Those delicious letters, p.2
Those Delicious Letters, page 2
Claire and Samantha are by my desk, even before I reach it, for my strides are in fact not that long. Claire puts the rectangular, pale blue piece of paper in front of me and taps at the postmark with her long green nail. I hate long nails. They freak me out. But whatever the nail is tapping at freaks me further.
I see a browned head of Gandhi. Just below that in neat inked uppercase letters, my name, SHUBHALAXMI SEN-GUPTA. ‘Sen-Gupta’ and not ‘Sengupta’ as in I was ‘sane’ before marriage, I like to tell people.
Yes, that’s me all right. Shubha, short for Shubhalaxmi. Age: forty; height: 5’1’; build: slender – more like ‘not fat’ but always with those 5 lb to lose; eyes: brown with flecks of black; hair: frizzy.
I turn the blue aerogramme letter over to check the sender’s address.
253/5 Panchanantala Lane
Baranagar
Kolkata – 700036
None of it rings a bell.
‘It is for you, Shubha. Aren’t you excited? Our first international mail in this office. Not an email, a postal letter!’ shrieks Claire with a childlike innocence that is typical of her.
‘At least not another bill or junk advertisement.’ Sam rolls her eyes.
Well, I am definitely excited. I have not seen an aerogramme or inland letter in God knows how many years now. This piece of blue paper was how we remained connected with family all the years that my father was transferred on his job and moved around the country. My mother wrote long letters in blue inlands to her parents in Kolkata from the cold valleys of Leh, the hot plains of Jamshedpur, the beaches of Chennai. Sometimes she had so much to say that her rounded letters in Bengali script, filled all the space and spilled over to the scrimp where she perhaps unwillingly signed off, only after giving pronams to the elders and love to the younger ones.
It was those letters that told my grandparents about my exams, my first prize in art, my new school and my annual report card. And it was one of these that one day bore the news that Dida, my grandmother, was no more.
I gently pick up the letter and run my fingers around its edges. I then hold it close to my nose and sniff lightly. It smells of coffee and stale flowers.
I wet the glued edges, carefully prying them open as I had seen my mother do all the time. She almost never cut off the edges with a paper knife as there was always something written on the scrimp.
As I open the letter’s folds and try smoothing the edges, a few dry petals and stamens of orange marigold tumble out. Instinctively, I reach out to catch them and in a gesture of respect lift them to my forehead.
Tiny Bengali script in a lavender ink fills the blue paper. That ink colour is my favourite. What was the ink that we used in school? Sulekha, I think.
Dear Moni,
How are you? We miss you all so much.
Yesterday I went to the Dakshineshwar temple for Poila Boishakh. Uff, what a mistake! The place had such long queues that it was worse than our neighbourhood cinema hall. It was almost two hours before I could even get a glimpse of Ma Kali. Can you imagine? Even heaven can be reached faster than that.
Anyway, I am sending you blessed flowers from the Goddess’ feet. Keep them safe, I might not go there any time soon and the flowers are not exactly hygienic so wash your hands after touching them.
Moni, do you celebrate Poila Boishakh in the US? Or do you say in English – Bengali New Year?
When you were in school, you and your friends would dance and sing and put up a show every Poila Boishakh. Right under that huge mango tree, on a makeshift stage. Far away in America, do you ever think of those days, Moni?
Remember that one time, the Kalboishakhi, the fearless storms in the month of Boishakh, stormed in just as you all were getting ready. The dark storm clouds descended on the north-west horizon and lightning crackled like cymbals. Soon the gusts of winds gathered strength and blew away all your mother’s saris that you had draped as stage curtains. The mango tree swayed to rhythms of the storm while its mangoes were plucked by the wind and thrashed around. Then came the rain, fat large pellets of it, drumming on the courtyard, flooding the makeshift stage.
All your friends started crying but you were not too bothered. Instead you tugged at my sari and asked, ‘Didan, can you please make your hing’r kochuri and aloor tarkari for dinner. Yours is the best in the world.’ Food was your solution to all problems.
