Eating Women, Telling Tales Page 9

  The tears came slowly, washing his face, yet he could not feel their wetness as his hands touched the seedlings she had planted. He was afraid to hurt them and let the water wash the dust from them, gently, one leaf at a time.

  The mustard fields shone in the late afternoon light and the crows had flown away to the river bank now. The house rested. All the twenty-six guests had been fed and their servants too had eaten well. They had all praised the food, especially the cauliflower and the mango chutney. They thanked Badibua one by one, took an extra betel leaf for the journey and left. When they were outside the gates, past the mustard fields, one of them remarked there had been too much salt in the dal. The others agreed. But they all thought that Badibua had conducted herself well. She did not show off her new found wealth neither was she stingy with her money and had given them all a good feast. “Must have done a lot of good in her last life to have got this house, all these fertile fields and four faithful servants too. When the Lord gives, the roofs shatter with his generosity” said one elderly woman spitting the betel nuts on the path.

  All the windows were shut to keep the afternoon sun out. Badibua dozed, her eyes half-closed. Malarani was curled up on the other bed, Sharada and Nanni on durries on the floor with pillows tucked under their heads. The feast had gone off well. None had complained or quarelled with each other. The food had not run short though they could have made another cauldron of mango chutney. Well, you could never have enough of mango chutney, however much you made it always ran short. It was a rule of life, thought Badibua and sighed.

  Malarani heard her sigh but she knew it was a contented sigh which did not need a reply and went back to sleep. Badibua had asked her to come and live with her, to help her with the farm. What two women, well past fifty, could do she did not know but she was happy to try. It would be a relief to live here away from the nagging relatives. Badibua would give her a permanent home, she was sure, a place she could die in happily.

  Shashi and Choni sat on the swing in the verandah and chatted aimlessly while Hema wiped the silverware with an old cloth. They heard the older women’s gentle snores float out into the verandah and laughed. They had decided to stay a few days longer and help Badibua with the mustard harvest. “I have never seen mustard being harvested though,” said Choni. Hema looked up and said. “I know how it is done. You just hold the seed pods against the wind. We used to do it in my village.”

  Soon the women would wake up and Hema went in to prepare tea for them. She would add ginger and seeds of cardamom. The women had worked so hard, they deserved a good cup of sweet, strong tea. Maybe there was still time for one more story before the sun set. That is if the women had not dreamt away the story. “After all dreams too are stories our heart tells us,” thought Hema as she crushed the seeds of cardamom.

  Eight

  I think of all our duties, the duty to our dead ancestors are the most difficult. Escpecially the women. They are never happy with what we do. The men are pleased with a few well cooked dishes, a nice milky sweet but the women…they are another story. Sharada had so much trouble with her mother-in-law, I remember. The women had heard Sharada’s tale last year but they did not mind hearing it again. She always added a few new details to the story and anyway they had forgotten some bits since there were so many people involved – all these brothers and sisters who lived in various corners of the world they had never heard of.

  SHARADA’S STORY

  When they left for the airport, to fetch the second lot of relatives arriving on the British Airways flight, her face was already tired of smiling. The week stretched ahead like a long, unfamiliar road full of hidden pitfalls. It was not as if Sharada disliked her husband’s family, in fact she was quite fond of some of them, especially when they brought her expensive gifts and confided in her about each other’s faults, but this morning she was anxious. The thought of having all seven of them together, bubbling and simmering like a rich, oily curry…spilling into every corner of her home and staining it, worried her so much that she began to have nightmares. Even before the first lot arrived at the crack of dawn, she had began seeing them in her dreams, squabbling and spitting venom at each other. When she woke up in the morning she was confused about what had happened and what was about to happen.

  They were flying in from different parts of the world like migratory birds, dragging reluctant husbands and sullen children to take part in their late mother’s annual shraad ceremony. She had been dead for two years so the loss was diffused by time but the emotional outpouring still retained its power and joy especially when they were all together in their late mother’s living room, sitting on the sofa she had chosen, reclining on cushions she had embroidered. Now that the shock and grief had passed, they found it quite enjoyable to sit around the dining table, their hands still fragrant with rich curry, chewing pieces of fish bones and lamenting over their dead mother. The sons would sob with dignity while the daughters would dab their eyes delicately with their napkins and then ask her if the colour ran – one never knew with these Indian handlooms!

