Childhood Memories Contd..

Durga Poojo or the ubiquitous Poojo, happens to be an annual phenomenon yet rarely leaves most Bengali domains free, despite its autumn advent. Either because of the anticipated guests who would join the family revelry or the clothes that would require preparations much in advance or the food that needed to be prepared during and after the four days of celebrations or the beautiful idol of Ma Durga with her four children resplendent on her Bahan or the fragrance of the shiuli and sthalapadma flowers which blossomed in the season poojo has been dear to all Bengalis.

Soon after Ganesh Poojo, often in late August or early September before the fury of the Monsoons abated ,Ma would start planning for the annual ritual much before its actual advent. Being credited with her dexterous abilities to plan and manage both micro and macro amidst other things, clothes and their preparations forcefully seeped into her daily routine. Her planning helped her to finalize specific numbers, colours, and designs for the gifts and the frocks that would be a part of my wardrobe.

 As the clearer and cooler nights  sharply contrasted the  hot days with clear skies which  enticed all stored blankets and razai`s to be sundried alongside the silks and woolens in the inner  concrete veranda ,Bachu Bhai remained a messiah  for my fall collection with his silky catalogues full of enticing fantasies flaunted by skinny models. Though much frayed at the corners and pages the catalogues were a storehouse of lacy, silky temptations and catered beautifully to appease our frugal needs with consummate ease.  The design catalogue always mesmerized me as the fair brunettes and blondes in frills and sheers stared at me through their hazel, or blue eyes with an élan which was impossible to emulate. Ma would select some designs from the catalogue and make a tour to the tailor shop to ask for the required length of cloth that needed to be purchased   for the specifically selected designs. The religiously noted specifications in her characteristic writing on a neat piece of paper with her Fountain pen were treasured in a specific place in her black bag, her constant companion at work. Little did I know that she selected specific designs and cuts which desperately tried to flatter my as deeply tanned skin and bulk.

 Custom made us take a small walk to her trusted shop Anandilal Patwari &Sons ,an establishment which still stands today in its original place in the city. The walk would always be through a narrow by lane with a huge peepul tree. Interestingly a huge house built under its shadowy boughs was called Peepul Taliya House which in the local dialect meant the house under the peepul Tree. The trips which happened  between  four and six in the evening were specifically planned , which not only prevented the loss of precious time reserved for her patients but  also  allowed her to see the colours better  by the little day light  before it was engulfed by the  swiftly descending dusk. 

Numerous greetings smiles and namastes later we would arrive at our destination and be greeted by the characteristic strong smell of new rolls of cloth .At the entrance we kept our slippers neatly and the rows of colours ,texture, forms ,and print would greet us warmly . The first half of the rectangular room with two square pillars and a wall full of neatly arranged textiles segregated the similar inner half from the outer. Lined with mattresses and round pillows on the left, on which the fat owner patriarchal owner would always be deposited, his overwhelming girth invariably managing to drag every ones attention effortlessly. Always clad in a white vest with a few holes which failed miserably to even cover one third of his fat torso he always greeted us with a radiant smile which more than adequately compensated his ennui.  His equally fat son and his much slimmer brother eagerly showed wares to my mother with a matchless enthusiasm as she selected the things she wanted and thwarted any attempt for forceful or extra buying. Years of habit had tutored them to cater to her specific tastes.

She trusted the entire clan as she claimed that they had never ever sold her anything which would bleed or pale off in colour or texture in the long run. In fact she narrated instances when they asked her not to purchase some materials warning her about its faults. While the younger ones would expertly show things that the older ones often tried to engage me with stupid innuendos most of which remained a jargon. The muffled conversations were the result of the dual role of the lips which tried hard to do justice to the constant chatter and sealing the mouthful of paan which would meet its inevitable destiny after every few minutes. Many a time a lozenge would be offered to me to ward off my boredom. I was coerced to refuse it though, as my advancing hands met Ma`s disapproving glances. As Polythene bags were not much in use in the seventies the thick brown paper bags with bold imprints of the names of the store were sent back home filled with the purchases only to be labeled and kept till the gifting season arrived.

