It's been hot in Calcutta lately. Yes, sultry too. Very uncomfortable, undoubtedly. Heat waves are making news, air-conditioner sellers are making a fortune, as incessantly as mothers are making neembu-paani (sweet lime water) or doi-er ghole (sour curd sherbat) all day long. It shamelessly creates an irony to be sitting in an air conditioned room and following the heat wave on LED screen, but I admit to have some very comforting memories of my life associated with the heat, without the AC having played a role in it.
Years ago, we lived in Howrah where I spent my entire childhood and the stepping hues of adolescence. We had a three storied house with a dark, cold ground floor of forbidden old rooms (with giant locks and giant spiders), a lighter, cool first floor with a few sofas, divans and beds, a bright, hot second floor with the bedrooms, the kitchen, the dining space and a scorching terrace. The sunshine index and "feels like"-temperature I mentioned are from mental data collected at around 12 noon of those days. The second floor would turn uninhabitable in the heat post 11 in the morning, and I remember Maa forcing us downstairs after our daily bath. Lunch in steel utensils would be brought down and we all would eat the spread laid out on the floor, sitting atop jute mats. The break from the monotony of dining table would kindle a picnic-like bout of glee. Silly, maybe, but isn't happiness sometimes about sweet nothings also?
Years later at our Tollygunje flat, now on summer afternoons, very conveniently we settle with full plates onto the bedroom floors with the AC on. It's become more of a necessary habit, but has no special charm to it. The comfort of the old, damp walls were somewhere lost in transit.
Custard has always been a major topic of debate in the family. Not the flavor, but mainly the texture is what calls for a war at dessert-time. Some like it free-flowing, some like it the souffle way, some team it with seasonal fruits, some prefer it with jelly crystals and raisins. I remember summers waving adieu to the evening Bournvitas and welcoming pink custards in the fridge instead. Maa always disapproved of freezing the flavor to death,while I loved how the icy crystals were sharply cut out from the aluminum bowl, heavenly melting away into the mouth. There was a thrill of discovering the solidly frozen pink custard in the freezer at 4 PM after the nap, before we went out to play or sat down with biology lab practical drawings.
Summers had nothing good to offer at the dinner table except for mangoes. Sliced, diced, chilled mangoes and plenty of them. Maa made this fish curry of longitudinally cut potatoes and raw bananas, flavored with black cumin seeds. Sounds ordinary. What made this extraordinary to a fish-neutral soul like me, was when it got teamed with kagji-lebu. I am not aware of the English name for it, hence the picture borrowed from the internet :
With a pinch of salt and a fresh green chilli, slices of this lime set the perfect mood for an afternoon lunch.
My in-laws home has a different application of the same taste for a summer morning breakfast. Paanta bhaat (cooked rice soaked overnight in water, preferably in an earthen pot), fried potatoes and onions, a pinch of salt and leaves of the same lime plant, emitting a very fresh citrus flavor upon crushing with the hand.
My rooftop garden has a lime shrub of similar species. Whenever I am taking a stroll, I pick out a few older leaves and rub the aroma into my palms. The best mood booster ever.
Summers would call for the street vendors' incessant traversing around the meandering lanes of our neighborhood, the entire afternoon long. Stick ice-creams of local make with outrageous colors in green and blue, lime water, baraf ka gola-s and jal-jeera, and topping the list, the para phuchka fellow, who set up his stall at the turn of our lane at 3 PM and wandered away to the main road at sundown. My heart would yearn for those forbidden pleasures and under Maa's strict control, I would crib and squirm and turn green at the familiar creak of a neighbor's window or a known voice asking for a stop by. Typically, our house would remain silent and un-budged at that time, oblivious to the thun-thun, clunk-clunk Morse-code calls of the vendors. Some would be sleeping, while some waited for the sleep to get deeper. My paternal aunt has always been an adventurous woman with very similar indulgences as that of mine. On popular demand by the older kids of house and the other aunts around, she would stealthily collect a tin can, some tiffin boxes and tiptoe out in the scorching sun, asking one of us to guard the door behind her, because ringing the doorbell would be a no-no. Sweating in anticipation and the sweltering heat, a mere ten minutes behind the main door would seem like the never-ending, nail-biting wait behind enemy lines, lest the elder lady of the house discovered an empty bed and two pairs of slippers missing from the rack! After the parcel was smuggled inside, we would swarm around the loot, turn up the fan by a notch and peacefully indulge, amidst suppressed chuckles, the sweat evaporating from the skin and the heavenly tamarind water trickling right into the soul! Such delightful was the feeling, I could almost put it at par with Kaalboishakhi (nor-westers of Bengal).
