Monsoon Diary (17 page)

“Horses are healing,” said Ted.

I gazed into his green eyes and nodded fervently.

Ted had long, silky brown hair that he wore in a ponytail. “I never use shampoo for my hair,” he said. “Or soap or laundry detergent. The phosphates pollute our rivers.”

“Neither do I,” I lied, making up my mind never to take a bath with phosphate-loaded cleaners again. I would stock up on deodorant. Did deodorants contain phosphates? I wondered.

THE ONLY PERMANENT STRUCTURE at the camp was the kitchen. Everything else was makeshift. We built tents, stocked the storeroom across the field with food and provisions, cleaned cobwebs from the outhouses, and installed containers of sawdust and recycled toilet paper. The campers arrived. Car after car bumped over the dusty dirt road and deposited kids. After dinner the parents departed.

Our first campfire. Ted gave a speech. “Welcome, campers. Make sure that you have your flashlights at night, since we don’t have electricity or running water. Also, make sure that you put sawdust into the pit after you use the outhouse so that it doesn’t stink for the next person. If you hear howling at night, don’t worry. We have coyotes in the neighborhood, and they like to sing to the moon. They’ve never ventured into camp, but zip up your tents at night. Welcome, again.”

A stream ran through the property, and we had to carry buckets of water from here for baths behind the trees. The campers themselves found an ingenious solution to this constraint: they didn’t bathe. Halfway through the summer, we held a marathon kid-bathing session and scrubbed off fifteen days’ worth of dust and dirt from their slithery bodies.

I loved being in the mountains. The whinnying horses, the soft alfalfa grass, the rustling pines, the apricot, peach, and pear trees on the property that sagged with an abundance of fruit all imbued me with a deep sense of contentment.

Sometimes we took the kids to Taos Pueblo to watch Indian men with magnificent feathered headdresses, jingling anklets, and blue beads jump rhythmically up and down to the thump of the drums. Occasionally, after the kids were asleep, we counselors piled into Bud’s Land Rover and stole away to Taos Square. We would sit in a café sipping margaritas and watch street performers and musicians. Nat would play his accordion, Andy, Olivia, and I would jump up and twirl around, and Ted would smile. On clear nights we took our sleeping bags to the alfalfa fields and slept under the stars. Each of us got breaks by rotation in the afternoon. Andy and I would hike through the property, pick perfectly ripe sun-kissed peaches right off the tree, and bite greedily into the soft flesh. At night we would go up the hill to the peaceful Lama Foundation, hang out with its serene inhabitants, and talk about Ram Dass, Zen Buddhism, and other spiritual matters.

OUR DAY BEGAN early. At dawn I went across the alfalfa field to bring buckets of water and provisions for the kitchen. As I walked back, an orange sun rose from the distant Rio Grande, chasing fluffy clouds off the horizon and bringing welcome warmth into my cold body. The horses whinnied appreciatively when I threw them carrots on my way back.

As one of the counselors coaxed the old-fashioned woodstove into cooking our breakfast, the rest of us stood around with mugs of cocoa and had our daily staff meeting. We talked about homesickness amongst the campers and what to do when kids ganged up on one another. We talked about Ian, a nine-year-old, who burped continuously on purpose during lunch just to get a laugh and burped some more when we reprimanded him. We talked about Lauren, who carried perfume and makeup up the mountain during treks and then complained about her heavy backpack. We made up camp policies about swearing. We all agreed that we would “strongly discourage” the campers from pairing off into couples. We spent forty-five minutes debating whether to wake up the kids at six or six-fifteen.

There were four work crews, and we took turns leading them. Some days I took the horse crew to clean out the barn and feed the horses. Other days I drove the battered old pickup truck laden with stones and gravel to smoothe the dirt roads. The fence crew taught me how to wield the posthole digger. The camp-care crew cleaned up after breakfast. By noon everyone was ravenous.

Sarah, our cook, was a virtuoso. As part of her interviewing process she made us a sumptuous lunch: chilled gazpacho; fluffy couscous flavored with capers, red peppers, and pine nuts; a crunchy bean-sprout salad drizzled with olive oil and sea salt; and for dessert plump, ripe berries with clover honey. We hired her on the spot.

It was only after the kids arrived that we discovered Sarah’s secret quirk, and by then it was too late. Sarah hated cooking, or rather, she hated heating food. “It destroys all the beneficial food enzymes,” she said.

She was willing—nay, eager—to prepare food for us as long as she didn’t have to operate the stove. “Most chefs are limited by the stove,” she said. “Not me. I disdain heat; I spit at fire. They are the number-one cause of all health problems.”

