The exercise was to write about your favourite food using 5 senses.
The amber liquid
And the tinkling sound
The peaty flavour
So smooth it goes down
The aroma of nectar
Single malt I’ll be bound
High and Wet. Chapter 12 of Memory, a Novella
Written for Nanowrimo
Copyright (c) Soumya Mukherjee
I feel that the idyllic memories of schooldays, the nostalgia for the carefree happy days of school, without worries stress and tension, are largely exaggerated, and fuelled by alcohol induced amnesia.
The horrors of homework, the trauma of tests, the torture of trigonometry, tremors of titration, frustrations of first love- who says school was tension free!
Real freedom happened in college. Free from the restrictive shackles of home, routine, uniforms, compulsory attendance and unwanted subjects; we are finally free to get an education, without the irksome interference of studies thrown in.
Sadistic school teachers are replaced by laissez faire lecturers, dull uniforms by cool casuals, lunches packed in Tiffin boxes by coffee and cutlets in the café, and the opposite sex is in the next seat, not the next school, to be glanced at through barred gates like zoo animals. This, finally, is bliss.
Of course there is a price to pay. After the comforts of home, hostel life is a glimpse into the rigors of real life. The less than hygienic common loos and mass produced bland mess fare for food is the price of freedom.
Then there is ragging. A rites of passage initiation ceremony harking back to our tribal past, meant to break the ice, forge bonds and make men out of boys. Well, it shattered the ice and all vestiges of diffidence and shyness, and turned you into scarred veterans if you escaped becoming nervous wrecks in the process. The process involved ‘interactions’ with seniors, entertaining them and doing chores for them.
During one such interaction, Boy was set the task of procuring invigorating libation for the seniors extracted from Malt or Molasses. His was not to reason why, so, finances and directions being provided, a very nervous fresher – the tag that newbie initiates went under, Boy left on his quest.
In those days, such outlets for liquid refreshment in the capital city were strictly government controlled and few in number besides having early closing hours. The nearest outlet to the University required changing of buses and standing in a long queue with the unwashed multitudes while a policeman kept rioting at bay.
Boy was a sheltered shy youth of 16, thin, bespectacled, with no knowledge of Hindi, the local language. Moreover, he was well below the drinking age, a teetotaller, law abiding goody goody fellow, just out of school, whose experience of adventure was limited to the pages of the books he was addicted to. Having reached the dispenser of spirits near closing hours after seeking directions in atrocious Hindi from tough looking citizens, causing much mirth, Boy quailed at the prospect of the queue under the stern gaze of the law keepers. But the prospect of meeting his seniors empty handed spurred him on.
He tried to wait with eyes downcast, hiding his face, avoiding the gaze of the policemen and onlookers, of whom he was certain that someone would know his parents and report back his extracurricular activities in college leading to prompt withdrawal from this brave new world.
Ultimately Boy’s turn came, and no age related question was raised either by the vendor of spirits or the guardians of the law. The transaction consisted of thrusting a bundle of currency through a grill and shouting” ‘Do Puri” – Two whole- and two bottles of amber liquid was thrust out of the window. No package, carry bags or anything to disguise the merchandise.
Initial relief at completing his task without jail, exposure, bodily harm or mugging was replaced by the horror of having to carry two exposed bottles back in public transport under the gaze of potential informers or policemen or college authorities or anyone who could ruin his career character and reputation made Boy almost faint with fear. But having spent the money he had no option but run the gauntlet. Ulysses had it easy he thought, Homer made unnecessary fuss over his journey.
Wilting under the stares of the conductor and myriad co passengers, Boy embarked on the return voyage, much like the afore mentioned Ulysses. Imagine the picture, a stripling youth, facial hair yet to appear, grasping two bottles of liquor for dear life, trying hard to look invisible, being jostled in a crowded bus, then creeping along the empty roads of the university, wishing he could melt into the ground.
