Tenugui

There’s something new to learn everyday! This morning my very first Japanese student gifted me two tenuguis, one printed with various symbols associated with the Japanese culture – and the other vividly printed with plum blossoms, known as ‘Ume’ in Japanese. Tenugui is a union of two words – ‘te’, meaning ‘hands’, and ‘nugui’ which signifies the act of wiping

A tenugui is ostensibly a towel  in Japan, about 35x 90 cm in size, not so much in use now, but still popular as a traditional Japanese gift. It actually has many uses, I was told, as well as a lengthy history. It can be used as a wash cloth, dish cloth, tea towel, scarf, headband, as a souvenior, an advertising tool or for gift-wrapping.

A clay figurine from the Kofun Era (250 -538 AD), discovered with a tenugui wrapped around its head, testifies to its antiquity. It was apparently used in religious ceremonies in the past, and was woven out of silk or hemp, and subsequently became a mainstay for Samurai who wore it under their helmets to catch flows of perspiration.

It was several centuries later, during the Edo period, that it became the ‘towel’ for the masses, its use accelerated by the new concept of Public Baths that mushroomed in Japan around that time. The fabric turned to cotton, it began to be coloured and printed in myriad hues with scenes corresponding to the various seasons of Japan. Companies and establishments often gifted it to their clients, their logos and mercantile markings forming the print on the cloth.

My student wrapped it around her neck with a jaunty knot at the side to illustrate how it might be worn. Then, she delicately lifted the two loose ends and proceeded to mime the act of gently mopping her brow and drying her ears! It infused the rather mundane ritual with a dose of panache! Tomorrow I am going to knot a tenugui around my husband’s neck before he leaves for his morning constitutional. I am sure he will become a convert to its discreet mopping properties!

Allium Cepa

Allium what? It’s the onion, I’m talking about – the original tear jerker when stabbed by a sharp edged knife on a chopping board. But an onion a tearjerker all dressed up in its jacket? Nah, you are likely to say – if you don’t live in India, that is.

These days the sight of an onion sets my mood regulator to ‘lachrymose’. Actually, the onion has had this impact on me since 1993 or 1994 when its price rose sharply from Rs.3 a kg to Rs.12, all in a day. Then it rose even higher, setting new benchmarks for itself with each rise of the bar.

And one day it plummeted to a new low which did not correspond even remotely with its original high. I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand, never pausing to rummage in the drawer for a handkerchief, and rushed to the nearest greengrocer to collect a month’s stock, in case the price escalated again. As I stacked them away in my larder, examining each pink globe in disbelief, I burst into the famous Hindi song, “Kaho na Pyaaz hai”. Seeing so many onions jostling for space on my shelves was a sight that proved too much for me, I guess. I had to pinch myself to believe it was true.

We need an army to mobilize action against the hoarders, middlemen and exporters of the allium. Such a force could be called “Hum Hai Rahi Pyaaz Ki”, and their theme song could be “Kya Yehi Pyaaz Hai?” – an oblique but telling allusion to a time when the onion would no longer be visible in humble Indian homes because of its caviar-like status. People would go around bleating mournfully, “De De Pyaaz De” and “Yeh Pyaaz ka Nagma hai” but to no avail, because nobody ever listens to vox populi , or don’t do anything about it if they do.

The onion was the first vegetable in our markets to crumble under the onslaught of the greedy merchant, but several others followed suit in quick succession.

Alea Iacta Est.

The cost of living continues to be unbearably high and die-hard non-vegetarians have perforce had to swallow the humble pie and turn to the relatively cheaper climbers and creepers to keep body and soul together. The inflation index is creeping upwards with staple food and dairy products rushing to imitate the destiny of the onion, and petrol prices have gone through the roof, compounding the misery of the hoi polloi.

It all began with the humble allium cepa.

Patiala

On a trip to Delhi this time, I found myself the proud possessor of a Patiala salwar with a matching dupatta. To be honest, this was not one of the items on my shopping list, but I was carried away by the enthusiasm of my friend and her daughter who were picking up the ensembles like they were hot cakes at a charity bazaar!

A Patiala salwar is a loose cotton salwar with several pleats that make it even roomier, quite ideal actually for the hot days of an Indian summer. I have to get a fitting kurta stitched for it, not too long – above the knee I should think, so until such time it has to remain suspended on a hanger in my cupboard. I am notoriously lazy about visiting the tailor, so I hope I will have discipline enough to execute the task while the thermostat is still hovering around the mid to late thirties, to derive the maximum benefit from the new addition to my wardrobe.

Salwars and churidaars have almost replaced the saree as India’s most often worn outfit, although the saree has no competition in the elegance department from either of them or any other dress form whatsoever. When I browse through old family albums, it is the saree that catches the eye. Indian ladies always wore sarees. There is an abundance of photographs of my mother and several aunts dressed only in sarees – and I would hardly classify the period as ‘olden days’. However, I do have ample recollection of my late grandmother (Dadi) dressed in spotless white kurtas paired with colourful printed satin pyjamas sitting astride her bed or sofa receiving visitors with all the solemnity of a royal highness. When she ventured out, which was rarely, it was a different story altogether. She would attire herself gracefully in light-coloured lace sarees and appear almost unrecognisable to her several grandchildren who would gaze at the transformed being in awe!

