The Road Less Travelled - Part II - Where Time Stood Still

Circa 1819. John Smith, a British officer of the Cavalry Division of the Madras Regiment had strayed from the patrol party that was travelling from Paithan to Daulatabad. Their stock of meat was depleted and on suddenly seeing a wild boar, he had, on an impulse, galloped after it. The eerie silence of the jungle, broken only by the sound of crickets rubbing their feet in glee to make a shrill cacophony, suddenly made him pull his reins in sharply. It was high noon, although the dense canopy of greenery hiding the blue could make anybody doubt that, and it was quite evident that he was lost. He thought fast, and decided that his priority was first to get promptly out of this jungle  before sundown and to search for any Gond settlements that sprouted here and there, where he could look for food and shelter.

As he wandered, in the jungle, the track seemed to get a little wet. His ear picked up the sound of water and he remembered that the river Waghora was in the vicinity, and he could follow it up to some human settlements. As he hastened, he came upon a small waterfall in a clearing that was running into a river, a few feet below the hillside. Here was the river he was looking for and he felt that he was in for luck. He galloped by the side of the river upstream, and then it happened...the horse slipped and Smith just managed to jump off the horse before the poor animal fell into the ravine. As he brushed himself and stood up, the entire picture loomed like a scary dream in front of him. Without a horse, lost in this dense jungle, he was as good as dead. he rushed to the edge of the cliff, and peered down, he was surprised to see that there was a rocky ledge just a few feet from where the horse had slipped, and luckily, the horse had fallen on that ledge. Though the steed was hurt, its feet bent and was apparently in pain, it was alive.

Smith immediately proceeded to scramble down the side of the cliff onto the ledge and held on with his dear life to some dry vegetation growth, some clumps of overgrown grass on the cliff-side. When ultimately, he could reach down to the ledge, he tried to calm the groaning horse. All that mattered to him now was to get the steed back to its feet, even if it was limping. He did not stand a chance in this jungle at night without the horse. He tore off his sash, the pride of his regiment and tied it around the knee of the rear right leg of the horse. All this excitement had completely worn him out and he sat down on a a piece of rock nearby, to decide on his next course of action. As he sat down, his hand touched the rocky surface of his seat. It seemed a bit too smooth to him and as he looked down, he was amazed to see that he was sitting down on a perfectly smooth piece of square rock, almost like a seat. As he stared incredulously at it, he found that the rock was not an isolated one and there were others strewn around and not only that, there seemed to be, some engravings on the the side of certain rocks. His curiosity got the better of him and he squatted down to tear off the growth of dry grass, from these rocky sides. 

His amazement was boundless when he found perfectly shaped statuettes, as well as flower emblems engraved on the rocks. He felt in his bones that he was on to something important. In the dying light, he was surprised to notice a flight of steps leading down to the river from the ledge-side and he hoped against hope that he had stumbled upon some sort of human settlement. As he climbed down the steps towards the river to quench his thirst, he noticed that the hill-side was queerly formed. It was as if he was standing in the middle of a horse shoe. Furthermore, he noticed a few openings on the sides of the hills, which looked like caves. He decided that it would be best for him to take shelter in the caves for the night, and to resume his search back home, the next morning, after his steed was rested. With this plan in place, He broke off, some dry branches from trees growing by the side of the river, attached a bit of his torn sash with some dried grass to them, sprinkled some gunpowder on it and lighted a torch. As he approached the entrance to the dark cave, holding his torch firmly, he was taken aback, by a colony of bats that screeched their way past him, their nauseating stench churning up his already empty stomach. 
As he timidly moved in, looking for a dry place to spend the night, his knees folded and he gasped at the splendour of the spectacle that unfolded before him. The stature of his discovery hit him instantly and he was unfalteringly convinced that he had stumbled upon one of the most culturally as well as historically significant discoveries of the century.

Fast-forward, Circa 2015, month of March. A motley group of 6 people had set out from, Hotel Kailas opposite the Ellora caves in an Innova to cover the 100 odd kms to reach one of the finest Unesco, World Heritage sites, Ajanta. We reached a point near the caves from where, transport belonging to the state tourism department alone, was allowed to ply till the cave site. As we disembarked from the airconditioned buses, we were confronted by a hoarding, proclaiming 'Ajanta Restaurant', which promised to serve authentic Maharashtrian thalis and and a variety of fruit juices. We planned a rendezvous with this eatery as soon as we would return from our cave sojourn.

Encircling the Waghora river, is a horse-shoe shaped cliff, that is home to a spectacular testimony of human creativity, perseverence and dedication. Set in sylvan surroundings, there are about 29 elaborate Buddhist cave temples, believed to have been constructed in the time span between 200 BC to the VI th century AD. After the VII th century AD, Buddhism started to decline in India and these caves were abandoned. All these caves as well their intricately carved interiors, have been carved out of one giant rock, that is the 70 feet high, Sahyadri mountain itself. Built by devoted Buddhist monks, depicting the lives and times of Buddha, the enlightened one and those of the Jatakas, the depiction of stories of Buddha in all his previous lives.

This Unesco, World Heritage site is a marvel to watch. Rock was cut from this mountain-side, then it was chiselled out and after that, carvings of Buddha in different postures, flowers, figures, stupas, chaityas and viharas were all built inside these tunnels. To top it all, intricate and exquisite paintings were done on the ceiling as well as on the pillars inside the caves.
These carvings and sculptures are considered to be the beginning of classical Indian art. This form of Indian art has exerted considerable influence in India and elsewhere, in particular to South Eastern Asia, Like Cambodia, Thailand and Java. Basically 5 of these caves were temples and the rest served as monasteries, accomodating about 200 monks and artisans. 

We walked up a winding road, that runs along a terrace towards the cave entrances. At one point of time, each of these caves were connected by a staircase to the edge of the river, most of which have disappeared now. The second group of caves, which were created at a later date, have a mark of the artistry of the Gupta and the post Gupta period. We could only visit the more significant of the caves, like, 9, 10, 19, 26 and 29 as it takes a very long time to go through them in details. By the time we could walk back the entire stretch, marvel at the sculptures and the frescoes, which were peeling away, complete a full circle, only allowing for intermittent breaks in between for water and snacks and photo and selfie sessions, we were completely drained out and were ready for some fresh pineapple juice along with an egg curry meal at the Ajanta restaurant. One reminder, for visitors. This is a good place to buy small rock cut statues of, Tathagata Buddha and the all time favourite deity of the Maharashtrians...Ganapati Bappa.

Soon we were speeding back towards Ellora, through a wide black road, flanked on either side by trees which seemed to be on flames, on the black soil of the Deccan. The palash was in full bloom in this part of the country. The friendly chit-chat and banter in the car was somehow silent now. Partly it was the tiredness, but, I feel, largely because of the enormity of the experience that we were all trying to grasp and to absorb, all in our own little ways.

Just about 5 kms before reaching Ellora, and about half an hour before sun down, Sandeep, our driver asked us, whether, we would like to visit, Khuldabad, which he said, had the mausoleum of Aurangzeb, the 6th Mughal emperor, and from where Aurangabad had derived its name. I certainly had no clue about Khuldabad and am sure, none of my fellow travellers did. Just like other lay people, I had assumed that all the tombs of the Mughal emperors were either in Delhi or in Agra. We readily agreed, to visit Khuldabad, and Sandeep screeched into a left u-turn and turned onto a dust road. 

Suddenly, as if in a blink of an eye, the entire ambience changed. It somehow seemed that we had reached medieval Agra. Where, there had been only vast stretches of farmlands, small shops, shacks and a few fruit vendors and wayside trees on the highway, the dirt road towards Khuldabad was lined with mosques, groups of middle-aged, slightly bulky ladies in black burkhas accompanying young giggly girls, with large colurful danglers in their ears, in bright-coloured hijabs, lining the narrow road. Men in white kurtas, with white taqiyah or the skull cap on their head and striking checked lungis were relaxing near paan shops. Their large guffaws could be heard from far off. It was time for the Maghrib namaaz. Ittr shops and shops selling mogra garlands and incense sticks, lined the place where we finally disembarked at the corner of the road.

I had read that the emperor Aurangzeb believed in austerity. however I was not ready for the totally inostentatious and nondescript building that stood before me in the name of the final resting place of Alamgir Aurangzeb, A person, who ruled Hindustan for 50 long years.

Abul Muzaffar Muhi-Ud-Din Mohammad Aurangzeb, the fanatic, unscrupulous, intolerant, religious zealot was one of the most hated names in our history books and not without reason. As a ruler of India, he was biased and discriminated against other religious beliefs. He destroyed temples, imposed the Jiziya tax, a discrimintory taxation system, against the hindus and the sikhs. Instead of consolidating his territories, he waged constant wars against the Marathas, Sikhs, Jats and the Bundelas, which, depleted the already depleting treasury, as well as added fuel and purpose to the resistance movements of these communities. With his death on March 3rd 1707, in Ahmednagar, he left a corrupt and crumbling empire which was too large to be handled by any single despot, he left behind alienated subjects, a demoralised army and a depleted treasury.

However, as I stood before the grave of this man, great or otherwise, I could not bring myself to believe, that, this unassuming cloth covered austere grave, with no enclosure fit for such a royal, was, where he lay in peace. This was the same man, who did not use the royal treasury for his own personal expenses. Instead, he used the money he earned from making the taqiyah, and writing the Quran to locate and buy a piece of land for his grave. Lord Curzon, ( the Governor General and Viceroy of India from 1899-1905) on visiting this grave, had instructed the Nizam of Hyderabad to build a marble screen around the grave.

