A deep sigh caused a vein in his throat to stand out. He drew himself erect and went back to stirring. From the CD player behind them, a vocalist chanted an open-throated tune tinged with pining, and Jahar sang along, lips twisted, his foot tapping on the floor. There was pain in his taut fingers as he scattered chopped fresh chilis over the potatoes.
A heavy sensation inhabited Aloka’s chest, but Parveen refused to give in to it. “In New York, you have to make your eyes sharper and your dil, your heart, harder.”
He grabbed the handles on either side of the pot and shook it vigorously. “I guess my dil is still a bit soft.”
“What’s that spice you’re adding?”
“Fenugreek. It smells somewhat like maple syrup, but tastes a little on the bitter side. My older sister turned me on to it. ‘You must take a measure of bitterness along with the sweetness, Jahar.’ I didn’t believe her until I found out how good this dish tastes when you add fenugreek. I can give you her recipe if you like.”
“Thanks, but I don’t cook anymore.”
She looked down at her arms folded on top of the half-wall partition, arms that had developed well-defined cords of muscle from kneading dough for the luchis Pranab demanded. Several days a week she had packed a meal in his lunch box, a real Bengali one: puffed bread and batter-fried eggplant accompanied by fresh tomato chutney, for he liked to finish his lunch on a sweet and sour note. She still remembered all the little things that lightened his frame of mind.
Jahar flipped a long fat cucumber in the air and caught it. “Let me tell you a secret. Every man has a fantasy, which women usually misinterpret. They think all we want is …” He shrugged. “Well, I won’t deny it crosses our minds now and then.” His hands became a blur as he chop-chop-chopped the cucumber into even rounds with a long sharp knife. “My secret dream has been to cook for you. Just like this, with you standing there and watching, your hair catching the light. I am hearing your musical voice, drinking in the sound of your laugh. Under the glow of your loveliness, these mundane food preparations become extraordinary. This is a moment of great happiness for me.”
Imagine falling in love over a plate of cucumber under the fluorescent light of a cramped New York kitchen. In their early courtship days, Pranab had once composed an impromptu “Ode to Aloka,” glorifying her as the “essence of a lily.” They’d been sitting beside a pond graced with delicate white water lilies, in a tranquil forest glade beneath the third highest mountain in the world. How extraordinarily different, yet somehow alike.
With brisk movements Jahar removed the newspapers and covered the coffee table with a colorful cloth. She watched as he ladled the food, a conspiracy of colors, shapes, and sizes, onto serving platters. She examined the large gentle hairy hands threaded with prominent veins, as they fetched the platters and arranged them with care on the coffee table: the freshly prepared sukhe aloo and pullao rice, leftover chana, and, of course, the sliced cucumbers. He gave it all one final careful glance and, satisfied with the effect, he motioned her to the couch.
She nibbled at a piece of sukhe aloo, followed by a bite of the cooling cucumber, savoring the contrast. Belatedly she realized that she’d been hiding an intense hunger for far too long. She was catapulted back in touch with her inner self. Parveen had returned to a simpler time when connections were made quickly and every encounter had an innocent quality. “When I left home I changed in many ways,” she said, “but when it comes to food I’m still that little kid.”
One caring glance at her and her nearly empty plate and he whooshed a sigh of relief. “A man is never completely sure when he cooks for a woman. It is my belief that women understand food more instinctively. They have a more natural feel for it. We men can only hope that our efforts are pleasing to women.”
He charmed her, this unpretentious man, and brought out the animated side in her. Indeed, she hadn’t felt this way since her early days with Pranab. She accepted a second helping of the sukhe aloo, which for her was an indication of being at ease.
His fully loaded obedient fork moved in a rhythmic arc between his plate and his mouth. “Hunger is a good sign, Parveen. It means you’re alive and healthy and keeping on. Cherish it.”
“A good cook is both healer and magician.”
Beaming at her accolade, he cleared the table and stacked the empty dishes into the sink. He gestured at her to remain seated. “Wait right there. Dessert is coming.”
