While I am not exactly sure how authentic Green Curry tastes having not been to Thailand my experience in Thai restaurants in UK and India say it should be mild. I have come across spicier and hotter versions of it while researching, but mine has a very subtle taste of lemon and coconut combination as well as a citrus fragrance. And without adding lemongrass; again, because of cost effectiveness.
Source: Simple Recipe For Green Curry
(Image unrelated; just for colour reference. This is very close to the colour I got through my recipe.)
So the other day while watching a food programme on TV, I had the idea to try a Green Curry recipe I saw that seemed simple. However, I wanted to come up with my own take on it so I researched various recipes on YouTube and Google because mixing and matching stuff. It looks like a lot of ingredients and very complicated. It really takes just 20 minutes.
Anyone who knows me knows I completely suck at cooking. Hence I was not too confident in experimenting with meat for fears of being under-cooked. Green Curry can be made inclusive of meat such as chicken as well as stuff like tofu. Because I was concentrating on keeping this one as cost effective as possible, I simply gave them a miss. The good thing about Green Curry is that since it is originated in a climate somewhat similar to ours (Eastern India), one can add even our regular seasonal vegetables to it such as ridge gourd and potol/parwal (Trichosanthes dioica; yes that’s a mouthful). Which are also cheaper. And it goes very well with rice, which is again a staple in many Indian homes.
An excellent addition to the dish, I have come across over the internet, is mushroom. However, because it is scarcely available in small town markets in Indian summers, I had to let it go. The only thing a bit fancy, that has been added, is baby corn which I availed thanks to this man who sells it cheap among other delights in one remote corner of the market.
While I am not exactly sure how authentic Green Curry tastes having not been to Thailand my experiences at Thai restaurants in UK and India say it should be mild. I have come across spicier and hotter versions of it while researching, but mine has a very subtle taste of the lemon and coconut combination as well as a citrus fragrance. And without adding lemongrass; again, because of cost effectiveness.
So here we go.
Main Ingredients:
100 gm baby corn
1 small brinjal / eggplant
½ Ridge Gourd
1 potol/parwal
1 small carrot
1 large onion
1 medium sized potato
1 medium sized green or yellow pepper
1 medium sized lemon
2 tablespoons of white oil (any)
1 and 1/2 cup milk or cream
1 cup coconut kernel
3 cups of water
3/4th teaspoon of salt
1/2 teaspoon of sugar
Ingredients for Green Curry Paste:
1 teaspoon of cumin powder or paste
1 cup of coriander leaves chopped
1 small onion
1/2 inch long ginger
3-4 cloves of garlic
6-7 green chilies (If you want it hotter; you may add 10 instead)
A pinch of salt
1 teaspoon of soy sauce
2 tablespoons of water
For Garnish:
3 green chilies deseeded and sliced open
2 lemon leaves
METHOD:
1st step
2nd step
3rd step
Note:
The Red Days In My Calender : My tryst with my womanhood.
My experience with my periods. If you are the prude kind, turn away, the following content is not meant for you. If you are a creep, well don’t bother commenting. But if you truly grasp why I am about to talk about this, do reciprocate.
This article is a frank narrative of my personal experience with – yes, menstruation. After a suggestion from a friend I realized just how much we need to talk about it. Especially in India, having one’s periods is not even considered normal enough a topic to be frank about – even between women. We need to understand ourselves and talking about it should not be a hurdle to that. If you are the prude kind, turn away, the following content is not meant for you. If you are a creep, well don’t bother commenting. But if you truly grasp why I am about to talk about this, do reciprocate. I would appreciate it. 🙂
The first time she sees Red, is probably the most awkward time in any woman’s life. You might panic that you are suddenly a woman in all quintessence, you may be in the dark as to how to deal with the pain and the flow; I personally know of someone who was terrified when her periods arrived, because she could not stand the sight of blood and was afraid she would die despite knowing that most women face this day sometime or the other. There was an instance I heard of, where the ‘girl in red’ literally started whooping in joy, since hitting her periods meant she could have sex; poor girl thought sex meant it could now be considered perfectly alright to kiss a boy. Yet again some people are confused as to how they should even react to the situation in the first place.
