Mazaa aa gaya

Happy Id …uh! Id Mubarak, I corrected myself.

Aapko bhi per aaj bhi kya Id hai…Mangalwar? Bakhra Id on a Tuesday? Kaise khilayen aapko…Bakhra kaun katega aaj?

Vegetarianism on Tuesday …a very north Indian Hindu concept ...one that has seeped into the psyche of those too long associated with the north. Can’t remember if men or children in Bengal are ever forced into vegetarianism unless they are in mourning.

Happy Id! I repeated the words to myself…listen to yourself speak; it stems out not restricting your thinking to one language.

I had been chastised only a couple of day before for chatting happily with Sunil Gangopadhyay.

‘My brother’s daughter!’ apologized my aunt to the celebrity writer of Bengal, ‘listen to her speckled Bangla.’

‘Natural progression,’ he smiled. 'I have heard it said in Raj shahi in Bangladesh ...ki mojar khabaar!...and have often wondered how food could be percieved as funny. It was all explained the moment I was told about the ancient trade route that entered from Bihar bypassing what is modern West Bengal. It all made sense. The East Bengalis were infact using the northerner's phrase to appreciate a good meal: Mazaa aa gaya.'

Ayurveda and Southern Hospitality

‘From where madam?’

Madam was past caring. The warm trickle of oil was making its way very slowly down the nape of her neck.

With firm brisk strokes the tide was stemmed as practised fingers worked the magic of the herbs into the skin, kneading here, teasing there …

‘Coming from?’

She was no more than 4 feet something dressed in the cream coloured sari of Kerala with its glittering gold border and a dot of sandalwood paste on her forehead. A diploma holder in Ayurvedic massage, she, along with a host of other young women, caught a boat daily to the Ayurveda centre.

Large flat earthen vessels of water with pretty flowers, freshly plucked, awaited them in their rooms. A cool job! The thought had come to my mind when I first saw the worker come to shake the flowering trees at the crack of dawn. Only the ones that refused to be knocked loose were chosen.

Fragrant steam arose as the poultice of herbs was applied on the sore spots along the neck. Sleep welled up in great delicious waves.

‘Delhi.’ The word was articulated with great difficulty.

‘Following doctor’s treatment madam?’

I shook my head unwilling to make more of an effort. I had paid a cursory visit to the Ayurveda restaurant. The young Malayali steward had shown me around and even showed me one of the diet charts before turning to a guest and switching to the most incomprehensible Germanische-sprache. Glenda; Female: 70 years; Sweden; permitted only lime juice, no tea; coffee; salt; onion; garlic….the list was endless. Needless to say the restaurant was a pure-veg one. Glenda appeared deprived of most of the Indian condiments too…Dear Dear Glenda did you have a clue before you signed up for this? I for one was on holiday: the sumptuous continental, north and south Indian buffet spreads, the seafood platters, the chicken liver curries, appams and stews supervised by the smiling conspiratorial stewards who aided the squirreling of muffins and cream doughnuts just in-case one managed to feel peckish despite the prompt room-service.

‘Done madam.’ The final light slapping invigorated the muscles. ‘No sleep now,’ was the final admonition as I headed out of the shower and made my way to the pool.

Thank you Glenda. Thank you for undertaking this journey to keep the great tradition of Ayurveda alive.