Something about Aubergines

 https://www.independentink.in/post/the-eggplant-tempura

I wrote this piece on the delectable eggplant and  Amit Sengupta an old friend published it in  his recent news portal Independent Ink.. a labour of love and commitment  that has really taken off and provide access to wonderful, intutive writing and reporting.

Hardnews Media  is also carrying my story , acknowledging that  Independent  Ink  carried the story first.

In the menatime American kahani is also carrying my aubergine story at

https://americankahani.com/perspectives/of-birbal-and-brinjal-the-story-of-indias-indigenous-vegetable-that-traversed-from-draupadis-kitchen-to-todays-international-platters/

 feeling very chuffed..i am trying to post these links on to my blog and hope that I can circulate other published pieces of writing

The Eggplant Tempura.

By Ratna Raman

In one of my favourite stories, Emperor Akbar sits down to a sumptuous lunch with his ministers and voices appreciation of the dish of eggplants that he is eating. As a modern chronicler of food, I continue to draw upon possibly apocryphal stories, that frame memorable windows to human taste and preference. Birbal concurs with Akbar on the deliciousness of the vegetable and draws attention to its shape, remarking that of all the vegetables, it is the brinjal alone that wears a crown.

 

Birbal was not really a trained botanist, else he would have known that many vegetables wear crowns of a sort, including the tomato and the capsicum, close botanical cousins of the vegetable in question, although the far more elaborate and sturdier crown sported by the brinjal mimics a well- wrought sequence of inverted petals.

 

Akbar (possibly both a foodie and a vegetarian), after a couple of days or so, the apocryphal story goes, complained about the terrible eggplant dish he has had to eat. A dexterous Birbal uses the elasticity that proficiency in our multiple languages gives us, and concurs with the emperor that the baingan, (Hindi) true to the meaning of its name is really beygun (which is how the eggplant is referred to in Bengali).

 

Beygun in Hindi means being ‘bereft of value’. It must be added here that acquaintance with the Hindi and Bengali lingo adds to an appreciation of Birbal’s witty punning.

 

Akbar is pleased with his minister’s ready wit, but an envious courtier accuses Birbal of being inconsistent, and as changeable as a weather vane. Birbal quickly responds that he serves at the pleasure of the emperor and therefore his deferential loyalty would always rest with the emperor, not with the vegetable in question.   

 

Since Birbal’s job demanded that he keep the emperor in good humour, he was able to give short shrift to the eggplant, if and when the occasion demanded it. Nevertheless, descendants of the eggplant that have travelled into 21st Century India, continue to be both desired and reviled by people who can voice their preferences for this specific vegetable without fear or favour. Six hundred odd years after Birbal’s times, responses to the aubergine/eggplant/brinjal/baingan/begun register across a varied spectrum.

The eggplant is given an exalted space in the Hindu religious tradition. Seen as an indigenous vegetable, it makes the rounds of annual shraads wherein dead ancestors are propitiated with special meals. Among the vegetables elected to be offered to the priest after a hiranyam shraad, (a shraad for which no cooking is required) the eggplant occupies pride of place along with the colocasia and the raw banana.

 

My grandmother recalled her travels with grandfather to Kashi and other pilgrim spots in modern India at a time when eating out was frowned upon and Vaishnav eateries were almost non-existent. She carried along small portions of rice, salt and tamarind, and into the heart of the makeshift fires upon which the rice was cooked, she would toss a biggish brinjal or two of medium size, purchased from a streetside vendor, allow for the vegetable to be roasted, peel the skin, add salt and tamarind, and mash it into a satisfying and tangy tohayel that could be mixed into accounts of her hot rice and eaten.

Grandmother’s account of her cooking adventures on the road enabled me to appreciate the eggplant’s distinctly adult flavour.

In my natal home, while the brinjal was cooked in several different ways, house rules about remaining seated and finishing all the food served on the plate, aided the eating process considerably. Thankfully, second helpings were never mandatory.

 

My brother disliked brinjals and broke out into hives whenever he ate any. He escaped into adolescence and adulthood without eating statutory portions of brinjal.

 

Try as I might, I was unable to accomplish any such manifestation and had to learn to like the flavour and texture of the brinjals cooked variously by my mother. As an adult, my palate now houses a cultivated preference for the brinjal.

 

At my conjugal home, the brinjal divide continued. The women in the house loved it and the men invariably loathed it. My father-in-law wouldn’t touch the stuff and my spouse ate it reluctantly.

When he came of age, my son stood behind me when vendors with laden vegetable carts called out in the street. When I queried if they had fresh brinjals, my son signaled to them to deny its very existence. I gave up trying to convince him to relish the brinjal after my unsuccessful botany lesson about the brinjal being part of the solanacea family of the potato, tomato and capsicum family. “Mumma”, said my son firmly, “I do not feel the same way about all the members in my father’s family. So why must I like eating brinjals because I enjoy eating tomatoes or potatoes?”  

 

Stumped by his response, I allowed him to gravitate towards a brinjal-free life.

 

A recent Whatsapp post had Shashi Tharoor pointing out that the word brinjal, Anglo-Indian in origin, is rarely used outside the Indian subcontinent. Perhaps a lot of the Anglo Indians had a fondness for this vegetable and gave it a new name; the aubergine.

 

The aubergine in India came in a range of colours, shapes and sizes, and a multiplicity of names in different Indian languages, such as kathrikkai in Tamil, badanei in Kannada, vankaya in Telegu and Vrithagam in Sanskrit.

