=====================================================================
Last couple of days fish have been swimming into my blog.
Born into an Orthodox South Indian Brahmin family, and growing up in a sea-side village in the early 1950s, I was shocked one day to learn that people could be eating things other than rice, sabji, sambar and curd. I had a large number of friendly Muslim school-mates. I was drawn to them because they were very sportive types, excelling in outdoor Games and Sports. They used to quickly drop out from school to take up their family callings like tailoring, soda-water bottling, beedi-rolling, and, as I learned to my dismay, dressing and vending mutton. They used to invite me to their homes teasing me that they would feed me Biryani, Khurma, and Royyala Pulusu (prawn-sambar). The lingo they used was a fascinating mix of Urdu and Telugu (much sweeter than the Hyderabadi “kaiko? Aaathoom, Jaathoom”). And, to frighten me out of my wits, they would vividly describe their male brethren’s ‘Upanayanam’ Function (Sunthi or Circumcision Ceremony). Whenever my mother lost her bucket that slips from her hands and drops into the deep open–pulley-well, she would plead with me to fetch my 10-year-old friend Karim to dive into the well and retrieve it for her with the bait of an anna (1/16 of a silver rupee coin).
When at 21, I joined IIT KGP as an Associate Lecturer, I discovered to my dismay that Bengali Brahmins are fond of eating fish, which they deliciously allude to as Jalo-Pushpo (‘aquaflower’ like cauliflower). I had to hunt in vain for vegetarian food: no sambar, no curd, no tamarind or mango pickle, and no coffee! There was sweet curd (mishti dohi) though, but by then I discovered that sweets and sweethearts leave a bitter taste after they are done with. As I was a reluctant bachelor, my Bengali married friends used to take pity on me and invite me to their homes once in a while for grub. In particular, Mrs DB, an elegant English MA from JU, used to invite me for a loochi-khitchiri-pulaav party on condition that at the end I would mix dahi with rice and eat it with my dripping hands: she would then call her 5-year old daughter to run and watch me as if they were visiting a zoo for free.
I had this other Bengali friend in our Faculty Hostel who was engaged to get married soon to another MA from JU. Like me he was also a village-kid, shy and timid. He told me one night that his fiancée would be traveling to Puri on an excursion trip along with a few of her friends by Puri Express and asked him to come to the KGP station to meet them. The train was scheduled to arrive at 2 AM at KGP and leave at 2.40 AM. He asked me to wake him up because he was a lark and not an owl like me. When at 1.30 AM I banged his door, he came out rubbing his eyes in his pajamas. I reminded him of his scheduled visit to the Railway Station. He kept mum for a good 2 minutes and said he wouldn’t go. I scolded him and threatened that his marriage bells wouldn’t be ringing sweet. He blurted that he was too scared to go on his push-bike alone pedaling 5 km on a deserted night. I then offered to escort him on my own antique machine. He summoned up the needed courage and both of us were there by 2.10 AM. The Announcement was blaring that the Puri Express was on time and standing on Platform Number 5 (Murphy’s Law again!). I told him to dump his bike with me and run, and I would be there after depositing our cycles in the Cycle Shed. As I dawdled on to the Platform, I was stunned to watch that our hero was being literally mobbed by a bogie-full of at least 40 JU girls. As the train was just about to steam out of KGP, his fiancée asked him to introduce his escort to her; and I just put my nose in before the train tooted away.
On our way back to the Faculty Hostel my friend was a pristinely chastened man and was wondering aloud repeatedly what Fate would have scorched him had he snoozed off that balmy starry summer night.
His fiancée insisted that I would be their First Guest soon after their marriage. And said that for all the trouble I took that night saving her from ignominy, she would feed me FISH! Despite all my vehement protestations, I had to settle for a ‘fish cutlet’ which, my friend assured me, didn’t have bones and would be more cutlet than fish.
That was the first and last fish dish I ate; but it was always a visual pleasure watching Bhadramahilas devour a bony toothsome Hilsa clean!
