Rooting and Fruiting

One pleasant Spring day as the family was otherwise engaged with gadgets, I came across a new concept - Food-mile. It apparently refers to the distance your food has traveled to reach the plate. And the shorter it is, the better it is for oneself and also the ecosystem. This is a kind of re-emphasis on the 'Eat Local' phenomenon.

As someone who grew up in a tropical developing country, I remember all the fuss over 'exotic' food. For many it was a sort of social status, to be able to afford and source those ingredients that for many years had only been read about or seen in photographs. In fact, for the longest time the most expensive vegetables were English vegetables, like carrots and beets, 'French' beans (?!)  fresh peas and cauliflower blooms. My parents often speak about piling their plates with vegetables that have almost disappeared from the markets today. It is with wonder that I think of red and black corn that served as after-school snacks for them, lotus stem fries that went well with 'rasam' rice and the coconut flower that was a delicacy,not to mention red okra, a plethora of wild greens and berries all of which constituted their diet. I can only vaguely remember the taste of desi corn before the craze for American sweet corn took over. As a teenager, I tasted the succulent coconut flower (bought from a roadside cart), which resides inside a sprouted coconut, is off-white and refreshingly coconutty. 

With near-lost native vegetables and fruits, we have also lost a part of our culinary heritage. But on looking closer, we see that most of our ancient cookery books as well as medicine all stress on the importance of eating locally available and home-grown food, which is something that Western science has reiterated. And so, with the new luxury of having a back as well as a front yard, I decided to exercise my green fingers, thereby attempting to shorten the food-mile. Two pumpkin vines merrily flowered in the front garden as potatoes and peas plants were gaining height behind. As their growth pace was that of the snails that I fought to keep at bay, I knew that they would only be ready when the autumn strikes. And so I brainwashed a friend to go with me to a farm that promised fresh produce, fun experience and photo sessions.

On a sunny day, we drove through the Dutch countryside to Plukkerij Framblij, a family-run farm and a Facebook-famous spot. Walking through a greenhouse we each picked up small buckets to fill with fruits. Rows and rows of strawberry bushes welcomed us. I have never understood the popularity of this sour little fruit which were very few in number. Next, we walked through aisles of raspberry plants, richly laden with fruit. I ate while filling my bucket, only to realise that I was singularly responsible for almost all of the raspberry harvest this season. The children's excitement vaporised upon plucking a few handfulls of produce. And so, leaving them in the play area with their fathers for security, we moved on.The series of interconnected greenhouses meant that we could pluck fresh aubergines, capsicums, tomatoes, beans that even a picky eater like me wouldn't fuss about. (I understood later that it was simply the high of plucking fresh veggies and that I really couldn't make myself eat them :P)

It was amazing how they could tame grape vines that yielded green, red and black grapes, cherry and apricot trees, blackberry gorse and red currants when I have so much trouble in getting my few plants to behave. 

In addition, they had farm fresh honey, home made jams and preserves, all of which caught my fancy but no one else's. 

With fruits that started to weigh more than they did an hour back, we trooped into their cafe shushing the children's hunger for ice creams. I use the word cafe here for the lack of an apt term. It was a dingy little space that kept out the sun and was a combination of few mismatched tables, chairs and sofas that seemed to be picked up at the local recycling centre. All of them had a layer of dust and the sofa also had a rip, adding to the antique feel. Thanks to Corona times, we each had a supply of sanitizers and tissues, so could clean up one rickety table and feed the kids. Hurrying outside, I was again able to enjoy the experience, more so when I saw a pony giving rides to squealing children.

 

I was amazed at how the family commercialized such a simple concept. A creative business venture. True, farming is no mean feat, but for a small farm which cant really deal with scaling up in order to profit enormously, they have done well. From charging an entrance fee and charge per 100g of produce, they have planned their profits efficiently. Also, they seem to have friendly old men (brothers/cousins) stationed near every type of fruit, who gladly help us in choosing the best fruits available. 