 

The word ‘aubergine’ has been in circulation from the 18th century and has original influences going back to French, Catalan, Arabic, and even possibly Sanskrit. Eggplant is of more recent usage, particularly in America and Australia, and must have come into use possibly because many eggplant varieties are shaped like eggs, and those that are white to boot, do look rather like eggs arranged in a vendor’s basket. Larger and elongated eggplants can also recall morphed breasts and penises.

 

Eggplants can be a light shade of purple or a pale green. They are found in shades of plum, pastel green, streaked white and lavender, white and violet as well as green and purple. Bae is the name given to diminutive marble-sized brinjals that are grown in Sikkim, as well as in nature. A small farmer in Karnataka, showed me a wild brinjal plant with small fruit, about the size of the bae, explaining that upon it other varieties of brinjal are grafted, giving us so many variations.  This particular variety called pea brinjal can be ordered for consumption, online.

 

Eggplants can be cooked in several ways, each shape lending itself to a particular variation and each method provides a different eating experience with regard to texture and taste. Its complex texture makes for a delightful culinary experience. It has a yielding softness that is inviting and varied.

 

The pureed eggplant can be smooth or chunky while succulent pan fried or roasted brinjal slices remain moist and sumptuous with their succulent flesh kept in place by the thin outer skin of the vegetable. The variations in the cooked versions come from the range of spices and accessories that can be added on to the vegetable. Sponge like, it absorbs and becomes redolent with versatile flavours, providing a gourmet meal for a range of palates.

 

It can be eaten with its skin or without, shallow fried, deep fried, boiled, charred, grilled, sauteed, stewed or baked. It can also be cut into tiny pieces or stuffed whole with spices.

 

Eggplants continue to be consumed abundantly in a variety of cuisines all over the world. Eggplants do well with curd, cheese, potatoes, rice, lentil flour, lentil and tamarind, and are also made into delicious pickles. The Americans love their eggplant while the French and the Italians swear by their aubergine with olive oil and parmesan.

 

Aloo and baingan make for a satisfying combination, green brinjals with onions and tomatoes stimulate tastebuds, while aubergines and radish offer a fluid freshness that remains unmatched, although eggplant does very well in a splinter group of onions, tomatoes and capsicum too.

 

The baingan ka bharta in which eggplant, roasted on an open flame, is peeled and mashed and stirred into a tangy mix of caramelized onions and tomato, with or without peas, is a popular food in North India. It goes back in antiquity to the Mahabharata. 

 

Draupadi’s culinary life (when her five husbands are disguised as mendicants) begins when she cooks her first meal in her conjugal home. The vegetable dish that she turns out is the delectable baingan ka bharta, delighting Ma Kunti and her five sons.

Baingan Bharta: Courtesy Wikipedia.

 Baingan ka bhartha continues to be a popular dish all over North India, at roadside dhabas, local eateries, private clubs and starred hotels, as well as in home dining.  With the coming of the cold season, hot baingan bharta studded with fresh green peas and crisp bajra, or wheat roti, makes for a delectable experience. Variations of this bharta travel all the way up to central Asia, swerving towards Europe, West Asia, Greece and much of Africa.

 

A contemporary literary reference is found in Perumal Murugan’s book where the hero grows brinjals shaped like the head of a cat, which his wife cooks with great pleasure, allowing his mother to marvel at the delectable dishes her daughter-in -law churns out by changing the combination of spices, or with the addition of a dollop of ghee.

 

The brinjal is celebrated all over South India. Goddesses are adorned with brinjals on special festive occasions and mention must be made now of the tohayal from Tamil Nadu that  incorporates a mashed brinjal, tempered with garnish of mustard seeds and karipaata and channa dal.  

Variations on the tohayal are the chaukha in Bihar, Bengal and Uttar Pradesh where the vegetable is fire-charred, peeled and mashed with salt, green chillies and chopped coriander, and topped with a dollop of kacchi ghani mustard oil.  

 

The bhartha is a cosmopolitan North Indian version of the thohayal wherein the aubergine can both be grilled or steamed.

 

Garlic crushed into roasted brinjal flesh with salt, onions, cilantro, freshly ground pepper, lemon juice and olive oil complete this accompaniment, popular with Greek bread.   Baba Ganoush (roasted aubergine with tahini and green herbs), favoured in the Middle East, Egypt and Lebanon, has now made its way onto international platters, pleasing modern metrosexual palates and dazzling urban kitchens.

 

The baigun-bhaja of Bengal is usually egg-plant cut into roundels, marinated for a while with tamarind, three or four drops of sugar and salt, smeared with mustard oil, or, mainly, pan-fried or deep fried with mustard oil, and devoured. Large, oblong eggplant, cut into halves tastes delicious when deep fried in mustard oil. 

In South India, Bajji is an eggplant variant made by frying brinjal roundels dipped in chickpea and rice batter. Garnished with asafoetida, curry leaves, chilly powder and salt, these thin flat fritters, remain tiffin and tea-time favourites, travelling incessantly down gullets when washed down with hot coffee.

 

The Beguni, with a coat of besan, and salt, tamarind and chilli powder, deep fried in mustard oil, is sold cheap and hugely sought after, with evening tea, in street-side joints in Bengal. Along with vegetable chops and cutlets of all kinds, it makes a formidable combination. The evening tiffin, hence, is most welcome.

