before I step into a description of Ling’s Pavilion’s produce, I must make somewhat of a generalised differentiation between Indian and Chinese cuisines. By the way, I am Bengali. My wife is Parsi.

INTRODUCTION

Both Chinese and Indian Cuisine are constituents of immensely ancient culinary lineages. Both are scientific. Both are radiant and resplendent in their glories. Both are immensely popular worldwide; and both are completely different – as different as chalk is to cheese. The base ingredients of Chinese cuisine constitute of what is purely non vegetarian, while we, from India, base our cuisine on what is intrinsically vegetarian. Consumption of milk products is much higher with us, or so I am led to believe, while the Chinese derive their basic milk and curd for cooking from soybeans and other such plant material – or so I am told. Of course the Chinese also drink milk from cows and buffalo – yet in China, these animals are farmed primarily for their meat. Chinese cuisine attempts to preserve flavours within food and its original constituents to deliver maximum nourishment in as easy a manner as possible. Indian cuisine is built on adding various ingredients with the art of using spices, to bring out as much flavour as possible, even at the cost of changing food value and composition – and make nourishment thus delivered, pleasing to the tongue as well as to the physical constitution. In short, in Chinese cuisine, one cooks food as is and to reflect as much as possible – original ingredient; while in Indian cuisine, one freely reengineers raw material into a product. Indian food is subject to constant change within the basic vegetarian framework; and using this base, has evolved beautifully constructed non vegetarian results – case in point, the grandness of Bengali cuisine, which is unique in which it possesses a fundamental and vast vegetarian base, but a spectacular non vegetarian reality built upon it – which by itself is larger and more varied that most world non-vegetarian cuisines in their entirety.

Indian variety is also underlined by its fast food, in which different schools of cookery are united to produce weird but delicious concoctions – such as the Chinese chop suey dosa and Chinese Bhel; not to mention Falafel and Pita Bread cooked with Gujarati spices or Punjabi ingredients. I must reiterate that there is nothing “vegetarian” in Chinese cuisine. Even though that “vegetable” preparation placed in front of you has an appearance of being vegetarian – the proof of the pudding is in the fact that the entire “vegetarian” preparation is made with beef, pork, chicken, fish stocks; or even a masterstock made out of mixed meats, dried herbs, and in the vast majority of cases, no spice at all. Even tastes, textures, flavours and uses of Chinese vegetables are different from their Indian counterparts and equivalents. India’s evolution in its local traditions are immovably rooted in accepting and amalgamating external cultural influences and precepts. China is more purist; defends and maintains its traditional ingredients and schools of cookery, permitting little foreign influence. Chinese cakes are entirely different from what we in India understand by “cake”, trained as Indians are more in western traditions. Amongst others, one of India’s most beautifully created “cakes” integral to local culture constitute of the Handvo from Gujarat. The reader must note that I use the term “cake” under advisement; the Handvo is neither a cake and nor a pastry; and it is not a bread. It is what it is and is one of those works of art fairly unknown outside it geographical region. However, the reader will understand my context.

Chinese cooking is rooted more in boiling, broiling and steaming rather than in frying, roasting, garnishing or fire baking. Steaming, by itself, is a vastly different art in China, where, instead of plain water, herbs and stocks are employed so as to preserve and double flavour. India has a fair variety of steamed foods. We steam prepared ingredients traditionally in leaves and bamboo, or in vessels made of copper or other alloys; in contemporary times, the use of aluminium and stainless steamers are popular. China steams in cane, bamboo, wooden, bronze or even bone receptacles. Consider, that in the same steamer, one may make Tai-Pao as well as the Idli. But how different is the Idli from the Tai-Pao! It is not possible to define and categorise Chinese cuisine as it is impossible to do so with the Indian – the variety is too overwhelming and flows with the tide of taste and need. Both cuisines reflect class, region and ethnic background. Both cuisines are constructed out of staggering varieties of ingredients, techniques, eating styles and preparations – evolved through longs years of hoary antiquity; and much history.

India possesses enormous varieties of breads – each reflective of a unique cooking method, ingredient, quality, texture and taste; moreover, except in sporadic cases, our breads are all uniformly vegetarian. Bread, in China, is reminiscent more of loaves and dumplings; and are often stuffed with meat and fish. China also prepares something that closely resembles our chapatti. But this is actually an import from Korea, and its cooking style is very different from ours.

In India, dumplings are usually treated as appetisers and as snack; in Chinese cuisine, a meal may be composed of dumplings accompanied by a light and watery soup drunk after the main course. Dal is akin to our Indian soup if I may so hazard; and the most delicious such soup that I have partaken of is the Gujarati, Marwari and Kutchi Panchmel Dal and Dahi ni Kadi. Our Dals are vastly vegetarian in scope and context, except, among others, for the delicious Dal Gosht, which is a pearl of Muslim cookery; Dhansak, which is famously and scrumpaliciously Parsi; and the Bengal Maache’r Muro diye Bhaja Moogh Dal, the recollection of which is enough to send a homesick Bengali, marooned in foreign shores, in search of the nearest riot in hope of attaining heaven. The Moghlai and Persian Shorba is incredible; but when I find Tomato Soup with crouton marked as a “Shorba” in the Moghlai Restaurant, I marvel at India’s adaptability. Of course there are other such successful amalgamations between plants, leaves, pulses and well slaughtered animals; but, eventually, our dal is not a soup – and consider, too, how different Sambhar is from Tadkey-wali-Dal. But in China, a soup is a soup, which is also a meal.

INSIGHTS ON CHINESE SCHOOLS OF CUISINE

There are essentially two sorts of Chinese cuisines. The first alternative is the one that is traditional, “authentic” and meant for domestic and ethnic consumption. These are the Anhui-cai (Hui Cai), Cantonese (Guangdong), Fujian (Xianwei Style of Cookery), Hunan (Xiang), Jiangsu (Jiangsu Cai), Shandong (Shandong Cai), Szechwan (Sichaun Cai) and Zhejiang (Zhecai). “Hakka“ cookery is a sub-cuisine that fits in the Cantonese and Fujian traditions; Mongolian and Manchurian (Manzhou Cai) precepts were later additions. There is however, nothing in Chinese such as “Mongolian Prawn” or “Manchurian Chicken”. Mongolian Prawn in fact uses a wide variety of Hunan styled spices and cookery. Expectations of “authentic” Manchurian Chicken is a dead end upon an insurmountable wall. Additionally, there is also the Huaiyang cuisine (Huaiyang Cai), which is a subgroup of the Jiangsu Cai.

