Kuchalambal's Management Theories.

Image Credit : http://cooksjoy.com/blog/2012/09/coconut-jaggery-kozhukattai-sweet-dumplings.html

 Her cotton saree safely tucked under her legs, she sat down on the ground with the pot of dough and filling in front of her.  Tradition demanded that cooking to be done on the floor.

 Her grandchild Vignesh had been pestering her for a Khozakattai (rice dumplings) since the last few weeks. Her energy levels off late have been so inconsistent that she could not muster up the courage to venture into the kitchen for the last few days.

Today was different. It was her late husband’s birthday, she got up early and was bustling with activity, before 8, she had already taken her bath, been to the local temple to pray for her late hubby’s soul, arranged for a charitable lunch outside the temple;  for the poor and returned in time to see off Sid & Shobna to work.

It had always been a tradition to prepare sweets on auspicious occasions.  Birthdays & anniversaries would warrant a feast at home and today was no different.  Conveniently she had remembered Vignesh’s demand and prepared the rice flour the previous day.

She now sat down to make little pouches out of the dough, it would then be filled with small portions of coconut mixed in treacle of jaggery, and steamed to produce a divine treat called a Khozkattai.

Shobna’s sister Parvati was visiting, soon she came down to the prayer room, and finding Kuchalambal, engaged in kitchen, sat down on the floor besides her.  She had just finished her engineering and was about to fly off to the US for her Masters.

‘Paatti’ teach me how to make these cute pouches, she exclaimed.

“Sure” replied Kuchalambal, extending a cup of sesame oil. “Rub this on your palm and pick up a bit of dough”

Soon the duo was engrossed in making rows of Kozhakattai.  To Kuchalambal’s delight, Parvati picked up the trick very fast and could keep pace with her own speed. Soon the dough was all finished but they were left with a lot of filling, enough for making at least two dozen more dumplings.

“Oh Paati”, Parvati exclaimed.  “What do we do with all the surplus fillings now”?

Well!  Exclaimed Kuchalambal,” I had asked the maid to prepare the ingredients, and was not careful in supervision, no wonder we have wastage on our hands”. What would you do as a manager Parvati?

“Had I been the floor manager of a factory”,  Parvati earnestly started recounting the options. “I could store it in the freezer and wait till the next demand for more Kozhakattai’s come up, which could be an indefinite wait, and your raw material could spoil in the meanwhile leading to losses”.

“You could prepare more dough and use all the fillings to create few dozen spare Khozhakattai’s ; which then would require more efforts to liquidate, there would be some additional input cost of production with  no current demand for the product. That’s like liquidating your raw material inventory to create finished goods which need additional upkeep and storage and possible wastage”.

“Or you could innovate and use the fillings elsewhere, and create some new delicacies, which will be lapped up by the consumer at a premium and create additional income for your unit. The new items could also be given as freebies with the existing products adding to customer delight.

“Which of these options will you use Vignesh”? She smiled at her grandson listening keenly to the discussion.

“Paati” How old fashioned of you!  Replied the bright nine years old.

First off all in the modern world we do not prepare things on our own, we buy online. 

Moreover traditional snacks like Khozhakattai’s are not ‘In’, because they can’t be ordered online, we prefer snacks of the European and Chinese variety which are readily available online. It is just that I am lucky to have my ‘Paati’ with me who creates all these wonderful traditional delights especially for me, replied the little one with an adoring smile.

But Patti, what were the options in your good old days? Asked Vignesh

“Well children”, our times were indeed challenging. Resources were limited and mouths to feed were large. Neighbours used stroll in and out of our houses and neither was our kitchen out of bounds to others, so we had to prepare for lot many people than we had members in the house. We never were alone in the kitchen so guidance from elderly ladies in the house kept wastage to the minimum.  People never used weights and measures; a fair guess by the experienced lady of the house was enough to ensure the finest balance and delicacy in the output.