 

At a Conference in New Orleans, having opted for a vegetarian meal, I waited until one of the hosts on an erratic shuttle service brought me a special dish of whole eggplant and garbanzo peas in a thin gravy. The flavours were delicate and the chickpea was delicious, recalling for me Tamil Nadu’s famous Rasavangi (which translates as juicy brinjal), and is a fragrant sambar made with brinjals, ground coconut, pigeon pea and garbanzo beans that grandmothers on both the maternal and paternal style served on special occasions.

 

There is also the kutta kathrika koyambu (short brinjal stew), an all-time Chidambaram speciality, made entirely with brinjals and chickpeas in a tamarind and coconut gravy, and both these variations upstage the New Orleans version in my opinion, possibly because the texture and flavour is enhanced by the addition of coconut and tamarind alongside a deep well of memories. 

 

Another savoury southern favourite is Vangi Baath, rice made with spiced eggplants and served with a delicious raita of curd and cucumber along with flour crisps and roasted potatoes. The only time this combination can be challenged is when coconut rice is served along with an ennai kari (vegetables cooked in extra oil) of diced eggplants roasted in oil and a side dish of papadams and thick buttermilk. 

 

Both options serve as   mini-feasts for emperors and contemporary citizens alike.

In Bengal and in Tamil Nadu, curd often is the stage upon which mashed roasted baingan excels in performance.  

 

Jaggery, the stage prompter in the scrumptious Tamil version is replaced by honey in the lip-smacking Bengali version. Both variations, to my mind, are show-stoppers.

 

While the Tamil version makes for an excellent hors d'oeuvre, the Bengali variant can double up as dessert and signal closure to a sumptuous meal.

 

Meanwhile, news from the world of nature cures suggests that consuming aubergine is a great way to lower cholesterol and aid heart health. Indeed, one more feather in its crown for the vibrant and unassuming eggplant!

 

Ratna Raman is Professor, English Department, Sri Venkateswara College, Delhi University.

Mulberry and Makoy Mornings

The riot of colours that March brings to Delhi's lawns and greens, stretches into April. The mulberry fruits abundantly, the Semal is in bloom, the Tesu has added to the  colourful glee of Holi, and abundant small annuals flower and fruit.   My college has a flowerig African Tulip to boast of and when I drew the attention of  one of the hardwoking maalis on contract, to it, Joginder  informs me  that he had seen the tree but was unaware that   it could  produce  such beautiful flowers. The African Tulip grows in abundance in Kerala and Karnataka, and there are a few straggly trees in New Delhi as well. It has a long flowering season, since I have seen it in bloom in January and December in Karnataka and Kerala, and in springtime at New Delhi. 

 March and April are flowery and fruitful months.. This year reinforced for me the discovery that creamy green long mulberries are sweet and delicious and can be consumed at once. The purple mulberry tree, with which I am blessed has  tiny  fruit that  range from slightly sour to pretty sweet  flavours as it moves from a deep pink to a dark purple. For years, I have gathered the fruit and made compotes  and jams and used them to add to cheese cakes and muffins. This year, I decided to use them as additons to a tamarind sauce that is called vettakozambu in Taml Nadu. 

Made with a thick tamarind base, the vetthakozambu is a niche delicacy. Unless you were born in the previous century, it is unlikely to stir any memories.  This sauce, eaten with hot rice or with curd rice or akki rotis, grows slowly on the palate, but if eaten more than once it becomes a part of an old treasured  vintage memory that must be nurtured.

 Usually, vethakozambu is made with dried and salted and then fried beries such as the turkish berry (shundekkai) or the makoy , both difficult to access  fresh in North Iindia. Usually the sundried version of both berries can be bought from the Tamil Stores in different part of  New Delhi, in the absence of obliging relatives who can ship it from the deep south.

 Along wth the vethal  which is shallow fried in oil, one can add fresh vegetables such as bhindi, ash gourd, colocasia, drumstick and  shallots to name a few vegetables, to a  salted and turmericked tamarind sauce and allow it to thicken. As it thckens, sambaar powder and salt are used to enhance the flavours and then a chaunk comprising of mustard seeds, kari patta, methi, hing  a table spoon of chana daal and a red chilli or two, are sauteed in gingelly oil and  poured into the vegetable and vetthal infused tamarind puree.  Chopped coriander and karipatta leaves  can be added yet again, and eating this with fried pappad and roasted potatoes and hot rice, makes for an exhilarating experience.

 My recipe involves replacing the fresh vegetable with a large bowl of purple mulberries and adding them to the roasted makoy vetthal. The sauce takes on  a beautiful beetroot colour and looks exotic, even to my trained vethakozambu viewing eyes. It was a great success on the two occasions that I served it, and my cup of delight flowed over. Mulberry and makoy Vettakozambu is something to salivate over.

 Which brings me to the makoy part of my narrative. The makoy grows all the year round and in North India, only rural migrants  and part-time gardeners  seem to know about it. It grows pretty much everywhere and the leaves of the makoy are added to yellow dals. They have cooling properties and are quite delicious, ridding the mouth of ulcers. The makoy has tiny whire flowers and small berries that grow in green clusters. In Tamil Nadu and in other Southern states, it is referred to as mala-thakkali and  the leaves are regularly consumed as cooked greens while the berres are gathered and soaked in salt and curd and dried in the hot season and when they turn brown as they dry , they are packed into little polythene packets and supplied to shops that deal in pickles, pappads and drid vadis and vetthals. The makoy fruit that are overlooked ripen into a beautiful orange or deep purple and are delicious . Their seeds are similar to those of the tomato, and the orange berries mimic the colour of tomatoes as well. They are  possibly called malathakalis, (which translates into moutain tomatoes) and  are accessible to any one who knows of this plant. The dried or green berries can be added to sambaar and the fried makoy is delicious as a garnish to  curd rice as well.

