Tuesday, May 2, 2023

Mumlette

 


Mumlette is not omelette mispronounced. It is an altogether different dish (and memories associated with it). Omelette is the fancier cousin…the one who visits Kolkata (from abroad) once a year and stands out with their accent and need for toilet paper.

Omelette is the cheesy perfection that chefs make for you at restaurants (or what you have “learnt” to make at home), usually for breakfast or a healthy lunch. Fluffy, gooey and often loaded with veggies we may not have grown up eating (mushrooms, olives, peppers), it is folded a way that radiates a certain level of mastery in the kitchen.

Mumlette is not cheesy like that (literally or otherwise). No, sir. It is totally comfortable with its rough edges (literally) and that uneven half-moon fold. Often cooked in Bengali households with “shorsher tel” (mustard oil), it is a go-to snack/meal, for anytime of the day. Be it the unannounced guest at 7pm or the “gaaner didimoni” (music teacher) at 4pm on Wednesdays or “onker sir” (Maths tutor) at 9am on Saturday mornings, or the common “Ma khub khidey peyeche” (Ma, I am hungry) after school….a mumlette is the unsung hero of a Bengali household, next only to Maggi (especially in Kolkata). Or such is my memory from my growing-up days, back in the 90s. I am sure the healthier olive oil has replaced the mustard oil in most kitchens in India now….and pastries/cookies/puffs/chicken nuggets are the go-to snacks these days.

But today, I ditched the olive oil, cheese and mushrooms to make a proper mumlette. With red onions and green chillies (coriander leaves would have made it perfect, but I didn’t have any), my mumlette was just the imperfect perfection I was aiming for. And yes, I can vouch for its teleporting powers. I could almost hear my “gaaner sir” play the harmonium and see Ma walking into the room with a tray, carefully balancing the tea and biscuits on one side, and a plate with the mumlette on the other…

Friday, April 28, 2023

15 years in Perth

 


This month, 15 years back, I arrived in Perth…with big dreams and a very small bank balance. Having wrapped up things in India, paid off student loans, packed our lives and belongings in four suitcases…it was like hitting a reset button on our lives, like many immigrants.

The house we rented on a noisy street in Belmont was blue. Literally. The garage door was not automatic. When we came home every night, we would get off the car (a heavy door needed two pairs of hands), unlock the door, push it open while it made that metal screech that makes you cringe, hop back into the car, drive in, get off the car, close the door and finally lock it. An insignificant detail, one would think. But it kind of summed up our life then. A bit messy, screechy and lacking in comfort but not in zeal.

Many of you know the story of the yellow flowers in our rental home. Some of you have read about why we chose Perth in the first place (and why we love it so much). But very few know that a payment of around $12-$15 (three coffees and one fries, I think) on our debit card was declined in our first month here. We had “insufficient funds” after paying the bond money on our rental home, buying groceries and making a down payment for our car. So, until Amit’s salary came in (in a couple of days), we could only hope we would survive without any expenses (our Transperth cards thankfully were loaded…so life would go on).

Those were the days we finally saw the point in the mental maths classes from our school days. Converting AUD to INR in our minds, for pretty much everything we bought (or could not buy), jogged our brain cells like nothing else did. At the butcher’s one Thursday (late night shopping), we were surprised (and delighted) to find how cheap mince meat was (after the said mental maths exercise). We bought 2 kilos of mince (and some other essentials), pushed our shopping trolley to the farthest point we could (without taking it home), and walked the rest of the way home (our no-car days). Back home, we cooked the mince with Jamie-Oliver-esque joy and passion…neither of which lasted long. After our first spoonful, we almost lost our teeth (with no private health insurance still, losing teeth would have been a terrible tragedy). We bit into….what felt like….gravel. Why on earth would mince meat have that many bones?! What appallingly bad quality, for a country that’s known for its dairy and meat, we thought!

Turns out, we had bought “pet mince” (mince your dog would enjoy thoroughly). That explained why it was so cheap. That would also explain why we could never walk past that butcher without grinding our teeth, even months after this incident. But we lived to tell the story :).

15 years on, our mental maths is not so great anymore (we no longer convert between currencies). We have discovered mince meat meant for humans. We have lost teeth and claimed dental benefits from our private health insurance. We have a non-blue home with an automatic garage door (life’s little joys). We have “sufficient funds” for coffee and fries (mostly). But our “meatier” life stories are mostly from 15 years back.

