by Sudha Murty
‘You will now tell me that even gulkand is from somewhere else!’ I complained loudly.
She grinned. ‘You aren’t wrong! Gulkand is a Persian word too—gul is nothing but rose and kand means sweet. Gul, in fact, originates from the word gulab, meaning rose.’
My brain was thoroughly exhausted with all this information. When I saw the oranges, I said with pride, ‘I will not call this an orange now, but its Kannada name narangi.’
Uncle cleared his throat. ‘Narangi is an Indian word but it does not originate in Karnataka. It is made up of two words—naar, which means orange or colour of the sun, and rangi, meaning colour.’
The conversation was making me feel truly lost.
‘When people stay in one place for some time,’ he continued, ‘they unknowingly absorb the culture around them, including the regional food and language. At times, we adopt the changes into our local cuisine and make it our own. That’s exactly what happened with the foods we have discussed.’
I glanced at my watch. It was time for me to leave. I thanked them profusely, especially Uncle, for enlightening me in a way that even Google could not.
There was a huge traffic jam despite it being a Sunday evening as I set out for home, but I wasn’t bored on the way. In fact, I was happy to recollect Uncle’s words and perhaps, as a result, suddenly remembered an incident.
My mother had two sisters. Though all three sisters were married to men from the same state, their husbands’ jobs were in different areas—one lived in south Karnataka in the old Mysore state, my parents lived in Maharashtra and the third stayed in the flatlands in a remote corner of Karnataka.
After their husbands retired, the three sisters lived in Hubli in the same area. It was fun to meet my cousins every day and eat meals together. We celebrated festivals as a family and the food was cooked in one house, though everybody brought home-cooked desserts from their own houses.
During one particular Diwali, we had a host of delicacies. My mother made puri and shrikhand (a popular dish in Maharashtra made from strained yogurt and sugar). My aunt from Mysore made kishmish kheer and a rice-based main course called bisi bele anna, while the other aunt made groundnut-based sweets such as jaggery-based sticky chikki and ball-shaped laddus.
As children, my cousins and I had plenty of fun eating them but in the car, I realized for the first time that all the sisters had absorbed something from the area that they had lived in. Despite their physical proximity, the food in each household was so diverse. I couldn’t help but wonder how exciting the food really must be in the different regions of India.
I thought of paneer pizzas, cheese dosas and the Indian ‘Chinese’ food. They must have originated the same way. Who really said that India is a country? It is a continent—culturally vibrant, diverse in food and yet, distinctly Indian at heart.
18
Bombay to Bangalore
It was the beginning of summer. I was boarding the Udyan Express at Gulbarga railway station. My destination was Bangalore. As I boarded the train, I saw that the second-class compartment was jam-packed with people. Though the compartment was reserved, there were many unauthorized people in it. This side of Karnataka is popularly known as Hyderabad Karnataka since the Nizam of Hyderabad once ruled this area. There is scarcity of water here, which makes the land dry, and the farmers cannot grow anything during summer. Hence, many poor farmers and landless labourers from Hyderabad Karnataka immigrate to Bangalore and other big cities during the summer for jobs in construction. They return to their homes in the rainy season to cultivate their lands. This was April, so the train compartment was particularly crowded.
I sat down and was pushed to the corner of the berth. Though it was meant for three people, there were already six of us sitting on it. I looked around and saw students who were eager to come to Bangalore and explore different options to enhance their careers. There were merchants who were talking about what goods to order from Bangalore. Some government officers, though, were criticizing Gulbarga. ‘What a place! Staying here is impossible because of the heat. No wonder people call this a punishment transfer!’
The ticket collector came in and started checking people’s tickets and reservations. It was difficult to guess who had a ticket and who had a reservation. Some people had tickets but no reservation. This was an overnight train and people needed sleeper berths, but they were limited in number. People who did not have a reserved berth were begging the ticket collector to accommodate them ‘somehow’. It was next to impossible for him to listen to everyone.