Aurangzeb is buried according to his own wishes, in the courtyard, towards the right of the southern entrance at the Dargah of Sayyad, Zain-Ud-Din Sirazi, a muslim saint, he revered as his mentor and spiritual guide. The tombs of Azam Shah, Aurangzeb's son and that of his wife, lie to the east of Aurangzeb's tomb. 


Sayyed Zain-Ud-Din Sirazi is a highly revered muslim saint, and at one point of time was the chief qazi of Daulatabad. Strains of sufi music caught my ear, as I was moving around the courtyard engrossed in photography. As I entered the main entrance to the Darga, dusk was slowly descending on this almost surreal world. The sufi singers were in a trance like state, and men, women and children were engrossed in the atmosphere of incense and mysticism. I got absorbed in the whole ambience too, as I was offered a scarf by one of the old ladies and was asked to cover my head. I sat down, cross legged with them and drank the beauty of the moment to my heart's content. 

The sun had set, when we were leaving the Dargah. The day had taught me two diametrically opposite lessons. One, that of grandiosity and flamboyance in the creativity of Ajanta, where the basic tenet was simplicity...while on the other hand, the extravagance and pomposity of a much-hated emperor, subdued amidst unimposing and humble culminations. This was perhaps the essence of life, the existence of duality of simplicity amidst sophistication. Simplicity as the ultimate form of sophistication has always existed. One can never do without the other.


Author: Jayeeta Sen Roy

Photos by author

The Big Day - 'Borodin'

The Yuletide season is all over us again. Christmas or X-mas as it is known to many, is is a global phenomena.  Christmas carol, Christmas trees and cakes are an inherent part of Christmas. But again, though it is celebrated all over the world, albeit with a slight variance in divergent cultures, to us, here in Kolkata, it is known and acknowledged as the ‘Borodin’ or the Big Day. Allow me to clarify. Christmas in Kolkata is more of a social festival than a religious one. Just like Durga Puja or Deepavali or for that matter, even Eid.

The sleepy row of red brick houses, comprising of six blocks of three storied buildings  in Central Kolkata, behind Bowbazar, called the Bow Barracks is normally dormant throughout the year. But with the advent of December, prodigal sons and daughters of the dwindling Anglo Indian community of Kolkata start trickling in. The neighbourhood is suddenly alive with activity as rice bulbs adorn these heritage buildings, once built as a garrison mess for the British Army during the First World War. Sounds of laughter and mirth along with smell of fresh home-made wine and cakes waft out through the windows.

If Christmas ever had an address in any Indian city, it would be Park Street. Christmas celebration in India is synonymous with Park Street. Park Street and its adjoining areas have through ages been inhabited by a majority of the Anglo-Indian community of Kolkata. From about mid-December, Park Street is decked up like a bride. From Carol singing competitions to a huge bejewelled Christmas Tree, Park Street is known for  the heritage tearoom and confectionary ‘Flury’s’ founded in 1927 founded by Mr. and Mrs. J Flury’s and introduced Kolkata to the best of rich cream pastries and Christmas puddings, perhaps one of the best outside of the continent. Park Street boasts of other  eateries like the ‘Peter Cat’ and the ‘Mocambo’ whose inception dates back to the 50s and where you are destined to have a tryst with typical British Christmas lunch and dinner.

Kolkattans are infatuated with Christmas Cakes. The ritual of cake baking, goes back a long time at the ‘hole in the wall’ bakeries of Beckbagan. In fact, Beckbagan, a Muslim majority locality in Kolkata, got its name from baking of cakes. Much before dawn on Christmas, huge earthen ovens are lighted up by muslim workers who work with efficiency and diligence for their clientele, who still hold on to the traditions of the British Raj and prefer to bake their own cakes, from the recipes handed down through generations in bakeries like the Ahmad Hussain Bakery. Mohammad Hussain has been baking cakes since 1975 and people still swear by his cakes. The Ahmad Ali Bakery or the Kanchan Bakery are other bakeries of repute in Beckbagan.

The iconic jewish bakery of the Nahoums at New Market in Kolkata, set up in 1902 by Nahoum Israel from Baghdad became an instant hit with the British expatriates and the Anglo-Indians before the Bengali taste bud was tickled with the taste of its plum cakes, jam tarts and chocolate pastries.

I being a Bengali Hindu, have always seen Christmas celebrated in my home and neighbourhood most spontaneously. ‘Notun gurer payesh’ or kheer prepared from freshly brewed palm jaggery is a must on ‘Borodin’, as is the clamouring for gifts by Santa from little ones in every home.

These same communities of the Muslims, the Jews and the Christians are fighting it out tooth and nail in West Asia and it is said that, religion is dividing humanity. What then is the common factor that binds Kolkattans to celebrate any festival with equal fervor? Perhaps one needs to visit Kolkata to find that out.

 Article & Photos : Jayeeta Sinha Roy

The Road Less Travelled Part I

When in school, especially in senior classes, the detailed study of the conquests of the Mughal emperors was one thing, I generally avoided, especially the innumerable Deccan conquests of these countless emperors, both distinguished as well as the inconspicuous types. Firstly, I could never demarcate the area called 'Deccan'. It seemed to me, to be various overlapping areas of a venn diagram. However, to these kings, this area called the Deccan is where they seemed to have a field day. They just loved to send their generals there, chop off a bunch of heads amd levy the strangest of taxes, based on the even stranger logics.

My reader must be wondering about what exactly, I want to start off with, after beating the bush and flattening it almost to the ground. I know that it is a little difficult to bear with me when I am into this 'ringmarole' mood. But enough of it, let us get to the meaty part of the story. Our 7 seater Innova was gliding like a swan on Mumbai-Nashik Expressway, inching closer towards the region we now call Marathwada, after clearing the Mumbai traffic in 2 hours flat. The road was like a mirror, shining and smooth. There is a clan of Bengali-Mumbaikars, who are all gaga about not only Mumbai, but also about entire Maharashtra. They are always ready to show off their superiority to their poorer cousins from West Bengal. One of my Mumbaikar cousins informed me that, after travelling on road in West Bengal, we would feel quite privileged to make a road trip in Maharashtra. However this proved to be a statement that he had to swallow with his pride, later, as other than the expressways, most of the Maharashtrian roads, after travelling for about 100 kms beyond city limits, are as bad or as good as any other Indian road and I can quite vouch for that.

The present day, Marathwada is a revenue division of the Maharashtra State. Most of what we knew as the Deccan of India under the the Tughlaq, Khalji, Lodi, Mughal dynasty was within this greater Marathwada, some parts of Andhra, on the Deccan plateau , between the Vindhya range and the Krishna river. This area was of strategic importance to the rulers, and thus one of the finest forts, which were very similar to each other architecturally, were located in this region. Important amonst them were the Golconda, the Daulatabad or the Devagiri and the Bijapur Forts. We were headed towards one of these stunning forts, the Daulatabad fort. 

We took a short lunch break at Nashik. One thing that I must and must ask my reader to try a staple Maharashtrian thali. This thali is normally vegetarian and consists of salt, a wedge of lime, chutney, achar, raita and pakoras. Maharashtrians are particularly proud of their astonishing range and diversity of chutneys, achars, brine pickles and koshimbirs.

The arrangement of the rice in the thali is of importance, it is placed at a side of the thali with a thoor-dal puri on top. One dry vegetable and one curry is usually staple in the thali. However, what I liked the most was the masala-papad. The hot baked-papad was sprinkled with diced onions, tomatoes, chanachur and coriander leaves.

Nashik, Pune and Mumbai is the golden triangle of Maharashtra. Earlier, Nashik used to be considered inferior to its two big brothers, but with the advent of the wine industry, Nashik and its adjoining areas are fast spreading its wings, both for the thrill associated with factory-bought wines, as well as with new wine tourism concept with vineyard tours, and a stopover at resorts in the middle of vineyards. This place reminded me remarkably of Napa Valley in California. The Sula winery are at the forefront of the wine revolution in India. They have facilities built to serve wine connoisseurs. I was reminded of the Robert Mondavi Winery in the Napa Valley, where we were served a variety of cheese and fruits with the world-famed Fume Blanc, Pinot Noir Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay. The ambience was somewhat similar, but as any Indian reader will understand that much leaves to be desired in terms of infrastructure.  

Turn right from Nashik, towards the heartland of India, and you are entering the rutty, dust laden, pebble-strewn, narrow lanes, that goes by the name of roads in India. Welcome to real India, your are now entering Marathwada. The only soothing effect that only one of our senses was privileged enough to have was miles upon miles of brilliant-green vineyards upon the rich black soil of plateau, India. 

We were halfway there, had travelled about 170 kms in 3 hours. Another odd 170 kms needed to be traversed. we were moving at a very slow speed. The beauty of the vineyards with the outline of the Sahyadri in the distance, with peasants walking home, tanned skins in very bright orange and pink sarees, with flowers in the braided hair...a local village marriage party with trumpets and the bride and groom walking side-by-side, and red 'palash' trees in full bloom, made for a very pretty picture.

