Monsoon Diary (16 page)

“What do you think?” asked Priya.

“It’s perfect,” said Shyam. “My favorite,” he repeated. And this time he wasn’t lying.

Upma
is one of my favorite dishes because it marries the delicacy of vegetables with the girth of semolina. The crowning glory is the tangy spritz of lime or lemon juice. A good
upma
needs no accompaniment. It offers all the satisfaction of a virtuoso soloist. That being said,
upma
is frequently eaten with chutney and
sambar.

SERVES 4

3 teaspoons ghee
2 cups
rava,
also called
sooji
or semolina (available in Indian grocery stores)
1/2 teaspoon black mustard seeds
1 teaspoon black gram dal, also called
urad
dal
1 teaspoon Bengal gram dal, also called
channa
dal
1 tablespoon broken cashews
1 medium onion, chopped
2 green chiles, Thai or serrano, slit in half lengthwise
1 teaspoon grated ginger
1 teaspoon salt
Juice of 1/2 lime
1 teaspoon grated coconut
Chopped cilantro for garnish

Pour 2 teaspoons of ghee into a Chinese wok or Indian
kadai.
Add the
rava
and roast for 1 to 2 minutes over high heat, stirring continuously. Watch carefully, as the
rava
should not change color. If it starts turning brown, remove from the heat immediately. Pour the
rava
into a plate or bowl and set aside..

Pour a teaspoon of ghee into the same wok. Add the mustard seeds. When they start sputtering, add the black gram dal, the Bengal gram dal, and the cashews. Stir until everything is golden brown. The color of the three ingredients—the two dals, and the cashews—will vary. They will be different shades of brown. But if  one of them starts to blacken, lower the flame or add the onion right away.

Add the onion, the chiles, the ginger, and salt, and sauté until the onions become golden brown and translucent, about 2 minutes. Add four cups water and wait until it starts boiling. Lower the heat to a simmer, and slowly add the
rava,
stirring continuously so that it doesn’t form lumps. Once all the
rava
has been added, keep folding and stirring for about 2 minutes until all the ingredients are mixed together and the moisture is absorbed. The
upma
should be the consistency of porridge.

Add the lime juice, mix together, and garnish with the grated coconut and chopped cilantro.

NOTE: If you like more vegetables, you can add some grated carrot or peas
along with the onions.

THIRTEEN

Summer of Bread
and Music

IT WAS A YEAR of small successes.

I was delighted to be back at Mount Holyoke. My family, too, after their initial anxiety about America, had adjusted to my being there, fortified by my letters about how happy I was. I took painting courses, art history, and printmaking. I argued with DeLonga about art and aesthetics, something that he encouraged. I made dozens of sculptures and assembled a portfolio of slides that got me into Memphis State University’s graduate art program. When New Englanders arched their eyebrows and asked why on earth I was moving to Memphis, I said, “Because they are giving me the most money.”

I knew that I would miss Mount Holyoke, and especially DeLonga. His teaching methods were decidedly unorthodox, but he made an artist out of me. Not a great artist and perhaps not even a good one, but one who believed fervently in art and its creation. By the time I left Mount Holyoke, I thought of myself as an artist, hung out exclusively with painters and sculptors, and considered everything else boring and plebeian.

Like all his students, I worshipped DeLonga. For his birthday, a group of us welded a steel cake, covered it with chocolate icing, and stood outside his bedroom window at dawn serenading him. When he tried to cut the steel cake and couldn’t, we laughed in delight at our trick. Sandy, DeLonga’s wife and a surrogate mother to many of us, gave us cupcakes and coffee for breakfast.

We were like sponges, absorbing his philosophy completely. In our approach to art and to life we became miniature DeLongas: bold, confident, even a little cocky. We believed in ourselves even when the whole world said that we were wrong, as it would when I reached graduate school.

In the middle of the term, Shyam came to see me. His ship had docked in Baltimore, and he hitchhiked up to South Hadley. We went skydiving in Northampton—brother and sister bonding at eight thousand feet.

Before I knew it, it was time for graduation. Maya Angelou spoke at our commencement and released us into the fabled “real world” that everyone kept talking about. My parents asked me to come home for the summer, but I told them I couldn’t. I had to work and make money for graduate school.

I had two jobs lined up. First I was going to Michigan to work for a month at a summer camp. Then I would move to Boston, where Jennifer had helped me get a job at Inkadinkado, a rubber-stamp-making company where she had worked the previous year.

