Nominations should include short biography of the author and his/her connection to Ananda Mandir

October 2018 Ananda Sangbad 5 Gifts of Food and Goodwill: Indian Wanderings

The joy of sinking one’s teeth into the chocolate filling of a croissant while sipping a cup of Swiss Cafe au Lait can be a divine experience anywhere. That early spring morning, I was sitting at a table by myself outside the café of the CERN Laboratory in Geneva. The experience was enhanced by the nippy breeze blowing in from the surrounding Jura Mountain range. My curiosity and professional assignments allowed me to explore many corners of the world, often just by myself. I had opportunities to experience exotic, sometimes expensive, meals that were wonderfully satisfying. However, I was remembering experiences that I had enjoyed as a shy young person in India. I also had opportunities to live in several Indian cities, occasionally traveling to other cities on my own. These memories are not only about what I ate at ordinary places, but also about the very special people who gifted them.

My mother was an exceptionally versatile, imaginative, and -- shall I say, persnickety – cook who never tolerated anybody, including me, in her kitchen. Her cooking was influenced by north Indian cuisines. Both of my parents, Bengalis by ancestry, were raised in north India in the early part of the twentieth century. At that time, the access to typical Bengali ingredients, particularly freshwater fish, was limited. Consequently, fish was not popular at our home and I never developed a taste for it. However, mother insisted on feeding us a variety of food featuring a healthy dose of beans and vegetables. She would fry her specialty Kochuri, fried bread stuffed with green peas flavored with ginger and a touch of asafetida, one at a time, and plop it on my plate. I would poke a hole in the puffed-up top layer and enjoy the aroma of the stuffing. She also made sure that I appreciated food, even strange ones, offered by others.

Because of my father’s employment as a government engineer, he was often transferred to different cities away from any close relatives. Getting household help at such cities was always a challenge. When we lived in Shillong, my mother became very sick and had to spend about a month in the hospital. My father tried his best to feed my brother and me well but would occasionally treat us at a Chinese restaurant in the Police Bazaar neighborhood. Perched on the side of a hill, it was a popular restaurant, perhaps it was the only one of its kind. During our first visit, as three of us settled down at a table, the server came by and put down two big bottles of hot water and one bottle of lukewarm water. Although the weather outside was quite cold, my ten-year-old brain could not figure out the need for hot water with our meal. We were used to drinking room-temperature water with our meals. I believe my father ordered

By Bakul Banerjee

Chow Mein and a Chicken dish which we would share. There was a small jar of finger-hot peppers preserved in vinegar on the table. My dad served us spoonfuls of the Chow Mein in an uncertain manner. I took the first bite with huge anticipation. The flavor and texture of the unfamiliar noodles were strange but exciting. However, within a minute or two, I was jolted by the sheer burning sensation in my mouth. Quickly, I poured myself a glass of regular water and gulped it down quickly. My brother, with tears flowing down his cheeks started hiccupping. We finished the entire bottle and reached for the hot water bottles. I am not sure why, but the hot water was much more effective in quenching the heat. Consumed by curiosity I tried the chicken dish after sprinkling a spoonful of the vinegar from the jar of the pickled pepper. All the while, Dad sat across me with a bemused but helpless look. Later, I realized how much he rejoiced in these small adventures with his children.

After a stint of four years, Dad was transferred to Calcutta and we settled in a less crowded neighborhood near the airport. The hullabaloo of a big city like Calcutta disturbed him. Yet, he was assigned to the Borobazaar office. Borobazaar was the biggest hub of commodity trading in eastern India. His work was stressful. However, once a week, he would come home with a couple of cardboard boxes of sweets, which dripped pure ghee (clarified butter). Fudges made of milk, almond, or select lentils were covered with silver or gold foils. The incredible fragrance of real saffron steeped in butter and sugar was a sensory overload that remains with me even today. Those sweets were definitely fit for monarchs. Later, I visited a very crowded Borobazaar with my father and learned how expensive those sweets were. I often imagined those treats gracing faraway wedding feasts given by rich folks. When my father was transferred after a few months, my skinny body stopped gaining weight, to the dismay of my mother.