This seems like a very doable and adaptable concept, even for India. The tropical weather is bound to be best for our native plants, the only glitch may be water procurement. If that is managed, with so much attention being given to organic, local produce; it might turn out to be a money spinner for our poor farmers. 

Meanwhile, the summer has come to a spluttering end. I haven't managed to do as much or as well with my garden, but am glad that I haven't inflicted much damage to my crops. Feeding them with kitchen scraps and rice water diligently, I am now the proud mother of a bunch of potatoes, some peas and two dwarfed pumpkins! 

Pandemic Parenting

 Pandemic Parenting. When each word in itself is alarming, one can only imagine how dangerous the combined effect could be.

People knew 2020 is going to be a special year, even back in 2000s. Most policymakers were enthralled by the number and its distance from 2000. Almost every country I know of came up with a Vision 2020. They spoke of Mars missions and robot maids. Now that 2020 is finally here, we have now learnt to wash our hands properly, forget flying cars.

Whilst all of us have been cooped up at home, living through a limbo; those trapped with their children are the real victims. As the neurotic mother who traced the journey of this virus right from Wuhan to where it is today, I kept my daughter under house arrest long before the actual lockdown began; only to realize as to who was really under arrest.

The first few days were lovely and long like the first days of holidays. We slept in, woke up together, played games in bed and generally just lounged around. Then came the cooking phase when we ate exotic brunches and dinners interspersed with cholesterol spiking snacks. Two months in, mornings began at 9.00 am when “Ammaa, TV!” became my daughter’s way of wishing me a good morning. Nay sayers were treated with a bout of crying or ‘angapradakshan’ and on those days when one wakes up on the wrong side of the bed – a combination of both. For the Uninitiated, ‘angapradakshan’ is an extreme Indian bribe that a devotee offers if the deity grants his wish. Roll about on the floor, after the deed is done. Over here, my daughter does it in advance. And truth be told, it does work.   

After a healthy breakfast of toast with cookie spread, she would sprawl on the sofa to watch Peppa Pig, Ben and Holly, Finnie the shark, Paw Patrol, Hatchimals, Super Simple Songs,… let me take a breath; PJ Mask and when all else bores, Alex and Gaby. Alex and Gaby is a brother-sister duo in the UK that speak terrible English and play with sponsored toys, Swarovski crystals, Mercedes Benz play models. Ira is a sport. Although she dislikes playing with any toys, she does love to see these kids play with theirs’.

All in all, she spends about 6 hours glued on to screens of various kinds and the rest of the time is dedicated to demanding my attention or eating junk. Those days when I have some patience and inspiration, I can get her to practice alphabets and numbers. Upon trying ignite her creativity, I presented her with various paints and brushes. She ended up exceeding my expectation by mixing colors and decorating our dining chairs with a disgusting brownish-yellow color. After that, we quite lost our appetites and stopped using the dining table until we bought new chairs.

Outside, the number of Covid cases increased sharply and fell again. Inside, my patience mimicked the graph, it rose in the beginning and fell steeply. Ask the dented pots and broken pans, the know the story. The daughter of mine started to lose interest in screens and began to attach herself to my back. A trip to the toilet started to feel like a luxury. Her pre-school teachers kept our letterbox full of activity sheets and coloring pages. So now, we were also importing paper waste. Ira wouldn’t look twice at them and when forced she took a single black crayon and scratched the faces of Minnie and Mickey, declaring them burnt.

The next activity I chose was gardening. It was Ira’s task to sow seeds and tend to them. This meant that I would get asked every 20 minutes if they have grown and that ‘waiting is booooooring.’ She did learn about plant life but decided that she is a ‘clever clogs’ and knows everything already. Next was the playdough experiment. No big surprises. All clays mixed and flushed down the toilet.

The home office added to the misery. With continuous client calls, team meetings, business calls, escalation meetings and video conferences, one needs to keep Ira away from the room, keep her from yelling or making noise, talk in hushed tones and not switch on the blender. Despite my best efforts, she  managed to slip into some of her father’s meetings to give her precious opinion and ask pertinent questions like “who is that grown up boy? Can you blow bubbles? Why are you saying ‘shh’?”

