Ginger Tea

 You bring a cup of water to a boil and put in some sliced ginger. The aroma fills the air and you add a dash of sugar and let the flavors incorporate. Then you add the milk and eventually the tea leaves. That’s how Mr. Bagchi liked his tea, and through his twelve years of marriage there have been various ways in which he has tried to bring his wife up to speed. 

But his wife had other more pressing matters to attend to always. There were the children’s breakfast and school lunch boxes to prepare, his father’s pills to administer, the milk to be boiled, his office clothes to be pressed, or some such, so she never really had the time to dilly dally over a cup of tea. Also, the little time that her husband took each morning when she handed him her version of the tea was her time. The cup she handed him was sickly sweetened with too much milk, always too much milk. He would take the cup and put down the shield of the newspaper he had been hiding behind and would proceed to enumerate where she had gone wrong. This ritual had started in their first week of marriage and had remained unchanged. Through the years Gauri had transformed from a timid girl who hardly knew how to make tea into a formidable cook who could dish out complex menus like it was child’s play. If she wanted, the recipe which he had repeated time and again was not so difficult to follow. In fact, sometimes when she was alone, she would brew herself a cup at her own pace and enjoy it while listening to some radio. 

But that small window of time that she had with him, away from the scruples of the daily domesticity reminded her of a time long gone, when they could talk without one of the children coming in asking for help in Geography, or asking for a test paper to be signed or asking to go to some friend’s house, or when their conversations didn’t comprise the father’s next doctor visit or the plumbing to be fixed. There was a time when he would bring white lilies for her, wrapped in newspaper, on his way back from work every Friday. He knew she liked a single rose, yet he would bring her the white lilies and she would grudgingly accept each time indulging it as his little rebellion. Now she would get gold jewellery on anniversaries and birthdays, which she would dutifully show off to her mother and the neighbours, but she secretly desired the flowers. This was her time and she was not ready to part with it, like she had parted with the morning walks, the occasional theater visit or the lilies.

And so it went, until Mr. Bagchi stopped complaining one day. It happened quite instantaneously, like a band-aid being ripped off. Gauri wondered and wondered what would have happened. No matter how much to his distaste the tea was, he would always finish the entire cup. It is not as if the sweet milky tea was inedible, it was just not his variant of the light ginger tea. For all these years, she had led herself to believe that he had come to like this version, he just did not like to admit it. She told herself that the little banter they exchanged each morning was just a tease, a secret dance only they knew the music to. But things changed overnight. Nowadays, he would take a few sips and just leave it at the table. At first she did not think much of it but it bothered her more than she would like to confess. One day, after he left for work and she was relatively free, she took the cup and sipped. It was not terrible, it was exactly how she had been preparing it for years. So what had happened now?

Mr. Bagchi had not really thought too much of giving up that sweet milky sherbet that his wife passed off as tea. He had always been a connoisseur of tea. A couple of weeks before him dropping off the morning tea ritual, he was lecturing the office boy on the way of making the perfect cup. Neetu, the new girl who occupied the adjacent desk was mildly amused and told him that is exactly how she prepared her tea. Mr. Bagchi was ecstatic to meet someone who shared a passion for the perfect cup of tea and would remonstrate how he missed this dying art. One thing led to the other and Neetu invited him for a cup of tea at her place. She lived right next to the office after all, so it was convenient. The tea she made in her small apartment was so delectable that he got instantly hooked and one morning as he sipped the cup Gauri handed him, he closed his eyes and decided enough is enough. He had tried it all, coached her, rebuked her, coaxed her and cajoled her - nothing seemed to get through. Why did she have to be stubborn about everything? Had he not provided everything for her and all he wanted was a little peace in the morning before he started his day. But she would not give that to him. Yes, very early on in the marriage he had once joked about her father calling this juice tea. Yes, he had said that tea is for the classy and not the commoners. Why did she have to be held up with that, could she not let it go? She has time for everyone in the house but him. Anyway, this was perhaps the only time that they actually spoke with each other and while they could sit and talk peacefully she would rather have him tell her the same thing again and again and again. Mr. Bagchi decided to pay Neetu a visit before going to work and at the cost of sounding inappropriate asked for a cup of tea. The lady was obliging and even if she felt this was an imposition she did not show it. He sat and drank the tea in peace and even made some small talk while he was at it, all the while wondering what was stopping Gauri from enjoying this time with him. 