The terrace garden was the most fragrant at this time of the year, the most widespread one being the bael phool. Once again the internet photo, this time for me, since it gives me an enormous high and almost makes me feel like I am smelling it right now :
As we watered our plants late in the afternoon, the rustic smell of the parched earth as it drank in gulps, laden with the haunting smell of this flower, was heavenly. This tiny powerful beauty forms an indispensable part of summer weddings, lovingly wrapped around ornate juras, the fragrance finding its way above the dominance of fish fries and pulao.
Flowers become obsolete too. We had one such, the korobi, which had a subtle charm to it just like its name. They flourished in dozens on the south east corner of the parapet wall, waving a warm welcome to the home bound souls, as they danced in the evening breeze. Then we left home. And they left us too. They took a backseat amidst lilies and orchids and gerberas. Years later, memories were unearthed this summer, as I spotted them growing in our office compound. And I instantly clicked to capture them for life.
Yet another summer affection - watermelons. The ones we had then were redder. Rather than neatly diced chilled cubes on a plate, the fun was in eating out of rough chunks and carving out the faintest pink hint before the inedible hard crust was met. And may be I am the only one, whothought thinks that the fruit smells of rain.
I do not know why suddenly I remember the flavor of lemon squash at the tip of my tongue, right this second. Druk and Kissan were patent brands, adequately stocked for guests. We kids were normally of neembu-paani eligibility, but at times we managed a treat of bottled exotica out of pleasing the mothers with a neat homework or an uninterrupted hour with the news daily. And if they came in glass tumblers, with a cube of ice thrown in, the day was mentally heart-marked as the most memorable day of summer vacation.
I doubt whether anyone remembers a brand of pickle, called the Army-Navy. Typically bought in the summer months, a spoonful from this jar was the bribe offered against a promise of two full rotis with the much detested pumpkin curry at dinnertime. Never have I tasted a similar mango pickle ever again. It dates back to such obsolescence, that even three pages of Google images failed to search something out for me.
When evenings were mundane with maths practice, the men of the house
retiring in serially and we were supposed to look organized, quiet and
concentrated, sudden load-sheddings broke the monotony and came to the rescue. Power cuts led to lighting of tubular lanterns for the study table and hurricanes for the kitchen and stairways. They would be kept handy since this was a repititive phenomenon in those days. Amidst that queer addictive odour of kerosene and soot, I remember Maa fanning us with hand-fans as we studied for a test or wrote our assignments for the next day.
If homework was light, study time would quickly evaporate and we would race to the terrace for that extra hour of cross-terrace gossip, identifying constellations and sighing at lighted windows from the more privileged homes with inverters or little Honda generators.
The elders would follow us too with their evening tea and murir bati (bowl of puffed rice, mixed with mustard oil, groundnuts, chopped onions and green chillies - a typical snack of Bengal) and the discomfort of humidity and mosquitoes would soon be masked by the small family reunion of very basic conversations such as a dead telephone line, a dislocated TV antenna, some tap seeking urgent plumbing or the choice of fish for the upcoming Sunday lunch.
The best part of the blackout was the resumption of power. Silently the lights blinked and the fans rotated, but the surge of cheer that followed it was none less that the fall of Pakistan's last wicket or India's winning sixer at the 298th ball. Thrilling all the more, if it was at 7.55PM on a Wednesday, just in time for the week's most awaited silver screen delight, Chitrahaar. I remember us running downstairs to reserve the best place with the best view of the screen and closest to the table fan for that extra pleasure factor.
