Column

The old man outside my window is preparing to eat. He squats on what must be a cold earth floor, his dhoti wrapped round his legs. He wears a shirt, a sweater, and a cloth around his head. His hands are gnarled, his eyes, when he looks up, I can see are grey, perhaps with a cataract, or maybe it is just age.

I watch his hands tremble as he opens up the roll of rotis he has on his plate. It is 6 am. I am in Delhi, where the cold winds from a snow-kissed Shimla have brought the temperature down sharply. I wonder if he is warm enough.

He breaks a piece of roti, and dips it onto a mess of vegetables and oil that sits nearby. His eyes seem to spark as the taste hits his tongue, and he sits back and chews seriously.

I feel like an intruder, but am curious. Who I wonder makes the food so early in the day? Or are they left-overs? Why is he eating so early… will he go to work too, at the building that is happening beside the one I am in? Or is he hungry because he is old or because he slept without dinner… Anyway, I am glad he has food when he needs it.
The little makeshift basti outside my window teems with life through the day and part of the night. I could not handle the proximity of an entire mini village a glass pane away, and had demanded to move to the first floor. But once here, I found I could not resist looking through the gap in the curtains to see how the little world outside turned.

I saw the women every morning and evening, rolling out chappatis. They would pat the large rounds and cook them quickly and efficiently on the makeshift stove, one after the other, dozens of them. The children, some of them half dressed, others wearing outsize clothes, would either play, or sit watching. Maybe the girls were, even without their knowledge, training themselves to take over the job when the time came.

The men would walk in and out or often not be seen at all…

The women would also grind large quantities of masala. Pungent red chillies would douse the entire concoction in fiery colour, and actually look appetising. When there is a lack of ingredients, chillies are a great cover up, and the women seem to know it well.
There would be an occasional hiss as oil and water met on the stove, and though I could not smell it, I knew the aroma would make the children hungrier; some would indeed crowd closer.

Late mornings and afternoons, the children would eat, sitting with their elders, the mothers would sometimes place a morsel on this child’s plate, or that, but mostly each one fended for himself. Portions were marked out, and I noticed the men getting the lion’s share.

I watched them eat. They ate slowly, most of them, young and old, talking sometimes, but concentrating on the business of eating, as if it was a ritual. It made me realise how we take food for granted.

We, who have a variety of foods within our reach, we eat it with scant respect for its role in our lives. We walk as we eat, we catch meals on the run, we abuse ceremony and our chasing of other rainbows.

I remember when we used to visit my grandma’s house in what was then Madras. And were called for lunch… the ceremony of laying the plaintain leaves, the service of each prepared dish in its appointed spot on the map of green, the balance in colour, and the weightages of portions… it seemed a strange ritual then, but meal times were times to chat, to exchange jokes and laugh softly.

Today, we waste huge portions as we follow strange diets, eat unbalanced meals, many of which are short-cut menus to make up for lost time and the very act of eaying has lost its ceremony. I loved to read as I ate, but was forbidden to do so as a child, because food had to be given its attention to in turn to do its bit for the body. Yet today, more often than not, I am typing with one hand and holding a spoon with the other…and if you ask me what I have eaten, later in the day, chances are I won’t remember.
How many of you reading this are equally guilty?

I thought of all this as I watched the workmen and women eating their meals, just made of chappatis and mush, but making it seem like I was the most important aspect of their day. It was.

We who get enough, and more, just don’t seem to realise the role food plays in our lives, on our psyches, and in making us who we are.

More the pity.