Hard Rocks From The School Of Hard Knocks

It started with some soft rotten tomatoes, then rotten eggs, some felt like boiled eggs and then rocks. They hurt! It seemed everyone threw one at him sometime. He was sensitive to begin with. Gradually it seemed like he developed a thick skin, so that even the stones seemed to bounce off. Of course, they still hurt. The injuries and bruises were too many, countless. While each was a reminder of atleast one painful hit, together all of his injuries seemed to have given him a shield, making the next hit in the same spot less painful than the first time. Maybe that is how injuries worked, the hard, healed scar made you tougher at that spot.

He had come to expect the rocks. After all, this was life, the school of hard knocks...

He used to look at the faces of the people who tossed the missiles in his direction and it used to surprise him that many were 'friendly' faces. He had stopped looking at the faces now, and did so only by accident. He had often observed a face, in the background mostly, of a figure that he had not seen participate in the stone throwing. It had an expression of calmness, kindness and wisdom. He thought he sensed in it both interest in what was going on and a detachment. It seemed to watch everything closely and yet not intervene.

It was a face framed with long, flowing grey hair upto the shoulders. The beard too seemed to flow and met up with the hair around the face and head. All the hair seemed like the tributaries of a river that met and flowed down from the face. One could clearly see the expressive eyes and a permanent slight smile on the lips through the two streams of hair from the upper lips.

He thought of this person as "The Saint". He had never seen this figure throw anything at him. If it did, he was not looking at it then. To him it appeared the one person who had not ever thrown a rock at him.

One day, he was feeling down and had received a fair bit of rocks. Now, mostly, the physical pain was something he could easily bear, but it was his heart that hurt the most. His 'armour' skin was quite tough. Rarely did any stone sting or extract blood. There was a pile of stones at his feet, all that he had thrown away all these years.

Suddenly, he felt a real painful sting, and a little spurt of blood where the rock had hit and had become embedded in his skin. It felt unusually hard. He grabbed it, all bloodied and dirty and threw it away at his feet. He was surprised. He looked at the wound. He applied some pressure on it to stop the bleeding. He did not even look at who had thrown it. This had been the most painful and hardest hit he had ever felt in his life. Just as the pain was subsiding and he was about to move on, he felt another painful sting, a similar hard, sharp and a bigger rock this time. This hurt even more than the previous one.

This time, he caught a glimpse of the person who had thrown it, the hand still completing the motion of the throw.

It was "The Saint!!" And he had an expression of a mischievous smile on his face. He quickly resumed his appearance of detachment. He could not quite figure out what was so different about the rocks that came from this person, that hurt more than the ones he had seen others hurl with more energy. He felt the sharp edge of the rock still embedded in his arm. As he pulled it out, his fingertips were showing crimson strips where the sharp edges had cut deep without him even feeling it. He had the sense to handle it carefully and take it away, wash the blood and grime off it and look at it closely. He held it up against the sunlight after wiping it gently and carefully with a cloth.

A thousand shafts of little rainbows seemed to dance around the rock, heading in all directions. He was wonderstuck. Suddenly, he understood! A smile crept into his face.

"Life Rocks!!" He thought, as he made his way to the pile of stones he had thrown away all these years.

Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved 

Wax-N-Pickles

Memories of America

It is Easter time and I was walking along the main street of Alex one evening. It was getting dark. Most shops were closed, but one had lights flashing framing the display window and it was open.  It sells all kinds of knick-knacks that have a rustic look and feel about them. It is a store run by a local, C, someone I know. I walked in and there she was working with a friend on some decorative Easter goods for her store.

After our greetings, I asked what they had special for Easter.

“Would you like some fat-free eggs?” she asked with a smile.

“Sure,” I replied, imagining something tasty and fat-free to boot.

C pointed at some coloured eggs with little wicks sticking out of them.

“They are wax eggs. Candles really,” she laughed.

I realised that if I were not told what they really were, I would have taken a bite.

Suddenly, memories, a flash-back to my days in the USA as a student, fresh out of India, in my first days in a foreign country came vividly to my mind.