Very soon, on the left side of the road, on a medium-sized plateau, loomed a dark and ominous structure. The mere sight of the Daulatabad Fort made me realise the the word 'magnifique' was coined for this fort alone. instantly, all 6 of us, moved to one side of the vehicle and tried to crane their neck out of only two windows. my daughter who has a great penchant for ghost stories, and films, immediately was convinced that this fort definitely had quite a few of those, whose, names should not be uttered in the evening. Thus the fort already famous world-wide, had another value-addition to it.

Very soon, we entered Aurangabad. This city is the largest city in Marathwada and is also known as the 'City of Gates' and is named after the Mughal Emperor, Aurangzeb, who lies buried in nearby Khuldabad. Soon we passed the 'Bibi Ka Maqbara' a replica of the Taj, which Aurangzeb's son, Azam Shah had built for his mother, Dilras Begum. This monument is also called the 'Dakkhani Taj' or the Taj of the Deccan. It is also cited as the poor man's Taj as it lacked the grandeur and the opulence of the original Taj, which was built by Azam Shah's grandfather, the great Shahjahan.

Evening was soon dropping its shroud over the horizon as we turned up towards the plateau which leads towards the world heritage site, Ellora. The Fort again loomed even larger than before, as rains started to fall in big drops. There was a dense jungle enroute to the Ellora caves and even I started to believe in my daughter's conviction of paranormal activities, given the ambience. Our car soon rolled into the portico of the Kailash Hotel at Ellora. Would like to add a little side-note here. "Kailash e Kelenkari" the thriller written by Satyajit Roy and filmed by his son Sandip Roy was shot right here in this hotel. And from that time onwards, I have always wanted to stay in this hotel, if I ever got a chance to visit Ellora. My fantasy was not unrealistic as it was a beautiful property with cottages which had huge terraces facing the Ellora caves. I had always thought of 'Kailash' as mount Kailash, as the abode of Mahadev and only got to understood why this barren land, hundreds of kilometers below the Himalayas was termed as Kailas, only after visiting the Ellora caves. 

The next day would be a day full of travelling and activities. We were ready to turn in but it was not to be without the highlight of the day....a bottle of chilled wine from the Sula stable, called the Madeira. and it felt like heaven on earth.

The Man from the Other Side

I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. “Ten, nine, eight, seven….” I was wishing him, almost urging him with my focused mental acumen to turn back just once and look at me in the eyes. Every step that he was taking away from me was bringing me out from my irresoluteness. Perhaps this was going to be the point culminant of my military career, if Major Rawat retraced his steps.

Just about half an hour ago, I wanted this chapter to be wrapped up fast. As soon as Major Rawat entered my tent with his adjutant in tow, he marched up to me in unfaltering footsteps, with an unflinching expression. I knew just about how much torturous and insulting, this can be for any military personnel. Here was Major Rawat, standing just across the table, his stare, not even for a moment, leaving my face, not a line on his stern face moving as he clicked his heels together, to salute me. As I returned the salute, I offered him a seat, but he remained standing. This was the nadir of any soldier’s career and I am sure that many would consider death to be more honourable than to relent to an unconditional surrender. There were a number of protocols regarding the surrender and he softly asked his adjutant, a young lieutenant, barely in his mid twenties to wait outside the tent. Similarly, I asked my adjutant, Captain Shaukat Ali to do the same. The deathly silence inside the tent was deafening. I fumbled for a tin of cigarettes in my drawer, I scraped around in the drawer with my fingers for the tin, and even that sound seemed to be obtrusively vulgar in the death-like silence that prevailed. On second thoughts, years of social conditioning stopped me in my track and I decided against offering him a cigarette. My nervousness was growing by the minute. I was noticing a mild tremor in my hands. I looked at my watch, it was around 1: 10 P M, mid-noon, but even the sunlight seemed to be mellowed, failing and resigned and it added to the gloom. The steady chirp of a bird and the recurrent metallic clicking of the cicada added to the despondency that was already shrouding me.

Major Rawat’s khaki uniform was smudged with grease, dirt and clay, it was torn in a few places and smelled of residual gunpowder, starkly different from the crisp and ironed olive green uniform that adorned my frame. His peaked cap was twisted and warped and bore marks of stress. The place, where a metal insignia should have embellished his uniform was a makeshift hurriedly-made, stitched cloth insignia. I could sense that he was eyeing me the way, I was checking him out. Suddenly, he broke the silence, “Let us get on with the process, Shall we?” His voice was low but firm and it felt like he was in command of the whole situation and that I was a mere protégé.

I opened the file in front of me, which contained the pre-determined conditions of the instrument of surrender, pushed it towards him so that he could go through the clauses mentioned in the instrument. This lightened up the heavy atmosphere somewhat, as Major Rawat, cleared his throat, put on a pair of glasses on his nose and started examining the contents of the instrument. I noticed that there was a crack in his glasses and suddenly felt a surge of emotion run through me. Now this was a very unlikely and most inappropriate thing to happen, considering the setting. Firstly, I was an officer of the Allied forces, and commanding the victorious side. Here was this man opposite me, who was by all means my enemy and the win over him in this battle had cost me a number of my finest men. I decided that I had to collect myself and my emotions and looked across the table. Major Rawat was adjusting his glasses and there seemed to be a faint smile on his lips which almost seemed like a smirk. I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to go through the language and the spelling in the terms of surrender, after dictating the notes, in a hurry, and bent forward to ask him if there was anything mentioned in the document,  that was inconsistent with the discussion that we had, had, prior to the framing of this document. The defeated officer smiled wryly and asked me for a pen. I hurriedly started looking for a pen, without even wanting to know, why and finally managed to find a red marker pencil, that was used to mark strategic positions on maps. This I handed over to him. He surprised me again, by not replying and adjusting himself in the chair with a relaxed air and simultaneously started striking out portions from the document and at the same time laterally entering corrections over the struck out areas, without even once asking for my permission, even for courtesy’s sake.

Suddenly he looked up at me, and in an soft but authoritative voice, stated, “perhaps owing to urgency and haste, a few clerical errors have been committed in the document, which I have taken the liberty of rectifying. Especially in one instance, owing to the fact that a single letter is missing, the entire meaning stands changed. Please can you go over the instrument once more?” Saying this, he moved the file back, towards me. The sentence which had been marked by him read as ‘All PoWs will be accepted at the Battalion HQ and hence will be transported to the Regimental HQ.’ I read the sentence again but failed to find any fault with it. Actually owing to the precipitation of sudden events one by one, I was sort of stupefied, sort of under a trance. He smiled again, and said, “If I am permitted, can I add a ‘T’ before ‘hence’, because only then, the meaning of the sentence holds good.” I agreed immediately and without even turning the file, back towards him, he added the ‘t’ in the designated place. It now read as ‘All PoWs will be accepted at the Battalion HQ and thence will be transported to the Regimental HQ.’ I recalled that captain Shaukat Ali was a student of English literature before he had joined the army and was in the habit of using classical language.

“Major, I have gone through all the clauses of the instrument of surrender, and I abide by all of them. With immediate effect, according to the orders of my headquarters, all of the 137 jawans and officers under me shall surrender their arms and withhold any further military actions.” Major Rawat, stated this in a very slow but deliberate manner, as if he was have trouble breathing. Then he stopped to look at me. It was becoming increasingly difficult for me to keep a straight face as all the upheavals occurring for the past few days had played havoc with my psyche and my emotions.

It was May 1944, men of INA special groups had entered Manipur India, together with Japanese forces in the middle of March 1944. Colonel Malik of the Bahadur Group hoisted the Indian flag for the first time on Indian soil at Moirang near Imphal. The spirit was very high and upbeat for both the Japanese soldiers as well as the INA after the Burma victory. Some 7000 men from the INA’s First Division participated alongside the Japanese troops in the Battle of Manipur. What was happening in Imphal was of immense importance to the INA as well as to Netaji as this would prove to the world that they were not merely paper tigers. Setting foot in India and gaining a strong foothold here was after all what the Indian National Army lived and died for. This was its raison d’^etre, the excuse for its very existence in the first place. The 2^nd and 3^rd battalions of the Subhash Brigade, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Shah Nawaz Khan had made considerable progress and the mood was extremely buoyant in the INA camps.

The Allied forces were facing a number of disadvantages. The area was too hilly for airstrips and the wounded could not be evacuated. The wounded were carried in trucks lined with parachutes from supply droppings. The handful of doctors did the best they could, but it was obviously not enough for the multitude of casualties thronging their tents everyday. The 3^rd Battalion of the Subhash Brigade had crossed the Manipur river, south of Tiddim and with the element of surprise to their advantage had achieved some degree of success. I was commanding the 2^nd Battalion of the 14^th Punjab Regiment and received RAF report of a new bridge near Tiddim. I now realized the scale of the Japanese threat on the Tiddim Road. During the night, as per orders from the HQ, I asked troops to move along the Tiddim Road at 0530. My plan was for a small force to climb the ridge in order to guard the right flank. That night it rained heavily, and under the cover of the rain we moved forward at dawn. We inched our way slowly into the designated territory and finally at 1100 hours, I ordered a blitz attack which proved to be an immediate success. Their whole position was overrun leaving 38 dead and 67 injured.

