It was 7:30 am and the Karta of the house was still in the bathroom. Shefali had woken up a century ago… finished with her ablutions and with a dripping head, her long tresses loosely clumped down her ample back, while she wrapped her red bordered- off white saree (it used to be white eons ago) as she had proceeded to appease the Gods in the Pujor-Ghor.
The Gods rather the Goddess must have yawned in boredom, being forced to watch her sway her fleshy arms, doing their own jiggle as she muttered her chants, in the most sonorous rhythm. Yet, wake they must and look to the mundane matters of running the world on a non-festival day, as she had specifically repeated for the hundredth time… Jago Ma!
The moisture from her damp hair had now been usurped by the silk of her saree, somewhere mingled with the sweat trickling down her nape, as it found its way down her back. The fragrance of the sandalwood incense stick, mingling with the fresh jasmine offered at the Lotus feet, stole into the folds of the damp saree.
That fragrance wafted along, as her presence was announced to the sleeping gentry. Rudely, Bipin moshoi, had been dragged from his sojourns in dreamworld, where he romped unbridled with the nymphs of the silver screen. For a moment he wondered, where was he? a la- Bollywood films. Till he regained his balance and leapt to the bathroom.
Pulling on his Panjabi over his dhuti, he sat down to sample his cuppa of Darjeeling tea, in the verandah. Lopchu only! He remembered teaching his newlywed Ginni, how to perfect it. And the Marie biscuits beside… two, not more, not less. The gentle cool breeze, which would go all over after paying obeisance to Ganga, seemed to have vamoosed. The sounds percolating through the outside wall indicated it was getting late… Oh! he had to go to do the daily shopping for fresh vegetables and fish! He had been wanting to get some Ilish, since the past few days… a good sized one, not the miniscule inch long somethings. After all he had his prestige to maintain too. Whatever would the fishmonger think?
That seemed to fill him with verve, and he rushed to get the bags and the list from his Ginni. He avoided looking into her dark, doe eyes which were more like Ma Kali’s rather than Ma Durga’s at the moment. What had he done now?
Before the lady could throw a tantrum or a taunt, he had vanished… the man was getting smarter and quicker she had to admit. She rushed about her chores, knowing fully well once the ‘bajaar’ arrived it would have to be chopping, grinding, tossing, turning, cooking, fuming, in the kitchen till the lunch was prepared.
As Bipin moshoi waddled along, as fast as his stubby legs would allow, he regretted delaying the visit to the market. What if his two and a half kilo Ilish had been lapped up by someone else? That Naran babu always beat him, to the bargain. That terrible lean and tall guy took full advantage of quick long strides and breezed through the market… Issh! It was the fault of that nubile nymph, giving him the come hither looks and prancing in his dreams…
Labouring under the hot sun and the weight of his fresh purchases, as Bipin moshoi entered the cool colonnades of his century old house, with walls so thick, the most wicked sunrays were deflected, he felt some relief. Now to instruct his Ginni, exactly what should be done.
“Ginni! I want to have the brinjals sliced and deep fried. Just as you do it, always. Have you prepared the mustard paste for the fish? Then you can prepare it with more green chillies today, that makes the Rahu always taste better. That Naran babu was thrilled with the inch long Ilish today… not me. I went for the big Rahu… just as you like it.”
She gaped at him a while, before she started laughing aloud. So much for salivating over a big Ilish the past two days.
Well, we do have to learn to balance… the rough with the smooth, the nubile with the portly, and the Ilish with the Rahu.
Note from the author: A Bengali Moshoi will do anything for Ilish (Hilsa) fish.