Of course, experiences differ according to societies and the timeline. In the Indian society of the yesteryear, for instance, the menarche was celebrated with rituals and offerings since it meant then the girl bride could bear children (women were often married off before puberty in those days and had their first periods at their in-law’s residence). The child would be attired as a bride on days following the event, in preparation of the ‘marital bed’ (suhaag raat). Even today the custom exists in many spheres. Urban population may see less child marriages compared to the past, hence less child brides and, the ‘marital bed’ taking place right after the wedding of two adults itself. Yet in some families, girls at menarche are still dressed up in bridal finery and worshiped though unmarried. And even today, in many families having one’s periods means seclusion from public life. In most cases, women stay away from religious work and sexual acts among other things.
No matter where and when, the first time in any woman’s life is one of the most remarkable memories, along with the incidents taking cue since then.
Now, to commence with my own story, let me burst the bubble right at the beginning. I had no rituals, was dressed up in no finery, had no explanation; in fact I had, to put it plainly, no frickin’ idea of what was happening. And that continued for such a long time that I wonder now, how did I ever manage to survive.
My mum did not talk to me about it other than the perfunctory “it happens to all women” phrase. When I pressed on incredulously, “All women?” she replied, “Yes, yes. It happened to me, to your grandmothers, to your cousins and even to Steffi Graff”. And there I was, left hanging with a truly gross mental image of Steffi Graff bleeding between her legs! And my over-active imagination led to more horrifying images of bleeding women starting from Mother Teresa to my school teachers! It came to such a pass that after one point of time I had possibly imagined every known female bleeding profusely and, had to stop myself only when I found I could not sleep due to the weirdness creeping into my mind. Somehow though, the thought of my classmates and my friends experiencing blood was more comforting. I could talk to people who were my age, right?
Wrong! I figured no one in my class, almost a hundred girls, knew what it was except for two of my friends. And even among the abysmal number of the three of us, I was the only one who was actually having her periods. The others just picked up on the knowledge from their elder sisters. Why you may ask.
Because I was just NINE years old during my first time and at the start of my fourth grade, still in the junior section of my school. Twice I was sent back home by teachers since I had stained an almost invisible corner of my white skirt and, the other girls were too innocent or smart (I don’t know) to be told that I had brushed it against a rusty piece of iron lying around.
The teachers were certainly less awkward in dealing with the situation than my mum. So while my mother, when she saw my cotton dress marked in patches of red, kept me in a terrifying dark for two days before saying “it happens to all women” and, let me think I somehow hurt myself really bad at my dance lessons, my teachers were more forth-coming. Five months after my over-active imagination of bleeding women had come to a closure, one day during a morning games class, our teacher, Miss Joseph noticed a faint red stain on my skirt. She called me aside leading to privacy in a corner and was shocked to know I had already been undergoing my cycle for quite some time. She explained something about women undergoing changes at one point of their lives due to something called hormies (hormones) and that it was somehow related to motherhood, all of which just went over my head. While she lost me in her kind speech, little did I realize she was actually explaining the rudiments of the reproductive system that I was to study four years later. I was too caught up in the latter part of her explanation and was already imagining myself with a swollen belly.
She must have taken pity on me seeing that I was staring at her like a dying duck in a thunderstorm and hurriedly, bought me a mini-pack of sanitary napkins from the school office, while also fetching me an extra skirt from the school’s charitable provisions. She briefly explained to me how sanitary napkins worked as I was provided with only a folded piece of fabric to stem the blood and hide my condition until then. Inside the loo, I stared dispassionately at the pack. I had seen sanitary napkins in television advertisements before and thought it was some really advanced or innovative sort of handkerchief. To know that ‘this’ was why it was used, was sort of disappointing. But I set about doing what I was told, anyway. Miss Joseph unfortunately, did not mention anything about removing the adhesive paper on the pad before sticking it and foolishly I did not act on it either. Consequentially, by recess my new skirt was stained as well and my mum was called. When Miss Joseph along with the junior school headmistress, inquired my mother in astonished tones as to how could I possibly have it at such a young age, for the first time she confessed it ran in my father’s family and that she had no idea how to explain it to me at a time I was not really ready. But what caught my ears in the conversation was my teachers asking her about any pain that I may have.
