Reflections: Marriage feasts - then and now

Reflections: Marriage feasts - then and now: Come winter and there is marriage in the air. There are the marriage parties that have to be attended to remain sociable. Though not unsoci...

Marriage feasts - then and now

Come winter and there is marriage in the air. There are the marriage parties that have to be attended to remain sociable. Though not unsocial by nature, I was quite horrified to discover how positively derisive I had become of the food that is served at these large social gatherings. I had never in my life aspired to be a snob. But drag me one more day to this spread of Dal-Makhani, Veg Manchurian, Gobhi Adraki, Baked vegetables - to be replaced by Tawa vegetables in winter, Paneer Lawabdar, Nav-ratan Pulao, Chowmein, nondescript chicken or mutton dishes named Rogan Josh or Pasanda or Begum-bahar, naan or tandoori rotis, followed by Gulab Jamun and vanilla ice cream with a spoon of chocolate sauce - and I promise to walk out of my sixth-floor balcony - eyes closed - hands spreadeagled – into thin air - straight down to Mother Earth - no regrets! Though not one with a sweet tooth, five years back I would at least look forward to the Jalebis with Malai or Gajar ki Halwa in winter. But now – the predictability has killed the cat in me and I can walk past the sweet counter without casting a glance. 
That I am also positively scared of my 50 (+/-) enthusiastic teetotaler friends with their parlor-fresh backs in back-less cholis dancing madly elegantly to the tunes of “Lungi Dance” or “Char botol Vodka” or “Saturday Saturday”- just adds to the problem. I have a dozen left-feet. I can’t dance. I could never dance. And there is no way you can drag my copious self to the ubiquitous floor today - no not even the gyroscopic lights nor the handsome DJ can do that dear friend! Apologies to my host if I appear to be less participative than what you had imagined I would be from my ebullient self in office. I am also mad at my colleagues who conveniently avoid me on these occasions and gang up with Black Label or Antiquity in their hands discussing the Director or the CEO, the Chief-Minister or the Prime-Minister, Mangalayan or genetically-modified BT Baigan till their wives call them to help feed the young brats. The sole motivation to attend these parties has boiled down to the fact that they offer a venue to exhibit the latest handloom acquisition and acquire a bit of the latest campus gossip.
Of course I am talking of middle-class affairs - not the ones where loads and loads of money are spent to make the events “memorable and different”. And so – I was quite impressed when a reception party thrown by an ex-colleague on the occasion of his son’s marriage had a distinctly different touch despite its sobriety. The sprawling lawns of Delhi Gymkhana Club were very tastefully decorated with white and muted Rajasthani urns and vases. The snacks, which are the only unpredictable items of a party, were okay other than the crispy Paneer fritters with sesame – ostentatiously named as Thai Paneer – which were rather good. 
The dinner table was where the real surprise awaited us. Amidst the usual fare of sprouts, beans and other assorted greens – next to the pristine Dahi-vadas there was the name of the caterer – Kwality Caterer. For me the name Kwality conjures up magic. The rare ice creams that were an integral part of childhood pleasures symbolized the ultimate object of desire - its rarity only adding to its allure. The dreamy creamy spoons of the pink-and-white Two-in-one Vanilla-Strawberry Combo ice creams not only tingled the parched throats – they transferred me to the fairy-land where time stood still with the promise of living happily ever-after. Of the very few eateries that could be considered as a Restaurant in that small steel township of Durgapur – one was Kwality. The excitement of eating out was so over-powering that I can still remember the flavor and texture of the rich North Indian food though not any specific names. As it so happens even when I moved out of Durgapur, Kwality continued to play an important role in my life. For four long years, the Kwality restaurant at Ballygunje Phari not only served as a refuge on rainy Kolkata evenings for two souls in distress, but it also happened to be my first introduction to exotic names like Prawn Cocktail, Chicken Al-la-Kiev or Fish mayonnaise. With a princely scholarship of 1000/- per month there was a prince who not only promised me a life happily ever after but also introduced me to the esoteric world of fancy food. 
While I was lost in my thoughts, the queue moved slowly ahead of me. The usual suspects were all there. So was the elbowing and pushing for a second helping or the lunging for the awaited roti. Suddenly I spotted this table with quite a few samovars in an isolated corner. Usually such isolated tables are for non-vegetarian items but knowing that this was a pure vegetarian affair I was curious. And there was this Khazana. Puris were being freshly fried and served with Aloo ki subzi. There were also Gatta curry, Sindhi curry and steamed rice. And there was Paneer Launglata. If I was exulted by the Sindhi Curry the name Launglata absolutely floored me. It was a dish with thin slices of Paneer wrapped around to form a tube - inside which was stuffed what appeared to be a stuffing made of green-peas – held together by a piece of clove - the laung. The gravy was curd-based. 
Say Launglata to a Bong and I am sure she would immediately dream of Labangalatika – that seductress of a sweet – absolutely irresistible. I was intrigued – does it mean we have to now attribute the origin of our favorite sweet to Rajasthan? I know Rajasthan figures quite prominently in the history of “Rasagolla” – though this sweet is synonymous to Bengal. Is there something similar about the history of Labangalatika? Dear readers please let me know if you have any clue.
I am always bowled over by poetic and melodious names. I tried looking up Google for Paneer Launglata. For once Google has not been of much help. Other than one or two mentions of a dish named Paneer Launglata – the query mostly leads to references of a sweet – similar to the Bengali Labangalatika – but one which also uses paneer or cottage cheese for stuffing. The Bong variety uses “sweetened kheer” or khoya and coconut. 
The few mentions of the savory dish Paneer Launglata that I found did not mention any stuffing. These recipes referred to the paneer being sliced and rolled - to be held in place by a clove. I tried to recreate my own at home – with a green peas stuffing. I could not manage the tubular structure – so had to be satisfied with a sandwich version. Made a curd-based gravy with asafetida, white and black peppers as mentioned in those recipes.
Paneer Launglata – you not only rejuvenated me but also inspired me to once again be on the look out for hidden treasures in marriage feasts. May be one day I shall again find an oyster somewhere with a little pearl of golden memories frozen inside it. This is my little tribute to whoever created you with his or her imagination – folding in love and beauty into mundane layers of Paneer - sealed by the dainty petals of a clove.

