Between the Lines Chapter 10

It was a Sunday, and Sundays were always special to Guno and me. Shubho had just flown down from California and was fast asleep. Guno woke up early, she loved goat curry, and Sunday was a goat curry day in our house. She did not have teeth yet to chew, but she loved the curry with rice. Goat curry and luuchi(fried Indian bread) were a typical Sunday dish in most Bengali households. Baba went to the meat shop after breakfast to get the prime cut of the meat. If you went after 10 am, Kasim, the meat shop owner, would usually give you the bony portions, and by late afternoon his meat was usually sold out.

Morabadi was a fairly large neighborhood. A few blocks further from our house, you could already see the beautiful countryside, surrounded by hills, the Boreya river winding between lush green forests and tiny Adivasi villages. Adivasi was used to address the native people of Ranchi, who were primarily very poor, their origins dating back to pre-Aryan periods. Indian history concludes that Aryans migrated to India thousands of years ago, and forced the native inhabitants of the land to flee towards the southern part of the country. But after observing the various creeds of people in India, I had serious doubts on whether we did originate from somewhere near the Caspian sea. I always found southern India culturally richer and northern India much more confused and raw in terms of the cultural depth. As to the race, there was no evident difference.

Budhan was Adivasi and came from one of the poorest communities of her village. She had three sons, but none of them had taken care of her, after creating their own families. Her husband was in jail, and had been "in" as Budhan liked to state since she was very young. When she first came to our house, I was twelve, and I had asked her innocently, " Why is your husband in jail? Did he steal?". Budhan had replied, "No dear, he had slit the throat of two men in our village". Ma was dumbstruck at her reply. I had never seen Budhan visiting her husband.She hated him, and she now hated her sons as well. When she had come to our house looking for work, she was homeless.She smelt of raw tobacco and stale beer. She used to sell rice beer at a local shop in her village, but she was thrown out when one day she decided to pick up a fight with the owner.

Budhan had given up her habit of smoking beedi(Indian cigarette) but had not been able to give up her alcohol. But one rule she always maintained, she never brought her drink home. Over the years, she had made our house her home. She slept in the back veranda, which Baba had got partially covered after she came. She sometimes went to visit her grandchildren, about twice a year. But that was it, she had no other connection with her family. As to why her husband had slit the throat of two men, I had no idea. My mother had hushed me when I tried to ask her, and she had not bothered to explain to us about her life in the past, ever. 

Budhan wore her sari in the Adivasi style, ending right below her knee. She would prepare our Sunday mutton(goat) curry over the coal fire in our back garden. Ma cooked the rest of the dishes in the kitchen. Mutton prepared in the coal fire, had a flavor of its own that could never be replicated in a gas cooker. Julian da was a cousin of Baba who lived in the neighborhood. The story goes that our great grandfather had two sons, both of whom had been sent to the UK to get their higher degrees, our great grandfather being a rich landlord of his times. Zamindari was a form of land owning, a practice, that was abolished after India's independence from the British rule. His two sons returned with English degrees and landed themselves cushy jobs in the Indian government offices. With the zamindari being abolished, my grandfather, the first son, chose to become a Railway Officer. The younger son came back with a white wife and settled in the customs office department. His wife being English, named her sons Julian and Robin. 

That Sunday, Julian da and his wife came for lunch, and to meet Shubho. Shubo was unshaven and looked like a hairy monster. Julian da's wife Abha di, kept staring at Shubho's hairy legs, to my embarrassment. Shubo loved shorts, even in Ranchi's December weather. "You guys sit beside a charcoal fire at  5-degree celsius. That is complete madness. Why do you even need a fire in this temperate weather", he complained. "I feel awfully hot", he said, adjusting himself in his chair. Abha di, stared at his legs once more, and replied, "Poor thing, California must be really cold. That is why you feel so hot here". I kept silent. I decided to leave it to Shubho to explain to her that California was not much different in terms of weather, except of course the month of May in Ranchi, when it was exceptionally hot. 