CIRCLE PINE CENTER IN Delton, Michigan, was lush. It was also the first place where I wasn’t a minority as a vegetarian. Among the dozen or so staff members, vegetarianism was just the tip of the ice-berg. Ky Hote, one of the two coordinators, espoused the virtues of slippery elm tea and drank gallons of the stuff; to me it looked like mucus. Owl, Ky’s girlfriend, called herself a witch and was a vegan. Steve, the other coordinator, ate organic food exclusively and drank
kukicha
tea. Tom and Daisy ate only one vegetarian meal a day, a habit they said they cultivated while in prison years ago. Mathew believed in UFOs, lived in a school bus, and was always on fruit-juice fasts to clean out his system. Kim, the resident naturalist, ate leaves, flowers, and dead insects. With respect to food, I was the most conservative member of the group.

This eclectic group broke down all my stereotypes about “New Age hippies.” They worked hard and cared deeply about the children who had been coming year after year to summer camp at Circle Pine. As the assistant cook, I spent most of the time in the kitchen, working with Michael, the chef. He was a genius at turning out flavorful, healthy fare that satisfied the picky appetites of the twelve-year-old campers.

Many of the staff were former campers. “See this brick right here?” said Rachel, another assistant cook. “I laid it in 1972 when the barn was built.”

After a full day of activities, Warren would come from nearby Kalamazoo and teach us folk dances. At night we went skinny-dipping in the lake. Soon the month passed and it was time for the farewell ceremony. We walked quietly through the whispering pines, holding aloft lit candles that flickered like dancing glowworms. We set the candles adrift on the lake with a wish, a prayer, silent thanks, or a sob. Next stop for me: Boston.

THE BEST THING ABOUT the town house near Harvard Square that Sophie and I stayed at was breakfast. All the other meals were washouts, probably because we were a motley group of people occupying the four bedrooms. There was Michael, a precise, analytical Harvard rocket scientist; Tamar, a copywriter at an advertising agency; Ben, a junior law clerk; and Sophie. Actually, I occupied Sophie’s room. She spent most nights with her squinty-eyed Italian boyfriend, Pablo, to whom Jennifer and I vociferously objected. Except for Michael, who had worked on a Ph.D. for as long as anyone could remember, we were all fresh out of college and working at first jobs. To save money, we decided to share household expenses and chores. We developed an elaborate system of rotation, where one person did the cooking and another washed the dishes each day, a complicated exercise that collapsed when people took off on weekends. So we stuck notes with stern injunctions at strategic places—over the sink, on the refrigerator, and near the trash can. “Replace the filled trash bag with an empty one BEFORE you take out the trash lest you forget after.” “If you eat ice cream late at night, it is YOUR responsibility to wash your bowl. Do NOT leave it drying in the sink till the next day.”

We devised schemes to save money, like using grocery bags instead of garbage bags to collect trash and buying at warehouse clubs. Ben asked to borrow a car on a weekly basis from his lawyer friend and then got upset when the friend demanded that he refill the gas tank. “The skinflint,” said Ben. “He gives me a near-empty car and demands that I fill it up with gas.”

Ben’s solution was to fill up the car with just enough gas to make our trip to the warehouse club outside town and then back to his friend’s house. Once he shaved it too fine and the car sputtered to a stop on the highway, loaded to the gills with toilet paper, detergent, mops, and cleaners. We all yelled at Ben, who had to walk to the nearest gas station, empty out the detergent, and fill the bottle with gas. We made him pay for the detergent.

Mostly we squabbled. We were all short of money, and we fought over whose turn it was to vacuum the apartment, why people weren’t making an effort to cook a decent meal, what to do when people reneged on their chores, and who was spending the most on items that weren’t necessities. We argued about what constituted necessities. Ben thought that seltzer water was a necessity, even though the rest of us drank from the tap. Michael wanted to include beer in the pool even though the rest of us didn’t drink. Tamar was upset because we wouldn’t let her buy the European chocolates that she loved.

“Why? Is American not good enough for you?” asked Mike, curling his lips. “Why can’t you eat Mars bars like the rest of us?”

“I think we should place a moratorium on all name-brand goods and just buy generic everything,” said Ben, the lawyer-to-be.

“We wouldn’t have to buy cheap generic stuff if Shoba didn’t buy all these expensive fruits like pomegranates,” replied Tamar. “Who eats pomegranates? Why can’t you eat apples like the rest of us?”

“Might I remind you that I am paying for the meat that you all consume?” I said self-righteously.

“See, I think that’s unfair,” said Mike. “I think we should take out certain items from the pool and pay for them ourselves. I could pay for my beer, Ben could guzzle as much seltzer as he liked, Tamar could load up on chocolates and Shoba on pomegranates.”

“Oh, it’s too complicated,” said Tamar, fanning herself. “And it’s too hot.”

Indeed. Boston was experiencing an unusually hot summer, which didn’t help my commute. Every morning I cycled up the Charles River all the way from Somerville to downtown Boston for my job at Inkadinkado. Jennifer and I worked alongside dozens of Korean, Chinese, and Vietnamese ladies who cut rubber stamps while hurling insults at one another with staccato clicks of the tongue. Or maybe they were just talking politely.

