Perils of a self-taught gardener

( published in Citadel magazine - October, 1995 )

I have always believed, against much evidence, that I can learn to do anything by reading enough books and pamphlets on the subject. My earlier experiments with photography, interior decoration, ikebana, yoga, nouvelle cuisine and child-rearing yielded such wonderful results, so when my family bought a farmhouse at Panvel, I began to hang out in the garden section of bookstores and in the book section of garden stores.

Before long, I envisioned myself as a weekend Thoreau and going through the seed catalogues, I knew only one thing: I had to have my own vegetables, especially tomatoes, and lots of them! I ordered four varieties of tomatoes to see which would flourish best in the rocky acid that passes for soil on our land. The names inspired confidence: Maiden's Blush, Springset, Terrific and Sugar Lump! I also ordered many seeds from distant nurseries for Munchy Carrots, Luscious Lemons, Succulent Capsicum, Paramount Parsley and more. My seed bill came to an amount that, according to my husband, could have financed planting of coconut trees over several acres in arid Rajasthan.

Soon the desolate farmhouse took on the look of a greenhouse. Big and small pots everywhere, grow-lights, dirt on the floor, mud in the kitchen sink, soil in the doggie bowl, irrigation, impatience, irrigation, prayers and then green poked up at last. The frail sprouts took on real leaves and eventually the entire operation was transferred outdoors.

I soon discovered that you don’t merely put plants and seeds into the ground and water them. First, you till. That is, you run a monster of a machine over the area and it breaks up the soil to a depth of about four inches. Tilling is punishing work – your shoulder bones rattle, your hands cramp and you wonder if you’ve got premature arthritis. Still, you have the wonderful feeling of tearing something up. It is infinitely more satisfying than breaking rocks, which comes next. No matter how many times you rake, you quickly learn that there will be just as many stones to contend with as the first time.

Then I decided I needed a fence. I noticed other farms in the same area, operating flourishing gardens without fences, but well, I needed one. So I got a few fence posts hammered in and strung some small animal wire around. The only reliable defense against garden marauders, even the books advise, was over-planting – one for the rabbit, one for the crow, one for the worm, and one to grow. So naturally, I set about over-planting with a vengeance.

Once, getting out of bed uncommonly early, I saw a great, shambling, unidentified animal eating its way down one of my beet rows as methodically as a speed typist at work. I went berserk. Flinging myself down the stairs, pausing in the yard to collect whatever rocks I could grab, I began to fire missiles at it, screaming unprintables and using language that would have made a goonda blush. The felonious hunk squirmed out through the hole that it had forced in the wire and galloped clumsily off among the distant trees, but not before stopping mid-way in a field to give me a pained look.

Desperate enquiries revealed that a trail of creosote around a garden’s perimeter acts on rabbits and other small animals like a cross raised in the face of the devil. So I splashed that creosote. Generously, like as though my life depended upon it. Never mind that I had never heard of it until then. And when I was told that garlic juice repels pests, I pulverized garlic pods in the blender and sprayed hopefully. Whether garlic and creosote repel pests and other animals, I don’t know, but they certainly have an interesting effect on close friends.

“Organic Farming and Gardening” advised me to recycle domestic garbage and use it as manure. So the tea leaves and egg shells found their way outdoors. “Helpful Hints for the Novice Farmer” persuaded me to spread several bags of chemical fertilizer to supplement the organic nutrients. “Growing, the Natural Way” told me not to kill my plants with toxic chemicals, so I bought several bags of sheep manure and threw that on as well.

I also learned from one or another of my imported books that in order to get rid of slugs and snails, you must put out pans of beer. The slimy little creatures just stagger into the stuff and drown. I put out the beer a couple of times, much to the amusement of the kid, but got only two customers in three days, and those weren’t slugs or snails either.

Still, I’m hooked. Weekend gardening, which started as a secret vice, has now grown into an open addiction. Everything for the new gardener is miraculous, every day an adventure. I must admit I was a total failure with coriander, pumpkin, capsicum and lady-fingers, but I did have some definite successes, especially with tomatoes. Just about every tomato seedling I put in grew into a verdant, fruit-heavy wonder (and a tomato is a fruit, by the way).

But I had more troubles coming ! I had too many tomatoes now, for I had nurtured to full fruition a hundred and two thriving tomato plants, by precise count. Any responsible gardening book will warn you that for a small family, four or five productive tomato plants are enough, but I hadn’t wanted to listen or believe.

Now there were so many tomatoes that we were literally drowning in the stuff. Tomato sauce and stuffed tomatoes, tomato omelettes and tomato surprises, meats and vegetables in tomato gravy became our staple diet. I even forced them as presents upon unwilling friends and relations, servants, neighbors and casual acquaintances.

And then I bought more books and pamphlets and went into canning, again as a novice. I put up whole tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato purée, tomato-chilli sauce and I soon acquired the capacity to take care of the tomato requirements of a small town like Panvel. Perhaps if I hold on and don’t panic, the Russians will grow tired of American wheat and develop a taste for my tomato chutney.

