Spelling Bee

It was back in those days when I could not go to the bathroom alone. Not because I was scared or injured, but because I had a toddler in tow 24x7. She followed me around like a shadow – but only if we were at home. Anywhere else, especially outdoors, she would do just the opposite. That is, not follow me around (which would be safe and reassuring) but run in every possible direction away from me. Towards oncoming traffic or water bodies, into shops and elevators, or in short, in any general direction of danger.

The said toddler had sharp ears and an even sharper capability to pick up words we didn’t want it to hear. But what it was sharpest at was to blurt those words out at the most inappropriate situations (like most toddlers do). After all, what was the purpose of spending nine months in the womb if it wasn’t utilised in studying the womb-owner in great detail and knowing exactly which nerves would be particularly fun to get on?

Anyway, that was the time when we started to spell out words at home, so that we could have conversations without the constant fear of “Watch-Out-The-Toddler-Understands”. It was as if we were both preparing for some Spelling Bee competition, which did not have particularly high standards (as we would occasionally spell out even the articles and prepositions, out of habit). We would say, “Let’s not give her M-I-L-K at bedtime today. It’s not good for her teeth”. Or, “Do not eat the C-H-I-P-S in front of her. She won’t have dinner then.”

The arrangement was working well for a while. Until we realised that it was affecting our peace of mind (and the general peace at home). For the toddler’s dad could not use the spell-checker while talking, which meant, I could not resist correcting him. You can imagine what would follow!

During this time, I planned to go out for dinner with a girlfriend one night. Just the two of us (after our respective toddlers were in bed). Months of planning, near-misses and actual misses later, we made it. It was a well-deserved and much-needed break, we told ourselves. So, we dressed up for the occasion….and even managed to brush our hair and leave the house without a food stain on our clothes.

We chose fine dining, of course (given, our usual dinners involved eating leftover baby food). Venting over glasses of wine, we were having a good time. You know what they say about “shared pain is half the pain”. And when the pain involves being regularly stabbed on our arms with “fairy wands” or tripping over scattered Lego blocks around the house, there is indeed a lot of solace in sharing.  So, we chatted the night away, sipping our wines and sharing our war stories.

But when the waitress refilled our water and asked whether we needed anything else, every five minutes, we knew we had to leave. For everyone else had. When we asked for the check, it was brought to us in less than two seconds. (They really wanted us to leave by then.) I placed my credit card on the tray, picked up a mouth-freshener, and almost involuntarily asked my friend “Should we T-I-P?” My friend turned a shade of red.  It nicely complimented her dress, I thought (slightly tipsy, by then). And then I turned to the waitress, who instantly got busy refilling our water jug (yet again).

Just in case you don’t get it (and I don’t mean to sound condescending), let me “spell” it out for you.  I had spelled out T-I-P in the presence of the waitress, who, I’m pretty sure, knew how to spell too (unlike my toddler). So, without any further eye contact with the said waitress or my friend, I did T-I-P. And we ran out of the place….promising never to come back.

P.S. To this day, I have involuntary twitching when I hear the word “tip”. 

Daaler Bora

Before the ghee-bhaat induced high could die down, I indulged in yet another childhood favourite – the daaler bora (crunchy lentil balls). At home, this was typically made when there was no fish or chicken on the menu (which was a rare occurrence in a Bengali household). 

The first few batches had all the recommended ingredients, including the onion and chilli. But we devoured them at such speed that Ma and her help couldn’t keep pace with their frying. So, the last few batches had pretty much only the daal and the kalo jeerey (black nigella seeds). It was too much effort to keep chopping onions and chillies, when you’re feeding (what must have felt like) a hungry village. However, the missing ingredients made no difference to us. We wiped clean the plates, as soon as they were served….until Ma would say “Daal shesh” (meaning, “We have run out of daal”).

Ma would always make a special, gigantic one for me. I’d relish it at the end of the meal, in no rush to finish it. Baba would say that the small ones actually tasted better, as they were cooked through and crunchier. But I always loved my special, gigantic one the most.

I made these yesterday, after getting back from work. Those of you who know my relationship with the kitchen, know why this is a big deal (I avoid that space as much as I can). My 4-yr old pulled up a little stool next to me, while I fried these little parcels of joy. Reliving those days, when I would have been slightly older than her, the two of us giggled like school girls.

And then, we sat in our backyard and devoured them with a cup of tea (no, she didn’t have the tea, in case you’re wondering). We kept aside a few for Daddy. But he would never know of the gigantic one, which now rests in peace in a little tummy. Shh.

Ghee Bhaat

PC: My friend Amit Sengupta and his sister :)

(If you would rather read the English version, scroll to the bottom of this post.)

Ek gorosh holeo, shokale school e jaoar aage, modhdhobitto Bangalir barite, bachchader etai khawano hoto. Ekhon hoyto sheta paltey sandwich ba cereal hoeche. Kintu amader chotobela, Ma der moner shanti  = bachcha ektu ghee bhaat kheye geche.

Bangali bachchader nadush nudush hoar #1 karon.

Bajarey onek din jaoa hoy ni, fridge e sherom kichu nei….emon dineo etai shombol.

Shordi, kashi, jor jor, mukhey oruchi….tateo eri ek baati.

Hostel life, single life, paying guest, barir jonno mon kharap….ba je kono karoney mon kharap, Bangalir priyo “comfort food”.