Somehow he made mistakes at work, sent mails to the wrong people, and was easily irritable. As the week progressed, he refused to touch Gauri’s tea and visited Neetu each morning. Gauri on the other hand was perturbed by her husband’s rebellion. She started smelling his shirts before putting them in for a wash and one day, he found a strand of hair which was unfamiliar. Her worst fears were confirmed. She stopped listening to radio, her curries were salty that day and she forgot to water the flower pots adorning their little verandah. 

After a week, she decided to give in. She had to eventually part with the last semblance of a bygone time. As she diligently sliced the ginger, she told herself that she had had her time and all must move on. The flavor of the ginger and sugar was so heady that she prepared another cup for herself as well. She arranged them on a tray and went and sat across from him, picking up her cup and holding it up to her lips. He put down the newspaper. Another person sipping tea beside him at this hour in the morning is something he had forgotten. This happened only in the beginning, this was the time when he would have called her tea something akin to juice and somewhere down the line she had become too busy for this time. He could smell the ginger and the light and perfectly brewed tea. He picked his cup, took a sip and closed his eyes. This had to be the most perfect cup of tea he had had in his entire life, each element coming together so beautifully. This was bliss. They spoke of something in the newspaper, something about the neighbour and something about their day. 

After finishing, as Gauri was taking the tray away, he said, “Now can you make two cups of your tea?” She smiled and went to the kitchen. That day, Mr. Bagchi went straight to office and came back with a red rose. Gauri held on to the single stem and said, “Get your lilies next Friday.”

Ammu Sona

 Hi Koko, 

I have not written in a looong time. Not because I had dearth of subjects, but because I definitely was caught up in a lot of things. You started going to school - physically going to school. In fact this week you have your exams. Between adjusting back to normalcy of having a person routinely go outside of home, packing lunch boxes and managing the newly increased amount of work at office I was honestly left with no time. 

However, I have been planning to start this series for a long time and I think today is a good day to start. So I have been thinking that you know your relatives and cousins, but there are so many of your family you will never meet or people who are not really in their element anymore. What about their stories? Do we just forget those lives? I want to you to know them, like they were in their beautiful and meaningful lives. Like with you and me - all of them have had bright and awful days. I will try and collect some memory you can hold on to. 

There are some of these people who I myself have not met. But for some, I have partly faint and fond memories. Like Ammu, your Dadan's mother.

 

If I asked Ammu when her birthday was, she would say she was born the day they heard the ship's horn blaring near their home. The concept of not knowing one's birthday was so alien to me that I would keep asking her this question again and again and she would always patiently give me the same answer. She seemed to be from some other world as she would sit in the balcony's winter sun, arranging a paan for herself or meticulously applying coconut oil on almost each strand of her hair and talking of her young life. 

She would talk about the time when my father was young, how he broke his collarbone (thrice), or about the beautiful and dangerous river Icchamati by whose side her home was. I would imagine her as a young mother to a tribe of untamed brats, shouting after them, or cooking or cleaning, or somewhere on the banks of the river as a kalboishakhi approached. Like Durga from Pather Panchali. We should watch that movie sometime. 

She was a woman of grit - she had her fair share of storms that she weathered when she was in her prime. But I have not seen her then, I only saw her in the sunset years of her life and I will tell you about how I remember her. Once I misplaced a brand new crayon set at school and my mother was absolutely livid. After listening to the scolding for a bit, Ammu took my hand and walked with me to the closest stationery store and bought me a 24-set crayon box. I still remember that day clearly. She was wearing her white saree with a narrow blue border, her hair tightly braided with the trademark black ribbon and tied into a bun, tightly holding my arm lest she lose her way. 

By this time her eyesight had deteriorated a lot. She suffered from this disease called Glaucoma, which led to her vision depleting to almost negligible by the time she left us. I remember accompanying my mother and aunt to many a visit to the doctor - the eye specialist, the heart specialist et al. I think I also vaguely remember the medicines she had - Sorbitrate, Zolam etc. It is not easy living your life in darkness, especially if you have lived your entire life with vision. Learning how to find your way, or go through the simple motions of life without the key sense - I cannot imagine it!

So Ammu would come and stay with us for a few months each year and that was the time when I was on medicine duty. She loved having a peaceful night's sleep so almost everyday, she tried smuggling an extra Zolam tablet. Every night she pretended that she had somehow misplaced the first tablet I gave her so that I would open and give her another one. I got fooled a couple of times as she would have deftly tied it to the end of her saree. But I quickly caught on and she would implore,"দে না সোনা"

No one calls me by that name anymore. That was nice between us, the names we had for each other - No one else called her Ammu, and no one else called me Sona. 

