Easy Garlicky Chingri -- for Dugga Pujo

Durga Pujo is not a time to cook your own food. I mean ideally Ma Durga does not cook on these five days. Neither does Lokkhi, Saraswati, Ganesh or that Karthik? Maybe Baba Shib does, but then again I am not sure.So why should you , tell me?

And then if you do cook, who is going to eat it? I mean after eating bhoger khichuri at the pujo pandal, tons of phuchka just outside the pandal, egg roll on the left of the pandal, mutton biriyani only a few steps away from the pandal, fish kobiraji ordered by phone from the pandal, how will you eat the food cooked at home?
Thus it has been logically proven that there is ABSOLUTELY NO-NEED to cook during the Pujo days. QED!

But for us mere mortals, living away from such overdose of pandals, life is difficult.

Durga too understands our problem and mostly visits us only during weekends. During the week she is "chakki pishing and cooking dinner". Our relatives back home smirk at our plight and thank their stars that they did not go and get a visa stamped. They rustle their heavy silks, bite on their kashundi smeared fish kobiraji, pat their heavily powdered nose and lament, "Aha, ki koshto, Ashtami teo ranna korte hochche re?"

We look away from their kashundi-fied selfie, take deep breaths, think how claustrophobic the crowd in the pandals would make us feel and how all that phuchka can end in nothing good but gelusil and choan dhekur. "Jak baba, eikahnei bhalo achi", we reassure ourselves and contemplate on ways to make a mid-week Saptami dinner more interesting.

And then when the fall air carries with it a fragrance of wood smoke, we carelessly let our minds wander away to the pujo pandals of our childhood where amidst the heavy fragrant smoke of Dhuno, Ma Durga's face came alive with gorjon oil and after hours of fasting for anjali, steaming hot Khichuri in shaal pata doled out at the back of the mandap tasted no less than amrito.

What a Bittergourd Kismur -- on Independence Day

Tomorrow is India's Independence Day and all I can think of is I am in 3rd grade dressed in bottle green or khaki or some patriotic color safari suit kind of uniform, apparently like Subhas Bose, and standing on a stage with few more freedom fighters and not been given a single word to speak as per the script. I look almost like Jeetendra in a safari suit except that I also had to wear circular steel rimmed glasses like Bose and my hair was tucked under a cap.

And then came the calamity. Nope, nothing to do with Netjaji's politics. It was all to do with our Dhobiji actually.

That shirt had 5 medals pinned on it by my teacher, decorations like the INA military uniform. I thought they were gold. The Dhobiji cared neither for Netaji nor for his uniform.

Don't think his lot had improved in any significant way after independence. This was the early eighties.

Everyone in our neighborhood considered him as several caste lower and though they wore the clothes washed and pressed by him, they were acutely conscious of not indulging in any other touchy-feely relation with him. So much so, that my very staunch grandmother would instruct him to air drop the stack of freshly washed, ironed and folded clothes on the sofa, in fear that he did not touch any animate or in-animate object in our home.
Sigh!If I had someone delivering washed and folded clothes to my doorstep I would hug, kiss and even marry him right away.

So anyway, when that Jetetendra, oops sorry Subhas Bose uniform was sent to him to be washed and pressed so that I could return it in its pristine condition to the teacher, he did not pay as much attention to the medals and such. He was clever enough to know they weren't gold. The result of his nonchalance was that of those five medals one went missing. And my heart stopped in tracks right there. My heart was gripped with a cold, dismal fear just thinking what my very Catholic teacher in my very catholic convent school would have to say on this. The British were long gone but I was terribly afraid of my crisp English speaking teachers, with names like Mary and Bridgette, and who I was sure came from some foreign country.

I don't remember what exactly happened thereafter except that my father had to go and meet the teacher and blame the Dhobiji, who thankfully knew no English and so wasn't summoned to school. For the next few months my position as the teacher's favorite was upended by my other classmates and I moped and lived in fear and never looked forward to Independence day celebrations ever. I rather stayed in and watched the flag hoisting on TV.

And then many years later, I went and got married on Independence day as it was the last wedding day with the last wedding muhurta for the season as per the Hindu wedding calendar!!!

I am sure that no-caste Dhobiji had something to do with this. Or my Anglican teacher. 😜

The only word to describe this whole situation is KISMUR. Yep, "what a Kismur", sums it all up.

Nandini's Nolen Gur er Ice Cream -- No Ice Cream Maker needed

Over the weekend, we had some deep discussion with friends, who are trying to learn the intricacies of Vedanta.
They shared pearls of wisdom like

"we have to accept that we have no control over our or anyone else's destiny"

"that we need to identify with our atman as we ourselves are Brahman"

Needless to say, I did not understand any of it. I mean I do understand but I cannot really internalize yet. For that, I need to meditate, my friends told me.

And then we watched the Russia-Croatia match. Since the teams I was supporting with all my atman had already bid adieu from the World Cup, I had nothing at stake in this particular match. Even when the winner was to be decided by penalty shots, I kept calm, which is very unusual of me. I get riled by penalty shots and at the Russia-Spain penalty shoot out, I was literally hyperventilating. In contrast, during the Russia-Croatia penalty shoot outs, I was far more relaxed and gently rooting for Croatia. It helped me enjoy the game better as I had little expectation.

And that is when my friend said, that I should watch life like a "Russia-Croatia" match instead of "Belgium-Brazil" match. I should detach myself from the process, accept whatever is to happen and merely hover over life without having too much at stake.

This I kind of understood-- at least soon after the match. To detach myself from the process, not expect anything and go with the flow of life. I can strive to do the best but I have no control on the results

Nandini making Nolen Gurer Ice Cream

Like say, my friend Nandini. I have written about my friend Nandini, many times in this blog and also in my book. I guess I have never mentioned her by her name and always referred to her as N, but she has been omnipresent throughout the blog.