Apple Of The Earth

As I sighed to myself and compelled myself to get up and amble towards the kitchen, my mind inadvertently started to think of the permutations that I could churn up in the kitchen. I trotted around the tiny kitchen and switched on the exhaust fan before glancing around carelessly at the ingredients available- a pointless exercise considering that my mind had already decided on what to make. Again, sighing to myself, I delved into the wicker basket with my right hand and conjured, as if my magic, 3 potatoes and with my left hand fetched the chopping board. Humming the tune from “Five hundred miles away from home”, I poured water into an aluminium bowl and ran my fingers all along the inside of the bowl to rub off any dirt before throwing away the water. Refilling the bowl, this time I closed the tap and reached for the cylindrical polycarbonate container of rice. As I unscrewed the lid, a waft of summer suddenly hit my nose.

I had been cooking this rice for over a year now, yet the sweet fragrance of mango blossoms that inevitably filled the small kitchen every time I opened the container, would easily transport me years and light years into the past away from the hustling and bustling, never-sleeping metropolis of Mumbai to the always sleepy and cosy city of Calcutta. It would take me back to the numerous summers spent stealing mangoes from the neighbour’s trees and the many cuts and bruises all over my body – all incurred for a few heavenly slurps of the ripened nectar or a few crunches of the sliced green mango, nicely marinated in chili powder. I wrestled my mind away from the sunny skies and the tangy feeling in my mouth overpowering my nervous system and ordering the eyes to shut and the face to wrinkle momentarily and forced it to return to the dingy room. As I measured out the accurately named Ambemohar rice into the water-filled bowl, my mind couldn’t help but wander back to the carefree summers spent, what seemed aeons ago.

Nine spoonfuls later, I washed the rice in the water, before steeping it in half a bowlful of water. Done preparing the rice, I shifted my concentration to the potatoes and was immediately transported back to the narrow alleys and bylanes of old Calcutta where windows are too close for comfort and yet it comforted the soul to look through the wooden slats and iron grills at the rows of terraces all interlinked to each other – some decorated with potted plants and others bearing the last remaining vestiges of erstwhile pigeon feeders. 

As my father hobbled into the typical old Calcuttan kitchen, his balance hindered by the heavy jute bag filled with vegetables and fruits, I rushed to help him and through the corner of my eyes I could see that age was catching up with him fast and yet an adamant man, he refused to hire a cook even with my mother bedridden after an operation. An inquiring glance from me alerted him to the need for lunch and before I could follow up my questioning look with any words, he announced the menu for lunch. Frankly speaking I was disappointed. Having heard a lot about his cooking prowess during his days living alone in Kanpur and Mumbai before marriage, the stories having never been transformed into reality often left me utterly frustrated at having missed out on discovering this aspect of my father. Seeing that no one had given my mother an off-day in the last twenty years, fate had rather cruelly decided to take things in her hands and relieve my mother of all duties for a month in the summer of 2010. Frankly speaking, once I got over the shock of seeing her bedridden, I was rather excited at what my father would be cooking but his decision today did everything to dampen my excitement.

As I peeled the potatoes from muscle memory, my lips curled into a smile thinking back to the time my father told me that this dish would not be possible without the Persian, the Japanese and the Chinese. 

Dismissing his comments as the ranting of a madman, I concentrated on stocking the refrigerator with the vegetables. Seeing my lack of interest yet unperturbed by it, he asked, “Have you never wondered why the English call it potato and the Gujaratis call it batata but we call it aloo?”

“Why ?”

“Well most of the world calls it that – the Spanish, the English, the South Americans. The French have a extravagant name for it but that’s the French- always jazzing up the language. Anyway, the original Caribbean word was ‘batata’ which became ‘potato’ in English and ‘patata’ in Spain and through the Portuguese and Spanish traders who frequented the west coast of India, ‘batata’ and its various spellings and pronunciations became popular. What’s weird is that why do some North Indians and Bengalis call it ‘aloo’? It’s a misnomer that has stuck proving that sometimes mistakes do live forever. ‘Alu’ is the Farsi word for plums and the usage can be seen even today in ‘Alu Bukhara’ (the common plum) and ‘Zard-alu’ (apricot). In the 1800s a British ambassador to Iran, Sir John Malcolm presented the Nadir with potatoes recently discovered from the European’s expeditions of the far west. The Iranians misunderstood the offering to be a variety of plum and called it ‘Melkom alu’, an abomination further perpetrated through Asia Minor right up to Kandahar and along the Gangetic Plain till the river empties itself into the Bay of Bengal. The Afghanis still call it ‘kach-alu’ and we of course prefer to call it just ‘aloo’”

“What about the Iranians? Do they still remember Malcolm every-time they eat a potato?”