The second alternative is for foreigners and constitutes of the Singaporean, Malaysian, Indonesian, Indian and American Chinese cookery. Because of the basic nature of Chinese cuisine, it lends itself very well to admixture with foreign local ingredients; of additions or subtractions of subtleties. We may be forgiven for mistaking the Chinese in Imperial China Restaurant in London as offering “authentic” Chinese, or our Mainland China in India for doing the same. But if truth be spoken, then these restaurants, while maintaining the Chinese brand and even methodology, produce a cuisine that is not purist, but engineered subtly and sometimes overtly to suit local traditions, taste buds, expectations and needs; nowhere in London will you find the traditional Snake Head stewed in Rice Starch; but the Chinese in Bombay do eat snake meat, though canned. Indian cuisine abroad faces similar restraints; some of the best Indian restaurants in London produce “Indian” curries and kabobs which, to a travelling Indian tourist, would be routine travesty; the much vaunted “Chicken Tikka, while maintaining its legitimate antecedents, lives an illegitimate existence in our London. Let’s now approach Ling’s Pavilion.

STYLES OF EATING – A PRÉCIS STARTING WITH SOUP

When us Indians eat in Chinese restaurants, we are used to ordering, in western fashion, a soup and starter, followed by the entrée. Main course then follows, followed by dessert. Drinks are liberally partaken through the meal – whether these be soft drink or hard liquor. In contrast, the soup is often the meal for the Chinese. Sometimes, two soups are “eaten”; a heavy soup to begin with, followed by a central course, and ending, with a light soup. Soups that we in India know of are famous worldwide in Chinese cuisine – Hot & Sour Soup, Prawn Noodle Soup, Tum Yom Soup, Sweet Corn Chicken Soup, Chicken Asparagus Soup, Shark Fin Soup, Crabmeat Soup, Fish Meatball Soup, Lung Fung Soup – so and and so forth; except, that in pure Chinese cuisine, many of these soups do not exist as preparations, and certainly not “Lung Fung Soup”. While some of these soups are available in Ling’s Pavilion, the “House Soup” as it is called here, is a purely Chinese creation that is elegant, simple and absolutely delicious. It is known as the Pork Bone or Pork Broth Soup. To order it, you have to specifically ask for it; it is not present in the general menu. Pork Bone and Pork White Broth Soups are made of lean pork and blanched pork bones, mixed with herbs, vegetables and fungi such as shiitake mushroom, etc, and simmered for several hours on a tediously fed wood or charcoal fire, to produce a rich but thin broth; and is perfectly heavenly. Ling’s Pavilion makes it with wonton; serves it separately with potatoes, radish or pumpkin; tomato, beet or winter melon; it is served in white porcelain bowls – bony and large portions of pork are usually visible in servings. Pork Bone Soup and Pork White Broths are also intrinsic to Korean Cuisine. Ling’s Pavilion sees considerable visitations from crowds of Japanese, Korean and Chinese Consulates – and these gatherings tend to be animated once the soup has been drunk and the wine bottle opened; ladies and gentlemen of these national persuasions visit Ling’s Pavilion for a piece of their home. They say they do not find such restaurants in India. Other soups include the “Seafood Fire Pot Soup“. While the soup by itself is completely Chinese, it bears a fancy name just to appear exotic; it is staple in China, and it is not for us who do not have a taste for squids, clams, prawns, fish and fishball, pork, mussels and meatballs – all boiled together in a masterstock. This soup is a meal by itself; and is served in a self heating brass container – enough to serve six.

DUMPLINGS

Indians term all dumplings as “momo“. This is an error in my opinion. A Momo is necessarily a Tibetan and Nepali preparation. Chinese dumplings constitute of the Siew-Mai, Guotie, Wonton, Zongzi, Xiao Long Bao, Tangyuan, Cha Siu Bao, Cheong Fung, Har Gow, Teochew, Bao Zi, Taro, Ngau juk Kau, etc, to name a few. It is beyond the scope of this article to go into this in any further detail; I am happy, however, to write on three of my favourite dumplings at the Ling’s Pavilion – the Siew Mai, the Tai-Pao, which is also made as the Cha Siu Bao, the Har Gow and the Xiao Long Bao. Be aware that dumplings are also referred to as Dim Sum, and they differ in size, depending upon the restaurant, chéf and kitchen. Dumplings in Ling’s Pavilion are served in covered self heating stainless steel receptacles. Upon touch, they are steaming hot, and fill the air in front of you with their redolence. Siew Mais resemble large, white truncated flower buds. They can be filled with chicken, pork, beef or fish, or mixed meats. The Cha Siu Bao, also called Tai-Pao is filled either with a sweet barbecue pork or with chicken; both Siew Mai and Tai Pao are served with a brilliantly tangy mustard sauce; six Siew Mais are served in one serving; Tai-Paos number in fours. Steamed wontons are served in eights or tens. The Xiao Long Bao in Ling’s Pavilion is better known there are the “Steamed Pork Dumpling” and is served in pairs, in a little rectangular porcelain plate; with a bottle of vinegar and long stems of shredded ginger/bamboo shoot. The Har Gow is also called “Prawn Dumplings” – they are made of raw prawn with a sprig of herb or lemon grass, enclosed in white dumpling skin – and filled with juice. All these are steamed, and it is expected that these will be eaten steamed, including the steamed Spring Roll. However, you may order what you desire. A variety of fish, prawn and meat cakes are available with this – and you may order as per your taste. And remember, sometimes, food that sounds and looks prohibitive, such as Chicken Foot Soup, Oxtail Stew or Stewed Rice with Steamed Fish are incredibly delicious once you have overcome your initial hesitation – and the names I have used reflect exactly the ingredients of preparations placed in front of you. If you order Ox Tongue cooked in Bean Curd and Bean Sauce, you will find sliced Ox Tongue on your plate; and no, it is not slippery, spitty and slimy globs of meat. On the contrary, tongue is solid, well cooked and incredibly delicious; served, it closely resembles salami. The vegans and vegetarians here must forgive me assaulting upon their sensibilities; but whatever our personal morality may be or our principles, values and religious persuasions, this is a superficial description of a gigantic and ancient, scientific non-vegetarian cuisine. As for me, I am omnivore. I am perfectly content to unending stints of vegetarian fare; as I am happy to gorge into a bull’s private parts when they are laid up for me to eat, fresh from spices, marination and flames; honoured by recipe and adorned through procedure.