The purple coloured fruit are sweeter than the tart orange ones and these grow in abundance at the college where I teach.  Jayaprakash, who works on contract to Sulabh was walking out of the rewilded section of college with a handful of  with makoy fruit. When I asked him if he had been gathering mulberries, he shouwed me the makoy fruit and shared them with me. This was a morning when I had an early class  that made me scuttle  breakfast, so the extended fruit was most welcome. 

 I'm sharing a picture of the fruit I gathered on  yet another early morning, that Padma Priyadarshini so kindly photographed for me:

Also known as  black nightshade or  solanum nigrum, this small plant that grows in nature has amazing properties. When my mother was ill with jaundice and we were young children, she trained us to identify this plant and sent us out to the small  common charbagh garden in front of our house to gather these leaves, since cooking them and eating them was a staple cure for jaundice.  The berries are supposedly anti-inflammatory and provide natual relief  from pain. So the garnish to this leafy and fruity narrative is the fact that not only is this a plant of great medicinal value, its edible leaves and fruits can be relished in a variety of ways.

 

 

 New Beginnngs

  Smriti who has been living in Goa for a while, called up  sometime last year and spoke excitedly about witnessing the release of turtles into the sea. This was something we hoped to witness  and since our visit to Goa was planned around Smriti's birthday, it was serendipity that it coincided with the month in which Olive Ridley turtles were being released into the sea water  shortly after hatching at nesting sites around the beach. Alka, who heard of our  proposed trip, made enquiries and found that the turtles were being released as they hatched from a quiet location on Goa's beaches.

 It was good to learn that Olive Ridley turtles visited beaches other than those on the Orissa coastline. Magical indeed and happy making to think that from both sides of the Indian subcontinent, intrepid little turtles only a few hours old, were being released into the Bay of Bengal and into the Arabian Sea, to make their way into the vast oceans that spread out in front of them.  We arrived at Morjim beach  and contacted a forest official, Shivanand, who told us that there was a batch of turtles that would be released later in the evenig. At the beach we sat in front of a shack, sipping lemon water  and chilled beer, devouring spring rolls and dense yellow chunks of  pineapple whose sweetness can never be replicated by the pale cream versions that dominate the Delhi markets.

The sea air was balmy and sunset watching is a restful activity, so we continued to sit at a shack and watch the sky change as an orange-red sun, leaked its colours into the waiting waves and disappeared from the horizon, across the waters into the darkness of the night. The shacks were soon lit up and various offshore lights began to flash. The sky was filled with stars and a blood orange moon had taken the place of the sun, in the skies above the beach.  Despite  locations  facing each other on the beach, the sun and the moon  continued to dominate this cosmic drama of birth and movement. The turtle guardians wait for the beach crowds to thin down, allow the shacks to earn enough income and then monitor the journey of the turtles, asking humans to remain still, warning of how  the little turtles could be easily crushed under careless feet.

 Shivanand had told us that it would be well past 8.30 pm when the turtles would be released. There was a moderate audience that had gathered. None of these people were heading home or hanging out at the shacks.  We were allowed to see the turtles that were to be released and advised not to use the flash  while photographing the tiny creatures that were flippering in huddled company in a blue  plastic container containing sea water.  

We went into one of the rooms of the nesting site and watched the hatchlings  fascinatedly. We  were also shown the shell of an Olive Ridley turtle, as well as a preserved turtle in embalmig fluid. The Olive Ridley turtle is not a very large turtle and the name Olive refers not to someone named Olive but is  the colour of the carapace of an adult turle which is olive yellow green in colour. The name Ridley, possibly English in origin continues to mystify. Ridley as a surname has been around since the  13th century and apprently people with the surname can be found all over the world. I searched through several Ridley family coats of arms but found nary a turtle. So the name contiues to remain a riddle.

The baby hatchlings are gray in colour when they hatch but look almost black, when wet.  These tiny turtlets are released under cover of darkness into the ocean, as the waves come closer to the shore during high tide.  Even when  the turtlets hatch during the day, they are released only under  cover of darkness, as this gives them optimal chances for survival, away from predatory birds or dogs and other creatures inhabiting the coast.

We are introduced to Rajan Halanth and his compeer Gyanendra. Rajan, Shivanand tells us, has been caring for the turtles since 1997. We chat with him. He expalins that he was a fisherman at Morjim and discovered four nesting sites in 1997, which he protected from local dogs and human predators.  His work, labour intensive and driven by love,  is about locating the nesting sites of the Olive Ridleys which arrive en masse on the shores of the beach to lay eggs.  Apparently, these female turtles return to the beach on which they were hatched after twenty odd years, dig conical  nests with their hind flippers and lay eggs. When the egg laying is complete the female turtle swims back into the sea.

 

Rajan and his team, collect the eggs, nest by nest, and locate them in a man made nesting area that is cordoned off from the beach. The eggs, between 100 to 150 in each nest are first collected  from the nests built by the  turtle  and then rearranged in the same manner in the human controlled nesting habitat. The egg collectors are trained to rearrange the eggs in the same manner in which they were found, with the eggs that are taken out last from the bottom of the nest going in first into the new nest.

 It is a huge success story, as this nurturing space now actively connects  humans with these gentle reptiles. In 1997, Rajan tells us there were four nests. He began to rehouse the turtle eggs  in a sheltered spot. He managed to save four hundred eggs in 1997, from around four nests. Now in 2025,  150 nests have been rehoused, and thre is a possibility of around 1500 hatchlings that will be sent to sea. 