And then there are many more memories in the heat. It's all gushing in, so I'll randomly pick a few and board-pin them :
1. Our first car, the white, Maruti 800 was welcomed home on a hot March afternoon. It was never criticized for being a non-AC car on dusty, hot Kolkata roads for the next 7 years it stayed with us.
2. Years ago, a friend, who played the sarod to perfection, played it best in the chilekotha-r ghor (mezzanine rooftop room). While the room turned into a furnace beneath the tin roof, the music were like raindrops creating gentle ripples in the stillness of the quiet afternoon household. We never complained of the heat. And never changed the venue.
3. It was easier staying awake on summer afternoons to solve maths test papers.
4. Summer gave us the freedom of multiple baths. One before bedtime, one in the evening. It was considered great luxury to be freshly smelling of Lux or Rexona at odd hours of the day.
5. Road side lime water, green coconut water and all sorts of jaundice-causing water (It's only a myth, guys!.Or else I would've been dead by now!) on an unlimited spree. We always had our mental excuses ready : blame it on the malfunctioning water cooler at college; and Maa says no to bottled colas. So....
6. Phuchkas. Countless. We've had them at 12 noon and 10PM. Because they say spices and sour are good busters of heatstroke.
7. Kaalboishakhi. Each has a different story at different turn of ages.
Summer is like that hostel warden we were terrified of, yet silently admired. It teaches one to endure beyond capacity. It interferes. It gifts the relieving gust of monsoon at the end of its lesson, sometimes rebukes to redness and tears. It enters just as we were in spring's spirit without a care in the world and binds us indoors. It doesn't allow sleeping late. It arrives, it leaves, it is cursed, it is missed.
We've had summers without the AC, the suntan and the shades, as they call it. And we've had fun too. Share your summer story and let's see is we can wake up tomorrow with a hint of calm before stepping into the sun.
Trivia : Eau de cologne drops in water : Luxury
Sour curd, umbrella, light clothes, sunblock : Necessary.
An old friend with an old house of old damp walls and wooden windows that can shut out the sun : Mandatory.
Years ago, we lived in Howrah where I spent my entire childhood and the stepping hues of adolescence. We had a three storied house with a dark, cold ground floor of forbidden old rooms (with giant locks and giant spiders), a lighter, cool first floor with a few sofas, divans and beds, a bright, hot second floor with the bedrooms, the kitchen, the dining space and a scorching terrace. The sunshine index and "feels like"-temperature I mentioned are from mental data collected at around 12 noon of those days. The second floor would turn uninhabitable in the heat post 11 in the morning, and I remember Maa forcing us downstairs after our daily bath. Lunch in steel utensils would be brought down and we all would eat the spread laid out on the floor, sitting atop jute mats. The break from the monotony of dining table would kindle a picnic-like bout of glee. Silly, maybe, but isn't happiness sometimes about sweet nothings also?
Years later at our Tollygunje flat, now on summer afternoons, very conveniently we settle with full plates onto the bedroom floors with the AC on. It's become more of a necessary habit, but has no special charm to it. The comfort of the old, damp walls were somewhere lost in transit.
Custard has always been a major topic of debate in the family. Not the flavor, but mainly the texture is what calls for a war at dessert-time. Some like it free-flowing, some like it the souffle way, some team it with seasonal fruits, some prefer it with jelly crystals and raisins. I remember summers waving adieu to the evening Bournvitas and welcoming pink custards in the fridge instead. Maa always disapproved of freezing the flavor to death,while I loved how the icy crystals were sharply cut out from the aluminum bowl, heavenly melting away into the mouth. There was a thrill of discovering the solidly frozen pink custard in the freezer at 4 PM after the nap, before we went out to play or sat down with biology lab practical drawings.
