Veranda Tales-Eating tea leaves

Storytelling has been an integral part of my life since childhood. I grew up listening to stories during the hot summer evenings and nights with my cousins. Mothers and grandmothers would gather all of us children for story time. It was usually pitch dark except for a very faint light coming from the flickering candle. Power cuts were as frequent as the hot and humid summer days. We all spread out on a cool concrete floor or bamboo mats on the veranda intently listening to fascinating stories about kings, queens, princes, princesses, and peasants alike. Stories about love, life, families, and people entertained and taught us life skills. These stories transported us to distant worlds, strange yet familiar. Often the same story told by two people sounded different as storytellers added new twists and turns adding their personal style and flair to the stories.

Storytelling wasn’t limited to summer evenings and bedtime. I was surrounded by adults who didn’t pass up an opportunity to share their wisdom using the art of storytelling. These rich vibrant oral traditions include songs, poems, stories, and సామెతలు (Sametalu are proverbs in Telugu). Men and women sing songs as they work in the fields, grinding grains and spices and doing other daily chores at their homes. Stories are often used to teach important life lessons, interpersonal skills, and survival skills. These stories and the time spent listening to them made our lives richer leaving an impression on me. This series is all about reliving those memories as I share these stories.

కూడు వండటం గంజికోసమన్నట్టు (koodu vandantam ganjikosamannattu)

My paternal grandparents' house transformed overnight from a quiet place to a summer abode for their eight children, spouses, and grandchildren. As children arrived with their families one after another, the quiet place that was home for my grandfather, my grandmother, and my uncle, who was the middle son and younger to Nanna, turned into a hostel full of adult children, their spouses, and their children. Others who lived at my grandparents’ were గరటాలమ్మ (Garatalamma) who was their long term nanny and cook rolled into one, వెంకయ్య (Venkayya) who took care of their cows, buffaloes, and calves, and a maid. గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma) and Venkayya were permanent members of the household and maids came and went. గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma) had a special status in the household. All of us children called her grandmother as my grandfather treated her like his sister.

The house transformation took place over a span of two or three days. Most of my grandparents’ children lived within an hour of a train or bus ride from my grandparents' place. One daughter lived at the north western end of the Chennai-Howrah line. She couldn't come to visit as much as she would have liked to. One daughter lived in Anantapur which was about an eighteen hour train or bus ride away. Having lived most of my life along the Chennai-Howrah line close to my grandparents’ place, our family of four traveled by train or bus to join the summer party at my grandparents’ place. Kids who arrived early eagerly waited for their cousins to join them. When we were all there, we were sixteen strong with teenagers, preteens, and a couple of toddlers. Our summer parties continued until a year or two after my grandmother's untimely demise at the age of 57. We gathered for her funeral and then one last time for my youngest uncle's wedding. After that our summer gatherings and parties came to an end without the strong pillar and matriarch who summoned us all to her nest year after year.

గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma) had a small room adjacent to the kitchen and వెంకయ్య (Venkayya) had a room in the backyard. He washed the cows and calves in the morning, fed them with hay from a very large haystack in the front corner of the house. గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma) saved all the vegetable waste, tops and tails of all the vegetables and vegetable peels including onions  she peeled and diced  for cooking for the day. She made fresh chutney out of some vegetable peels. Nothing went to waste. She would take them out from the kitchen and dump them in a large cement water trough in the backyard. She would wash rice, chana dal, and toor dal before cooking them, save the water and add it to the water trough. Cows and calves feasted on vegetable waste floating in a large trough full of nutritious water in the backyard.

గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma) saved ganji (rice water) when she cooked rice. The process of draining water from half cooked rice is called గంజి వార్చడం (ganji vaarchadam). It is similar to saving water after cooking pasta to add it to sauce. The rice water is full of nutrients and B12. వెంకయ్య (Venkayya) didn't eat rice and delicious vegetable and meat dishes గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma) prepared for the family. His meal was a large bowl full of ganji (rice water) and a side of one or two hot green peppers. I don't recall what we called వెంకయ్య (Venkayya). Maybe just by his first name. I would watch వెంకయ్య (Venkayya) wash cows and wipe them dry, milk them leaving enough milk for the calves. He took great care of them. He was about 40 or 50 years old. His family lived in a nearby village. I don't know if he had a wife, kids, and grandkids. The only thing I knew was he was out in the backyard taking care of animals when I woke up and he was still there when I went to bed at night.

కూడు వండటం గంజికోసమన్నట్టు (koodu vandantam ganjikosamannattu) sameta means, "Taking the trouble to cook rice just for ganji (rice water) and drinking ganji throwing rice away". It is similar to how people in Europe back in the day didn't know what to do with the tea leaves they imported from China. They boiled the leaves with water, ate the leaves and threw away the tea. Eating tea leaves doesn't sound appetizing. This is an opposite example of rice and ganji, as we eat the rice and mostly throw away the water unless you enjoy drinking ganji like వెంకయ్య (Venkayya) . Ganji water does taste good with some salt and pepper. I tried it once or twice when I watched వెంకయ్య (Venkayya) drinking it. I save pasta water to add it to sauce when I boil pasta. I cook rice with just enough water so I don't need to drain it.

Whenever I cook rice or hear the word ganji, I think of వెంకయ్య (Venkayya). This sameta brings the image of Venkayya slurping up ganji from a bowl as if it were amrutham and pausing once every few gulps to take a bite out of a hot green pepper. His weather-beaten face was full of joy when he took care of the cows and when he was enjoying his meal. He didn't talk much. I would go stand next to him when he was busy with his chores. I would ask him questions about things. I don't recall any specific conversations I had with వెంకయ్య (Venkayya). It was fascinating to watch him hold a small container between his knees as he milked the cows and the milk frothing as it landed in the container. He would first wash the udder talking gently to the cow and then start the milking process. He would then take the milk into the kitchen for గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma) to start boiling it, getting it ready for coffee and tea. We had fresh milk, butter, and ghee as a result of వెంకయ్య (Venkayya) and గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma) and their hard work taking care of all of us.

I am thankful for the summers filled with fun and games with cousins. I cherish the memories of spending time with my grandparents, my uncle, గరటాలమ్మ (Garatallamma), and వెంకయ్య (Venkayya) whenever I visited them.