To my cousin, from the land of Piku

Dear cousin, born and bred in the queen’s land,

A long time back we had an argument in which you almost bit my head off. I had said it’s not in Indian culture to just leave our parents alone or in an old-age home, and move out. You were angry because you felt I was criticising your culture. While I now feel that some of us Indians distance ourselves from our parents, most of us don’t. And yes, it is because of our culture, the way we are brought up, that most of us continue looking after our parents, and don’t move out. Watch a beautiful film called Piku and you will understand a little of what I am trying to say.
Our country is changing, and some of these changes I really like. Piku shows one of that change. She is a woman who does not abandon her father because she wants to move on. “You can’t be judgmental about parents,” are the lines the actress says, to a character who is trying to talk to her about her father. She knows her father is a hypochondriac and probably just trying to get her attention with his ‘ailments’. But that’s the way he is and she has accepted it.
You in the West may say this is because of her sense of duty to him. Since when did looking after parents become one’s duty? They looked after us and brought us up, so did they do this because of their duty towards us? So how is looking after them a duty?
Piku’s reality, which is the case for many Indian women, is that she hasn’t found a man who will understand her and accept her with her father. In the character of Rana, the writer creates such a man, who understands her.
In the case of an Indian man, it is accepted that he will find a wife who will help him look after his parents. But it is difficult for many an Indian woman to find a man who will help do so for her parents.
I don’t have overwhelming parents like Piku’s father, but I have been unlucky to find a man who was willing to be there for them, with me. The Indian male traditionally thinks of his parents first. Now the Indian woman is saying she also wants to be there for her parents. She is no longer the woman who distances herself from her parents after she is married. She wants her future husband to also accept this. While this may not be a big deal if she also has a brother (with whom their parents will most likely be staying), it becomes a big deal in the case of an only daughter or just daughters.
But the traditional outlook of some Indian men is also changing for the better. I know a journalist couple who spent their week alternating between her mother’s home and his father’s home so neither parent had to live alone for long. Or a man who got his widowed mother-in-law to stay with them.
I also read an interview of actor Abhishek Bachchan - the son of the Indian superstar Amitabh Bachchan, who plays Piku’s father - who said that whether his wife, actress Aishwarya was in town or not, every Sunday, he has lunch with his in-laws. Considering what I have read and heard about the Bachchans, this is most likely true, because they are a progressive family.
Tradition has kept the great Indian family together. Over time, nuclear families meant there were just one or two children. Many modern, educated Indian women, have been brought up by their parents to think of themselves as equal to men. Unlike earlier times when a woman was brought up by banning her from doing or saying certain things because they may not be allowed in her husband’s house, the modern Indian woman has been brought up to respect tradition, but with the freedom to decide and choose for herself. So she has donned the traditional role of the son, that of looking after her parents, and she has decided she only wants a partner who understands, accepts and helps her in this.
The film Piku is being praised all over because many people in India have accepted this change. They are part of the change.
Being modern does not necessarily mean aping everything the West does. Some of us Indians may not have accepted moving out, but that doesn’t make us regressive people. It’s taken the young Indian woman so long to stand up and say she wants to be there for her parents. Is that being regressive? Is that not being modern?   
This is our culture. It’s a blend of the old and new, the traditional and the modern, and keeps us rooted. It’s what keeps some of us close to our parents and why some of us don’t move out.

Your very India-born and bred cousin

A tale of two brothers

After the accident my mother needed extensive dental treatment. It was during these sessions that I saw him again.

For years he accompanied his father to work every day, and spent it sitting quietly on a chair put up for him in one of the rooms in the dental clinic. Their father retired, and now he accompanies his brother, the present dentist.
I first heard about him from my father, when I was a kid. The mentally challenged son whose father took him to work every day.
He still sits quietly, sometimes doing namaskar, greeting patients. He can’t do much else. At intervals the dentist’s assistants offer him tea. Like a child he sometimes refuses to drink it, and like a child, drinks it when he is admonished.

