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V Gangadhar

E is for eating!

But it's easier to write these articles than to go follow the instructions they offer. I've tried to do so several times and only ended up miserable, foul-tempered and hungry. This may be because my generation never believed in dieting. Our elders always encouraged us to gorge on as many varieties of food as were available those days.

Those of you who have read the autobiography of that queen of mystery writers, Agatha Christie, would know how much she valued eating. In her younger days, her country home was the scene of gargantuan feasts on Sundays. Several kinds of soups, fish and meat dishes, vegetables and sweets were consumed by the family and a large number of their friends, none of whom suffered any ill effects.

One of the most valued members of the household was the cook, Jane, who ruled the kitchen with the calm superiority of a queen. Jane joined the family as a slim girl of 15 and retired after nearly 40 years of service, weighing more than 15 stone. Christie always remembered her as an enormous woman whose jaws moved rhythmically all the time because she was always chewing something - pastry, scone or rock cake.

The average middle class south Indian household was something like that. We did not normally have breakfast and managed with two cups of coffee. This was because lunch was eaten very early, around 10 am, and it was a substantial meal. Rice and sambar, rice and rasam, rice and curds, vegetables, pappadam and pickles.

On the days when children had no school and remained at home, there was a second lunch around 1 pm which consisted of rice, curds and pickles. We joined the elders for tiffin served at 3 pm and had the appetite to wolf down dosas, idlis, adais, vadas and similar delicacies. Dinner was again rice-based and similar to lunch. In between, there were snacks to be had.

For growing boys, the snacks had a special significance. These were mostly crisp murukkus, cheedai, thattai, manoharam and so on. You could conveniently pop them into your shorts' pockets and run out to play, distributing them to your friends or exchanging them with the goodies that they had brought from their homes.

This procedure of constant eating was called poha vara which, roughly translated, meant 'going and coming' - we were eating all the time, whether going or coming.

The snacks were kept inside the store room. Sometimes, our parents made half-hearted, unsuccessful attempts to hide the eatables. But my eldest sister and I were experts in ferreting out hidden stuff. We did this with the enthusiasm Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot displayed while looking for clues at the scene of a crime. Our success rate was much higher than any sniffer dog assigned to locate hidden drugs or stolen property.

I don't know whether you believe this not, but pilfered eatables eaten on the sly tasted better than those given to you by your parents. Stolen kisses may have their own sweetness but, in those days, a stolen mysorepak or jhangir, eaten far away from the prying eyes of the cook, tasted much better.

Strangely enough, despite such obsessive eating, we never fell ill or put on weight. But then, we led active lives, walking long distances to school, swimming in the river and playing games whenever we were free.

Also, every other day, there was a saddhi (common feast) in the village in connection with weddings, temples festivals or religious functions. Then, it was open house time. The huge plantain leaves groaned under the weight of several vegetables dishes, rice, sambar, rasam, wafers, pappadam and different varieties of payasam.

There was a tale about a village glutton who gorged himself so much at one of these saddhis that he felt he would never be hungry for the rest of his life. He gave away his worldly belongings to the other villagers but was distraught by night time, when he was hungry once more! Nothing like that happened to us. We walked home (several kilometres) after the saddhi and demanded our routine tiffin and coffee!

I guess that was just one stage in a boy's life. The appetite declines as one grows older and assumes more responsibilities. With me, it did take more time.

Holding on to my first job in Ahmedabad at the age of 17, attending college classes in the morning, playing cricket whenever time permitted and cycling long distances every day, sharpened my appetite. Comfort Lodge, run by a Maharashtrian family in the heart of the city, offered 30 meals a month for Rs 48.

Wednesday evenings, when khichdi and kadi were served, were special occasions. So were the Sunday feasts, which invariably included gulab jamuns. During the mango season, unlimited quantities of aam ras was served once a month. This was one day when no guests were allowed. Sometimes, I felt embarrassed at the numerous vatkis of mango juice I consumed. It was only when I looked around me that I realised I had been outstripped by some of the other diners!

Illustration: Dominic Xavier