RICE, MEAT, EGGS ET AL

China has pioneered the concept of restaurants. We hear of restaurants in China, back in the 11th Century. Individual restaurants specialised and were noted for their delicacies; some were famous for their red meats; others for all kinds of poultry; some for fish and a vast variety of other preparations. The main staple in all of China constitutes of rice, herbs, weeds and seaweeds; noodles; and fresh produce from farmland and lakes; rivers and the sea. Fruits, nuts, herbs and fungi are integral as staple. Reptiles and insects find place in Chinese recipes. Rice is the staple. Ling’s Pavilion serves a superb selection of rice: and these are cooked not in water, but in non-vegetarian masterstock. Vital to this, of course, is steaming hot rice; and it is cooked in such a way that it can be eaten raw with the minimum of other additions. Rice is redolent with herbs and protein; the colour is off white. The flavours are resplendent; many different varieties of rice are eaten in China. Sticky rice is eaten, and is called Nuomi or Chut-bi. In Ling’s Pavilion, steaming hot rice can be had with very mild and aromatic sauces; and sauces are not to be used as gravy. Rice can be stewed with sliced beef or lamb; chicken or mixed meats; with salt fish and pak choi. In Chinese cuisine, “stewed” is actually stewed and steamed in stock; and not “boiled” in oil, butter or cream. Ling’s Pavilion also serves steamed rice mixed with ground meat, and served in a pot with an egg broken it just before serving. The idea of eating a raw egg may not appeal to many. But raw egg mixed into food, by means of employing the correct methodology, creates supremely delicious results. The rice is served piping hot in a wooden bowl. As it is placed on the table in front of you, the lid is opened to reveal white rice, hot, with bellowing vapours of steam redolent of freshly boiled and ground pork or beef, mixed in with herbs – awaiting the eggs. Two raw eggs are broken into the rice and meat, and mixed quickly in by an expert waiter. The lid is then shut and the entire dish made to stand for about three to four minutes. When the lid is opened, one sees a miracle wrought in food engineering; the revealed rice is covered with what looks like very finely made scrambled egg; the meat is thoroughly mixed into the rice; luscious flavours that emanate are captivating. Upon tasting, the rice is supremely delicious; the food value – unbelievably healthy and nourishing. This is a marvel constructed with protein, starch, gluten, carbohydrates, minerals and various enzymes present in egg, meat and rice – untouched by oil or frying. The Chinese eat such preparations every day; and it is little wonder that they are so strong and healthy, and seldom fall sick.

The other, more of a “restaurant” preparation available is the Steamed Pot Rice, served with mixed Tofu, meats, prawns, chicken, salted fish, bacon, pork and beef. It is shatteringly delicious; and equally wholesome. In addition to this, there is the more common Fried Rice and various other rice preparations – stewed, steamed and even baked in bamboo. The choice of meat and vegetable is yours; you may try Rice stewed with fish, beef, pork or chicken; pak choi and water chestnuts; you can literally ask to add anything within a traditional Chinese framework, and be served that, mixed in or topped on rice. Ling’s Pavilion had stopped serving Sticky Rice. You and I are poorer for it. Sticky rice just does not work in India – or did not work. I am uninformed if Baba and Nini Ling plan on re-introducing sticky rice preparations. Sticky rice is central to Chinese cuisine. It is cooked with chopped Chinese sausages, pork, beef, mushroom, pak choi, fish, shrimp, mussels and scallops. A variety of dumplings are constructed of sticky rice; and so are other traditional Chinese delicacies. Chinese sticky rice is unlike what we find in India – which, at times, claim Chinese antecedents. It is worth a taste; and I’d recommend you visit any Chinese restaurant of note and ask them to cook you traditional sticky rice as per your taste. I wish Ling’s brings it back to the table.

MIÀN & FEN

Now a word on noodles at the Ling’s Pavilion. To begin with, we, in India, are used to the Hakka Noodles, which we gorge upon at the slightest provocation. Even the roadside phatichar Chinese Cart-walla thinks of himself as offering “Hakka Noodles” to his constituents; and the new invention is Hakka Fried Noodle Rice in Szechuan Sauce, which bears a decidedly evil, red tinge. But as you and I know, all of this food masquerades as Chinese, while it is all very creatively, and even admirably Indian. Our Hakka Noodles is fried, while noodles cooked after the Chinese fashion are steamed or stewed. It is only Châu Méin, which is also served stir fried, along with the more common version where it is steamed; Châu (Fried) Méin (Noodles) – or “Pan Fried Noodles with Vegetables and Meat. Our Châu Méin  “Chicken Chowmein” as we like to call it, we consume in a mixed manner, for we have it stir fried and with gravy; our stir fried version utilises noodles that are used in the steamed Chinese version – in short, ours is closer to the Hong Kong style of Châu Méin. There are other examples of noodles, which are neither stewed and nor steamed – and which are eaten crispy, fried or boiled. I shall not go into such detail however. How is noodles served in Ling’s Pavilion? Like rice, various different kinds and combinations of noodles are prepared and served. Noodles are served as toppings with soup. It is also used steamed and boiled, in soups. It can be had stir fried with different ingredients and additions or subtractions of flavours. It can be constructed as deep fried and used in both American and Chinese Chopsuey. Hakka Noodles are popular and delicious. The Châu Méin is magnificent. But the best is traditional stewed noodles served with a variety of toppings – chicken, bacon, pork, dumplings, meatballs, sliced beef, mixed meats, salted fish, prawns, pak choi, Chinese Greens, water chestnuts, fruits and nuts; bean curd and beans; the variety is almost endless. Portions are large; in fact large enough to satisfy the needs of a small family. If I order a serving of rice or noodles for myself, I ensure that I eat them stewed with ingredients of my choice. I need not order anything else. It takes me a good forty five minutes to go through my portion; I have it out of a bowl, with chopsticks. It is my wish that you try it; you will not regret it.

A WORD ON MEAT

For the sake of argument, I shall state that many of us here do not partake of either pork or beef. The reason for this, in my opinion, tends to be religious or moral; social and traditional; and is eventually a non-negotiable personal choice that is beyond judgement. A fundamentally meat-eating civilisation such as the Chinese are not hampered by any such restrictions though; nor are majority of world civilisations. I, who eats everything, must say this – that while keeping in mind many health related concerns that accompany consumption of red meats, pork and beef are the two most delicious, healthy and nutrition giving animal foods that today exists. The Chinese have conquered techniques of combining meats with various natural ingredients – and created a cuisine that exemplifies the best combination of vegetarian and non-vegetarian elements. And just as vegetables must be procured from a clean source and eaten fresh, meat, too, must be fresh, and clean. Yet, civilisations in which meat is eaten without nutritive balance with other foods, are prone to a whole gamut of health issues – which range from the tragic, to mundane, to the disgusting. Meat will always be eaten and mankind is fundamentally carnivorous – but eaten balanced with vegetables, carbohydrates, vitamins and minerals. Climatic conditions play an important role in how meat is metabolised by the body. Physical activity is central to digesting meat. A diet based purely on meat is distinctly dangerous for Indians. I am of the opinion that fish and white meats are better in subcontinental conditions.