The weather has been inclement and the baby turtles have been hatching.  Rajan is thankful for the support the forest department provides them with.  He has chosen to dedicate his life and time to the nurture of turtlings. Some eggs go bad, he tells us, and the ratio of male and female turtles depends on the temperature; the warmer it is, the more females will be born. This has been a good year for the Olive Ridleys at Morjim.The nests have only been on the increase since 1997.

 The baby turtles are brought out on the beach in a trough. A small corridor is created ten metres away from the water. This is to enable the babies, the females, to create a location map inside their heads of the beach they were born on. They will remain in the ocean for  very long years, but when it is time to lay eggs, they will return to the beach on which they were born, unerringly.

 Speaking of survival rates, Rajan says that the one percent survival rate that is offered up is not accurate. According to him, there is a 25 percent survival rate, which sounds positive. He also points out that the seas are now depleted and there are far less fish in the ocean now, and that is another reason that more hatchlings have a better chances of survival in the water. 

Someone in the crowd wonders aloud if that will not upset the balance in nature...but now, the turtles are tipped over into the sand and the light of the moon and a torch guides them in the direction of the ocean. They move unsteadily in ones and twos in the direction of the light and ocasionally get stuck in the sand or move sidewards. They are carefully picked up by the young men in charge of operations and put back on the correct track. It is a few moments of sheer magic as the little creatures move in the direction of the sea. The advancing waves knock them back on to the beach , but they wiggle in the wet sand, find their footing and allow themselves to be lifted up by the next wave. 

The viewing humans are asked not to move as the hatchlings thrown back  by the waves could be very easily trampled upon. The turtle protectors, lift the hapless turtles away from giant feet and set them in the direction of the wave again.  In a few minutes all fifty and more hatchlings have set out on their journey. It is a portentuous occasion, as the vast ocean and the darkness swallow them  up. They have no escorts, no guides  and zero parenting but  will have to rely on their own instincts on this long voyage. There is soon no trace of them.

 Faewell brave voyagers, and when the time is right, twenty years later, may more of you return to these beaches and continue to proliferate and may there be more Shivanands and Rajans to  provide shelter and nurture in the years to come.

 Floral Abundance  at SVC

Sri Venkateswara College  has been subject to a lot of expansion  and construction over the last 35 years.  Stretches of ridge lands on which the institution stands  have now been tamed into a larger canteen with stone clad seating areas for teacher and students,   a library block, extra  teaching rooms,   more staff quarters, hostels for young men and women, bamboo rooms in two sections of the college requiring more levelling of the gound, extensions in the science block, expansion of the Arts Block and the  adminisrative section, an auditorium shell and a new teaching block named after Durgabai Deshmukh, concretised parking space for vehicles, badminton and tennis courts, electric cables, generators, and the most recent of them all, a walkway from the metro gate to the centre of college, leaving us with shrinking grounds over the decades.

Besides the miniature temple, very much a twenty-first century construction  is a  small patch of land bordered  with a few rain trees in front of th administrative block. For long it  showcased a few foundation stones, announcing  new sites under construction inaugurated by important digntaries. Members of the garden committee spent long years in shifting away  the commemorative foundation stones.  

When the stone slabs and the cement frames holding them were gone, the ground was levelled to plant pink roses bushes that quickly filled up the space and flowered profusely, providing an abundant  source of flowers that were collected for worship. Eventually, the rough demarcation between this green patch and the path leading to the grounds was identified by two concrete borders, on either side of a tarred road separated by two concrete boundaries that marked off the green spaces. The  rose bushes  looked scraggly when  not in bloom. The small plot outstretchd itself and   and took on new avatar. It  was chosen as  a site for rainwater harvesting.  Then grafted roses were planted instead of the local variety and they did rather  poorly. The whole area looked like wild scrubland. Eventually, the grafted plants  had to be painstakingly repotted and relocated  and we had a whole new canvas to work upon.

 We bordered the patch  with ruellias (mexican petunias) in pink, white and mauve colours..and slowly prepared the gound for flowerng annuals.   The rain tree shrubs formed the backdrop and salvia, daisies and calendulas were planted in stretches. A few marigolds and tagetas also found some space.  Closer to  the wall hollyhocks ranged themselves in and around the rain-trees. Alysiums in purple and white charmingly brought up the groundswell  next to the ruellias covering up the edge ofthe border.

 The annuals are now in full bloom. It is now a balmy spring and the nighs are still chilly, allowig the flowers a riotous interlude.  Soon the heat will be on and the flowers will slowly disappear. It takes  six months to create this wild floral canopy, every season. Our gardeners contracted for this work, work hard, nurturing the plants and replanting those that have died or have been damged by animal and human footfalls. This stretch has filled up uninteruptedly with annual blooms, almost 15 years after the stone plaques were removed.  Perhaps in the next season, more varieties of flowers will join this vibrant stage and add to the festivities. Who knows?

NO ACADEMIC SPRING AT DELHI UNIVERSITY

 Life  as a student in the North Campus at the end of the 1970s was made up of  halycon days. The North Campus was the longest distance I had commuted to in the city  in all of my life upto then.  Nursery and then Primary School had been at a walking distance and   Middle-school and Senior-school were always a short school bus ride away. The university that loomed in the distance was made accessible  through public transport. For 12 rupees and fifty paisa, one could board any DTC bus, blue in colour, sometimes maroon, and travel from Western Extension Area  to North Delhi and further. When we shifted home from Karol Bagh to Saket, there were university specials, buses in which mostly students and teachers going to the university travelled. These buses, dropped us off outside the gates of the coleges we studied in, allowing us to explore a whole new world.

