Fresh and tender, wonder of wonders

Decades back, at some point, our doodh-wala decided that the milk he supplied to us was not clean. At first, he washed it a little and then, scrubbed it some more. Our father, a science man, pulled out a lactometer and explained that milk did not need cleaning. But the doodh-wala, a man whose heart was as pure as the water that he used to cleanse the milk, would not listen. Then, one day, when the lactometer was floundering and practically sank in the patila, the doodh-wala threw up his hands and said that that strange object, a lying instrument, would not interfere with his goodness. Hand on his heart, to establish honesty beyond reproach, he declared that he would stop supplying milk to our questioning household. But the goodness of his heart prevailed and the next morning, he was back with the milk as thoroughly washed as before.

A repetition of this cleaning spree took place when our own children were growing. “Give them cow’s milk,” said one paediatrician. Up, down and laterally across the family hierarchy, the doctor’s words found echo, and lo and behold, the process of milk on the doorstep repeated itself. Our younger one, barely a couple of years old, in his red dressing gown and slipping spectacles, would rush with the patila and sieve to take the milk as his older brother looked on. All was well for a while. The cows seemed benign and generous. One could almost hear their happy mooing as the milk was heated and prepared to nourish body and soul. There was a layer of cream that could be collected to make ghar ka ghee. But then, given our national obsession with personal cleanliness and public squalor, the milk started being cleaned. The lactometer again acted like a wand to banish the person who could be dubbed as ‘Doodh-wala, Mark II’.

In between the great powers exercised by the lactometer and this strange thing called science, the family had switched to tins of full-cream milk powder. Over time, like a good Indian household that was reluctant to get rid of used bottles, old newspapers and empty cans, several tins of milk powder that had promised rare recipes with ease, and good health at the swirl of a spoon, had piled up. At that time, the family cook, a strapping farm man from the high hills, decided that it was time he stepped in.

Those empty tins were painted in bright colours and soon, we had marigolds and geraniums in tins where once milk powder had flowered.

The next step, a logical progression, came with empty apple crates. Cardboard packing boxes with trays full of fruit were still a thing of the future. Apples in those years came in wooden chests made of thin slats of wood (for the making of which, large swathes of fir and cedar forests had been cut down). Each apple was individually wrapped in a piece of newspaper and the box was filled with pine needles. After family, friends, general hangers-on had had their fill, those crates prepared for their next station in life. They were filled with soil, and whereas the milk tins held flowers, these were intended to grow vegetables on a sort of terrace adjoining the house. In time, rows of wooden boxes that would soon sag and rot began hosting tomatoes, beans and even a solitary capsicum.

I, too, had learnt the great art of growing basic plants in pots and had a brief brush at materialising into a virtuoso, who at the sleight of a trowel-wielding hand, hoped for the growth of cabbage and cauliflower in old wooden boxes.

The moment passed. Both colour and calorie-count slowly faded. The tins rusted and one’s interest waned. One looked for what one had learned. The conclusion was that it was precious little. The true life skill of being able to choose and buy vegetables — and fruit and meat, for that matter — in the market had been overlooked. With a reasonable amount of consistency, the most happening places in small towns are the subzi mandis. That is fairly true of my bloated small town too. It was time to join the throngs that sallied forth in search of cucumbers and broccoli. In pioneering expeditions of this sort, it is useful to search for allies and those who are wiser and experienced. My mentor and ally appeared in the form of a friend who was as helpful as any who works in the hospitality business. Winter lay heavy in the hills and the snow had arrived when we went down the tricky slope of the subzi mandi.

We stopped before baskets of shivering tomatoes and listless beans. With a professional tone and a ‘will you kindly sign the register’ look, my friend asked the subzi-wala in flawless English: “Are these fresh and tender?” I had overlooked the fact that my mentor-to-be worked in the hotel’s front office and had never bought a carrot or turnip in his life.

— The writer is an author based in Shimla

Comments