SEAFOOD

Ling’s Pavilion produces an amazing variety and quality of seafood. Fish, crabs, crayfish, lobsters, squids, scallops, clams, mussels, and shark is central to the offering. Ling’s Pavilion does not serve octopus. I do not think that other than the stray Korean or the Coastal Chinese, anyone would have the stomach for it. Like squid, octopus is chewy and mildly flavoured. Octopus is eaten fresh, raw and live in Korean Cuisine. Seafood, in Ling’s Pavilion, can be had in soups, stews, stir fried, roasted, steamed, smoked, baked, broiled and boiled. Various different methods and schools of cooking are employed; and supporting ingredients – myriad. I believe that major Chinese schools and techniques are reflected in Ling’s Pavilion – and ensuing results both astonishing and sublime. Whole fish is served cooked; the Grouper, Red Cod, Snapper, Shark, Lobster, Crayfish, Flatfish, etc, form the staple. Prawn is served in various styles. Though I am Bengali, and am reputed as the “fish eating civilisation” in India, I hated fish for many years because it was forced upon me. I learnt to appreciate fish when my wife re-introduced me to it during the early days of my marriage. I now enjoy fish, though I tend to avoid fresh water varieties, save a few. I have nothing but good to say of all the fish that Ling’s Pavilion has recommended for my tastes, and served for my consumption. Some of my meals therein have been so filled with fish, and even committed fish eaters have turned their noses up and declaimed “enough!”. You can order whatever fish you desire; you can ask it to be cooked in whatever manner. Try to rise above Manchurian Fish and Mandarin Fish – though these are delicious; you can have them anywhere else, while Ling’s Pavilion affords you a chance to eat something that you have never heard of, and which, upon tasting, will be your new favourite – and traditionally Chinese. Prawns with Bean Sprouts is certainly for everyone!

BACK TO MEAT

Cooking meat is an art. Cooking meat and converting it into something eminently advisable, palatable and desirable for human consumption is science. The Chinese, through untold centuries of experimentation, have perfected both art and science – and combined everything together into a matchless tradition. Vast quantities and varieties of meat are eaten in China. Along with Pork and Beef, the variety includes many forms of birds, reptiles, seafood and freshwater food; and insects. Ling’s Pavilion does not serve insectoid and reptilian preparations. It serves Chicken, Duck, Pork, Beef, Lamb and Mutton. I gave up mutton after being introduced to beef. Compared with beef, mutton and lamb are either insipid and tasteless slop; or these are smelly and unpalatable results from an animal which should have been set free – no prejudice to the animal. Traditional Hindus will not touch beef; they will go green at its very mention; and my Muslim and Jewish brothers will never touch Pork; the last great Muslim who doted on well constructed Pork Chops was none other than our very own Mohammed Ali Jinnah; it is said that he was introduced to porcine delights by his wife, Rattanbai Petit, who was Parsee; or perhaps this story is just a rumour.  While no one can judge these choices, the Chinese have no compunction in consuming herculean quantities of both beef and pork as a part of their everyday diet. Meat served in Ling’s Pavilion is prepared with generosity, efficiency and avant garde technique; and with what result! We Indians are used to our meats being spiced and marinated, and cooked in oils, tomatoes, onions and sometimes yogurt and cream; with a variety of spices. Our resultant curry, rezala, kassa, kofta, rasa and jhol are spiced works of art. The Chinese do not employ cream in their cooking. Nor does food undergo any form of “currification” that forms the basis of contemporary Indian cuisine. The use of spices are sparse and circumstantial. The Chinese use herbs and fungi instead; and may I say that unless one is trained in the finer points of Chinese cooking and is provided with appropriate ingredient and technique especially in cooking meat, Chinese preparations are impossible to construct in an Indian kitchen. The two schools are very different, as I must yet again reiterate. At Ling’s Pavilion, I always almost eat beef. In my favourite preparation, beef is stewed in a pot with radish or potato. It is to be eaten with steamed rice. It is one of the most delicious outcomes of cooked beef; rarely, in any civilisation, has cooked beef reached such sublime levels of technique and taste. Beef can be served stir fried; it can be served roasted. It can be served with peppers and sprouts; it can be served with overwhelming varieties of Chinese Greens. The results are diverse, fascinating and marvelously delicious. Beef is served sliced, roasted or stewed with rice and noodles; or is mixed with chicken, bacon, steamed pork or as mixed meatballs. Both pork and beef can be served in stews and in soups; they can be served even with fish; as the entrée and even appetiser. Another great favourite is in Hong Kong styled Beef Steakettes served with Onions and Tomatoes. Equally varied and intricate are pork preparations. Like beef, pork is stewed, roasted or even fried. It can be served as appetiser, entrée or main course; it can be served as a mixture or as a topping; and it is radiantly delicious. I could go on and on – but such detail is beyond the scope of this already long document.

CHICKEN

For those that would like to engage chicken as their primary choice in victual, will be relieved to know that chicken forms the basis of the menu in Ling’s Pavilion. The largest selection of non-vegetarian is dedicated to our favourite bird – the chicken. I shall not go deep into the delights of chicken; you can visit Ling’s Pavilion and find out for yourself what constitutes of avian delights. You will not be disappointed. However, since some space is allotted to me, I shall speak of the Hainan Styled Chicken. It was Johnny who introduced me to Hainan Chicken and Rice in 2008. I was somewhat skeptical when I saw it arrive – for it looked quite raw, and was accompanied by a large bowl of rice and two small receptacles of raw, pounded ginger and garlic, with a dark red soy sauce, sprinkled with chopped red chilli. I thought, on first impression, that I was required to gorge through a whole bird minimally cooked. I was mistaken. Hainan Styled Chicken is the single most delicious chicken meal that I have tasted; it is also probably the most nutritious. Hainan Chicken is not cooked every day in Ling’s Pavilion; it is not even cooked every week. It is made on special occasions – such as Consulate Dinners or visits. It is a preparation to be savoured over; to taste layers of fragrant flavour in every bite of rice, chicken and cucumbers. Well, do not be put off by its “raw” look. Not only is it not raw, it has been cooked for hours and is served piping hot. And I cannot forget the Full Roast Chicken. Order the full roast if you are four adults at your meal. The portion is enormous; though many appetites are larger still – I would still advise half a roast between two adults and one child. Chicken with fish; chicken with meat; chicken with vegetables; chicken without anything – all are available and everything is delicious at the Ling’s Pavilion.