  Sharada tried to forget the trauma of last winter and tuned her mind to cope with the new worries that lay ahead. The road to the airport seemed longer than ever. She wished the old lady had died in summer because these NRIs were terrified of power cuts, water shortages, eye, skin and stomach infections which they knew summer brought. But the old lady, with an uncanny sense of timing, had died in the middle of a perfect winter afternoon so that her sons and daughters spread all over the world could fly home each year to pay their respects. Sharada wondered what would have happened if Vinod too had flown to another country like the rest of them. But he had not and now it was their responsibility to hold the shraad ceremony each year. It was, thankfully, a simple ceremony with a short havan pooja followed by a lunch just for the family. But before it happened, she had to deal with the chaos of all the emotional drama that would lead up to the final day.

  Sharada tried to soothe her mind by playing her favourite game. The shraad ceremony was over and done with, everyone had flown back to their various homes in distant lands, the week ahead was now just a confused, half-forgotten memory which she could rummage through sometimes, before falling asleep at night.

  There were five different kinds of curry on the table, the bright red colour fading to pale orange according to the strength of chillies. The old steel bowl, gleaming like burnished silver since it had been scrubbed clean with a new dishwashing liquid Ashok had got from the U.S., held the very hot, deep red curry for those who lived here, that meant just Sharada, Vinod, Bejon and Masi. Next to it sat the quiet, red, medium hot curry for those who visited India more than once a year and though they had chilli-proof stomachs they still had to be cautious, which meant only Ashok. Then there was a mild, faded red, watery curry for those who came to India only once a year and whose stomachs knew how to deal with curry but were not totally chilli-proof. This mild yet delicious curry was also for those who had over indulged at the last meal and needed to soothe their agitated stomachs. This included both residents and visiting relatives. By the end of the NRI visit this medium red curry would become the most favourite one. Then at the end of the table, simmering quietly in a transparent white bone china bowl, was a pale pink, bland “sick-man’s” curry for those who had just got off the plane and needed to be gently reminded about the magic of Indian curry which their stomachs, full of pasta, burgers and roast chicken, had forgotten about. Finally, in a bunny rabbit bowl, there was a stew-curry for the NRI children who were frightened of spices, turning bright red with the lashings of tomato ketchup they had poured in it to make the whole thing more palatable.

  Though Sharada had placed the curries in the correct order, the dishes had got mixed up and there was a confusion of red, orange and pink on the dining table. Masi, the oldest surviving relative with an intact mind, who had just arrived from Ambala, had served herself the “sick man’s curry” and the lines on her thin face grew deeper as she grimaced, putting the s
poon down. “What is this dish water, Sharada? Take it away at once! My dear departed sister would have been shocked to see this kind of hospital food on her dining table,” she said, wiping her hands on the table cloth. Luckily it was orange and the curry stains would not show.

  “That is for Ashok Bhaiya, he wanted light food till his stomach could get used to the spices,” said Sharada, placing the pale curry in front of Ashok from Seattle, who had already taken a spoonful of the deep red, very hot curry and was looking at her in alarm. “Yes…. Remember last time how he got the runs and had to sit near the exit door on the train when we went to Agra?” said Bejon, the eldest brother, and a resident who had never left the country except during the second world war briefly for a short visit to London to sell his collection of old coins for a fortune. He helped himself to the rich red gravy, the sight of which made Ashok blanch. He took a gelusil tablet out of his shirt pocket and placed it next to his plate, as if to ward off the aroma of spices that floated down from Bejon’s aromatic curry to his pale golden one. “You NRIs always have weak stomachs. Look at me. I am going to be seventy next month, yet I can have a full plate of Moti Mahal butter chicken without any problem,” said Bejon, his mouth full of chicken curry.

  “The problem is ours when you burp and fart all over the place,” muttered Ashok.

  “What, what was that…?” said Bejon, jutting out his curry red chin.