Umm, excuse me, the tomato sauce is bubbling……

From an ignoramus to a 'know-it-all'..

(I wrote this just after the World Cup 1999)

                My Heart Beats For India

      How I changed from a cricket ignoramus to a know-it-all...

For someone who’s never ever held a cricket bat in her hands, who could never have told a googly from a Ganguly, and for whom cricketers were, until recently, a blur of nameless faces or faceless names, you should hear my ‘expert opinions’ now! They’d put even Sunil Gavaskar and Geoffrey Boycott to shame! In fact, those connoisseurs of the game ought to consult me for their columns and commentaries… or maybe I should give it some serious thought and hire myself out as an advisor to the BCCI before the selection of our national cricket team.

Earlier, I knew just the basics of the game and my interest in cricket was limited to joining the guys as they watched nail-biting finishes of Indo-Pak matches, but again, only if that happened to coincide with my free time.

One day, I found myself very brusquely excluded from all the excitement. I asked an ‘intelligent’ question and was brushed off with, “Oh, you won’t get it, you women can’t understand cricket, it’s a man’s game!”

That did it! I mean, I can fix a fuse and read a balance sheet, so why wouldn’t I understand a silly game like cricket, I asked myself, and set about learning it. Since there wasn’t a handbook around with the title, ‘What To Do When You Feel You Ought To Know Everything About Cricket And Actually You Do Know Whom To Ask But They Seem To Have Neither The Time Nor The Inclination To Educate You’, I did the next best thing: I took to watching cricket and cricket-related programmes on ESPN and Star Sports all day long.

Initially, of course, my comments provoked a lot of laughter. “Actually this Kumble is a fast bowler,” I pronounced very seriously one day. My son clutched his tummy and rolled about in uncontrollable mirth, my nephew spluttered on his coffee, and my husband laughed till he coughed. “Don’t utter that statement in public!” he warned me before launching into a fresh spasm of ‘coughter’. I tried to justify my words, repeating what the commentator had said, that “the batsman was beaten for Kumble’s pace and bounce.”

I also mixed up Brian Lara and Jimmy Adams and said, “Bryan Adams is out!” and when Srinath kept bowling "just outside the off-stump", I thought the boy was hopelessly inaccurate and questioned his place in the team.

I made rapid progress. The more cricket I watched, the more jargon I picked up and before long I was talking like I was some kind of authority on the game. I gave up watching movies and TV serials, preferring to see highlights of cricket matches. Cricket provided me with all the entertainment that I needed: heroes, villains, action, emotions, thrills, high drama, tragedy, comedy – it was all here.

My bookshelves now had nothing but Sportstar, Cricket Samrat and CricketTalk. I stopped purchasing more books and hid my existing collection out of sight, under the beds and over the cupboards. And as for the morning papers, I read them backward – sports’ news first and everything else later, and I’m sorry to confess, even Kargil didn’t interest me half as much as the Kargil benefit matches did. Cricket became my religion, but Sachin didn’t grow a long, white beard and don saffron, so he stopped just short of becoming my God.

Ask me today when the next match is scheduled and I’ll also tell you our team’s timetable for the entire coming season. Do you wish to know how the Net Run Rate is calculated? I can give you tuitions in the Duckworth-Lewis system as well. Would you like a list of the ten best websites on cricket? I’ll even provide the latest Ceat cricket ratings, tell you which player is endorsing what product, give you a minute-by-minute progress report on Sachin’s back, plus the names of those cricketers who sport an earring in one ear. I’m bursting with ‘cricinfo’ and feel confident about writing a thesis on the game, including domestic and women’s cricket, in addition to successfully performing a SWOT analysis of the players.

I’m the team’s fan, cheerleader, coach, manager, selector, strategist, analyst, statistician, umpire, square-leg umpire, third umpire, match adjudicator, commentator, doctor, physio, psychiatrist, motivational trainer, tax consultant and  mother all rolled into one, only it’s such a pity that nobody knows it.

Whenever a match is on, I wake up earlier than usual (“Aaj match hai, aaj match hai”), finish all my cooking and other chores at dizzying speed (“Aaj match hai, aaj match hai”), rush the maid and the family through their routine (“Aaj match hai, aaj match hai”), disconnect the phone, put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ placard around my neck, arm myself with the remote control, and sit back to enjoy the game. And if anyone makes the mistake of demanding food and beverages or disturbs me in any way, I howwwl in outrage and lament my shrinking personal space.

When our boys win, I’m there in front of the television set, cheering wildly; when they lose, I’m there, empathizing, clucking in sympathy, making excuses, getting all defensive and blaming it on the pitch.

During that mega event, the World Cup 1999, I went and bought truckloads of World Cup memorabilia – diaries and posters, calendars and coffee mugs, pencil boxes and key-chains all marketed so cleverly by Archie’s. I indulged in some plaintive bleating and sang "All the best" just like the younsters in the LG ad, I even waved miniature flags and chanted “Come on, India, dikha do”, encouraging the team from long distance. Each time Dravid or Ganguly hit a boundary, I was there, sipping Pepsi and begging, “Yeh dil maange more,” and believe it or not, that was me who discreetly wiped a tear when we lost that match to Zimbabwe.

