Moqueca De Camarao (Shrimp Stew, Bahian Style) u

(This savoury stew is made with a variety of proteins including shrimps or dried shrimp. we can also go for boneless fish as an alternative option. Brazilians always include an ingredient referred to as part of the "Holy Trinity of Bahian cusine"- coconut milk. I found this dish much like our native chingri malai curry....but tangier and redder because of the use of tomato paste. And of course the veggies added makes it healthier)

Ingredients

• 30 shrimps
• 3 tbsp fresh lime juice
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 3/4 cup coconut milk
• 1/3 cup olive oil
• 2 large onions halved and thinly sliced
• 1 large garlic, crushed and minced (Abt 2 tbsp)
• 3 medium tomatoes, seeded and sliced
• 2 tbsp tomato paste (can use puree if paste is not available)
• 3 stalks green onions, sliced thin up to the green
• 1 tsp fresh parsley
• 1/4 cup paprika/bell peppers

Method

• Peel and devein the shrimps and place them in a small bowl and sprinkle lime juice and salt and marinate (overnight for best results)
• Heat olive oil in a pan and add onion, garlic and peppers. Saute until the onions are almost transluscent and then add tomatoes, tomato paste, green onions and parsley
• Cook until soft, then add the shrimps marinated in the lime juice
• Continue cooking until the shrimps are done (2-3 mins)
• Add coconut milk. Let it boil for a minute and add salt and pepper to taste.
• Serve with white rice or black bean rice.

Arroz Com Feijao (Black Bean Rice)

(I learnt a few simple and delicious dishes in a cooking workshop in Delhi. This recipe, "Cart rider's rice" in English, is typical from the gauchos in the southern state of Rio Grande do Sul in Brazil. Traditional ingredients used here are the black beans and rice with parsley and bay leaf. However since black beans is hard to find everywhere rajma or dry meat can be used in its place)

Ingredients (Serves 4)

• 250 gms of black beans (Rajma or dry minced meat can be used if black beans are not available)
• 2 cups white rice
• 4 cups of water
• 1 tomato chopped
• 1 onion chopped
• 1 tbsp garlic chopped
• 2 tbsp butter
• 2-3 bay leaves
• Chopped parsley
• Salt to taste

Method

• Soak the black bean overnight and then boil it to half done
• In a casserole, melt the butter and add bay leaves, garlic, onion and then saute the black beans
• Add the tomatoes and then saute for another two minutes
• Add the rice, mix, pour the water and salt and cook for 10-15 minutes
• Add little more water if the liquid evaporates and the rice is still hard
• Serve with freshly ground pepper and chopped parsley

The naming of New York

Swiss botanist Conrad Gesner first saw the flower that was responsible for the naming of New York whilst on a trip to the Bavarian Alps in 1559. The delicate bloom had been imported to Europe from a faraway valley between the great Yangtze River and the Central Asian Steppe via Constantinople. With petals red in colour and with a sweet, soft and subtle scent, the exotic flower was believed by Turkish traders to have divine origins….Gesner was however struck by the peculiar turban-shaped form of the petals, and taking the Turkish word for turban, tulbend, as inspiration he gave it a European name- ‘tulipa turcarum’, or tulip for short.

The extraordinary chain of events that followed, and which ultimately led to the naming of New York, has since become a popular tale that parents relate to their children when they want them to grow up to become stock brokers. The story recounts how news of the new, beautiful and rare flower spreads by word of mouth across Europe, piquing the interest of Dutch nobility who soon begin importing tulips and adopting them as exotic status symbols- visible signs of their good taste and wealth….

To cater for the demand, Dutch shipping companies begin importing tulip bulbs from Turkey, local farmers begin cultivating them and city merchants begin trading them. But supply cannot keep up with demand-everyone wants tulips- and this fuels the demand. Throughout Holland, thousands of people give up their jobs to grow tulips, selling their homes and their land just to get their hands on the precious bulbs. By 1635, Holland is consumed by tulip fever, pushing tulip prices to astronomical levels; a single Viceroy tulip bulb sells for the equivalent of US$40000: four tons of wheat, eight tons of rye, one bed, four oxen, eight pigs, 12 sheep, one suit of clothes, two casks of wine, four tons of beer, two tons of butter, 1000 pounds of cheese and one silver drinking cup.