 There were  sprawling grounds in  individual colleges, and then an entire university campus  one could wander over. From the back  gate of  college there was a scenic route to the the science block of the university and  from there  to the university coffee house where jelly and cream was a preferred delicacy, along with coffee and other odds and ends.  There were in fact so many food haunts around the campus, ranging from  the chow mein at the arts faculty dhaba and the aloo chat sold by a twinkling eyed man outside the arts faculty, who had ben selling aloo chat from quite some time. It was easy to saunter and attend  lectures because they were illuminating and sit in on  for talks that were informative. Sittiing in the college cafe and wolfing down flame-scorched buttered bread, or eating samosas and gulab jamun with nimbu paani  at Rohtaas's stand and absorbing a brave new world of ideas. Discovering  chane bhatoorae at KNags and  books in shops in  Kamla Nagar as KNags was expansively called. Nesting books on  library shelves in an old world library where from a seat  in an alcove, there was the possiblity of gazing at the green of the lawns outside the library window. Spic Macay and college festvals, theatre and social service leagues and literary societies and the occasional film at the film club, reaching home after long bus rides and drinking in all kinds of new thoughts and trying to accomodate them inside of one's head, exploring new spaces, such as Triveni and Mandi House, the National Gallery and the National Museum;  getting off the U special to have chaat on Shahjahaan Road, these are some of the memories that the mind throws up.

What an amazing place the university was in those days, and how wonderful it was to have a  long single academic year, that began after a hot summer, led us through the monsoons and then provided us  with  autumn and  winter breaks, where one could savour the seasons, enjoy varied   festivals in the short break in  October and then  nourish oneself in winter in the third week of December and  into the New Year cozying up  at home during the cold season. Back in the New Year to college in bracing weather that turned into spring and then taking our exams in  almost hot April, while the university shut down for the summer for students and teachers. It was a space of leaning and safety , from which we emerged, ready to test our wings in the world. Yes, the university in myriad ways prepared us for the universe!

 Five years of such  learning; undergraduate and graduate, at the university and  the overwhelming desire to continue to be a part of this life.  So there I was, after yet another long summer, back to teach in another college across the road, engaging with undergraduates and tutoring MA students and being part of a community of teachers,  young and middle aged, bonding over tea in the college staffroom, in between lectures, teaching various undergraduate classes,  rushing out to join rallies  or attend a talk, view  an exhibition of art/pottery,  watch a play, or just pick up a book or two  at the library and browse. We tried out  the local eateries in Knags. patronising  special Chane Bhature that sold out everyday in under three hours.. the shopkeepers downed shutters until the next morning... and  savoured the wonderful fruit beer at the corner as well as the snacks at Bercos..which underwent many new avataars from seedy to hip.  As young teachers we were  monarchs of  all that we surveyed, full of energy and arguments as we began to articulate our  discoveries in the subjects and areas that interested us while being trained through  MPhil programs to focus  on PhDs. 

Almost a 150 years after William Wordsworth one could  echo his sentiment and paraphrase it to declare that bliss was it to be alive during  those  years, when the joy of studying and teaching at the university was non-pareil.  As teachers, even befor internal assessment was introduced the university had a system of tutorials, preceptorils and practicals that were valued additions to the  academic  life of  a student.  Teachers came in to correct  answer sheets at  examination centres, set up in different colleges, usually at the North Campus in the hot summer, and brought food from home which was pooled into an abundant  lunch over which we exchanged notes and pointers about scripts that were to be corrected.  Examination results were seldom delayed  and evaluation was for the most part fair. Systems of re-evaluation were also in place. As teachers we also had a strong DUTA in place that worked to improve and ameliorate teacing and learnng spaces in the university. We were a much admired university at the turn of the century with varied disciplines  committed to academic growth and research.

Where did these years go? I just don't know. DUTA has ben reduced to small rag tag groups that have been pulverised by the new systems that has been set in place. The place of the teacher as reprsentative has shunk in important bodies such as the Academic Council and the Executive Council. A hurriedly implemented  semester system  is firmly in place. Upon its body experiments on curriculum continue to be harnessed. First we truncated and bowdlerised the annual mode, next we expanded it to a four year program with silly ennervating syllabi  that had to be  rejected on public demand.  Another Trojan Horse that was introduced in the midst of all this was NAAC.  This trojan horse continues to consume all our energy as we try and get accreditation on paper by endless accumulation of data. Significantly, the powers that be have never engaged with the absurdity of the idea of accreditaion for a hundred year old public university.  As we limped back to arranging a more suitable curriculum for the semester system (although that is a misrepresentation of the truth for the semester system is unsuitable as a method of teaching in itself) we were struck by COVID and subsequently pushed into online modes of highly unproductive teaching. Before we could recover and restore the university to its rhythms, CUET and the NEP were implemented in the university. 

Were we caught off-guard as teachers? Was it the onslaught of unending semesters, or  the death toll of the pandemic  that ushered this new regimen in?  We are now in some Americanised environs where mountains of data is collected on cyberpages on what seems to me to be a six-hourly basis. Endless hours are demanded of each teacher in compiling and uploading data which  contributes zilch to  the processes of  teaching.  So I keep asking  myself..wasnt the university set up to teach?  Five years from today there will be research papers documenting how  data punching damages and depletes the human  brain and corrodes creativity. Assembly line techniques  work for objects,  they are not meant  for the human brain.