Hey Sri, Jadu, Dada, Chopra, Monty, I hope you’re reading this, kids… when you guys toured Sri Lanka, Singapore, Australia, Toronto, Kenya, Sharjah or Dhaka, did you notice me as I tagged along, loyalty personified, following every ball from my hot seat at home?

I’ve been stumped, watching cricket up close, and as for the match-fixing scandal, well, that, in my opinion, is just an obnoxious interlude; what’s a little money got to do with it, I ask you, maybe Hansie and a few others could resist everything except temptation, like Oscar Wilde might have said, and besides, I can forgive anything as long as it’s unforgivable.

In the meantime, as I make myself a nimbu-paani, I await the launch of the new Coke campaign – will it be Srinath, or will it be Sourav? Whatever they promote, this ardent fan will sip, will eat, will use, will wear. Umm, I wonder what’s the price of that Tissot watch on Azhar’s wrist…

The Lady is a Tramp

(Another favourite article - this was published long ago in The Indian Express)
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THE LADY IS A TRAMP

One day, I saw an abandoned dog whose ladylike mannerisms and gentle disposition appealed to me. I brought her home and decided to call her Laika.

"Either that dog lives in this house or I do!" pronounced my aunt, dramatically packing her bags and threatening to go and live in an old people's home. My mother reproached me for the dharamsankat that my action had put her in and spent a sleepless night anticipating sister-in-law trouble.

The next morning, I saw Laika sitting at my aunt's feet and looking up at her with mournful brown eyes. My aunt was gingerly patting her and asking, "Kya khayegi? Omelette aur bread khayegi?”

Thereafter, Laika adopted the old lady, and in no time, she had trained her to hand out biscuits and wafers, chaklis and chiwdas, chips and chocolates every half hour or so. The two of them got along fine and we soon had a thoroughly pampered, roly-poly Laika waddling around the house.

"If the dog is fat, the owner isn't getting enough exercise," chided the vet, but each time we took her for long walks, she huffed and puffed along so heavily that my Dad especially felt sorry for her. "Don't torture her, she's too old for such strenuous routines," he said time and again. Before long, her walks were restricted to twenty-minute strolls down the lane and Laika spent her days leading a life of happy inertia, barking at crows twice a day for exercise.

She got everything she wanted - a biscuit on demand, a pat on demand, a meal on demand, a hug on demand - everything except sex on demand.

When she came into season, I couldn't handle her. One morning, she woke the household very vociferously at 4.30 a.m. Milady was restless and wanted the balcony doors to be opened for her. My mother obliged and she sat there looking out, howling loudly, barking, crying, whimpering and making all kinds of embarrassing noises. "Hush!" I scolded and dragged her inside, but she growled at me and almost bit me, so I left her alone and tried to go back to sleep, the house and the neighbourhood meanwhile reverberating with her sound effects.

Attracted by all those seductive noises, two dogs came and sat on the pavement down below, looked up at her quite lovingly and wagged their tails non-stop. They weren't exactly handsome specimens either - one of them was scruffy-looking, the other patchy with mange.

"Laika! Don't you have any taste?" I accused her, but Laika just looked at them, howled enticingly, squealed coquettishly, and yowled invitingly. She kept running to the front door, wanting to be let out.

To humour her, I took her down for an early morning walk. It was a mistake. Her paramours followed her at an uncomfortably close distance. I wasn't armed with sticks or stones to ward off the suitors, so I flapped my arms about in frenzy, trying to protect Laika's honour. But the lady was a tramp; she didn't want her honour protected... I quickly bent down, picked her up in my arms and carried her back home, while she looked longingly at her admirers from over my shoulder, whimpered sadly, and generally behaved like a tragedy queen of yore.

I had to take leave from work in order to chaperone her, since she was "my" dog, and had to be very alert all the while. Each time the door opened, Laika somehow managed to give us the slip and go bounding down at top speed to meet the objects of her affection, while I, guardian of her morals, kept running down barefoot in hot pursuit, trying to prevent any amorous mishaps from occurring.

Evening saw me a nervous wreck. I was exhausted from playing police and listening to her never-ending wails and ululations. I phoned the vet and related the events of the day. He laughed and suggested Calmpose. For a moment I thought the good man was prescribing the sedative for me. "If one doesn't work, give her two tomorrow night. This will go on for about a week."

The Calmpose had little effect. The next morning, her acoustics began much before dawn. “Oh, no! That nymphomaniac is up already," I moaned, taking a deep breath and bracing myself for what lay ahead. While the neighbours collectively wondered if it was an ill omen when a dog 'cried' like that, I privately wondered how I could pack Laika into a virginity sack.

Mercifully, this was the only fertile phase of hers that we witnessed. We were debating on the pros and cons of getting her operated but were spared taking a decision when she developed an infection and had to be sterilised. Her life remained a contented continuum of sluggish lethargy - with a biscuit on demand, a pat on demand, a meal on demand, a hug on demand...