  “There is chana paishe after this,” said Sharada quickly to defuse the tension.

  “How did you make it? With fresh paneer, I hope! I always make it with fresh paneer, made with whey. Nothing else tastes as good,” said Masi, getting up from the table though the others were still eating. As soon as she reached the kitchen door, Jaya from Manchester said, “That is the fuddy duddy old way to make ‘paishe’. I just dump leftover sweets into boiling milk.” Masi stood still at the door, her back to them. Then she turned slowly and pointed one yellow turmeric stained finger at Jaya. “Do not speak like an idiot. My dead sister always said you were the most foolish of her seven children – may god take care of the two dead ones,” Masi said, coming back to the dining table. “To make a perfect chana paishe you have to make fresh cottage cheese with whey – not lemon. And not this foul thing called vinegar which you people abroad pour into every dish,” she said fixing each one of them, even Bejon, who had never tasted vinegar, with an angry look. And then when her outburst went unchallenged, she left the room. They could hear her rubber slippers flip flop down the corridor. Soon afterwards, when there was silence, Jaya from Manchester spoke again but in a soft voice. “Who has the time to make fresh whey and whatnot. Just throw all the leftover sweets into a pot of boiling milk and you have a dreamy channa paishe. You should serve this tomorrow Sharada, there will be so many boxes of leftover sweets.” Suddenly, silently without warning, Masi was amidst them again, her thin white-clad figure shimmering at the head of the table like Banquo’s ghost. “You will not make that horrible dish fit only for servants at my poor dead sister’s shraad. I will not allow it till there is breath in my old body. I will make the paishe and I alone will serve it to the priest. I want my sister’s spirit to be at peace. Imagine crossing the river of death with a plateful of foreign pish pash, a paishe made with rotting sweets, served as an offering to the guardian of death. Never … never,” Masi hissed, wiping a tear from her eye. Ashok Seattle began to sniffle at once and his sisters followed in order of age. First Jaya Manchester began to sob, then Bonti New Jersey, Babi Berlin and Choti London joined with a low wail and from behind came a deep bass sound as Bejon India burped. “Bless the old lady,” he said as the children tried to stifle their nervous giggles. They had only seen emotional outpourings like this on television and were not sure how to react. Should they join in like an invited studio audience or sit back and watch like passive viewers? Their parents were of no help, in fact ever since they had landed in India they had changed into alien beings who sang, laughed, shouted and cried like strangers! They had been warned about the way things were at home, how they should beware of oddballs and never take sweets or a lift from them.

  “She likes my channa paishe” said Jaya Manchester looking at Masi Ambala defiantly. “She told me herself during Bonti’s son’s thread ceremony.”

  “Did she really? I thought she had stopped talking to you after you threw Baba’s portrait into the garage along with the old suitcases during one of your cleaning dramas….” said Babi Toronto, getting up from the table. Jaya gave her an angry look but did not retort since she wanted to deal with Masi first. She would settle with Babi later. There were many thing to sort out. The old diamond and ruby necklace that Ma had given her to reset, a friend visiting Toronto had seen Babi wearing it though she claimed it was lost. Jaya faced Masi, her chin pointing up uncannily like Masi’s. “I cannot recall her exact words but she did say to me before we stopped talking, ‘Jaya I like the fast way you cook sweets’.”

  “She never ate sweets! Only I know how she hated sweet things! ‘Sister, save me from these horrible home-made sweets my wretched daughter makes,’ she used to say. One day she went off with the driver and ayah to have sambar idli to take away the taste of some foul English rice pudding you had forced her to eat,” said Masi standing close to the table, her curry-stained hand resting on the back of Ashok’s chair. He shifted, his face twitching as the smell of stale curry stung his delicate nose. He hoped she would not touch his head. Masi twitched too. She needed to go to the bathroom urgently but she could not leave the table at such a crucial stage when anything could be said against her poor dead sister. Masi had to hold on to her bladder, pressing her thin thighs together, to save the family honour. Her father had been a Raibahadur and he had taught them never to allow anyone to say a single word against the Tripathi clan. She had never really liked her sister, god rest her soul, but now that she was dead and not here to speak for herself, who could defend her except for her sole surviving sister? She was the only one left in the clan now who remembered their former glory and fame. The horse and buggy at the door, the uniformed servants, the English guests around this very teak dining table. Her mother had given it to her sister though she had asked for it. It would have fitted in so well in her huge dining room. She would have had the chairs reupholstered in velvet. Anyway what is gone is gone. Her sister was in heaven now and she was here alive, fighting fit and at the dining table to defend their family name.