She looked on in amazement as he whirled jackfruit sections, yogurt, a pinch of sugar, and ice in a blender and returned with two tall glasses brimming with a frothy yellow elixir. “May I offer you a jackfruit lassi?”
She sniffed the musky smell appreciatively. “A jassi, you mean?”
He laughed boisterously. “A lassi made with jackfruit become a jassi. How witty you are, Parveen.”
She took a long slow sip. Immediately she was transported from the humbleness of her surroundings to a landscape of lavender and honeysuckle, where her clothes flapped against her body as lightly as a breeze.
Jahar exhaled, “Ahhhh!” as he took another healthy swallow from his glass. Eyes on a copy of Manhattan, India that was lying on the floor, he said, “Perhaps I should send this jassi recipe to the ‘Ask Seva’ column. That Seva woman is okay.”
“You read her column regularly?”
“Oh, of course.”
She drained the last drops from her tumbler, consulted her wristwatch. “Well, it’s getting late. I should probably be going. I’m planning a trip to India soon. I have to make a list of presents to buy.”
His barely audible “Oh” didn’t conceal his disillusionment. Yet he rose with her and graciously helped her collect her jacket, footwear, and purse. At the door he asked gently, “May I walk you home?”
“Thanks, Jahar. That’s really not necessary.”
She lingered a moment longer to express her gratitude and, feeling words inadequate, lightly kissed him on the lips. She pivoted and strode down the corridor, aware of his dazed stare until she rounded the corner. As the elevator droned its way down, it dawned on her that he hadn’t asked for her phone number. But then, she hadn’t accorded him much of an opportunity.
She laughed in relief, for Parveen had just arrived in the big city. She did not yet have a telephone.
twenty-six
The fog outside Suzy’s kitchen window, a delicate shield, cut out the late October sun. She was making chai. The tempo of this Saturday morning ritual was much to her liking. She measured milk and water into a large pot, followed by the greenish black leaves of exquisite black tea, one level teaspoon per cup, then sprinkled in whole spices, cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves. For added lift on this cool morning, she incorporated slivers of ginger root. Adding the rhizome to chai was a trick she’d learned at home; it was a folk remedy that kept winter colds at bay.
She placed the pot on the stove and allowed it to simmer. Ashraf and tonight’s dinner plans rose in her consciousness, and along with that a question. He’d sounded so eager and pleased that she’d be dining at his restaurant. Did he harbor a romantic interest toward her? For business reasons—he was a major client—she couldn’t refuse, even though such an invitation intersected business and social life and made for a delicate situation. She would have to tread this one carefully.
Suzy turned up the heat and stirred the pot with a well-worn wooden spoon. Within minutes, the milk coagulated, and the shrunken tea leaves surrendered their essence and formed a dark green lace on the white surface. The resulting brew blushed a pink radiance. The chai was ready.
Enveloped by the cozy heat of the stove and the aromatic mist from the pot, Suzy poured the steaming brew into a delicate English bone-china cup. She listened to the fullness of the trickle and took pleasure in regarding the richness flowing over. As she held the gold-bordered lime-green cup filled with the amber liquid and indulged in a sip, she fretted once again about Ashraf’s invitation. Did she need this complication in her life? She’d be going home soon and s
eeing Pranab again.
The telephone sang. Suzy picked up the receiver and dropped onto a stool, and from the other end came Grandma’s fragile voice with Darjeeling sun dappling it.
Why would Grandma be calling? Although international long-distance dialing had become more affordable, there was a time difference of half a day. Usually the grand old woman’s call brought major news: births, weddings, graduations, anniversaries, nuclear testing, and deaths. To mask her worry, Suzy replied lightly, “Thakurma, what a surprise.”
“I hear you didn’t receive Mreenal Bose.”
The note of disappointment in Grandma’s voice didn’t escape Suzy’s attention. “So you sent him! Well, 1 wasn’t home. Sorry if I put you in an awkward position—”
“I expected you’d be out today, too, an active young lady like yourself.”
“Not much is happening, at least not until this evening.” Suzy went on to list her chores for the day: laundry, vacuuming, shopping, and finally dinner with her friend Eva at a well-regarded local restaurant.