That took me another couple of months to realize. Our class was a rowdy one and we would frequently be made to stand for an hour in punishment. During one such session, the pain came. It was faint but gnawing. I clutched my stomach hoping it would go away but it did not. Miss Joseph came to my rescue again when she saw my face screwed up. She asked me to sit down and rest my head. The incident repeated itself a few times over the next few months and my classmates, who did not know my predicament, assumed I probably had the teacher wrapped around my fingers since she asked me to rest frequently. They would point at me angrily and poke fun till I excused myself saying I had a problem with my legs and had to rest.
Well, to tell the truth I slowly got used to the ache soon enough. It stopped straining me -till exactly one year later, when during one such cycle I discovered the pain had renewed vigorously and was surging through my limbs. That was the second time I was sent back home and the pain only got worse. Soon it came to this that every month at a particular time I had to lie in the school sick-bed because I could not sit with my head straight (I was diagnosed with dysmenorrhea in my late teens and the condition remains still).
Anyway, going back to the first time, worse was to follow. Hair sprouted in the weirdest of places in my body. I had seen such on men and was panic-stricken. For one brief time I wondered why was I starting to look like a man. Then I figured it could not be logical since “it happens to all women” and all women do not look like men. That was when my mother, who had by this time gotten used to playing the role of the all-knowing, introduced me to hair removing cream. I hated it. It seemed like a herculean task for me to adapt to the ritual of removing body hair. But if you think it was the hair that embarrassed me the most about myself, it was not. It was my boobs!!!!
Being the first to have her periods in the class meant the first to have tits. By the time I was ten years old, I had a well endowed pair of assets while other girls were still lean and flat. I was the epitome of curiosity among many in my class. These girls discussed in not-so-hushed tones that I was starting to resemble their mummies and laughed! One idiot actually asked straight on my face, how I managed to grow a rack and I was outraged. How could I have a hand in it? It felt like I scandalized them all by breaching a moral code meant for little girls! The most discomfiting thing to happen was when one of the other girls (the ones who had not yet realized that I had breasts) put her hand directly over my shirt pocket and asked me what I had underneath. “Did you put a hankie inside?” she asked. And I just kept wishing that she would stop pressing against me, wincing all the while.
Of course they realized in time what was really happening and by then I was dealing with more issues. By the time, many of the other girls had started having their periods, at twelve, I discovered that I was losing clumps of hair and had started to look pale, because of the excessive loss of blood, another trait in dad’s family. It took me years to recover from the severe anaemia yet not fully. It irritated me that my classmates did not undergo ‘as much shit’ as I went through and at times I wished I was a boy! I dreaded about the mood swings that I read about in a magazine. However that turned out to be the least of my concerns. Due to my Bipolar’s, the mood swings actually did not cut a distinct mark until two years back.
As a child it was pretty hard on me to deal with all of this alone. My friends had it easier. They knew what was going to happen from their mothers or from classmates. I wish I had the same kind of help.
However as an adult, I learnt to deal with the pain, the changes and the fact that I am as normal as any human can be. It is less embarrassing for me and someday I hope to be less awkward than my mum, when my turn arrives to teach someone about this delicate stage. My growing up was not smooth but I survived it. If anything, today I am proud of my womanhood. I only wish people, especially other women, stopped being embarrassed about it and came to terms with it.
I am not ashamed of my periods as no one should be.
No Means NO: There is nothing really new about this and it goes way back into the 1990’s since it came up. Yet it seems the message has fallen to the deaf ears of a vast majority of men in India. No, when I said we could be friends, it does not mean I am okay with you calling me at midnight, touching me inappropriately or asking me out. We do not ask our friends out. When I said I am not interested in you, I am not being a prick-tease. It does not mean you get to irritate the life out of me by constantly pestering me with your silly wooing which often heads to harassment. When I said I do not need your help despite being drunk, does not mean I am ‘available’ or that I actually want you to throw me over your shoulders and carry me.