Shubho was a moody young man, and his mood has matured with age, but his adaptation of American culture is something I refuse to put up with even today. A peanut butter sandwich for lunch and a double cheese hamburger and fries for dinner is not my cup of tea. We ate quietly that afternoon, as Julian da and Shubo discussed Indian politics, and I and Ma discussed food with Abha di. Baba played with Guno. Late afternoon, Pulok uncle joined us for tea. He worked at Baba's office, and we had many of my Baba's colleagues and families joining over for tea or dinner at our place on Sunday's. Most days they dropped in uninvited.

We rarely extended formal invitations to people for lunch or dinner, unless there was an event or Baba invited his colleagues home. People just dropped in to say Hello, stayed over for lunch or sometimes dinner, and we served them whatever we had at home. Sometimes, Ma would send Budhan for a quick shopping spree to the nearby grocery shop or Divyayan. Or she would just prepare something fresh out of our back garden. We had pumpkins, potatoes, cauliflowers, and a host of fruit trees in our back garden. Our back garden ended where the back garden of our neighbor started. They had the second largest house in the neighborhood, with over an acre of back garden dispersed with several pockets of fruit trees.

That day Ma had also cooked jackfruit that Budhan had brought from the market. Ma offered, Pulak uncle some jackfruit curry and leftover luuchis from lunch. While we were having our afternoon tea, the gardener from our next door neighbor knocked at our gate. Baba attended to it. He seemed to be upset with the gardener. Ma and I joined to see what was the matter. We rarely heard Baba shouting. "He says, he saw Budhan steal a jackfruit from their garden.That is ridiculous", Baba said. The old gardener was a pest. I remember, he chased us as kids, if we entered his priceless garden. Ma quietly went to her bedroom and handed over a five rupee note to the gardener. "Here you go Raku. "I know Budhan did not steal it. But I will still give you some money since you think you have lost your precious jackfruit. Now you may go". Raku, was still complaining, but seeing the stern look on Ma's face, he got a bit scared. "Raku, leave now, I said",  Ma repeated in a louder voice, pointing her finger at Raku, asking him to leave. Raku left. Baba started arguing with Ma, "Why did you give him the money. Why didn't you check with Budhan first?". Ma replied, "We have guests, and our son in law is visiting us. Let's not waste time in futile arguments. Come inside, Your favorite ginger tea is getting cold". Baba did not argue any further. 

Next day, Raku's employer, our neighbor Mr. Bose, called to apologize to Ma and Baba. "I was out of town, and I heard from our house caretaker, that Raku had created quite a ruckus at your place yesterday. I am truly ashamed of his act", he said. Baba replied, "It's Ok. This is not the first time he has behaved like this. It is high time, you should think of employing another gardener", he said and hung up the phone. On other occasions, he would have chatted with Mr. Bose, but yesterday's event had left him feeling sour.

I checked with Budhan later, when Baba was not around.  Budhan replied, "Why shouldn't I steal from his garden. It is not his anyway. That motherfucker deserves it. I had asked him if I could take the jackfruit that was lying on the ground. It would have spoiled anyways, and he said no. So I plucked a fresh one later", she declared. "But you mustn't do that you know, you will get us all into trouble. Raku loves his garden", I explained to her. "He does not have the stick to love a woman, that is why he loves his garden.The other day, he slapped  some poor kids who were trying to pluck guava from his garden." "I called the kids to our garden and gave them some guavas. But our guavas are not as sweet as his one", she said sadly.

Poor village kids on their way back from school often stole fruits from gardens in our neighborhood houses. As a kid, I and Kakima's daughter often joined them in their fruit hunts. The kids were naughty at times and had no respect for the gardens, but Ma always asked Budhan to help them pluck the fruits they wanted if she caught them stealing from our back garden.We had four guava trees, a lemon tree, a mango tree, and a few banana trees, and we always had surplus fruits in our garden.  That way the kids would not cause unnecessary damage to our garden, and we would feel happy that our fruits were being eaten by hungry kids instead of falling to the ground and rotting.