“We did not have any dashboards and measurements, yet we were not allowed luxuries of wastage, so we were careful as to how much of raw material we prepared. You see modern management may not have been born yet in the good old days, yet the finest of qualities of humans and their products were born many centuries ago. What you call management today is only the methods of your struggle to deal with large volumes, we in our times used to feed the entire village out of our kitchens in our own style without wasting a morsel”.

‘But the point to be noted is that life will throw up many challenges to you as you grow, you have to be judicious about the resources at your disposal,  you could have situation wherein you  hired extra help, who are waiting it out on the ‘Bench’. You have to own up the responsibility towards these people who are then dependent on you for their livelihood, they then have to be used like the extra filling. You cant afford to compromise them due to no fault of theirs.

“Similarly you could have extra dough and no filling, go out and prepare extra filling, and feed the masses, there will be people who will be grateful to you. The more you give, the more you will get back in return”.

So saying she leaned against the wall, and slowly stood up, collected the plate of dumplings. The water was boiling now, the cauldron ready to steam the dumplings, soon the heady smell of the delicacy would waft through the air. As Vignesh would make a killing on a plate full, Kuchalambal would watch from the background lovingly.

Tenaciously she would then pick up one piece of Kohzhakattai and savour it with guilt; her blood sugar levels did not permit her the luxury of more than one indulgence.

                                                                    *****

Saree : A traditional Indian ladies dress ; a length of cloth used to drape around the body
Kohzakattai : also knows as Modak,   a dumpling made of rice floor, with stuffing to suit the tastes, available in sweet, spicy varieties
Paati: Grandmother

Kuchalambal deals with Demon-etisation

 

It was six in the evening; Ramprasad came around shouting, “ammaji”, “ammaji”.

Kuchalambal had just sat down for her evening prayers. Holding the table with one hand she slowly got up from the chair, and hobbled up to the window to check.

“Kya hua ramu”?  What is the matter she asked?

“Ämmaji, the cash van has just come in and filled in the ATM, people have already Queued up, I thought I should let you know as well” said Ramprasad.

“Oh! Ok Ramu,  may god bless you” said Kuchalambal and went searching for her ATM Card,

She had all of eighty seven rupees in her purse, and her medicines had run out, she had stopped her medication around 3 days back due to lack of cash.  No chemist in the immediate vicinity accepted cards, nor would they give credit to anyone, and cash she had none. The recent government order demonetising rupee notes of Rs.500 and Rs.1000 denominations had brought the nation to a halt.  

It has been eleven days since the announcement had come one night and from the next day onwards the banks became inaccessible to the public, either they had no cash or they had a serpentine queue of hired labourers waiting to get money changed; albeit for a small commission. The prospect of standing in the queue for hours together was daunting for a frail person like Kuchalambal, so she postponed her visit to the bank surviving on what little she had.

Her ATM card was paraphernalia she had never used. She could not remember having been issued any password for the same. Like clockwork she would every month visit her  bank, clean out that months family pension, pay the land lord his rent, and the remaining amount would just be enough for her to get her groceries, pay for her medicines and doctors consultations. So there was no need for her ATM card, which had remained unused so far.  As luck would have it, she had not been keeping well and could not encash her pension this month before the announcements. The rent remained unpaid, her groceries yet to arrive and fast depleting, and no money for her medicines.

Yesterday she had gone to the pensioner’s bank. Hoping that ten days from the announcements, life would now have come back to normal.  But the crowds were larger than before. The least that she wanted was, to get a password activated for her ATM, but the nationalised bank she banked upon, was not very friendly with its online services, so she had to line up at the bank after all.  One hour of waiting her head began to spin, fortunately someone in the crowd took pity on her and escorted her to the head of the queue. Just when she heaved a sigh of relief, the bank announced that the cash boxes were empty, and people would now have to come back the next day. With a sad heart, Kuchalambal somehow got her ATM password enabled, and hoped that soon she would be able to use the ATMs.  That was not to be, for the ATMs, would remain crowded for weeks to come.  She was at her wits end now.