Major Rawat, CO of the 3^rd Battalion of the Subhash Brigade, spoke to me again and broke my chain of thoughts. He bent forward and in an almost apologetic voice now, said, “a number of my boys are seriously injured, Major, and we are totally lacking in medical facilities, and although we have a doctor in the Battalion, he is totally helpless without medical supplies. I would be indeed grateful, if you could arrange for their treatment.” I assured him that a doctor carrying medical supplies will attend to the injured at the field itself and those who could move would be carried up here. Major Rawat seemed to be at peace now. He now thanked me and nudged his head towards the file and asked “where do I have to sign?.  I explained to him that we both needed to sign along with our adjutants as witnesses.

Major Rawat called out softly “Lieutenant Rao, please come in” . Similarly, I called in Captain Shaukat Ali, my adjutant. He then proceeded to sign at the assigned place, then after a momentary thought,  he halted for a moment deliberately, and then added the date, time and place, below his signature. This procedure was followed by me and then both the adjutants one by one. Major Rawat then took out his pistol from his holster, placed it in front of me on the table and stood in attention. Then he saluted me and said, as if he was reading out from a book.

 “I, Major Vijay Rawat, Commanding Officer of the 3^rd Battalion, of the Subhash Brigade of the Indian National Army along with 137 jawans and officers am surrendering my arms and announcing ceasefire from my side.” He then looked towards me for a reply. There was a lump in my throat and I was unable to speak for some time. I saluted him back and replied. “Major, by the powers invested in me as the Commanding Officer of the 2^nd Battalion, 14^th Punjab Regiment of the Indian Army, I accept the surrender of arms of Major Vijay Rawat as well as those of his officers and men of the 3^rd Battalion of the Subhash Brigade of The INA and accept him along with his men as PoWs.”

Everything stood still for a moment. The air was heavy with a pregnant silence. I noticed that tears were flowing freely down the young Lieutenant ‘s face, his lips were quivering, however, not a single line moved in Major Rawat’s impassive face as he stood in attention. I was now on the point of breakdown. I was thinking to myself, “Will he not utter a single word?, will he not command me to join him and his forces in his fight against the British?” I kept saying to myself, if he even hints at such a proposition now, I would jump at it in agreement, happily. “Will he just leave his pistol with his self respect and simply leave? What was in a uniform? How could just the name of two different armies, separate us?  “The tricoloured insignia in the tattered uniform of Major Rawat, was blinding my eyes. A tiger was jumping out from the tricolor. My uniform held the insignia of the British Crown. “If he changed his decision now, would I be able to fight him back now, hold arms against him?” I was shivering like a reed as he was walking out of my sight. My only brother, Major Vijay Rawat was walking further and further away from me, Major Sanjay Rawat, CO of the 2^nd Battalion, 14^th Punjab Regiment.  I had not seen him in the last 5 years, nor heard of his whereabouts. But the memories of childhood and youth and the bondages that blood brings about silently kept calling out to him to return. He was my blood, my kin, somebody I had loved and idolised to the core.

“Six, five, four, three…I was muttering, as he lifted the corner of the flap of the canvas, that served as a doorway to the tent. He bent his tall and lean frame, so as to move out through the short tent opening, all the while, never turning back even once. And then, he was gone, perhaps forever.

Year 1970, Spring time. The Moirang War Cemetry was sprinkled with flowers. Lush green grasses separated each immaculately maintained white tomb stones from one another. I had come visiting with my family. I now led the retired leisurely life of an ex army personnel of the Indian Army who had been honoured and decorated many times over. As I stood before the epitaph, that read, “When you go home, tell them of us, and say, that, for their tomorrow, we gave our today” I saluted Major Vijay Rawat, who had remained true to his ideals all his life and proceeded on trudging down the slope towards my hotel.

খাবারের ওপারে

কে যেন একবার স্কটল্যান্ড নিয়ে বড্ড দুঃখ করে বলেছিল, ওই টুকু একটা দেশ, ঠাণ্ডা তে রক্ত হিম হয়ে যায়, ভিজে স্যাঁতস্যাঁতে, জঘন্য আবহাওয়া কিন্তু, প্রকৃতি যেন সেই খেদ মেটাতেই, অকৃপণ ভাবে পিপে ভরে ভরে, সেরার সেরা সুধা রেখে দিয়েছেন ওই স্কচগুলোর ভাঁড়ারে থুড়ি সেলার এ। তবে কিনা শুধু স্কচ রা নয়, এক ফালি সমুদ্র ডিঙলেই আইরিশ রাও হুইস্কি তৈরি তে ওস্তাদ। এই স্কচ আর আইরিশ রা যখন সপ্তদশ শতকে সাগর পেরিয়ে পা রাখল আমেরিকা মহাদেশের ভূখণ্ডে, তখন বাছাধনেরা পড়ল মহা ফাঁপরে। তারা পান করে কি? এখানে তো তাদের দেশের মত বার্লির চাষ হয়না, আর না পাওয়া যায় পিট।

পাঠক কুল যদি অনুমতি করেন তাহলে মূল গতিপথ থেকে একটু ভিন্নমুখী হবো। তার কারণ হুইস্কিপুরাণ কথা অমৃতসমান, আর পুরাণের কথা বলতে গেলে আদি পর্ব থেকে শুরু করতেই হয়। এখন প্রশ্ন হোল যে এই পিট বস্তুটি কি, এবং হুইস্কি তৈরি পদ্ধতিতে এটা এত গুরুত্বপূর্ণ কেন? পিট, আদ্র স্থানে বেড়ে ওঠা গাছপালা, গুল্মলতা, শ্যাওলার আংশিক পচন প্রক্রিয়ায় উৎপন্ন কয়লার প্রাথমিক পর্যায়। শুষ্ক অবস্থায় এটি অবাধে জ্বলে। এই পিটের ধোঁয়া তে শুকানো হয় আধা অঙ্কুরিত বার্লি। এই ধোঁয়ার আলগা গন্ধ হুইস্কি তে লেগে থাকে। এই হুইস্কি সব নিজ নিজ বিশিষ্ট স্বাদে স্বমহিমায় বিরাজমান। এবার তাহলে বোঝা গেল যে স্কচ এবং আইরিশ রা বার্লি এবং পিট না পেয়ে কি পরিমাণ আতান্তরে পরেছিল। এর পরে ‘মড়ার ওপর খাড়ার ঘা’ এর মতন, আমেরিকা ভূখণ্ডের আবহাওয়া এবং জল, স্বাদ-গন্ধ সমস্ত আলাদা। কিন্তু এই হুইস্কি রসে যে মজেছে, তার পক্ষে, এর থেকে নিজেকে বঞ্চিত রাখা বড়ই কঠিন। ইংরেজি তে একটা কথা আছে না, ‘Necessity is the mother of all inventions’ অর্থাৎ, প্রয়োজন পড়লে ঠিকই রাস্তা বেরোয়। মাথা টাথা চুলকিয়ে আশপাশ টা পর্যবেক্ষণ করে তারা দেখল যে আমেরিকান নেটিভ রা জব, বার্লির চাষ না জানলেও, ভুট্টার চাষ করে প্রচুর পরিমাণে। তাই অগত্যা ভুট্টা দিয়েই হুইস্কি তৈরির চেষ্টা করা হোল, এবং কি আশ্চর্য, তৈরি হল আর এক বিশ্বজয়ী পানীয়। এটিও হুইস্কি বটে, কিন্তু এর স্বভাবচরিত্রও, সাকিন সবই আমেরিকান। নাম দেওয়া হল বুরব্যঁ। আজকের জ্যাক ড্যানিয়ালস, জিম বিম, এই বুরব্যঁর মুকুটের এক একটি পালক। এ তো গেল সাহেবদের ভিন দেশে নিজেদের দেশীয় রসদের জোগারযন্ত্রের গপ্প ।

ইতিমধ্যে, দলে দলে বঙ্গপুঙ্গবেরা, মার্কিন মুলুকের immigration এর কঠোর নিয়মের ফাঁক গলে, স্বর্ণালী ভবিষ্যৎ এর হাতছানির ডাকে সাড়া দিয়ে সুড়ুত করে ঢুকে পড়েছে, the land of great opportunities এ। কিন্তু প্রশ্ন হল, যে তারা কি ওখানে পৌঁছে তাদের দেশের শুক্তো, ছ্যাঁচড়া, লাউ ঘণ্ট, কোপ্তা, কালিয়া, ইলিশ, পাঁঠার মাংসও, চিংড়ির মালাইকারি, পোলাও, দই মিষ্টি কে একেবারে, ভুলে মেরে দিলো? তাই কি কখন সম্ভব? আর ঠিক স্কচ আর আইরিশ দের মতই, আমাদের ‘Made in India’ সাহেব সুবো রা, সেই মার্কিন দেশের সহজে লভ্য রসদ, যেমন, যুকিনি আর আর্টিচোক কে কি, শুক্তুনি তে ব্যবহার করতে শুরু করলো? অথবা, খিচুরি তে কি তারা ব্রকোলি দেয়? রবিবারে কি পাঁঠার বদলে টার্কির ঝোল খায়? আমেরিকা এবং আমেরিকা প্রবাসী বাঙালিদের নিয়ে গত পঞ্চাশ বছরে যত লেখালেখি হয়েছে, ততটা বোধহয় আপন বঙ্গভূমি নিয়েও হয়নি। তবু যতই বই পড়ি না কেন, কিছু কিছু জিনিষ আছে যেগুলো, ওখানে গিয়ে না পড়লে, নিজের চোখে না দেখলে, নিজের জিভে আস্বাদ না নিলে, বোঝা দায়। 