But just as the Dutch tulip buzz reaches its feverish crescendo in 1637, word of mouth suddenly turns negative. Rumours begin to spread that tulips are no longer worth the extraordinary amount people are paying for them. In a few short weeks, this negative word of mouth triggers a precipitous and dramatic crash in tulip prices- to less than a hundredth of their previous value. Because so many people have so much money tied up in tulips, the Great Tulip crash of 1637 virtually bankrupts the Netherlands, and for decades the country is often unable to pay for soldiers to defend its interests abroad. One such interest is the Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam, lying on the east coast of North America.

Without military defence, New Amsterdam lies open to attack, and in 1664 the English army march into the fledgling city and declare it their own without a single shot being fired, renaming it in honour of the English Duke of York. And that’s how a Dutch seventeenth century word of mouth craze for tulips resulted in the renaming- or rather naming- of New York.

Ref: Excerpt from Connected Marketing an Elsevier Publication

Pure Poison

Aseema comes in late today. Ma has left for school and I pass on the instructions for the food that is to be prepared. I find her strangely quiet without the usual torrent of explanations for the delay.
Something is not right and I sense it but seeing her rapidly clearing the ‘war zone’ of dirty dishes in the sink I retire to my room. After a while as I entered the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, I notice her red eyes and she quickly averts my look by busying herself with cutting the vegetables that are lined up for today’s lunch.

“What happened, Aseema?” I ask tentatively as I put the water to boil.

“Didi, what is there to talk about,” she responds after a while dicing the vegetables with a firm hand.
“My husband has made another girl pregnant, the good for nothing haramzada.”

The words seem raw but the quiet determination in her tone lends a certain dignity to her speech. Apparently this is the third such instance in her 15 year old marriage. The old bastard had lost his job because of his drinking habits and works now as a driver to a gentleman in the neighbourhood.

“I set up the job for him, supported his years of idle tomfoolery hoping that he would mend his ways. But he continued his afimkhori and drinking.” She sniffled.
“The only way he could sense a feeling of lost power was to go around wooing and sleeping with the young maids he met while waiting in the car.
Didi, these girls are also stupid. They fall for his sweet words and sob story of a dying marriage. He dangles the carrot of marriage to them and then when they get pregnant he starts withdrawing citing an old father, young children and family responsibilities.”

“So what happens to these girls?” I ask, my brain reeling with the information received.

“Oh if they are lucky they get married to someone else. Otherwise we have an old man who takes care of things.”

“Abortion?” I ask surprised at the fact that I was still capable of being surprised.

“Haen. Aar ki korbe, didi? (What else can they do?). Last time a girl came to me, I confronted him and he said that it was all written in Fate and he is just an instrument of God. He fell in Love. Ha! Does he even understand what that word means!”

I have such an intense surge of hatred towards this pathetic sorry apology of a man.
‘Why don’t you leave him Aseema?” I blurted out angrily unable to control myself.

“Didi I’m pregnant again and my old parents will be devastated if they find out everything. Fifteen years with this man- I’m not shocked or hurt by anything. As long as he keeps to himself, lets me do my work, bring up my children, doesn’t beat me up, I let him be.”

I am confused now and totally agitated. What drives this insane arrangement in our society? My blood boils at the thought of the escapist wimp of a man, at the stoic resignation of this beautiful strong woman and at the stupidity of the girls who lose themselves in the web of a self-absorbed impotent old goat.
And feeling utterly impotent myself, I take my cup of tea, sit down and type. Fast and furious my disturbed mind takes out the venom on the keyboard. I have no feelings of empathy. It is a moment of pure animal hatred. So much for my meditation and Vipasana!

Bazaar 4th July 2009

Joydeb and I reach Munshi Bazaar at 8.20 am. Bablooda is our contact man in the Munshi Bazaar wet market. Bablooda has a wholesale business in chickens. He is a strong and imposing figure. He is not very tall but he has what the common man in Kolkata describes as “Personality” (which invariably involves a generous belly and thickset arms). He smiles at Joydeb and does not waste any time in pleasantries. He quickly informs that there is another group of retailers that he has formed.

Bablooda was a tough nut to crack. Nitai the tea stall owner was the khabri who arranged for Joydeep to
meet Bablooda. Many days and hours of drinking tea with the man yielded a tentative formation of two groups of borrowers (each group comprising of 5 members). But that opening was the critical tipping point for this market. Bablooda is the typical maven to be found in every market whose endorsement is needed for acceptance of a new concept by the smaller retailers. We were fortunate that he was also a man who actively rallied around for the formation of groups once he saw his business growing. He is a shrewd man and understood how retailers’ capacity of buying from him increased with their working capital needs being met at cheaper rates of interest.