Please heed my opinion, because when you do not, it does not put you in light of a gentleman. It only means that you are disrespectful and do not deserve even a hint of my attention.
Support, Not Solution: When Phil annoys his wife in Modern Family, while talking to her over the phone, the ladies at the salon could not have explained it better. When a woman tells you about her problems she wants you to support her. To provide her with the encouragement she needs. She does not want you to come up with a solution to her problems, which, I am forced to add, men often do without taking into account, her feelings or her likes and dislikes. Indian men, to be frank, make the worst case of it. When you scream at us to do this and that so that we are not complaining anymore, what we hear is that ‘you are smarter than us’ (and it’s not true).
You are not in the exact shoes of your partner so do not assume you know it all. If you just about show us the concern that would be enough. And you will not find us barking up trees when you tell us you had a rough day. So next time, your partner has trouble balancing work and home, test the waters first. It would not hurt. if you made the dinner half the time for a change. Telling her to quit is really idiotic and insensitive of you.
Protection Does Not Mean The Upper Hand: This is a follow-up of the above. Yes, everybody admires a person who can provide the safe haven but that does not mean you become the monarch. It is astounding how almost all religions use this principle to facilitate the male chauvinism over woman’s rights.
If you just wait and think over it, what are you really protecting us from? Forget the primitive background denoting survival amongst wild animals. We do not live in jungles and, cave women were just as able in dealing with natural enemies in the gone days. Today the most apt answer to the question would be, the daily safety hazards that women face in India, worst of which are rape and trafficking. In other words, the problems that men themselves create for us.
It does not make you a hero to extinguish a fire that you lit in the first place, hence do not look for credits here. Do not think you are doing any of us a favour, rather believe it is a penance if you must. Nothing gives you the right to take control of us. Even though we may like being protected, it does not mean we like being ordered around. Indian men probably understand no difference between the two.
P.S.: To the ladies: Men may be the stronger sex but by what margin? And have we not the capability of using our mental skills of alertness or observation better than them? Both count towards being strong you know. We are not identical but we are equal. So it would not bring the sky down to learn some basic defenses, at least.
You Cannot Buy Us: Next time you offer to pay for the dinner you took her to or get her that expensive bracelet, do not think for a second she will jump into the kip with you. You paying for us is a gift by way of service. Something you volunteered to do.
Before you gift us something, you should perhaps look up its definition somewhere. It is not the same thing as sale or exchange, got it?
Skeletons In The Cupboard: Trust me, women do have urges and at many occasions stronger than men. It is only natural to quench it. So for God’s sake, grow up and don’t expect us to keep ourselves locked in a closet till we are married. It is a problem mostly harped on by the average Indian male (as a person who has dated men from many countries including mine I can vouch for its exclusivity). The Indian Male Syndrome demands that we make a clean breast of our past before we are committed. Why? So that you can take it and turn it into a pissing contest between you and our ex-es? Are you honestly mature enough to deal with our past? Even if you know that we have slept with someone or more, that is not sufficient! You want to know the details that even we do not remember. You will ask us stupid questions in the middle of the intimate act. You will compare ‘sizes’. Then you will keep tabs on us, make our lives miserable, try to cut us off our friends and families because YOU are paranoid, judge everyone associated us as if it is any of your business, abuse us, swear at us (‘you are a whore!!!’), ask us how many exactly did we do it with or how and so on.
In other words, if you have fetish for being the ultimate pig please go ahead. I am not condoning any of the lying here. One, of course, should not lie. But not everyone has the tenacity to pick up all your dirt that you will throw. And, I am yet to come across a woman who does this to her man. If your ego shoots through the roof, that is what needs fixing, not us.
( I have always made a clean breast of my encounters. And have faced almost all of the above. Yet I strive to do so with every man I get involved with, whether Indian or not, because I am so not feeding somebody’s inflated ego or my own disgust. You got a problem, deal with it. Short and sweet).
