It was the aquifer that kept the farmlands green. In Bujrur – where land is fertile and all day long parrots squawk in mango trees; where after Baisakhi, when the new maize is sown, I felt I walked on green-grass clouds, swaying fields that turned into a misty blue in the distant horizon, till I couldn’t make out if I walked on land or over the sky; where one day, while the clouds cast gently-shifting shadows at my feet, and the dappled pathways held enough magic to dazzle my eyes – I walked straight into Bhagwan Dada’s tank. I had heard the klup-klup of his spade on quiet afternoons, but had not realised that the basin of water that he had dug for watering his land ran so deep. And so, I tumbled through the green sludge and whirling sand and the bits of root that had been chopped off the old banyan tree.
I felt the water enter me – the green and blue and the golden coins of light with a bit of Bujrur in them, and I did not really mind. I had not realised it was so cold down below, so inky black . . .until, suddenly, a pair of strong arms were under me, a flash of warm sunlight on my face.
I lie in my bed for a moment. Dawn is yet to break outside my window. Smoke from a charcoal fire floats in. Bebe is lighting the clay oven in the kitchen; soon black lentils will be bubbling on a slow fire. That is Papaji plucking the strings of his rebab, the first notes of the morning. Bebe will soon scream, “Do you have nothing better to do, nikamma?”
But then I wake up with a jolt. No, no, no – that is all wrong! Today is October 24, Bhai’s birthday, and I’m in Singapore. I have so much to do – the chickpeas to cook, my Punjabi suit to iron so I can wear it to the gurdwara. But then, before that, I need to feed Miri and Piri. Poor Miri is full-term pregnant, ready to birth her litter any moment. She gets so hungry! And that is not Papaji on his rebab. That is Baljit, my husband, snoring softly as his sleep gets lighter. Any moment he will awake and ask for his first cup of chai. Breakfast will need to be made before my children – my sons and daughters-in-law – leave for work. I had put in an advertisement for Bhai in the Straits Times some days back, as I have done every year for the last 40 odd years.
A small pile of letters lies on my desk, ready to be opened and read. And to top it all, today the girl from the archives is coming to interview me for her book, about all the work I have done for the Khalsa Association of Singapore and the Punjabi School all my life.
I groan silently. Could it get any worse?
The girl, when she arrives, seems nice enough, though obviously a bit disorganised. I watch her struggle with her laptop and umbrella for a moment before I take them from her hand. I walk her straight to the kitchen, I do not have a minute to lose today. I have already set up a small worktable there for her. She stops for a minute to look at the climbing frame we have made from hemp rope for Miri and Piri. This is where they sharpen their claws, working off their excess energy. Now, Miri sleeps, curled in her basket, replete with her early morning bowl of milk and the Marie biscuits I have given her.
In the kitchen, golden mustard oil burbles, silver juliennes of onion turn shell-pink. Black cardamoms lie open on the countertop, as bristly as the bark of a tree, as fragrant as a forest grove after rain. Chickpeas made in Punjabi fashion had always been Bhai’s favourite dish, and I have made it every year for his birthday, every year since he . . .
I have already boiled the chickpeas, with salt and a spoon of tealeaves tied in muslin. The salt will soften the chickpeas till their skin splits; the tealeaves give them a nice mature colour. It is only afterwards that the pea will be ready to cook in its curry. I see the girl stare in amazement at the kadhai – made of glistening brass, big enough to feed at least a platoon. It was my mother’s, brought here all the way from Bujrur. Nowadays, it comes in handy when I cook mee goreng for my family. She turns to look at the heavy okhal moosal that I have dragged out today. It is dusty under a fine net of cobwebs. Bebe would grind her whole spices in it.
“My mother used to say that it’s only when spices come under the stone pestle that they release their oils, become more flavourful,” I explain to the girl.
It is still early morning. Sunrays fall on the mossy bole of the jackfruit tree outside, casting the kitchen in a pale green light. My early morning dream has stayed with me, the day I had fallen into our neighbour’s tank in Bujrur, and Bhai had pulled me out in the nick of time, before I hit rock bottom. Papaji had looked at me as I lay spluttering by the tank, “Gudiya, why didn’t you scream, swim up to the surface, shout for help?” But I had merely stared back for I did not know the answer to that question.
Excerpted with permission from Chickpeas to Cook and Other Stories, Nilanjana Sengupta, Penguin.
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