Sultry Summer Afternoons

4/A Tarak Pramanick Road, Kolkata

We hurriedly tried to finish lunch. Dada and I sat on the floor on mats at one end of the room against a wall facing the rest of the room. To our left were three Kakas or paternal uncles, all unmarried, in their early twenties and baba. To our right against the huge bed sat our grandparents -Thakuma or Bui as we called her and Dadu. Ma had the end of her saadi over her head, like she usually did while visiting Girish Park. She silently served everyone. With gestures they told her if they wanted another serving. No one spoke. It was one of those days, when no one spoke. All were lost in their worlds. You could only hear the dusty ceiling fan that was never oiled in its entire life, make a periodic noise with each round, and different chewing sounds from everyone’s mouth.  One could also hear bits of broken Hindustani from the local basti . Occasionally Thakuma spoke. Mostly about second helpings for her eldest son and the name that was always at the tip of her tongue – “Basonti’ (Ma).

Dada ate with a spoon. He always did. Even fish. Our attempt to finish lunch quickly was foiled by Thakuma’s summons to ma to give us more rice. I protested. Dada didn’t. He never did. One of the early reasons for Ma to love Dada more than me, was his calm and accepting nature, even as a child. My protest was the first noise one heard in the room. Tipu the German Sheppard resembling mongrel, who waited in anticipation for our leftovers, picked up the sound and up went one of his ears. Ma glared at me, Baba gave me a swift glance – soft enough to say he was not angry, but firm enough to tell me, he can, if I didn’t take the second helping.

Finally the big plate of Mangoes came. I swiftly picked the ‘takua’ or the large flat seed , my favourite part of the mango. Tipu looked excited at the prospect of getting his favourite fruit, albeit, the peel. Thakuma looked on too. She was diabetic and wasn’t allowed mangoes. But Dadu in his usual indulgent manner put two slices on her plate as she mildly resisted.

Finally, the ordeal was over. Amidst belches and stretches all got up. Ma stacked up the ‘ointha*’ plates. She looked miserable, tired and sweaty. We looked on as she wiped the floor with a wet cloth, never once asking Dada or me to help her with anything. We didn’t offer, either. Folding the mats she went into the kitchen and sat down. I followed suit. She asked me to leave. She wanted to be alone, when she ate. Dada and I took off to sit around Thakuma while she made her Paan. We made one for ourselves with meetha paan masala. She had taught me to make the adult versions too. So I made one for her and Dadu. I then took my share and went off to sit by the wooden framed green window with iron grill, to watch the basti children play with a hope to catch a little street fight, if lucky.

Sultry summer holiday afternoons.

( An extract from a sultry Sunday summer afternoon from my yesteryears. Those afternoons were depressing. I don’t know why. But by evening everything would change.The picture above was taken on my visit to Kolkata in January this year. I begged my uncle and dad to take me to North Kolkata around all those places I had seen as a kid, especially 4/A Tarak Paramanick Road where I spent most of my childhood summer vacations. That letter box is still the same. The little red bench too. Thakuma usually sat there chatting with her friends.Will try and do a photo post of my memories of Kolkata. I was watching Pather Panchali again and suddenly had an urge to write about my childhood)

*ointha – used