“Well funny story there is that the good thing that the Iranians have done is to move on from the misnomer. The bad thing is they use a calque”

“A calque?”

“A linguistic carbon-copy if you will. From the French nonetheless. An Iranian ‘Sheb-zamin-i’ to counter the French ‘pomme de terre’ literally meaning ‘apple of the earth’”

Both of us burst into hysterical laughter, almost falling over in our attempts to gather a semblance of balance and sanity. I gathered myself and sighed a couple of times to flush out the laughter before asking, “We covered everyone from the Caribbean to the Iranian but I don’t understand how the Japanese fit into this.”

“Without the Japanese there wouldn’t be a rickshaw to take me to the market. They invented the rickshaw in the 1800s you see and that’s why today I can go to the market and return with a week’s worth of vegetables. In fact, even the word ‘rickshaw’ is rooted in Japanese.”

“I can’t believe this. This connection is way too far-fetched”

“It’s the truth son.”

“Well, what about the Chinese then? How are they connected to all this?”

“Well who do you think introduced the rickshaw to Calcutta? It was the migrant Chinese workers in the Kidderpore dock who were the first pullers of the rickshaw. They came here to start tea businesses but worked at the docks to earn enough seed money for the business and in the process, gave Calcutta not only a vibrant Chinatown but also rickshaws”

As I washed the peeled potatoes and drained the brownish water, I wondered back to the summers which were much simpler than this one – when stories were made and stories were told. Lighting the gas, I placed the bowl of rice on one burner and the wok on the other burner. Lining the walls well with mustard oil, I let it collect in a pool in the trough and happy with the quantity, allowed it to heat up. I placed two peeled potatoes inside the rice bowl and taking out an egg from the refrigerator, dropped it into the water too. Returning to the remaining potato, I starting to chop it very finely and once done, soaked it in salted water for a couple of minutes. By this time the bubbles on the surface of the mustard oil had subsided and I drained the chopped potatoes and drying them with a napkin, released them slowly down the side of the wok into the heated oil. As the aluminium bowl bubbled away to its heart’s content on my left, the mustard oil hissed and fizzed before letting out a wisp of smoke. Quickly taking a ladle, I turned over the potato pieces to ensure they brown evenly all over. Slowly but steadily all the pieces were fried, strained and plated just in time for the rice to boil down to its last few puddles of water. Scooping up the egg and the potatoes, I plunged the egg in a bowl of ice-cold water and mashed the potatoes with the back of my spoon. Content with the cooked rice, I turned off the gas lest the rice starts to become sticky.

Years ago, a 16-year old had scoffed at the simplicity of a plate of steaming hot rice, with dollops of Jharna ghee , a pinch of salt, some mashed potatoes, a solitary boiled egg, some salt, a green chilly and a bunch of crispy fried potato sticks but as the 16-year old devoured perhaps the simplest of all culinary delights from the Bengali’s cookbook, sitting beside his mother and father , chatting away about history and linguistics and the city he had perhaps realised that even the simplest of dishes can have a beautiful story and for sure, can make an astounding one. 10 years later a 26-year old realises that in the toughest of times, in the darkest of days a plate of piping hot rice eaten with equally hot mashed potatoes and a boiled egg, topped with spoonful of Jharna ghee, a sprinkle of salt and a solitary green chilly and finally garnished with crunchy rice stick can really warm the heart and make it feel like home even five hundred miles from it.

This story was first published by Birdhouse Poetrywatch in August 2020 and can be found here :  https://birdhousepoetrywatch.wordpress.com/2020/08/12/apple-of-the-earth/

The Living City

“The end justifies the means”, they say but if there is one entity that wakes up every day to prove them wrong and goes to sleep knowing it has succeeded, it has to be Kolkata. Unlike your other corporate cities, Kolkata sleeps and goes to bed early too and definitely on Sunday afternoons. By 10 pm the roads bear a deserted look and transportation is hard to get and yet it is perhaps only in this city that you can still walk home safely- for this is precisely what this city embodies and personifies – the journey more than the destination.

