Eating women, telling tales

The crows sat in a circle waiting for the funeral feast to begin. In their eagerness to get the best leftovers, they had gathered a bit too early. Badibua, the main cook who was to prepare all the favourite dishes of the deceased, Bhanurai Jog, had not yet arrived. She had left for the fish market at dawn along with Hema and the ferry which was to bring them back from the haat across the river, was late as usual. The crows raised their necks and flapped their wings impatiently. From their vantage point on top of the water tank on the roof they had a clear view of the road and could see all the people as they got down from tongas, carts or the boat and walked into the house where the funeral feast was to be held…. It was around six in morning, a light breeze ruffled their feathers as the birds waited and watched….

So far only Malarani had arrived in a rickshaw, a huge pumpkin in her lap. A little later, just when the crows were wondering whether to fly down to the market or look around for another home to stalk, the ferry arrived and Badibua stumbled out ahead of all the other passengers. Behind her, almost hidden by her vast girth, shuffled Hema her young servant woman, carrying a covered basket. The crows gave a squawk of delight. They knew there was a whole fish in that basket, head, entrails and tail intact. They shuffled a bit to show their excitement taking care not to lose their places on the edge of the water tank.

Then, in quick succession, the other women arrived. A rickshaw ringing its bell loudly brought Shashi, her short hair flying in the breeze. She was followed by the two twin sisters Nanni and Sharada who came in a tonga. Then the crows, on high alert now, saw Choni emerge from another tonga along with a servant boy carrying a basket of vegetables. She argued with the tonga driver about the fare and then finally settled it with an angry shrug. She walked ahead as the servant boy trailed behind balancing the basket on his head. “Hurry, why are you walking like a girl, come on now … we don’t have all day,” she shouted turning around, and the boy smiled at her from the shadow of the basket perched on his head.

Dark green bitter gourd, bottle shaped gourd, cauliflower, fresh spinach, red chaulai, flat beans, and a dozen big round eggplants jostled as the boy tried to walk faster. All these were vegetables the late Shri Bhanurai Jog loved and had to be cooked on his death anniversary feast today. The women were not sure whether he liked eggplant, most men did not, calling it a vegetable without any “gun” or merit but the women loved thick slices of aubergines deep fried in mustard oil, so they decided to include the humble eggplant. The menu, like every year, had been decided by Badibua since she was the eldest surviving relative of the dead man. There was, of course, his son who lived abroad but none spoke about him. They remembered that he had not even come for the funeral. They remembered his wife, a shy gentle creature who had died a few years before him.

Year before last an old aunt of Bhanurai Jog, Shantirani, who claimed to be a hundred, had done the main dish but she had become a bit senile, and very unpredictable. At first she had cooked happily with them, regaling them with endless stories about her late husband and his various love affairs, then suddenly she got up to chase the guests with a broom, screaming at them, “Come to steal my gold bangles, I will kill you, thieves, dogs.” They had to tie her up with a saree and calm her down with fennel juice. Now she could no longer be safely included in the cooking of the funeral feast and it was decided earlier this year to install Badibua as the main cook.

There were eight of them this morning chosen by Badibua. All the women were related, some closely and some so distant that only the very old aunts could remember the connection. There were other women in the late Bhanurai Jog’s vast family who could have qualified to cook today but the old man had cut off connections with them for years. They came for the funeral though just to see who had been left his vast property and now they were not on speaking terms with Badibua ever since they found out it was she who had inherited the house and all the land surrounding it. Overnight from being a poor relative whom everyone was fond of, she became a much envied woman whom they loved to criticise. “So distantly related yet she gets it all.”

Badibua did not care and enjoyed her new found wealth happily, filling the old house with the few members of the family she liked and her old friends. Though she still could not understand why Bhanurai Jog, such a dried up old man who everyone had been scared of, had called her one day and told her she was to have the house. Maybe because she had been a childhood friend of his wife’s, though they’d been out of touch for years.