EPILOGUE

The time has come to conclude this long, long document that has been marked by a fair amount of drool. In doing so, I shall make certain propositions. Starting these propositions, let me state that Ling’s Pavilion is a fine dining restaurant that serves “traditional Chinese cuisine”. However, if you are looking for extremely good Indian-Chinese, I would prefer that you go to Flora off Worli Sea Face or to Kamling, in Churchgate. Back to Ling’s Pavilion, I have heard the same refrain, and surprisingly, from individuals who have pretensions of being food critics, that the “food was insipid”, or “the food was undercooked”; or that “the prawn was chewy” or that “the beef tasted of lamb”. These are ridiculous comments made by idiot-mortals who cannot be trusted to judge a handful of peanuts, leave along a fine dining restaurant. When one specifically tastes food that is authentic, one must possess, to begin with, that little breadth of vision in which one must accept that food can and is cooked differently in different cultures. Mutton boti that is designed to melt in one’s mouth is not the same as Steaks of Lamb a la Balkan, wherein lamb is meant to be chewed and savoured for as long as possible. To apply expectations and yardsticks of Mutton boti to the latter continental creation speaks not only of lack of education, but also of a certain foolish carelessness. I might as well shake my head in understanding when the Bengali gentleman that I have for dinner tonight says that “the Dhokla lacks a crunch….”.

Ladies and Gentlemen who are proponents of Tangra in Calcutta may note that Tangra is not purist, but caters to particular Bengali tastes and expectations. You do not need to take my word for it. Find for yourself, wherever in the world you may be, a traditional Chinese restaurant that offers traditional Chinese cuisine, and compare that to Tangra. Or better still, if you have Chinese friends in your city, try and dine at their home, and then, compare your experiences with restaurants or dedicated areas that claim to offer Chinese cuisine. You will find a difference. This difference is acceptable because, at the end of the day, the Chéf and Restaurant, to break even, must offer that which is acceptable to local expectations. The Chinese is Calcutta eat snake meat. But ask for it in Tangra – and I am quite certain that you will be served it with a great deal of hesitation, if served at all. The last days of authentic Chinese cuisine in Calcutta ended in the mid 1970s, when the advent of Communists made any kind specialised enterprise a strict no-no. Otherwise, I recall, fondly, of my experiences in a restaurant known as Peipin.

Calcutta was once the fount of external culture – both Chinese as well as Continental. Indian Chinese was never in existence during the early days of Chinese restaurant entrepreneurship in Calcutta; aesthete Bengali tastes accepted only that which was authentic; Bengal had not been overrun by immigrants from the East and the diffusions of taste that they brought with them. Continental cuisine in Bengal was perhaps as good as any to be found in high restaurants of London. This is because of Bengali proclivities. Bengalis were then educated and genteel; today, Bengalis are literate and loud. I am Bengali myself, and I am painfully aware of the diffusion that Bengal has undergone through the last 40 years. The point of entry for Chinese cuisine in India was in Calcutta; and it is little wonder that when the family Ling migrated to Bombay in 1942, their origins had hitherto been in Calcutta – and  their mandate was to spread traditional Chinese cuisine into a fairly empty Bombay, in which the only sophisticates consisted of the Parsis. The first restaurant that the family Ling established was known as the “Nanking”. Nanking was besides where “The Plate” now stands in resplendent glory. I met Baba Ling for the very first time in 1987, when I went on to order a pack of Hakka Noodles and Chilli Chicken as tiffin, to be had after my entrance examinations for the National Institute of Design, which was being conducted at the J. J. School of Arts. The food blew my mind then, as it continues to do so now. With this, friends, ladies and gentlemen, I wish you bon appetit, and end my note. I believe that you will forgive spelling mistakes and typing errors that may have attended this article.

REFERENCES

Ling’s Pavilion

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_cuisine

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_cuisine

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_noodles

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jiaozi

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beef

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pork

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glutinous_rice

Greenlawns School Worli – EARLY REMINISCENCES, Part – II

The first friend I made in Greenlaws School Worli was a boy who had a proclivity for red-striped white, baggy PT shorts. He was nut brown and possessed prominent eyebrows which did nothing to hide his penetrative look and quickness in the uptake. He was matured beyond his years; this maturity was especially prominent betwixt his ears. He often invited me during our lunch break to partake of contents off his stainless steel tiffin box, in which fresh and hot food would arrive daily from his home. And never have I tasted pulses more wholesome; or white pumpkin, cooked in coconut gravy – more delicious. Whoever the cook was, is entitled to my eternal gratitude; the food seemed to get better with the passage of time. Perhaps the cook had an inkling that I was waiting, unseen, in school, ravenously, to attack Ravindra Bhat’s tiffin, while he looked on with amusement. In the meanwhile, and in time away from invading Ravi’s victuals, I was introduced to Rajesh Lala.

On the face of it, “Lala”, as we called him, could take a bus apart with his bare hands by the time he was a toddler. Like me, Lala was built big. Unlike me, he was sharp and popular; the generosity of spirit that illustrated Lala’s existence then is firmly intact in present times, and growing; though he, thankfully, has stopped growing taller – and I reserve my comments on the aspects that define a “broader” growth. His laugh remains as loud as it was then – though in school his voice was not yet cracked by adult tragedies; and a slap on the back from Lala could turn anyone inside out – if that makes any sense. His sense of fun was and remains perfectly gorgeous. And if his sense of fun emanates from the heights of spirit, then, surely, his voice rumbles up from the depths of the abyss. Lala once walked into a silent classroom, and boomed – “SANNATA…” The classroom thereafter was silent no more; for we had either jumped out of our skins or fallen off our chairs; or, as in my own case – gone cleanly off my rocker; Lala’s voice is frequently registered in seismographs located in caves in Southern Peru. Many earthquakes that have shaken Japan have had their genesis in Lala’s vocal chords. We could point Lala in any direction and ask him to holler. And upon investigation, we would find many a fine city ground to dust purely by the power of sound that he is still capable of producing; it is a blessing from Providence that both superpowers, during the cold war, did not know of Lala’s existence. Lala in a restaurant implies clear and present danger; for he has that sterling ability to distract all patrons into helpless laughter; and even nullify hard feelings of slaughter that cooked chicken must bear for the human consumer. And as for the ubiquitous vegetable – I am ever present. Hidden in this large portion of humanity named Lala is a sensitive and deeply spiritual soul that has been tempered by many tragedies and sorrows; of many disappointments, rejections and on occasion, by existential crisis. But Lala is a high spirit and a great soul who brings the best out of others and be a friend to all without stint. He remains one of my very best friends; and I profit pricelessly from his companionship, guidance and kindness. Lala has no enemy. He conquers everyone and overcomes all. In ancient times, and in Greece, his name, surely, would be “Theophile” – for it means “Beloved of the Gods”.

