Of lathered lockdowns and a lathering state of mind

 

I am gazing at what looks like carelessly stacked up slaps of some exotic dessert. The wafting fragrance is woody and earthy – like a dish out of a tandoor. The feel is of those sticky chewy sour candies. I nibble (just couldn’t resist!) one: it’s sweetish, gummy, and runs off with a zingy after taste.

This concoction is from my kitchen. Only that it’s soap cake, not baked cake.

After a year and a half of hand acrobatics in foam umpteen times a day, my relationship with soaps progressed to creating it. Supermarket soaps were boring. I wanted a soap that would not just wash off the dreaded C stuff but the boredom of the hand-washing
ritual.

What you cannot find you…create. I just did that. 

In the process, I learnt that there is something called “real soap” and synthetic soap, and
something in-between (natural soaps).

Real soap is a product of the reaction between natural fats and lye resulting in glycerol (or glycerin) and fatty acid salts. This product is rich in glycerin, a humectant, which keeps moisture locked into your skin. The fatty acid salts are the soap part: not “soapy” enough to make big bubbles but more than enough to clean. The natural fats for soap-making are derived from milk, plant butter, and seed and vegetable oils.

Real soap has a neutral smell and will not last for years on the bathroom shelf. Additional glycerin, liquid salts, and natural sugar compounds are added to real soap for re-moulding. This is called a glycerin soap base. 

After months of lockdown hours reading up on soap-making, stirring and moulding in the kitchen, and experimenting on self and immediate family, I was ready with my samples. My soaps were fed and fatted with butter, oils, husks, grains, botanicals clays, and anything in the kitchen that looked delectable. And voila! Frothy desserts for the skin. 

Next, I made tiny gift hampers for friends – that were biked across the city (remember, it was lockdown) and for those rare non-curfew hours meetings. The loving, constructive feedback of some (my soap queens) sent me banging back into the kitchen to brew my potions.

Why is homemade soap, in general, so attractive? One, you know who made it, it’s got that personal touch. It’s not mechanically produced on a factory belt but on someone’s stove. Two, you can feel (if not taste) the home ingredients, and three no harmful chemicals are used in it. It’s not a product off the shelf but a creation of the kitchen. Use it and connect to nature and someone’s creativity. 

Now more friends and friends of friends ordering my natural bath bars. Since my “soap factory” is a one-woman-army steamed by passion not profit, the output is limited. So, please wait on the list while things like production, packaging, and shipping are sorted out.

Coming back to harmful chemicals, I’m not stating anything new when I say our soaps are laden with artificial preservatives and unsafe additives like parabens, sulfates, and whatnots to froth, clean, and last. (Deets on these devils are all over the Internet.) Commercial soaps clean us just like any cheap foaming agent, probably the same product used to degrease our car engines. Ouch.

Synthetic soaps are cheaper to make, so they are sold at lower prices. That’s why glycerine (or transparent) soaps cost more. The bubble consistently and frothy lather, long shelf life, lasting fragrance, and low pricing of commercial soaps come at the expense of chemical additives.  These chemicals are believed to strip the skin of its natural moisture leading to dryness, causing eye and lung irritation, interfering with hormonal functions, and producing cancer in laboratory animals.

But having shared these facts, I’d say take it with a pinch of fatty salts. These harmful effects could be related to the number of chemicals used or the duration of exposure. Besides, it’s not feasible to run around looking for natural or homemade soaps. Plus there’s the cost factor. But if you can afford the cost or know me (my stuff is modestly priced) then ditch the commercial stuff.

Time to reset your relationship with this ancient, humble lump of lard and salts called soap. 

JOY RIDES IN CITIES COME ON PEDDLED WHEELS

Cycling gets heaped with hefty praise for the benefits it gives — great for cardio, eco-friendly, sporty, perfect for bonding activities, easy to explore on, green chic on wheels. More than what it’s lean frame can carry. Perhaps this reverence that many urban dwellers have for this little ride stems from fond childhood memories. Recall ads and movies where shiny, basket-attached, red bicycles were being gifted to ecstatic kids?

We cycled for play and then we grew up. For some the town around them grew up and became a crazy city like, hmmm, Bangalore. And this humble ride couldn’t make the transition from a play thing to a real thing. 

Cycling belonged to childhood for me. Growing up in Bombay, we spent our annual winter holidays in Deolali, a small cantonment town near Nasik. For that one month, I’d experience the joy of small town living that I had only known in the pages of Enid Blyton. Places where cycles were an actual mode of transportation, not joy rides. (Bombay did have people running errands on bicycles but that was for adults only.)

I learnt bicycling in Deolali and rode around in the compound for fun and nearby places on errands or to visit places. On those roads, exempt from heavy traffic, it was safe for kids to go exploring on cycles. 

But that was decades ago. Three years back, I yearned to get back behind the handle. It’s often said for abandoned skills that picking them up again is like riding a cycle — you never forget. I thought let’s give the actual and the metaphorical a peddle.  