The women quickly touched Badibua’s feet and then, tucking their sarees around their waists, they sat down in a circle around a huge pile of vegetables. A servant brought a brass plate with eight knives and placed them in front of Badibua respectfully as if it was an offering to the gods. Badibua shrugged her shoulders, it was an old habit of hers and she did it every few minutes as if getting rid of something on her back, and looked around. The women waited to see who she would choose to cut the important vegetables today. It would decide how the morning would go. Badibua nodded her head at Malarani and everyone sighed with relief. That had always been the pattern of cooking the annual funeral feast, the pumpkin whould be cut by the senior-most woman and Badibua had not wavered. She and Malarani would lead the vegetable cutters. If she had chosen one of the younger women, like Shashi or Choni newly inducted into the group, there would have been grumblings and the cooking would taste bitter. Badibua as usual had chosen the right woman to be her commander-in-chief. The younger two could learn from them.

They quickly began cleaning the vegetables in a large bucket of water. The servants had washed them before bringing them to the circle but they could never be trusted to do it properly.

The two chosen women began to slice the pumpkin, Malarani worked with great speed and fineness but she took care not to be faster than Badibua because that would look bad and the women would think her shameless. They all knew she could cut vegetables faster than anyone else in the group but there was no need to show off. The red cement floor was soon slippery with water, discarded spinach leaves and stems of eggplants.

The seven women gathered around the vegetables could have easily been sisters. They all had the same clear golden skin, all except Shashi who was so pale she could be called Kashmiri. They all had round faces with fine eyebrows. slightly pointed noses and thick black hair. Only Shashi had cut her hair recently when she’d gone to Delhi for a friend’s wedding. In their family she was the first one to do so and though Badibua was not happy with her niece’s short hair, she did not say anything. She was very fond of this lively girl whose mother had died just after giving birth to her. Badibua could see her dead sister’s cheerful face laughing at her when she looked at Shashi. She shifted her huge girth and pushed the pumpkin pieces to one side.“You look like a boy, you do” said Choni, who was always a bit nasty to her. “This year the coriander and mint we grew is really good. You can smell the fragrance even before you begin to grind it” said Malarani, her fingers sorting out the wilted ones from the bunch of fresh coriander leaves. She looked up and smiled at Choni who scowled back, “You know, I love growing things. Maybe I was a mali in my last life,”she said, laughing.

Badibua felt a surge of affection for her cousin, her mother’s sister’s daughter. Life had treated her so harshly, no husband, no children, yet she was always so happy. “You couldn’t have with those pretty, plump hands,” Shashi said giving her aunt a hug. Choni threw the potato she was peeling into a cauldron of water and said, “You could be a mali even now, masi. Might earn you some money instead of asking for charity.” She gave her aunt a sideways glance. “She never asks for charity, Choni, I think you are being very rude to masi,” said Shashi. Malarani laughed and ruffled Shashi’s hair. She did not mind Choni’s words. What did it matter what anyone said? There were so many things in life that did not matter to her anymore and she often thought about them and felt happy. She threw out a coriander stem. One of the waiting crows flew down to examine it and then flew away. It had lost its place on the water tank now and gave a harsh cry. “I remember how my mother-in-law used to make this chutney. She gave it to us when we were young. The old witch is dead now. Do not speak evil of the dead they say, but there is not one good thing I can say about that woman,” said Malarani shaking her head. “That is very rare for you,” said Badibua. “I cannot forget what she did to that poor girl. Remember her, that sweet girl who my youngest brother-in-law married, you know the one who went to work in England…”

The women knew a story was coming and settled down to listen. They spread their bodies in a more comfortable position, but their hands continued to chop and clean. It was the first story of the morning and they hoped it was not a sad one. Later on there would be sad ones, sweet ones, bitter ones and angry ones as each woman would tell her tale. Five stories while cutting the vegetables, one while cleaning the rice husk and maybe two while stirring the kheer. Sometimes there was time for a few more after lunch when the rest of house was asleep. No one could be sure how many stories a day would give.