Bazaar Mohallah

There was a lot of buzz that day at my ancestral house at Bazaar Mohallah, Doranda. It was a bright sunny morning in the year 1968. My grandfather, Md. Yaqub, and his two brothers were coming back after three months from Mecca, after performing Haj.

In those days the only means available for Mecca was a ship, and that too from Bombay.

We had travelled by car to Jamshedpur to see off my grandparents, who would finally board the train for Bombay. There were two white Ambassador cars, loaded with rations and daily necessities. It was our first road trip, so we were very thrilled. I enjoyed the gusty wind, and how the trees and houses passed by swiftly.

Now, after three months, they were returning. Abba had booked his tickets for Mumbai to receive them, but at the last minute my tau said that he would go to Mumbai, and not my Abba. He was upset. Because of this he had lost an opportunity to travel.

The house was cleaned and rearranged. The corridors were whitewashed. Clean bedsheets and pillow covers were put on. New curtains were hung. Lots of noise was echoing. Overall it was a festive mood.

Abba was impatiently waiting for his father. He had already eaten breakfast, but he frequently kept visiting the kitchen. We were having our breakfast, sitting on a mat which was spread on the floor near the chulha. We were busy eating hot, fluffy, crispy puris.

Ammi was in a jovial mood. She was very happy, but maybe Abba was not. He was irritated with Ammi, as she was not paying heed to his command to close the kitchen. Ammi wanted to make some more puris, so that we could eat later.

All of a sudden Abba entered the kitchen like a gust of wind, picked up the bucket of water kept under the tap, and with force poured it on the burning fire. There was a huge thud, and within seconds the entire kitchen was filled with smoke and dust. We started coughing, as our throats were choked. Abba stared at Ammi and muttered, “Kab se bol rahe hain, kitchen band karo, sunai nahi deta.”

I am telling you to shut the kitchen, since long, but you are turning deaf ears.

Ammi meekly gazed at Abba. We were trembling with fear, because at times Abba got very violent. He rushed out of the kitchen but still kept looking at Ammi, as though his action was not enough.

Ammi started settling the things. By now the smoke had vanished, and the dust had settled all over the kitchen. She took a dry cloth and started wiping everything. After that she closed the window panes and bolted the kitchen from outside. Now no one could make out that there was a separate kitchen on the ground floor.

This incident shattered me to the core. Many a time Abba’s behaviour was torturous. He was sometimes abusive. He used to shout at us for petty things. I often wondered why he was like this. Much later I got the answer. He had lost his mother at the age of three months, and was raised by other ladies of the house. Being a motherless child, he did not get much love and care, so his childhood was quite rocky and unorganised. He would mostly spend his time playing outside with the neighbourhood children. Everyone was worried, but no one could control him. This was the reason he often missed school and, unfortunately, couldn’t complete his class 10. Many a time he was rusticated from the school because of his behaviour.

Once I asked my Dada why Abba was rusticated. Dada told me that he had put a huge badger in the drawer of the headmaster, and when the teacher opened the drawer the badger clung to him. The headmaster was hurt and lost his temper. He immediately turned him out of the school. Abba didn’t want to tell Dada about his expulsion, so he put his fingers inside the angithi and purposely burnt them. Now he had a valid excuse: he wasn’t able to write the exam with burnt fingers.

The house was huge, with many people living together. Three dadas, four dadis, Dada’s sister, several chachas and chachis, and their children. Some cousins who stayed in the neighbourhood would often come to play with us, and those who lived in a nearby town would come and stay for two or three days. Relatives, and people from the neighbourhood, kept pouring in all the time.

We had a lovely time with our cousins. We played several games, and spent a lot of time gossiping.

But at the same time there were arguments, quarrels, and fights. As children we fought over petty issues. The elders used to argue about money, business, and also property. The major drawback of a joint family was that we had many guardians. All the elders would keep giving suggestions, whether required or not. They would even slap us without any genuine reason. The elder women would try to teach etiquette and manners, especially to me. I hardly cared for anyone, and just laughed at them. But Abba was the real terror. These ladies would sometimes settle the score by complaining to Abba against me, my brother, and my mother. And then there was no room to escape.

Dada loved us dearly. He pressured Abba to put us in a convent school. He was a man of vision. He would tell us stories, and he took us to the bank, the post office, the bookstore, the market. We enjoyed the outings with him.

One day Ammi surprised everyone by declaring that she no longer wanted to be part of the main kitchen. Abba was stunned. He reacted badly and left the room, but Ammi was in no mood to give up. She gave money to my elder brother to get a kerosene stove and some kerosene. She managed some utensils and groceries. Abba was reluctant. He did not want a separate kitchen, as he was scared of his bhabhi, who happened to be his first cousin. They had grown up together, so they shared a special bond. Later she became the bahu of the same house. She was quite influential, so everything and everyone was in her control.

During festivals, Dada used to buy dozens of sarees of the same pattern, in different colours. Sugri Ma, as usual, would distribute them among the ladies.

It was a routine that Abba would come home and go directly to the open veranda, where everyone would sit and gossip. Sometimes the meeting would turn ugly.

Ammi was trying hard to convince Abba. She was determined to make our lives better, but Abba was a hard nut.

The entire day she was busy managing the chores. She hardly got time to relax, or to spend time with us.

As Ammi unpacked the box of the stove, we were thrilled. As she cooked, we sat around and watched her. She then made some tea and samosas for us. It was a very satisfying and wholesome experience, that only six of us were savouring the delicacy. Abba quietly joined us.

Meanwhile there was a buzz outside our room. How could my mother cook anything separately?

Gradually things started changing. Abba bought a mud chulha and made a room on the ground floor, a proper kitchen. We all cooperated, arranging new plates, glasses, utensils, plastic boxes filled with masalas and biscuits. We were in seventh heaven. I still remember the shining copper plates, which we used to flash against each other and laugh out loud.

Days and nights were peaceful, as Mummy tried new dishes and we celebrated them. But it was mandatory that during the festivals only the main kitchen would operate, so that everyone could enjoy the meals together.

Our house was one of its kind in the sixties and seventies. A double-storeyed pukka house, huge verandas, huge black iron gates. Verses of the Quran embossed on the pillars. A long narrow passage, which was the additional door. A well at the corner of the house. And, of course, we had electricity. The men were mostly educated, but not the women. Only one Chachi, who was from Patna, had passed intermediate. We studied in convents and other good schools, while other children from the neighbourhood went to Hindi, Urdu, or Bangla schools. That is the reason we were full of attitude.

After bolting the kitchen from outside, we went to our rooms, and Mummy rushed upstairs to the main kitchen and helped the chachis prepare food for the people who were expected to come and meet our dadas.

Sugri Ma noticed that Mummy had a smile on her face. She enquired, but Mummy was silent. Mummy knew that she had done her part. Her resilience and determination were bearing fruit, and blossoming. Her children were much happier.