About the same time, I became friends with Prashant Ruia and Mahesh Rajgarhia.

Advanced RC Models Parked at Aamby Valley Airport

Passing back to Ravi Bhat, he was fascinated by my stories of aeromodelling. I was unable to indulge his fascination in those years. But as of now, and these times, I intend, very soon, to take him one day to the flying field, and spend a few hours of watching him watching airplanes with utter delight. The picture above is for him. I snapped it when formally covering the Aamby Valley Aeromodelling Show in 2011. Ravi quickly became my guide in school. Waiting in the wings were Prashant Ruia and Manesh Rajgarhia. Before I devote the next article to Manesh Rajgarhia, I shall first write on Prashant Ruia.

Prashant was the de-facto leader of class; he signified ancient Roman virtues, even at the age of 12, of pietas, gravitas et simplicitas. Prashant was a quiet listener. He was extremely sharp; and could catch out adults, advanced over him in age and experience, in any inconsistency. He was the epitome of common sense; and like an actor of genius ever on stage, he never made a meaningless gesture, or spoke any irrelevant word. It was quickly apparent to me that he was a champion sportsman; he represented school and state in the Intermediate Badminton Championships, and was possessed of a Carbon Fibre strung Yonex Badminton Racquet. I am told that the price of that racquet was a thousand rupees in Indian money; an air ticket to Calcutta, then, was eight hundred rupees under monopoly conditions of Indian Airlines. Prashant and I would have long conversations in the bus ride back home; these ranged through many subjects – though young, he was extremely well-read. We spoke often of aeromodelling wherein his descriptions of his aircraft, which were either in Madras or in Calcutta, would boggle my young mind; yes, Prashant has been one of those instrumental in planting in me the seed for model airplanes. On some days, his car would drop me off, which was a sky blue Premier Padmini, driven by a chauffeur in a khaki uniform. On other days, he would invite me upstairs into his home in Jeevan Jyot Building, Setalvad Lane; I remember lime juice being served, or the occasional Gold Spot to quench a day long thirst. On some Saturdays, I would walk down from my home to Jeevan Jyot, to see Manesh Rajgarhia already present with Prashant; and both friends engrossed in the deepest conversation. On a particular occasion, I found both Prashant and Manesh staring intently into a large JVC or Akai television that adorned Prashant’s living room, rewinding the same sequence on video, over and over again. It turned out that they had been watching a Western named “One Silver Dollar“, and watching, over and over, the shot of someone flicking a silver dollar and shooting a stray baddie with a Colt 45. I think, that in the movie, the baddie’s body remained intact; and I am surprised – for a Colt 45 with soft nosed bullets is so violently powerful, that it could kill a person shot in his thigh; and cleanly blow away upper limbs. To be shot in the torso with a 45 is catastrophic – it can result in an explosion of ripped flesh and blood; tissue and quantities of shredded intestines. Prashant once was afflicted by jaundice, and was absent from school for a number of days. I spoke to him on the telephone and he invited me over. I found him in his corner room, which was upholstered in very light blue – sitting on his carpet and deeply engrossed in a hundred piece jigsaw puzzle of a Porsche 911(was it?). I am afraid that bits and pieces of coloured cardboard failed to hold my interest for long; for I was more concerned with owning the real thing. But seen in perspective and in retrospect, perhaps I should have paid more attention to the jigsaw puzzle – for today, Prashant, if he turns his sights in that direction, can buy Porsche AG, while I can afford the puzzle (I think).

On another occasion, I was invited to a mid day dinner at Prashant’s home. It was a monsoon afternoon, and the winds boomed about the bay windows of Prashant’s living room. The ceaseless pitter and patter of rain accompanied our meal, which was composed of small and exquisitely turned out vegetable samosas served with varieties of chutneys, peas pilaf, dal, aloo-tamatar-ka-saag, chapatis, buttermilk and pudding; a sumptuous feast. I think Prashant’s aunt served us; I was struck because she addressed us children with the honorific “aap” instead of the “tum” that we usually expected. Manesh was with us; and while I listened, he carried on a lively conversation with everyone present. Such independence was not permitted to us from Bengal; and freedom – to be really free – has always held fascination for me.

Such were those delightful days, passed without worry and without need for extra hope; for life itself was a bouquet of so many hopes, joys and fulfilled expectations. Nowadays we bear the stigmata of adulthood and rapidly increasing years of age. Time, which once never seemed to pass, now passes as quickly as the wind; and so it become more important to enjoy ourselves, for it is greater than we think.

 

#Vikram Bawa #vikrambawa #Ravindra Bhat #Manish Kedia #Manesh Rajgarhia #Aashish Pitale #Uday Dholakia #Hiren Asudani #Renuka Sachanandani #Sonia Mahtani #Manjari Vaidya #Andréa Fernandes #Vijay Sabhlok #Rajiv Mehra #Rajesh Lala # Asad Zaidi # Darshak Tanna # Rajesh Parwatkar # Prashant Kidambi #Yatin Sorap # Gaurav Bhatia # Ashwin Lulla

“Pacman” (From Hill Grange High School Reminiscences)

All those of us who have been students have memories of our young days in our schools and colleges. Extraordinary memories usually denote an extraordinary childhood, or institution, or even memories. We, as, Hill Grangers, have had the good fortune in belonging to an extraordinary institution. Our school was not made extraordinary because it was the first ranking school in the world; nay. Our school is unforgettable because we lived days of our mischief there; we learnt much of what we have become while being educated in Hill Grange, and other institutions too. Hill Grange however was unique – I say this because I have been a student is other schools briefly in between my years in Hill Grange, and which contain a different set of incredible memories. What I have gathered in Hill Grange would be something difficult to express. Perhaps writing of my experiences of Hill Grange, here, helps me express something that is vaster, greater and of greater import than what is said in so many letters and words. Perhaps all I wish to say is that Hill Grange taught us to be free and be self sufficient; and it taught us to integrate. This is where even the environs of Hill Grange have played a crucial part – and Pacman is once such place where we learnt much of the world, and much of ourselves.