Ah, I remember those days so clearly. You know, lately I realize my mind is becoming like wool – soft, jumbled up. Some days, I forget if I have brushed my teeth or had breakfast. But the past? That I always remember so clearly that it floats in front of my eyes more crystal clear than pictures on that new television your eldest uncle gave me.
Now, that is why I am writing to you. You know my mother’s cooking was some kind of a legend. All that thakurbarir ranna and everything you hear these days, well, their recipes were no match to hers. Or at least that is what she claimed. But she was a legendary cook anyway.
I learned whatever I could from her and then there is also that thing called genes so I was a pretty good cook in my time. And, of course, your Dadu loved food so I would make sure that we had a feast on all occasions. Fair white puffed luchi with aloor dom, misti pulao fragrant with just a hint of javetri and jaiphol, kosha mangsho that had cooked for hours and was soft and succulent.
Those were the days. Now I have no one to cook for. Your Dadu isn’t around. Even if he was, I don’t think I would be able to cook. Some days I can’t seem to remember if it is cumin or coriander that I added in my kosha mangsho, but then suddenly it all comes back to me and I try to write it down. I am getting old, Moni, and I fear that something is dying in my brain. I forget. The past is lucid in my memory but on some days the present gets all foggy like a December morning.
But I digress. The thing is after your youngest aunt was born, my mother gave me a notebook with all her recipes written down in her own beautiful handwriting. Her ‘Rannar Khaata’ – her handwritten recipe book. Pages and pages of precious gems. I know none of my children will treasure it as much as I do and I don’t want to pass it on to just one of them and let them fight over it. I wanted you to have it but the problem is, now I have forgotten where I have kept it. It must be some place very safe but I don’t remember anything. I am afraid if I don’t find the book those rare recipes will be lost.
So, in the meanwhile, I will send you my special recipes – what I remember from my memory. That way my legacy will live with you. There might be some slips, some mistakes, but I know you will be able to figure it out.
Take care of them like your own. Remember, food does not only feed the body, Moni, it feeds your soul. My blessings will always be with you.
Bhalo theko,
Didan
The letter ends with what looks like a detailed recipe of hing’r kochuri and aloor dom in the postscript.
‘Who gave you this letter, Claire?’ I ask, chewing on my lower lip, the letter still open in my hand. Dida, my maternal grandmother, had passed away long back. Even Thamma, my father’s mother, was no more. I have no relatives who could have sent me this letter. ‘Moni’ wasn’t even a name anyone called me by. I am certain this letter is for someone else and has been wrongly delivered by the post office. It seems like an uncanny mistake, but I assure myself that these things happen.
‘Dunno,’ says Claire, ‘looks like it came in the mailbox, United States Postal Service.’
‘Kajol might know but she is away in Aruba,’ chimes in Samantha. Kajol, my friend, the 80 per cent owner of Right-to-Write – this tiny, independent, wannabe publishing house, is a fiery, independent spirit (I am the wimpy secondary owner of the rest 20 per cent). Single and unencumbered, she has her hand and heart in several different ventures and good-looking men. My mother, if she had known Kajol, would have called her a jack of all trades, master of none. Only Kajol doesn’t even want to be the master. It is all the different things she dabbles in, from global hunger to eclectic art, which breathes life in her. Actually I am a bit in awe of her. She is like Joan of Arc, shushing everyone with her personality, throwing around her hands animatedly and talking with her big kohl-rimmed eyes. Actually I am not sure if Joan of Arc did that, but you get the idea, right?
As I fold the letter, my stomach rumbles and I feel this teeny shard of pain at not having Dida around. She was an artiste in the kitchen – chopping, grinding, stirring, her life revolving around feeding her children and grandchildren. Her flaky khasta kochuris stuffed with spiced lentils, which we always carried by the jarfuls after the winter holidays, were the best I have ever had. It has been so long since I have tasted anything like that. I often wish that I had learned to make them like her.
The thing is, cooking is not my forte. Never has been. Chopping onions had me in a tearful puddle; the sizzle of red chillies in hot mustard oil made me sneeze like crazy; and tossing cauliflowers in hot oil had left many a burn on my arms. When Ma was around, she hardly ever let me in the kitchen, shooing me away every time I wandered in.
