Shobhaggo.
Which roughly translated to good luck.
That was what she was called.
She lived behind our building, her house a thatched two room and kitchen affair.
Oh how well she kept that house!
Its sun baked mud floors would put any concrete cemented floor to shame.
With her lived her husband, her three sons, her bedridden father in law and a mother in law who was enjoying retirement from a homemakers responsibilities.
This mother in law had a rather entrepreneurial spirit.
They had a mango tree, a jamun tree, two starfruit trees, another guava tree shading their house at interesting and convenient corners of their ‘uthaan’.
The mother in law would gather the starfruits which grew throughout the year and sell them at 10 paise each. By the time I grew up, she was selling them at a whooping amount of 25 paise each.
Ma would never allow me to have those starfruits.
“Have bananas and plums instead,” she would say.
But how could I explain to her how deeply satisfying it was to cut those starfruits, both sweet and tangy kinds together; add salt and green chillies, some coriander leaves and devour them like no tomorrow!
I would have them everyday.
When ma found out she pleaded with dida, that's what we called the mother in law.
“Look how skinny she is! It’s because of your starfruits.”
Dida got a mouthful from mami too.
“You and your fruit selling habits! You will kill children of the neighbourhood one day.”
“Oh shut your foul mouth you busybody! If I didn’t sell these fruits how would I buy tobacco and my matinee tickets?”
And both went about their way grumbling abuses under their breath.
That house was the place I ran to always since i was probably three years old.
For one thing the three boys made excellent playmates.
And they had interesting stories to tell about their vernacular school.
Mami loved having me around.
I enjoyed watching her cook.
A wee wooden seat was kept especially for me.
I would seat and watch her cook for hours.
It was all very interesting to me.
To watch her take scales off fish and cut them into pieces and cook them.
It was satisfying to watch the way she cooked.
And while she cooked she would ask me wouldn’t I rather go out and play?
“No thank you. I will sit here instead,” I would say
She would ask me about school, my friends, what I had for breakfast.
There was never any dearth of conversation.
Once she slit open the belly of a big fish and a wee tiny one came out of it.
The tiny fish spasmed a bit and then died.
We made up a whole story about the tiny fish and about its life in the river.
When she cooked egg curry she would cut one egg into half while the rest of the eggs remained whole.
“Why do you do that?’
“Because my youngest one shouldn’t have a whole egg. He’s too little.”
When her children were around I would play with them.
Especially the middle son, who was my age.
She didn’t have cooking gas like my ma.
She didn’t even have a stove
She cooked in a mud stove or “unnan”
That required a lot of chopped wood and sawdust.
Outside the house was a small shed where the fire wood and sawdust were kept.
Once I and the middle son broke open the shed and ended up pouring all the sawdust all over us.
Ma gave me a good thrashing.
Mami did the same with her son.
We kept away from the shed after that and made up stories that a ghost lived there
And the spices she used while cooking!
Oh they would burn my eyes and water my mouth!
I was her only taster.
I would have tears in my eyes eating.
I would tell her everything tasted good.
“Better than your ma’s cooking?”
‘Oh yes!”
‘Wait I will tell her that,” she teased.
“Nooooo she will be hurt!”
“Aren’t you a darling! I wish I had a daughter too,” she sighed.
I remember kissing her once when she said that.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knew how she had expected her youngest one to be a girl.
“The nurse told me you have a little girl now. I was so happy. Then they said that there was some mix up. I had a son instead.”
After a brief pause she continued,
“If I had a daughter she would sit with me like you instead of running away like those stupid boys of mine.”
She sat there thinking and brooding.
She looked like an overgrown doll to me. All of 4ft 8 inches, plump and with those ruddy cheeks.
I remember when i later read David Copperfield, how much Pegotty reminded me of her.
Hearty, ruddy, and the head of the household.
But with a softness about her.
A matronly comforting aura about her.
That family and ours were quite close to each other.
In the evening, around 4pm mama, would be home with treats
You see he worked in the canteen of the NFRailways and would bring home sweetmeats from the canteen. My favourite was the khurma, a rectangular shaped treat, hard and sweet.
I was not allowed tea. Strict instructions from ma, apparently.
But mami would let me sip from her cup sometimes.
They called tea time, tiffin time.
I found that droll.