Noticing our stunned, slightly skeptical faces, she gave us a list of cooking ingredients she would need: nori and kombu seaweed, tofu, sprouts, fresh vegetables of all sorts except root vegetables like potato, fresh fruits, and grains that cooked without heating, like couscous. “There is an Indian grain called
poha,
” said Sarah, looking at me for validation. “You just soak it in water, add some raisins, cashews, and chopped vegetables for a wonderful one-dish dinner.”

I nodded.

Bud’s head swiveled toward me. “Is
poha
like macaroni?” he asked hopefully.

I was elected liaison between Sarah and the rest of the group.

“You’re the only one who understands her language,” said Barbara.

“Get her to cook some chicken or even some pasta,” said Bud. “This is a summer camp, not a commune. Kids won’t eat kombu.”

“Ooh, what I wouldn’t give for some steaks,” sang Andy. “Some steaks and beer on a hot summer’s day.”

Even Ted, the collector of juvenile delinquents and eccentrics, was at a loss. “There’s got to be some food Sarah can cook that these kids will eat,” he said.

“Bread,” replied Sarah, when I gingerly broached the subject with her. The only thing she would eat from the enzyme-killed, chemical-laden, iron-fortified, hormone-supplemented, fatty, unhealthy, cooked mush that they call cuisine was bread, said Sarah. Apparently, even though bread was baked in an oven, it didn’t kill as many enzymes as, say, sautéeing, or stir-frying, or—horrors—frying.

Bread, I thought. Why not? At least it was something the kids would eat.

Sarah baked bread all summer long. We woke up to the scent of zucchini bread for breakfast. We brought along zesty lemon bread packed with walnuts and raisins when we took the kids swimming in the pond on hot afternoons. When Chief Lightfoot from the Taos Pueblo came to visit, Sarah even broke her no-cooking rule and fried up some wonderful Zuni bread that she dusted with confectioner’s sugar and served with honey.

“She’s on to something,” said Bud. “Taste.”

At night, when we sat telling stories over the campfire, Sarah gave us warm cheese bread. As cold darkness settled over the mountains, we hugged one another and shared slices of crumbly bread oozing with ripe yellow cheese. In the distance a coyote wailed mournfully at the moon. The campers sang “Kumbaya.” Flashlights danced across the pine trees as the children stumbled to their tents.

“Tomorrow we will make pine bread,” said Sarah.

In exchange, I taught Sarah to make
poha—
the right way, not the uncooked way.

POHA

Gujarat in October. It is the
Nav Ratri
(nine nights) festival, when entire cities come alive at night with music and dancing. I am in beautiful Baroda, the cultural capital of Gujarat, where I spend my days primping for the night. Come sunset and I set off, dressed like a peacock, to dance all night. We go around in giant circles, clapping hands, bending and swaying, turning our faces to the giant moon low in the sky. In the morning I come home and eat a bowl of piping hot
poha.

Poha
is famous in Gujarat, where it is eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and as a snack. In Tamil it is called
aval
and is used to make sweet and savory dishes. My family likes to eat this dish for dinner, since it is light on the stomach and needs few accompaniments.

SERVES 4

1 cup beaten rice (
poha
) (available in Indian grocery stores)
1 1/2 tablespoons oil
1/2 teaspoon black mustard seeds
1/2 teaspoon cumin
3 to 5 green chiles, slit in half lengthwise
3 1/4-inch slices of ginger, minced
1 stalk curry leaves, chopped, about 10
1 large onion, chopped
1 small potato, peeled and cubed
1/4 cup roasted, unsalted peanuts, broken into small pieces
1/4 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon lime juice
1/4 cup grated or dessicated coconut
1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro

Wash the
poha,
then drain. Sprinkle a handful of clear water (about 1/2 cup) over it and put aside. After 15 minutes, loosen the
poha
gently and break any lumps with your fingers. It should be soft and fluffy.

In a heavy saucepan, heat the oil, add the mustard seeds, and cook until they sputter. Add the cumin, chiles, ginger, and curry leaves. Stir for 1 minute. Then add the onion and potato. Stir until the onion is translucent and the potato is tender. Remove from the heat.

Add the
poha,
peanuts, sugar, salt, and lime juice. Mix well. Fold in the coconut and cilantro. Serve hot with freshly brewed coffee.

FOURTEEN

Love’s Labor Lost

I HAD ALWAYS COOKED to gain something: permission to go to America, a chance to stay an extra year, for money. In Memphis I cooked for what I had lost. It happened this way.

After a summer at camp, I moved to Memphis to attend graduate school. I lived off campus, in a building unofficially called Curry Hall because of the large numbers of Indian students rooming there. I spent most days and nights in the sculpture studio.