You may be wondering why I called the city an entity. Anyone who has stayed in this city will be able to tell you that Kolkata or Calcutta (as some of us still prefer) is nothing less than an emotional living organism. Much like your average Bengali girl, the city is moody – sometimes the rains cheerfully cascading off the lush green foliage and old buildings and sometimes lashing gloomily against the concrete jungle and black umbrellas. The rapidly expanding city sometimes burns under the ferocious glare of the enraged sun and yet it is the same sun which smiles down mildly on Sunday mornings, touching the feet of the lazy citizen devouring the newspaper. There exists within this macrocosm a city which exists for everyone – for the bibliophile who believes in the journey of discovering the book more than actually finding it , there can be nothing more satisfying and more romantic than walking through the cobbled roads of College Street , popping in and out of every shop, feeling century old second-hand yellowing books in their own hands, perhaps enjoying an enriching conversation with the old shopkeepers over a steaming cup of cutting chai or a cooling gulp of Paramount sherbet. That is not to say that the city does not have the Starmarks and the Oxfords and Crosswords – it does and they too have embedded themselves into the rich versatility and diversity that this city is. At the end of the day, no matter whatever complains you have about the city, you cannot say that it is not accepting for Kolkata will not suck you in instantly into a vortex of revelry and celebration, nor will it ignore you and let you be but the city will slowly entice you and seduce you into discovering it, into delving into the city and in doing so it will compel you to listen to your heart and discover yourself.

Kolkata is like every Bengali girl, an amalgam of opposites. For every narrow, winding, heavily branched North Calcutta bylane you have a 4 or 6-lane avenue or overpass. For every Dacres Lane, MNM Row or Camac Street serving thousands every day with the best in street food, locally reinvented global favourites from Chinese delicacies to Maharashtrian and Gujarati favourites, from Lebanese rolls to kathi rolls, from Mughal influences to South Indian strongholds, from Punjabi dhabas to pice hotels there are fine dining experiences and multi-star restaurants that are not so pocket friendly. For every slow and unreliable, yet soothing and romantic tram ride there is a metro that rushes beneath the city every 5 minutes. For every sleepy Sunday afternoon there is a city wide awake, decked up and crowded during Durga Puja. For every report that lambasts the squalor and dirt of the city that has seen famines and floods, wars and embargoes there are citizens and tourists who can’t stop raving about the City of Joy. For every Nandan, Navina, Star and Mitra there is an Inox and a Cinemax. For every Rabindrasangeet and Nazrulgeeti function in makeshift temporary constructions under poorly lighted shamianas, there is the heady dash of jazz in Trincas and rock and roll in Someplace Else. For every connoisseur of everything fine and coarse in life, there is something in Kolkata. The city will never leave you disappointed. If versatility and diversity could be a city , I have no doubts that it would be Calcutta for few or no other cities can boast of having a Turkish settlement, a vibrant Parsi community, an Armenian church, a Bangal-Ghoti rivalry, the largest cricket stadium and the second largest football stadium in the world, the house of the Bard and a market selling just lard,  British era museums and art galleries, hand-pulled rickshaws and an underground metro, a Gujarati business community and a Marwari real estate one, a Punjabi locality having dhabas and gurudwaras, Protestant churches and mazhars, masjids and Catholic churches, a tremendously Calcuttan Chinese area in Tangra and an Anglo-Indian one in Bow Barracks, one of Asia’s largest artisan communities in Kumortuli, one of the country’s largest goldsmith communities in Bowbazaar and one of the subcontinent’s largest red light area too. Kolkata is the home to one of the oldest footballing rivalries and the newest football champions. It is the one place where even test cricket brings alive the stadium. Having said what I have, I must however also present the disclaimer that Kolkata is an acquired taste. It is not for the fast-paced, in-and-out personalities, nor is it for the précis loving character who reads only the reviews but doesn’t watch the movies, who reads just the summary and not the book. Kolkata is not for you if you are not in sync with your senses, it is not for the unemotional robot who refuses to feel for Kolkata is not merely a city to visit, not merely a metro to live in but it is a feeling, a sensation to be felt, to be inhaled and to be submerged in.

