I like.
I love.
Rain and me go together.
Guess it comes from years and years in Lonavla where it poured incessantly from June to Spetember. The rains were not a fine drizzle, more of a roar, really. We just learned to live with the wet: wet clothes, rubber chappals, wet dogs, coals fires, no electricity, mist, cold and waterfalls. We would walk in the rain, sloshing through puddles, cycling through ponds, marvelling at the green carpets and pretty wildflowers that would spring up and dot the countryside.
We would venture into Monsoon Lake to fish, or spend hours playing indoor Table Tennis at the Fariyas Hotel or the old Vrindavan clubhouse. Or we would play videogames. Before PSP and XBox, we had Atari. We would get finger cramps from playing the brilliant Maze Craze. And there was always Badminton at the Railway Institute.
Monsoon Lake was a reservoir of the Tata Electric Co. It would be so depleted and dry in May that there would be melas and cricket matches on the dry lake bed. Come the Rain, and it would steadily fill up and even overflow occasionally.
Every day we would walk to the Lake. In later years, this became the local Promenade. But mostly, we were alone. We would picnic everyday or just walk the Dam in the mist. I would often stand on the broad wall, peering down into the murky depths of the lake, and romanticize about Johanna Lindsey heroines. I would instantly be there, standing on the edge of an imagined Scottish loch, the wind whipping my tresses and howling in my ears as I serched the depths for my future: so green and lush was my little world.
We would avoid the Bushir Dam area on weekends when we locals went into lockdown. Every Friday-Saturday-Sunday, Lonavla and Khandala would be invaded by thousands of crazy Bombayites and other tourists in their ganjis and chaddis. They would sit with their bottles of booze or hot bhuttas on the steps of the overflowing dam. Eve teasers were regularly beaten up, cops crawled the area, people slid down rocky waterfalls. We would stock up with bread and eggs and milk and not venture out till Monday. Almost all the time, we had to endure weekend visitors, the farthest of acquaintances, the most distant, vague connections. People would drop in to say hello. Hello? We didn't even know many of them!
As I grew up, the Rains were not so much about trudging to the Convent school through puddles, in our raincoats, but about holidays. When we shifted school to DC in Khandala, the rains would disrupt life badly. School was perched on the edge of the ghat, by the highway. Massive traffic jams that stretched for miles due to some mishap on the ghats would leave us stranded on the very edge. No vehicles could get through. We usually walked the 5km home to Lonavla. Those were fun mornings. If the local bus that ferried most of the teachers from Lonavla was stuck in a jam, we had the mornings off!
The Rains aren't so romantic anymore. Now it's about floods in Bombay and the Expressway has meant that a whole generation of DC School kids wont have absent teachers on a rainy day.
Here's a recipe for Mummy's Southern Fried Chicken, the very same that saw us through many wet picnics by the Lake and drives up to Ambavane ( now more fashionably known as Aamby Valley) Best had with lashings of ketchup and pau smothered in butter. Best accompanied by garam coffee or chilled ThumsUp. Bhutta to accompany, freshly roasted in the rai. Beer always works with this one!
Mom's Southern Fried Chicken
Wash big pieces of chicken well, pat absolutely dry. Make sure you buy the most tender, soft chicken you can.
Make big incisions with a knife and rub salt into the meat. Poach in boiling water until nearly done. Do not over boil or it will become rubbery! When fully cooled, apply ginger-garlic paste, pepper and some salt, all over the meat. Marinate thus for several hours.
In a deep kadhai, heat the oil.
Gently beat an egg with 1 tbsp water. Roll chicken pieces in it, shake off excess. Roll in breadcrumbs till well-coated.
Deep fry in really hot oil, one big piece at a time. Test doneness with a fork ( juices should run clear).