The time shows on his face now. But not in his manner. He smiles, sometimes tries to talk to patients, but mostly sits quiet.
Quietly he watches his brother work. He doesn’t react to the sounds from the machines or to the patient and doctor interaction. The dentist hums a song that’s playing in the background as he works. Occasionally he explains something to the patient. He instructs the assistants. His brother watches quietly.
I wonder what he thinks. Is he aware of the success of his brother? Is he aware of all that he does for him? Is he aware of the changing scene before him? Of his father’s place in the clinic taken by his brother? Or that his nephew will one day take that place? Is he aware that he has seen time pass in front of him?
In these times when people are reluctant to even speak to their parents, it is heartening to see the dentist’s love for his brother. The unselfish love that made him take on looking after his brother from their father.
Time may have forgotten the quiet man who has spent his life sitting on a chair in a dental clinic, but love hasn’t. It’s all that truly exists for him.

Walks and talk

Walking has its charms. It also helps if you’re perpetually scared to drive.

But I guess I have always enjoyed walks. These are not power walks every morning or evening to stay fit. These are leisurely walks observing people, trees, anything or anyone else that needs observing.

Sometimes I sing songs in my head while walking. At others, I am thinking of my next subject to write. These days it’s photography that I am thinking of, and trees. Having lived in this suburb for years, I had gotten to know quite a few of them. Like people, some have passed on, most having been victims of redevelopment. Like the bougainvillea that once stood bright and happy where now stands a chawl for the rich, by the name of Jade Gardens. I wonder where the garden is.

Then there was a beautiful chafa tree that too exists in memory now.  Like some strangers we see everyday, I had gotten to know the trees and like them.

So this is why I’ve been thinking of photography and trees. Sure, no photograph can capture the beauty and colours of a tree honestly. But at least it’ll be proof of what is, what was.

It’s just like other suburbs in Mumbai, this locality where I live. The only difference being, it still has a decent cover of trees.

I don’t remember when I began to like walks. Perhaps it was when I was in college and I hated to wake up early for the lectures. But I looked forward to my short journey to the bus stop. It used to be quieter then, and very few morning walkers were around. The noted painter, K K Hebbar, walked with his little dog every morning.

The trees helped me dodge the rains in the short walk to my bus stop, as I was always fed up of opening the umbrella in such a short distance. In the summer of course, they provided shade. Just before winter, the falling leaves would spread a carpet of earthern colours, albeit a crunchy one.  

In time I began to enjoy walks. The walk itself lets me know how far I must continue. Like the time a raddi wallah accosted me twice in the gap of a few minutes, insisting I call him for old newspapers. The first time he stopped his Kinetic two wheeler next to me and said sinisterly, “Bhav nau rupaye hai.” I said, okay, a little bewildered at being told this in the middle of the road without warning. A few minutes later, he stopped again and said, “Aap mera number le lo!” I just smiled and walked home as fast as I could!

Crazy people, these raddi wallahs. The one who collects old newspapers from home now has said only one dialogue every time for the past couple of years. “Bhaiyya, bhaav badh gaya kya?” I always ask him. “Arre kahan? Abhi beech mein badha tha, ab wapas 10 rupaye hua hai.” At least he waves and smiles when I am on my walk and does not haunt me.

There are many types of walkers. There are the couples, where it’s clear that one has stepped out at the insistence of the other, for exercise. Then there are the young women who huff and puff while power-walking amidst talks and glances at the thin college girl who just passed by them. There are also senior citizens on daily walks. These are all serious walkers, out there with a purpose. But there are also other mad walkers like me, who stop and talk to people, play with a stray dog or cat, or simply pay attention to the world around them.

Since I am not a person whose walks are bound by the hour, I have time to see many strangers and familiar faces. Like Laxmi, our former maid. She has retired a long time back. But she used to work in our colony for years and has seen at least a generation of us kids grow up. So for us, she’s like an old aunt in the neighbourhood. Every evening she sits chatting with fruit vendors in a lane nearby, with a “Kaisa hain” for each colony resident who walks by.