The Waterfall

Five eventful years were about to come to an end. Batches were about to disperse, ready to take baby-steps into their career paths. Most of them would be flying abroad to join US Universities for a PhD degree. Few of them would be joining the Indian IT industry which had started making its mark on the global economy. Mila alone would be staying back here to join a Master’s program which she wished to convert to a PhD later. She wondered how it would be to stay back in this campus without her raucous batch-mates, without this group which had spent the larger part of the last year under this Banyan tree rather than in the classrooms. 

She was not strictly alone though. There was Rwik - her fiancee and mentor. Rwik and Mila were planning to tie the knot in a short while. Rwik was an engineer, a philosopher, a poet and a painter all rolled into that one serious frame. Mila was swept off her feet in their very first meeting. Rwik admitted later that though he was swayed by Mila's rendering of Tagore's songs, he had serious reservations about hobnobbing with a junior girl. It simply did not go with his image. But then, Que Sera Sera, whatever will be, will be!

“Hey Grannie, where are you lost”, Rohan poked Mila. Rohan Kapoor was the proud author of this nomenclature for Mila when both of them were in school at the steel township of Burnpur. Mila, the serious student who was also a teachers’ pet, was made fun of by Rohan, the frolicking brat. Mila used to feel so much more mature than Rohan and the other boys in her class that she happily conceded to this.

Mila was still in a trance. Shabnam waved her hands in front of Mila’s face. “Mila, Rohan’s latest passion is palmistry. We want to try him out. But he insists on starting with you, you know for obvious reasons,” Shabnam rolled her beautiful eyes which finally rested at Rohan’s face, complete with a wistful look.

Mila, though dazed, was immediately dismissive - “Rohan and palmistry! Why, he could not even master Linear Algebra in the last five years!”

