Notun Bou II

Two continuous days of relentless downpour and a house arrest is what perfectly describes our first two days in Calcutta. Top that with a sudden disruption in the normal digestive functions leading to a ban on eating any of the mouthwatering delicacies that were being whipped up morning noon and night, and you have a real bummer. No it wasn't Paris, it was me who was betrayed by my solid Indian digestive system, right after a gluttonous attack on the shingaras presented before us on the very first eve of our arrival.

Yes, right after the major drama over the Grand Old Man's coughing fit both Paris and I were taken away from the scene. I don't know if we were being protected from the wrath of the Old Man or he from the sinners. Whatever it was, he soon recovered after seeing the family doctor who adequately assured him that he was not going to die in the next hundred years. By late afternoon he went back to believing that Paris was English. He said she reminds him of Queen Victoria and smiled a toothless smile. Yeah right! None of us wanted to mess with the Old Man so we nodded and smiled.

At that moment the overcast sky climaxed violently in a deafening roar and let down heavy rain showers. What a relief from the sultry weather. Hot and crispy shingaras were ordered from the corner tea stall. "Dekhe baba dekhe." (Go easy honey!) Warned Jethima as I pounced on the Shingaras, greedy for the sweet crunchy peanuts that surprise your taste buds in every alternate bite. The greed paid off.

I had to place our old antique easy-chair close to the washroom and settle there with my laptop. Paris was sitting on the bed and enjoying sinfully aromatic topshe maach bhaaja. She had acquired a taste for the quintessentially Bengali food cooked in our house rather quickly.
"Let me sign into facebook. Please!"
"Let me eat the maach bhaaja. Please." I snapped.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." She spoke in a devilishly sweet manner.
I was supremely annoyed and decided to take my mind off the fish. I lit a cigarette and chose to concentrate on my dull e-mails from work.
"Oh my God! This is revenge right? You are doing it deliberately, aren't you?" Suddenly Paris lost her calm.
"What? What did I do?"
"You are smoking."
"So?"
"So, I want a drag." She said in a sulky voice.
"Look I'd give it to you but I don't think Ma would appreciate it." And that was the end of it. Paris got up and left along with the plate full of maach bhaaja. I was certain that I had guaranteed myself a couple of sleepless nights on the floor. But what does a man with a super rapid bowel movement really do when he has exotic home food all around him and silly family members running around to feed all of it to his wife. But then I had to concentrate on how to make it up to Paris. I had a plan. Only a cigarette could make up for the rising smoke of anguish. I knew that the bado chaat (big terrace) had a spot where no one usually ventured and that could be easily assigned to her as her official smoking hideout. The only problem was that I would have to get up from my strategic position and show her the place. At that time I just couldn't trust my gut!

Redemption was necessary for survival. So I said a small prayer and left my chair. Viola, I made it through the courtyard, two side passages and a climb of sixty six steps to the bado chaat with only a slight feeling of uneasiness. I had Ghontopotol, our ancient household help Raghu da's recently adolescent son, usher Paris to the chaat. I was hoping Ghonto would act quickly but I don't think he understood my urgency. I was leaning against the rickety wooden door and running my fingers through the marks of its age, the fractures running down its body, as I waited.
I heard footsteps. Two pairs to be precise. Paris appeared from the darkness of the staircase to the sunlight impregnated porch. I was just about to whisk her off to the backside of the thakur ghar (little temple in the house) where we piled up relics of our lives but she stopped.

"What's up?" I asked her.
Breathless from the exercise, she looked into my eyes with a sense of alien intensity and said, "Who's Dola?"

Scribbles

June 24th
Just before leaving for office, as I chew on my solitary jam sandwich.

Thought attack!

Dear Wife

It's that time of the year again. (Do not fear my opening line.)
Let us go just you and I to some solitary place where love resides!
Pack your bags and we shall be off to any place of your choice. (Do not fear the dreadful rhyme.)
If you do not like the mountains, I shall be pleased to understand your love for the sea.
Wake up my dahlin and make up your mind.
Let us travel. Let us explore. Again.

Yours

In a new shade

Changed the old template of my blog.
Though I really liked the previous look, this one's not too bad either.
I love the colours.
So maybe this new look will inspire me to write more, write better.
Here's to a new start...of life in a new shade!

Notun Bou

Notun Bou, a term typically used in any bengali family for the new bride in the house. From in-laws, distant relatives to her very own husband, anybody can call her Notun Bou. It's a generic term really but sometimes when the Notun Bou happens to be the last one of the family (as in married to the youngest son after whom no other boy from that generation is to be married) she maybe christened as that for a lifetime. As far as my traditional bengali family is concerned, I know that each notun bou in our family is carefully scrutinized like each and every chingri (prawn) that comes home for lunch. I can say that because I have witnessed two of my uncle's marriages while I was young. Once married, then quite like the chingri the notun bou too is brought out like a priced dish before the members of the family, who then (depending on whether she caters to their taste or not) pass a judgment about the selection. In short, she must appeal to a whole host of people before being accepted as a member worthwhile of our great Bengali brahmin family. I always wondered what made them so proud, so superior that a large section of the society was considered as unworthy association.