Ma`s list included friends colleagues’ servants’, house hold helps,  drivers ,peons, washer man and his faithful wife who she firmly believed in and trusted as a vital part of our lives as they made it beautiful by doing the mundane chore. I would pay very little or no attention to the numerous  dhotis some with broad borders others with narrow ones some fine shantipuris or the red bordered sari for Ma Durga or the other saris and dress materials she purchased. A staunch believer of the fact that people who helped us should be given gifts rather than ones who were only related  she even parted away with her favourites without even a blink much to my consternation a habit she practiced till she breathed her last.

If the purchases were quick she would utilize the remaining time for finalizing furnishings for curtains mattresses and pillows and metal trunks too. After probably what seemed to be an eternity she would either select something or prefer to wait for the next available opportunity where the shop keepers would promise the arrival of new fabric. Even the foot mats below the bed and the piece of cloth to be put on pillow covers while we rested our heads on them would be cast in their new avatar.

She detested dirty pillows and the still dirtier pillow covers. It was much later that she revealed that her mother had instilled the cardinal belief that clean pillows and their clean covers were one of the criteria  to finalize marriage alliances as the poor hapless objects rarely lied about the state of cleanliness practiced in the household. The fact that sparkling clean pillow covers were indicative of the goodness and eligibility for a probable bride and of good family values continues to elude my logic. My mother would mostly stick to white pillow covers generally embroidered and frilled  crocheted edgings  which would be religiously changed every Sunday before the weekly visit  of our washerman Purno or his wife Bharter Ma (Bharat`s Mother) after our afternoon siesta.

Some saris were purposely bought later, from other Shops. I grew up listening about the virtues of giving rather than receiving and I had to forcibly agree then for my joys knew no bounds on receiving and numbers never failed to impress the group of friends that I was a part of. It was only years later, that these practices made deep inroads into my psyche and then the memory of Ma`s smile reflecting the joy on the faces of those who received gifts from her vindicated that true joy of giving.

She was seldom impulsive. She always preferred to buy cotton of light colours and small prints and intelligently steered me away from dark coloured fantasies by saying that once washed they would lose their sheen. Some silks or satin would also be seen before being touched only to be finalized later. To the others she would give money to buy something for the oncoming festivities.

My average wardrobe was dominated by  pale monochromes ,  dainty flowers in blues, pale cream, and whites also had  an overpowering smell of naphthalene .With materials purchased in advance and designs chosen from attractive catalogues but rarely delivered on schedule, Bachu Bhai`s  tailoring unit formed an important part of my pooja celebrations. Often fitted and refitted for a perfect fit on many an occasion the dresses would arrive only hours before they had to be worn putting to rest the anticipation that preceded the delivery. Often adorned in the  collars and cuffs with delicate edgings painstakingly crafted after dinner in the thinnest of the reel threads instead of the thick crochet threads my outfits would be transformed into the extraordinary because of her artistic abilities. I still treasure a few of her beautiful creations which stand mute testimony of her creative genius. She had even tutored Noni our trusted maid to dry laces on old newspapers after being washed taking care not to rub them vigorously.

It never mattered to most citizens of the tiny city that patterns, furnishings, or coverlets wouldn't vary in colour texture fabric unflinching of the commonality of their origin .It would be rather fun and never a matter of concern that I wore the same prints with Runu and Munmun two of my closest allies and friends which probably more than asserted the common threads of love and care that bonded the Bengali community and assumed an important part of my life.

Quintessentially Yours

Statistics would more than authenticate the claims of the quintessential Odia, that luxury lies in the ability of indulging in a siesta after the bowlful of Pakhala. Describing the Pakhala would need competencies of a higher order in any language other than Odia owing to the status of the former being un- bounded and armed with its famed soporific effects which, on unleashing, can lull millions to sleep vindicated abundantly by the cities and towns in the afternoon. The various genres ranging from fresh to being kept overnight or being embellished with curd and being garnished with seasonings, the signature dish has managed to appease the hungry millions besides grabbing headlines and hoardings in recent times towards tickling the palates of the affluent with its tangy taste. With the advent of summer, numerous restaurants and eateries announce its presence with the scientifically inclined endorsing its capabilities of restoring the much-needed electrolytes to counter the soaring mercury. While its simplicity lies in having the grains of rice soulfully caressed in their bed of liquid, the latter flaunting of an enviable diversity. Having attained a cult status typifying odias across the world it has acquired recognition as the most favoured gastronomic delight of the state across all ages managing to unite millions also because of the innumerable assortments, ranging from the humble dried lentil balls lovingly called badi , to saaga, to the more exotic meat and prawn delicacies each greeted with a panache that is hard to beat.