Then she remembered her kitty. She could, just about save some small change every month, notes; she would slip into her wardrobe, underneath her Kanjivaram sarees. The sarees preciously guarded and maintained over the years were carefully kept in cardboard boxes they had come at the time of their purchase. Some sarees were from way back in time and a few more recent acquisitions which her kin had gifted on various occasions.

Flashbacks and memories sustain us in more ways than one. When memories start fading, and loneliness the only consistent factor that keeps one’s company, then old picture albums, trinkets from the pasts, clothes, mementoes take over your life. The very act of prising them out of various nooks and corners, cupboards and attics,  running ones finger around those memories, help in reliving those faded moments and bring some irrational hope that the past will somehow help you tide over the torturous present and help in alleviating the hopelessness of the future.

In that mood when Kuchalambal sat down to retrieve her cash savings from various saree boxes, more than her meagre saving, she managed to retrieve boxes full of memories.  Letters, invoices, peacock feathers, pouches of sandalwood powders, tiny bottles of Itr’s , all came sliding out from underneath those sarees.

She opened the box containing her most precious saree, the one gifted by her grandfather, for her marriage reception. Bright saffron in colour, with borders heavily brocaded in gold, the border and Pallu in  royal blue depicting a swan amidst a lotus pond. The silk still feeling the same after five decades of usage.  Her frail hands had difficulty holding the heavy saree, was it the heaviness of the past, or the frailness of the present should could not make out, she gently lifted the saree out of its box, and laid it on the bed, opening the folds to reveal the golden thread-work, the swan still very vibrant and vain, the lotus still basking in the sun, if anything had faded it was Kuchalambal’s eye sight, she ran her skeletal fingers over the rich fabric, and tried to connect to those memories of her marriage day.

 Memories being memories, play hide and seek, they would not be commanded to come out of their hiding, as if they had an ego of their own,  they would creep up slowly, sometimes eerily out of nowhere, making you gasp in horror, or smile in surprise. One had to have a knack of coaxing them out, and then they would coyly submit to your command, and play your tunes. What the saree could not accomplish, the letter underneath the saree did, in pulling out those hidden memories. She gently prised open the aged, creased, blue, inland letter which had been resting under the saree for half a century now. The address written with a royal blue fountain pen, announced Mrs.Kuchalambal, C/o, Pattabhiraman, 1^st floor, above Ram Chandra Kishen Chandra, Ajmal Khan Road, Karol Bagh Delhi 110005. The hand writing all too familiar.

It was a letter her mother had written to her; soon after the news her first conception reached Madras. It was a long list of instructions, warnings, precautions, recipes, all scribbled together in one ‘Inland Letter’, a letter which could accommodate  not more than five hundred words was crammed with as many more,  even the flaps had tips written over them.  Then her signature ending, she would always draw a picture of a hand raised in blessing at the end of each letter, in this one there was place for none, yet she made sure that a miniature sketch was put in place.

 Kuchalambal picked up her spectacles and read through that letter again.  An ironic line attracted her attention, her mother had written “when food repels you with waves of nausea, don’t go on an empty stomach, have at-least curd rice with Narthanga. She burst out laughing, here she was seventy eight years of age, surviving on curd rice and Narthanga, nothing else appealing to her any more in her sickness and she remembered her days on the same regimen some forty years back, during a good part of her term carrying Siddharth.

Like wine memories age, but like wine, they intoxicate too, so have to be consumed in limited proportions, with a tear in her eye, Kuchalambal folded away the letter, collected the remaining notes from under various other sarees, and all that she could count were around five thousand rupees in all.

But the pain was not over yet, there were in all just about eight hundred rupees in loose change, the rest were in five hundred rupee notes those which were not valid anymore, one could deposit them in one’s bank, or get them exchanged at counters where teeming queues waited for their turn. Daunting prospects for Kuchalambal, especially the waiting in the long queue. Finally she decided that it was not going to work that way. She called a friendly gatekeeper  and asked him to get the money deposited into her bank, and promised him a small tip of rupees hundred for standing in the queue on her behalf. 

