I can write endlessly on nostalgia. To me, it’s the strangest feeling of all. You can’t hate it. Neither can you fall in love with it. It pops out at times you don’t expect it to or worse when you are not prepared for it. Consider this. You are busy in a meeting and your brain ticks! The nostalgic impulse rushes at the speed of light and no, you have no control over the outcome of emotions. That’s the reason why you see many of the folks smiling at a serious point or shedding tears when the company has its growth being manifested. I bet you have just recalled a similar incident and if am not wrong, you are smirking your way through ;)
Today when I talked to my Amma (grandmother), a similar nostalgia ached through my heart. I
have not visited my home for over a month. A job in a distant city and the
difficulty of booking train tickets during vacation have added to the woes. I
prefer to converse with her in Sindhi, my mother tongue. I believe one should imbibe
the language he or she is born in. I have grown up with grandparents by my side
and that has made me love my language. It brings me closer to the culture I am
hereditarily a part of.
It is summer here and she has put forth some set of rules.
Recall a typical Indian motherly figure showering advices (rather commandments)
with oodles of love. Us mein baayr na
nikar jaiin (Do not go out in the sun). Baairi
bhaaji na khaay jaiin (Do not eat outside vegetables, which symbolises
non-vegetarian food). Duddh vathi kare
kha (Buy some curd and eat). Kheer
thado pi jaiin (Consume cold milk). Bhugda
Khaijaiin (Eat roasted chick-peas). Amb-chaavar
kha (Eat mango with rice – and that’s what my weekend plan will be). Ghar mein hi vetho rahe jaiin (Remain in
home).
The Bhugda part
hit that mother lode of nostalgia. I rarely had roasted chick-peas, popularly
known as Chana in Hindi, during my 15
month stay in Mumbai. Not that I am extremely fond of it, but the memories of
it during my school days make it a food to remember. Amma keeps telling how she relished having bhugda in her school days (and that’s before Indian independence).
She and her sisters used to fill their pockets with bhugda and daakh (black
raisins) on their way to school. Now at the age of 83, she grinds them and
consumes the powdered avatar. I recall watching TV or reading a book while
involuntarily devouring them. I recall Amma instructing me to have some after
having fried things (She has this theory that if you consume water after having
oily/fried things, you will develop cough. The way out is either to wait for like,
half an hour or to bridge the gap by consuming ‘safe’ things like biscuits, papad or chick-peas among other stuff). I
recall my mother keeping some of them with a little jaggery in my tiffin box. I
recall mouth-watering laayi (Chikki for
you) made out of bhugdaas and/or khaajas (groundnuts) during Diwali. I
recall the stories of horses having them and that that being responsible for
their strong legs.
So many memories in such a little pea! We do take as granted
the little wondrous elements of life. I don’t know if I’d be having bhugda soon, but yes, they would always
intrigue me as carriers of nostalgia. Forget coffee. A lot has indeed happened
for me over Bhugdaa.