I had a good American friend of Irish origin – Ken. A tall, easy going, friendly chap. He was a great prankster and good at practical jokes. He was studying mechanical engineering and came from a family that worked mining equipment in Nevada. He drove a motorbike, a car (he had driven all the way from Nevada to Alaska where we met) and gave me rides around town.

We were getting to know each other. He delighted in my strange Indian ways and accepted me as I was. He never said a word or showed any reaction to see me eat – chewing with my mouth open. I was always interested in trying out new foods from anywhere and to a newcomer to the USA it was surprising to see the variety of attractive strange looking things. I was on a mission to try everything I could.

I and Ken were at a party where they had served different cheeses. I loved cheese and had encountered only two varieties in my life before in India – the traditional indian cottage cheese called ‘paneer’ that looks like tofu and the canned variety from a dairy corporation Amul (I would probably classify it as some kind of sharp thick cheddar now). I was not aware of the many dozens of varieties in the world and thrilled to see so many around.

That day, I and Ken sat in the elegant gathering with some elegant wines and elegant cheeses. I saw one cheese with an attractive red coating around a smooth yellow cheese with some Dutch label or something. I picked up a slice, looked it over, popped it into my mouth and set about trying to appreciate the taste. I found the inner part soft and it melted delightfully in my mouth, but the outer crust was a bit tough and took a lot of chewing and effort to swallow.

I observed Ken looking at me with a bit of interest, but he was a good poker player. He asked me how it was. Good, l liked it very much I replied.

He kept asking me how I felt during the evening. Finally, he let it out.

“Did you know you are not supposed to eat the wax around the cheese?” he asked.

“No, I did not even know it was wax! Or that it was not meant to be eaten. Why did you not tell me?” I replied.

Looking at the thick coating around food and something that encases it, from an Indian habit, I thought it was all food and meant to be eaten. If it were not, one would remove it before serving or at least warn a newcomer. The wax itself looks very attractive and looks almost like a lovely candied jelly or something. I felt a bit embarrassed, thinking of all those elegant people that observed me down a good sized chunk of wax, struggling to keep my mouth closed while chewing and wrestling with the plastic wax in my mouth to finally, manfully, down it. I must have made an interesting sight.

“Well, after you picked it up and looked at it, you suddenly popped it into your mouth and started chewing before I even got over the shock of what was happening. I wanted to see what you would do. I kept watching and then it was too late,” said Ken honestly, but with a smile at having witnessed something rare, something he could share with his grandkids.

Many months passed. Ken became a close, good friend. He would often be my guest at gatherings of my Indian friends in town. We plied him with food from many regions. He started to take an interest and venturesome attitude to trying out new stuff.

One day, we sat at an inelegant gathering of Indian guys at our rented apartment. We all ate inelegantly with our hands. We served stuff on plates with forks and spoons, we could wander around the room, sit around on the floor with the food at the centre. We had food from all regions – yoghurt rice from the south, roti from the north, Mango pickles from Andhra Pradesh. The pickles were a special treat, recently made from home, sent through a visiting friend – little raw mangoes marinating in a hot-chilli sauce. It takes months or years to mature and slightly mellow. It is a bit ‘flaming’ when fresh.

“That looks wonderful and interesting,” said Ken.

Ken picked up one mango politely with his fork, and looked it all around.

“You should try it. It goes well with the yoghurt rice at the end of the meal and…,” I started to explain. Before I could finish, Ken had popped the whole mango into his mouth.

In his elegant polite manner, he chewed with his mouth closed. Those of us watching him all looked a bit shocked. We knew the pickle was meant to be eaten a little at a time with mouthfuls of rice in yoghurt.

The white Irishman turned pink and progressively red. Ken finally manfully downed the whole thing. As he opened his mouth, he was swamped with offers of coolants, water, and anything to soothe him. I offered the fire-extinguisher first and then got him some ‘Rasagollas’ a sweet made from Indian cottage cheese. Those provided real relief and a sweet ending.

Now, I too have a story to tell my grandkids.

Photos credit and Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2012

All rights reserved