Summers had nothing good to offer at the dinner table except for mangoes. Sliced, diced, chilled mangoes and plenty of them. Maa made this fish curry of longitudinally cut potatoes and raw bananas, flavored with black cumin seeds. Sounds ordinary. What made this extraordinary to a fish-neutral soul like me, was when it got teamed with kagji-lebu. I am not aware of the English name for it, hence the picture borrowed from the internet :
With a pinch of salt and a fresh green chilli, slices of this lime set the perfect mood for an afternoon lunch.
My in-laws home has a different application of the same taste for a summer morning breakfast. Paanta bhaat (cooked rice soaked overnight in water, preferably in an earthen pot), fried potatoes and onions, a pinch of salt and leaves of the same lime plant, emitting a very fresh citrus flavor upon crushing with the hand.
My rooftop garden has a lime shrub of similar species. Whenever I am taking a stroll, I pick out a few older leaves and rub the aroma into my palms. The best mood booster ever.
Summers would call for the street vendors' incessant traversing around the meandering lanes of our neighborhood, the entire afternoon long. Stick ice-creams of local make with outrageous colors in green and blue, lime water, baraf ka gola-s and jal-jeera, and topping the list, the para phuchka fellow, who set up his stall at the turn of our lane at 3 PM and wandered away to the main road at sundown. My heart would yearn for those forbidden pleasures and under Maa's strict control, I would crib and squirm and turn green at the familiar creak of a neighbor's window or a known voice asking for a stop by. Typically, our house would remain silent and un-budged at that time, oblivious to the thun-thun, clunk-clunk Morse-code calls of the vendors. Some would be sleeping, while some waited for the sleep to get deeper. My paternal aunt has always been an adventurous woman with very similar indulgences as that of mine. On popular demand by the older kids of house and the other aunts around, she would stealthily collect a tin can, some tiffin boxes and tiptoe out in the scorching sun, asking one of us to guard the door behind her, because ringing the doorbell would be a no-no. Sweating in anticipation and the sweltering heat, a mere ten minutes behind the main door would seem like the never-ending, nail-biting wait behind enemy lines, lest the elder lady of the house discovered an empty bed and two pairs of slippers missing from the rack! After the parcel was smuggled inside, we would swarm around the loot, turn up the fan by a notch and peacefully indulge, amidst suppressed chuckles, the sweat evaporating from the skin and the heavenly tamarind water trickling right into the soul! Such delightful was the feeling, I could almost put it at par with Kaalboishakhi (nor-westers of Bengal).
The terrace garden was the most fragrant at this time of the year, the most widespread one being the bael phool. Once again the internet photo, this time for me, since it gives me an enormous high and almost makes me feel like I am smelling it right now :
As we watered our plants late in the afternoon, the rustic smell of the parched earth as it drank in gulps, laden with the haunting smell of this flower, was heavenly. This tiny powerful beauty forms an indispensable part of summer weddings, lovingly wrapped around ornate juras, the fragrance finding its way above the dominance of fish fries and pulao.
Flowers become obsolete too. We had one such, the korobi, which had a subtle charm to it just like its name. They flourished in dozens on the south east corner of the parapet wall, waving a warm welcome to the home bound souls, as they danced in the evening breeze. Then we left home. And they left us too. They took a backseat amidst lilies and orchids and gerberas. Years later, memories were unearthed this summer, as I spotted them growing in our office compound. And I instantly clicked to capture them for life.
Yet another summer affection - watermelons. The ones we had then were redder. Rather than neatly diced chilled cubes on a plate, the fun was in eating out of rough chunks and carving out the faintest pink hint before the inedible hard crust was met. And may be I am the only one, who
I do not know why suddenly I remember the flavor of lemon squash at the tip of my tongue, right this second. Druk and Kissan were patent brands, adequately stocked for guests. We kids were normally of neembu-paani eligibility, but at times we managed a treat of bottled exotica out of pleasing the mothers with a neat homework or an uninterrupted hour with the news daily. And if they came in glass tumblers, with a cube of ice thrown in, the day was mentally heart-marked as the most memorable day of summer vacation.