Occasionally I see Ramdas, my mother’s best friend’s domestic help. When her kids and me and my sister were growing up, he was always there to chaperone us around. We would call him by name, but he was always like a part of the family. Now I often meet him when he chaperones her grandson to his drawing class and friend’s houses, like another grandfather.

Then there are the familiar non-human faces. Like the two dogs who live outside a small tin shed shop near my colony. The shop-keeper goes on rounds twice in the area, feeding chicken to dogs and filing random pots he’s placed nearby with water for them.

The strays in my locality do have it good. There’s a woman who feeds them in the morning. There’s also my friend’s mother, Mrs Hendricks, who feeds the stray dogs every evening.

Another familiar non-human face is that of a white and black dog that goes crazy when a neighbour’s dog, Zulu, is taken for a walk. There’s something that happens to street dogs when a pet dog passes by. May be it’s that ‘Here’s one of our own who made it big!’ feeling or just, ‘Hey, let’s play! Leave your mom behind’.

These days I too am wondering whether I should abandon my leisure walks for power walks. Join the rest of the world. But I am still unsure of this.  

I don’t go on walks in as picturesque a location as a certain Mr Bond in Mussoorie. But they’re equally interesting.

Of Pathare Prabhus and non-vegetarian food

The other day my friend called, very excited. She had read Finely Chopped’s post on a Pathare Prabhu meal and knowing that my mother belongs to the community, asked me if I have such delicious food every day. She was also very surprised to know more about this Maharashtrian community, which is even smaller than the Parsi community.

I’ll say this Gia, I am glad to be part Pathare Prabhu. Half of my relatives put shrimp in everything, even our alu wadi and upma!

I am not sure when I realised I was a mixture of two castes – Koknastha Brahmin and Pathare Prabhu, but I do remember as a child, people asking me how I ate non-vegetarian food when my surname clearly points to my being a Brahmin.

The Pathare Prabhu genes have ensured that I devour seafood, mince lamb, chicken and eggs with as much gusto as pithla, methichi bhaaji, thaalipith, sabudana khichadi and other vegetarian dishes.  

Two of the regular non-vegetarian Pathare Prabhu dishes at our house, are bhujane and khadkhadle. I feel if you cut a Pathare Prabhu, the juices of either bhujane or khadkhadle will flow out of his veins, not blood! So staple they are in a Parbhu house.

Andyache bhujane is my comfort food. That was the dish our mother tempted us with through childhood, if there wasn’t a good bhaaji at home or if she was fed up of making something elaborate. As our father was also a good cook, my sister and I ate bhujane made by him too. When we grew up, we first learnt to make this dish. It is a mish mash of eggs, onions, garlic, curry leaves, chilli or chilli powder, a hint of turmeric, green coriander, a little water and unapologetically, lots of oil. While egg bhujane is popular, it can also be made with drumsticks, potatoes, pomfret, or prawns as the hero instead of eggs.

I am told mother did not prepare non-vegetarian dishes during our Brahmin grandparents’ visits when my sister and I were young. But some happy incidents of my making changed this.

I had a friend who happened to be a Goan. A few times I yelled at the top of my voice from the balcony of his house on the third floor to my parents on the first floor in the opposite building, “Aaj Raju kade maase ahet, me ithech jewate!” “There’s fish today at Raju’s house, I am having lunch here!” That was enough for my Brahmin aaji who told our mother that she was embarrassed, and non-vegetarian food could be cooked despite their presence. Of course, Parbhu non-vegetarian food is not the only non-vegetarian food we make.  

The few times we digress from making bhujane, is when we decide to make khadkhadle. It is said the name comes from the sound the vessel makes when the dish is prepared. It can be made with prawns or Bombay Duck. It is a dish made with fenugreek seeds, garlic and chilli powder. In spite of the few ingredients, the dish tastes lovely. Khadkhadle is also made with dry Bombay Duck and shrimp.

