Going Places, Coming Home

My mother always complains that I don't like visiting our sundry relatives spread all over Bongobhoomi and Bidesh-Bibhooi. I respond with the flimsy excuse that academics and especially all my non-academic pursuits, hardly leave time for me to accompany her on her pilgrimages to the shrine of blood-relations. This time around, however, that defence didnt hold water. And so, this mother and daughter duo set off on a trip down memory lane. Or more precisely, they hitched a ride on the Bongaon local.

Not having much experience when it comes to journey aboard local trains, we decided to be prepared for all emergencies which might hinder an Everest expedition. That included bottles of mineral water (to keep hepatitis at bay), satchets of hajmola (to combat nausea), an extra set of clothes and an assortment of chips, biscuits and boiled eggs.
Its a pity that we only munched on the jams and the goja we bought on the train. The extra pair of jeans and shirt that i carried in my backpack hasnt been taken out as yet. And as I write this piece, I just remembered that I still haven't made use of the Hajmolas. Better take care of that asap.

We reached Sealdah station at 7.40 in the morning, barely half an hour after we had boarded the bus. The Bongaon local is widely held as one of the most crowded train-routes in and around Kolkata. This is because even after 60 years of independence, there is just a single line to Kolkata from Bongaon. This was coupled with the fact that we had chosen the auspicious occasion of JanmaiShasthi to make this journey. Thus, both of us were ready to sprint as soon as they announced the train and the platform. Failure to do so would mean hanging on for dear life for the 2 hours of the entire journey.

We did make a dash for it when the train was finally announced at 8.10. So did a couple of hundred other people.Thankfully, we were able to secure to seats just next to the window. Soon we were all packed together like sardines as the train cut its way across crowded settlements and lonely green fields. I always look forward to losing myself in glimpses of nature and life when I take a train trip, but this time the struggle was to keep breathing as sweaty bodies jostled against each other. In the end all the decked up son-in-laws made it alive, albeit their panjabis being a little creased. And so did we.

Whimsical that this pair is, we didn't inform my mother's cousins who stay there of our arrival. In case we were confronted with an empty house, plan B was to catch a bite at some restaurant and go to the banks of the Icchamati river to see the floating bridge. But as we got down at the Bongaon railway station, there was a different "site" that we went to see.

My mother stayed briefly in Bongaon as a child, when my grandfather, an IPS officer was posted there. Actually he was posted at Petrapole, a town right next to the Bongaon border. Everywhere the family shifted, they bought a cow to get fresh milk. In this case also the situation was no different. The funny part was that though the family was staying at Bongaon, their cow was at Petrapole, 6 kms away.

The house my mother had stayed in was situated just near the railway station. The many times she had visited her relatives living nearby, she had never had the time to go back and see her old home. Today, however, time was not at a premium and the intention was to relive old memories.
Being just a child back then, all my mum remembered was that it had been a one-storeyed yellow house just next to the station market which her father had rented. There had been a terrace, but with the steps being extremely precarious, the children were not allowed to go up to it. There was also a jackfruit tree in the garden and whenever it rained, she would run to their backyard to gather mangoes from her neighbour's tree. We started walking along the road admiring the things we'd never seen back in Kolkata. I was especially intersted to see coconut coils piled sky-high in the garden of an old house.

However, even after walking for a long time my mother couldn't find her house. This had been atleast 45 to 50 years ago and she pretty sure by now that the house had been pulled down and a new one had been built in its place. As we were retracing our steps back to the station, some curious and helpful local people thought that we had lost our way looking for an address. Actually we didnt have an address. All we had to go upon was my mother's hazy memories as a child. Her descriptions didn't match with any of the houses still existing.

As we were coming back (with about 5 local people trailing us), my mother stopped in her tracks near a house we had passed by. This was the very same one which had coconut coir dumped in its garden. There in one corner was a jackfruit tree laden with fruits. the house was falling to pieces with weeds and shrubs making their home in it when people didn't.
According to the local people, the house hadn't been rented as far as they could recall. according to my mum, she lived in this house long before any of the people we encountered were born. According to me, it doesnt really matter. I really don't care whether this IS the house my mother spent a part of her life in. All that matters is that we BELIEVE it to be one of my mother's childhood homes. And this was the only thing needed to bring a smile on our lips.