“That’s half-truth,” Rohan protested. “The whole world knows that Ghosh fancied you and hence deprived others of marks. Anyway, life is a non-linear journey, in which Ms. Linear Algebras like you can hardly succeed. So just shut up and let me see what’s in store for you.”

Without giving Mila any further opportunity to protest, Rohan pulled Mila’s palms into his and peered over them with great attention. Mila protested. “Isn’t one palm enough?” Rohan appeared to be deeply pensive, taking turns to press the mounds of Jupiter, Venus and Mercury on both the palms. He traced the heart and life lines with his index finger. After a few more minutes of profound silence, Rohan declared “Look Mila I can see you will be blessed with job offers, wealth, love and children. However, I am sorry to see that you will never be able to go abroad. Please don’t mind my saying this - intellectual pursuits are also not for you. Not much by way of head-line there, all heart. Wish you a very happy and contented married life with at least half-a-dozen children.”

The others applauded at the end of this performance. Mila, a bit downcast, tried to put on a brave face. “Of course, that was obvious, isn’t it? All of you are flying to US Universities for your PhDs. I shall be slogging it out here for a Masters. That was easy, isn’t it Rohan? You fraud!”

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Rohan had not come to the airport to pick up Mila. Though it was a Saturday, he had booked the airport shuttle for her to travel from Toronto airport to the suburb where Rohan stayed in a small apartment. Mila’s flight was delayed at Paris. The shuttle had already left by the time she landed. She had to wait at the airport for more than an hour before the next shuttle came. By the time she reached Rohan’s apartment, it was almost dark. The main entry was locked and there seemed to be no way she could call anybody to open it for her. Her cell-phone had no charge left to make a call. Thankfully, most of life’s problems usually get solved on their own. Just when she was about to collapse, a man came out with two buckets of clothes, took pity on Mila and called Rohan.

The night was still young. Rohan and Mila sat on the balcony with chilled beer, enjoying the cool breeze. Though they had exchanged emails on and off, both of them realized how little they knew about the changes that had taken place in each other’s lives in the twenty odd years that had gone by. Both of them had lots to share, but did not know how to start. A bit of trivia - they asked about each-other’s jobs, the aging parents, the siblings whom they knew from childhood. None of them wished to touch the life in between. It lay like a huge monster on their minds, the foremost thing that was consciously pushed back.

 Rohan went back to the kitchen. He had loaded the refrigerator with exotica he assumed Mila does not get in India. She did not have the heart to disappoint Rohan, but felt too exhausted to appreciate the double-fried pork or the fresh blue-berry custard that Rohan had cooked specially for her. She inquired about the shuttle for her onward journey after two days to Regina for a conference.

The night rolled. Rohan had arranged for her to stay in the sole bed-room of the apartment. He would be sleeping on the sofa. Mila was aghast. But Rohan said that is what he anyway did most of the days. He fell asleep while watching one of his favorite Hindi movies. Mila did not believe him. This is what she hated about Rohan. Always trying to project himself as a stupid non-intellectual guy as far away as possible from Mila’s cultured intellectualism. The phone rang. Rohan quickly glanced at his watch and suddenly froze. Mila realized Rohan wanted to be alone. She withdrew to the bedroom without any further argument. In her dreams she moved between layers and layers of exhaustion and desolation. 

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By the time Mila woke up to a bright Sunday morning Rohan was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. The warm aroma of eggs being fried in butter made Mila happy. Rohan declared that he did not want to take any chances and it being bright and sunny, he had arranged for a car to drive Mila down to see the Niagara Falls. Mila teased Rohan about the phone-call. “Hope your girl-friend was not upset with me!”

“She is. In fact all my girl-friends are a bit perturbed with your reappearance in my life. These Canadians are really very suspicious of Indian women. She thinks you are an enchantress! Wanted to come and see you. I had a tough time in talking her out of it. By the way - not all my girl-friends are like this though!”

“And pray how many of girl-friends do you have?”

  “Let me see. One, two,…Five. One Canadian, one Indian, one Bangladeshi and two American Indians. Good that you brought up the topic. I need some serious counseling to decide which one to stick to.”

