Zooming in on a speck of an image in the vast map of memories that often unfurls in the mind’s eye, one spots an earthern pot filled with buttermilk. It could be a leaf out of the imagination, from the Krishna episodes fed to one on a distant terrace, in between bites of dinner, under a crescent-lit sky. It could be what grandma’s frayed sari edges brushed past to reveal, as she briskly went about her business in her large kitchen, where wobbly pools of sunlight made even the disarray seem perfect. It could be a scene at a favorite aunt’s den, where one hung one’s toque during the summer holidays..hands conjoined for mischievous undertakings with the cousins, attacking half-crisped papads while no one looked, then sheepishly washing them down with the buttermilk that was readied by the gallons. It could be the before story at one’s own childhood home, while mom worked her mathani magic into it and fed it to one, as the after story prepped up to unfold — with the butter fizzling in its pot on a stove, and one stirring out to pick betel leaves from the garden to dunk in the molten ghee, armed with happy feet, a cool tummy and buttermilk-whiskers. It takes more than a deep breath to snap out of this world of reminiscences, and it is upto one to make them amount to something. The Kefir in the refrigerator may well be one’s best bet..throwing in a bunch of seasonings with the Kefir , one is able to churn up a glass of bubbly buttermilk in a trice..even though the whirr of the one-touch power blender fails to drown the hiss of the mathani in one’s head..
- Midnight Maniac Meatless Mondays