Life was a shoestring budget. Frugal to a fault, thrift was all that my parents could think of with a large family in tow. It was not only the lack of resources, but their firmly held belief that it added value to character. Doing without or doing with less was seen as a virtue that would teach us restraint in all matters. A penny saved here could be appropriated there. My mother cooked and my grandmother engaged in cutting, dicing, grinding and all other secondary activities, generally keeping a wary eye in the kitchen and outside.
Together they achieved a fine approximation that guaranteed no leftovers and consequently no wastage and spoilage, while keeping us satisfied The other chores were cheerfully divided between them, with our services roped in whenever possible. No backlog of work was allowed and the day’s job was wrapped up without a spill over to the next day. Apart from the daily chore of cooking, pickles were a great favourite for the whole family starting with raw mangoes, the famed flaming avakai that would bring simultaneous tears and smiles.
Then there were chillies, lemons and gooseberries that were pickled and kept in store for all seasons. Pickling was several days’ effort and excitement with peeling and drying, pounding and grinding but the end result was a triumph to savour. Everything including snacks was made at home to cut costs and keep hungry souls at bay.
Our parents picked up our clothes after much deliberation and during festive occasions when it would be raining discounts. The only luxury we were permitted was books that father would purchase intermittently for our enlightenment, and which we awaited eagerly and fought for. He would say the family was a commune and everything belonged to everybody.
Today with independent careers, disposable incomes and technology at the tip of our fingers, life is state-of-the-art but not necessarily happier. The closets are full of clothes and don’t close, everything cooks under pressure in more ways than one, all exotic fare is a mere mouse click away, the book shelf is groaning with books yet to be read (the Japanese have a word for it, tsundoku), the family car or the ubiquitous Ola is waiting, and all outstation visits are a flight away. But there is no thrill of anticipation, no sweet anxiety between getting and not getting, and the world, though more colourful, is a much lonelier place. We have certainly arrived but then at a cost.