Having lived in the city for 23 years, I obviously feel strongly about this city and what it has given me and most importantly, what it has taken away. I do not believe that a city, any city, is simply the brick and mortar buildings or the metalled roads, the beautiful parks and the majestic monuments. They may comprise the body of the city but the heart of any city lies in the gastronomical delights that it has to offer and the soul of the city lies in the people that make the city what it is- alive. If this is true, then the huge heart that Kolkata has stretches from the alur chop and beguni shacks of North Kolkata to the vada pavs and pau bhajis of Camac Street, from the puchka stalls of across the city to the biriyani outlets competing for space and profits, from the liver and brain kathi rolls of Zeeshan to the dumplings and momos of Tiretta Bazaar, from the halim and nihari of Zakaria Street to the ice-cream on hot brownie of Bon Appetit, from the authentic Ghoti cuisine of 6 Ballygunge Place and Bhojohori Manna to the lip-smacking Dhakai cuisine of Kasturi, from the kasa mangsho of Golbari to the cutlets and kabirajis of Anadi Cabin , from the steak and beer of Olypub to the microbrewery of Beer Republic, from the Fairlawns to the Wise Owls, the Bachchan and Azad Hind Dhabas to the Chillis- Kolkata has place for everyone , be it a global giant or a local David . As far as the soul of the city goes, you can ask any random stranger on the street for directions, chances are that you will be shown eight different routes to your destination and if you’re lucky you may even be informed about what’s best about each route. The city where even a rickshawallah can quote a Nobel laureate, a street food vendor can effectively talk politics and a Taxi driver can hum any song and mouth any dialogue from any film, that city is Kolkata. The city where love letters are still hidden under pillows, where hands are still held on streets, where boat rides and tram rides are romantic and not tedious, where poetry is an everyday truth and every corner, every nook and cranny is brimming over with stories, that city is Kolkata.

Kolkata is not a city that will hit you in your face with its extravagance , neither is it the city which will bowl you over with its grandeur but it is the city which will slowly make you fall in love with it , the old kind of love , the one that lasts. You can travel from the north to the south in under an hour, taking the underground metro and perhaps soon from east to west, under the river, in half an hour too but it is only by walking on the roads of this erstwhile capital of the British Empire that you will realise the enigma that is Kolkata. It is on the most disappointing day of your life , on the saddest day of your life when nothing seems to be going your way , when your famished feet land on the royal roads, when your broken body gives in to the cool breeze, when your spent senses breathe in the green freshness of the foliage , take in the aroma of the street food that wafts in slowly through your walls that your fatigued form will be reinvigorated by the indomitable spirit, the contagious energy of the city that will heal you. Kolkata is an emotion meant to be felt not only analysed, a food meant to be devoured not only digested, a song meant to be memorised to the extent that it flows through your veins, not merely listened to, an enigma that must be enjoyed not decoded.

Kolkata is as sweet as the sweetmeats and cottage cheese delights it is famous for and as tart as the tamarind water, without which it cannot imagine its puchkas. It can give you a high as high as the Shahid Minar or make you feel as low as the underground metro tunnels but rest assured Kolkata will bring you back. The city is as shy as a newlywed bride peeking from behind the betel leaves and as outspoken as the local uncle criticising your haircut. The city is as free as the Maidan and as claustrophobic as New Market, as spontaneous as the Ganga and as difficult as Park Circus 7-point. The city is everything and yet nothing, it is hilarious and serious, it is contented and disheartened – all depending on which pair of perspectives you choose to put on. The city of Feluda, Byomkesh, Kiriti and many more prove that Calcutta is like the mother that welcomes her sons, prodigal or otherwise, with open arms. The city has for centuries welcomed foreigners onto her shores and in her railway stations , embracing the Portuguese and the French, the British and the Chinese, the Marwaris and the Biharis, the Gujaratis and the Tamilians, the Punjabis and the Malyalis, the Parsis and the tourists and making them an integral part of the history and story of the city. The legacy of the great city lies not only in its rich Bangla heritage but in its pan-Indian and global appeal. Kolkata exists in the sounds of the dhaaks that fills up the minds of the Calcuttan living abroad when autumn comes knocking, in the smell of freshly made sweets which waft in through the senses of the Calcuttan living abroad, in the memories and fantasies of Calcuttans across the globe because, my dear , don’t you know that a city like her cannot be caged by brick and mortar, by cement and stone ?