এক পরিচিতর কাছে শুনলাম, সানফ্রান্সিস্কো তে তার মেটে চচ্চড়ি খেতে ইচ্ছে হওয়া তে, তিনি, ফ্রাঙ্কফুর্টার সসেজ কে টুকরো টুকরো করে কেটে চচ্চড়ি করেছিলেন কারণ অনেক খুঁজেও পাঁঠার মেটে পাননি। ফ্রাঙ্কফুর্টার সসেজ অতি উত্তম এক খাদ্যবস্তু, কিন্তু তার নিজস্ব স্বাদ গন্ধ আছে, এবং সেই স্বাদ গন্ধ, একেবারেই পাঁঠার মেটের স্বাদ গন্ধের ধার কাছ দিয়েও যায়না। তার পর জিরে ধনে গরম মশলার গন্ধও, সসেজ এর গন্ধের সঙ্গে তেল-জলের মত মারামারি করতে পারে, তাই, তিনি সেগুলোও বাদ গেলো। তার বদলে, তার মধ্যে পড়ল, লাল ওয়াইনের থেকে তৈরি ভিনিগার, দু চামচ, গোলমরিচ, বেশি করে লাল লঙ্কা, আদা আর রসুন। পড়ল, টমেটো আর কিছু মেথি পাতা। সসেজ গুলো টুকরো করে কেটে হাল্কা ভেজে নেওয়া হল, সর্ষের তেল এর বদলে সাদা তেলে, পড়ল, কিঞ্চিত মাখন। ফলে যে বস্তু টি প্রস্তুত হল, সেটি অতীব উপাদেয়ও, অথচ দেখুন, সসেজ আর লাল ওয়াইন বাদে বাকি জিনিষগুলো কিন্তু ষোল আনা দিশি। এখানেও সেই ফিউশন এর জয়জয়কার।

আমেরিকার টেক্সাস রাজ্যে হিউস্টন শহরটি যেমন নাসা র জনসন স্পেস সেন্টার এর জন্যে বিখ্যাত, তেমনি সে খ্যাত, আমেরিকার সব শহর গুলির মধ্যে সবচেয়ে বেশি বাঙালি অধ্যুষিত বলে। গুজরাতি দের স্বামী নারায়ণ মন্দির আমেরিকার বেশ কয়েকটি শহরে দেখা গেলেও, বাঙালিদের দুর্গা বাড়ি কিন্তু একমাত্র এই হিউস্টন শহরকেই আলোকিত করে আছে। এই শহরে আমার ভাই এর বাড়ি থাকার সুবাদে এই শহরের আমেরিকান-বাঙ্গালিয়ানার ফিউশনের সত্তা টা কে অল্প হলেও উপলব্ধি করতে পেরেছি। রাতে কষা মুরগির মাংসের সাথে গরম গরম মুচমুচে বাদামি পরটা খেয়েছি। এই পরটা গুলো কিন্তু মালয়েশিয়ান দোকান থেকে কেনা, একটা প্যাকেট এ গোটা দশেক কাঁচা পরটা পাওয়া যায়, তাওয়া তে একটু উলটে পালটে নিলেই হল।

আভোকাডো খেয়েছিলাম প্রথম বার একটি রেস্তরাঁ তে, নাম রাগলস। অখাদ্য লেগেছিল মেক্সিকো থেকে আগত, ফল আর সবজির মাঝামাঝি বস্তুটি কে। এটিকে দেখতে কাঁচা আম আর কিছুটা গন্ধরাজ লেবুর মাঝামাঝি একটা ফলের মত, মাঝে একটা বড়সড় বীজ, যার চারপাশে নরম শাস, যার স্বাদ বলতে না টক, না মিষ্টি, না ঝাল, বাংলা কথায় পানসে একটা স্বাদ কিন্তু পুরো আমেরিকা তে এটি কে নিয়ে খুব মাতামাতি। আমার পাশে বসে, আমার ভাই দেখলাম পরম তৃপ্তির সাথে ওই আভোকাডো স্যালাড, যার মধ্যে আর নানান ধরনের ঘাস পাতাও রয়েছে, গলঃধরন করছে। পরে অনেক ধৈর্য সহকারে আমাকে বোঝাল যে প্রথম প্রথম ওই দেশে গিয়ে ওরও ওই প্লেট ভর্তি ঘাস পাতা দেখলেই নাকি মনে হত যে আশেপাশে ঝোপঝাড় থেকে কেউ ছিঁড়ে ওর প্লেট ভর্তি করেছে, পরে পরে ওর নাকি, এটাতেই অভ্যাস হয়ে যায়, এবং এরও পরে ওর এসব ভালো লাগতে শুরু করে। এই ব্যাপারটা কে নাকি বলে acquired taste, এবং  আমি কিছুদিন থাকলে নাকি আমারও ভালো লাগতে শুরু করবে। মিথ্যে বলব না, পরে পরে এই আভোকাডো র পুর দিয়ে পরটা খেতে মন্দ লাগেনি। এই রাগলসেই কিন্তু খেয়েছিলাম 'টমেটো - বেসিল' সুপ। যে দুটো উপকরণ দিয়ে পদ টি বানানো, মানে, টমেটো এবং তুলসী পাতা, এই দুটোই আমাদের দেশে খুবই সহজে পাওয়া যায়, বরং তুলসী ওই দেশেই বেশ দুষ্প্রাপ্য, exotic herbs, বলে বিদিকিচ্ছিরি একটা দাম নিয়েছিল ওই সুপটার, কিন্তু খেতে বেশ লেগেছিল আমার। বুঝলাম, যে তুলসী নিজের কৌলীন্য বজায় রেখেছে সর্বত্র, কোথাও নারায়ণ রূপে তো কোথাও আবার ভিন্নদেশীয় উদ্ভিদ হিসেবে। 

ভারতবর্ষের খাদ্য পানীয়র যদি কোন ইতিহাস রচনা হয়, তাহলে সেখানে সুরা অথবা কারন বারির জন্য একটি গুরুত্বপূর্ণ জায়গা থাকবেই। অথচ, পশ্চিমের ওয়াইন এখানে কোনদিন জায়গা করে নিতে পারেনি। হালে, নাসিক এ ওয়াইন শিল্পের কিছুটা বাড়বাড়ন্ত হয়েছে, কিন্তু ওয়াইনটা মেয়েদের পানীয় হিসেবেই এদেশে চিহ্নিত। আমেরিকার ক্যালিফোর্নিয়ার নাপা উপত্যকায় গিয়ে চোখ ধাঁধিয়ে  গেলো, শুধু স্থানটির সৌন্দর্যেই নয় । হাঁ হয়ে দেখতে থাকলাম যে, ব্যবসা করতে গিয়েও, তাতে একটা আলাদা শৈল্পিক মাত্রাকে কি ভাবে এরা বজায় রাখতে পারে। এখানে যেমন ওয়াইন ট্যুর নেওয়া যায়, ওয়াইন ট্রেনে করে, যেমন হরেক রকম ওয়াইন এর স্বাদ নেওয়া যায়, বিভিন্ন ওয়াইনারি তে বসে, তেমনি, নাতিশীতোষ্ণ আবহাওয়ার আনুকূল্যে এখানে বেড়ে ওঠা মাইল এর পর মাইল আঙ্গুরের ক্ষেত চোখে শান্তির প্রলেপ আঁকে।

 
বিশ্বখ্যাত এই ওয়াইনারি গুলো, যেমন রবার্ট মন্ডাভি, ভি সাত্তুই তে, যেমন 'শারডনে', 'পিনো  নাওয়ার', 'মালবেক', 'ক্যাবুর্নে সোভীন্য' ওয়াইন সব থরে থরে সাজানো থাকে, তেমনি, নানান রকম চীজ, ফল, হরেক রকম ব্রেড, আচার, অলিভ অয়েল এর সম্ভার ও জিভে জল আনে। এখানেই প্রথম ওয়াইন, চীজ আর আঙুর সহযোগে খেয়েছিলাম। সেই স্বাদ আজ ও ভুলিনি।

টেক্সাস চিলড্রেন'স হাসপাতালে শিশু চিকিৎসক আমার ভাই এর স্ত্রী। সেই হাসপাতালের ব্যাপ্তি এবং, অসুস্থ শিশুদের নিয়ে তাদের চিন্তাভাবনা, শুধু শরীর ঠিক করা নিয়েই না, শিশুদের মনের খিদে মেটানোর জন্যেও, কত তুচ্ছ ব্যাপার নিয়েও তাদের সামগ্রিক প্রচেষ্টা আমাকে মুগ্ধ করেছে। সেই গপ্প অন্য একদিন, আজ, এখানে বলব, সেই হাসপাতালের দুটি বৃহৎ আকারের ক্যাফেটেরিয়ার একটি তে দুপুরের ভোজনপর্বের কথা। ক্যাফেটেরিয়ার দুটো দিকে নানান দেশীয় খাবার সাজানো। প্লেট এ তুলে নিলাম মেক্সিকান  'বুড়িতো', একেবারেই দিশি খাবার যেন, রুটি, ভাত, সবজি, স্যালাড, ডাল, মাংস। এর মধ্যে আবার, ডাল, সবজি, মাংস, দুই - তিন রকমের আছে, নিজের নিজের পছন্দ মত নিয়ে নিন আর সবটা রুটি তে রোল করে মুখে পুরে ফেলুন। পেট পুরে যেন বাড়ির খাবার খেলাম। দেখলাম এক জায়গায় ছোট্ ছোট  মিনিয়েচার গোটা বাঁধাকপি সেদ্ধ করে রেখেছে, ওপরে কি সব মসলা ছড়ানো। নাম শুনলাম, 'ব্রাসেল স্প্রাউট', খেয়ে দেখলাম, খুবই সুস্বাদু, অবিকল বাঁধাকপির মত খেতে, যদিও বেলজিয়ামের সাথে এই সবজিটির যোগাযোগ আদৌ আছে কিনা, জানা হয়ে ওঠেনি।

