WHEN THE PULAO LOST ITS AROMA

As the rituals indicated, we prepared a sumptuous meal consisting of chicken and mutton, along with two desserts. There was laughter and loud burps. The food was well received. Atta, as my grandmother was known, would have been very pleased. She believed that a well fed family is a happy family. We felt her presence with us.
I could not help but notice that the mutton pulao which dad made had one ingredient missing. The meat was cooked well. It was from the famous Babumiah. The spices were just perfect and the flavor hit our senses. But, the aroma that used to waft whenever the dish was made, was simply not there.
Atta's classic dish was the pale-yellow pulao. It was reserved for her sons and grand kids. Even the neighbors used to salivate and show up on some pretext. Atta nonchalantly showed them the door. No matter how much the daughters-in-law tried, even adding the exact ingredients at the right time, the aroma could not be recreated. It was infused by Atta's own hand. All this was created using a small vessel. I always thought that it had no bottom. The pulao never ran out, no matter how many of us ate.
The raitha used to be her specialty too. Cold, with juicy cucumbers and fresh tomatoes. One could never have enough of Atta's pulao. The desert was mango, cut into equal shapes for everyone by Atta. She ensured only the best pieces were served. She never compromised on quality.
Dad used to narrate tales of Atta's ingenuity and grit. When the family fell into dire times, Atta used to light the stove using newspapers. The sons of Atta fought for meat and rice on weekends, and Atta obliged, even though it meant none was left for her. After Grand dad passed away, she was lonely. But her face lit up on family get-togethers'. She used to join us in our pranks and laugh's. Serving food was what she looked forward to. Even on these occasions she was the last to eat.
Grandmothers. Summer vacations are incomplete without them. Their goodies fill our stomach and touch our soul. You can never have enough of them. And you realise what you have lost, when God takes them away from you.
I...we, shall always remember you Atta. You have filled our memories with love and we cherish them. We keep you alive in our love for family and food.
As for the pulao, its not the same anymore. It has lost its magical touch. It has lost its aroma.

MURGI BABA AND FAMILY CHALE RAIL GAADI MEIN

There are joint families. Then there are disjoint families travelling together on trains. Gulliver's travels pales in comparison to the adventure i and those around me have when we board the great Indian Railways. Here are some accounts of them.
It has been a time honored tradition that train travel, whether for marriage or a funeral, has to be done with everyone on board. In the earlier days, when steam engines chugged on our rails, my family, so i have been told, used to carry provisions for cooking rice, sambhar and side dishes. This included taking a gas cylinder. Laws were bent because it was ensured that apart from Doctors and Engineers, some were destined to become Indian Railway officials.
As times changed, the "carrying supplies" part stopped. But, at major stations en-route to our destination, food was delivered. It was either a work colleague of some aunt who owed a favor, or a daughter-in-law who was to please the family. Idlis, vadas, chutney and even samosas made it to our carriage. Plus, at major stations, someone used to get down and get the platform's best. It was Vada-pav at Shirdi, Kachoris at Nagpur; our family is blessed with an appetite to crave for. No station was spared. On our return journey, hawkers waited with garlands, and more food.
Now to shift focus on what goes on INSIDE the carriage.
Someone had to be there to distribute the food. The little ones were chosen for this purpose. On some occasions, the children had to cross two bogies, which they did, diligently. The pantry car and the staff were bemused and horrified at our eating habits. They skipped our bogies in silence. No one wanted to face our volley of questions. "What have put in the rice? How old are the vegetables? From which station was the chicken picked up? " Our co-passengers stopped to offer us snacks. But we did not hesitate to stare at theirs.
Our notoriety has spread to the ticket collectors across India. The favors we ask for, even the Railway Minister would not dare to. "Clean the toilet. My daughter is health conscious." "Why is their a whitelight near the toilet? Get me yellow ones", "Call someone to turn the fan towards us", " Move the guy to the next carriage. We want the upper berth".  "Look. The guy next to me has farted. Book a case and throw him out. We know people at Vidhana Soudha and the Red Fort. We are VIPs".
Passengers had enough of us too. "Can you move?" is usually the first polite question. "Look Mister. There are 30 of us and we need to be in the same carriage. We have a seat in the next one. Move it or lose it". Their only entertainment were our tall tales of our achievements and our bitching about distant relatives.
The kids were an embarrassment. Spilling Coke all over. Sitting forcibly in-between newly weds. Vomiting the Kellogg and milkshake. Coming straight out of the potty with an unwashed bum. The loud wailing. The list is endless.
When we did reach our destination, the mad rush to get down was an Indian tradition we were committed on keeping. Such was our crowd and luggage, that even people sitting on reserved seats found themselves on the platform. Our bargaining was so loud, that even coolies avoided us. The burden of carrying the suitcases fell on the young male members of the family, including me.
I've undergone many such trips in my teens. I shall do so when i reach 70 too. But for now, solo trips are my thing. But if you are up for it, and want to experience one crazy ride, just hop-on and leave the rest to us.