Pacman was a little restaurant in the ground floor of the “Doctor House” opposite Hill Grange. It took its name from a popular video game that is popular still – and at the entrance of the restaurant was a tall black metal pillar that was capped by a yellow plastic “Pacman”. Pacman opened past 8 in the morning and stayed open all the way till midnight. The menu in Pacman was miniscule. The taste of the food made up for the small menu. Favourites were the Idli, which were made in  large, glimmering stainless steamers – and were served in compartmentalised stainless plates, with deliciously hot sambhar and coconut chutney as accompaniment. The dosas were equally good; so was the medu-vada; I seem to remember toasted sandwiches; I must also not forget vegetarian burgers and juices; the famous poorie-bhaji and pav-bhaji. In addition to all this, Pacman served a variety of ice creams. They were expensive then, a kingly cost of Rupees 5 – and that was a lot of money in those years. My favourite was known as the “Raspberry Ripple”, served in a hot cone.

The famous “Big-Bite” was introduced in Pacman in the early months of 1983. It was a meal in itself – and absolutely delicious. It was a simple thing really – a soft and thick glove shaped pita bread hollowed out; a vegetarian or a chicken patty was pushed into it, along with round slices of onions, lettuce and of course, some savoury sauces; the whole thing was inserted in a white plastic “pocket” with “Big-Bite” written in red on it. The cost of this meal in my time was Rupees 5 – and “Big-Bite” was a very popular meal or snack – all hours around. The “Big-Bite” was a concept ahead of its time – and my feeling is that it was stopped because it did not catch on in a very big way; and also that “Frankie” competed against it successfully; to my regret “Big-Bite” was withdrawn sometime in 1986-87. In school days, I was perpetually low on money – and I shall never forget the kindness that the cashier of Pacman showed me on occasion, when he undertook to feed me anyway, on credit. Nameless strangers and their myriad kindnesses – that was one abiding feature of the 1980s. There was something in the air during those years; something intangible yet very much present – and this stamped itself in clothes, foods, and of course, the 80s pop, which, in terms of a brand, is now eternal.

Our group of friends visited Pacman either during lunch (we did not have gate passes, but went out anyway), or after school, to recuperate many hours of dreary learning – and for a smoke. All of us started smoking in the early 1980s at very tender ages. We usually took off our ties in Pacman, sat on stainless steel folding chairs; leaned our tired elbows on folding off-white sunmica tables. It was self-service in Pacman; and I don’t think we would have had it any other way. On one occasion, one of our seniors, Vivek was his name I believe – and he was in the blue house, a House Captain perhaps – entered Pacman with a huge blue lizard hanging on to his shirt, and which was staring at nothing in particular is a sort of a phlegmatic, lizerdish way. Vivek’s unorthodox entry caused a rapid exit of many patrons who were within the restaurant at that time; our classmate and friend Firoze Mujawar stood up, and while doing a jig asked Vivek to be able to hold his “pet”. The “pet” chose that moment to spring off and land on the pav-bhaji maker’s shoulder, causing pandemonium; the hot skillet jumped, spilling all the bhaji and the masalas – the chef was all confusion; there was a huge clang of stainless bowls and dishes. There was loud laughter, and even from Pacman’s owner – see how different those times were – in this day and age, someone would have called in the police. I had made up my mind not to show my fright; but when the damned lizard leaped, I decided that the better part of valour would be to hide under a table; but since I had difficulty fitting upon chairs, I knew, heart of hearts, that hiding under a table was really ambitious.

Lasting friendships were made in Pacman. Irreconcilable enmities were discussed – recalcitrant parties made to sit down; and over juice or ice cream, made to make up. Heart to heart conversations conducted with as much passion and truth that only the very young are capable off – the voices still ring in my head as I touch and feel the “Big-Bite”and smell the fresh redolence of hot idlis in my mind’s eye, after all these years. Who knew in those golden and carefree days of childhood that Pacman would go down in our unwritten life history as a defining venue for our growth?

Greenlawns School Worli – EARLY REMINISCENCES, Part – I

A friend, from my days of childhood, and from my other old alma mater, Greenlawns School Worli, created this blog for me, as he believes that I possess latent talent in wielding a pen. I dedicate this post unto him; as I also dedicate following posts unto all in our groups of friends from Greenlawns School Worli, who have congregate together, in their second youth – to again restore a good name unto friendship in this day and age of negotiation – when even friendships are open to barter and available at a price. The following sentences, nay, paragraphs, are heartfelt. I write on those days of childhood spent in another century – when friendships made were sacred and innocent; when loves made lasted a lifetime; when life itself was a timeless epiphany. We are now adults ; we have grasped the nettles of all that it means to be grown up. We have lost much. But in regaining our friendships, we have gained impossibly more. So, here’s to you, Vikram Bawa, Ravindra Bhat, Manish Kedia, Manesh Rajgarhia, Prashant Ruia, Aashish Pitale, Uday Dholakia, Hiren Asudani, Renuka Sachanandani, Sonia Mahtani, Manjari Vaidya, Andréa Fernandes, Vijay Sabhlok, Rajiv Mehra, Rajesh Lala, Asad Zaidi, Darshak Tanna, Rajesh Parwatkar, Prashant Kidambi, Yatin Sorap, Gaurav Bhatia, Ashwin Lulla; and to me, who remains still a geeky enigma, in the best traditions of childhood.

I joined Greenlaws School on 15 October 1980. Mrs. Sarah D’Mello interviewed me. She was the Principal of the school. Mrs. Amy Writer was the Headmistress. Most of my friends will remember the flat and low, aquamarine table, scratched and faded with age, wise with unspoken wisdom, outside Class 7, which eased considerably my application into interview test papers as I scribbled away, furiously, composing an essay that my future Class 6 Class and English teacher, Miss Ranjani, placed for my perusal. Age and the passage of time has since eroded the topic of the essay from my memory; but many other events concerning that fateful examination remains indelibly etched in my mind as recollections and images from that day when I was young, hopeful and believed that I, too, was a King of the world. Let me then recall for the reader some of that day’s salient features. As I was on my way to the school in Worli, we passed the sad sight of an accident opposite the National Sports Club of India. A broken green Bajaj scooter lay by the pavement; someone portly, dressed in ash and light green lay upon the asphalt – dead; his face was mutilated. This image was to haunt me for many years to come; I remember it even on this day, and I have always wondered whether those who die all of a sudden under trauma, leave home for their day unaware that they had lost the war against the inexorable hands of time; and that fatal termination was imminent. Of course they couldn’t know; but if we were wise enough to believe in our premonitions, so much hurt and so many pains would be bypassed; and so many lessons be learnt out of inane pleasures. But enough of death and philosophy. Let us now come back to life and proceed with our reminiscences, which, as my combined friends mentioned above in this article, will remember, appreciate, mull over, laugh over, introspect, criticise; and above all, recall, from their days of delight. My additional immense delight is to have all of you as friends. As I begin, I must wish Vikram Bawa, the originator and of this Blog – expressions of the most fervent gratitude, even as I welcome him to great happiness and many blessings, and to newer horizons; and a bright new life.