“Numbers are impressive. But I have to say the variety is missing. Why not add some Red Indians, West Indians or French to the repertoire?”

“You think I haven’t tried. Hey listen - I am really torn among these five - need your help to decide which one to marry.”

“Marry?” Mila almost choked on her toast. “Are you planning to marry?”

“Well, sort of. You know - I am also growing old. And tired of cooking.”

“Why don’t you ask your Mom to send a certified cook from India instead?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Me? Jealous?” Mila was speechless. If there was a name for the jumbled up feeling inside her, she did not know its name. Mila clenched her fists and held on to the chair so that she did not pounce on Rohan to tear him into pieces.    

An hour later, while driving towards Toronto, Mila asked Rohan, “So tell me what help do you need from me. I hope you do realize that I am a bit too old to be the bridesmaid.”

“Well, the problem is as follows. I have to select a bride from among the following. A widow with a kid, a sinfully rich foreigner colleague five years elder to me, an aging Bengali scientist who can also sing, a Bangladeshi poet who works in the Embassy and a South Indian software professional who is also a serious animal lover. Tell me what would be my wisest choice.”

Mila, whose face was turned the other side, cried out in ecstasy as Lake Ontario loomed large outside her window. This was no lake! The serene blue-green water extended right up to the horizon. Rohan said, “This lake is indeed very wide. I have seen both sides of Ontario only once when I was flying to the US. By the way Ms. Linear Algebra what is tan 75 degrees?”

“tan 75?” to say Mila was bewildered, would be an under-statement. But she had to respond to the barb hidden in “Ms Linera Algebra.” “Well, if you had asked for tan 45 or tan 30, I could have rattled it off from the top of my rusted brain. But 75?  Come on!”

“30 and 45 will do. I can use the formula for sum of angles. See I still need your intellect for the basics - can manage on my own after that!”

The condescending attitude she hated so much! But Mila was tired of quarrelling. She decided to keep quiet and concentrate on the landscape. They stopped at a winery. Mila was ecstatic. She had not travelled much. The purity of the air, the freshness of the vines, the sheen on the grapes - everything exalted her. Rohan was clicking furiously - “Capturing your ecstasy for your children and grand-children.”

A glass of wine later, as soon as they were inside the car, Rohan exclaimed, “Done! The width of Lake Ontario must be around 82.5 kms. Thanks for your help!” Thankfully the wine had dulled her senses a bit otherwise Mila would have socked him on the eye! Getting no response from her, Rohan picked up his phone, called somebody and requested him or her to google the width of Ontario. A few minutes later he thanked the other end and turned to Mila. “See I was correct! Google says 85 km. 10% error limit is allowed for all calculations.”

 “Who ever doubted your capability?”

“No one! But I have always wanted to impress you.”

“I am impressed. Now how far are we from Niagara?”

“Half-an-hour. Why don’t you take a nap? You must be still jet-lagged!”

There was something inside the car that both of them were trying to fight. But none of them could fathom what it was. Mila had travelled more than half the world to meet Rohan. Rohan had waited so eagerly for her. Now none of them really wanted to acknowledge any hint of acrimony between them.

Mila waited eagerly for the falls. It had been one of her dreams since childhood. Sometimes a few childhood images get imprinted on the mind with indelible ink. Lessons from a Geography text-book had done that for Mila. From time immemorial she has longed to see the largest water-fall, the highest sweet-water lake, the land of the mid-night sun, the land of a thousand lakes and so on. Now when she was so near to one of those dreams, she did not wish to spoil it.

Rohan parked the car and led her to the boulevard. Resolute not to be disappointed, Mila decided to ignore the souvenir shops, the hotels, the crowded benches. Staring straight at the gushing grandeur, she tried to recreate the childhood magic inside her head. This was indeed magnificent. The richness of the molten emerald soothed her. She wished she could freeze a slice of the foaming white atop the turquoise green and take along with her. She enjoyed the droplets on her hair, her eyes, her burning skin.

