Rub-a-dub, dub, Here’s where’s the grub!

There is an old, old story (complaint, actually) about a man who bemoans his condition because he is (un)blessed with a tummy. The man praises the Almighty, for giving him all the organs and internal connections that makes him almost a god; yet, hunger pangs are the most difficult to suppress. This, of course, leads to the commonplace platitude: “What cannot be cured, must be endured.” Endured, mind you, not abjured. I will not bore you with the due process, starting with the oral orifice and ending you know where, but the final result is, inevitably, crap. And crap, in all its multitudinous multiplicity, is what really binds the human race together. Some comfort, huh?

In houses, big and small, a separate area is set aside for the everyday ritual of eating. Food is important and so, in modern houses at least, provision for a proper dining room is made. But I live in a rambling old mansion where the dining room occupies centre-stage—it is practically in the very middle of things, for all the other rooms seem attached to it in a very symbiotic, systematic and suffused way. It is the focal point of my home, as it should be, because, when family is around, it participates in the fun and frolic, the passing around of the booze-bottles, the crunching and munching of snacks (the South-Indian Anglo word “kudchikoes” seems more appropriate), the gorging on the day’s specials, and the camaraderie that can only be enjoyed to the fullest at “Home, sweet Home.”

How many of us have sweet memories of our dining rooms and the stories they could tell. In the old days, at home in Trichy, I remember our small family settling down for the evening repast. But that didn’t happen before the family prayers were concluded. I will only say that at least on one occasion I dozed off, and the result was a lecture that seemed to bring down, on me, fire and brimstone. There were other less dire incidents, especially at Christmas-time, when the meat-safe was periodically raided for the cake and kul-kuls stacked up there.

Much, much later, when we moved into our own place in the heaven called Veteran Lines, we managed to purchase an old dining-table that could seat eight comfortably. It’s still with us, as is the meat-safe that I restored. In fact, if you look carefully, you will discover two meat-safes in the room. The table is almost always covered with stuff—pickles, chips, other snacks, the fruits of the day and, of course, the whiskey bottle. Against the wall on your right, are two show-cases, literally showing off what we have collected over the years. When I went to Saudi Arabia, I made it a point to climb to the very top of Bait-al-Mamlika, and on my way out, I bought a replica encased in a glass dome. Tell me, dear Reader, have you ever come across an Anglo-Indian home that does not feed on memorabilia? If you haven’t, you’ve visited all the wrong places.

We are, after all, creatures of the past, nostalgic and full of yearning at the same time, because, I believe, we are ephemeral yet effervescent, rooted in the past even as we stride into the future with much more than hope, and almost always filled with a joie-de-vivre that is the envy of most other humans.

Right in front of you is a door that leads to the kitchen, and, beyond another door, is my out-of-doors work-place where I try out my creative skills. To the right and to the left are doors that lead into the bedrooms, and on the left side are two more rooms that can double up as bedrooms, when needed. I guess my sons could say that in their father’s house there are many rooms, and you will certainly be surprised by the enormity of it all. As I have said before, we have been truly blessed.

The bedrooms are cosy and comfortable, made so even in summer because of the air-conditioning. The missus has her own make-shift altar where multifarious religious artifacts can be seen. Next to the master-bedroom is another, where I hoard all my LP records, many of them over fifty years old and still in top condition. I really collect a lot of stuff, so I also have my stamp collection, my coin collection, my pen collection and my walking-stick collection. As my name-sake “Oliver” Goldsmith says in one of his plays: “I love everything old”.

And, finally, my work-station. Don’t look at the clutter, look instead, at the thing of beauty that may emerge from scrap collected from everyone else. This is where I find myself, dear Reader, my true self, where I can truly rummage, as WB Yeats says, in: “the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart”. Doesn’t that ring familiar? So often we hear the refrain: “Dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return.”. But the glory is that we humans rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes of our past, to more spectacular and stunning splendour that the future beckons us with.