“You do your own housecleaning? You never liked that sort of work.”
“I still don’t.” Suzy controlled a chuckle. Grandma considered Europe and North America to be enchanted lands where exciting, beautiful things materialized with little effort. She took a minute to explain how routine the days here could be, how lacking in sunlight; how people lived mostly inside themselves in a closet of solitude. In contrast, Grandma, despite her age, received a constant stream of cronies and relatives, Suzy was sure of that. “Company twenty-four hours,” was how Grandma had once described her days in a letter.
“You’re not dating?”
“This place isn’t as ideal for dating as you might think. Or maybe I don’t have luck on my side.” Suzy wondered again about the reason for this call.
“Talk about luck—Cousin Bakul’s daughter got married in Houston two weeks ago.” And Grandma was off on a roll, listing the bridegroom’s credentials—salary, degrees, caste and clan designation, profession, even height.
“Mind you, it was an arranged meeting in Houston,” Grandma added.
“The boy lives in Dallas. They hit it off right away and decided to go ahead. If someone had suggested an old-fashioned arranged marriage, they’d have said no. I saw the wedding pictures. The groom came in on a horse, like it used to be in the olden days. Funny how overseas Indians follow customs we’ve forgotten here. Their parents’ plan worked well in this case, wouldn’t you agree, my dear?”
Suzy placed her elbows on the kitchen counter. Another “happy match” call. At this point in her life, health and marriage were Grandma’s top priorities. Suzy would have to fight off these matchmaking attempts. She expressed her happiness for the bride, then added, “I’m drinking chai, Thakurma, the whole bit with spices, like you taught me.”
“Cha?” Her voice brighter, Grandma pronounced the word for tea in the Bengali fashion as she always did. “Not coffee? Very good. I hear Mreenal also likes cha. Mone prane Bangalee.”
Suzy smiled inwardly at Grandma’s description of Mreenal. The mind and soul of a Bengali, eh? Perhaps she had dismissed him too lightly.
Suzy asked about Grandma’s health and listened as Grandma heaved a sigh.
“My spirit is still here. After a certain age you know your body for what it is, a fragile vessel to house your soul. I’ll feel much better when I see you again, dear girl. According to my calculation, you’ll be coming home in two weeks and ten hours. It’s a pity your grandpa won’t be here to greet you.” A poignant pause followed. “Today would have been our sixty-third wedding anniversary. Bimal would always buy me a piece of jewelry for this occasion. Once I said to him, ‘The days you have given me are more brilliant than any jewels you can buy in the market.’ And I really meant it. You should have seen his smile.”
“How fortunate you were in love, Thakurma. I still remember the story you told us about how you met Grandpa.”
“Do you really? He’s still with me. He always will be. Well, dear, I really must go now. Koyek dinee dekha hobe.”
That sad yet triumphant note ringing in her ears, Suzy hung up. She couldn’t let go of the rhythm of Grandma’s speech, the voice that was so heartening during the childhood years. She picked up her cup and found herself in Grandma’s room many years ago.
Sujata was eight years old then, and Aloka twelve. On that early afternoon Mother had sent them downstairs to spend time with Grandma. They dashed past Grandma’s Usha sewing machine to where she was sitting on the wall side of the high bed, pillows cushioning her back. The sun flirted through the curtained window and a light breeze rustled the stationery on the writing table. Yarn hooked over her index finger, her eyebrows furrowing, Grandma was knitting a sweater in green wool splashed with cream in a filigree pattern. Knitting was a pastime of women in Darjeeling. Sujata had watched women spinning woolen threads even as they strolled the streets. And Grandma was one of the town’s expert knitters. Many neighbors came to her for advice on knitting. The big yarn ball that lay on Grandma’s side unraveled now at the command of her fingertips like a tamed cobra. She made sweaters for the whole family that the frigid Darjeeling winters made necessary. “Ready-made sweaters won’t do for Gupta girls,” she was in the habit of saying. Sujata liked the hand-knits because Grandma would often sew in a pocket as an extra.