On my way back home, I took sailing lessons, which were surprisingly cheap in river-rich Boston. I would rig up a boat, take it out to the center of the Charles River, and enjoy the wind, the water, the hazy skyline, and the sun dipping slowly behind the Hancock Building. It was all so peaceful, an atmosphere that may have inspired my idea for a picnic.

MY PLAN WAS simple. I would collect my roommates, go sailing, and have a picnic breakfast on the Charles. The serenity of the whole experience would rub off on them. We would see one another in a new light and stop our endless spats.

My reason for choosing breakfast was simple. I didn’t trust the others to come up with a decent lunch or dinner. Breakfast was the only meal that I could fully command.

So we set off one Saturday, carrying bagels, assorted pastries, sandwiches, croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice, and fragrant coffee in a flask. I wasn’t entirely sure if we were allowed to take food into the boat, so we snuck in our loaded backpack as unobtrusively as possible.

We got off to a rocky start. Michael insisted that he knew how to sail, since he had gone sailing with his father as a young boy. When I launched into an explanation about how difficult the knots were and how complicated rigging and furling were, Michael simply said, “Exactly” with infuriating complacency, as if he had meant to say the same thing.

Increasingly frustrated by his smugness, I finally clenched my teeth, got the boat off into the water, and herded them in with instructions to step gently. I was beginning to regret the whole thing. The only thing I looked forward to was breakfast. I had shopped at my favorite bakery, overriding the others’ suggestion that we simply buy bread at the local Star Market. I had ended up paying for everything from my personal account, but at least we would have flaky croissants, warm pastries, and crusty bagels while skimming the Charles.

The boat wobbled dangerously as we set off. I wasn’t used to sailing with four people, and it took me a while to distribute the weight evenly and get adjusted to the sails. The morning was cool, so the sun felt good on our back. The sails finally caught some wind, and the boat gained speed. I cautioned my group not to make any sudden movements that would shift the weight in the boat, and put the heavy backpack in the center.

We sat across from one another, smiling as a gentle breeze ruffled our hair. We didn’t know what to say, but at least we weren’t yelling or being sarcastic. I found myself pointing out the sights like a tour guide, mostly to fill the silence. After a moment I shut up and opened the flask. The coffee smelled heavenly. I reached out for the picnic backpack.

“Here, let me do that,” said Michael, jumping up.

“No, don’t move!” I cried, but it was too late.

The next thing I knew, the boat had turned turtle and we were all in the cold depths of the Charles River. When I surfaced, I saw my precious pastries floating a few feet away. Within moments, a large speed-boat appeared and ran circles around us, accentuating our ignominy. There were two white-uniformed men inside. An announcement boomed over the loudspeaker. “This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Swim Away from the Boat. Do you hear me? Swim Away from the Boat.”

TO MAKE MATTERS WORSE, I got fired. Hal, my boss at Inkadinkado, took me into his office one morning and told me that he had to “let me go,” because I wasn’t cutting rubber as fast as the Vietnamese ladies. And they were twice my age, he underscored.

I was in a panic. I needed work to pay my rent. I called everyone I knew, begging for a job, any job. In a few days Charlotte Clark, a friend from Mount Holyoke, called back. “Are you willing to go to New Mexico?” she asked.

I BECAME ONE of eight camp counselors at the Sangre de Cristo Youth Ranch (SCYR) in the pine-forested mountains north of Taos, New Mexico. Barbara and Bud Wilson, the owners, had grown up in the Northeast. Bud was a surgeon who had bought up hundreds of acres on the mountains and designed a summer camp for kids. Barbara had gone to Mount Holyoke, which was how I got the job. For a month we managed twenty ten-year-old boys and girls. We were each paid a thousand dollars, which seemed like a princely sum, given that I had no expenses. The children paid nothing for their time at camp.

New Mexico enchanted me. Its red earth, purple sky, craggy mountains, and desert cacti all struck a primitive chord. As paid staff members, we arrived a week before the kids. There was Nat, a musician with orange hair and an accordion; Andy, the organizer, who drew endless flowcharts full of activities; Olivia, with her batik skirt, tie-dyed peasant blouse, and nose ring. And then there was Ted, dashing Ted, who broke my heart without even realizing it existed.

Every girl in the camp had a crush on Ted. Ted, however, wanted to save the world and had no time for plebeian indulgences like girlfriends. With his notebook full of lists and his cowboy hat, his wiry stride and wide shoulders, Ted always had a project. He wanted to start a literacy school for inner-city kids; he wanted to bring abused boys to the camp and have them work with Norwegian Fjord horses that Bud and Barbara owned.