 So  how does this impede the learning process? Much has been said about the shrinking of the classroom space and the curriculum. Perhaps it is time  to speak for the student meant  to learn and grow holistically at the university. The students are run down and  bleary-eyed, the air is thick with particulate matter.  Hostel accomodation is meagre and PG digs are either expensive and unsustainable or shabby  and unappealing.We are so busy watching  the AQI that our water and food contaminants are yet to be highlighted.

 In this toxic amosphere, each student has seven papers per semester from the first semester onwards.  There are three core papes, one GE that is disguised as a core paper and courses such as VAC, SEC and EVS. which are  offered as credit papers.  While the core papers have diluted content, the marks have increased exponentially. If earlier 25 marks out of hundred was part of the internal assessment  and attendance that colleges contributed to the score sheet, now numbers crunching has reached  70. 

 CA (continuous evaluation) is for 40 marks (35 marks for student performance and 5 marks for tutorial attendance) and IA( internal evaluation) is for 30 marks ( 24 marks for writen work and 6 marks for attendance). Each core paper is  for 160 marks and all  students attempt  a three hour central exam  for 90 marks. The CA and IA demand five pieces of writing from the sudent in each course.  The non-core courses, supposedly less demanding, continue to put pressure on students, seking a steady handing over of endless assignments.  

Whil a teacher may have to evaluate abour 500 essays of varying length per semester, each student has to write about seven essays in each of the courses he or she is offering. Most students have replaced the older cut and paste system  with modern cheat technology and one can get   written assignments from an entire  class powered by ChatGPT answers. The modular semester program ensures that no course can ever spill into the next.This promotes silo learning from semester to semester, easily forgotten because there is very little time available even to teach the truncated courses that are on offer.   

So three years of this..and then one more mysterious year later, our students will enter the brave new world of a one year Masters Program.  Why have  Masters  Programs in various disciplines  been compressd into a single  year? Does this bode well for students  when the  core undergraduate syllabi has been greatly diluted?  Why have  MPhil courses been scrapped?  The University continues to be  in the throes of a  learning and teaching pandemic. No  inoculation is  in place. Nor have any  systems  been generated to nurture the best pedagogic practices that the university had in place, once. Students are packed into lecture, tutorial and  practical rooms by the gross.  Neither the sub-par curriculum nor the dinacharya of the overburdened student or the clericalised university teacher compiling data, is likely to be reviewed at any point.  

We have already celebrated 100 years of Delh University. It is now in free fall, disintegrating  into small bits. The telescope that can track and record  the fall and disintegration of  humungous bodies such as a central university has yet to be invented. If we cannot change this, maybe it is time to gather around and mourn.

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 Mulling over Mulberries in May.

It is going to be a hot summer. The melons, maltas, and water melons are abundant.  Grapes beckon to us in green and intense purple black and apples sit on fruit carts in the streets of Delhi,  possibly  emerging out of cold storage, but an unusual event nevertheless, because in days long gone by, fruits such as  the apple could not be seen  once March arrived. In fact, even Delhi's red carrots, that were being sold until last week  have also had a long run to the end of April. I still have two  red carrots in my vegetable tray in the refrigerator and shall consume them this morning, before welcoming the orange carrots  venturing out boldly in the face of the summer heat. Today is the fourth of May. allso the start of the agni nakshatra, my mom announces, as we ready ourselves for an incredibly hot spell.

 

 The mango  has been walking the streets of Delhi since February, announcing that this will be a  hot season. The Safeda, aka Banganapalli is the most dominant mango , but the Sinduri and the Totapuri and the Turkman, are  doing the rounds and recently Hapus or Apoos from  Bombay have also joined the fray. The Turkman is a small mango, thin skinned and sweet, with a rich flavour  while the Hapus , a little bigger than the Turkman  hits high taste and flavour  notes in every bite. Even before the other varieties of mangoes hit the streets, the mango captures the imagination and tweaks  the tastebuds for the longest season every year.  

Of late I have begun to wonder whether  large fruits, such as  the papaya, the watermelon, the pomegranate  and  banana( available all year long) the melons, pineapple, pears and peaches, less frequent visitors, have begun to edge out other berries and fruit not only from the carts but also from the cultural imagination?

  Fresh fruit of the date palm, grace the fruit carts for a very short time every year, although the ripe fruit, dried and packaged occupies pride of place in carts and stores all year long. The jujube fruit for instance, that Sabari bit into to verify  ripeness and sweetness before arranging them on a leaf plater for the visiting Rama. We grew up buying  three kinds of  ber or jujubes fruit,   in three sizes, red and pea sized, rust red and marble sized and  the green yellow jujube that was ovoid shaped and  turned a rust brown when overripe, and could be enjoyed both fresh, ripe and overripe.. The  ovoid shaped ber or jujube, available in shiv-ratri season, could be eaten only after  being offered to Shiva. Nowadays humungous jujubes  called apple jujubes  continue to arrive at markets  in spring. The two smaller sizes are hard to come by, although Tamil Nadu markets the most delicious packaged jujube pappads or vadas or paste made from the dried  red fruit, which is consumed stealthily by those in the know.  For those who have never eaten  jujube paste from Tamil Nadu, the jujube pickle made with mustard provides delicious counterpoint and yes, both the  jujube papad and jujube pickle  win hands down over  aam papad. 