Chotobela, amar “baby fat” ta jetey ektu deri korechilo (jodio sheta boro bela abar firey esheche jor kodomey). Class 2 ba 3 e jokhon pori, ekta chotto bhuri niye ghurtam. Onek bhalobasha shotteo, amar Jethu amar Ma ke na boley parey ni “Mitra, Tulir bhuri ta kintu berei choleche”. Je kono Bangali Ma der moto, Ma o nijer meyer bhuri konodino dekhte pay ni.  Jethur kotha kaney ba money na tuley bolechilo, “Bachchader orom ektu adhtu thakey. Oromi bhalo."

Tobe Jethur kotha ta ami oto shohojey bhultey pari ni. Aynay barbar dekhtam nijer bhuri. Eri modhdhay ekdin parar ek didir barite “Putul Biyer” nemontonno. Shekhaney amar bhalobashar onek rokom khabar. Kintu bhuri niye shoddo biporjostho boley, ami khubi shotorko. Oder bari pouchei ami jor golay announce korlam “Ami khub mota hoye jachchi, tai aj kichchu khabo na. Amay khali ektu ghee bhaat dao.”

Ei kotha ta aguner moto choriye gelo paray. “Tuli roga hotey chay boley ektu ghee bhaat khetey cheyeche”. Ajo parar karor shaathe dekha holey, onek kothar modhdhay, ei golpo ta bola hoy amake.

Roga hoya amar hoy ni. Hobeo na. Chotto bhuri aj brihot hoeche. Kintu ghee bhaat, alu shedhdho, kacha lonka ajo amar shob cheye priyo khabar (Biriyani-sthanio, almost). Tai jokhon amar meye onno kichu na khete cheye boley “Mummy, give me only butter and rice”, mone hoy, bhuri ta o amar theke pay ni thiki…kintu genes ta thiki peyeche.

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English version:

When I was growing up, kids from most middle-class Bengali households were made to eat ghee-bhaat (rice, ghee and boiled potato, mashed together to pulpy balls), before they left for school in the morning. Occasionally, a boiled egg was thrown in as well (except on “exam” days, where eggs were thought to be ominous i.e. the kid would score eggs, that is, 0). Today, cereal and sandwiches may have become more popular choices for breakfast. But back then, a Bengali mother’s peace of mind = the child has eaten ghee-bhaat before school.

It’s the #1 reason behind making Bengali kids chubby.

It’s the #1 choice of food on those days when there’s not much left in the fridge or pantry.

It’s also the #1 comfort food for homesick students living away from home (in hostels or as paying guests etc.), or for anyone feeling low in general.

Anyone who has lost their appetite after a bout of sickness, would also turn to ghee-bhaat.

In short, ghee-bhaat should go down in the history of Bengal, not just as food but as a complex socio-economic and even medical phenomenon!

My so called “baby fat” stayed with me, way past my babyhood. When I was in year 2 or 3, my Jethu (my father’s elder brother) couldn’t help telling me Ma “Mitra, Tuli’s paunch seems to be growing every day”. Like most Bengali mums, my Ma was blind to any sort of paunch or chubbiness, when it came to her daughter. She didn’t take it to heart, but said “That’s just a bit of baby fat. No big deal. In fact, that’s how it should be”.

But I wasn’t able to dismiss my Jethu’s words so easily. I looked at the mirror several times during the day, trying to determine if I really had a paunch. Incidentally, that very week, there was a Putuler Biye (doll’s wedding) invitation that I had to attend at a neighbourhood friend’s place. Many of my favourite dishes were on offer. But my new-found self-consciousness had made me quite alert. Just as I got there, I announced loud and clear “I am putting on a bit of weight. I’m not going to eat any of this. Just give me some ghee-bhaat, please.”

News spread like fire in the neighbourhood. “Tuli is trying to lose weight by following a strict ghee-bhaat diet”. Now that you know what ghee-bhaat is, am sure you get the joke. Even today, when I visit India and happen to meet someone from my neighbourhood, this story inevitably comes up.

I still haven’t been able to shed my…erm “baby fat”. And I don’t think I ever will. But ghee-bhaat continues to be my favourite food (I like it almost as much as Biriyani). So, when my 4yr old tells me “Mummy, I don’t want to eat anything. Just give me rice with butter”, I smile. She may not have inherited my paunch, but she sure has my genes.

Words you mis-pronounce

This is part of my Letters to My Little Girl series.

Dear Shanaya,

You’re growing up too fast and that makes me sad. To which you said “That’s because I am eating all my vegetables, Mummy” (which, by the way, is not true).

The other day, you said “magnificent”. To hear that word come out of your tiny lips, in your croaky voice, was funny and scary at the same time. You also know the names of certain body parts, which (no matter what they say about always teaching your kids the correct names) made me jump out of my skin!

So, I am dearly holding on to the few words you still pronounce incorrectly. For very soon, you’ll say them the correct way, and where’s the fun in that?

You regularly want to go to the “escon” (restaurant) to have hot chocolate and cake. You also like stories about “Monu Monu”, which is your version of “Nomo Nomo” (meaning, “praying”). You like clearing out the mailbox and run to me with junk mail, insisting they are “potant” (important). Your favourite thing to draw is a "bLutterfly", and you often ask me for "pop-com" when watching a movie. You also love going to the “libary”, making it sound like a fashionable destination with a silent “r”. And oh, you are forever adding an adorable “y” at the end of most words, making everything sound like a nursery rhyme (night-y, fish-y, cold-y, loud-y, milk-y).

When both of us are standing side my side, you can now touch my shoulder with your hand, without standing on your toes. This makes you immensely proud! Soon, the y’s will be dropped and you will be able to touch my head. But please, please, don’t rush. Let me enjoy your “babyhood” a little longer.

Love,

Mummy