On Sundays, they would come to our house to watch Ramayana at first, then Mahabharata and The Sword of Tipu Sultan.
They didn’t own a television set.
They didn’t even have electricity.
I very seldom went to their house at night.
When I did, I would find her and mama listening to songs on the battery operated radio while the boys sat studying in the other room.
They also had a well.
Funny thing about that well though.
Every other week there would be a case of attempted bovine suicide in it.
The stupid creatures would never die though. They would just jump and then moo pathetically.
And then the whole neighbourhood would get together for a rescue mission.
It was fun for us kids.
As it usually happened at study time and once the cow jumped and started mooing the grown ups would rush to the spot leaving us kids to our own antics.
Sometimes I would stay with mami for afternoon naps.
No sleeping was done then.
I would read to her abridged versions of Victorian novels.
Some lady called Mrs. S.E. Paces abridged a bunch of literary classics for kids like me and I would read them again and again until baba or ma would buy me a new one. I would narrate those stories to her. Whether she did it to humour a little girl or whether she actually liked them I cannot say, but she always seemed fascinated.
I could never do that with ma.
You see she was the fascinating story teller in the family then.
But then seasons changed.
There was school to be attended.
Life to be lived .
Other attachments to be formed.
I would still run to mami’s house whenever I could but it was not constant.
Our affection however was.
I would still be the first to taste her food whenever around.
But it got rarer and rarer.
One of my favourite dishes which she cooked was dry fish chutney
It was and still remains a dear favourite.
It had an obscene amount of chillies in it.
One couldn’t just take a spoonful and taste it, one had to have it with rice.
Preferably cold, rather room temperature rice.
One day she told me,
“Whenever I make it, you are in school!”
“Well then send me a bit of it home na! I have lunch once back home from school..will have it then.”
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
“What are you talking about! Send it over!”
Two days later I sat doing my homework.
Ma was sitting nearby sewing odds and ends.
Suddenly she asked,
“Maman did you ask Shobhaggo boudi to send over dry fish chutney?”
“Oh yes I did! Did she?”
“She will tomorrow. Don’t you like what i cook for you?”
“Of course I do! But mami cooks well too. And her dry fish chutney is yum!”
“In this house, we do not eat dry fish.”
“We don’t?”
“Have you ever seen me cook any?”
I thought it over.
“No,” I said.
“Families that can afford fresh fish don’t eat dry fish.”
I kept quiet. I didn’t like what ma had said.
“What’s wrong with you? You study in a convent but behave like some slum girl! Always running away to that house, watching her cook. Sitting in that hot kitchen! Do you know how dark your skin has become. And there’s sawdust in your hair!”
“But I hardly go there after school reopened!”
I was quiet for a while.
“Are you and mami fightimg?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Okay.”
Next day i sprinted my way home, getting down from the school bus. I met mami on the way.
She didn’t look well.
“I am going to the railway hospital.”
“Migraine again?”
“Yes.”
“Listen i made some dry fish chutney for you. I have sent it over.”
“Okay!” i said and ran home happily
Ma was rather quiet.
Other days she would be rushing me to lunch.
After I had washed myself and changed clothes she told me,
“You will serve your own lunch today. Mami has sent over some food.”
I entered the kitchen.
And on top of the shelf where the cooked food was usually kept, I found dal and sabzi and egg curry and rice neatly arranged.
“But where’s mami’s dry fish chutney?”
“There,” she pointed.
On the clean kitchen floor below the shelf of food sat a lonely tiny covered bowl.
“Why is it there? Why is it not with the other food?”
‘I told you, we don’t eat dry fish curry in this house.”
She served me a plateful of rice.
“You are on your own from here. Would you like some of the stuff I cooked?”
“No, mami’s dry fish chutney will do for me.”
After an awkward silence I asked,
“Ma why did you keep that bowl on the ground?”
“Because I can’t stand the smell of dry fish chutney,” she said averting my gaze
“Listen you will have to wash that katora after eating.”
“okay.”
My heart fell heavy.
My mother had just lied to me on my face.
I didn’t ask why.
I was only a little girl after all and i was scared of the truth.
I ate silently. Mami had gone heavy on the chillies. I am sure that is why i had tears in my eyes. It had nothing to do with my mother’s deception of course.
Few days later there was another tiny bowl.