==========================================================================
Last couple of days fish have been swimming into my blog.
Born into an Orthodox South Indian Brahmin family, and growing up in a sea-side village in the early 1950s, I was shocked one day to learn that people could be eating things other than rice, sabji, sambar and curd. I had a large number of friendly Muslim school-mates. I was drawn to them because they were very sportive types, excelling in outdoor Games and Sports. They used to quickly drop out from school to take up their family callings like tailoring, soda-water bottling, beedi-rolling, and, as I learned to my dismay, dressing and vending mutton. They used to invite me to their homes teasing me that they would feed me Biryani, Khurma, and Royyala Pulusu (prawn-sambar). The lingo they used was a fascinating mix of Urdu and Telugu (much sweeter than the Hyderabadi “kaiko? Aaathoom, Jaathoom”). And, to frighten me out of my wits, they would vividly describe their male brethren’s ‘Upanayanam’ Function (Sunthi or Circumcision Ceremony). Whenever my mother lost her bucket that slips from her hands and drops into the deep open–pulley-well, she would plead with me to fetch my 10-year-old friend Karim to dive into the well and retrieve it for her with the bait of an anna (1/16 of a silver rupee coin).
When at 21, I joined IIT KGP as an Associate Lecturer, I discovered to my dismay that Bengali Brahmins are fond of eating fish, which they deliciously allude to as Jalo-Pushpo (‘aquaflower’ like cauliflower). I had to hunt in vain for vegetarian food: no sambar, no curd, no tamarind or mango pickle, and no coffee! There was sweet curd (mishti dohi) though, but by then I discovered that sweets and sweethearts leave a bitter taste after they are done with. As I was a reluctant bachelor, my Bengali married friends used to take pity on me and invite me to their homes once in a while for grub. In particular, Mrs DB, an elegant English MA from JU, used to invite me for a loochi-khitchiri-pulaav party on condition that at the end I would mix dahi with rice and eat it with my dripping hands: she would then call her 5-year old daughter to run and watch me as if they were visiting a zoo for free.
I had this other Bengali friend in our Faculty Hostel who was engaged to get married soon to another MA from JU. Like me he was also a village-kid, shy and timid. He told me one night that his fiancée would be traveling to Puri on an excursion trip along with a few of her friends by Puri Express and asked him to come to the KGP station to meet them. The train was scheduled to arrive at 2 AM at KGP and leave at 2.40 AM. He asked me to wake him up because he was a lark and not an owl like me. When at 1.30 AM I banged his door, he came out rubbing his eyes in his pajamas. I reminded him of his scheduled visit to the Railway Station. He kept mum for a good 2 minutes and said he wouldn’t go. I scolded him and threatened that his marriage bells wouldn’t be ringing sweet. He blurted that he was too scared to go on his push-bike alone pedaling 5 km on a deserted night. I then offered to escort him on my own antique machine. He summoned up the needed courage and both of us were there by 2.10 AM. The Announcement was blaring that the Puri Express was on time and standing on Platform Number 5 (Murphy’s Law again!). I told him to dump his bike with me and run, and I would be there after depositing our cycles in the Cycle Shed. As I dawdled on to the Platform, I was stunned to watch that our hero was being literally mobbed by a bogie-full of at least 40 JU girls. As the train was just about to steam out of KGP, his fiancée asked him to introduce his escort to her; and I just put my nose in before the train tooted away.
On our way back to the Faculty Hostel my friend was a pristinely chastened man and was wondering aloud repeatedly what Fate would have scorched him had he snoozed off that balmy starry summer night.
His fiancée insisted that I would be their First Guest soon after their marriage. And said that for all the trouble I took that night saving her from ignominy, she would feed me FISH! Despite all my vehement protestations, I had to settle for a ‘fish cutlet’ which, my friend assured me, didn’t have bones and would be more cutlet than fish.
That was the first and last fish dish I ate; but it was always a visual pleasure watching Bhadramahilas devour a bony toothsome Hilsa clean!
==========================================================================
No comments:
Post a Comment