The final stretch, through the college lawns to the hostel was pure purgatory, as Boy imagined every professor’s eyes boring into him, with disgrace expulsion and subsequent interview with his parents flashing before his eyes.
Boy reached the sanctuary of the seniors’ room without any such mishap and all but collapsed from the stress. The omnipotent seniors then started the rituals of libation after complaining of his tardiness, and as decorum demanded, he was asked,- “ A drink fresher?” Boy’s instinct, indoctrination and intuition demanded he politely refuse, but the memory of what he had undergone to obtain this offering combined with the desperate need for a pick me up made him respond- “Yes Sir, thank you”
and proceeded to enjoy the fruit of his expedition leaving him high and wet.
That was the beginning of Boy’s liquid path, and he hasn’t looked back since.
Other taboos too, fell by the wayside, during his quest for a degree, which shortly left him High and Dry, but some memories can remain just that, and not even shared with the reader, at least yet.
I am a foodie. My girth gives credence to the fact. But when I try to remember specific feasts, it is not the quality of the meals, and definitely not the quantity, but the associated memories, the ambience, the locale, the company and the circumstances in which they were enjoyed that make them memorable. Often it was poor fare by any gourmet standards or any standards at all, but the enjoyment derived beats Michelin rated chefs hollow. Not that I usually dine in that style, but had the good fortune of sampling a few. Enough of this preamble; Listed are some meals I vividly remember, despite being in an elevated spiritual plane when partaking in them.
In no particular order—–
Dal bati and chach.—1983 Rantambore
Venue- a remote hamlet near Ranthambore in Rajasthan.
Ambience-Squattig on the mud floor, being served by giggling veiled women
Company- three more backpackers, from Shillong, Mumbai and Australia respectively.
Hosts-A bevy of Rajasthani belles, wives and daughters of illegal wood gatherers and herdsmen, giggling behind their veils, and conversing through sign language and an incomprehensible dialect.
Menu- Lumps of dough made of Bajra roasted directly on wood fire, crumbled with homemade ghee, and some sort of lentil. This is dal bati, a rural Rajasthani staple, one helping of which is enough to bloat a city dweller. This is washed down with buttermilk or chach in huge brass tumblers. Even the chillum enhanced appetite wasn’t sufficient to consume more.
This was during a backpacking trip in Rajasthan, when we were denied legal entry in the Tiger Reserve and given shelter by complete strangers in a nearby hamlet. The ladies fed us, found our demeanor and appetites hilarious, when we showed helplessness in having more than one helping .Purdah was maintained by them staying just indoors and roaring with laughter from behind ghunghats, or veils. We were referred to as” Bawre”-the crazy ones. We slept in their courtyard, and later entered the forest illegally with their men folk, carrying a packed lunch of chana and gur, or, as the Aussi called it, Nuts and sugar. Suggestions of reimbursement of costs was considered extreme bad manners as we were guests.
Goat intestine, red rice and Ghanti –1986 Kalpa
Venue-a high altitude village in the Kinnaur region in Himachal Pradesh
Ambience-Dancing in the moonlight in a grassy knoll, snow peaks all around, beautiful Kinnauri belles forming long swaying human chains
Company- my 12 fellow trekkers (including my wife) and most of the Kinnauri villagers gathered for the Poornima Mela or full moon fair
Hosts-the entire village represented by their Headman
Menu-Ghanti ,which is a sort of apple cider, goat intestine cooked I don’t know how.
This was the 12th day of the Kinnaur Kailash trek, courtesy Indian Mountaineering Federation, in the inner line area of Kinnaur. As in those days the area was inaccessible and prohibited to tourists, locals had not met outsiders and at every camp we were greeted by the nearest village and joined in on their impromptu singing and dancing to folk songs around campfires drinking prodigious amounts of Ghanti, which is the local brew made from apples and apricots. But the grand finale was the new moon fair, where we were special invitees and honored guests. A goat was sacrificed, and after many hours of inebriated dancing and singing incomprehensible songs, we had the starter made of goat’s intestines and some kind of red rice or grain washed down with even more ghanti, till I passed out. I was later carried back to camp in procession by the villagers singing improper Bengali songs I had taught them.