Memphis was very different from Mount Holyoke. For one thing, I had a lot more Indian friends in Memphis, and they threw great parties. We would gather in someone’s house on a Friday night, indulge in a potluck dinner, and dance until the wee hours.

SOUTHERNERS FASCINATED ME. Quick of laugh and sly of wit, their conversation masked more than it revealed. They were pleasant and easygoing but had a certain reserve that I couldn’t penetrate, which only piqued my curiosity about them. In the Northeast I got invited to dozens of homes. In the South I could barely manage two. When I did visit homes, I found gracious men and women with a droll sense of humor and a talent for flirtatious repartee. They were great storytellers and held me enthralled for hours with tales of eccentric relatives and the Civil War. Unlike New Englanders, they openly acknowledged their regional identity. When I asked, for instance, “What kind of artist are you?” a common response was “A Southern artist.” I was curious about what comprised a Southerner. Was it genealogy or personality?

There were many layers to the South, holding mysterious secrets, rambling generations, and recipes from Aunt Mamie. It was like a quicksand that sucked me into its sultry charms and dulcet air. In some ways, it reminded me of Madras.

I had interesting professors. Greely Myatt, new to the job, was my sculpture teacher. He sat with me as I teetered on a stepladder or stooped over an anvil, chatting about his work and mine. We had an easy rapport, or so I thought. He was passionate about art and spent long hours rearranging the studio and discussing students’ projects.

As part of my scholarship, I worked at the graduate coordinator’s office. There I encountered other professors—painters, art historians, ceramists, and printmakers. Memphis State didn’t have Mount Holyoke’s resources or its spirit of largesse, but after a couple of years I felt like I had carved out a little niche for myself within the art department.

How, then, to account for the fact that at the end of my master’s program—after thinking that I knew my professors and had their full support—I felt completely betrayed by them? To be fair, they probably felt the same way about me and were just as bitter as I was when it happened.

IT WAS THE DAY of my final exam. I had to defend my thesis exhibition before the graduate committee as part of the requirements for a master’s in fine arts. We gathered at 9:00 A.M. in the art museum, six professors and I, to review the sculptures I had created during the course of a semester. It was an elaborate installation made from hundreds of thin circles that I had fashioned from steel. First I had cut steel circles, then I sanded them so that they sparkled and welded them into elaborate designs that vaguely resembled David Smith’s sculptures. But my pieces were more figurative than his. There were wheelchairs, steel pipes, roller coaster–like designs, and circles suspended in space.

The committee stood before me, dressed in suits and ties, holding pink slips and grade reports, and asked me to explain my work. I began haltingly, trying to articulate unconscious thoughts and subliminal reasons into coherent, perfectly formed sentences. I faltered halfway through. When they questioned me as to why I had put wheelchairs in my work, I didn’t have an answer. When they asked why I had chosen circles as my mode of expression, I gesticulated expressively, said something that didn’t make much sense even to myself. I failed miserably in the Q&A.

My professors conferred amongst themselves and came back with a proposal. They were going to let me pass my exam if I rearranged my installation according to their interpretation of it. Since I couldn’t explain what it was, they had no choice but to infer, they said, and change my piece to suit their inference.

I was in shock. What my professors were suggesting seemed like sacrilege, especially after DeLonga’s emphasis on the sanctity of each person’s art. It was like erasing someone’s painting and drawing something else in its place.

How could they do this? I thought. All right, I said.

Greely and I changed the circular arrangement into a linear one. He removed some pieces and put them in storage. He tried to be considerate and included me in his decision making. “I think we should take out this piece, don’t you?” he said, as he removed a structure that didn’t seem to fit his new installation.

Two hours later all six professors signed the pink slip and “approved” my thesis. They sent it to the dean of the school so that it could be translated into a master of fine arts degree. I was now a bona fide MFA graduate.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept telling myself that it was no big deal, but it was. I had visions of going into the museum with spray paint and spraying graffiti all over the walls.

The next morning I got up early and went to the museum. I was like an automaton, propelled by an instinct that I hadn’t consciously articulated, even to myself. There were a couple of administrators who had just come in to work. I asked one of them for keys to the storage room, and he handed them to me without demurring. I brought out all my pieces and began arranging the whole installation exactly the way I had originally done it. I didn’t know if I was being courageous or foolhardy. I was sure that there would be repercussions, but I also knew that I couldn’t live with myself if I left it just the way it was. After I reinstalled my piece I went home.

I heard from the school right away. Later that day I went to the sculpture studio. Someone—I’m not sure who—told me that the university had revoked my degree, since I had changed the installation. I was not surprised and yet I was: I had expected them to react but not this harshly.