She heard the bad news in the evening; the gate keeper had collected similar amounts from other vulnerable citizens in the housing complex and had flown the coop.  

The shock was too much to bear, a small amount, but large enough to make her sob inconsolably. Apart from a few thousand rupees in the bank, she did not have anything to fall back upon. She did not want to write to Siddharth to send her an allowance, and he was oblivious to her meagre existence.  A small piece of land that Pattabhi her husband, had purchased was the only asset she had. She had ventured to sell it and get herself a decent bank balance with which she could pay for her rent. Unfortunately the piece of land was encircled by two large gated holdings belonging to a real estate tycoon. She was told that her land was worth twenty lacs, but since it was sandwiched between the tycoons other properties, with no free access , the influential tycoon was hell bent upon acquiring it for a pittance, the last offer was for five lacs. But Kuchalambal had hung in there, not wanting to sell at those rates. She had hoped that once Siddharth came back from the US he would be able to get a better deal out of the tycoon.

She was preparing for one more trips to the ATM, her last attempt it would be, not for her this painful wait.

The bell rang. She hobbled to the door, and opened it,   standing in the dimming light was Siddhaiah, the tycoon, an man of enormous proportions, dressed in spotless khadi, (he as aspiring for political fame now, she was told), he let loose a big grin, revealing a gold capped tooth. A Large golden chain, strong enough to pull a chariot, dangled from his neck, and all his fingers adorning stones of various hues mounted on gold, silver and copper rings. He seemed to be a walking jewellery shop.

“Amma !!   how are you, can I come in”  ?

“Oh come in”said Kuchalambal a bit reluctantly.

“Amma!!  Someone told me you are into hard times”, boomed Siddhaiah “so I though is should definitely help a senior citizen like you”

“No sorry Siddhaiahji, I don’t think you can help me in any manner”

“Yes Amma, I can.  You remember the land that you wanted to sell, you see I did not have money to buy it all this while” lied Siddhaiah,

“As god would want it, I suddenly got into some cash and I though what better use for the money than, helping an old lady in need. So here I am at your door-step. You had asked for twenty lacs for the property, and I though what is a little sum of money when it comes to doing public service, so I just collected the cash and came right away to close the deal, if you want we can organise the transfer of the property before the end of the week, I have got all the papers ready all you have to do is sign off the deal, and all this money is all yours”.

So saying Siddhaaiah started stacking twenty lacs of five hundred rupee notes upon the table.

Kuchalambal stood there perplexed, not knowing whether this was a boon or a bane.

Slowly she gathered the money and kept it away, promising in her mind to pay the taxes,  there was no guilt of being instrumental in white washing Sidhaiaah’s black money, was she not a victim here ? as long as she paid the taxes, let other people pay for their own sins, she may perhaps have thought.

 

The poor standing out on queues leaving their jobs, the rich fixing the sudden holes in their buckets to ensure that at least a half of their dubious earnings remain with them, people sold by the dozens, traders complacent that they have fixed the problem by discounting the old notes, knowing that but for further regulations change, they are home and happy. Politicians fighting it out, bruised on thier own losses, but rejoicing the rivals discomforts,unable to express their pain. Amidst all this the nation waits and wails.

Between the extremes are caught the middle class, people like Kuchalambal, who carry on with their lives, taking each blow as it comes.

                                                                   @@@@@@

Kuchalambal Goes Online

A rustle from the back yard woke her up. It must be close to dawn, was the first thought that crossed her mind. ‘Narayana,  thanks for waking me up to one more day of my life, thanks for all that you have given me, and thanks for all that you have never given me’, was the customary prayer she had taught herself to mutter every morning upon waking up. Seldom did any other thought cross her mind.