Love,

Ma

Gentle Reminder

Ma can be found (if she gets the chance)

On a swing in a park

Dancing in the rain

Enjoying an ice cream by the road

I wish my inner child is alive

When I reach her age.

Ma can also be found (mostly)

In the kitchen

Cooking for a dozen people effortlessly

Being there for people silently

Facing bad manners gracefully

I will probably

Make different choices.

Ma can love with all her heart

She wears her white hair like a crown

I wish I was as comfortable in my skin

Ma’s garden is always blooming

I wish I was as nurturing.

But in all this taking care

And showing love

She forgets herself

I wish she’d learn something from me

And put herself first

Every now and then.

He said, She said

 Let's go to the end already

For we are all racing to the end anyway

Why go through the daily troubles

If the goal is to have a peaceful sleep

Said he.

Yes, and in so doing

Miss out on all the sights, and love and music

Why close your eyes and ears

If the road is so full of amusements

She said.

Two Years

I complete two years at Accenture today. They say your job is not your life, it's not what defines you. But I can safely say I was never happier at a job. 

Spending two years at a job is a milestone for sure, but somehow it does not feel like it. 

While the world has undergone a sea of change, I feel like my life has never been more tranquil. Right about now, I LOVE my life. 

Some days are better than others for sure, but then again isn't that how life is supposed to be. 

I think this is a very good place and today is a very good day to reflect on my journey. When I first joined I was not very sure if I was a good fit for this role, and I was just about learning the ropes when the entire scheme of domestic life changed. 

Earlier, my day started with getting up and getting my son ready for school and then rushing back, having a quick breakfast and heading towards our individual offices. The nest one or two hours would be spent in our cars, cursing the traffic and listening to mindless radio. The day would rush past and then the evening would see me scrambling to pick Koko up from daycare, getting home and preparing for dinner. So went the days. In a flash a week had gone by. 

But then things changed and I paused. Koko does school in the corner of the room now. There is no traffic and no rush as such. But is it really so?

My learning curve has been amazing, I have learnt so much and really honed the art. I can safely say I have created a space for myself and people know me for what I am and what I do. I am not afraid to say I love my job, because I really do. I am so lucky to be able to be in a position where my decisions can really make a difference in someone's life and at the end of the day, even if I am stretching - if I am able to see that I have made a difference for the better, it makes me a happy person. 

Does it not have it's low days - of course not! Some days I feel like shit, but I have learnt to take it in my stride, and most importantly, today is not that day :)

Aquamarine

 A long time ago when we lived in Ranigunj, we had a neighbour, Pishima. We never really knew her name. Only that she lived alone in the mansion at the end of the road. She was some sort of an invalid, and we had never seen her step out of the house. But she was very kind to us children. Not like the batty old people who would bark at us if our ball entered their yard. She would enjoy our company, often encouraging us to come play in her garden. We liked sitting with her in the soft winter sun. She would sometimes have sherbet made for us. 

She also let us play with her cat. It was more like a stray cat, but she liked Pishima’s house much like the rest of us urchins. The cat had the most alert and mischievous eyes I had ever seen, they were green and blue, something Pishima described as aquamarine. It was a color I had never heard of, much like the many other things she spoke of. It was from her that we first heard of Marie Curie and Shakespeare, we heard about what Niel Armstrong had done, we first saw a globe. She spoke about museums and sculptures. She introduced us to Da Vinci and Michelangelo. We enjoyed our summer vacations sitting and getting regaled by tales of such faraway lands, stories which our families wouldn’t tell us and our schools would never teach. 

Every evening after an afternoon of laborious playing, we would flock around her table as she sat for her tea. She would have her dutiful servant always bring some sort of sweet or savory snack for us. The cat would also sit among us, comfortably curled up on someone’s lap. One of us, I can’t remember who, had named her Neeli. 

That summer break, just when the mangoes had started ripening my aunt came to spend the vacation with my cousin, that bratty Raju. He was always up to something or the other. Either tearing my books, or putting salt in father’s tea or some other mischief. My father who is a very genial man, would never scold anyone, but with Raju he would always lose his cool. But he was the apple of my mother’s eye. My father even gave him his prized silver paper knife with his name engraved because Raju like it so much. 