Reputed to celebrate thirteen celebrations and festivals the innocuous Khatti or the innocent gossip that reverberates across villages’ and cities every balmy summer evening as the favoured pastime for men while the delectable pan accompanies the conversation of the fairer sex. Encompassing topics ranging from cinema to Obama cricket to politics the rising tenor indicating the inimitable vigor and fervor of each participant and probably challenge online chatting in the virtual world. Lord Jagannath the presiding of Puri being the custodian to counter each catastrophes and calamities threatening to annihilate the lives of millions who willingly submit their existence with an innocent ``Jay Jagannath`` the sonorous lilt of which maybe attributed to the bhangha -eating culture of the city of the lord, also famed for its d sweets and bhog.

As the Jatra and Opera jostle for space with celluloid with each of the former still retaining their flavor more so in the tiny hamlets, especially warming many a autumn and winter night whipping up emotions musically casting a spell on the psyche of the simple people whose resilience has evoked national and international admiration. It was probably the lack of efforts, which caused the erosion of the Pala and the Daskathiya , two great forms of entertainment, in a state reputed to attract millions, for its mellifluous Odissi music and dance.

While the Global scenario looks in awe at the gossamer weaves adorning the fashionnistas of the world and the fine filigree captivates the eye of millions of connoisseurs’ the Dhoti probably being the original flexible dry-fit enviably accommodating men of any size presently being reduced to only being a fashion statement .The rapidly vanishing Jhoti too, commonly seen on wall and floors is becoming a fading adornment. Changing taste buds have continued to haunt the delicate taste of the innumerable pithas of the Odias, now making their presence felt more in annual events.

 Fading vanishing art forms traditions or prevalent customs reflect the failure of timely interventions. As the wheels of the famous Black pagoda besieges our support to thwart good things from receding into the background and prevent their disappearance by accommodating them lets` work towards spreading diversity for a harmonious cause.

Myriad Shades of My Childhood- Part Two

 The severity of summers in Sambalpur were enough to wilt the entire garden.Our entire family would devotedly water the plants in the morning and evening yet scorched leaves was a common enough sight.
Thunderstorms and hail storms were common too. The pure undiluted fun of collecting the sharp small uneven pieces of ice was beyond description. I still remember that I would have a steel glass firmly clasped in my hands and extend it to the further most reach while being seated on the edge of our inner verandah under the hawkish supervision of dear old Noni. Noni , our maid of several years  would not let me venture in the rain despite several requests.`It`ll break your head `` quite firmly . Sometimes the firmness would exceed that of my mother`s and despite my young age I would try to break free of these diktats.Noni was voted to make the best Aloo dom ,Payesh and Parota by all ,in the family. What nobody knew was my  votes went to her heavy spiced dried fish tomato curry with dried bamboo shoots  which both of us relished with Pakhala . She would feed and bathe me and take care of my hair with a fondness which I miss still. I would generally wear  embroidered muslin frocks with embroidered necklines and crocheted  borders which joined the front and the back . The laces were hand made and  beautiful  always managed to attract  attention from unknown people and appreciation from the known.
Noni would wash my clothes and dry them out in the sun in the way my mother had trained her, the crocheted part pinned on to a newspaper for retaining the shape. The embroidery would be mostly be of colorful animals including  fat puppies and kittens  birds and flowers. Always done in single strand and beautiful the perfect pieces of creation were precious to me. I would resent their absence when I grew up and once on my insistence my mother stitched a similar outfit but I realized that I looked weird in it. Often ladies who would visit our home would examine the embroideries and ask my mother that when did she get the time to embroider despite her busy schedule to which my mother would smile as an answer. Often her smile would signal a dismissal and fiercely secretive as she was the more frequent visitors would keep quiet with only the newer ones  prodding . Only a few of us knew that she sat till late night after having a frugal dinner to embroider these frocks and sleep when it finally overcame her.