We met the group and after the umpteenth refusal of a cup of tea we entered the fish market. Through the babble we heard a sharp cry- Joydebda! We moved through the parting sea to face Noton and his brother Shyamal. Noton is as fair as his brother is dark. Joydeb tells me they are much like the two phases of the moon’s cycle. One is chirpy and the other silent and brooding. We ask how business has been so far.

“Khoob bhalo. Apnader doyaye beche achhi,” gushes Noton happily.

I look at Shyamal and notice the fire in his eyes. I put forward my hand to shake his and he is surprised. Slowly he wipes his hand in a rag and clasps mine firmly. All of a sudden he bursts forth with smouldering anger-

“Kono bank taka daye na, Madam. I can pay Rs 3000 per week if need be. This is our livelihood and our life. Why will we run away? Where will we run away? 25 years I’ve sold fish in this same spot where you are seeing me. This little brother of mine now is able to pick up more fish. He cycles 15 kms at 3 am to buy fresh fish and comes back laden with 30kilos of fish everyday. We work hard. We work honestly. It is not in our blood to cheat.”

The unshed tear in his eye glistens in the light of the bulb which hangs over the silvery gleaming fish. Joydebda tells me that this is the first time he has heard him speak at such length. His story is not unlike the story of the many members of the group but it was this jolting out of our professional masks through the wave of emotions that was simply precious. I savoured the delicious moment and moved on.
We had entered a small quiet corner of the market. There is an old man sitting in a shack with his hands on his head.

“Hariya….this is our Madam who has come to meet you,” Joydob introduces me.
Hariya looks listless.

“Ki holo? Mon kano kharap?”

Hariya smiles wanly with an unfocused look.

“Kaun Jilla?” I ask.

“Munger.” He smiles.

Immediately Joydeb understands and his tone changes to a soft note, “Bari gechhile? Shobai ke phele eshe mon kharap.”

“I have 3 sons and 2 daughters. The eldest son is here with me. Dada, I have to arrange for my daughter’s wedding. Kaaj o chalate hobe. Tension to hobei.” Hariya looks at us and his eyes speak volumes. We sit and chat with him for 5 minutes as we wait for a group to assemble for a verification test. Hariya left his home 18 years ago. He has an ice supply which feeds the fish market. Sales were good this summer but not good enough for the entire wedding expenses. He also owes money to the Mahajan. The Mahajan charges Rs 100 on a loan of Rs 1000. At 120% rate of interest this is daylight robbery but the last resort for many in the market. Joydeb explains the terms and conditions of Arohan loans at 12.5% flat interest rate. Hariya looks livelier but there are too many questions in his mind right now.

By the time we are ready to leave, the market is still bustling but the peak hour is gone. Joydeb explains to me the ebb and flow of mankind in every market. There is a personality and character to every bazaar just like a river. Each rises and falls in its own peculiar timing in the course of a day, month and year.
The metaphors get more colourful when I ask the boys in his team later during lunch break at the branch office.

“Madam, New Market is like Bipaasha Basu!” says Debashish laughing like an adolescent boy talking about his first crush in school. “Open, glamorous and desirable.”

“And Entally?”

“Oh Entally is Aishwarya Rai. Beautiful but Tricky. Chhalana kare majhe majhe.”

“And Munshi Bazaar is like Rani Mukherjee. Hit pe hit kintu aste aste boyesh periye jachhe,” his team mate, Sajal, chirps in swiftly amidst raucous laughter.

The game is still on as we have our sumptuous lunch of rice, dal, pui shaager chochhori, mutton curry, chutney and papad. Outside the overcast skies give in to the pressure of a thousand prayers and it starts pouring all over the parched lands. We sit in the verandah smoking and singing. The melodies flow in tandem with the rains.…….

Baadalon mein chhup gaya hai chand kyon….
Zindagi ke safar mein bichhad jaate hain……
Na jaane kyon hota hai yeh zindagi ke saath…..

As we celebrated the ending of another exhausting but enjoyable day I asked myself. How many moments do we remember in this journey of our lives? Here we were- a band of rogues who were trying to notch up the dismal score by living life to the fullest wherever, whenever, however.