With his eagle eye, he easily located people who did not have a ticket. People without tickets were pleading, ‘Sir, the previous train was cancelled. We had a reservation on that train. It is not our fault. We don’t want to pay for this ticket again.’ Another person was begging him: ‘Sir, I was late to the station and there was a big queue. I didn’t have time to buy a ticket. So, I got into this compartment.’ The collector must have read the Bhagavad Gita thoroughly; he remained calm while listening to their stories and kept issuing new tickets for ticketless passengers.
Suddenly, he looked in my direction and asked, ‘What about your ticket?’
‘I have already shown my ticket to you,’ I said.
‘Not you, madam, the girl hiding below your berth. Hey, come out, where is your ticket?’
I realized that someone was sitting below my berth. When the collector yelled at her, the girl came out of hiding. She was thin, dark, scared and looked like she had been crying profusely. She must have been about thirteen or fourteen years old. She had uncombed hair and was dressed in a torn skirt and blouse. She was trembling and folded both her hands.
The collector asked again, ‘Who are you? From which station did you get on? Where are you going? I can issue a full ticket for you with a fine.’
The girl did not reply. The collector was getting very angry since he had been dealing with countless ticketless passengers. He took out his anger on this little girl. ‘I know all you runaways,’ he shouted. ‘You take a free ride in trains and cause tremendous problems. You neither reply to my questions nor pay for your ticket. I have to answer to my bosses …’
The girl still did not say anything. The people around the girl were not bothered at all and went about their business. Some were counting the money for their ticket and some were getting ready to get down at Wadi Junction, the next stop. People on the top berth were preparing to sleep and others were busy with their dinner. This was something unusual for me, because I had never seen such a situation in my vast experience of social work.
The girl stood quietly as if she had not heard anything. The collector caught hold of her arms and told her to get down at the next station. ‘I will hand you over to the police myself. They will put you in an orphanage,’ he said. ‘It is not my headache. Get down at Wadi.’
The girl did not move. The collector started forcibly pulling her out from the compartment. Suddenly, I had a strange feeling. I stood up and called out to the collector. ‘Sir, I will pay for her ticket,’ I said. ‘It is getting dark. I don’t want a young girl on the platform at this time.’
The collector raised his eyebrows and looked at me. He smiled and said, ‘Madam, it is very kind of you to offer to buy her a ticket. But I have seen many children like her. They get in at one station, then get off at the next and board another train. They beg or travel to their destination without a ticket. This is not an exceptional case. Why do you want to waste your money? She will not travel even with a ticket. She may leave if you just give her some money.’
I looked out of the compartment. The train was approaching Wadi Junction and the platform lights were bright. Vendors of tea, juice and food were running towards the train. It was dark. My heart did not accept the collector’s advice—and I always listen to my heart. What the collector said might be true but what would I lose—just a few hundred rupees?
‘Sir, that’s fine. I will pay for her ticket anyway,’ I said.
I asked
the girl, ‘Will you tell me where you want to go?’
The girl looked at me with disbelief. It was at this moment that I noticed her beautiful, dark eyes, which were grief-stricken. She did not say a word.
The collector smiled and said, ‘I told you, madam. Experience is the best teacher.’
He turned to the girl and said, ‘Get down.’
Then he looked at me and said, ‘Madam, if you give her ten rupees, she will be much happier with that than with the ticket.’
I did not listen to him. I told the collector to give me a ticket to the last destination, Bangalore, so that the girl could get down wherever she wanted.
The collector looked at me again and said, ‘But she won’t get a berth and you will have to pay a penalty.’
I quietly opened my purse.
The collector continued, ‘If you want to pay, then you should pay for the ticket from the train’s starting point.’
The train originated from Bombay VT and terminated at Bangalore. I paid up quietly. The collector issued the ticket and left in disdain.