That afternoon the children erupted on either side of Grandma, Aloka on her right, Sujata on her left, took their seats, and looked up expectantly. Though Grandma let her knitting drop on her lap with ostentatious reluctance and assumed an appearance of mock irritation, it was clear she didn’t mind the interruption. She took pleasure in telling stories, of gods and goddesses or family exploits, stories as lavish and textured as her sweaters.
“Today would have been our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary,” Grandma began with an elaborate sigh. She had never spoken about her wedding, so Sujata drew closer in anticipation. Grandma added, “It still seems only yesterday that I met Bimal.”
“Tell us how you met him,” Aloka chimed in.
“I was eighteen, well, nearly nineteen then, a suitable marriageable age in those days—”
“I won’t marry till I’m the age of Gayatri-masi,” Sujata said proudly, looking sideways at Aloka, and reminding her of the aunt who had waited till she finished her medical studies to plunge into matrimony.
That drew an immediate retort from Aloka. “Only because it’ll take you that long to find someone, skinny. I’ll be married a lot sooner.”
“By taking my time, I’ll marry a better man.”
Grandma put her arms around both of them. “You don’t know whom you’ll marry, or when,” she said in that veteran manner of hers. “I never expected to marry your grandpa. He was rich and handsome. I was poor and plain.”
“Did you use magic, Thakurma?”
“Oh, no, nothing of that sort, Aloka. In those days women were said to belong to the respected tribe of mothers, but when a baby girl was born, it was treated as bad luck. We didn’t wish for something and expect it to happen. Making a direct request was out of the question. We only tried to change the atmosphere around us and hoped that men would notice.”
“So, how did Grandpa know you had fallen in love with him at first sight?” Another romantic question from Aloka.
“He read the signs of love in my wide eyes and shaky lips. You might say I was acting like a heroine in Bankim Chandra’s novel. You see, I was going to college in Calcutta, where I stayed with an uncle and aunt who paid for my tuition and living expenses and hardly ever asked me to do any chores. I had plenty of time to read novels. I was enrolled in an honors program in English. It was my summer vacation and I’d returned home to Malipore.”
“Where’s Malipore?” Sujata’s practical self wanted to be cognizant of the nuts and bolts of things.
“Oh, it’s an isolated village in East Bengal, what is now known as Bangladesh. Even in those days, it was backward by most people’s standards, though, thin
king back, the village did have a certain rustic charm. It took two days from Calcutta by train, steamer, and taxi to reach there, and we thought that was swift. When I was a little girl, your age, Sujata, it used to take five days to get there. It was a friendly place. The villagers shared everything, their joys and heartbreaks, and also a fancy teapot if someone from the city came to visit. Our households were so closely woven it seemed we lived many lives at once.”
Sujata asked, “Can we go there sometime?”
“It’s still a difficult journey. Maybe, when you’re both a little older, we can take a trip down there.” Grandma’s eyes grew hazy with sorrow. “I’m sad to say that our home has been sold. Some other family lives there now.”
For a minute Sujata lost herself in a vision of the hamlet: palm-thatched mud houses ringed by a sugarcane grove, a mustard field ripened to a greenish gold color and reaching up to her knees. She heard plaintive strains of live kirtan music, deeply felt and devotional, and brushed past a window from which wafted out the smoky smell of dhoop. A much younger Grandma and a clutch of her friends milled around the village tube well, showing off their newest glass bangles and swapping gossip: Whose mother was pregnant again? Which boy winked at whom? Which family could afford the finest rice?
“You didn’t even have a radio, Thakurma?” Wasn’t it just like Aloka to ask such a silly question?
“Or electricity, for that matter. But we had other ways to amuse ourselves. Our trees bore so many jackfruits that we fed our cows on them. And we enjoyed the littlest things, like making a flute out of a fruit pit, a trumpet out of palm leaves, or simply taking a dip in the pond on hot days. ‘Happiness is more important than money,’ our elders taught us. That year I’d come home to relax the entire summer and catch up with friends. That is, I thought so until one afternoon when my mother announced that a family was coming to see me.” Grandma’s face took on a glow, yet a shade of concern deepened the corners of her mouth. “I understood very well what ‘seeing’ meant.”
Darjeeling Page 17