Calls made to family and friends to keep tabs on their welfare became indirect pleas of ‘save me!’ But what could anyone do if everyone is stuck indoors doing the same things as me? Yet there were a few who continued to call despite the risk of boring conversations and my crankiness. Like someone said, friends are those who know that you are talking crap, tell you so and continue to listen to your  crap.

It has been five long months doing the above in permutations and combination. The only change I see is in myself. Five more kilograms and a double chin later I started to fill the entire mirror with my image. Ira though was just as scrawny as ever despite being a couch potato. Soon people started wondering if I was feeding only myself. Tired of them and the person in the mirror, I started venturing outside.

It was a whole new world. I felt like a long-time prisoner who had been released. The air smelled purer and the fragrance of flowers wafted all around. Each trip to the opposite shop felt like salvation. Every visit to the park was an excursion. That is, until Ira started to get bored of it. And then it was always a customary visit before moving on to other parks. So, I went prepared with a bag full of snacks, water and of course, a truck load of hand sanitizer. We took long walks in pursuit of other parks, discovered new lanes and hidden beauty spots all around the neighborhood.

With half the year gone already and other kids hanging on to online learning sessions, it is the four-year-olds that are caught doing nothing (unless eating their parents’ heads counts.) It is a difficult predicament for everyone. Schedules have gone haywire, both theirs’ and ours’. After a long day of irritating each other, when she finally goes to sleep, I smile in contentment, glad that there is no morning rush, glad for this unprecedented break before she begins the long journey of schooling. Despite all my fears and paranoia, this little dent in time will only remind me of those long walks, laugh-till-cry moments, star struck eyes, pigging away and the sheer relief that we don’t need to be bound by time as yet.
Children grow up too fast, but this period feels like a momentary pause.

And meanwhile, go, Corona, go!

 

Homecoming and How!? - Part 1

Think Netherlands and what most people picture is Amsterdam with its canals, houses along them and of course, the tulips. It seems to be built just to satisfy the whims of the tourist and floating population. Interesting architecture, wonderful museums, great clubs and of course, a world-famous red-light area.

The truth is Amsterdam is a small part of this small country. It is so small that it is almost impossible to find a decent living space that doesn’t charge an arm and a leg. In fact, the city is chock-a-block with scammers letting a ‘beautiful room near tourist attractions’ for rent, that turn out to be little more than tincans. Like how Netherlands stretches beyond its capital city, this problem stretches throughout the country.

Real estate has been prime property right from times immemorial. During the Golden age, despite rolling in gold, the Dutch maritime traders couldn’t build big houses without being fined. Such is the space constraint. And thus, they decided to invest in quantity rather than quality. The doorways narrowed down to a little more than a pathway leading to a multitude of staircases and several narrow rooms on top of one other. The typical Dutch staircase is treacherous curved con’trap’tion with steps that are no more than a few inches wide, inclined at 90 degrees, leading right into the sky with hardly any hand or even foothold. I suppose that’s also a way for the Dutch to make up for the absence of hills and mountains in the country. Coincidentally, they are called ‘trappen’ in the local language.

How did these people manage to furnish their rooms when even a slightly large person has to turn sideways in order to fit through the narrow doorway? Again Dutch ingenuity to the rescue – fit hooks to the top of the houses and run a pulley through them. The furniture is hauled on ropes and passed in through the windows!! These houses of the rich and mighty are built along the canals and remind me of the rush hour inside public transport – people standing shoulder to shoulder. And just like how they sway with the motion of the vehicle, these buildings move along with the strong wind!

The Golden age has passed, but this style of architecture has stuck on, even in Den Haag where I live. This city is a bit more family-friendly, thanks to a little breathing space and a roaring business of international schools. However, The Hague is plagued by an increasing immigrant population and decreasing number of houses. Back when we were a young couple, one could possibly rent a double bedroom house for €800. As we started to get older (which happens immediately after having a kid), the rent went up to 1200 and in extreme cases €2500 for an all-inclusive ‘classic’ Dutch house. 