টেক্সাস যেহেতু, মেক্সিকো লাগোয়া, এখানে 'টেক্স - মেক্স' খাবারের চল খুব বেশি। টেক্সাস এর রাজধানী শহর অস্টিন এ একটি 'টেক্স - মেক্স' রেস্তরাঁ 'চুপা কাব্রা' তে খেয়েছিলাম 'বীফ - এনকিলাডা ' দারুণ খেতে, অনেকটা মাটন ভর্তার মতন। 

বীফ এনকিলাদা

টেক্সাস এর আর একটি শহর, 'সান আন্টনিও' তে আরেকটি মজার ঘটনা মনে পরে। এই শহরটি একদা মেক্সিকোতেই ছিল কিন্তু  ১৮৩৬ সালে, 'ব্যাটল অফ সান জাসিণ্টো' তে, টেক্সানরা,  মেক্সিকান জেনারেল লোপেজ ডে সান্টা আনার বাহিনী কে পরাস্ত করে, সেখানের দুর্গ, ' আলামো মিশন' দখল করে। রোমহর্ষক সেই যুদ্ধের গল্প ছাপানো, হোটেলের ব্রোশারে। ঝটপট মুখ হাত ধুয়ে নিয়ে হোটেল এর পাশে ' whataburger' এ একটা চিকেন বার্গার গলঃধরন  করে রাস্তায় বেরিয়ে পরলাম এই বিখ্যাত আলামো দুর্গ দেখতে। ভারতবর্ষের রাজস্তান, হায়দ্রাবাদের গোলকন্ডা, বিজাপুর দুর্গ, চোখের সামনে ভাসতে লাগল। রাস্তায় মানুষজন কে আলামো জিজ্ঞেস করতেই হাসি মুখে রাস্তা দেখিয়ে দিচ্ছে। হাঁটতে হাঁটতে একটা পাথরে বাঁধানো চত্বরে এসে দাঁড়ালাম। এদিক ওদিক তাকিয়ে, কিছুই ঠাওর করতে না পেরে, একজন কে জিজ্ঞেস করতেই অবাক হয়ে সামনে আঙ্গুল দিয়ে দেখাল। চোখে মুখে ভৎর্সনার ভাব তার, চোখ সরু করে তাকিয়ে আছে আমাদের দিকে, এত বড় দুর্গ আমরা দেখতে পাচ্ছি না বলে । ভয় পেয়ে গেলাম, নিজের দৃষ্টিশক্তি সম্পর্কে সন্দিহান হয়ে উঠলাম। পায়ে পায়ে এগিয়ে যেতে চোখে পড়ল পাথরের একটা ১২-১৪ ফুটের দেওয়াল, তার সামনে একটা বড় সড় কাঠের দরজা, লোহার চাকতি বসানো, তার সামনে লোহার শিকলের রেলিং, দেওয়ালের পিছনে, একটা 

বিস্তেক ত্যাকো

বাগান, কয়েক টা ঘর, ইতিউতি  কয়েকজন মিলিটারি ঘোরাফেরা করছে, টেক্সান হ্যাট পরে। কাঠের দরজার ওপর, 'স্যান জ্যাসিন্তর' ভয়ঙ্কর যুদ্ধের বিবরণ, দেখলাম একটা ধাতুর ফলকে খোদাই করা। এটাই সেই বিখ্যাত 'আলামো দুর্গ'। তৃতীয় বিশ্বের মানুষ আমরা, এদের কোন ব্যাপার নিয়ে তুলনামূলক আলোচনা করা আমাদের সাজে না। মনে পড়ল, Texas এ একটা বিপণী চেন এর কথা ' Here everything is better' ।দুর্গ দেখবো, এই উত্তেজনা তে খাওয়া হয়নি ভালো করে, একটু দুরেই দেখলাম ' লা গ্লরিয়া' বলে একটি মেক্সিকান রেস্তরাঁ । দেখলাম যে, Here everything is big, সাড়ে ছ ফুটি এক ওয়েটর, আমার দু হাতে জড়িয়ে ধরতে হবে এমন বিদঘুটে লম্বা গ্লাসে তরমুজ আর লেবুর সরবত ঢেলে দিলো। হাঁ করে মেনু কার্ডের দিকে তাকিয়ে আছি, দেখে, মুচকি হেসে, সেই ওয়েটার প্রবর নিজের থেকেই ৪ প্লেট ত্যাকো অর্ডার দিয়ে        

দিলো, আমাদের হয়ে, তারপর, বলল, আমরা গ্রিল্ড হালাপেনো খেয়ে দেখতে চাই কিনা? আমরা যে ভারতীয় এবং একমাত্র, ভারতীয় আর মেক্সিকান রাই এই দুঃসাহস দেখাতে পারে, এমনি তার বিশ্বাস। গরবে বুক ফুলে উঠল আমার, স্বদেশের ইজ্জত এখন আমার হাতে, বলে দিলাম ২ প্লেট গ্রিল্ড হালাপেনো দিতে। শোনা কথা, হালাপেনো মেক্সিকো তে উৎপন্ন একরকম লঙ্কা, যেটা এক কামড় খেলে, নাকি বসে কয়েক ঘণ্টা কাঁদতে হয়। আমার মনে আছে, গ্রিল্ড হালাপেনো খেয়ে, ওই মেগা গ্লাসের ৪ গ্লাস শরবত খেয়ে নিয়েছিলাম।

গ্রিল্ড হালাপেনো উইথ আভোকাডো অ্যান্ড সালসা

হিউস্টন দুর্গা বাড়ি তে চার দিনের দুর্গাপূজা তে খুব জাঁকজমক। আমেরিকার দূরদূরান্ত থেকে বাঙালি রা তাদের নিজস্ব brand এর বাঙ্গালিয়ানা নিয়ে হাজির। এমনকি কানাডা থেকেও বাঙালি রা এসেছেন গাড়ি চালিয়ে। হই হই রই রই কাণ্ড। পূজা চলছে বিশাল অডিটোরিয়াম এর ভেতরে। একদিকে সাংস্কৃতিক অনুষ্ঠান এর ব্যবস্থা, কলকাতা থেকে, অনেক দাম দিয়ে শিল্পীদের, নিয়ে আসা হয়েছে। আর এক দিকে দেখলাম কিছু উদ্যোগী বঙ্গ সন্তান, নানান বাঙালি পশরা সাজিয়ে বসেছেন। তাতে, বেলুন চাকি, বেতের ঝুড়ি ও যেমন দেখতে পেলাম, তেমনি পেলাম নানান কিসমের শাড়ি, পাজামা, পাঞ্জাবি, আর গড়িয়াহাট, দক্ষিনাপণ এর দোকানে পাওয়া যায় এমন নানান ইমিটেশন, ডোকরার, পাথরের গয়নার সম্ভার। টপাটপ বিক্রিও হচ্ছে সেসব। অন্য দিকে শাঁখা-পলা, আলতা,  সিঁদুর, জামদানি, কাতান পরা আমেরিকো-বঙ্গললনা রা আর ছোট ছোট বাচ্চা রা ছোটাছুটি করছে। আমার প্যাঁচালো মনে একটা প্রশ্ন জাগলো, যদি, এই প্রেক্ষাপট বদলে, এই ললনারাই একডালিয়া, দেশপ্রিয় পার্ক এর মণ্ডপে ঘুরে বেড়াতো, তাহলে কি এমন রাঙ্গা আলতা পরা পা দেখতে পেতাম, নাকি চওড়া সিন্দূর পরা মাথা দেখে মুগ্ধ হতাম? তাহলে কি, নিজের নিজের শিকড়ের খোঁজ পেতে বাঙালি দের আমেরিকা কি নিদেন পক্ষে বিলেতে পারি দেওয়া উচিত?

