Sunday Feature By Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick and Sankalpita Mullick

Mother – Daughter Jugalbandi

Theme: Winter warmth

The Chest of Woollens

The big black chest of woollens
Kept lovingly at the corner.
All our woollens neatly rolled in soft linens.
The lovely smell of moth balls.

So many memories of the long lost days.
The black chest now a memorabilia of our childhood ways.
The huge big chest which grew smaller when I became big.
In winter for our woollens in it we used to dig.

Helping Ma to sun the woollens on the terrace.
Cooling them, folding them and back in the chest.
Putting naphthelene ball pouches in the folds of the woollens.
Settling them in sorted patterns.

My handsome Baba in his white Khasmir shawl.
Every winter my cardigans shrinked since I would grow tall.
The jumbo sweater of my brother which was jet black.
My sister in her woollen slacks.

The big black chest has travelled to so many countries.
It has been to so many states.
Followed us everywhere with woollens in its tummy.
Faithfully bringing us warmth every winter.

Now I live in a city which has no winter,a climate confused.
The woollens in my wardrobe waiting to be used.
But still the big black chest comes to my mind.
Memories of my parents wrap me like the woollens and solace I find.

Theme: Food and Gastronomic Delight

My love is contained in food

The biryani I ate with my parents doesn’t taste the same when served on cold metal mess plates.
The rice sticking to the sides and the eggs never quite fried right and the meat always conspicuously absent.
The sweet rice and milk dessert doesn’t taste as sweet when there is no one to clink spoons with and no one to finish the last few morsels when you’re full so nothing wastes.
The milk always tastes like it has curdled when you have no one to mock the way you prefer to eat it, whether you like it with masala or are more of a sweet bent.
The chutneys and the achaars feel bland without a healthy accompaniment of news channel vichaars blaring in the background.
The roughness of the carrots mimicking the harshness of my surroundings,
the fish is stale and dry when it isn’t my grandfather who goes to the fish market at 5am to pick only the freshest fish for me amongst the grating market sound.
Apple tarts and apple pies you can buy wherever you go and they may taste like heaven, sugar, and sweetness but not like love anymore
because love was contained in the cupcake liners amongst the other tins
that are raided by us when they come out of the oven.
Love is contained in the streetside momos picked by the parents for their hungry, fussy child.
Love is found in remembering our daily conversations and small little wins.
The mess plates have five compartments,
And here I, far away from home, am absentmindedly hitting my spoon against all five.
Maybe the food I have here is good and I just don’t know it
because my love is contained in the food that I left at home.