Nair Aunty made the most amazing egg curry. The smell of the
coconut and curry leaves frying would find it’s away from her kitchen to our
drawing room where we would all be huddled up watching TV. Within an hour, the
bell would ring, and Aunty would hand over a bowl filled with curry to us,
which we would then savor with some freshly cooked rice.
In less than ten days, we would refill the bowl with some
snowy white dahi wadas, topped with coriander and chilli powder, and send it back
to her. It was only a matter of time
before the bowl found its way back, this time with Aunty's signature vegetable
stew. In return, we would send her onion sambhar. We grew up with these bowls
making their way between the two households. Bhajiyas traded for payasam. Curd
rice for spicy yams. Garlic rasam for fluffy white appams. The unwritten rule
in this exchange was that the bowl never went back empty. And it was regular to
have one of their bowls always in my kitchen, waiting for the next delicious
offering to fill it up.
Neighbours were an integral part of my growing up. In a tiny
society of 50 flats, the doors of which would literally open into each other,
the neighbour was the extended family. The neighbour's house had it all - the
keys to your house, the movies you wanted to see, the foods you wanted to eat,
and the games you wanted to play. Minimal physical boundaries to separate us.
Their window almost into my drawing room. Their kitchen from my balcony.
Conversations over drying clothes. Sign languages through the windows. A big
fat joint family parading as 50 nuclear families. Intrusive sometimes. Intimate
otherwise. Keeping your secrets. Leaking them occasionally. Watching over you.
Taking care of you. Spying on you even. It was all part of the game. The family
you loved to hate. The friendly neighborhood uncle who wished all the kids with
a "Darling" that made them blush. The villainous Aunty who saw you
coming back home with a "stranger". The grumpy old grandfather who
yelled because your loud chatter deafened his peaceful evenings of watching
Doordarshan news. The strict teacher like Aunty whose glass your ball always
broke. The loud cheerful Aunty who would treat you to bread rolls everytime you
went to her house. Joint families parading as nuclear families. Where you got
your first taste of everything in Life. Gender. If you spend all your time
playing cricket with the boys, you will be called a tomboy. Competition.
Pradip's home has a VCR. When are we getting one? Camaraderie. Because you
stayed up the whole night and put up the pandal for Ganesh Chaturthi celebrations.
Studies. Because you exchanged notes. Money. Because you saved up to treat your
friends to pani puri. Tradition. Because you celebrated festivals together.
Fast forward to today. Nine hundred flats. Two thousand people. Five blocks. A privacy I have
never had. Boundaries that separate. Spaces distinctly earmarked. A play area
for the kids. A running track for the joggers. A barricaded tennis court. An anonymity that estranges me. A neighbor I have never seen. A smell I
don't recognize. A book I don’t exchange. A lady I hesitate to call Aunty. An
old man I never wish. A doorbell I never ring. A group of us huddled in a lift,
awkward in that intimacy, never making eye contact. And a bowl that never makes
its way out of my kitchen.
No comments:
Post a Comment