“You should protest,” said my dad, the college professor. “A college cannot pass a student and then fail her. Once they sign the paper and approve your candidacy, it means that you’ve satisfied all their requirements. They cannot change their minds after that.”

“They just did,” I replied.

“You should fight,” my dad said.

Other friends said the opposite. Why don’t you just go and say you’re sorry, get your degree, and go out into the world? Why lose the degree you’ve worked so hard for to prove a point? And what are you trying to prove?

I had no answer. I knew that I was in the midst of something that would determine how I felt about myself ten years later. Was it impractical and childish to throw away a master’s degree through my own actions, or was it principled and idealistic to stand up for what I believed in? A decade later would I be proud of my actions or regret them? Deep in my heart, I already knew the answer. By changing the exhibit and eschewing a degree, I was saying that my art was more important than a degree, and I knew that wouldn’t change after ten years or a lifetime.

I didn’t call DeLonga. I knew that what he said would influence me unduly, and this was my battle, my test. I wanted the decision to be fully mine, even though the whole world seemed to disagree with me. Sometimes it was terrifying. I sat in my dark bedroom one evening, looking at the official piece of paper brusquely informing me that my degree had been revoked. All that money down the drain, all my work had come to nothing. What was I doing?

I had no answer. My brain had shut down. I cooked like a maniac. When the school informed me that I had to clear my things from the art studio, I bought bags of potatoes, mashed them, coated them in butter, and licked them up, comforted by their gooey warmth. When the campus bulletin carried a photograph of the Graduate Art Exhibit, listing every student’s name except mine, I furiously chopped cloves of garlic and dunked them into a spicy
rasam.
I drank hot milk spiked with saffron and cardamom. I craved my mother’s
idlis.
And I called a friend who worked at the local newspaper.

I didn’t want my degree, I said, not after they had altered my piece beyond recognition, but I wanted to create a stink about it. Was there anything I could do?

The next day, the
Commercial Appeal
ran a front-page story titled, “Student’s Degree Revoked in MSU Art Debate.”

FRIENDS CAME to commiserate and check whether I was okay. I received them like a Southern belle at a ball. I wiped my tears, put cool cucumber over my puffy, red-rimmed eyes, and gaily opened the door. I fried samosas and
bajjis,
made amazingly soft
dhoklas
from chickpea flour, and stirred cream of coconut into a curried tomato soup. I tossed enough salad to feed everyone in Graceland. The low point was when I ate a gargantuan pot of plain white rice and ghee at midnight. The high point was when Pankaj from Delhi came to visit and I served a tropical fruit
chaat,
dusted with black salt, cumin, and pepper in crystal bowls that I inherited from a previous roommate.

THE NEXT DAY I locked myself in my bedroom and contemplated my future. After five years in America, four as an art student, I had no degree to speak of. Was it important to have a degree? Or didn’t it matter? What would DeLonga have done? What would Jennifer have done? I hadn’t called any of my friends; I had been caught up in just getting from day to day, hour to hour. That, and cooking.

Over the next week my future, or lack thereof, became final. The list of graduates didn’t have my name on it. At that point I simply collapsed. I didn’t leave my apartment for days. A painter friend agreed to keep my car while I figured out what to do. Steven, a potter, said he would store all my sculptures in his gigantic garage. My Indian friends rallied around, clucking like hens. They pressed me to move forward, apply for jobs, transfer to a different school, sue the university. Do something, they said—anything.

I booked a ticket to India. I wanted to go home.

FRUIT CHAAT

I am at a nightclub in Boston, a fanciful place owned by two Russian sisters of uncertain descent, renowned for drenching its patrons with vodka at the stroke of midnight. My friends and I come here after a long day at the studio—to smoke, dance, drink, and eat skewered, grilled fruit served on long trays. The menu has a Russian word for them. I simply dust the fruit with the
chaat
masala
I carry with me and call it fruit
chaat.
Charred to perfection, it tastes great with vodka.

Juice of 2 lemons

Juice of 2 oranges
1 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons
chaat masala
(available in Indian grocery stores)
1 red Delicious apple, peeled and cut into
1/2-
inch cubes
1 Anjou or Bartlett pear, peeled and cut into
1/2-
inch cubes
2 oranges, peeled, halved, and cut into
1/2-
inch slices
3/4 cup fresh pomegranate seeds
1 cup green seedless grapes
1 cup red seedless grapes
1 ripe mango, peeled and cut into
1/2-
inch cubes
Mint leaves

Mix the two juices, salt, sugar, and
chaat masala
well in a large serving bowl. Add the fruits one by one. Mix well. Garnish with mint leaves and chill well before serving.