Since I was the closest to him in age, it came upon me to keep him entertained in those months. He would accompany me and my friends to Pishima’s house too. Her house was full of curios and one day Raju took something from her house, but just as he was putting it in his pocket Neeli had jumped on him and scratched his hand. He pushed her away and started shouting, “What a wild animal!” 

Pishima quickly came and put some mercurochrome on his injury. But she also knew Neeli would not attack someone just like that. So when she saw a missing miniature canon on her shelf, she quickly took Raju to task. Within a few minutes, he was on the brink of tears and ran back home after replacing the item that he had stolen. 

Needless to say I was very embarrassed and avoided going out to play for the next few days. What would my friends say? My brother is a thief, they must be thinking the same of me. I was surprised how Raju, who was the culprit, strutted around the house like a prized peacock, as if nothing had happened. I knew what a bully he was and was honestly scared to confront him or tell the truth to the parents. I later learnt that he had convinced his mother that Pishima was in fact a strange old crone. Her house full of strangeness was surely not normal, and the mercurochrome she rubbed on him was surely some menacing potion. I eavesdropped my aunt telling the ladies of the neighbourhood about her conviction that Pishima was into black magic. I was furious to know this and went straight to my mother who laughed and took me in her embrace, rubbing my eyes with her saree. She asked me not to worry so much as my aunt would be gone in a few days. She was terribly blind when it came to her son. Also, my mother assured me that everyone knew Pishima all too well to buy into such  tall tales. Who would believe the notion that Pishima was dabbling in occult? I went to Pishima’s the next day and apologized. She and my friends laughed and we played around like nothing had happened. 

With no one believing in his cock and bull story, Raju kept aloof from us and ventured about alone. I was relieved he had found something to do on his own and wasn’t tagging along with me or my friends. He would be roaming all around and return late into the evening. 

I just wished for Raju and my aunt to go away. One day my friends came to call me to go kite flying. I quietly sneaked out of the house before Raju found out. He would surely have come and showed off his skills, which none of us were interested in. As we were out on the streets rushing after our kites, we came upon Pishima’s house. Reeti was the first one who spotted Neeli, or whatever remained of her. There by the gate lay the mangled body, beheaded with a cruelty we could not imagine. We gasped, some of us started crying. We were after all just a group of eight or nine year olds, still untouched by the viciousness of life. A few of us ventured closer, just to check if there was any chance to revive her. Suddenly I noticed a gleaming silver paper knife, with my father’s name engraved on it. I picked it up and ran back to my father, sobbing. Raju and his mother left the very same evening. 

Our parents did not stop us from visiting Pishima anymore. As if a spell had been cast upon them and with them gone, they had snapped back to reality. Next morning as we went into Pishima’s yard and sat beside her, she did not look at us or speak to us, her gaze glassy and transfixed on something far away, we were not sure what exactly. In the morning sun, her eyes shone a tricky shade in between green and blue, almost aquamarine, just like Neeli’s.

Defining “hujug”

 Us Bengalis are a curious and brave race. Me included. Our one extraordinary and defining feature is so extraordinary indeed that it does not even have an equivalent word in English. The Bangla word for it is “hujug”.

Let me try to explain it. We love our people, our friends, our adda, and so many other things which are distinctly ours. Pujo is just one of those things. We are very touchy about the subject and extremely possessive about the details. It really does not matter if you have never been to Calcutta, we assume you would know the difference between Ashtami and Dashami. And hell hath no fury as a Bengali declined a leave request the week of Pujo. 

Once said leave is secured, we begin with our shenanigans which include pandal hopping, egg roll eating, balloon bursting, bhenpu blowing amidst other unmentionables like Tangra sojourns eat al.

But I digress, for I was defining hujug. Digression is also a key tenet of this precious feature. Hujug is the excitable and adventurous part of our collective psyche, which makes us as a people do tremendously stupid things like go out in hordes during an ongoing pandemic, without masks, flouting social distancing  to catch a glimpse of a goddess who we will pray to later on, once we get sick. 

Example Gracias of just some things which instigate, nay nurture our latent hujug:

There is a pandal like Burj Khalifa, certain celebrity will be at certain pandal for the grand opening, this pandal has the grandest chandelier, that pandal has an idol with two lions etc. etc.

Wise men say about Bengalis - The hujug is strong with this one.