Then she remembered it was the twenty sixth of January”2016.  Seventy Six years back this same day, little Kuchalambal had come into this world. Today was her Birthday, a smile crossed her face. One more year she had cheated death, she reminded herself. There have been so many vulnerable moments in her life when she had felt that she would not live much longer. She had come out of all of those situations with a smile. She was now certain death would have to play a subterfuge and catch here unawares; there was no way she would surrender to it, if it came in announced. She stretched here cramped legs and prepared to get up.  As age caught up, getting up from bed was an elaborate ritual. To wake up to the realisation of being alive, then stretch, only to find that you legs have gone to sleep, dig arms into the ground and push oneself up, a ritual that would take time.

Today when she did manage to get up, there was this cute little box wrapped in a lovely pink cover, tied with satin ribbons, sitting prettily on her bedside table. She smiled; life does not stop giving to those who accept it with open arms. Seeing the pretty little package she could not hold herself. She hurriedly went through the motions of gargling, hurriedly put on her dentures, and wiping the wet hands on the long end of her sari, she picked up the gift in wonderment, the same sparkle in her eyes which would have been there seventy years back. She was transformed into a six year old again, as she hurriedly tore open the packaging.  What would it be, wondered her heart,  ornaments she wore no more, neither did she have a need for a watch, the package suggested that it was something compact,  it could not be chocolates since she was diabetic, what could it be ?  She wondered as the packaging tore open to reveal a black shiny box. A dainty card announced ‘to amma with love, Sid, Shobna, Vignesh’. She carefully set aside the card, and opened the card board box to reveal a sleek black, shiny phone. As she lifted it out of the packaging it seemed lightweight and just the right size for her little palms. The morning light created a small rainbow on the glass screen as she flipped it around in her hand.  She wondered what to do with it! She never had owned a phone the only phone that she knew was the land instrument in the drawing room, she had to make her way to pick up every time, Sid or Shobna called her during the day from their offices.

Sid, Shobna and Vignesh were still sleeping, she would sit with Vignesh later during the day and learn how to use this phone, she thought.

It had been a few a week now. "Paati, don’t you know this small little thing, did they not teach you anything at all at school?" Exclaimed Vignesh, as the nine year old cozied up to her.  Just press this small button, to go back to the main menu. He sternly admonished her.

Sid smiled from across the room, Aaamam he nodded mischievously.

Paati, now that you are on waatsaap, let me also add you to face book, the little one said. Kuchalambal was also very excited. Customarily the family would approach her a hundred times during the week, wanting to show her a face book update or a message on Watsaap. Now that she had a phone on her own, she could look at those messages at her convenience.

Time and age, a never ending cycle, goes on a loop. Youngsters think that they have arrived, middle aged think that they matter a lot, and the elderly simile at the stupidity of it all.

Having overcome so many adversities in life, switching on the phone, and getting on to the internet seemed a cake walk for Kuchalambal. Soon as in life she had a hundred followers. She would to go to the search page and type the names of people she had lost contact with decades ago, and sift through tens of strange faces, till she could identify a long lost face. Some faces would all be the same, except for the grey hair. Some would look like a dodo, a distant caricature of the image that she had in her mind. Soon she would travel back in memory to reconstruct the face, the situation, the town and try to recollect the last time that they had met.  Adding them to her friend’s list and sending them a invite to join her network would follow, their acceptance and connect, would only unfold the travails and tidings of all that had happened in the other person’s life in all these many years that they had not been in touch.

Some would have lost their spouse, some their sanity, some just hanging on to life, and some would still be worried about what the future holds for them. She would smile. Even after spending six to seven of decades in strife, trying to take life on its own terms, people never get the grip of it. Very few are happy with their situation, some are lucky to reach acceptance, only to be shattered by a new twist that life unveils.

The preaching that people watch on television, the discourses that great people have left behind, the book one reads, last only for a few hours, a few days. They may not be enough to pluck a tormented soul with velvet gloves, comfort them in a deep embrace, and tell them that it’s all well. With advancing age as nature starts withdrawing the many faculties that it had bestowed on you, one feels like a war veteran being slowly stripped of all his medals one by one. The frustrations of a failing hearing, vision, mobility, all seem to evoke the rebel child in a person, screaming murder at the top of his voice.