‘Go study now and get into a good college. I will teach you to cook when you need it,’ she would say, dismissing me with a flutter of her hands. Well, she didn’t wait to see if I needed it. She was gone even before I went to college! I always felt angry that she did not keep her promise, cheated that now I would never know what secret spices she put in her fish curries. And then later, I never felt the urge to pick it up on my own.
But I had always liked good food, a carefully crafted meal, the family sitting down at the dining table at the end of the day. In the first few years of my marriage, I even hung on to that warm glossy image, carefully laying a table, arranging flowers and placing the right silverware every evening. In that fancy set-up I served egg curry and rice, day in, day out. Sameer said little and I thought he was enjoying my routine meal until one day he blurted out the truth. ‘Shubha, you don’t have to go through this every day you know. Why don’t you relax while I cook dinner from tomorrow?’
I had agreed with secret relief. So, Sameer started cooking our meals, exotic dishes named methi murg, badami fish, makhmali paneer tikka, from his collection of cookbooks. He was good at it.
Slowly, however, our roles shifted. After the girls were born, Sameer got busier at work. I quit my job as an architect and became the driver-cum-cook-cum cleaner – the all-in-one mother. Only, I resorted to quick thirty-minute meals which we all ate at different times, sitting in front of the TV, leaning on the counter or in the study. If I was bored I would dabble through a Sanjeev Kapoor or Madhur Jaffrey cookbook but never did I attempt to cook the Bengali dishes my mother used to. I was afraid I could never do justice to those recipes.
Today, the time has come to amend all of that and start afresh, I tell myself. There is something in that letter which convinces me that I should. ‘Go, Shubha, take a leap of faith, try it out even if only once,’ I whisper to myself.
It has been two weeks since my birthday, only fifteen days since Poila Boishakh, and we are still fairly new into the Bengali year. We need to celebrate. Piyu and Riya need to know their traditions. If that can happen by deep frying kochuri in my kitchen, so be it. I am sure my mother will appreciate it from wherever she is. And how bad can I possibly be at rolling dough? After all I did learn to make ravioli in that Italian class the girls gifted me last Mother’s Day.
With my mind held high and determination in my chest, I message Sameer to come back at least an hour early. He has been coming home after ten lately, way past the girls’ dinner time. Then I stop at the Indian grocery store on my way home. Carefully ticking off items from the recipe I had jotted down, I manoeuvre the shopping cart through the narrow aisles of Patel Grocery. A box of saffron yellow hing from Rajasthan, pungent mustard oil, tiny cloves, pale green cardamoms, fiery red chillies, a packet of maida. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Even chubby old Mahesh Patel, the elder of the Patel brothers is surprised by the stuff in my cart. ‘Koi can nahi lena?’ (You don’t want any canned food this time?) he asks me, unable to keep his curious Indian mind in check.
Back home, I take a quick shower and brace myself for the evening.
1. Measure two cups of maida and half a cup of atta in a large bowl. Add a little ghee or vegetable oil and rub it to the flour with your fingers.
I measure out the flour in my big salad bowl and then rub in oil as per the instructions. Easy-peasy!
But the flour is soon in crumbles and I start having the first inkling of doubt. How is this going to ever come together? Was the old lady totally in her senses when she wrote the recipe?
2. Slowly add water and mix with your fingers to form the dough. Without giving it a thought, I pour a jug of water. Biggest mistake! The whole thing now looks like a flour soup, greyish in colour with small dumplings of flour swimming around. By no law of physics or chemistry could this ever be transformed to dough.
Man, making these kochuris is not easy. And definitely not for someone like me. I dump the whole soupy mess into the bin, scrub the salad bowl clean and start with Step Number 1 again. ‘I can do this,’ I repeat after myself. If I say something enough number of times, someone had said, I can convince myself to believe in it and then actually do it. Sounds like load of rubbish but no harm in trying, I decide.
On my second attempt, I notice the keyword ‘slowly’ and add the water gradually, each time mixing the flour with my fingers. It slowly comes together and this time I know the moment when the water is just right.
