Cookies and Vegetable Gardens

When I was younger and more naive,I had dreamt of 5 years in the Corporate rat race and then an early retirement, a house in the hills, a vegetable patch, plenty of time to call my own - knit, bake or do absolutely nothing.

Post marriage in Delhi, life got hectic with the babies, my job and relatives on both sides. I began to believe that dreams need not come true.

Dreams do come true however, sometimes in bits and pieces. So what if the 5 years have stretched to 23 and retirement looks a good 17 years away.

I did bake a few burnt cakes in Delhi before I began to rely on the plum cakes my colleague Subi got from Faridabad. Once in New Jersey , however, baking seemed to be the simplest thing. All you had to do was buy a mix off the shelf, mix it and stick it in the oven. And viola, your cake/cookie/fudge/pie/tart was ready. I even had a summer day camp at my place in the hope that the parents would be inspired to keep the tradition and my kids for the rest of the summer. The kids had a field day with the icing on the cakes and muffins. This was proudly presented to some dismayed looking moms in the evening. Needless to say only a couple of parents came forward to keep my kids -without the hassle of any event of course- for the summer.

In Mississauga I had to go a step further. My daughter Ishani brought in a recipe for Johnny Cake which the First Nations used to bake. And she insisted we bake it. Some weekends went by with her giving me " What an utter failure as a mom you are " looks until I felt obliged to get the ingredients for the cake. Isha insisted on following the recipe to the word and we soon had the most delicious aroma floating around the house by a cake thoroughly poisoned by baking soda.

My son, drawn by the delicious aroma and thoroughly disgusted by the taste declared the cake fit to be eaten by Mr. Lee Isha's class teacher and the one who sent the recipe home.

Stung by the disappointment on my daughter's face, I proceeded to bake the next weekend with a lot of help from Isha. We produced what she called the " Mother and Daughter" cake certified by many approving nods from father and son and an empty tray.

The baker's ambition grew as ripe bananas found their way into banana bread and Isha and I spent many mild spring afternoons in this pleasant fattening exercise.

Gardening was something I agve up after I moved from Kota and my lush house plants died in transit. My parents maintained my balcony gardens for me. When they were visiting New Jersey too they planted some roses and other flowers. These died as soon as they left.

I never had a vegetable garden anyways - save for the sole chili plant I grew on my balcony in Kota. A full scale vegatable garden was a forgotten dream. I remembered fondly my father's garden at 9 Housing Board Colony. I spent many mysterious and delightful afternoons there. There were tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, watermelons even sugar cane and corn! And papayas and drumsticks.

Among the few happy thoughts and memories I had of Bellary this was one. I tried to recreate the magic unsucessfully for my kids'; in the apartment homes we lived in.

When we moved to a townhome in Mississauga opportunity presented itself again. But I let one year go by. By now, I was practicing 'dreams dont die' with a vengeances. So I grew tomatoes and cucumber and green chillies and had the satisfaction of my dad picking them out.

It is in Bloomburg though that my garden blossomed. I took bare patches and grew grass. I understood the meaning of perenial and grew a rose garden, hostas, heucheras. It is a never ending task through spring and summer..my garden. As soon as I pretty it, there is rain or scorching heat and I must redo things all over again.

But the satisfaction of seeing my babies grow into beautiful strong flowering shrubs and the fresh green smell of cut grass takes away the pain of bruised palms and dirty finger nails. Corporate woman? Naah.. A farmer this one.

Charmwood...

Was meant to be an interim address for me when I first heard of the place. Somewhere where I would park my bags before I packed off for my husband’s house in Sarita Vihar.

But it turned out to be the venue for my wedding, the place where both my kids were born, where my husband and I wove seemingly impossible dreams, where I first claimed a piece of property to call my own and the place which beckoned to me as home when I travelled across continents. It was the ‘mayka’ I created for myself. The place where I housed my parents in their old age.

When I first set foot in Charmwood Village in 1994, what immediately struck me was that it seemed to be a piece of heaven tucked away behind the hustle, bustle and dustle( my word for dust, truckfulls and wagonloads of dust) of Badarpur and Pehladpur. The white villas leapt out at you. The temperature dropped a couple of degrees. What was not white was green and red. It was a wonderful time of the year. Charmwood Village was spanking new. It was beautiful but quite inaccessible by public transport.

As luck would have it, we got thrown out of our Sarita Vihar apartment by a cantankerous landlord and came back to call Charmwood our home. 2 kids and 3 apartment moves later, under the gentle and obstinate persuasion of Babai, we bought the apartment in Mayfair Apartments. That was just a little less than 10 years ago. It was the first place where we did not get into each other’s way too much. My parents and us. We lived in that apartment for less than 2 years before we, the Dasguptas left for the United States. And became forever homeless, rootless, agonized wandering souls.

But Ameeth, I and the kids loved that apartment. Though I hated Delhi, our souls lived there. Isha always boasted about her ‘beeeg’ house in Delhi to her US friends. Indeed Charmwood was most definitely more charming than our Woodbridge apartment. I quietly dreamt of laying out marble flooring, a modular kitchen and more modern bathroom fittings. When I left my country all that was on my bucket list was, pay off for this apartment and take up a teaching job in the hills of Himachal Pradesh. And write. This was my only investment and insurance for the future. Nothing else.

My life since then is a testimony to how we humans complicate our lives in the effort to simplify it. But that is altogether another story. This piece is about Charmwood.

About the charming memories it holds for us. The wedding in the lawns by the villas; Getting my first born with his ‘I know this funny secret about you’ look home.;And getting him home again after his open heart surgery. Conceiving his sibling and losing it; his dancing around the Lohri fire with the sheer joy of having his mom back. Somewhere there is a picture of him, slightly older, somersaulting in the Sterling Apartment lawns because I came home 30 minutes sooner. Somewhere, in the Sterling lawns is a mango sapling planted by my father. Nahida trying to patiently feed Arijit lunch in the lawns and declaring, ‘Ranjana, I like your son.’ There is the memory of bringing home Isha. Isha pottering around in her little lehenga all round the house. Isha and Arijit setting off to find their parents while we sat on the bench in the dark lawn watching them suddenly howl with terror and race inside in fear of some unknown demon.

One wonderful winter vacation in the Mayfair apartment. I spent all my time cuddled in the TV room with the kids watching cartoons and eating junk food with them before we left for our Goa trip. There is this memory of the time I had my first slipped disc and was lying in my new wrought iron bed in Mayfair while Arijit declared to Isha. ‘She has broken her back. You know what this means? She will be home with us for a long time! :) ’

Memories of a surprise birthday party thrown for Ameeth. Another earlier memory where I filled the house with rajanigandha stalks and put on the ‘Happy Birthday’ cassette. And all those wonderful outsourced parties for the kids, with themed balloons, magicians and trampolines.

Happy place Charmwood. Even when the charm wore away. It held all these memories in that square footage of area. It held older memories of happier times of my in laws, my grandparents. All these came tumbling out of boxes, left long unopened. Diaries, sketches, letters, dreams.

How sad it is to pack up a house. How impossible it is to pack up the place the house has built in your mind and in your heart.

Au revoir Charmwood. Welcome to the happy place in my heart!