The passing decades could be challenging. Not only was I older, the city of Bangalore was not exactly a town. Friends recalled cycling to school but qualified it by sighs of “those where the days.” (Those days I was in Bombay taking a prosaic school bus.) But I did spot cycling enthusiasts on present Bangalore roads, amidst the traffic, oblivious of vehicles and fumes, donning cool cycle helmets. And I was besotted. 

When there’s a wish there’s a way somewhere. I got the chance to spend some ten days in Kodaikanal. Every morning I’d rent a bicycle and pedal away around the lake. I did venture on the streets but the steep inclines made it difficult.

I was back on wheels. 

I returned to Bangalore and took to the road. A few tentative rounds in the area I live (which is still blessed with by-lanes, has light traffic, and is coincidentally called cantonment). And one fine day, as they say, I was ready: helmet, backpack, and all — ridding out into the world picking up groceries, saving the ecosystem, and, hopefully, dropping off a few pounds. 

WHAT MAKES CHITTAL A TRULY MODERN NOVELIST

In November 2017, Penguin India released the English translation of Yashwant Chittal's novel, The Hunt (Shikari), translated by Pratibha Umashankar-Nadiger, at Rangashankara, Bangalore. 

Rangashankara has lately been having book events (they are more than just a launch) where the book is discussed by an erudite panel of writers along with the author (or translator, as in this case) of the showcased book. It may not be possible to read all the books you want to, or learn about all the books out there, but if you live in Bangalore, this is one event you should not miss. The next best thing to reading a good book, is being told why it's a good book; and that by a group that can be called the intelligentsia of the city.  

L-R: MS Sriram, Pratibha Umashankar-Nadiger, and Girish Karnad

Girish Karnad, who was a panelist, says that Chittal was ignored by the upper echelon of great Kannada writers of the Sixties and Seventies, like Anant Murthy and Lankesh, who wrote about their towns. Unlike other Kannada writers Chittal lived in relative obscurity. Perhaps because his canvas was the busy by-lanes and the crowded apartments of Mumbai. What Chittal had to say needed that setting. The Bangalore of today with its corporate culture could have been the setting for Shikari, a novel ahead of its time.

Karnad went on to say how 20 years ago no city existed in Karnataka. And Chittal was a writer who inhabited the world of sipping beer in the Sea lounge, on one hand, and the intrigues of chawl living, on the other. For him the city was as an interior experience; not a physical space. Karnad feels that Chittal was Dickensian in capturing the pulse of the street, and among current writers, like Tom Wolfe in capturing the spirit of a city. And we still await a successor to Shikari.

MS Sriram, an IIM faculty and short story writer, the other panelist, said that he had seen Chittal etching out his novels: actually drawing circles and points to visually conceive his novel. Though written in 1979, Sriram says, the novel's dilemmas are still relevant. Chittal's novels were set in the English-speaking world of boardroom and air travel (a big deal in those days). His transactional world was English, which distanced him from his fellow Kannada writers.

Pratibha Umashankar-Nadiger, the translator, said that her translation of Shikari is not meant for Kannada readers but to take Chittal to a wider readership: it being a masterpiece that is still relevant. She said to herself when she started translating:"I'm not going to be intimated by his stature; his formidable creative genius." One challenge she faced while translating was that sometimes there were no culturally equivalent words, and also Kannada is rich in ornithological words. She feels that most of the time a translator's job is plain hard work. But after a certain point something magical happens; the original becomes a blur and another power takes over. And you feel a new work has been created. 

AND THEN THERE WAS LIGHT

Once upon a time there was a handicrafts store in Kamanhalli, Bangalore, called Simsim. Kamanhalli was a buzzing locality full of little eateries and an assortment of shops. Simsim was happy to be situated at a place that had throngs of people passing up and down, looking at its wares, or coming in to buy. After all, Simsim had pretty trinkets, colourful fabrics, smart accessories, and cutesy knickknacks—everything but light. 

The shop had no electricity. And after sunset, all went dark inside.

The shop where Simsim was, belonged to my father, and had been shut for close to eight years. It was being used as an extended storeroom for excess stuff from home. The shop had seen busy days but now lay orphaned. When I opened its shutters to purvey the intended venue of my proposed handicrafts store, unlike my family, I was not terrified of its dark, cob-webbed décor and mountainous junk. 

I saw what I wanted to see—a little, homely place. I used the old dining table and rickety racks and lame chairs that had once occupied the house as shop furniture. When Simsim opened, customers often told me that it looked like a room in a house. The only thing missing was a kitchen. 

Naturally, the shop was open in daylight hours only. When business picked up, I kept it open after sunset with the aid of gaslights. (The Bangalore of yore?) Must say the customers were a sporty set: If sharper light was called for, they stepped out to check the stuff under the street light, or the next door shop's brightly lit foyer (another sporty bunch). 

Darkness did not deter our customers. In fact, it made us quaint. As one regular remarked that we looked so cool with no running electricity!

Well, as much as we liked being different, there is a limit to being unconventional. So, we decided to get the power supply restored. Not an easy agenda. The bureaucratic maze had to be negotiated and negotiated. And finally, one day, there was light.   

All else remained unchanged around the shop: the unconventional timings (open on limited days, for limited hours), erratic interiors (no display shelves), and the tiny stock (more like samples).