Dugga dugga! :)

26th June 2009- Amtala

The tinkle of the cycle bell announces the arrival. It is 7.15 am and the whole village starts bustling. The meeting is at 7.30 and the Arohan guys have already arrived with a new “Madam”. I am a new face for the village and was trying to get used to the curious looks and whispers all around. The first person I notice is Ameena. Ameena is a zari worker. Clear sparkling eyes and a luminiscent smile makes her face lovelier than the models which popular cream ads show. She is brushing her teeth while others keep ribbing her about her paan chewing habits. The girlish titter pauses for a while when they spot Gopal. He is the Arohan Field Officer.

Namashkar Saar!, they fold hands respectfully.

I don’t know why but their instant warmth and trust opens one up and I had a strange feeling of having known them for ages even though I had never stepped into this village before. Ameena… Roksana….Jehana…and Ah… Selim the little scamp!
Selim is standing at a distance looking at the scene. He smiles bashfully and runs away as I notice him and say Ki re…school jash ni?

Ameena says, “Didi bari cholo”. I was dragged by her and her four sisters. All beautiful women in bright salwar kameezes and deft fingers. I notice the turquoise blue saree which they are embroidering.
“Khoob shundor hochhe”. I remark looking closely at their fine handiwork. There is a gleaming new table fan by the side of the saree. Ameena’s niece sits beside it and turns it around to me. There is a transistor on the side which plays some music. I click some pictures of the girls and lo behold Selim appears in the scene almost as fast as he had disappeared. Smart boy! ;)

“Didi tumi ekhane kaaj korbe? Didi tumi abar ashbe ki?” I am engulfed by questions. Their child like enthusiasm and joy of life is infectious. I forget the bumpy ride, the muddy roads, the wet shoes and the rumbling in the stomach (We had skipped breakfast to reach on time).
I notice many of the women walking towards the village center. They have a busy purposeful look in their gait. I have to pull myself away from Ameena while her sisters laughed at the little tug of war. She asks me to come after the meeting.

I reach the meeting center which is an empty room in someone’s house. There is a mat on the floor and the women are seated in two lines. Few of the women are grumbling. They are worried because some members of one of the groups have not arrived. I am amazed by the progressive words used. I wanted to sit down and edged towards the women but Gopal whispered softly…Madam aekhon na. 7.30 hoye ni. I smile at the precision and professionalism…this is like Mumbai local train service in the midst of rural Bengal!

By now there is a slight edginess amongst the other group members. The murmur grows and the team leaders are very vocal about the fact that they have reminded everybody about today’s meeting. Finally two ladies come rushing with their heads bowed. They quickly parley their inconveniences.

“Amar Jwor hoyechhilo”, one of them said apologetically sitting next to me.

I place my palm against her forehead and it is indeed v warm.

“Aekhono to ache.” I said. Immediately some members started commiserating with her and they hastened to finish signing the papers. It is evident that the younger ones who sign instead of stamping their thumb-print take great pride in their education. They write slowly, carefully and lovingly with a smile on their face. The sense of achievement is palpable.

The group leader on the other side sits upright, looks sternly at the late comers and counts the money loudly. She is brisk, no nonsense and adjusts her reading glasses with a deft flick of her hands. The other group leader informs Gopal about the formation of two more groups who want the loans. Gopal tells them that he will return on Monday to meet them.

I am stunned by the sudden business like tone the meeting takes now. I was actually witnessing a teller in a bank with concentration which defied the noise, the heat, the gaping men and children. Selim apparitates out of nowhere with a haathpakha. He starts fanning me and I stop him by taking his fan and fanning him instead. Immediately there is laughter amongst the group. Selim and I do a little act of taking turns to fan each other.

“Tumi abar kokhon ashbe”, he asks beaming. He had fun.
“Tui jokhon school jabi.” I retort.
“School 10 tae.” He promptly replies smiling impishly.

Suddenly the little rascal has an inspiration. He looks pleading at Gopal and says;
“Mama ami aajke school jabo na.” He loves the attention and the doting looks all around. Gopal laughs indulgently, pats his head and then smiles at the little boy.
“School to toke jetei hobe. Nahole Bombay jabi ki kore?”

By now the women have signed against their group names in the register and Gopal starts packing his bag. It is 7.50 am and the meeting ends with a warning to the group against relaxation of rules….
“7.30 maane 7.30 aar taka gulo aager din shondhye baelae niye rakhbe”. The group leaders nod vehemently and scold their team members.

He tells me later…”Ektu pore pore oder naratey hoye, Madam”. He needn’t have explained, the love and care that he shows is self-evident. He is clearly the elder brother (dada), in this huge family of beautiful people who want a little slice of the Indian success story.