Anyway, here I was sitting in a yellow Ambassador Taxi after seven whole years with my Notun bou by my side to meet my family. I was nervous, I was jittery, I felt I should have never flown down or even told them about my white skinned American wife Paris. For starters it took me a couple of hundred dollars to call home and explain that Paris was her name and not where she belonged. My father had maintained a strict silence policy on the topic of my marriage with a Non-Bengali, Non-Brahmin, Non-Indian girl. It was however my grandfather who for some freak reason believed that his great associations with the British must continue in the form of an English Notun Bou. (Give me a break, I sent six e-mails saying that Paris is American not English.) However, the man was ninety-three already and pretty senile to say the least. Though it did work in my favour or should I say in favour of my blasphemous marriage. According to my parents, their handsome scientist son had been robbed off from them by a strange colonial force. Paris had laughed when she heard this. All I could say is, "you have no idea."

Enter home, freshly painted in a coat of pale ocher yellow. Dark green windows studded on the walls and a gigantic iron gate with intricate art, right in front of us. They had no idea we were coming home. I had deliberately not informed them of the correct date of our arrival. Maybe I was just trying to delay the great rendezvous. Even if by an hours journey from airport to home.

Before my family could find out, our neighbours had already collected in their balconies and were quite shamelessly ogling at my Paris. Paris remained unshaken like a pillar. She even made eye contact with them and smiled. Soon my entire family swarmed the gate to welcome us. More like they came to check out the great foreign specimen brought back by their very own son.

"Eta-e ki Paris?" (Is this Paris?) Asked my Jethima (Father's elder brother's wife).
I wondered what they were expecting, the Eiffel Tower? Before I could answer Paris dived in for her feet hiding between the pleats of her traditionally draped, off-white cotton sari and perfectly executed a pronam. (Plus five for spontaneity.) Inside in the huge courtyard remained the unenthusiastic members of the family like my father, Jethu (father's elder brother), and Naroo Thakuma (Grandfather's unmarried younger sister who was famous for making naroos or coconut laddoos). We were presented before them like convicts before the court of law.
"Meye na chele?"(Is she a girl or a boy?) reacted toothless Naroo Thakuma. I don't blame her as Paris had short cropped blonde hair, an athletic body because of her tennis obsession, she was almost 6 feet tall like me and wore pants. Quite radical for the 1920's generation. Paris smiled on. I almost felt criminal for inflicting this torture over my darling wife. So many hours in that flight and still standing before the jury...I mean my family.

"Shotti biye kore phelli?" (So you really got married?) Said my mom in a strange tone of disbelief.
"Ta biye korli to bou ke ekta sari poriye aante parli na?" (But atleast you should have brought home the new bride in a sari.) Interjected Naroo Thakuma.
"Sari ta porato ke? Aami?" (And who would have draped the sari for her? me?) Well spontaneous-me was never good news for my family. The younger bunch giggled while the elders just cringed further. My father cleared his throat in a rather frightening way and instructed the ladies to take us to the Grand Old Man of India. Paris did great at holding that smile amidst the overflow of Bangla and sublime hostility.

When we reached inside we saw the Grand Old Man resting on his bed. He had shed so much weight that I almost couldn't recognize him at first. But that majestic demeanor would certainly take nine lives to shed. So, the Grand Old Man was far far away from being the poor old man!
"Welcome to India young lady." He cried out from the bed. Finally someone spoke her language.
"Thank you. How are you sir?"
"Very well. I see the English are back."
(Honey just smile and nod. Just smile and nod!)
"But now you are married to an Indian boy. It is all because of my good relationship with the British officers posted here. But when I was in England my friends used to tell me that I would marry a mem sahib. I was very handsome, you see. But marriage is a matter of fate so never mind what happened after that."
Paris and I were both dying to laugh but the seriousness of his tone made us hold back.
"So I hear you are from Paris?"
"Actually my name is Paris. I am not English. Or French."
"You are not English?" Grand Old Man sounded furious. Like he has been cheated.
"I am American."
"American?" He said with a strange sense of disgust, made his eyes small, shook his head and started coughing violently. It got worse and turned into a mad coughing fit. I had no idea what was happening. Everyone came rushing and surrounded him like the paramedics. Paris was now officially kicked off from her "hold that smile" mode and I was just plain puzzled.

to be continued...