Food as History

Education is so linear as we learn to learn. The entire future of work argument hinges on put thinking the AI breathing robot. Creativity is reduced to neoliberal innovation to create disruptive value often expressed in the face value of the share price. The language of Dalal Street is really of its namesake of the Dalal, or the broker in Hindi. It surely has a perjorative ring to it. Education is not only of the post 1835 Macaulay kind, after the abolition of Persian as the language of the bureaucracy.

Traditional food and culture is as disconnected to Education as Sattoo (Bihari classic) is to Cheese. But food is more than just mere ingredients. It is a short hand for social history and a repository of cultural values. Bengali food is more than fish curry and is such a rich tapestry that it’s contours are getting lost in oral histories from grand mother to daughter and the grandson is cooking pasta at home. These stories in food and folklore is also Education; albeit of the civilisation kind. The reductionism of the deconstructed kind on culinary shows on the TV is simply mind boggling. Jiya Chakraborty Prasad is working on a draft capturing these narratives for posterity. History is too serious to be left to the historians.

Lulu.

Massive spaces to shop

Spices, Sambhar Veggies and more

South India in a store

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The expanse is reflective

Of the ambition of its founder

Jobs to all in his village

Myth Material

Real in terms of cash

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Gulf is a cocoon

Time dilates

The comfort zone expands

The notion of time

Intimate, but never owned

Like a rented car

Absence.

Migrants are people who leave their homes to keep them

Dignity is a luxury, as there are mouths to feed

Home is often a Skype screen

Where a grandpa tears to see his little angel

The little angel does not fathom

His sacrifices

Christmas, Eid, Onam, Pongal

Are dates on a digital calendar

Lives are spent in a perennial countdown

The remittance exchange is a node to transfer love

When presence is pravasi

Absence is a way of life

And lives are stuck in the past

Turkish Cafes: Liminal Spaces in the Mashreq

It was a clogged artery connecting the many hubs of Muscat, seeing a burst in real estate development. Along the side of this artery, was some civil works underway by the edge of the road. The narrow entry into the parking lot adjacent to a row of retail outlets including a supermarket and a Turkish Cafe with a projector screen, beaming in a soccer game. On this not so chilly winter evening was a good soccer game between Oman and Saudi Arabia. The tables almost extending into the edge of the civil works was jam packed with an all men audience, following every small move of the game with a zeal of the priesthood. There were bouts of oohs and aahhs, and a huge roar of applause when the home team scored. As if salvation was near. Sport is a gladiatorial spectre of testosterone and skill, which attracts the viewer to tap into to a sense of belonging and affirmation. Cafes are liminal spaces, spilling into the public area; a type of inside-outside, the intimate in a public space.

Turkish cafes in Muscat are places where the Shwarma is available for a tasty and quick bite from the migrant labor to the struggling office worker who is in cost cutting mode. These eateries are purely operational; with a gruffly, middle aged model like Turkish man, who was surely very good looking in his prime, now jostling to run his business.

The service staff is Bangladeshi, and I quickly Code switch to Bangla to order my grilled chicken. The deft Bangladeshi; coordinates between the costumer, kitchen, the mudir (manager) to bring the order. The inside family seating section where I am with @bromide_duck @jiya_bromideduck for a bite, is empty which a pole apart from the bustle on the outside. The drive in costumers have a regal air honking away to glory. Cafes are human spaces which create nimble social networking on the ground, in this part of the world. The Turkish Coffee was splendid too, by the way.

Trolley.

This essential, but mundane carrier

Everyday life is contained

In the aluminium nest

The basic unit of retail capitalism

Most understated

A non place object

Trolley, is often empty

At the end of the month

Overflowing in the first week

Consistent with the vagaries of life

Push away as an orphan

At the check out counter

#everydaypoetry