Here There and Everywhere Read online

  ‘You will now tell me that even gulkand is from somewhere else!’ I complained loudly.

  She grinned. ‘You aren’t wrong! Gulkand is a Persian word too—gul is nothing but rose and kand means sweet. Gul, in fact, originates from the word gulab, meaning rose.’

  My brain was thoroughly exhausted with all this information. When I saw the oranges, I said with pride, ‘I will not call this an orange now, but its Kannada name narangi.’

  Uncle cleared his throat. ‘Narangi is an Indian word but it does not originate in Karnataka. It is made up of two words—naar, which means orange or colour of the sun, and rangi, meaning colour.’

  The conversation was making me feel truly lost.

  ‘When people stay in one place for some time,’ he continued, ‘they unknowingly absorb the culture around them, including the regional food and language. At times, we adopt the changes into our local cuisine and make it our own. That’s exactly what happened with the foods we have discussed.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was time for me to leave. I thanked them profusely, especially Uncle, for enlightening me in a way that even Google could not.

  There was a huge traffic jam despite it being a Sunday evening as I set out for home, but I wasn’t bored on the way. In fact, I was happy to recollect Uncle’s words and perhaps, as a result, suddenly remembered an incident.

  My mother had two sisters. Though all three sisters were married to men from the same state, their husbands’ jobs were in different areas—one lived in south Karnataka in the old Mysore state, my parents lived in Maharashtra and the third stayed in the flatlands in a remote corner of Karnataka.

  After their husbands retired, the three sisters lived in Hubli in the same area. It was fun to meet my cousins every day and eat meals together. We celebrated festivals as a family and the food was cooked in one house, though everybody brought home-cooked desserts from their own houses.

  During one particular Diwali, we had a host of delicacies. My mother made puri and shrikhand (a popular dish in Maharashtra made from strained yogurt and sugar). My aunt from Mysore made kishmish kheer and a rice-based main course called bisi bele anna, while the other aunt made groundnut-based sweets such as jaggery-based sticky chikki and ball-shaped laddus.

  As children, my cousins and I had plenty of fun eating them but in the car, I realized for the first time that all the sisters had absorbed something from the area that they had lived in. Despite their physical proximity, the food in each household was so diverse. I couldn’t help but wonder how exciting the food really must be in the different regions of India.

  I thought of paneer pizzas, cheese dosas and the Indian ‘Chinese’ food. They must have originated the same way. Who really said that India is a country? It is a continent—culturally vibrant, diverse in food and yet, distinctly Indian at heart.

  18

  Bombay to Bangalore

  It was the beginning of summer. I was boarding the Udyan Express at Gulbarga railway station. My destination was Bangalore. As I boarded the train, I saw that the second-class compartment was jam-packed with people. Though the compartment was reserved, there were many unauthorized people in it. This side of Karnataka is popularly known as Hyderabad Karnataka since the Nizam of Hyderabad once ruled this area. There is scarcity of water here, which makes the land dry, and the farmers cannot grow anything during summer. Hence, many poor farmers and landless labourers from Hyderabad Karnataka immigrate to Bangalore and other big cities during the summer for jobs in construction. They return to their homes in the rainy season to cultivate their lands. This was April, so the train compartment was particularly crowded.

  I sat down and was pushed to the corner of the berth. Though it was meant for three people, there were already six of us sitting on it. I looked around and saw students who were eager to come to Bangalore and explore different options to enhance their careers. There were merchants who were talking about what goods to order from Bangalore. Some government officers, though, were criticizing Gulbarga. ‘What a place! Staying here is impossible because of the heat. No wonder people call this a punishment transfer!’

  The ticket collector came in and started checking people’s tickets and reservations. It was difficult to guess who had a ticket and who had a reservation. Some people had tickets but no reservation. This was an overnight train and people needed sleeper berths, but they were limited in number. People who did not have a reserved berth were begging the ticket collector to accommodate them ‘somehow’. It was next to impossible for him to listen to everyone.

  With his eagle eye, he easily located people who did not have a ticket. People without tickets were pleading, ‘Sir, the previous train was cancelled. We had a reservation on that train. It is not our fault. We don’t want to pay for this ticket again.’ Another person was begging him: ‘Sir, I was late to the station and there was a big queue. I didn’t have time to buy a ticket. So, I got into this compartment.’ The collector must have read the Bhagavad Gita thoroughly; he remained calm while listening to their stories and kept issuing new tickets for ticketless passengers.

  Suddenly, he looked in my direction and asked, ‘What about your ticket?’

  ‘I have already shown my ticket to you,’ I said.

  ‘Not you, madam, the girl hiding below your berth. Hey, come out, where is your ticket?’

  I realized that someone was sitting below my berth. When the collector yelled at her, the girl came out of hiding. She was thin, dark, scared and looked like she had been crying profusely. She must have been about thirteen or fourteen years old. She had uncombed hair and was dressed in a torn skirt and blouse. She was trembling and folded both her hands.

  The collector asked again, ‘Who are you? From which station did you get on? Where are you going? I can issue a full ticket for you with a fine.’

  The girl did not reply. The collector was getting very angry since he had been dealing with countless ticketless passengers. He took out his anger on this little girl. ‘I know all you runaways,’ he shouted. ‘You take a free ride in trains and cause tremendous problems. You neither reply to my questions nor pay for your ticket. I have to answer to my bosses …’

  The girl still did not say anything. The people around the girl were not bothered at all and went about their business. Some were counting the money for their ticket and some were getting ready to get down at Wadi Junction, the next stop. People on the top berth were preparing to sleep and others were busy with their dinner. This was something unusual for me, because I had never seen such a situation in my vast experience of social work.

  The girl stood quietly as if she had not heard anything. The collector caught hold of her arms and told her to get down at the next station. ‘I will hand you over to the police myself. They will put you in an orphanage,’ he said. ‘It is not my headache. Get down at Wadi.’

  The girl did not move. The collector started forcibly pulling her out from the compartment. Suddenly, I had a strange feeling. I stood up and called out to the collector. ‘Sir, I will pay for her ticket,’ I said. ‘It is getting dark. I don’t want a young girl on the platform at this time.’

  The collector raised his eyebrows and looked at me. He smiled and said, ‘Madam, it is very kind of you to offer to buy her a ticket. But I have seen many children like her. They get in at one station, then get off at the next and board another train. They beg or travel to their destination without a ticket. This is not an exceptional case. Why do you want to waste your money? She will not travel even with a ticket. She may leave if you just give her some money.’

  I looked out of the compartment. The train was approaching Wadi Junction and the platform lights were bright. Vendors of tea, juice and food were running towards the train. It was dark. My heart did not accept the collector’s advice—and I always listen to my heart. What the collector said might be true but what would I lose—just a few hundred rupees?

  ‘Sir, that’s fine. I will pay for her ticket anyway,’ I said.

  I asked