Prateeti Sengupta

Abstract Inspirational Others

4.8  

Prateeti Sengupta

Abstract Inspirational Others

Khurshid

Khurshid

10 mins
627


"Didi, ap ne aaj bhi khana nahi banaya? Aise kaise chalega!?" she grumbles as she pulls the bowl of raw vegetables out of the refrigerator. The veggies that she had chopped for me the previous evening, reflect the remonstrance in her voice.

"Chaliye, aaj se main phirse aapka khana banaungi! Aap sham ko office se wapas aa jaiye, main bahar wait karungi."

I could translate her words into English, if I wanted to, but the genuine love and concern in her voice transcended any language barrier humanity could ever think of raising. She is Khurshid, and I have carried her story around in my heart for the last fourteen years.

For about three and a half years of my eight-year stint in Pune, Khurshid was my mainstay in an unknown city, more than 1500 km from home. She served as my domestic help, but she was far more than that. She was a home away from home.

I still remember Independence Day 2005, the day I moved into the rental apartment in Fatima Nagar. That weekend, on Friday 19th August to be precise, on the auspicious occasion of Rakhi Purnima I happened to fracture my ankle on my first and only trekking misadventure. Every year the monsoon season brings back memories of that perilous mountain trail, the pouring rain beating like an endless drum in my ears, the moss-covered rocks, the soft clayey mud that curled lovingly around my broken ankle and then threatened to suck me down into its bowels, so that every step felt like a battle against gravity, right up to the hair-raising return journey down the steep slopes of the Sahyadri Range in the Western Ghats from Rajmachi Fort to Lonavala. In my mind, the 2005 Mumbai floods, (and this is totally subjective and no reflection on the sufferings of the millions of Mumbaikars that year), pale in comparison to my experience of that single weekend. But that's a story for another rainy afternoon.

Today I want to talk about Khurshid.

When she came to work for me, my left leg was already in a cast from below the knee down to my toes peeking out from the fine cotton lining on the inner surface of the plaster. My surgeon had prescribed six weeks in bed. Touching the floor with the injured foot was strictly forbidden, so I had to hop around on one leg with a walker.

My landlady, Sujatha, was very anxious for my safety.

"You are alone and hurt, Prateeti!" she said, her singsong tone heightening the nervousness in her voice. "No one should take advantage of that. Khurshid is the best person for you. She worked for me when I stayed in this house. Everyone here knows her. You can trust her."

Turning to Khurshid she said, "Didi ka khayal rakhna, Khurshid! Koi taqleef nahi hona chahiye, samjhi?" ("Take good care of Didi! No complaints, do you understand?")

"Ji accha, Auntie," she nodded her head eagerly. "Mai hoon na? Aap befiqar rahiye!" ("Yes, Auntie. Don't worry, I'll take care of her!")

And just like that, I was family.

Once we were alone, I took a good look at her. Petite and slim, she looked quite frail. How could she take care of me, a full head taller than herself?

"Will you be able to help me in the bathroom with this plaster cast, Khurshid?" I asked her doubtfully. The doctor had also strictly forbidden any water seepage inside the cast as it could lead to an infection.

My apprehension must have shown on my face. She took one look at my leg and went to the kitchen. Rummaging in one of the cabinets she extricated a large plastic bag and some string. She held both up triumphantly. "Isse ho jayega, Didi, aap fikar mat karo!" ("This will do, Didi, don't worry!") With great care she helped me sit up on my bed and swung both my legs over on one side.

Kneeling on the floor, she held up the plastered foot and gently slipped it inside the plastic bag, pulled it up to my knee till it covered half of my thigh. Then she wound the string around it twice and secured it with a knot.

Gingerly, I got up from the bed, and gripping the walker firmly with both hands, hopped on one leg to the bathroom, with Khurshid guiding me at every step. There was a stool ready for me in the bathroom and a bucket of hot water. I wouldn't be able to take a shower in my condition, hence the arrangement.

She had thought of everything!

For the next three months, Khurshid did take care of everything, and when I say "everything" I mean it literally. She cooked, cleaned, laundered, dusted the furniture, swept, and mopped the floors; and she did it all with meticulous attention to details. There was no online shopping for groceries in 2005. So, she took care of my shopping and sundry other errands as well. And she looked after me in more ways than one. It was primarily under her guidance during those troubled months that I grew to appreciate the beautiful city of Pune and the innate warmth of the people around me, both at work and in my neighbourhood.

Her day started at around 4:30 AM. She would walk at least 4 km to reach our Parmar Nagar Housing Society complex, from her home, about 1 km from Salunkhe Vihar. After making me breakfast at 6:30 AM, she would scamper off to another apartment in the next block. Once her tasks there were done, she would come back at 11:00 AM for the rest of her duties which included cooking my lunch and bathing me. She would come back in the evening to cook my dinner and prepare ahead for the next day's meals. She would fill bottles with water and place them in every room within my reach.

"Thik se pani peena bahut zaruri hai, Didi, nahi toh apke sar mei dard hoga!" ("You need to drink lots of water, Didi, or else you will get headaches!")

She would also squeeze out time for her duties at three other houses.

And to top it all, Khurshid was an amazing cook.

She had never cooked any Bengali dishes in her life. So, it goes without saying that I was more than a little skeptical about her skills in cooking 'maachher jhol'. In retrospect, I find it ironical that fish had never been an indispensable item for me before I left Kolkata. I rather preferred chicken, mutton and other vegetarian dishes. Fish-and-rice was literally a vanilla (if I may use the term) Bengali meal, because we had it every day, by default. But in Pune, I found myself surrounded by a predominantly vegetarian demographic, where fish was still a rarity.