Just as the Pathare Prabhus are known for their unique recipes, they are known for some distinct differences from other Maharashtrians, like the usage of Gujarati words in Marathi, as it is believed they came to Maharashtra from Gujarat in the 12^th century. There is another story that says they came from Patan in Nepal. 
They are known for their unique rangoli. They have unique jewellery and even the type of saree a Pathare Prabhu bride wears at her wedding rituals is different. This kasbi saree is known for its heavily embroidered and embellished border, in which gold and silver was used.
The Pathare Prabhus are also pioneers in women's education in Mumbai.

Pathare Prabhus are also a community which does not go wholly vegetarian in Shrawan. Of course, their vegetarian recipes are also different from those of other Maharashtrians. A simple dish they make is from ridge gourd, cucumber and green peas. As I hate peas, they are substituted with corn at my house. This dish also has a few ingredients, but is big on taste.

Another dish is sambara. This is made with coconut milk and either corn, or pineapple. One version is also made with onions. To the uninitiated, the combination of coconut milk and corn or pineapple may seem as weird as that of shrimp in upma. But as they say, don’t beat it until you try it!

Another unique combination is in a bhaaji made with brinjals. This is a spicy bhaaji, but has raisins in it.

Unlike Koli, Brahmin, Malwani and such other famous Maharashtrian cuisines, Pathare Prabhu food has been ‘discovered’ only recently. It is unique food with delicious and seemingly weird combinations that hit the spot. Judging by its popularity, we may soon see Pathare Prabhu restaurants. Until then, hold on to your Pathare Prabhu friends – even those who are part Pathare Prabhus – be nice to them and hope they invite you for a memorable meal!

Mumbai to Goa

So it seems, as is with most summer holidays, many of my friends are presently in Goa. That makes me very nostalgic.

Of all the places, people and memories in Goa that I have been recalling, one is this concrete fish at Miramar beach. I took this picture in 2009, afraid it would be demolished soon. I have no idea if it’s still there.

Back in the 1980s, Panjim where I lived, was a small place and almost everyone knew everyone. The Miramar beach was a 20-minute walk or seven-minute cycle ride from home. But mostly I walked there. It was, and still is a pretty road to walk by up to Miramar past the old houses, residential buildings, the Kala Academy, the football stadium and the indoor stadium. There was also an abandoned house which we kids had dubbed the haunted house and tried to enter once. Some of my friends lived nearby. I knew someone or the other who lived there or they knew me. Someone would always wave out to me. Or I would pass by the one-legged bicyclist, a woman who I was always embarrassed to see, because I couldn’t ride my bicycle properly!

As children, we would play around and in the concrete fish, pretending it would come alive and swallow us. Of course everyone who stepped in got that distinct smell of urine inside – many drunkards probably used it as a toilet at nights – but for children, these are minor glitches. We would continue to play undeterred, screaming, yelling and jumping from its open mouth.

My favourite author, Ruskin Bond, says one cannot leave the hills after living with them for a while. I feel that way about beaches, which were never far when I was growing up in Goa. It’s at Miramar where I learnt to build sand castles and hills. It’s at Miramar that I would gaze at the horizon and day dream about the foreign lands I learnt about in school and pretend I would sail to them one day. It’s where we kids would run around trying to frighten small crabs back into their homes and marvel when we spot an occasional starfish. It was at Miramar outside singer Remo Fernandes’ bungalow that my friend and I once loudly spoke in French (we were learning it in school), hoping his French wife would hear us and invite us in! Many of our school picnics were at beaches. It was at another beach in Goa that I nearly drowned, but other memories of happy times at beaches outweigh this. Like a contest among my friends to find the biggest shell, or many similar small ones, to make jewellery from! I still am fascinated by them and have many shell earrings.  