I intended to post this on Women’s Day but I got way too delayed. Simply meant for fun, I thought I’d perhaps share these literary characters who went from being the underdogs to the Hulk of their respective premises (okay, … Continue reading
Ever heard of Alcoholic Anonymous?
Yeah, I am talking about those group meetings where those addicted to alcohol come forward and piss some steam off. Never attended one but I sort of wish there were groups dedicated to helping those addicted to not being single.
Okay, so I never take resolutions, be it for New year or whatsoever. I did this year. To stay off dating. Well, at least for some time.
When I was 12 and for the first time came to realize the full implications of a phenomenon called divorce, which I was told was rampant in West and not so rampant in India (one of my own uncles is getting divorced, by the way), I made a vow of chastity. Literally. It was like being hit with the exact realization of death that I discovered crudely from a movie when I was 6 (yeah, I used to think we are immortals overpopulating the Earth). So I rushed to the school chapel almost every day and prayed to Virgin Mary to help me save myself for the One and dedicate my body just to him,so that I could find myself a place in Heaven. By the time I turned 25 last December, I discovered that Mary went preggers outside wedlock, that I have already dated more number of men than the number of times I have prayed and that sex really was – ohhhh – “Heaven”. Hormones are mightier than God, you see!!!
So I have successfully managed to evade being single, I mean REALLY single, since I was 15. If there were not serious relationships,there were the flings; if not flings, there were the lovers; if not lovers – I am yet to have a one night stand. So after two back to back break ups last year, I thought its really time I go for a dating detox. So no dating and no touchy-feely for some time now.
Needless to say since then I have been behaving like a crackhead without the crack. Yeah, the symptoms are all there.
I am moody, sometimes withdrawn, sometimes angry and sometimes gleeful. Last week I drank so much alcohol that for the first time I wanted to puke. I am munching on anything and everything tasty that I can lay my greedy hands on, and if there is nothing, I suck on ketchup and powdered sugar. I am reduced to reading and watching vampire series almost every day, for they are the only beings I can now date in my mind, knowing they don’t exist (living and real beings are strict no-no, lest I throw myself one day at them unable to control my urges). And yes, I am also venting my frustration here in this blog after spending an evening congratulating a horde of my acquaintances who all, it seems to my super sensitive mind, decided to get engaged or married the same week.
I even contemplated becoming a nun and shutting myself away from the world,and then remembered; I am neither a Catholic nor very unworthy of excommunication should I decide to be one. And locked away in a convent, who is to say I won’t take up with a priest or – heck – even one of the nuns. I did hear of a nun in Italy last week, who gave birth to a child. As far as my family’s religion, Hinduism, is concerned – going by our gotra, we are descendants of the school of Vatsayana, the creator of Kama-Sutra so well – you get the drift.
And now I am raping religions because I have so sweetly and idiotically denied myself of any real action. Darn!!
Now, how successful have I been so far? Honestly I have already kinda broken my vow a couple of weeks back but I intend to remain chaste at least until another 6 months pass. And its not my fault, you know. I was working and as with anyone suffering from OCD, I considered myself bethroted to work. That’s right. I worked so much that I could actually register myself being married to work and get away with it. All hell broke loose when I decided to quit sometime back so that I could focus on my studies. As with new divorcees on rebound, I just had to do something to get kicking and got er- naughty. But again, Nothing until 6 months pass from now.
More was to follow. I cried when I moved all the romantic movies in my laptop to a folder that I would never access. I cried when accidentally came across advertisements of sites betokening the underlying pornography as I surfed through the net. I cried when I saw a new shade of lip-gloss reminding me that I have no one to kiss (by the way, I don’t know why I did that since I hardly use make up) and then I cried some more because I thought it was silly of me, crying all over the place.
I am sure by now those of you who have read this blog are convinced that the authorship belongs to a madman who has lost his marbles. But honestly, this is just a recovering date-aholic chick in need of therapy, who is banging herself with all this hatred. I don’t care how stupid this sounds and how self-slandering this is but I need help. To get over attachment and to get over the pain. Any offence to religious and communal sentiments are deeply regretted – when sanity returns.
Until then…. I’ll keep banging.
uditach 