Monday, June 13, 2022

Friends

Friends kept me going in my darkest days. My friends, of course. But also the TV show.

Having just lost Ma, my world had suddenly shrunk. I was stuck in my thoughts and did not step out of the TV room much. Seated in my trusty recliner, I watched Friends again…episode after episode…season after season. With my eyes on my favourite TV characters, my mind comfortably drifted. To memories from the recent past….and those of my childhood. The lines between real and make-belief blurred away. And while The One with the Evil Orthodontist was nowhere close to any personal experience (thankfully), I was transported to “the one in which Ma took me to the dentist”….” . And then, one by one, episode after episode, Ma made an appearance.  “The one in which Ma came to visit me in Australia” ….. the one in which Ma made malpoa”…”the one in which Ma was in the hospital”. Wait, close that tab, open a new one. ”The one in which Ma acted in a pujor natok”….”the one in which Ma posed with Boudi for photos in our Puri trip”….”the one in which we went to Mamabari with Ma”…”the one in which Ma packed Baba’s lunches”…”the one in which Ma braided Shanaya’s hair”…”the one in which Ma tried to get up from her wheelchair in her physiotherapy session”. No, close that too.

With my mind working overtime, I needed white noise…to fill the time it took to close a tab and open another. But not any type of white noise would do. Not music (I needed visuals) ….and not anything new (couldn’t let new voices and faces into my room or thoughts). I wanted the familiary and comfort of people I love. People I trust. On screen too, as in real life.

Friends was the only choice.

I was with them on the couch at Central Perk. They did their own thing. I did mine. But being close to them was important. I needed to be left alone. But not totally alone. They got that.

I did not skip the title credits like I usually do…. not for a single episode. I let it play, over and over again. For “I’ll be there for you..” never sounded more soothing. They meant it for me. And I believed them.




 

Monday, April 11, 2022

Life Be Not Proud

There's a war raging...

And a pandemic.

A routine blood test report could change life as we know it. Or perhaps a 000 call.

Everything we hold dear...every near one...we could lose. One way or another.

Our bodies are ageing. Our memory fading. Even those are not our own.

House plants die. From over or under watering. We care too much. Or too less.

Friends grow apart. Kids grow up. Dreams are achieved or go stale. Either way, beautiful things don't last.

Even love comes with price tags. And poetry with painful punctuation. 

Nothing is real. Except imagination. Until we lose that too.

Life be not proud, I say.

For in the end... we'll either turn into dirt..or lie under a pile of it.


P.S. Oscillating between John Donne's "Death Be Not Proud" and "No Man is an Island", I confronted my fear of loss.

Tuesday, October 5, 2021

Mahalaya 2021

 Losing a mother is like losing a part of you. For you were once a part of her, you see. It’s looking at the veins at the back of your hands and realising how similar they are to hers. It’s unconsciously humming a song you don’t even like, and remembering that she did the same when she came out of the shower and went straight to the thakur ashon to offer nokul dana, jol and dhoop (with a towel still wrapped around her hair). It’s picking up a brown nail polish at the shops, and keeping it back…because brown was her favourite colour (and nail polish her favourite indulgence).

It’s also losing a part of your identity, because nobody knows those minute details from your childhood like she did. One may know how you got that scar on your forehead, but only she can tell you how tight you held her hand at the doctor’s during the stitches (and begged for an ice-cream, specifically in a cone, later). An aunt or a neighbour may tell you how unique your dresses were, but only she can tell you how she bought the fabric and lace from that corner shop in New Market, and had it made as per her specific design at the Ladies Fancy tailoring shop.

It’s been four months and six days since I lost Ma. Well-wishers have suggested that I take the time to grieve. Friends have advised that I should write about my thoughts. But I didn’t know how to. What words could capture something that was so intense, and yet hidden in the most mundane things? How do I explain the sudden anxiety in the middle of the night, when I realise I haven’t called her that day? Or when I ask my eight-year-old to pose in her new dress, so that I can send the photo to Dida? Grief, you regular yet random, fleeting yet constant thing…how will I ever capture you in words?

Grief is like a filter. It casts a different layer to every occasion – happy or sombre. It changes the colour of memories. It makes the happiest of them slightly damp. It leaves every present moment only a tad bit incomplete. The little achievements….the proud milestones…the joyful moments…almost perfect, but never quite. It’s not a moment in time. It’s a way of life. The life before a loss….and the life after.