We did manage to catch my aunts by surprise. And they in turn surprised us with an impromptu feast of dal, pat(jute) shak, prawns, fish and pakoras made of shapla flowers. My aunts were full of stories of my mother as a kid. How she was amazing at rustling up pickles and chutneys with almost anything. She would mix something with coriander and tamarind and give everyone in the house a little portion of it, keeping the lion's share for herself. Then she would retire to her own little corner with a story book and lick her way to heaven. She still hasn't given up this habit and can't eat her food without pickles of some kind. Even when I grow old and grey the one memory of mum I'll always cherish is that of her sitting on the bed with her plate of rice and pickles in one hand and a book in the other.

As our train weaved its way back to Kolkata in the afternoon, we were finally able to enjoy the views of the scenic countryside thanks to a nearly empty train. I was thinking of all the new memories we had made ----- picking pat shak for lunch, my eight year old nephew who I met for the first time, the cat who decided to hitch a ride on my mum, the tiny little guavas we got from the garden. But somehow, the fact that we reclaimed old memories from the dusty photo-albums of the past, seems to resonate more.

Cooking Up A Storm

I came back home from college after a hard days work to a packet of cold samosas crawling with red ants and my mum too sick to get me some nourishment. That was inspiration enough for me to forsake the pen and wield the ladle for a change.

After forcing half a bottle of Limca down the throat of a grown-up version of my obstinate self, I
began scavenging the refridgerator for some wholesome (read: pre-cooked or instant) ingredients. The maggi saucemakers and tomato soup powders prooved worthy candidates. Another advantage of being the unorganised daughter of an extremely organised mother--- julliened vegetables waiting to be put into chowmein. Or as in this case, into a mish-mash of vegetables whose name would depend on its state of matter (solid, liquid or heaven forbid, gaseous) when it comes out of the cooking pot.

They say a good beginning means that the job is half done. I began pretty well by upsetting the entire bowl of finely chopped vegetables on the floor.It wasnt really as bad as looking for a needle in a haystack. For starters, the multicoloured "needles" were right in front of my eyes lying in a beautifully artistic state of dishevelledness all over our not so beautiful and
definitely not germ-free floor. Slow and steady elbowgrease finally got them off the floor and the tap water got rid of whatever actual grease they had accumulated in this detour between the fridge and the frying pan.

Second near mishap almost occured when I tried frying the vegetables in a utensil which was not even remotely suited for the purpose. No idea even now regarding what it is called, but it definitely wasnt a frying pan.

Two minutes and a change of ammunitions later, I thought I was on top of my job. The vegetables had turned beautifully soft without being mushy in the warm cajole of melting butter. All that remained now was to add a little water and saucemaker to get a lovely gravy. Babycorn and vegetables in Schezewan sauce --- the christening of my simmering baby seemed imminent.

It would be incorrect to say that I put in a little too much water and hence flooded my dish. It
wasnt any local flood, but a biblical deluge. My first reaction was to drain the water off, but realised that that would drain the taste off as well. My second reaction was to try and think up an exotic soup name as a cover-up.

Just one last addition to my cooking pot and burden of shame came in the form of an egg. The
intention was to thicken the shame of a gravy or the sham of a soup, whichever way you look at it. The result was something that looked straight out of the tales From
The Crypt.

I must admit that it didnt taste THAT bad. But then again, when you're cooking only for yourself, you cant really fire the cook. At worst, you have to throw it down the drain and like a good Christian pray that the rats dont die of indigestion. But cooking for other people is a whole different ballgame alltogether. I seriously dont think I can live with the guilt of poisoning someone gullible enough to be my guniea-pig.


So moral of the story-----either make Maggi your best friend or a five-star hotel chef your
boyfriend. Though managing a saucepan of Maggi is much less of an assault on the senses than managing a BF.

Dying Young

Before I could make her mine,
She was claimed by the earth, years too soon.
My little girl, my beloved child
There's no romance in dying young.

This year when autumn spreads its hues
There will be one red leaf too few.
Broken by the wind from her mother tree
She has flown away with the breeze.

Now morning calls my name again.
One happy face less I see.
One drowsy voice I no longer hear
One sleepy head never rears itself.

She now sleeps alone, without me.