brooding over chai

 It was Janmashtami. I was preparing the bhog for our little Lord when my little one decided to stand and observe. After a while, she exclaimed. 'What are you doing Ma? You are tasting the food. And you should be fasting.' It was time to turn off the gas and give her some lessons. 'Gopal, the Lord is baby nono, right? He is the little baby of our family.' The daughter nodded her head in agreement. 'You and dadabhai (brother) are also my babies.' She nodded her little head once again. 'Everyday when I cook for you, I check the salt, sugar and the taste. So that you like and enjoy it. Right?' 'Yes ma.' Came her reply. 'So. I do..' 'You do the same.' She interrupted me. 'You taste the food to see everything is right and baby nono loves his food.' Right right. This time I had to agree with her. 'I am sure baby nonk will love the food, Ma.' She assures me. 'And now about fasting. Have I ever told you to fast during

  2004 I came home from work to find my parents waiting for me. They had just returned from Assam, having met my prospective parents-in-law. They bore a solemn expression and instructed me to sit down for an early dinner. 'Cos they had some important news to share. 'Do you remember our ancestral place in Dumka, Jharkhand?' Baba posed a question. I nodded. How can I ever forget! 'That's how the place is where your in-laws live.' Ma took over. 'Dark and damp. Tiny yellow lights in every house. Houses with a sloping roof. After dark, everything goes silent except for the crickets and the frogs. There are frequent power cuts draining the inverter. After a while it's completely dark except for the dim lights emitted by the hurricane. People wake up with the sun and call it a night early.' 'Is it a proper town, Ma?' 'Not really. It's what we say Mofosshol in Bangla. Somewhere between a village and a town. The suburbs.'

We were out for our routine walk with our hyper, fifteen-month-old furry girl. Usually, the entire family steps out post-dinner and it's almost like a night-time ritual. This time, the father and the daughter stayed back while mommy and son stepped out. This is the time when we talk...when we share...when we speak anything that comes to our mind. Our path crossed with a resident of our society whose daughter and mine were at one point in time, good friends. Parental interference nipped the bond. The woman did not see me and headed towards her block. I heaved a sigh of relief. At that moment, my twelve-year-old turned towards me and asked me a question. 'Did you notice or are you in denial?' 'What denial?' 'That woman is clearly avoiding you.' 'No. You are wrong.' I explained. 'She was busy getting of the car and she did not look around.' The boy raised his hands up and said. 'Believe whatever suits you. I thought I should explain it to yo

 Let me tell you a story, my dear!' 'Oh no. Not again, Ma!' 'But why?' 'They are totally unrelatable.' 'What?!' 'Yes! A father chops off the head of his son out of anger. Replaces it with that of an elephant. An elephant is killed. Or there is a God who has five heads. Or a Goddess who steps on her husband sticks out her tongue and is called Kali. A Goddess who strings the heads of all the monsters she has killed and then wears it as a garland! Please Ma. That's tough to believe. So much violence and gore.' I keep quiet for a moment. 'There are some more stories. Like Beauty and the Beast and...' The children cut me short. 'Oh yes. Rapunzel lets down her hair for the prince to climb up. Cinderella is treated Iike a maid. A prince kisses the sleeping princess and wakes her up.' The kids roll their eyes. 'We don't need bedtime stories, mum.' I am hurt. Deeply hurt! Here, I am, having wrapped

This kerosene stove is an antique piece. Made of brass, if polished well, it gives a shine that can put gold to shame. But then, I am not the kind who loves flashy stuff. So I won't polish it. Ma brought it down from the attic and shared her memories with me. But my mind was elsewhere. It was on it's own trip. It took me back to the year 1948. A little boy, hair neatly oiled and parted, dressed in a modest half-shirt and a half pant is following his grandmother. The woman is unnaturally tall for her gender. Blessed with a dusky complexion, she has an imposing presence. No one dares to question her or ask her a question, twice. The woman holds a big potli in her hand and with the other she leads her four-year-old grandson. They walk through the dark bylanes of Bardhaman. There were no streetlights then. A harricane was all you had to show the path. Radharani did not need a harricane. Her sharp eyes and her instinct was enough to guide her through the dark. They reached a spot b