"Do Bengalis eat fish every day? Really?!" Yes. Several of my Pune colleagues were fascinated by the fact that in Kolkata people eat fish every, goddamn day. They found it incredible.

And I began to miss it like never before. I cannot describe in words the gut-wrenching feeling with which I struggled for a whole year before moving into Sujatha's apartment. The reason was that I lived in an apartment near Hadapsar market, where cooking non-vegetarian food was banned. There were no local vendors either who sold fish, chicken, or mutton. I guess absence does make the stomach crave harder!

Luckily, Fatima Nagar was a neighborhood where you could buy, cook, and eat whatever you wished. But my problem was that I could do none of these on my own!

The first time I asked her to cook fish Bengali style, I was doubtful she would be up for the challenge. But Khurshid was unfazed.

"Didi, aap mujhey sirf ek bar bata dijiye kya karna hai or kaise. Main hoon na!" she said with her bright smile. It was this smile of hers that made my day every morning and kept me going despite my condition.

So, I set about drawing a flow chart for her. Beginning with the ingredients, the exact cut of the fish fillets and veggies, the whole spices for sautéing, the ground spices for the gravy, followed by the sequence of steps, I described the entire recipe exactly as I had inherited it from my mother, who had in turn got it from her mother. She took it all in, eyes twinkling with humor, and then repeated it once for my peace of mind.

Then she went to work, and I hobbled back to bed. The aroma emanating from the kitchen half an hour later gradually built up my confidence in her abilities.

"Didi, machhli ban gaya. Aap taste karenge?" ("Didi, fish curry is done, will you taste it?").

I took the bowl from her and inspected its contents.

Colour and thickness of gravy - check.

Aroma – check.

Fish not overcooked – check.

Vegetables not undercooked - check.

(Yes, we do cook fish with assorted vegetables in Bengal. Another anomaly in our cuisine that my Pune friends could barely wrap their heads around! But I don't blame them at all because Bengali cuisine can be challenging to the uninitiated. It's an acquired taste for many.)

I carefully dipped the proffered spoon into the gravy and lifted it to my mouth.

Tense with expectation, I think both of us dreaded the moment of truth.

Oh My God! It was perfect!

"Khurshid?"

"Yes, Didi?"

"You have never cooked Bengali fish curry before? Tell me the truth?"

"It is the truth Didi! I have never cooked this before. I have never worked for a Bengali family before. Khuda ki kasam!"

And the devout Muslim that she was, I knew she would never take the name of the Lord in vain, so she was probably speaking the truth.

"But how did you do it? How did you get it right the very first time?"

"I know how to cook, Didi! I am used to cooking biryani and pulao and chicken and mutton for 25-50 people at a time. I can cook pure vegetarian too. I like cooking. And you explained everything so well, it was easy!" Her eyes twinkled again as she smiled at my amazement.

As the months passed and I got to know her better, I realized that she was not only my sole support at a time of great distress, but she was also a pillar of strength to her own large joint family. She was her husband's second wife. He had died leaving behind two wives and a lot of children. Khurshid took care of all the kids, including her own. She looked after her own brothers, both younger and older. When her younger brother died in an accident at his workplace, she was distraught. I forced her to accept some money as a loan and she insisted on paying it back in instalments of Rs. 500/- each month until it was fully repaid. 

"Main toh zindagi ke daldal mei phas gayi hoon Didi! Isse nikalna mushkil hai." ("I am trapped in the quagmire of life, Didi! It is very difficult to get out.") she would often lament, but her smile never dimmed for a moment.

After three months of convalescence, I was well enough to get back to work. That meant I had to start cooking for myself. Khurshid insisted on preparing the raw ingredients every evening for the next day's meal so that I wouldn't have to spend too much time on the prep work.

But more often than not, after a grueling day at the office, I would be too tired to cook, so I would order a takeout, dreading Khurshid's frown of disapproval the next day.

So finally, she took a unilateral decision to resume the responsibility of cooking my meals.

"Aapka tabiyat kharaab ho jaiga, Didi! Bahar ka khana acchey nahi hotey." ("You will fall ill Didi! Eating out is not good for your health.")

And so, for the next three years, she regularly showed up at 6:00 PM every evening, waited outside my door until I got back home, cooked my dinner till about 7:30 PM, and walked 4 km back home to take care of her own chores. I never saw such dedication in anyone else.

                                                         **********************

She once taught me how to cook biryani in a pressure cooker. It tasted heavenly and when I told her so, she blushed. She always blushed when I praised her culinary skills.

"Didi, lots of people love my biryani and I love cooking it for them. But I don't like it myself."

"Wait…what? Why?!" I squeaked in astonishment. So far, the number of people I have met who don't like biryani is zero.

"Didi, there are so many separate layers – kesar rice, white rice, meat, beresta, spices, khoya, and what not! If you don't mix it properly while serving you don't get the proper taste. You get more of something and less of something else!"

"So, what is your favorite dish?"

"I like pulao better. All the ingredients – rice, meat, spices – are mixed well. All the colors, tastes and flavors are right there, in every mouthful. Nothing is missing. I love that!"

Khurshid was so right. Life has innumerable colours, myriad flavours, a million tastes. They bend, twist, flow around and into each other, weaving so many wonderful and bizarre patterns that it would be a pity to miss out even one!


                                                                       


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