Unidentified meat, rice and Millet Chang —2001 Yumthang
Venue- The village drinking hole in a small hamlet in North Sikkim
Ambience- Low smoky stone room with a blazing fire on which cauldrons are bubbling, squatting on Yak skins on low stools with a bench in front, old lady in exotic garb smiling and serving, crowd of Lepcha villagers quizzing us in unknown tongue, and we are responding with the two Lepcha words we know
Menu- Chang, served as a pile of fermented millet heaped in a large cut bamboo, into which boiling water is poured from a battered ancient brass samovar, and the resultant concoction is sipped through thin bamboo pipes. Accompanied by bits of meat of which you can’t guess the origin.
Company—my wife, daughter, our driver cum guide and local Lepcha villagers
In North Sikkim during a home stay in this high altitude village, this was the most exotic pub I have seen, which includes Indiana Jones films
Fish Crab and Unknown Bird, Roasted on open Fire and river chilled Mahua – Jona , Jharkhand, 2002
Venue-open air among rocks and roaring water, at the Jona falls near Ranchi
Ambience- – Bathing in the falls, deserted thanks to fear of Maoists. The lone tribal man fishing and trapping in the river turned out not to b a terrorist but a gracious villager who offered to share his meal.
Menu- freshly caught fish and crab, gutted, stuck on sticks and roasted on an open fire. Ditto small bird trapped or shot with sling. Served on leaves. Washed down with Mahua, the delicious elixir made from the red flowering tree, which intoxicates elephants bears deer monkey and birds, from old beer bottles, cooled in the rushing stream.
Company- My colleague from Ranchi who knew of this place, and the suspected red menace
Having a day to kill after a business trip to Ranchi got over early; we visited the now deserted Jona falls and had this memorable experience which made me miss the flight back. Our tribal host was happy with whatever we offered him. He didn’t ask, nor demur, nor bargain, merely gravely accepted whatever was offered.
Nun Cha, and Mathi in Kashmir—2013
Venue- a Kashmiri wooden house in a village, somewhere on route Gulmarg
Ambience- Squatting on a carpet in the central room of the traditional house, surrounded by a bevy of stunning women, please note no burkha or veil, all relatives of our driver , being quizzed as the first outsiders or Indians as they called us, to ever visit their home.
Menu- Salt tea or Nun cha, a Kashmiri staple not available in shops, which involves night long soaking and hours of boiling, and is more like soup, and Mathi, or home baked salted pastries.
It happened by chance, when stopping for Kava after a Wazwan at well known eateries on route Gulmarg. Our driver, whom my wife suspected of being a terrorist, confided on quizzing that this isn’t what they have at home. When I wanted to sample home fare, he invited us home. Leaving the main road, and finally the car, we walked down narrow lanes to the wooden house, our host answering every villager’s questions on the way. His sister hosted the tea party, and everyone posed for photographs. Other than security forces on search operations, we were the first outsiders in their village in three decades
Scrambled eggs, Sausages, and bread and an array of liquid, herbal and chemical elixirs for spiritual upliftment and expansion of consciousness.—Delhi 1985
Venue- my barsati bachelor pad in Delhi
Ambience- impromptu pot luck party which was also my wedding feast
Company- my new bride and a whole bunch of disreputable friends
Menu- being pot luck, everyone brought something to ensure high spirits, whether liquid solid or whatever, but no one remembered food. A sober neighbor went out and got a lot of eggs, sausages, bread and butter and that was the meal that cheered everyone but my wife.
Being a sudden decision and being broke, my post elopement party went like this. We left a room and terrace full of comatose people and went to face my unsuspecting parents and furious in-laws
Here are some links to stories where these meals figure