Immigrant Indians powered by rice and spice took the revolutionary step of buying houses and paying a lesser EMI than the rent. As the rest began to follow in their footsteps, it kick-started a chain of events that tightened the noose around an already tight real estate market. Oblivious to this fact, we decided just then to join the bandwagon.

And so, we began the process in the typical Indian way hoping to not buy the typical Dutch house. We chose an auspicious day and venerated the elephant God, Ganesha. Met the real estate agent and handed him a list of don’t-wants that was longer than the long-legged Dutch. We spent the next 18 months roaming the streets of Den Haag and internet. A year and a half is a long time. You could have birthed an elephant in this period. Was it a sign that Ganesha was taking us seriously?

Perhaps buying a house is also like having a child. You start with great plans, thoughts and aspirations. In the end, when the baby is in your arms, all these grand plans are tossed out the window and you are happy to simply call this being as your own. (And also because you are so tired that you couldn’t have taken any more effort!)

Just like I love my daughter after all the trouble I went through and am going through for/because her, my house has started to become my home with much love.

Birds and Bees

The last time I saw bees in India was when I was 19 years old. My engineering college like several others stood right in the middle of a God-forsaken piece of land. The wild bees built massive hives that hung off precarious edges of the college buildings, that too within a matter of hours. That’s when we saw how skilled they really are, putting civil engineers to shame.

As a child, I remember being let loose in an overgrown garden that was a haven to creepy crawlies and the (now not so) common garden sparrows. That was perhaps my first brush against Dame Nature. I spent glorious summer afternoons exploring in the shade of the lemon tree as the rest of the family snoozed. A child’s curiosity helped further by the absence of adults led to several discoveries. Wriggly earthworms that were given shelter in the sand ‘hills’, the grasshopper who jumped against his will as I gave him chase, the ants that were constantly annoyed to have their discipline disturbed, the colorful butterflies that were always eluding my fingers as they skimmed over marigolds and the angry wasp who stung me on two occasions as I dug through his hole in the coconut tree.  

Add to this the tiny sparrows that were brave enough to hop closer in the hope of finding bits of grain, green parakeets that often nicked the best guavas and the rare blue kingfisher who perched on the powerlines ever so fearlessly.

As my formative years were spent close to the ground, the next decade was spent living within the pages of several books, along the likes of Enid Blyton. I was transported to the English countryside. That was the time anything foreign was considered fancy, a time when we only saw strawberries in picture books, we could only imagine what oak and maple trees looked like. Ladybugs, beetles, water lilies, honeysuckle, hedgehogs, blackbirds, hillside cottages and snow were only alive in imagination.

Fast forward another decade and a half, my Enid Blyton dreams have come alive, albeit in Holland. While the country is grey half the year, summer is pure magic. It is almost impossible to keep life from blossoming. The empty trees now are clad in beautiful green tunics, ferns and bulbs push through the earth to smell the sweet summer air. Lush green carpets of grass sprout and tiny wildflowers bravely open their petals despite trampling feet. Even weeds that grow in cracks blossom into pretty, little flowers, all awaiting the buzz of the bees. Like this isn’t sufficient, every garden, every balcony and every windowsill overflows with flowers of every shade and shape possible.

Back home, as our cities take over forests and turn into concrete jungles, the Hague has its own artificial forest, a space filled with solitude, peace and dog poo - part of the natural experience, I suppose.  Every neighbourhood is blessed with at least a few yards of nothingness that acts as a harbor for insects which, we now understand are the beginnings of the food chain. Even as biologists worldwide clamor to revive bees, most developed as well as developing nations seem to concentrate only on reviving their economies at the expense of nature.

