Sundarella

Once upon a time not very long ago (in fact, it could even be today), there lived a beautiful young woman called Sundarella (Sundari for short) in some city in India, it no longer matters where – whether in the rural hinterlands or in the supposedly cosmopolitan metros. She spent hour after drudgery-filled hour, day after mind-numbing day balancing the books, managing the finances, and studying for her Economics exam. Her stepfather and stepbrothers left her alone at home while they painted the town/village/city red.

One day, Sundari sat in her small and rather airless study despite the (almost) constant creaking of the rickety fan and started to sob. As expected, a Fairy Godmother popped out of nowhere. Sundari dried her eyes and looked up hopefully at her and quickly and articulately explained her sorry predicament. The Fairy Godmother plumped herself down on a wobbly chair and weighed the situation. After a long while, she finally responded, “You know, Sundari, all things considered, I think your stepdad and stepbrothers are actually doing you a huge favor. Have you been reading the papers these days?”

“But what about the pumpkin and the party dress and the other stuff you’re supposed to conjure up?” sniffed Sundari utterly disappointed with the Fairy Godmother’s decidedly unsparkly response.

“Are you kidding? Those ball gowns with the necklines so low they go all the way to Antarctica? And the tight waists that show off all your womanly curves? Not a chance. Haven’t you heard – women are not supposed to tempt the poor men who are just about managing to rein in their animal impulses with great difficulty as it is. No, I think you’re much better off in that dowdy outfit of yours!”

“Okay, no party dress. What about the pumpkin carriage and lizard-footmen?” Despite her unglamorous surroundings, Sundari still remained stoutly optimistic.

“My dear girl! How long do you think it would take those footmen to shed their fancy skins and revert to the reptilian creatures that they are and slither out from wherever they are hiding to do God knows what? And do you honestly think that an open carriage made of a pumpkin is safe?”  The Fairy Godmother shuddered in imagined horror at the possibilities. “I’m just a poor old Fairy Godmother, emphasis on the Mother than the God I must say. My magic isn't strong enough to control all the testosterone-charged "children" that creep out of their playpens in the dead of night!”

“But I would be back by midnight!”Sundari implored, losing a little of her customary optimism.

“Midnight! Anything can happen by midnight. I can’t have you running around during broad daylight, let alone in the middle of the night, on these roads with barely one glass slipper to defend yourself with! Are you crazy?”

Sundari wailed now seeing all hope of a glamorous ending gallop away into the ever-deepening twilight, “But how will I ever meet my Prince Charming if I’m locked up within these walls? How will I ever get my happily-ever-after ending?”

“What’s the big hurry? Being locked up in a palace is no less dismal than being locked up in this tawdry little house. In fact it may be worse; you need to keep your face away from the paparazzi in addition to everything else. No, it’s no fun, really. Believe me, my girl, you’re actually better off just the way you are!”

“But that’s not the way it’s supposed to end!” wept poor Sundari.

“No, that’s not the way it’s supposed to end, but when fairy tales become horror stories we have to keep revisiting and rewriting the ending! I’m very sorry my dear, but no balls or parties for you," the Fairy Godmother said firmly as she extricated herself gingerly from the wobbly seat. As she reached the door, she turned back and said, "As for happily-ever-after endings, whoever said it had to have a Prince Charming?”

The Road Much Taken

A few days ago, the office cab that I take every morning to work turned up exceedingly late with a very disoriented and disgruntled driver at the wheel. Why was he late? Because he was looking for the pothole-ridden path to my apartment complex which has become the stuff of legend even in my office circles. He saw the freshly tarred roads and was convinced he had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

In our complex, for the past few weeks we have been celebrating the fact that our ‘road’ has finally become just that – a road. We have enjoyed sailing on these brand new roads exhilarating in the fact that for the first time in years we no longer had to painstakingly lift one tire after into another in and out of one pot hole after another all the while mouthing a silent apology to our long-suffering vehicles and cab-mates.  But about a month later, with the novelty having worn off, a few of the disadvantages of this delayed progress kick in.