আমার চিন্তায়, ছেদ পড়ল, লুচি ছোলার ডালের ঘ্রাণে। বিশাল তাবু, তার ভিতরে খাওয়ার আয়োজন। এক মহাযজ্ঞ যেন। এক এক বারে, প্রায় ২৫০ জনের পাত পড়ছে। একদম সাবেকি বাঙালি ভোজ। অষ্টমী তে লুচি, ছোলার ডাল, আলুর দম, চাটনি, পায়েস। এর পর এলো নরম পাকের ছানার সন্দেশ, কিন্তু সেই সন্দেশের, স্বাদ-গন্ধ আমাদের ভীম নাগ অথবা বলরাম মল্লিক এর থেকে বেশ কিছুটা আলাদা। পাশে বসা ঘরোয়া বাঙালি মতে শাড়ী পরা, কানে ঝুমকো, হাস্যময়ী সুন্দরী কে খটকার কথা বলতেই, তিনি আমার ভুলটা ধরিয়ে দিলেন। এটা তো আদৌ ছানার সন্দেশ ই না। আমেরিকা তে খুব ই কম সংখ্যক দুষ্প্রাপ্য জিনিষের মধ্যে একটা হল ছানা। কিন্তু বাঙালি রা ছানার সন্দেশ না খেয়ে বাঁচে কি করে? এই ডেসার্ট টি তো আমাদের বাঙালি দের জাতীয় দুর্বলতার পর্যায়ে পরে। ফলেই আবার মাথা খাটানোর পালা, এবং ফলাফল হল আমেরিকান বাঙালি দের ঘরে ঘরে রিকোটা চীজ দিয়ে তৈরি সন্দেশ। এই চীজ এর সাথে কনডেন্সড দুধ মিশিয়ে চিনি দিয়ে বেক করলে এই রসনা মোহিত করা মিষ্টান্ন টি প্রস্তুত হয়। বৈচিত্র্য আনার জন্য, এই মিশ্রন টি তে কেশর অথবা চকলেট পাওডার অথবা তরল চকলেট মেশালেই মনপসন্দ কেশর সন্দেশ অথবা চকলেট সন্দেশ।
আমেরিকান বাঙালি দের ঘরে ঘরে মিষ্টি বানানোর খুব চল আছে। এছাড়াও চল আছে কড়াইশুটির কচুরি, মোগলাই পরটা, চপ বানানোর। মনে করিয়ে দেয় আমাদের ঠাকুমা দিদিমাদের আমলের কথা, যখন ফাস্টফুড বাড়িতেই তৈরি হত। এই ফুডগুলি যথেষ্ট ফাস্ট তৈরি না হলেও স্বাদে অতুলনীয় ছিল। তৈরি খাবার, প্রস্তুত করা জলখাবার, বাইরে পাওয়া না যাবার ফলেই এই দুই দেশে, দুই কালে, একই পদ্ধতি অবলম্বন করতে বাধ্য হয়েছে বাঙালি। কারন চিরকাল রসেবশে থাকা বাঙালির জিনে ভোজন রস ওতপ্রোত ভাবে জড়িয়ে গেছে, এর থেকে পালানোর পথ নেই। হিউস্টনে এক বন্ধুর বাড়িতে, ঘরে পাতা মিষ্টি দই খেয়ে মনে পরে গেলো, অনেক বছর আগে ঢাকা শহরে বেড়াতে গিয়ে প্রসিদ্ধ মরনচাঁদের দই এর স্বাদ। আশ্চর্য মিল স্বাদে। রেসিপি জিজ্ঞেস করতেই তৎক্ষণাৎ হাসি মুখে বলে দিয়েছিল। দু কাপ দুধ ফুটিয়ে ঘন করে, তাতে এক টিন কনডেন্সড দুধ আর গ্রীক ইয়গার্ট মিশিয়ে, ৩৫০ ডিগ্রি তে আধঘণ্টা খানেক বেক করতে হবে। ব্যাস, দই প্রস্তুত।আমেরিকান ইস্ট-কোস্টে যে বাঙালি রা থাকেন, বিশেষত নিউ জার্সির দিকে, তারা বলেন, কলকাতায় যাবতীয় যা পাওয়া যায়, সেই সব কিছুই নাকি নিউ জার্সি তে পাওয়া যায়, আত্মীয় স্বজন বাদে। অর্থাৎ কিনা, মা বাবা, বাকি আত্মীয় স্বজন দের নিউ জার্সি তে আমদানি করতে পারলে সেখানে একটা মিনি কলকাতা বানিয়ে ফেলতে পারবে। এমনি এক নিউ জার্সি স্থিত বাঙ্গালিনি গরবিনীর বাড়িতে খেয়েছিলাম সর্ষে–ইলিশ থুড়ি, সর্ষে-স্যামন। স্যামন ফিলে, ঈষদুষ্ণ জলে লেবুর রস আর নুন দিয়ে ম্যারিনেট করতে হবে কয়েক ঘণ্টা। এরপর, ‘মকরমিক গুর্মে অল গ্রাউন্ড মাসটার্ড পাওডার’,(যার স্বাদ ঠিক সানরাইজ গুড়ো মশলার মত) কাঁচা লঙ্কা, সর্ষের তেল, নুন মাখিয়ে, ফিলে গুলোকে, ৩০ মিনিট কম আঁচে বেক করতে হবে। ভোয়ালা!! (আরে বাবা, কয়লা টয়লা নয়, ফ্রেঞ্চে, 'ভোয়ালা' মানে, কিম আশ্চর্যম!) কে বলে, যে সর্ষে ইলিশ তুল্য কোন মাছের পদ হয়না?
খানা-ফিউশন আর খাদ্য দ্রব্য ইম্প্রভাইজেশন নিয়ে যখন এতটাই বলে ফেললাম, তখন খাঁটি আমেরিকান দেশজ একটি ডেজার্ট এর কথা না বলে পারছিনা। খুব স্বাভাবিক ভাবেই, বঙ্গ-আমেরিকানরা ওখানকার কিছু খাবার কে পছন্দ করে আপন রান্নাঘরে আর মনে স্থান দিয়েছে। 

ফ্রুট ট্রাইফেল

এমনি একটা তুচ্ছ পদের এর নাম ‘ত্রাইফেল’, ইংরেজি তে যার আক্ষরিক অর্থ তুচ্ছও। দেশেও খুব সহজেই এটা বানানো যাবে আর হলফ করে বলতে পারি, বাচ্চাদের মন জয় করবেই। পুডিং অথবা কাস্টার্ড আগে থেকে বানিয়ে রাখতে হবে। দোকানে পাওয়া যায় এমন ফ্রুট-কেক লাগবে, আর লাগবে কিছু টুকরো করা মৌসুমি ফল, যেগুলো সহজে গলে যাবে না, যেমন, আপেল, আম, পাকা পেঁপে, ইত্যাদি। আর লাগবে জ্যাম অথবা জেলি আর একটু ক্রিম। এবার কাচের গ্লাস অথবা গবলেটে প্রথমে কিছু কুচো ফল রাখতে হবে, এর ওপরের স্তরে, কেক, তারপরে, কিছুটা কাস্টার্ড অথবা পুডিং। এই প্রক্রিয়াটির পুনরাবৃত্তি করতে হবে, মানে, ফল, কেক, কাস্টার্ড আবার একের ওপরে এক। ওপরে ক্রিম দিয়ে, এটি ফ্রিজে ঠাণ্ডা করতে দিতে হবে। জিনিষটা খেতে হবে অতুলনীয়। পরীক্ষা প্রার্থনীয়।পরিশেষে, এটুকুই বলি, মৌলিক স্বাদ থেকে সরে এসেও বাঙালি রসনার তৃপ্তি ঘটাচ্ছে কিন্তু সেই ইম্প্রভাইজেশন। তাই, রুডিয়ার্ড কিপ্লিং এর বিখ্যাত উক্তি, " Oh East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet" বোধহয় এইক্ষেত্রে খাটেনা।

The Sauce of Love

She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf.

It was early hours, and the aroma from the cup of freshly-grounded coffee beans, was slowly spreading warmth into her lean shivering frame as she tried to obliterate the fishy-bloody smell that seemed to envelope her and to assimilate the events of the past few days, which flashed past her eyes. She was in her pajamas and a T-shirt hung loosely on her, the attire that she had slipped into, the previous night. Her hair was hurriedly tied up in a bun with a few strands of hair hanging out untidily. The last couple of days she had been living in a daze and with each slow sip of the Starbucks trademark frappeccino, she tried to collect her thoughts and her reasoning skills so that she could get herself out of this mess.

This GK1 market outlet of Starbucks was a bit rundown and was crying out for want of space. However, exactly this characteristic, lent her the cocoon of anonymity that she craved for right now. The veil on the glass panes from condensed dewdrops rendered hazy images of a city briskly waking up to its call. The simple beauty of it all, from the blurred imagery to the sweet tinkle of a dream catcher, and the subdued tones of the morning customers trickling in, into the warmth of the café, distracted her momentarily from the reality that she would have to deal with promptly. Her temporary distraction ended abruptly, when she suddenly noticed the young man serving at her table, darting furtive glances at the chair beside her which held her arm-de-destruction. The blue silk scarf though not exactly of transparent material, was unable to hide the outline of the boning knife that lay beneath the scarf. She hastily placed her handbag on the scarf, but she presumed that the damage had already been done. In order to divert the man’s attention, she ordered for a plate of double chocolate muffin, even though she was sure that it would be nauseating for her to even take a single bite. As a confirmation to her doubt, she noticed that the man was leaning on the serving counter and whispering something to two other waiters, while at the same time, glancing back towards her. One of the guys at the counter, picked up his phone to make call, all the while glowering at her. A couple of university students, with their trademark bag-pack had entered the café to perhaps grab a hurried breakfast. One of them, sat down at her table and quizzically swung her looks back and forth from the red sticky substance that seemed to come out from under her handbag to her face. She decided that it was a now or never situation and after leaving two hundred rupee notes on the table, she hurriedly slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up the knife with its camouflage and stumbled out of the café, almost tripping on a new entrant’s foot at the doorway, amidst astonished glances and calls of ‘behenji, zara rukiye’ from behind her.