  “Channa paishe with stale leftover sweets!” A shudder of horror ran down Masi’s fragile frame and for the first time she felt happy she did not have a brood of idiotic children. Just one son who lived peacefully with her, who did not even have a passport, who would never allow his wife – a dark but well-behaved girl – to speak in front of her elders. Her sister had spoiled her children, especially the daughters, made them into brown mems and now she had to deal with them.

  “I never forced her to eat anything. Anyway I cannot believe Ma ever ate out. She told me ‘I hate eating food that has not been cooked in my kitchen, by my own cook, in front of my eyes,’” said Babi though Masi was attacking Jaya. This was a signal that the fight was now open. Immediately everyone joined the fray!

  Ashok jumped in first.“What nonsense you talk Babi. Ma came with Sandra and me to the Bukhara each time we were here. She loved tandoori fish,” he said, moving his chair closer to the table, to be safe from Masi in case she began waving her arms about. Bejon, who was taking a catnap, woke up with a start when he heard tandoori fish and then, when he saw there was none on the table, fell asleep again, his head resting on his chest.

  “What nonsense! You know Ma never ate meat. She became a vegetarian after she visited Badrinath. We never even cooked meat at home when she came to stay with us. The smell made her sick she said and we had to open all the windows even though it was freezing outside,” Babi said. Jaya suddenly wanted to help her sister.

  “Maybe she ate non-veg because of Sandra being there. You know Ma wanted her to feel at home though she was so unhappy w
hen you married a white girl. First one to do that in our family,” Jaya said this softly so that Bejon would not wake up and take the last piece of prawn which she had her eye on.

  “She was not unhappy. She loved Sandra and just before she died she sent her a Christmas card. She wrote a note in it saying ‘You are a good girl even though you are a foreigner. I will leave my heavy gold necklace with emeralds for you,’” said Ashok. “Of course, we never saw it.”

  Jaya was about to help herself to the prawn but her hand froze and Babi seized the opportunity and picked it up quickly. “Her heavy gold necklace. What are you saying Askok Bhaiya. She gave them to Baby when she got engaged. You were there Masi when she put it around her neck with her own hands. We had come to India that year to buy saris.” Masi did not reply. She was not going to help Jaya out so quickly. Setting her lips in a firm line, she picked up a guava and began to peel it. This helped to take her mind off the bathroom. Everyone watched her as she cut the fruit in five segments and then when she offered the first one to Ashok. Jaya wished she had not confronted Masi with the Channa paishe but how did she know that Ashok would bring up the gold bangle issue. That was a very serious topic, kept on hold for late night after-dinner discussions and never aired so casually at the lunch table, certainly not when outsiders were around. All the sons-in-law and daughters-in-law though they had been married for at least twenty years were still considered outsiders and no real family discussions about gold or property ever took place when they were around. It was an unspoken rule and now Ashok had broken it! Just as well that Sandra woman was not at the dining table. The food on the plane had knocked her out and now she lay asleep in Ma’s bedroom, with a lavender soaked handkerchief on her eyes.

  Sharada, her neck tight with tension, tried to get everyone to talk about what they would have for dinner. That usually helped to clear the air of old conflicts and bring in a fresh war cry since each one demanded a different dish which the other thought was terrible for their health or tastebuds. Then Masi spoke suddenly, “My poor dead sister told me just before she left us that Ashok has brought shame into the family by marrying a white girl.” The wave of silence that swept over the dining table was so overwhelming that even the servants helping themselves to the leftover food in the pots and pans in the kitchen were touched by it and their hands froze in midair as they waited for someone to break the silence. Sharada hoped Sandra was still weak and would not come down.