The girl was left standing in the same position. I asked my fellow passengers to move and give the girl some space to sit down because she now held a valid ticket. They moved very reluctantly. Then, I asked the girl to sit on the seat—but she did not. When I insisted, she sat down on the floor.
I did not know where to start the conversation. I ordered a meal for her and when the dinner box came, she held it in her hands but did not eat. I failed to persuade her to eat or talk. Finally, I gave the ticket to her and said, ‘Look, I don’t know what’s on your mind since you refuse to talk to me. So, here’s the ticket. You can get down wherever you want to.’
As the night progressed, people started sleeping on the floor and on their berths, but the girl continued to sit.
When I woke up at six o’clock the next morning, she was dozing. That meant that she had not got down anywhere. Her dinner box was empty and I was happy that she had at least eaten something.
As the train approached Bangalore, the compartment started getting empty. Again, I told her to sit on the seat and this time she obliged. Slowly, she started talking. She told me that her name was Chitra. She lived in a village near Bidar. Her father was a coolie and she had lost her mother at birth. Her father had remarried and had two sons with her stepmother. But a few months ago, her father had died. Her stepmother started beating her often and did not give her food. I knew from her torn, bloodstained blouse and the marks on her body that she was telling the truth. She was tired of that life. She did not have anybody to support her so she left home in search of something better.
By this time, the train had reached Bangalore. I said goodbye to Chitra and got down from the train. My driver came and picked up my bags. I felt someone watching me. When I turned back, Chitra was standing there and looking at me with sad eyes. But there was nothing more that I could do.
As I started walking towards my car, I realized that Chitra was following me. I knew that she did not have anybody in the whole world. Now, I was at a loss. I did not know what to do with her. I had paid her ticket out of compassion but I had never thought that she was going to be my responsibility! But from Chitra’s perspective, I had been kind to her and she wanted to cling on to me. When I got into the car, she stood outside watching me.
I was scared for a minute. ‘What am I doing?’ I questioned myself. I was worried about the safety of a girl in Wadi Junction station, but now I was leaving her in a big city like Bangalore—a situation worse than the previous one. Anything could happen to Chitra here. After all, she was a girl. There were many ways in which people could exploit her situation.
I told her to get into my car. My driver looked at the girl curiously. I told him to take us to my friend Ram’s place. Ram ran separate shelter homes for boys and girls. We at the Infosys Foundation supported him financially on a regular basis. I thought Chitra could stay there for some time and we could talk about her future after I came back from my tours in a few weeks. There were about ten girls in the shelter and three of them were of Chitra’s age. Most of the girls there already knew me.
As soon as I reached the shelter, the lady supervisor came out to talk to me. I explained the situation and handed Chitra over to her. I told Chitra, ‘You can stay here for two weeks. Don’t worry. These are very good people. I will come and see you after two weeks. Don’t run away from here, at least until I come back. Talk to your lady supervisor. You can call her Akka.’ (Akka means elder sister in the Kannada language.) I handed over some money to the supervisor and told her to buy some clothes and other necessary things for the girl.
After two weeks, I went back to the shelter. I was not sure if Chitra would even be there. But to my surprise, I saw Chitra looking much happier than before. She was having good food for the first time in her life. She was wearing new clothes and was teaching lessons to the younger children. As soon as she saw me, she stood up eagerly. The supervisor said, ‘Chitra is a nice girl. She helps in our kitchen, cleans the shelter and also teaches the younger children. She tells us that she was a good student in her village and wanted to join high school but her family didn’t allow her to do so. Here, she is comfortable and wants to study further. What are your plans for her future? Can we keep her here?’
Soon, Ram also joined us. Ram knew the whole story and suggested that Chitra could go to a high school nearby. I immediately agreed and said that I would sponsor her expenses as long as she continued to study. I left the shelter knowing that Chitra had found a home and a new direction in her life.
I got busier with my work and my visits to the shelter reduced to once a year. But I always inquired about Chitra’s well-being over the phone. I knew that she was studying well and that her progress was good.