And this was my first Mahalaya in my life after. Mahalaya – the day, the feeling, the smell, the sounds! All changed forever…yet again after 20yrs (since Baba breathed his last). The first time when the significance of the day was more in the Tarpan than in the Chandipath. The first time when the feeling of “Ma aar nei” was stronger than “Ma asche…”.

  


Sunday, August 29, 2021

Bela Bose Flipped

 Anjan Dutta (and Bela Bose) fans (and I am a fan too of the song, btw), pardon the silliness...but I wonder if "Bela Bose - Flipped" would sound something like this... ;)


P.S. Written in a silly mood (so not meant to be taken seriously).

‐--------------------------


"Bela Bose - Flipped"


Chakri ta ebar cherey debo, ogo shuncho

Eto khatakhati ar je poshachchey na

Dhaar dena gulo ebar tumi ekai dekhe nio

Nota pachtar chakri ar korbona.


Chakri ta ebar cherey debo, ogo shuncho

Ekhon ar keu atkate parbe na

Ghoreybaairey dudik shamliye, chollam to koto

Baki jibon ta ebhabe katabo na.


Eta ki 2441139?

Ogo koi tumi...parcho ki shunte?

Lunchbreak jachchey furiye

Oi boss elo bujhi firey.

Debo na kichutei ar chechatey.


Shopno ebar hoye jabe ogo shotti

Etodin dhorey eto opekhkha

Nota pachtar ei rat race e

Bodhdho jiboney bondi dujoney

Hapiye gechi roj ditey e porikhkha


Ar kichu din tarpor amar mukti

Grihokormey nipuna hobo shotti...

Shada kalo ei jonjale bhora miththey kothar shohorey

Tomar amar single-income sonsar.


Hello 2441139?

Ogo koi tumi...parcho ki shunte?

Lunchbreak jachchey furiye

Oi boss elo bujhi firey.

Debo na kichutei ar chechatey.


Chup kore keno eki ogo tumi kandcho

Chakri ta ami cherey debo shotti

Career and promotion er, ichchey geche furiye

New mantra "Netflix and parenting".


Hello 2441139?

Dhur chai...2441139?

Ogo..

 2441139...

Shuncho...

2441139

Grief

 And when the lights are off...

And curtains pulled 

When the sky is dark

And the neighbourhood quiet...


The memories march in

The wounds refresh.

The storm inside

Awakens.


The deep, dark, bottomless pain

Stirs every ounce of my being.

Scenes I wish I could forget

Pictures I wish I could unsee

Parade before my eyes.


So when they say you're "resting in peace" now.

I hope you are. At least one of us must.



Monday, February 8, 2021

Partner in Crime

 

Most corporates turn their philanthropic activities into marketing campaigns. I have no issues with that, as long as the philanthropy continues…

When I was in Year 5 or 6 in school, Maggi had sponsored some such initiative. Something to do with educating underprivileged children (I can’t quite remember). But what I do remember is that they gave all the students a packet of Maggi each, as a token.

For those who know my love for Maggi, this may not come as a surprise. But I went home that day only with half a packet of Maggi. The other half? Well, I ate it of course. Uncooked. In class. Sneakily, without the teacher’s knowledge. How easily the Horlicks tag line  - “ami to emni emnii khai”, could be applied to this product too, I thought!

The other half, Ma cooked (in 2 minutes, as they claim). But I ate it in less than a minute, am sure.

 So, it pleases me to see that I have given birth to (or raised) another fan of the noodles. She happily eats the Masala variety (my favourite), and does not find it spicy (which is strange for someone who plays the “too spicy, mummy” card, way too often).

So yesterday, back home from school on a raining afternoon, we slurped our bowlful of steaming, hot Maggi. As I let her eat some uncooked strands of noodles (much to her amazement and joy), I smiled at my new-found partner in crime! 



Dear Maggi

From a chunk of cold noodles that would take the shape of my lunchbox in school...


To a bowl of freshly-made steaming noodles when bedridden with flu...



From a quick meal on a winter afternoon, when hands and mind were too frozen to cook or clean...


To a wholesome midnight snack when the book just couldn't be put down...


Dear, Maggi...what would I have done without you!

(Originally written in 2011, as a FB post)