3. Knead the dough well. Pummel and knead with the heel of your palm until the ball of dough looks smooth like a baby’s bottom. I punch and pummel and knead thinking of Anju and Kajol and it seems to work. I am getting this right. My dough isn’t exactly like a baby’s bum, well, maybe a very wrinkly one. But it is close.
4. Cover the dough with a damp cloth and let it sit for twenty to twenty-five minutes.
Dinner was getting late. Today is usually our taco day when I serve ground chicken chilli and black beans with crispy taco shells bought from the store. The girls make their own tacos, topping them with lettuce, salsa and sour cream. It is easy for me, and the girls love it. My salsa is quite good actually. Around nine, Piyu comes wandering into the kitchen and is not too welcoming of my dinner idea. ‘But we always have tacos on Tuesdays,’ she sulks. Uggh, what have I done to my girls? Made them such boring slaves of routine.
‘Today, we will have kochuri. It is deep fried and yum. Just wait for it.’ I try to make it sound exciting though for all I know we might end up eating just plain bread and jam for dinner instead.
‘But Mom, that is tonnes of artery-clogging oil. You know how harmful it can be. Can you visualize the layers of fat that will be deposited in your blood vessels from that single deep-fried bread?’ She grimaces, her face innocent and young but her tone desperately trying to be adult.
I am taken aback. That is not how I had ever looked at kochuri. It clogs my heart no doubt, but with the weight of its love. ‘Ha, nothing like that will happen,’ I assure her as I roll out the dough flat. I do not have time to make the stuffing spiced with hing, that will have to wait until next time.
Riya is more supportive. Not that she would eat more than a bite but this ‘kochuri-making’ has excused her from homework, and so she stands around cheering me. ‘Mamma, it is not that hard. It is like play-doh. You can do it.’
‘Well, I can’t help,’ quips Piyu and stomps up to her room.
The strains of Tagore’s song ‘Esho he boishakh, esho, esho…’ from my iPhone washes over my modern kitchen, falling flat and lifeless, while Riya and I roll out the dough in all shapes and suspend it in the hot oil. Some of it puff up just like I remembered it should. The soft kochuris, their belly plumped with a paste of dal flavoured with hing, would levitate on the small kadhai until my mother gently lifted them up with her ‘jhanjri’, ladle. Some fall on their face, flat and crispy. We keep plodding along, undefeated.
By the time the kochuris (or rather luchis, as I skipped the stuffing), are all done, I am exhausted and have no energy to make aloor dom.
Around 9.45 at night Sameer texts: ‘Running Late. Sorry.’
I am not sure if he really is sorry. Texts don’t show emotions. And Sameer never uses emojis. This is an annoying habit of his. Given that we communicate mostly over texts, how was I to know exactly what he felt?
‘Sameer, you need to use those little emojis. The sad face, or the angry face, or the happy one. They are there to show your feeling, your mood,’ I have told him repeatedly. ‘Shubha, you could just murder someone and send three red hearts and a hug. They don’t mean a damn thing.’ He has always shrugged it off in his usual Sameer way.
It is getting late and I can’t let my luchis go cold. My arms ache and I wish Sameer was home to see this magical stack that we have conjured. ‘Let’s just have them with ketchup,’ I declare cheerfully to the girls.
I update my Facebook status.
Shubho Noboborsho. Errm … belated. #bengalinewyear
50 likes. 50 hearts. 30 sad emojis.
Hing’r Kochuri
Hing’r kochuri is a very popular Bengali stuffed bread that is deep fried. The stuffing is made of urad dal (called ‘kalai’r dal’ in Bengali) paste spiced with a good sprinkling of hing or asafoetida, grated ginger and a touch of fennel powder. Hot off the oil kochuris served with chholar dal and aloor dom is a popular Bengali breakfast. To make the experience that much more perfect, don’t forget to end the meal with jalebis and steaming cups of hot tea. This recipe serves four.
Making the Stuffing
Urad dal/kalai’r dal/biulir dal – 1 cup
