brooding over chai

  It was a matter of shame for a woman to eat publicly or be fanned while she ate. Women ate the leftovers, with no question of a second helping. My maternal grandmother passed away in 2013. Being one of her favorites, I was handed over some of the items that she cherished. One of them was a small thaali (plate) in which she ate. It was anomalous for she was the daughter of a rich, titled man, who later got married into a progressive family. She was also liberal and independent. Why would she eat in this plate? The question hounded me till I remembered few incidents from my childhood. My paternal grandparents lived in Burdwan, a small town in West Bengal. Baba made it a point to visit them every month and ensured that we tagged along. Ours was a joint family comprising almost forty heads. The kitchen had a main hall and an enclosed space for cooking. While the washing, chopping, and grinding happened outside, the actual cooking happened inside. The aroma would wa...

She tells me about the money she has saved for medical emergencies that might crop up, and to keep her salary on hold. She has also prepared her 13-year old boy, taught him to cook, just in case. My friends here know I love cha! I have my first cup at 5.30 am with my favourite songs and prayers playing in the background, and my second cup, at 7.30 am, is always with Nomi, my friend, my domestic help. Duto biskoot, duto pauruti  (Two biscuits or two slices of bread) is always ready for her and at times a bun, and we have a chat about our  ‘shukh-dukkho’ . She talks about the happenings around. The price of veggies. The disturbance in her locality. Her husband’s refusal to take a vaccine. The party politics in her village. And then she tells me how she has prepared herself for Corona Her husband is much older than her and she is constantly worried about him. What if she brings the virus home? How will it affect them? She informs me about the money she has saved for the medical e...

During our childhood, summer vacations were always spent with my paternal grandparents in our ancestral home in Burdwan. Every evening, as the sun went down casting a rosy hue around, the birds would come back to the trees which dotted our pond, the Hatipukur (Elephant pond). That is where they lived.   We could hear them from our balcony overlooking Hatipukur. “Kichirmichir…kichirmichir” we would mimic them.   And then everything would go quiet. Tranquillity would descend on the still waters of Hatipukur. Ma would hurriedly feed us milk and biscuits and gently shove us towards our grandfather’s chamber. He was a strict man, but gentle. Punctual and a man of few words, Dadubhai was revered by all. Deeply spiritual, our evening prayers were a daily ritual.   I along with my cousins would sit in a semi-circle chanting and singing Bhajans. They were all taught by my grandfather. Ma and my aunts would join us as well. You seem nobody could say a NO to Dadubhai. The sess...

Every morning at 6 am, Basanti gets down from the local train at Baghajatin railway station, Kolkata and walks to her destination. She is a house-help and the train line from Canning has been a boon to her.  Whenever our paths cross, I ask her, “Which train did you take today?” Pat comes her reply, “Didi, the 4.30 am Canning local.”  The word Canning intrigued me till I sat her down one day and asked her in details. “An old town, Didi. On the banks of Matla Nodi (river). I hail from there. You can visit the city and see the Saheb Kuthi.”  That was enough to incite the wanderlust in me. I kept looking for a window to visit Canning till one Sunday morning, the constant yearning for something old and historic took us past Baruipur in South 24 Parganas, West Bengal to the oft-heard city called Canning. It is the headquarters of the Canning subdivision.  THE RUINS Cruising through the narrow roads of South 24 Parganas, we came across the relics of two massive pillars. ...

The sharp clang of the gates woke me up.  A tenant...AGAIN? Won’t they give up trying to occupy this property?  Rushing to the window, I see a young couple struggling with the lock. Hah! No matter how hard they try, no one can open it. Unless HE decides it.   The locksmith is called in. He tries breaking it. The gas cutter is summoned. He fails. And then I hear the CLICK, followed by whoops of joy. A chubby little boy runs in. I shiver. Why did HE allow them in? Clapping in glee, the boy makes his way in.  Wait! The vines...! They will strangle you. I stand in shock as the vines and the creepers make way for him. The tallest and the sinister of the lot stoops low to get a better look at him. I shudder. What if...? But the boy waves it away with his chubby hands.   The family starts climbing up the stairs. I am sure the creaking will arouse HIM. And then all hell will break loose. I look up at the potted plants hanging above the stairs. These little...

For a Bengali, winter is synonymous with Motorshutir Kochuri (Peas Kachauri), Choto (Baby potatoes) Alur Dom and Gur. Out of all these, Gur is the one that is getting increasingly difficult to procure. So, every winter we set out to explore the countryside, scouting for unadulterated Gur! COUNTRYSIDE DOTTED WITH PALM TREES Khejur Gur , or Jaggery made from Khejur Rosh, the extract of the date palm is a seasonal delicacy. The Gur-making season lasts for a very short span, mostly throughout the peak of winter. It lasts till the temperature rises gradually and the warm winds from the south flow in. In my mother-in-law’s words, ‘dokhiner haowa’, or the breeze from the south heralds the end of the season. Prices of Khejur Gur rises every year and can go up to Rs 300-400 per kg. Such is the demand! But good quality Gur is hard to get. I fail to understand the logic behind this. On our numerous trips, we have seen a large number of date palm trees lining the countryside.   Then...

  A pensive Rishi sat looking at his sleeping son. An exact replica of him , he smiled. The cute dimples, the mop of curly hair, the mole on his upper lip – the child was a beauty. Happily married to his childhood sweetheart, a secure job, a nicely furnished flat in a posh locality; his life was straight out of a fairytale. But all of a sudden one day, disaster struck them. His son fell sick. A battery of tests and expert opinions diagnosed a rare blood disorder which involved an expenditure of a few crores. The fairy tale became a nightmare. The flat was mortgaged. Huge loans were waiting to be paid off. His beautiful wife looked much older than her age. Stress and strain had taken a toll on her. Rishi’s parents were supportive. Aged and infirm, they lived in the village. In a bid to save their grandchild, Baba - Rishi’s father had sold off most of their agricultural plots to raise money. He was willing to sell off their ancestral house. But Rishi had objected. He knew how muc...