Ma served the plateful of rice .
I prayed to god that it was dry fish chutney again.
And it was on the floor only because my mother couldn’t tolerate the smell.
I didn’t want to find out something i already knew.
But no it was not.
It was some vegetable curry.
I looked up at ma.
She looked very very uncomfortable.
I didn’t ask her anything.
But she still volunteered an answer.
“Maman listen, you need to understand something. That place over the shelf where i keep my cooked food, it's called aashkaal. It is as sacred as the puja ghar. You cannot keep any food cooked by them over there.”
“Why not?” i asked, very close to tears.
“Because..do you know who we are? We are Brahmins. They are from the lower caste. Our food cannot get mixed.”
I didn't say anything.
I sat down and ate silently. I couldn’t blame my tears on chillies anymore.
I lost something that day.
I was too young to realize what it was.
It was unwavering respect for my mother.
She was a flawed human being.
For an eight year old that was earth shattering.
Life went on as usual. Kids are resilient you see.
One day mami came over with some curry for me.
Ma pointed the floor where the bowl was to be kept.
I realized then this must have happened all along.
All this time when mami came over with food for me, my ma must have refused to touch it.
I didn’t understand casteism properly then. i just knew this was grossly unfair and disrespectful.
Yet mami came day after day with food for me.
That very thought made me burst into tears.
And then came education.
Nehruvian education.
Where one started learning about ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, Raja Ram Mohan Roy, VIvekanada and Ma’s favourite Ram Krishna.
When i read out loud about them, ma would be all animated and talk about them for hours.
About how apart from other evils they fought the evil of caste distinction and discrimination.
The hypocrisy was mind numbing.
I would stare at her with disbelief at times.
“What’s wrong?” She asked once
“Nothing.” I said
I never told baba anything about this.
It felt like betrayal.
Good news arrived.
Baba got a promotion. The promotion came with a transfer to Dhubri.
And ma would be bringing home a little brother for me soon.
We of course didn’t know it would be a brother then.
Ma didn’t want to move as it would hamper my education.
She was confident she could manage pregnancy and raising a nine year old on her own
My ma had one of the most difficult pregnancies imaginable.
Every other day she would have an asthma attack.
I would wake up in the middle of the night all scared.
Sometimes rush to the compounder who lived nearby to administer her injection which would bring in temporary relief.
Ma and I were all alone.
Her own sister was begged by the neighbours to come over and stay.
She refused.
The only woman standing by her was mami.
When she found out I would go calling the compounder in the middle of the night, she got very very worried.
She would come over regularly after that and sit with ma whenever she was unwell.
She would only leave when ma slept.
She took care of me and the household chores as best she could. Never did i go without a meal after she stepped in.
Within a few weeks ma and she became inseparable.
Even when baba came over with extended leave ma would only cry out for her boudi.
Nothing would do.
Once delirious with fever, she held her and cried like a little girl.
“What if my baby dies?”
“Don’t you worry we wont let anything happen to the baby.”
Bhai was born two months before due date and was kept in ICU.
But he bounced into health within a month.
Once back from the hospital the friendship between the two women blossomed further.
She put bhai in mami’s outstretched arms saying “This one is as much yours as mine.”
And aashkaal became a thing of the past.
Ma herself started demanding dishes of her boudi.
Her favourite was a ketli peetha which she could never make.
The friendship remained intact until the time we moved to another part of the town.
Even then there were visits
But when ma’s condition detoriated and she finally passed away, mami took it hard.
Apparently, she was hospitalized.
We were busy with the last rites of ma then.
She managed to come over on her shraddha.
Defiantly she looked at baba and said, “You should have called me earlier. If I were around, she wouldn’t have died. I stood between her and death once, i would have done it again.”
Ma was always aware that death was coming for her
It was only a matter of time.
Two instructions she left behind,
“Any function in our family, that family should be the first to be invited.
And when you and babai start earning, get her a saree with your first salary.”
I met her a few months back.
Dear old mami!
As ruddy, as hearty, as ever!
She had had some unfortunate tragedy in her family.
The eldest son’s wife had slipped in the bathroom and had a miscarriage.
As she told me about it she burst into tears, i held her close.
Baba and mama cried too.
“And i don’t even have your ma to share my woes with! That woman cheated us all by leaving early.”