You see, I have always been known to the drivers of my office transport as ‘that lady who lives on the wrecked and impassable roads’ or its Kannada equivalent. The drivers immediately knew who that refers to and where I live and I never needed to provide tortuous instructions over the phone. But now, I have lost that epithet and have joined the millions of other faceless employees who live in normal living conditions. Yes, in a way I have lost my identity.

I recall something similar a few months ago. There was a girl we used to pick up in our cab. To reach her apartment, you had to take a left at a huge garbage pile (you couldn’t possibly miss it, it was a huge smelly eye sore that you could see and smell for miles) and then take an immediate right. All went smoothly and the girl was picked up on time for several months. Until a brand new corporator all flush after winning the elections and starry-eyed to start with his new duties decided to thoughtlessly go ahead and have the garbage pile cleaned up. Overnight, one of the landmarks to her apartment disappeared and once again, our cabs were thrown into a swirl of confusion.

Yet another example - I used to rent an apartment near the Domlur flyover, which for reasons unknown had stopped midflight and for over a decade stayed that way forcing vehicles to wend and weave their way around it in all directions getting increasingly creative by the day. It was easy to direct anyone who needed to pop in – “near the half-built flyover’ became our identifying marker. We even started getting mail with the phrase in the address box. Until the unthinkable happened – the flyover was finished! Who would have thought the government could be so callous! Again one of our landmarks, one of the markers of our identities had unceremoniously disappeared!

It may be just quirky old me, or maybe it’s a weird manifestation of some sort of the Stockholm Syndrome where abductees start identifying and empathizing with their abductors – but while I enjoy the smoothness of my new road as much as the next person, I feel that I’ve been dealt a double whammy. First when we were forced to get used to a collection of stones and mud that was rather optimistically called a “road”, and made to live with this for more than six years until it became indelibly intertwined in our destinies and our souls. And the second was to have that unique if dubious marker removed from under our much-travelled and calloused feet! Even progress, especially delayed progress, takes getting used to.

Why I Don’t Make Vadas

Let’s make one thing clear – I love hot, crisp vadas sinfully dripping oil, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside. I grew up eating these delectable little balls of yum. My mother and grandmother made them with consummate ease, the chubby little dollops of daal sliding off their moist palms eagerly, almost breathlessly into the hot oil. Once in, they swam around playfully in the bubbling oil gurgling away in unmitigated glee. And then out they came and plopped into waiting paper towels drying off like crisp little sunbathers after an unhurried swim. And when you popped the little guys with their completely symmetrical circles and their symmetrical holes in the middle into your mouth, they squelched with pleasure oozing cholesterol-laden goodness.

So when I got married I couldn’t wait to make them and decided to bestow my bounty on a couple of visiting guests. That was my first cardinal mistake. Never, ever, experiment on a new dish when company is expected and certainly not your brand new husband’s brand new boss.

Quivering with anticipation I follow my mother’s recipe to the letter and soak, grind, season the batter. All is going swimmingly.

Then it is time to fry the buggers and that’s when the trouble starts. Unlike the ones that slid off my mother’s palms happily and expectantly into the oil, the dal in my hand clings to my palm, begging for mercy, refusing to enter the pan. The holes in the centre stretch out of shape until they start to look like mouths stopped in mid-scream, little tendrils of dal escape the sides like fingers clutched in abject terror. And when I finally clench my jaws and push them into the hot oil, far from the cheerful gurgles, what emanate are fearsome little explosions from the water that drip from my over-moistened hands.

I gather up the unevenly cooked fritters, half-burnt, half raw onto the waiting paper towels. I can’t possibly serve these to my guests. I decide to camouflage the misshapen horrors by metamorphosing them into dahi vadas. So I fish out all the curd that I have in my fridge at the bottom of various little steel vessels in various stages of sourness and make the curd solution. I then dunk the shapeless balls into the cold curd. But horror of horrors! They bob up frantically gasping for air. I thrust them and hold them down in the curd until they are stuck to the bottom of the vessel and can’t bob back up. The deed is done. Silence at last. And not the good kind.

Finally, I serve them politely to my guests who eat them with unfailing politeness, chewing determinedly through. They even ask heroically for seconds! But I still feel so tainted, so violent, like I had just committed mass uradicide.

And that’s why I don’t make vadas.