In this ocean of defeat, some stand tall, those who can live the moment, those whose mind can take them on journeys beyond belief, and those who want to live life in whatever form that it throws at them. The pains and ache of degeneration do not seem to bother these souls who seem to sustain on sweet music they hear from the mountains of yonder.

Some escape to their memories.

Some still try and get engrossed in the cryptic crosswords that the newspapers throw at them, god forbid if a toddler manages to soil that section of the paper, then all hell breaks loose.

Papa but it was a two day old paper!  Exclaims the daughter in law. 

Beta, who cares that I had not solved the puzzle that day, and who cares that I could not do it that day, because of the stupid party that you folks decided to host the day before yesterday, protests the old man.

But Kuchalambal was made of a different material. For her every moment was a gift from god. Each second was a pause for wonderment. She wanted to live a hundred years more, and she was confident, that she could beat the current generation, in whatever they were up to.

Amma hope you don’t get angry with me, Shobana approached her. “Wanted to give you a surprise, since you were away to the temple in the morning, I tried making “Thiruvatharai Kali” today, but something seems to be wrong with it”.

Shobana’s tryst with the kitchen had been limited, the space there dominated by Kuchalambal and Sid. Sid loved to cook, and would not let Shobana try anything out of the ordinary. Finding both of them away, Shobana had ventured into the kitchen on this fateful day and come out croppers. She now stood there waiting for the reaction, anxiety written large on her face.

“Don’t worry ‘Kuzhandai’,  give me a bit to sample”,  Kuchalambal smiled, and when she put a spoonful into her mouth, the Kali, was a disappointment,  it stuck to her palate, and sealed her mouth shut.

“Mmmmmm”...    Kuchalambal struggled to work her tongue around the gooey stuff, and finally she managed to swallow it. Her disappointment showed on her face, but she dismissed it with a laugh, 

“Kuzhandai, you perhaps wanted to shut me up for good, by sealing my mouth”, she laughed out in amusement.

“What did I miss Amma”? asked Shoba

“Did you not roast the Rice Flour, brown, before putting it into the cooker”?

“No Amma, it was not mentioned in the recipe”, replied Shobana.

“Where did you find the recipe”? asked Kuchalambal

“I found it online in a blog”, replied Shobana, “it’s by the famous chef from Delhi, who is on TV every day”.

Oh, really,   let me then give an earful to the person who does not seem to know the basics of Tamil cooking, saying so Kuchalambal went online, and left a paragraph of critique for the owner of the blog.

This was only the beginning

With a flourish she got there on Face book, Twitter, Waatsapp, LinkedIn. When the LinkedIn profile page asked her for her profession, she proudly typed, LIFE PROFESSIONAL, with an experience of 76 years she added, and slapped the ‘Enter’ key home, with a smile on her face.

She did not have much money to burn, but she made sure, that she wore her best saree, pulled out her favourite necklace, got her daughter in law to arrange her hair in a tidy knot, and landed up at the nearby studio. Bhaiya she exclaimed, I want a profile picture for my home page, and want something which does justice to my seventy six year, she exclaimed. With star hotels proliferating all around, she managed to drag the photographer to the nearest one, sat with aplomb on the Victorian chair near the fountain in the lobby, and got a photograph clicked with great pomp, to the amusement of the lobby staff.  When she finally uploaded here photograph, into her profiles, they drew a hundred cheers.

That was her approach to life.

If you have not added her to your friends list yet, you are missing something.

****

Glossary

 Naryana                    : Another name for Vishnu, the revered Hindu God, one among the trinity of 

                                     Bhrahma, Vishnu & Maheshwar 

Amma                        : A form of address,  tamil word generally used for Mother or for ladies.

Patti                           : Tamil word for Grandmother

Khuzandai                 : Tamil word for Child

Thiruvadharai Kali    : A dish made from Rice flour, Gaggery and garnished with Cashews   and Cardamom, although sweet in nature,  served with a spicy mixed vegetable preparation as an accompaniment to make it a complete meal. Made on the Auspicious day of Thiruvadharai.