Years went by. One day, Ram phoned me and said that Chitra had scored 85 per cent in her tenth class. When I went to the shelter to congratulate and talk to her, she was very happy. She was growing up to be a confident young woman. There was brightness in her beautiful, dark eyes.
I offered to sponsor her college studies if she wanted to continue studying. But she said, ‘No, Akka. I have talked to my friends and made up my mind. I would like to do my diploma in computer science so that I can immediately get a job after three years.’ I tried to persuade her to go to college for a bachelor’s degree in engineering but she did not agree. She wanted to become economically independent as soon as possible. Somewhere inside me, I understood where she was coming from.
Three rainy seasons passed. Chitra obtained her diploma with flying colours. She also got a job in a software company as an assistant testing engineer. When she got her first salary, she came to my office with a sari and a box of sweets. I was touched by her gesture. Later, I got to know that she had spent her entire first salary buying something for everyone at the shelter.
Soon enough, Ram called me to discuss a new problem. ‘Chitra is now a working girl. So she cannot stay in the shelter since it is only meant for students.’ I told Ram that I would talk to Chitra and ask her to pay the shelter a reasonable amount of money per month towards rent. This way she could continue to stay there until she got married. I strongly felt that the shelter was a safe place for an unmarried, orphan girl like Chitra.
Ram asked me, ‘Are you going to look for a boy for her?’
This was a new and an even bigger problem. As her informal guardian, I had to find a boy for Chitra or she herself had to find a life partner. This was a great responsibility. No wonder people say I have a penchant for getting into problems! But God also shows me unique ways of getting out of them. I told Ram, ‘She is only twenty-one. Let her work for a few years. If you come across a suitable boy, please let me know.’
I called Chitra and gave her my opinion about her staying at the shelter, and she happily agreed to stay on and pay rent.
Days rolled by, and months turned into years. One day, when I was in Delhi, I got a call from Chitra. She was very happy. ‘Akka, my company is s
ending me to the US! I wanted to meet you and take your blessings but you are not here in Bangalore.’
I was ecstatic for Chitra. I said, ‘Chitra, you are now going to a different country. Take care of yourself and keep in touch. My blessings are always with you.’
Years passed. Occasionally, I received an email from Chitra. She was doing very well in her career. She was posted across several cities in the US and was enjoying life. I silently prayed that she should always be happy wherever she was.
Years later, I was invited to deliver a lecture in San Francisco for Kannada Koota, an organization where families who speak Kannada meet and organize events. The lecture was in a convention hall of a hotel and I decided to stay at the same hotel. After the lecture, I was planning to leave for the airport. When I checked out of the hotel room and went to the reception counter to pay the bill, the receptionist said, ‘Madam, you don’t need to pay us anything. The lady over there has already settled your bill. She must know you pretty well.’
I turned around and found Chitra there. She was standing with a young white man and wore a beautiful sari. She was looking very pretty with short hair. Her dark eyes were beaming with happiness and pride. As soon as she saw me, she gave me a brilliant smile, hugged me and touched my feet. I was overwhelmed with joy and did not know what to say.
‘Chitra, how are you? I have not seen you for ages. What a sweet surprise. How did you know that I will be in this city today?’
‘Akka, I live in this city and came to know that you are giving a lecture at the local Kannada Koota. I am also a member there. I wanted to surprise you. It is not difficult to find out about your schedule.’
‘Chitra, I have so many questions to ask you. How is work? Have you visited India? And more importantly, have you found Mr Right? And why did you pay my hotel bill?’
‘No, Akka. I haven’t come to India since I left. If I come to India, how can I return without meeting you? Akka, I have something to tell you. I know that you were always worried about my marriage. You never asked me about my community. But you always wanted me to settle down. I know it is hard for you to choose a boy for me. Now, I have found my Mr Right. Please meet my colleague, John. We are getting married at the end of the year. You must come for our wedding and bless us.’