She was an early riser but always resented it. She would always tell that as a s student in Patna medical college she would sleep after college and wake up when the others  would be sleeping and study through the night. She would wake up in the morning cook breakfast and lunch for us . A great cook who would love to innovate  I was fond of most of her creations.One things which repelled me was having rot is soaked in milk and Horlicks. The very smell of these would be enough to churn my stomach and despite repeated trials under clever garbs these two remain in my eternal hate list. Hot milk or rather the consumption of it with layers of cream would also cause me to vomit. Even a  tiny shred of cream in milk was enough to cause a revulsion and knowing this my mother would strain the milk through a strainer and ask me to finish it off before going to school.
I loved to eat Luchis with aloo bhaja. Often a Sunday breakfast affair or a must have when guests came over she taught me to pierce  the crisp  thin upper crust  and enjoy the hot steam as it escaped the tight confines and then stuff the fried a loo pieces generally long and thin in the case roll it and then have it.Strictly never a part   summer  menus  loochi would always remain to be favorite. My personal touch in eating it would be soaking the last two in a small glass bowl with milk with sugar  or nolen gur in winter and then eat them. This extremely delicious bread continues to entice me and it requires Herculean efforts on my part to renounce it or exercise control to resist it . I never could make good lochs which added to my kitchen woes after I got married. My husband loved to eat them too and my failure to make the softer version of the loochi perhaps initiated me to be adventurous in cooking.  Success only followed when Mrs .Kabu  our beautiful Kashmiri neighbor and the wife of the DIG there  put me under the tutelage of her cook .The trick I realized lay in every sphere. The stiff dough made pliable with kneading, the perfect rolling out ,and the right temperature of the oil made a difference.
The demarcating line between the loochi and poori lay in the main ingredients. The sinful  white refined flour transformed the loochi into its delicious avatar in comparison to the healthier poori made with  wheat flour.
 I remember  playing with dolls with others as a enjoyable past time. The grand daughters of Noni would be my favourite playmates. My dolls would be always clothed in clean outfits of which the credit would solely go to Noni. People often told that I would sit hours  at a stretch with my treasure basket . A wicker basket packed with miniatures of everything starting from stoves to beds remained to be my favorite belonging.I would play with my dolls often extending real life situations to the imaginary.Cooking with grass which would mean greens and small pebbles a, s lentils with a crush of the red bricks as chili powder probably sowed the seeds of domesticity in me ,an art that  would continue challenging me with full vigor even as I advance towards my fiftieth year.

Myriad Shades of My Childhood- Part One

Of the many things that continue to have a strong impact on my thoughts was the flaming Gulmohur tree that divided the small campus where we lived into almost two halves.The compound was small and had the tiny twenty one bedded hospital in one half and housed the quarters of most of its staff in the other half. Facing the small hospital building  were a large number of trees including a large variety of hibiscus and the intoxicating champa trees.

Long after the easter lilies in the tiny left corner of our garden shriveled  up the beautiful  gulmohur tree would break into a red canopy  with  heavy and bulky buds .Late April would see it bloom in full           profusion and every morning a carpet of flowers would greet me as I ran towards it longing to see the pair   of elusive mynahs believed to be harbingers of good luck to the besotted. As the heat of the sun forced the flaming red blossoms with canary yellow centers to darken to a deep burgundy reflecting their age only  to fall on the red soil in an effort to meet its destiny yet never failing to create a soft carpet to tread upon  as a last tribute to a season known to  be harsh and unforgiving  , an experience which still lingers in my memories.The knights in shining red would emerge  clear winners if colors and numbers were the criteria yet the lack of fragrance forced it to be incomplete.Also the fact that other red blossoms like the Hibiscus would preferably be used to adorn the gods in preference to the abundant flower would push it a mere second if not third because of other tiny competitors in white.including ,the Frangipani ,mogra and jasmine which spared no efforts  to add fragrance to the hot  air .

The rivals of our small but clean garden confronted  each other throughout the season with the mogras lining the brick wall in the west and the   fragile jasmine clinging on to a pillar built on the steps leading to the large verandah in the east keeping the entire atmosphere fresh ,enticing the senses to succumb to their fatal charms .
Every morning I would be awakened by  the noisy duel between two koyals whom  I could never ever see yet any attempt by one would be matched if not out classed by its competitor .As the day advanced their calls would die out only to reappear suddenly attempting to shatter the monotony of the dry sun baked afternoons.
Summers in Sambalpur ,my home town would mean temperatures generally above forty five .The season usually lasted for three months with its latter part  marked with acute shortage of power and water.The water supply would suddenly lose its predictable timings only to cause distress among one and all .