Only now our loyal customers could see the wares in hard-gotten KEB-bestowed light.

THE ENGINEERING OF EDUCATION

In a way, the only two "real" subjects we learn at school would be Language and Mathematics; that is—alphabets and numbers. And possibly, the only skills needed to walk (and talk) through our regular existence.

In most professions, new entrants learn on the job: often even graduates of professional schools. Professions like medicine, engineering, accounting and others require their graduates to learn while working. The course is a theoretical framework to follow. But there is no teacher like experience—rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands on the work table.

So the Big Question is—why do we go through a system sponging up on chemical equations, mind-spinning theorems, and the digestive system of a larva? How necessary is it to memorise the names and dates of battles?  Or the height of imposing mountain peaks?

Most of us will not be doing much with our formal learning for the rest our lives. Then why do we waste our prized childhood and youth under threatening text books and tyrannical test schedules? We do that to get into a Good College. Why a good college? Because then you can get into a good professional course, which eventually helps you nail a Good Job. So basically, the education system is churning out economic entities to feed into the market.  

American educator and cultural critic Niel Postman says that the education system views children as "economic units" who are being prepared for a "competent entry into the economic life of a community." Ideally, says Postman, economic utility should be a by-product of a good education, and not the aim.

Are the by-products of education (a love for learning, responsible socialisation, personality grounding, and language skills) being acquired by our graduates? Since schools are busy feeding formulas and theorems to their students, how much time is being allotted to activities that can lead to a more rounded student self? Is our education system doing enough, as Postman says, "to provide an inspired reason for learning."

The world of education should prepare its denizens not for a career alone, but for a richer life, which only respect and love for learning can provide. A system like that will produce just not workers but collaborators.

Schools should be sacrosanct places where young minds and personalities are farmed to flourish without scanning the job bazaars. As Postman says: "Without meaning, learning has no purpose. Without a purpose, schools are houses of detention, not attention."

THE WORDS FILE

Most ideas are easier dreamed up than actually executed. And my plan for teaching writing to children and adults was one such thought. Having been a journo, and done other kinds of writing—words were what I knew something about. And, more importantly, felt and cared for. So, it was time for me to walk my words. 

After a year or so of reading books on teaching writing, going through my dusty MA notes, researching worksheets, informally test marketing, and luxuriously pondering, I came up with a blueprint for my version of an effective writing course, and chose the workshop model. 

The group for this creative writing workshop was a mix of 7- to 12-year-olds. I had made folders from red chart paper for the kids to file their worksheets. (A hangover from my handicraft shop running days.) These folders caused some buzz with my young participants. One of them came up and asked me if I was the owner of Inkpot (the label on the folder, and the name I had bestowed upon my venture), or worked there. Talk about brand exposure! 

The handmade folder distributed to the kids

The budding marketer within me glowed. But the teacher inside (the larger share) felt competitive. I decided to gauge my brand new students idea of creativity through this craft item.

A while into the workshop, I asked them why they felt I had made folders instead of just zipping across to the stores and picking up fancier ones. Their answers made me grin stupidly and do mental cartwheels:One kid declared that since this was a creative class, it was better to create things. Another said that perhaps I loved craft. A third voice solemnly added that this ensured that we had a folder nobody else had.

My young learners intuitively understood what creativity is: doing your own thing (as your imagination dictates)—in words or form—for the love of it. And being original!

PETS OVER PEOPLE

As part of their evolutionary destiny animals have been substituting humans—sometimes because they were better suited for the job or just more expendable. As beats of burdens lugging the load, winged messengers, or more recently bomb sniffers—they had jobs thrust upon them; mostly undesirable ones vacated by humans.

But often we see urban jungle dwellers extending the function of animals to a humanoid level—that is, seeking them to fulfil roles that easily could be desired by humans. What’s one to make of that?! Are humans failing to relate to each other at an interpersonal level? Why are we turning to the low rankers of the evolutionary ladder instead of the evolutionary elite?

When did animals turn human—outside of fairy tales and inside our drawing rooms?!

A pampered pet class has been around as a status statement or personal whim. But this cute-on-call pet was an accessory to the Complete Family. These lavished upon expensive breathing toys were often the affected eccentricities of the Haves. However privileged the pet, it was fitted around family obligations, social rituals, personal commitments. The pet was a pet—always an animal. When? How? Why? Did this pet turn into a person?

In this new equation the helplessness of the pet is matched by the confusion of the human. The Master is enslaved to the Servant by the forces of need created by—emotional support denied by humans, alienating situations, or the fear of intimacy/commitment. Pets have become for some (and who knows for how many to come) comfortable objects of expressed-displayed affection.  

Humans want someone to care for, relax around, and share with…just someone to come home to. But to handle the complications and emotional demands of human relationships is not always possible. So that brings in the pet into the picture subconsciously as a substitute person. The owner projects on it human feelings and wants—which the animal is not even capable of experiencing!

In science-speak, when you make an animal a person—attributing to it human motivations and characteristics—it is called anthromorphism. Or try Pet-Turned-Person.