Holland is a happy and robust picture of healthy outdoors. The bee population alone has observed a spike of almost 45% since 2000. The efforts of the government in banning insecticides and planting native wildflowers along the highways, railway tracks and even on top of bus stops has paid off. Spotted ladybugs in red, yellow and orange hues bask in the sunshine filled gardens, grasshoppers and frogs hop about in my shady backyard, butterflies flit in and out as they deem right and the drone of bees has become a constant.

This multitude of insects brings birds to houses. People help by taking active interest in nature and gardening. Most houses sport bird houses, bird baths and insect hotels. Sparrows and tits are aplenty as are the magpies and robins. They come at dawn break to gobble sleepy little insects and present us with a lovely waking-up concert. Afternoons are reserved for blackbirds that sit just above reach in the dark shade of the trees, singing in their piercing, yet beautiful voices. As evening stretches into night, we sometimes see a mud brown bird with a brilliant teal tail, that has been nicknamed as “we-don’t-know” bird by my daughter.

Like typical NRI parents, our vacations are always in India for our daughter to spend quality time with the extended family. And it can’t be more different there. Honking has replaced calls of birds. The motor sound has driven away the buzz of bees. Every inch of available space is being scaled up to become buildings. The human presence asserts itself raucously, just about everywhere. The only insects that have learnt to live with our devious ways are mosquitoes that come in hordes at sunset, frightening the daylights out of everyone. Not to forget the midnight visitors - the cockroaches that feast on filth.

While the kids of my friends are mini scientists, I wonder if they have ever been left to discover nature the way many of us did. Do they know the feeling of running through dewy grass early in the morning? The feel of velvety moss? The flutter of butterfly wings on your nose when you get too close to it? The thrill of plucking Crossandra flowers and tasting the nectar in its bulging end? It is disheartening to think that the average city-bred toddler in India is a stranger to these sensations.

When I see Dutch children, I realize how in tune with nature they are. They run unhindered and barefooted through grass and scalding sand. They make bouquets of wildflowers. Collecting shells, pine-cones and autumn leaves are favorite activities. Feeding the obese ducks in the canals is a national pastime. Biking through photogenic cycling routes and picnicking in fields of tulips and daffodils is another adventure. These are simple pleasures of life that the Dutch children are constantly exposed to, which in turn make them respect and conserve nature as adults.

Even as most four-year-olds attend online lessons, Ira and I spend our days in the backyard or taking long walks, stopping by to smell flowers, marvel at insects and blow dandelions. Should I spend this time teaching her alphabets and numbers? Perhaps. But I prefer to make our way outdoors while the sun shines.

And then, despite the Corona virus the world still seems like a happy place.

NETHERLANDS vs MOTHERLAND - Me and motherhood part 1

She is a bag of surprises. Has been, right from the very beginning. She made her way into me without any kind of signalling. Bam! Just like how she wants to play in the park and she does, just like that by hook or crook. 

Nine months and one final bumpy tuk tuk ride later, she seemed to have had enough. She wanted out, even when I wasn't ready. So she did make it out, after a cut in my tummy. It's funny that my gut, while so close to the womb was wrong all along. While I very much wanted a girl, I made peace with the idea that I might be birthing a little penis. But again, that's where I was surprised, I had birthed a girl in all her naked glory! 

 After the first few harrowing months of sleeplessness, milk allergy, possible nut allergy, add to it the gluten allergy, I grew allergic to all babies. In the midst of all this, we made plans to come back to Holland. She was half a year old and I was half dead already. 

Holland again. But with a new family member and brand new ground floor house (yippee!) 

What surprised me was the attitude of the Netherlands to babies and mother. While back in India, mothers are given a superior title that they sacrifice themselves to uphold, Holland seemed to be empathetic to the mother. Don't want to nurse? Feed her formula. Child with milk allergy? Major changes to the mother's diet might do more harm, so doctors are happy to prescribe special formula. Unable to sleep with the baby kicking your face? Put her in a crib. Better still in another room. Because a sleep deprived parent is more a monster than a mother. Baby seeks comfort? Push a pacifier into her mouth. 