Finally Gopal slings his bag on his shoulders does a quick farewell and walks out waving his hands at the crowd…a tall upright man who has miles to go. Meanwhile I am getting pulled by the women to come to their house for tea. I convey my apologies in the usual fashion and somehow come out of the throng of laughing happy women.

I wish I could have stayed on but the next center beckons and it is back to the winding kuchcha roads…. albeit with a light heart and a huge smile on my face. :D

The Diva (23rd June 2009)

I see a wispy cloud free floating in the horizon
Seeking a safe haven to rest and fall down
Why withhold? Let it fall….the skies blessed
The Whole World, the Living and the Dead

Tall Mountains, Darkening Skies and Lightning
I need these for a spectacular summer squall
I don’t want to slink slowly. I need a cause
I am hungry for a thick thunderous applause.

Till then I shall roam and gather others along
We will sing, dance and stage a merry musical
The pregnant pause…….is mine to choose
I don’t have anything in this world to lose

Death of the River- June 2009

I burnt the body and threw the ashes with a careless shrug
Bones, blood and flesh all powdery dust mixing in the blackness
Then I sat and lamented the unholiness of the mighty river,
How many times has death sullied your crystal sparkle?

You were fed by the Grand Old Mountains which stand even today
But the glacier is drying up they say in fifty years
And the multitude sucking up the water like an earthern cup
Leaving behind in its wake the milk of sticky sweetness

My hands stuttered as I raised to pour the poison in you
But the ending has a life of its own much like the beginning
"Should I play God now as I did back then?", laughs the Devil
The Final Heave came swiftly cleaving the being into two.

Jaqueline's Journal- India August 2008

I have to thank my friend Monica for sending me this journal as a follow up to my previous note. I tried to upload it but could not find an option for a pdf file upload. Anyways so what I've done instead is followed the advice of my friends Souvik and Kalida and put a link to the Acumen Fund website from where the files can be downloaded. (See link at the bottom)

So here's why I loved reading this fabulous article.

1. It is a love story...u gotta read it like one. If romance is defined as "the willing suspension of disbelief" and passion, faith and joy are the essential ingredients of a great love story then there is nothing more representative of it than this. And I dont give a shit if this is all a marketing ploy. I need my dose of imagination and hyperbole in this otherwise drab and colourless life. Let's spin a few yarns I say.....

2. It gives several examples of the Bottom of the Pyramid marketing. For all those who enjoyed reading CK Prahlad's book but were a little disappointed with some of the examples....here are some more tales of hope. I loved the AyurVaid Hospital and the LifeSpring example....had a similar idea while working in Wipro Babysoft. Never could stick around long enuff in that job to do that.....but that's a separate story....

3. Ok I cant think of 3. Damn... 2 will do and I'm just toooo excited at the moment and bursting to share this. :D

http://www.acumenfund.org/knowledge-center.html

Women and Leadership

Loved some of the points put fwd by Jacqueline Novogratz, CEO of Acumen Fund in this interview (link given below)....especially the line about how women leaders have the opportunity to invent the culture of the workplace where you want to work and thrive. I've always thought that it's mostly women who are good at building organisations and culture.They have loads of practice in their households, in schools, in family communities, etc.......

Was struck by the point that in Rwanda men viewed the women entrepreneurs as prostitutes when they first started selling bread. (Interestingly prostitution is oft erroneously quoted as the earliest profession known to mankind.....is that why men instinctively revert to this association in their minds???). This is something we might not face in certain sectors where women have been a part of workforce for quite some time now. When I first started working in FMCG Sales there were many men who you had to deal with who were unfamiliar with the concept of women in sales. When I look back now, the immediate defense mechanism of appearing "male" or brusque was such a blunder on my part....that was taking the easy way out. You are busy trying to deny being a female in order to counter the subtle force of discomfort around you. That makes the poor men even more confused because here is a character they dont understand at all. If only I had the wisdom and empathy to realise that this was just a matter of having the patience to let the initial uneasiness peter out....and a bit of education for the males around me....After all men are taught first by their mothers, rt? ;)

Suddenly I was reminded of the rather cheesy line from Spiderman in this context..."With great power comes great responsibility. This is my gift, my curse.". DHISHKAO! (Damn Bollywood and Hollywood...my mind can never be serious for too long and leaps out like this juvenile comic book character)

Also liked the line on how accounting is a form of story telling (lol! We know abt the fantastic stories some accountants hv been weaving in Satyam)...

http://www.mckinseyquarterly.com/Organization/Talent/Women_and_leadership_Learning_from_the_social_sector_2336