I had been a Bhakta for about two weeks. Up until that fateful morning, in early 1980 at Chaitanya College, I had relished whatever prasada lay on my plate – except my first taste of upma.
Upma seems to be one of those dishes we either love or loathe, except of course when it is prasada. Then again, it is an acquired taste for many, and for a debutant like me, it was – please bear with me – a revolting experience. “Yes, it was prasadam prabhu.” I think an acronym is in order here: Upstart Preliminary Masticating Assessment – UPMA… it all sounds very scientific, hey!
When this unknown quantity was served for breakfast, I saw how different it looked from the other tasty dishes I was used to. It could have been a mushy overcooked conglomerate of greenish beige whatever it was. I noticed some moist and dry patches, which looked like sand, and some bits of cabbage protruding. “Hey – its prasadam Prabhu.
I was hungry and thought nothing of the strange appearance. It was prasadam, tasty and purifying. But my first bite, then the next, induced in me a nauseous shuddering feeling. It was disgusting. I looked around me to find that everybody else was eating this stuff with gusto. Was there something wrong with me? I couldn’t fathom how anyone could eat it. I thought this was extreme Bhakti yoga.
Like a wanted paranoid fugitive, I looked all around and tried to make a hasty escape to dispose of it. But we Bhaktas were a well supervised lot. From our rising in the morning to sleeping time at night, watchful eyes saw our every move – how to do it?
The next moment our assistant Bhakta leader, HG Kesidamana prabhu came to sit next to me. He too ate with a delight that confounded me. “Are these devotees beyond the realm of their taste buds?” I wondered. I asked him what it was.
“Upma…” he replied. “Nice, isn’t it…” he said.
“I don’t like it very much” I answered. I began to fiddle with my upma, hoping to pass time. Those dry sandy crunchy areas were the worst. I remembered watching a documentary about a woman who ate sand in large quantities, remarkably without any ill effect. “If she could do it, so can I?” I thought. But my next couple of bites caused my diaphragm to heave slightly in readiness to expel the contents – it was nauseating. It was as bad as that. It was as if eating an upper body laxative. “Yes, it’s prasadam prabhu.”
Then Prabhu began preaching to me non-stop. “Krihsna is the Supreme Personality of Godhead” he said. I was polite and obliging, and nodded in agreement to his sermon. But I didn’t want philosophy; only relief. Next, I tried some mind power, to convince myself that the upma on my plate did not exist. With this state of mind, I took another bite, then another. That tasteless gritty grinding sand in the teeth sensation rendered my mental power obsolete. By now, that upma took on the appearance of a detestable cold blob of completely resistible bad food. “Yes, it’s prasadam prabhu.”
“Krishna is the Supreme pure” he continued. “Just as He is supremely pure, so whatever food is offered to Him with love and devotion also becomes pure. It should never ever get wasted or thrown away.” Who was I to argue with this? For a good 30 to 40 minutes, I continued to eat, shudder and fiddle until finished.
Sometime later, after I learned to cook on traveling sankirtana, I realized why my upma was so awful. The answer came while making halava. As the title of this story implies, I refer not to any science fiction or futuristic star-trekking flight of fantasy into deep space, or some far-flung area of the mind, but to a simple cooking pot.
While cooking the halava – which is more or less like making sweet upma – the flavour had to be stirred in to all of the semolina, including that which stuck on the outer limits of the pot. What I had that day, I am sure, was outer limits upma, the stuff that did not catch the flavour or moisture… the semolina which clung to the wall of the pot – dry, sandy and tasteless.
It wasn’t until after I came to South Africa in 1988, that I made my first upma. While doing book distribution from a preaching centre in Johannesburg, the devotees took turns to cook. One morning I decided to make upma. While serving the devotees breakfast, I heard some favourable comments about my first upma
One devotee in particular who was relishing it was Raghubhir prabhu – now known as HH Bhakti Chaitanya Swami. He speaks such impeccable New Zealand English as to impress. “Hmm….” I heard him murmur. “Hmm….this upma; it’s very nice. Hmm…. This taste; what is it?” By now, I was seated ready to eat. “I put some mustard in it… mustard powder.” I replied. He said that he remembered having Sri Jagannatha prasada, some of which had a mustard oil flavour.
Everyone took seconds. “Everyone loves my upma.” I thought. When I tasted the upma, I was delighted with the outcome. Hey, it was fabulous. It was marvellous. Wow! Please excuse my self-glorification here. Fie on me for such a wicked sense of arrogance. This claim to a mere moment of culinary glory is worthy of a demoniac mind. What pride. What egotistical vainglory. Shame – O great shame on me. But that was a superb upma.
After finishing my breakfast, I really wanted more, but did not want to appear greedy. Maharaja nevertheless came and served me seconds, saying, “That’s the intelligent thing to do.”
After some days, he asked if I could make some more, upma. “Maharaja loves my upma.” I gloated to myself. I set about the matter as before. A problem arose however, because most of the ingredients needed were not there. The mustard powder, the powdered coriander, powdered cumin and other spices were gone – What to do? Maharaja came in to the kitchen to see my progress. I explained the situation. He said to just try my best. I used the seeds of coriander, cumin, mustard and so on. By now, I could sense that my upma was going to be a munchy, crunchy affair.
I served the devotees again. I did not hear the favourable comments. Nor did I hear negative ones. But I did look to Maharaja for his reaction. His moving his head from side to side with a no gesture indicated to me that it was a flop, thus ending the tale of the Rise and Fall of my fabulous but elusive upma.
In ending this story, my obeisances go to whoever made that upma. He or she taught me a lesson in respecting prasada. Though I would never recommend outer limits upma to anyone, I pray that if there is such a thing as a demigoddess of upma, to forgive my not too glowing report of under-flavoured savoury semolina called upma.