Back home, I was harassed and guilted into nursing my child, all the while foregoing major chunks of my vegetarian( or junkarian) diet. Baby cries? Feed. Cries again in 30 mins? Feed again because her stomach would have emptied after weeing. Fussy baby? Feed her again, she probably wants comfort. This happened all day and night, every day and night. Everybody seemed to have opinions and judgements on what and how I wanted to feed my baby. Right from the lady-doctor who 'advised' me to the males in the family who thought my boob is my baby's right. 

                                                          

Holland makes way for the mother to feel supported. Primary caregiver needn't necessarily be the mother when the baby isn't dependent on her for the most basic needs. Extendable paternal holiday to ensure that the father also enjoys a mother's role (pun intended). 

The next difficult part of bringing up children - food. Feel like cooking? Go ahead. Don't want to? Then just make a sandwich. Easy meal is the shortcut to happy parenthood. Formula and purees to simple sandwiches. All you need to do is not to judge yourself or let anyone do it. 

And just like that, I didn't miss India anymore! And this is my `Ira“ of happiness!! 

                                                              

Talking double Dutch? Beginning to

DUTCH MUCH? The Dutch speak not with tongues, but with their throats propelled by an energy drawn deep from the pits of their stomachs. I have spent two months of my life on this land, yet can only hear winds and gurgling streams from the mouths of those who speak the tongue. Be it a question, a statement or just an exclamation someone expresses to me, the only reply I can give is, “can you speak English?” or play dumb charades. Whilst, some are nice enough to repeat in English, I have come across a few who exasperatedly shake their heads or worse, move their wrists in front of my face (like swatting a fly) and say ‘never mind’ in the most superior tone one can muster. While this did irk me, I brushed it off (using a few well-chosen names for them in my mother tongue, in the process.)

Back in India, it is difficult to shut me up. I would talk to anyone I come across and when there is no one, I would talk even to the omnipresent crows that feast on the most disgusting things possible. Here, irrespective of where I go, I am the sole human being who is oblivious to all that is being said and can’t act until someone stabs me or I see a truck right in front of my face that might run me down in seconds. It starts to seem like people are either studiously ignoring me (which they are) or when they are not, jeering at me in a language I don’t know. In fact, at home, the crack of eggshells, the sizzling oil, the bubbling broth and even the whooshing of hot steam from the shower sound like Dutch to me.

LESS(ON) LEARNT Unable to put up with it anymore, I march to the public library with the wind whispering into my ear-muffed ears (in Dutch of course!) in search of any book that would help me regain the use of my vocal chords in public. After about an hour of finding only a Dutch to Dutch beginners book, I approach the authorities for help. While I request the librarian to assist me in my cause, my mind draws up its own imagination of me huffing, gargling and puffing away in Dutch as my husband watches me with a gob smacked expression. “ Fee do not haf fought you fant,” the librarian peers at me through her thick glasses with absolutely no sign of repentance. “Fe only haf the Dutch to Dutch book,” she says, waving the book in air.

I walk back in the cold, cursing my school for having taught me a fourth and even a fifth language, but no Dutch. On recounting my experience, my cool husband whips up his phone to download Duolingo, an app that teaches Dutch. Duo, the owl its mascot is now my teacher. And I should say, it has started changing my life. I have begun to take baby steps in Dutch and wish my mom a goede morgen (good morning) every day. I learnt the names of vegetables, fruits and animals in Dutch and have now proceeded to learn simple sentences too. My sole competitor is none other than the husband who, I should admit despite having only limited time to learn, comes alarmingly close to my skill level. That’s when I push myself to stay at least a level ahead and show off to my only audience – my mom.

It sure isn’t easy to construct grammatically right sentences with words that use the sounds of every other alphabet but their own (for example, vegetables are groente, pronounced hoonte), but I think I am getting there. At least I hope I am. Meanwhile, I have also started to practice pranayama(breathing exercise) and stomach-muscle strengthening exercises that would help me speak Dutch from my navel.