Robibarer Mangsher Jhol

 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.

 ---- x ---- x ---- x ----

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.