I doubt whether anyone remembers a brand of pickle, called the Army-Navy. Typically bought in the summer months, a spoonful from this jar was the bribe offered against a promise of two full rotis with the much detested pumpkin curry at dinnertime. Never have I tasted a similar mango pickle ever again. It dates back to such obsolescence, that even three pages of Google images failed to search something out for me.
If homework was light, study time would quickly evaporate and we would race to the terrace for that extra hour of cross-terrace gossip, identifying constellations and sighing at lighted windows from the more privileged homes with inverters or little Honda generators.
The elders would follow us too with their evening tea and murir bati (bowl of puffed rice, mixed with mustard oil, groundnuts, chopped onions and green chillies - a typical snack of Bengal) and the discomfort of humidity and mosquitoes would soon be masked by the small family reunion of very basic conversations such as a dead telephone line, a dislocated TV antenna, some tap seeking urgent plumbing or the choice of fish for the upcoming Sunday lunch.
The best part of the blackout was the resumption of power. Silently the lights blinked and the fans rotated, but the surge of cheer that followed it was none less that the fall of Pakistan's last wicket or India's winning sixer at the 298th ball. Thrilling all the more, if it was at 7.55PM on a Wednesday, just in time for the week's most awaited silver screen delight, Chitrahaar. I remember us running downstairs to reserve the best place with the best view of the screen and closest to the table fan for that extra pleasure factor.
And then there are many more memories in the heat. It's all gushing in, so I'll randomly pick a few and board-pin them :
1. Our first car, the white, Maruti 800 was welcomed home on a hot March afternoon. It was never criticized for being a non-AC car on dusty, hot Kolkata roads for the next 7 years it stayed with us.
2. Years ago, a friend, who played the sarod to perfection, played it best in the chilekotha-r ghor (mezzanine rooftop room). While the room turned into a furnace beneath the tin roof, the music were like raindrops creating gentle ripples in the stillness of the quiet afternoon household. We never complained of the heat. And never changed the venue.
3. It was easier staying awake on summer afternoons to solve maths test papers.
4. Summer gave us the freedom of multiple baths. One before bedtime, one in the evening. It was considered great luxury to be freshly smelling of Lux or Rexona at odd hours of the day.
5. Road side lime water, green coconut water and all sorts of jaundice-causing water (It's only a myth, guys!.Or else I would've been dead by now!) on an unlimited spree. We always had our mental excuses ready : blame it on the malfunctioning water cooler at college; and Maa says no to bottled colas. So....
6. Phuchkas. Countless. We've had them at 12 noon and 10PM. Because they say spices and sour are good busters of heatstroke.
7. Kaalboishakhi. Each has a different story at different turn of ages.
Summer is like that hostel warden we were terrified of, yet silently admired. It teaches one to endure beyond capacity. It interferes. It gifts the relieving gust of monsoon at the end of its lesson, sometimes rebukes to redness and tears. It enters just as we were in spring's spirit without a care in the world and binds us indoors. It doesn't allow sleeping late. It arrives, it leaves, it is cursed, it is missed.
We've had summers without the AC, the suntan and the shades, as they call it. And we've had fun too. Share your summer story and let's see is we can wake up tomorrow with a hint of calm before stepping into the sun.
Trivia : Eau de cologne drops in water : Luxury
Sour curd, umbrella, light clothes, sunblock : Necessary.
An old friend with an old house of old damp walls and wooden windows that can shut out the sun : Mandatory.
I do not know whether they are my own rapid imaginative concoctions of your pieces or your much intended yet hidden imagery behind your creations that they bring me to strongly believe that each time you drift you try to personify one human sense through them. Last post made me SEE the world around me as more colourful and I SMELLED my childhood through this one..
ReplyDeleteI am glad to have been able to reach out to that string that binds us together. Isn't it obvious, that vibrations on one end will eventually propagate to the other? Simple physics :)
ReplyDelete