GOLPO...
Sunday Lunch
Robibarer Mangsher Jhol
-- Chandralekha ~ 24 May
2024
The cumin seeds
spluttered and the garam masala released its signature aroma signaling for the
meat to be added. Marinated in yogurt and ginger-garlic paste, the mutton
pieces sizzled as they touched the smoking mustard oil. “Potatoes and carrots
go in next and the papaya is added last for it cooks first.” I could hear my
mother’s voice in my head instructing me from Kolkata. I covered the dekchi to
let the meat cook. Mangsher jhol was on its way.
It was ten-thirty. Guests
would be arriving in two hours. I picked up the duster to tidy the living room.
Vitamix’s powerful whirring stopped abruptly. “Here, have some of this,”
offered Orko, my son. “It’s got beta-carotene, Vit C, E, and K.” He scraped the
remnants of 12 large Bunny-Luv’s, bought from the organic section in Berkeley
Bowl, into the composting bin. He placed the large jug of freshly squeezed
carrot juice on the kitchen island. I filled a glass and gingerly took a sip.
This was the first time,
since we moved to California 10 years back, we would be hosting a Sunday lunch.
Robibarer lunch with mangsher jhol was an unwritten familial “emotion” we had
grown up with in Kolkata. Uninvited and unannounced guests were welcome to join
in. The “doors of our home are open to all,” was a literal statement and not a
metaphor.
The doors of our
neighbour’s apartment across the hallway were also open. This facilitated
seamless movement from their apartment to ours and vice versa. Additionally, we
got a clear view of the soaps aired on their TV in their living room from our
dining room. We didn’t own a TV as yet so this arrangement seemed optimal and
quite normal, but it did confuse my affluent cousins in Boston.
I checked on the mangsho.
The meat was still not tender enough so I let it simmer and unmindfully drank
some more carrot juice. The room looked cosy… cushions fluffed up next to a
large white peace lily plant. Miludi had presented it to me on my last birthday
with a note, “may you continue to promote inner peace, happiness, and
prosperity in both material and spiritual spheres.” Miludi is my elder sister,
well… not really. We had met during Prabasi’s Durga Puja in Hayward five years
back and since then had developed a deep sisterly bond.
I sprayed the window pane
with Windex. Through the droplets on the glass, I looked onto the quiet
tree-lined street. Rachel, our outdoorsy and helpful neighbour across the
street, waved at me while taking their dog out for a walk. They had recently
rescued Ollie, a big high-energy greyhound puppy, from the local Animal
Shelter. Two students with yoga mats strapped on their backs cycled past,
enroute from the BART station (underground Metro) to UC Berkeley campus. Our
corner house is on King Street, which doubles up as a bicycle path, so we get
to see a variety of cyclists on myriad types of cycles. I filled another glass
of carrot juice and stepped back to admire the clean windows.
Mamu and Mamima would be
the first to arrive for our Robibarer lunch. By the time I would get back from
my Sunday sitar class in Calcutta School of Music in Sunny Park, Didi would be
regaling the guests with piano recitals on the rented Steinberg. Next to my
sister’s resounding rendition of Bach’s Prelude in C Major and Beethoven’s Für
Elise, my Bhimpalasi on a muted stringed instrument paled into insignificance.
I would drop my sitar in my room and run to join the guests at the dining
table, eager to hear Mamu’s hilarious stories.
Mamu didn’t just act out his stories. He loved acting. In fact, he acted in a Bengali movie called
Surja Shikha with Supriya Devi, and the biggest Bengali star of all times,
Uttam Kumar. It was a big box-office hit. But my Dadu’s, ‘peether chal khule
debo’ threat forced his son to give up his dreams to protect the skin on his
back! He never forgave his father and never went back to acting. Instead, he
entertained the family with amusing events in his life. Full of comic anecdotes
and wit, he would have us in splits. He could make an ordinary story,
extraordinary. Baba would join in by reading aloud passages from the manuscript
of his book “Calcutta Is...,” that he was currently writing. With a captive
audience, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to get a live feedback.
As more relatives poured
in… more potatoes, carrots and papayas got added into the mangsher jhol. The
dekchiful of mangsho with piping hot bhaat, alu bhaja, ghee, and tomato
chutney, interspersed with story-telling, was our quintessential robibarer
lunch. It was usually followed by Rabindrasangeet and abritti of Tagore’s and
Shukanto’s poems over sweet payesh.
This is what I had wanted
to revive. And today I had finally made it happen.
It felt good.
The meat was done. I
turned off the heat and I reached out for the carrot juice. Suddenly my head
started to reel and I broke into a sweat. I somehow managed to stagger back
into my bedroom and crashed.
It did not feel good.
I woke up to the familiar sound of people talking in the dining room. I got up and went to the dining table. Baba was sitting at one end of the table and Mamu at the other. I looked from one to the other. “How did you get here?” Puzzled, I asked. “Are you not both dead?”
“Your mother wanted to
come to Berkeley so I brought her here from Kolkata.” Baba seemingly gave a
logical answer. I looked over my shoulder and saw Ma hunched forward with
Rachel sitting next to her with her arm around Ma’s shoulders whispering
something into her ear.
I turned back and quizzed
Baba again. “How can you bring Ma when you are dead?”
“You do know when the
body dies, the spirit does not die.” The Ātman is eternal, unborn, undying, and
unchanging. It is beyond physical destruction. "Weapons cannot cut it,
fire cannot burn it, water cannot wet it, and wind cannot dry it." Bhagavad
Gita shloka 2.20. Memories of Baba giving lectures on the Bhagavad Gita came
flashing back. He paused, thought a little, and continued to patiently explain
as if to a child. “Death is not like a
dead-end wall. It’s more like a flowing curtain that moves effortlessly from
one state of being to another as and when the need arises.”
“Does that mean you can
be with us whenever we want you?” I asked enthusiastically. “Of course,” he
reassured me smilingly.
“And Mamu, how did you
come?”
“I came with Jamaibabu. I
was always close to him and we still remain close. Before I would accompany him
on his official tours from Jalpaiguri to Jaipur, and now I accompany him on his
spiritual tours from the transient to the eternal.”
Not too sure I totally
understood what he meant but what I did understand was that my heart was
bursting with happiness. Baba was back. Mamu was back. Robibarer mangsher jhol
was back! This was too good.
Through the window, I saw
our first guest arrive. I ran to open the door but it was already open. I was
excited to share the good news that my family, whom I’d thought I had lost,
were here for lunch.
Miludi looked glum
holding a bouquet of white lilies. I smiled and was about to crack a joke about
her penchant for white lilies. “What happened?” she asked looking right through
me.
I looked back to see who
she was asking. “It was a heart attack,” standing behind me, Orko answered
softly. “We thought it was indigestion from drinking too much carrot juice but
the heart gave way.”
I then noticed Ma crying
with her head bowed down with Rachel consoling her. On the carpet in front of
them lay a still figure covered in white. Miludi walked through me towards the
carpet and solemnly laid the bouquet of white peace lilies on the covered body.
I followed her with
trepidation and looked down. I saw stillness. The calm body reflected complete
cessation of the fluctuations of the mind…“chitta vritti nirodha.” Though I
have practiced yoga for years, I still could not embody Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra 1.2
of removing the waves of distractions to completely still the mind. But now I
have. I was lying there absolutely still… both in mind and body.
“Hey, who drank the
entire jug of carrot juice? How the hell will I make the carrot-juice cocktail
now?” Orko’s voice pierced through the stillness. I came alive to the whiff of
the mangsher jhol that wafted in together with a smiling Miludi holding a colourful
potted heartleaf philodendron plant.
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