I stand in front of the kitchen stove, making my Sunday brunch. (I am just too lazy to cook a separate breakfast and lunch!) Having been schooled - to put it mildly - by Amma that I am not taking proper care of my food - and thus, my health - I am today determined to make vermicelli uppittu. The home is silent, except for the sound of vegetables boiling in the pan and the tick-tock of the recently acquired clock. Not really in the mood to play any music. Sometimes, what we really desire for is silence - within and without.
Looking out of the huge glass windows/doors in the living room, I see snowflakes gently making their way to earth. The first few melt on contact with the surface. They are preparing the ground - literally - for the rest of the snow to spread its white carpet over green grass. I record a few seconds of snowfall to share back home. Thanks to phones and WhatsApp, no distance seems too far - on usual days. And then, there are days...
My landlord got the garden mowed just yesterday, perhaps to better enjoy the sight of snow covered earth. I see him and his family, having coffee in their kitchen. He waves at me. I wave back and smile.
The oven "ting"s to let me know that milk is warmed. With uppittu on slowboil, I begin to sip my cup of Boost, staring out of the window. Snow doesn't seem to deter the little birds, pecking at the freshly mowed garden in search of food. Seeds? Grass? Worms? There. The two red squirrels in the garden are out to play. I see them almost everyday, running around the garden, chasing one another. One has a slightly darker fur than the other. They don't have the three stripes, like on the squirrels we see back home. "Rama didn't visit these lands", I tell myself. Sometimes, they pause, look straight at me through the glass window and then continue frolicking. It has been more than a month since I placed a couple of carrots in the garden, hoping that they would consume it. It is still there. Untouched.
It then dawns upon me. It is one year to the day since I moved into this apartment. For the first time, I was moving in to stay on my own. I have stayed away from home. But then, those were hostels. Here, I had to run a proper household. Cook and clean and wash myself. All this, along with learning a new language and learning the ropes in the workplace. I was sold by the garden in the backyard. On a fading November evening, the apartment with a huge, mowed backyard, along with other benefits, felt like a good proposition. Only, I didn't realize that the garden would not have much utility for a non-smoker staying alone in a country where, on average, it rains for about 200 days in a year. And then, there are the winter months, when it is too cold and/or dark to go out into the open!
One year since moving into this apartment that I now call home. It has been longer since I managed to put pen on paper - except on those increasingly rare days when I write my journal - to write something that is by me as an individual, not undersigned by any designation. There have been failed shots in Kannada and English. A few lines here. A couple of paragraphs there. Two or three voice-notes recorded in the middle of the night, when I felt I had hit upon an excellent idea. Pages in the journal admonishing myself for not continuing what I felt was a gift not many possessed. Resolving that I would spend less time scrolling through Instagram reels and Twitter before going to bed and instead, use that time to jot down thoughts and ideas. Or atleast, read a few pages. Promises to the self to dedicate a stipulated time of the day when I would switch off from the outside world and just let the pen flow. "Writing is as much about discipline as it is about inspiration. It is discipline that will forge inspiration and give it shape", I tell myself. The next day, my partner and I are discussing the latest movie or series to be consumed on Netflix - a way we have figured out to live the same experience together, though virtually. Writing can wait.
What is it that I can write about, to shake up the mind, unlock the thoughts once again into free flow? I should write something - without sounding preachy. Would it be something borne out of my experience? How do I universalise it, make it more relatable? But then, who am I writing it for? Am I writing it for myself or for others? Am I writing it for people to like it and admire my intellectual prowess or is it just a way of expressing myself and liberating my thoughts long stacked in the brain, in a rather haphazard way? I do not have aspirations to be an influencer, do I?
It has stopped snowing. The thin layer of snow is making way for the green grass to resurface. The aroma of uppittu fills the kitchen. I take the lid off, give it a nice stir to mix the contents well and set it on low flame again for a few more minutes. It looks colorful - the slight yellow of the vermicelli uppittu. Onions fried till they are slightly transparent. Carrot and capsicum, cut to similar lengths, blending well. Tomato lending its flavor. Garnished with coriander and green chillies. I admire my handiwork. Click a photo to share with my partner, friends and family. The real taste of culinary experiments lies in sharing photos and seeing others' reactions and comments.
I have realized that my biggest growth in the last one year has been in cooking. Prior to this solitary life, the maximum I knew was to make rice and maybe, fry chapatis, if that counts. Despite repeated attempts by Amma to teach me some useful skills, I did not pay enough attention. Now, at the deep end of the pool, I began learning to cook - remotely tutored from back home, accompanied by vigourous note-taking and supplemented by YouTube videos. Slowly, I began to appreciate what I always took for granted - making saaru and huLi appear on the table. I realized there is music in the spluttering of saasive (mustard). I unravelled the secret that the aroma of coriander can uplift a dish. I understood that oggarane and a spoon of lime can enhance salads. I can make a curry or a sabji out of most of the vegetables available at the Indian store here. Through trial and error, I have managed to get Dose right. Pasta does not seem daunting anymore. The few friends who have experienced my culinary skills have survived - without any visible impact. Which only means that I am doing something right! With the right ingredients, I now have the confidence that I can survive anywhere. Do I need to diversify my palate? That is perhaps a discussion for another day.
Eating my well-cooked uppittu (since there is nobody to deny it is not well cooked!), accompanied by a bowl of grapes, I decide today is the day to end the drought on my blog. Today is the day when I shall write down ideas as they flow, unhindered. No matter who reads them. No matter what they think on reading it. I write this for myself, unafraid of feedback (if any!). Everything seems nice inside the head. It is only by writing you realize whether an idea is good or otherwise.
I sit on the couch. Keep my phone aside. The tick-tock of the clock is the only sound in the apartment. Outside, it has begun to snow again. Inside, the thoughts keep me warm...
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