Having temporarily dismissed the sight of death along the way, and taking delight in the open and airy atmosphere that pervaded my soon to become school, I trudged happily, up the four flights of stairs, that led to the floor where my classroom was soon to be. Especially delightful was the sight of an extremely beautiful girl in a very obvious PT tee shirt, with the distinctive Greenlaws pinafore thrown over it – running down the stairs, rushing off to some errand or the other. A fleeting look passed between us. I was not handsome by a long shot; she was far too pretty – and that was my first introduction of Renuka Jiandani, neé Sachanandani. She was to be my early crush; well, everyone who was anyone in school, or even a no one, had a crush on Renuka, except that it was I who was singled out subsequently – “OOOOOOOOO HEEEEE HAS A CRUSH…!!!….HAWWWWWW.” Her kindness, compassion, goodness, generosity, dignity  and ability to be a good friend was evident even then, as it is now has flowered into immense spiritual depth of being, as adult. She remains a great friend; and has succeeded Prashant Ruia and Ravindra Bhat as keeper and calmer to my temporary insanities and flights of fancy; perhaps I should also add delusions of grandeur. Of the last two worthies, I have many reminisces; and these shall follow in due course.

A test on BODMAS and Algebra followed the essay. I continued scribbling till I was shaken from my concentrated reverie of mathematics by the sound of a buzzer which, as it seemed, was sent along especially to give me a heart attack at the age of 12. The buzzer was grey, large and square; in spite of its outrageous proportions and clamorous buzz, was just a buzzer thankfully and nothing else – in the new millennium, atom bombs are possessed of more compressed proportions. This maniacal device was placed not far from my head, which, on that day, was rendered as disoriented by the infernal sound as to conclude that war had broken out with one of India’s malcontent neighbours. Had that damned buzzer been accompanied by a siren, I would  undoubtedly have jettisoned my efforts in that glorified written entrance examination and ducked under the nearest protection – in this case, the same old low table which occupies some of my reminiscences. When I overcame that dratted buzzer, I went back to work; but the instrument had done its duty in disgorging the contents of all four classrooms that occupied that portion of the floor which was to be my refuge as well as bugbear for the next two years to follow. It was time to tiffin; and I was very quickly enveloped by a curious crowd of boys, who wanted to know what on Earth I was, and whom I wanted sitting there pouring over pages of neat handwriting. Needless to say, my answers gave rise to more questions; at last, someone who obviously looked as though he was the ringleader, stepped into the mêlée and stared down at me unblinkingly. He was most odd – he was attired in a wide grin (in addition to his uniform) and was covered in the most striking ebony that I’d ever seen. Bearers of Bengali traits, we tend to be coppery, brown or white; but this entity in proximity was ebony; and it even spoke in Hindi when it announced, with the greatest delight, that “iska aur Lala-ka kya fight hoga…!” This was my first introduction to Manish Kedia – who was to be my buddy for many years to come, and across different schools. He attempted to temper my various indiscretions in speech and behaviour through the years, but gave up exhausted and disillusioned; the effort turned his hair prematurely white. We lost touch after school and college, but regained each other’s friendship in 2007; and I am the winner because of this fortuitous reunion. After Mr. Kedia had made his observation, and departed subjecting me to a final mysterious grin, the following entity to makes its appearance was yellow, as if to counteract the last reflective ebony. The new arrival looked decidedly Korean. He wore a dark brown Paul McCartney hairstyle – I tentatively concluded that it was a toupée, but my uneducated conclusions were very wrong; it was indeed his own hair; and he was Japanese. He passed by with a distracted, detached and completely disinterested look; it was only later that I was to be introduced to him, and I had trouble believing that this exotic organism could be named Prashant Ruia, who was to become my friend, guide, confidante, mentor and protector through those eventful two years I spent in Greenlawns School, Worli. I have spent countless hours in Prashant Ruia and Manesh Rajgarhia’s company at Prashant’s home through many June and August afternoons. Memories of their generosity in friendship and incredible courtesies that they habitually extended to me are too innumerable to enumerate in one post; and indeed, these memories are all a jumble in my head, which swims with ancient recollections peering out at me from the depths of a cobwebbed and rusted chest of treasures, which was relegated into a dusty and abandoned attic of a dilapidated and haunted old mansion, that once contained the fullness and purity of childhood.

More later on. I must rest my head; and calm my thoughts.

#Vikram Bawa #vikrambawa #Ravindra Bhat #Manish Kedia #Manesh Rajgarhia #Aashish Pitale #Uday Dholakia #Hiren Asudani #Renuka Sachanandani #Sonia Mahtani #Manjari Vaidya #Andréa Fernandes #Vijay Sabhlok #Rajiv Mehra #Rajesh Lala # Asad Zaidi # Darshak Tanna # Rajesh Parwatkar # Prashant Kidambi #Yatin Sorap # Gaurav Bhatia # Ashwin Lulla

Upon Bengal

When a political party feels it necessary to respond with a rally of their own, with violence and threat guaranteed, in reaction to students protesting the profaning of hallowed precincts of their Hall of Learning and Alma Mater, it is then time for people to rise, and throw this political dispensation into the gutter, where it belongs. Communism in Bengal has been replaced by its even more odious alter-ego. Open communalism masquerades as secularism. Barbarianism replaces the famed Bengali intellect. Words and promotions replace deed. Violence replaces debate; which itself has replaced genteel understanding. Once India thought what Bengal had finished thinking eons back. Bengal now does not think; it is busy cannibalising upon its own mind, body and spirit. It once reacted to every assault upon its worthy freedom; and today, it wallows in a morass of political scum and social refuse; icons of education are replaced by derelicts; industry has succumbed to the “realpolitik” of very real criminals. Even the dead detritus of good intentions have begun vanishing – denoting a socio-political structure well past decay. Bengal is ready for another revolution; but remember, Bengalis, that you have, in the past, embraced lesser revolutions because of your naivety and your sentimentalism. Revolutions are a state of mind; not a reality of arms and ammunition; or of murder. Bengal’s socio-political realities are a projection of Bengali reality. Only Bengalis can presume to change this; so, as we must entreat all in Bengal, that – Arise Bengal, think again!