Our album has several black and white photographs of my Nani astride a camel on the desert sands of Eygpt in a pale chiffon saree. She looks immensely comfortable in it, and so does the camel! Today’s girls (mea culpa, too) would whip up a desert storm all of their own if it were suggested that they wear the whole six yards on a holiday or a safari!

Few would, however, turn up their noses at the comfortable Patiala though!

Italy

Three followers now. My entourage is growing!

 I had a conversational English class with my Japanese student today, and enjoyed it as usual. She is keeping an interesting diary, and I suggested that she also start a blog. At present she is a trifle reluctant to, but I’m sure she will come around to the idea sooner, rather than later.

She and her husband have just returned from a short holiday to Italy and have had a refreshing time. I could tell that from her happy demeanour and perky manner. She claimed to be suffering from jetlag and a spill over of sea-sickness caused by motor-boating through the streets of Venice, but I saw none of that. She brought me a beautifully monogrammed handkerchief, from either Milan or Venice, as a gift. I have never seen the like of it before. A little birdie tells me that I may never use it for the purpose that it was created. Perhaps it will pass on to my descendents as a sort of family heirloom with sentimental value! I must also give her a token amount of Re1/- for it. I seem to recall, in the deeper recesses of my mind, someone telling me that handkerchiefs should not be gifted to friends. Since she is a friend more than a student, I must pay for it to preserve the friendship.

Several years ago, a friend of my son’s and his family visited Italy. Among other tourist spots, they visited Rome and ventured to see the ruined Colosseum. At the entry barrier, where an apparently fat entrance fee was requested, a group of Indian tourists, in classic Indian style, suggested to the attendant that only half the fee be charged since there was only half the structure remaining for them to see! Needless to say, this elicited chuckles all around, and even the taciturn sentinel behind the counter or turnstile broke into a smile!

Like a Superstar!

One day old, two comments and one follower later, that's how I feel - like a superstar! It's heady stuff, this blogging! Perhaps headier is a spicy Chinese lunch at a restaurant on a somnolent Sunday afternoon, doggy bags neatly stacked in the refrigerator for a second bout of 'Tora Tora Tora' perhaps late in the evening.
Child has departed for a cup of brutally expensive coffee with her friends at a coffee shop nearby, discarding my thrifty suggestions of having them over and stirring up a Cafe Latte Unique with the freshest ingredients from her own fridge and larder. "Mamma, I like to go out!" she squealed in her squeakiest descant designed to pierce even the frequency of a bat. I threw up my hands in defeat, mulling over the idea of positioning them there permanently since I am so often defeated of late! But no - swinging them up and down periodically is good exercise for a sedentary creature such as I. In defeat therefore, lies my victory over the excess pounds (not the British variety) that have accumulated over various parts of my once delicate person.
I went to a lunch gathering of a small number of alumni spread over several batches recently - some of whom I knew slightly and some not at all. It was an eyeopener in the sense that most of us had apparently ballooned into shapes not unlike Obelix and Little Lotta - but some remained remarkably Popeye and Olive-like, without quite subsisting only on spinach. The general verdict was that middle age brings with it its own layers of adipose, and we should not individually be held responsible for it! Most were against gymming but pro yoga and multi-kilometre walks without snatcher-friendly gold chains around our necks.
My daily exercise actually involves walking up and down the stairs and totally avoiding the lift because I am claustrophobic and automated elevators give me the heebiejeebies. Methinks I do not belong to the age of the multi-storeyed apartment and the high rise block.

Gold rimmed spectacles

I'm at the age when spectacles are de rigeur. If I have to wear them, I'll go for the gold rimmed goldfish variety, preferably dangling on a gold chain. It would contrast beautifully with my turning-to-silver tresses. I remember my mother running her fingers over the ivory keys of our piano, and belting out a song she learned from her English  music teacher decades ago in Africa. The lyrics went, "darling, I am growing old......silver threads among the gold...." Ever since, I've been spellbound by a union of the two metals.
We saw Delhi Belly recently. It was a good film, but the toilet scenes and the cockroach on the pizza are creating their own havoc within me. My stomach heaves ever so often. I actually enjoy most of Aamir's films. I really appreciated Taare Zameen Par, and Three Idiots was tres bien in my lexicon. Actually, my son plays a miniscule role in that film, so I never fail to watch it everytime it comes up for viewing on TV, even though I've seen and enjoyed it on the big screen. I intend to watch only the parts in which my son appears, but willynilly get drawn to watching the whole film!
I watched another interesting film recently - a Japanese film called 'Butterfly on the Ganges'. Believe it or not, it was in a language I don't understand, so there was a lot that went over my head - but Indians should see this film to get a perspective on how we appear to visitors, from the moment they land at our airports. It is both complimentary to and critical about us, and is an amusing watch to boot!