It has been years since my family returned to Mumbai. But I haven’t entirely. I am in touch with friends. Some I’ve reconnected with through facebook. We talk about our childhood haunts. Like Miramar and the fish. In Mumbai I jump into conversations if I hear Goa. I smile at people in

local trains if they are speaking in konkani. I advice people travelling to Goa on where to eat.  
Many of my Goan friends in Mumbai think I am more Goan than they are. When in Goa, I would say I am from Mumbai. When people in Mumbai learn for the first time that I grew up in Goa, they always ask me if I am a Goan. I say no, I just grew up there. They are not convinced. I wonder what else I can say to explain. There isn’t any term like ‘India-born’ or ‘originally from India’ for people like me who have grown up away from their home states and returned there. But I think I now have figured it out. I will just say I am a Maharashtrian with a hint of Goa.

First award in memory of my father

The first award in memory of my father, noted journalist and author Narayan Athawalay, instituted by Lokavishwas Pratishtan in Goa, is presented by veteran journalist Aroon Tikekar to Navprabha editor Paresh Prabhu on August 16. To Prabhu's right is Anup Priolkar of Lokavishwas Pratishthan and to Tikekar's left is minister Sudhin Dhavalikar.

A salute to my father's journalism

Over 30 years ago, my father, noted journalist Narayan Athawalay, set up a residential school for the handicapped in Goa, solely through appeals that he made in his editorials in the Daily Gomantak. This August 16th, which would have been his 80th birthday, the school that was born from his words, is saluting them by instituting an award for journalism in his memory. The first award will be given to Paresh Prabhu, the editor of Navprabha. The award will be given to journalists who work for social causes.

When he took over as the editor-in-chief of Daily Gomantak in early 1980, my father was aware of the responsibility. He had fought in the freedom struggle for Goa and had been there a few times. He knew Goans hold the newspaper close to their hearts. The editor of Gomantak too, is held dear by them. He is their friend, philosopher, guide, even agony uncle. There were times when people would stop over at Gomantak’s office just to chat with the sampadak (editor). The editor’s cabin was always open for such people.

One day soon after my father, Nana, took over, a man called Vishwas met him. He had a deaf mute son and had come to tell my father of the trouble he went through to educate him. Back then, there was just one school in Goa for the deaf mute and as it was run by Christians, many non-christians didn’t send their children there. Transport being a problem as it still is in some areas in Goa, many such children were kept locked up in their homes. Vishwas had sent his wife to Pune to be educated in teaching deaf and mute children, and she then taught their son at home. He put forth the idea of a school for such children in Goa. Soon after this, a visually impaired young man met my father and said he worked in Mumbai where he travelled alone and people helped him everywhere he went, but in Goa he hardly found anyone coming forth to help him. Troubled by the experiences of these two people and convinced of the seriousness of the issue, Nana wrote an editorial and put forth the idea of a residential school for deaf and mute children.

The day the editorial appeared, the office of Gomantak was inundated with phone calls by people saying they want to help. For days later, people wrote to Nana and sent him cheques for the school. Soon a trust was set up with a few prominent Goan citizens and parents of deaf and mute children in our house, which was on the fourth floor of Gomantak Bhavan, the office of the newspaper. The trust was called Lokavishwas Pratishthan – after Vishwasrao Chougule, the founder of Daily Gomantak, in gratitude for the freedom he gave Nana to use the newspaper for the cause.

The school began on August 16, 1981 in a rented two bedroom house in Ponda. The living room and one bedroom doubled up as classrooms during the day. People continued to help even after the school began. Like a barber’s assistant, whose deaf and mute son studied in Pune, handed Nana 25 paise everyday to help run the school. The owner of a local hotel provided rice for one year. An ashram provided milk. Many others provided furniture. Local farmers gave coconuts.
Nana also approached well known politicians and citizens from Goa and Maharashtra to donate to the school and many did so.