Puja Mukherjee and Avik Mukherjee seemed to be quite the amiable couple, which about anybody would wish to have as their next door neighbour, in the quiet and quite upper middle class neighborhood in Chittaranjan Park.  Avik worked as a Senior Consultant with the software giant TCS at Udyog Vihar while Jyoti was in the final stages of completing her PhD at Delhi University. Avik’s parents were expatriates from Kolkata, popularly called ‘Probashi Bangali’ in the Central Government service who had procured land in the Bengali-majority area of Chittaranjan Park and had built a house there, when they had finally decided to settle down in New Delhi after the retirement of Avik’s father, Goutam Mukherjee from the Indian Revenue Services. Avik’s mother Meera still had a couple of years before her retirement from the Railways. They lived close by to where, their son and daughter in law had procured an apartment for themselves. This had been mutually settled within the family so that they could stand by each other in times of need as well as to keep some space between themselves in the process.

This agreement proved both to be a boon as well as a bane, as the parents thought that their children would be delighted to share the Sunday breakfast and lunch with them, as her daughter-in-law would be spared her daily grind of kitchen chores even if, it was for only a single day in a week. Meera, secretly, patted herself on the back as she considered herself to be an understanding mother-in-law, comparing herself to her own mother-in-law who was quite the tyrant in her times. Added to that was the fact that, she yearned to feed her son to some degree of wholesome staple Bengali food, and it was really gratifying to feed him luchi-alurdom for breakfast, and a delectable array of the choicest of freshwater fishes which her keen Bengali mother’s eye had detected, always brought about a glint of gladness in the deprived Avik’s eyes. This entire package was supposed to generate a blithe situation for all the parties concerned, but as fate had it, everything did not turn out as planned.

Puja Karia was a batch junior to Avik at NIT Delhi. They belonged to different disciplines, and while Avik acquired his undergraduate degree in Electronic and Communication Engineering, Puja was an undergrad in Applied Sciences. They met through common friends and to cut the clichéd story short, decided to take their relationship to the next level, and so, after Avik completed his M. Tech, procured a job in TCS, garnered enough confidence of breaking the news of his decision to marry a Gujju to his parents, and after reiterating several times to the Karias that he would never force, Puja to have non-vegetarian food, he managed to cut short the lengthy red tape over numerous rounds of Dhokla, Khandvi, Motorshutir Kochuri, Kucho Nimki, Malpoa and Rosogollas. Finally they got to get married, however, they had to do it twice, both in the Bengali as well as in the Gujarati tradition, in keeping with the sentiments of both sets of families and thus ending the feud between two sets of warring parents.

Puja was a thoroughbred Gujarati coming from a strictly vegetarian conservative Gujarati family from Surat. Her father and brother were in the textile business and her mother was a homemaker. The Karia family had managed to do quite well for themselves and had grand plans for their only daughter’s wedding after she was through with a simple graduation from one of the numerous colleges around Surat. Puja had to fight tooth and claw with her parents who were totally against her joining an engineering college hundreds of kilometres away from home and her staying in a hostel. It was quite a feat in itself for Puja to convince her parents that, getting an entry into an NIT was a chance that she could not afford to squander. After a number of admonitions, a barrage of advices, wet eyes and quivering lips, she was settled into an AC three tier bogey of the Surat, Hazrat Nizamuddin Garib Rath and for the first time in her life, she was on her own.

Intially, Puja loved to visit her in-laws over the weekend. She enjoyed the lazy Sundays when she was not required to tend to cleaning her house or cooking. While, Avik and his mother fondly made, trips to CR Park Fish Market and the sweet shop, ‘Rasoraj’, she was content to catch a movie with her father-in-law on the TV, argue with him over virtues and vices of the policies that the new government was implementing, or would be comfortable, curling up on a garden sofa on the terrace with her headphones plugged into her ears, listening to the ‘Blues’. In fact, she was developing a taste for Bengali vegetarian delicacies like ‘Dhokar Dalna’, ‘Jhinge alu Posto’, ‘Lau er Ghonto’ which her ma-in-law was rustling up for her at regular intervals and had started having sweet pangs for her eternally favourite ‘Mishti Doi’.

A few months into her marriage, she was seen, dabbling with veggies and gliding up behind Meera to watch her cook. Her mother-in-law, was only too glad to note that, Puja was integrating herself into the Bong household and was interested to learn about the family inheritance, culinary and otherwise and she fondly told her that it was upon Puja to carry on the Mukherjee family legacy.

Conflict started brewing, when, Avik asked for Bong recipes, as a change from the daily Gujarati fares of ‘Kadhi’, ‘Uundhyu’ ‘Thepla’ ‘Farsans’ and ‘Srikhands’ that Puja fixed for him. Puja tried out the recipes that she had learnt from Meera, but they were never good enough for Avik. At times he jovially kept asking Puja to concentrate more on her Bengali cookery lessons with his ma. According to him, ma was a fantastic cook, and it would augur well for Puja to learn diligently from her. One evening, Avik brought home half a dozen eggs from the ‘Spencers’ and cooked himself a meal of ‘Dim er Dalna’ or egg curry at night, much to Puja’s dismay. She felt nauseated from the smell and spent an extra hour cleaning the utensils used for cooking eggs as well as the gas oven, even more thoroughly than before. She was hurt, that Avik had not given, enough value to the sentiments that she was brought up with. At night, while she watched, Avik, sleep, she felt sorry for him. His young face looked tired and fraught with worries as he cuddled up like a baby towards her. She reasoned with herself, that Avik was also used to a certain type of food and lifestyle before he married her and had imposed upon himself habits, agreeable to her, only because he loved her. She argued with herself that therefore the onus also lay on her to accomodate a little so that, Avik would also feel comfortable. From that day onwards, eggs became a staple in their kitchen and Puja stepped in to help Avik in making omelettes and egg curry.

After about a month or so, a few of Avik’s relatives from his father’s side, Shibani pishi, who was Avik’s father’s sister, her husband and cousins  visiting from Kolkata had dropped in, to see their apartment. Avik, while returning, home from work, brought home some ‘Bhetki’ (a type of fish ) fillets, marinated them in ginger and onion sauce, dipped them in cornflour and egg batter and deep fried them. The fishy smell, hung heavy in the entire apartment, and Puja could barely conceal her scowl as she served Avik’s ‘pishi’ the ‘Bhetki fries’ who was hollering at the top of her voice, ecstatic at her nephew’s new found culinary skills, and constantly coaxing Puja to try atleast one of the top-class ‘Bhetki-fries’. She kept reiterating that it was imperative for a Bengali wife to have fish, as in keeping with Bengali traditions, only widows had vegetarian food and that having ‘machh-bhaat’ (fish and rice) went a long way in asking for a long life of her husband. Puja noticed that, Avik did not oppose her aunt, even for once.

That night they fought bitterly.Puja was furious that Avik was going back on his words and Avik argued that it was unnecessary to squabble with an elderly aunt who was visiting once in a blue moon, and that he himself was tired of eating ‘ghaas-patta’ (food which tasted like grass and leaves) everyday. Did he not have the liberty of serving his relatives, the way he wanted at his own home? Puja reminded him that he was aware of the situation and that he had agreed to her terms before they got married. At this, Avik screamed that if he ever knew what that entailed, that marriage was all about being a slave to her wishes only, he would never have got himself into this mess. That night, both of them went to bed, hungry and fuming.

The following morning being a Saturday, both were at home, and were trying to patch up forcibly, but the natural camaradarie, that they shared was missing. Avik anounced that, the next day being a sunday, he would ask his parents to come over, instead of the usual ritual of going over to their house. Puja was not too unhappy with this proposal either and readily agreed as she felt comfortable with her in-laws and thought that perhaps this gesture of hers would thaw the ice between them. So she called up Goutam and Meera and requested them to stay over for the night at their place on Saturday. Puja’s parents-in-laws arrived in the evening and the evening passed pleasantly with friendly banter. Puja had started to feel sorry at the words that she had used the previous night, and decided that she would make up to Avik for all the time wasted in fighting. Sunday morning, Puja woke up to a bad odour and as she entered her kitchen, to make the morning cup of tea for everyone, she was horrified at the blood, scales and fishes piled up on her kitchen top and sink. The entire apartment seemed to be reeking. She looked dumbfounded at the gleaming and happy faces of Goutam, Meera and Avik. They looked pleased as a punch. This sort of undid her. She picked up the boning knife from her ‘knives-set’, and with unnerving rage, kept plunging the knife into the fishes, tearing them apart into pieces, amidst screams from Meera and stunned silence from Goutam and Avik. Then she walked out from the kitchen, picked up a scarf and her handbag that was lying on the sofa, and in a disshevelled state, ran out of the house, past the visibly shaken security guard, who had earlier only known only a placid, Puja Madam. She did not know, where she would go, only that she could not return to her home, ever again.

Here she was again, stumbling out on to the footpath outside Starbucks. She started running as she felt a number of people chasing her. They were all calling out to her to stop. It was like an endless flight, as she kept tripping. People all over the roadside were staring at her. Finally she could do it no more and fell down in a heap on the kerb. She spotted Avik’s pained and striken face, just before she lost her consciousness. At last she knew what to do. She would let, Avik take care of all the issues just like he had always done. She finally felt at peace, as she felt his touch on her forehead and knew that everything would be just fine. Puja knew that they had reached common and stable ground now. It didn’t matter whether, it was Gujarati Srikhand or Bengali Mishti Doi, as long as the end turned out to be sweet.

Author: Jayeeta Sinha Roy