After graduating from the Calcutta Presidency College, I joined the master’s program at the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT), Kanpur and shed the shell of shyness. My fellow students and I, with an equally limited budget, used to make infrequent trips to a fancy, of course by smaller city standards, restaurant. One of the attractions was the popular American songs played at the restaurant. Such music was inaccessible to most of us. For the first time in my life, I tasted grilled fish covered with a white wine sauce along with a side of “blowin’ the wind” song by Joan Baez playing over the microphone. Years later, standing in my kitchen monitoring the doneness of the Shrimp Malai Curry, I would remember the mingling of familiar friendly voices and unfamiliar fish preparation along with an exotic song. Was it the dining experience or my newly-found connections that stayed in my memory? A couple of years later, I graduated from IIT Kanpur and started chasing various doctoral fellowships around the country. I applied for newly established government fellowships offered by the University Grant Commission of India at a select few Centers of Advanced Studies in Mathematics around the country. The number of these national fellowships was limited, and the competition was stiff. Appearing for live interviews was mandatory which posed a serious problem for me. Nobody in our friend and family circles had ever heard of an unmarried young woman traveling alone to these remote and often unsafe places. My father was in poor health and nobody else was available. I convinced my parents to let me go by myself. I must admit that traversing the vast country by train was really scary sometimes. I never met any lonely soul like me during those trips. However, unusual acts often come with rewards. On the day of one of these trips, I was on my way to Roorkee, a city in northern India. After getting down at the railway station, I was supposed to take a bus to the university about an hour away. The train was late and it was getting dark.

Since I had exhausted the food packed for the twenty-hour-long trip, I approached the roadside food stall. The shopkeeper, the cook, was tossing Naan bread in the Tandoori oven while serving them along with chunks of potato curry to several burly men. He looked at me quizzically. “Sister, why are you here alone this late in the evening? Where are you going?” He looked at me in astonishment. I am sure that he noticed my thick glasses and modest outfit. “I must go to Roorkee University tonight. I have an interview first thing tomorrow morning.”

“What will you study there?” He kept questioning as he continued serving customers ahead of me. It took me a while to explain to him the difference between arithmetic and many branches of mathematics that a doctoral student might study. Until then, nobody ever asked about my intended field of study and very few did afterwards. When my turn came, he packed several Naans and a huge portion of potato curry in a disposable bag made up of dried leaves.

“How much?” I asked taking out my wallet.

“No, sister. I cannot take money from you. I am sure you will earn the Ph.D. degree soon.”

After filling my flask with hot milky tea, he summoned one of his workers.

“Take the sister to the bus stop. Make sure to tell the conductor to drop her off in front of the university and to hand her luggage to the guard at the gate.”

“May God bless you and have a safe journey. Now, hurry. The Roorkee bus leaves in fifteen minutes.”

I opened the food packet in the bus. The shopkeeper had also packed two pieces of gram flour fudge.

Eventually, I landed a fellowship at the Ramanujan Institute of Advanced Studies in Mathematics, Chennai. One of my fellow researchers observed that I liked to visit nearby ashrams, temples, and shrines. There were plenty of them in Chennai. She offered to take me to Arunachalam Ashram, the home of revered sage Ramana Maharshi. The sage, who passed away in 1950, had disciples from all walks of life around the world who came to him to learn about ancient Vedanta philosophy. Two of those visitors were Somerset Maugham and Paul Brunton.

My friend and I planned to take a day trip by bus. One Saturday, we started early in the morning. The ashram was located at the foot of the Arunachal hill outside the city of Tiruannamalai, about six hours away from Chennai. My friend was familiar with the ashram since she had visited the place before. My friend took me to a nearby home where many visitors stopped for lunch. I was clueless as I did not understand the local language. The house was crowded. After waiting a while, we, about twenty of us, were asked to sit down on reed mats on the floor. Each of us had a large banana leaf in front of us with a small pile of salt on the side. A man came around and placed a mound of white rice on the leaf. Another young woman poured about two tablespoonfuls of golden clarified butter on the rice and somebody else served hot green mango pickles in oil. That was it. I couldn’t figure out why but when I finished the simple meal and stood up, I felt enormously satisfied. We were about to go to the ashram, but I noticed that the top of the dark Arunachal hill had disappeared behind dark clouds. It started raining soon. The tiny house was packed with about fifty pilgrims. Servers were serving people with great dexterity. When I asked about paying, my friend told me that these people do not take any money. I should make donations to the ashram. Later, at the ashram, we spent time meditating in a stark, white-washed room sitting cross-legged on floor mats. The sparseness of the sage’s abode reflected the philosophy he taught. I felt great. Perhaps, it had something to do with the gift of plain nourishment that I had received at the home of a stranger.

I left India for the United States soon after. Although I have received many gifts of kindness in my new country, these special memories have helped me during difficult times.