 The maulsari, a delicious  tiny orange red fruit with hints of the cheeku, that most people do not seem to have heard of.   There are several Maulsari trees in full fruit at the college where I teach, that could with continued attention allow us to harvest abundant fruit. There is also the khirni, a fruit that possibly belongs to the same family as the Maulsari (Mimosops Elegi), and is ovoid in shape but yellow in colour, I have purchased them from a vendor in Chandni Chowk, but the fruit is rarely seen, although the tree itself is supposedly hardy and the fruit is meant to be nourishing, once consumed  only by royalty.

This April, we also had two days when  phalsa and jamun  were sold by street vendors because of the odd rainy weather  at New Delhi. Of the two, The jamun has managed to retain its clientele and can be found boxed up in imposing cartons. However, vendors selling both fruit  turn up in the month of June. Yet, other perishable fruit,  that grow on trees in New Delhi such as the fig and the mulberry seem to be receiving short shrift. Figs sell in carts in parts of Bombay and Kerala, but are rare to access in New Delhi, although the Gular grows in Delhi. Occasionally a stray vendor might sells some wilted figs in  transparent package, but such a  solitary swallow does not a summer make!

The mulberry,  available in small and medium and long sizes and in both deep pink and creamy green colours and a palette that ranges from tart to sour-sweet  and nectar sweet finds little mention in our fruit manuals. The Friday haat  sells kiwis, dragon fruit and blueberries (all the way from Peru )  routinely, but vendors who stack the mulberry in these local weekly market remain non existent. Occasionally, a desultory vendor walks the crowded street in  Sarojini Nagar market selling sad looking mulberries in a plastic carton, There is the lone vendor in green park market who stocks mulberry sometimes. I have seen one man at Connaught Place as well in a year long gone by, but the mulberry is now  a less loved fruit and will if we do not watch out, go the way of the maulsari and the khirni. 

This is a pity, because the mulberry is a versatile fruit , like any other. Fresh handpicked mulberries can be eaten off the tree or added to salads and sandwiches. They can be bottled as jam or  turned into compotes for pancakes and waffles. Mulberry jam is a delicious toppings for cheesecake and additions to muffins and can add great colour and body to smoothies.  They are dried and sold as tuth,  in the spice market at Istanbul. Occasionally, dry fruit vendors from Kashmir   sell dried tuth, that lends itself to a whole  range of delicacies. 

Recently a friend brought me mulberry candy from Hong Kong, wherein  the whole purple fruit had been dried and packaged  into delicious bite sized treats. It surpassed the  experience of  eating dried blueberries, was easier to bite into than cranberries and was softer and more intense in flavour than raisins.  All in all a great pick me up, with abundant health benefits, soothing coughs and sore throats, other than being the locavore gourmet and gourmand's dream come true. The mulberry tree in front of my house has fruited through March and April and will soon sign off its innings for the season.  It has provided sustenance to scores of birds, both tiny and large. It is  the favourite haunt of  small children who live nearby, who climb the tree and constantly raid it for its delicious and juicy fruit. 

Soon, the fruit will be gone and the children will be off in pursuit of juicier options. At the end of the week, large branches of the mulberry will stretch towards the earth, having descended to feed every child and adult who wandered by and tugged at its multiple arms. These will be  lopped off by idle hands and the upper ends of  metallic vehicles, as obstructions that must be briskly eliminated. The electricity department will also turn up, with machines, lopping off branches to protect electricity cables, while internet service providers will loop their wires through the uppermost branches of the tree. Meanwhile the enigmatic tree will  withdraw into silent meditation and  plan  for the next fruiting season.

 

A Requiem for Education

It was time for reason to flee

When Jaggu took over UGC,

For his well-timed exit from  JNU

Saved him from the falling debris,

Of that now- scrunched up university.

 

Everyone’s heart was in their mouth,

Knowing   twas DU’s time to go south

That is when in stepped HERA Pheri

Plus other practices jo Jaggu ne en route gheri!

Promoting questionable exams, benefitting neither meri nor teri !

 

Those were tiny shoes he had to fill,

 Vacated by previous VCs who had made DU ill

One had even opined that a little plagiarism was good,

This Jaggu at UGC speedily understood.

 Hence Michigan’s protocols have now become DU’s staple food

 

Our university years have lengthened,

And our specialized syllabi have shrunk!

 "No, don’t get into a funk,"

Jaggu declares, much strengthened:

 "In the new economy student fees will form a huge chunk."

 

 We asked :” What about ethics and equality and research standards?”

 He replied :” On such overloads,  why  must  energy  be  squandered?”

 “We promise ease of reduced teaching and guarantee pleasure

 Over four years you will be granted much more leisure.

 Why does such immanence worry you in undue measure?”

 

“ Our leaders, they are our national treasure,

 We must  not subject them to any more pressure,

 At all times, the university, student and teacher

In the leader’s diminishment must not feature

The ill educated leader is now an iconic creature.”

 

 “All education must take a hike,

So everyone go pedal your bike,

let us whip up the froth and fluff

 let no one dare to call our bluff,

 Less must be in fact, much much more than enough.”

 

Thus will NEP trip,  nip and rip education,

 Pushing students onto an overpriced  vacation

Under this new policy of Ignorance,

Education will forever be in a trance.

See how our politicians jump up and prance.

 

Meanwhile let us iterate as we so heavily fall

Know this: The anguished writing on the wall

  Higher education was not built by chance

 All those of you continuing to look askance

At innocent minds speared  through  mischance.

 Will you not end, this relentless,  macabre dance?