As the school progressed, my family began to learn about the world of the deaf and mute. Most of them can’t speak because they cannot hear. If this fault can be corrected by hearing aids or surgery early in life, some of them are able to speak.
Years later, the Shantadurga devasthan trust at Kawale gave the school a plot the temple owned. The foundation stone laying ceremony of Lokavishwas Pratishthan’s ‘Shri Shantadurga Krupa Prasad’ complex took place in the presence of the honourable Swami of the Kawale math. Today the complex has a separate day school building for the mentally challenged, and a residential school for the visually challenged and the deaf and mute. The complex also has a spacious hall. The Lokavishwas Pratishthan’s school has twice won the state government’s award for the best educational institution.

But this was not the only time Nana’s words rescued people. In a boat accident at Madkai in the 1980s, 17 men and women drowned. Most of them had young children. Once again Nana appealed to Goans and they came forward to help. But all the money collected was not given to the families directly. Some of it was kept in fixed deposits and given to them and the children at intervals. In 2009 Nana turned 75 and many functions were organized in Mumbai and Goa to celebrate. At one such function in Goa, the families of those who had died at Madkai came to meet him.

Nana is known for his fiery words and articles that tore apart many a politician. He is also known for being an extremely unbiased journalist. Despite Nana’s acerbic attacks on his party and him, Bal Thackeray had great respect for him and put him up as a candidate for the Lok Sabha elections from the Shiv Sena.

A person who wrote what he believed in and stood by his word, Nana once even hit the great journalist and playwright Acharya P K Atre, with a chappal in the middle of a function, as he had declared he would! But he continued to hold Atre in great regard. In 1961 when Nana’s home in Pune was washed away in the Panshet flood, Atre came walking through the slush all the way to meet him and pointing to Nana’s head, told him, “What you lost was never yours. What belongs to you, is here.” Atre was fond of him and he especially asked to see Nana when he was on his deathbed.

I had grown up in Goa but since my parents always wanted to return to Mumbai, they decided I should give my SSC exams there. So I was packed off to Mumbai one year and they followed two years later. In a new school, I had no friends and I was away from my parents. One day the teacher asked us to write an essay about school and I poured my heart out on how I was missing my old school, friends etc. She loved the essay and read it out in class. Suddenly everyone wanted to talk to me! It was my personal lesson on how writing can change people. Nana was very happy to know about my essay. Subconsciously after that incident, I decided I wanted to do something in a profession that revolved around writing. Later I chose journalism, though I have never written about politics.

Having seen Nana do so much as a journalist, I entered the profession with stars in my eyes. I didn’t take long to understand it had turned so dark there were no stars. But Nana always encouraged me. I remember once I was complaining about how I hadn’t got an idea to write about. He refused to accept that. He said one can never run out of subjects. “If nothing, go to the kitchen and write about the different sizes and shapes of bottles that we have,” he said.

I am a journalist in an era of media partnerships and official radio partners. Even a film is not criticized honestly if the production company has a tie up with the newspaper. Investigative stories are preferred over a human interest story. While there is nothing wrong in this, I wish I could see more human interest stories on
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Nana’s teacher, G P Pradhan, who also happened to teach me, once told us journalists should write about the good things in society. Why is it that only the bad is highlighted?

More importantly, especially in English journalism, I see that not even one journalist takes a firm stand on an issue. While few Marathi newspapers are interested in the Maharashtra vs Karnataka fight over Belgaum for instance, this subject does not have much mention in English newspapers. Similarly, journalists slam all politicians, even those who are involved in good work. Magazines take up a cause like cancer awareness, but it is not followed up.

I have my view about the profession, and some seniors may not agree with me. But having seen Nana work, I also believe that one person can make a huge difference. I am also fortunate that I work in a place where seniors give me the opportunity to write about issues I choose. I know I am a journalist in a different era, and I am under no illusion that I can emulate Nana. I only want to work with the lesson I learnt from him, that words have the power to change everything.