Rohan chose this moment to ask her “How is Rwik?” Mila did not answer. She wanted to be alone in her dreams. None of these people were actually there when she had dreamt of visiting Niagara as a child. She would not let them in now when she was face to face with her dream waterfall.   

Rohan then took her to one of the green-houses nearby. With flowers and all around her, Mila turned into a child. Rohan’s camera clicked vehemently as Mila merged into the splash of colors, radiant in her gold and maroon dress. They walked along the river. Rohan showed her the rainbow. It was soon dark.

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It was Mila’s last day at Ontario. Zach, a friend of Rohan was taking them out for brunch. After that Rohan would drive her down to see the countryside.

Zach drove them to a Chinese restaurant in his Cadillac. Amidst filling up their dishes multiple times, Zach quizzed Mila about how long she had known Rohan. Long, long time. He was not satisfied. So they counted the years - thirty years to be precise. Zach was still not satisfied. Something seemed to bother him. Finally, unable to hold himself any longer, he asked Mila, “Did you know Rohan before you met your husband?” “Of course!” Mila turned to find that Rohan had turned a deep pink!

Later when they drove through the country-side Rohan said, “Please don’t mind Zach. He loves me and wants to take care of me.”

“Everyone loves you,” Mila quipped.

They had reached the shores of Lake Eerie. The air was laden with the crisp fragrance of fir and pine. White clouds floated on the clear blue sky. The water was crystal clear. Mila ran into the water, balancing herself on the underwater pebbles that showed through the transparent surface. The azure water stretched as far as her eyes could see. Mila bent down to touch the water. She wanted to splash it on her face.

Rohan was standing afar watching her joyful face. He wished he could freeze this point in time and gift it to Mila. Mila called him to join her. As Rohan walked towards her, Mila stretched her hand. Rohan held it in his palms and looked into her eyes. The soft grey clouds played on the sky-blue reflection. Rohan asked again, “Mila, how is Rwik?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“What do you mean? Why are you being so evasive? You know I am a simple person. Can’t understand complex answers. Tell me if something is wrong. I can’t afford to see you unhappy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. But I do know that it’s the truth. And so does Shabnam.”

“Shabnam? Are you seeing Shabnam?”

“Yes. We might just get married provided you approve.”

“Why do you need my approval? And isn’t Shabnam married to Rehan? I thought they also had kids.”

“Rehan met with a fatal accident two years back. Shabnam was devastated. She has a teen-aged son.” 

 “The widow with a kid! My God, I did not know you two loved each other!” 

“Mila, love is only for dewy-eyed teen-agers and dreamers like you. For us, who stay in this cold and distant land, with all our dreams buried deep under the snow, all we need is a bit of warmth.”

“Who buried all your dreams deep under the snow?”

“Let’s say there are three of them – Tagore, Linear Algebra and a young handsome engineer who had mastered both. And now may I ask you for the umpteenth time, how is Rwik?”

“I want to do some shopping Rohan.”

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Mila has left in the morning but the whole house still smelt of her. Rohan sat with the gifts that Mila had brought for him - a Johny Walker, a white shirt and some music CDs. Rohan put one of the CDs on the player. He sat on the bed clutching the shirt. He had waited for Mila for so long but somehow nothing seemed to go right. He had stuffed her bags with gifts, till Mila cried she would be in deep trouble trying to tug along the luggage for the rest of her journey. Rohan wondered whether Mila would come to visit him again. Mila had hugged him tight before entering the shuttle. She had paused very briefly before climbing the steps, as if she wanted to tell him something, but then smiled and sat in the van. Rohan was left alone once again. But life has to move on. Rohan sighed and proceeded to smoothen the sheets on which Mila had slept not so long ago. The pillow still had Mila’s head sculpted on it. When he picked up the pillow to fluff it up, there was a small note waiting for him -

“Rohan, Rwik is seeing somebody. I know this is commonplace and foolish of me to brood about, but I was shattered when I came to know about it. Though I had crossed half the world to tell you this, I could not. We have separated. But I can’t stop loving him. I sincerely hope that I have given you enough reason to loathe me from the core of your heart. Go out and enjoy your new life.”