Winterludes - I
The Cold Babe
© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆
[ first posted Jan 2022, inspired by an article floating around in WhatsCrapp, THANDA LEGE JABEY attributed to a Mr. Subir Ghosh of “Hindusthan” Times ca. Nov 2005 (couldn’t find the original reference but see below this post, if you have a link to the original, please share), and a more recent one by a more recent 2015 blog-post by Ms. Purba Ray’s Behind a Monkey Cap is a Shivering Bengali ]
kee sheeth, kee sheeth, omāgo is an expression burnt into my memory from the days of living next door to māshi mā, mom to my then partner-in-crime, Babul.
The news broadcast from Aākashwāni Ranchi as well as All India Radio, Calcutta had warned about some Coal Babe. This latest item was being hotly discussed by the adults of the neighborhood. The bhadraloks clearly blamed it on modern technology and the younger generation who had no respect for traditional values. They surmised that there were an unacceptable number of automobiles on the roads (none of the families in the neighborhood owned one, and our family acquired the boxy rotundity called an Ambassador years later). Or perhaps it was the Jet engines which were adding to the noise and the weather fluctuations (we had a grand total of one incoming and one outgoing flight on a propeller driven plane at our local aerodrome, as it was called in those days). There was also speculation about the widespread usage of chemical fertilizers instead of natural cow manure. It very well could be due to the ominous “cold war” and atom bombs being stealthily tested by vague foreign powers on islands named after skimpy bathing attire that sounded like zucchini. The consensus opinion was that such an event was happening too frequently, it heralded the coming doomsday in none-too-distant future and none of it was good for mankind.
My friend Babul and I had more important things to worry about during the winter break so we completely ignored the discussions, choosing to focus on the Hindi news bulletin that mentioned sheet-lahari. This newly discovered expression just rolled off your tongue and was a source of endless amusement to us, expressing, “Oh, sheet, Larry!” every chance we got until an annoyed adult put a stop to it, snuffing out much simple joy in our simple lives.
I had barged into their house when I hadn't seen Babul come out to play at the usual time one winter morning. Those were the days when knocking on door was an unknown concept, employed rarely, and only by total strangers... I walked in only to see him being thoroughly humiliated in front of my eyes. He was being forced to don multiple layers of clothes, and a mankee tupi, a cold weather magic shield, passed down from some relative and several sizes larger than Babul's 8-year old skull. Babul was a child of slender frame and these winter clothes had increased his bulk to twice his normal size. I, on the other hand, had sneaked out from our house gleefully ignoring the standing orders to be properly dressed for the weather, cleverly evading my mom’s ever watchful radar while she was distracted instructing the household help yet again on the same daily cooking and cleaning chores,
Dumb old me, like a true friend I was, I snickered loudly at the look on Babul’s resentful face and stiff, uncooperative body when I should have just stayed mum like the proverbial rabbit and said, ”nuffin’. Like the true friend he was, Babul ratted me out promptly, protesting loudly that if I, his friend, was not properly attired, why in tarnation was he being made to? It wasn’t that cold anyway, this Coal Babe was another example of tyrannical nonsense foisted by the adults upon the kids.
All the homes in those days seemed to have large wooden steamer trunks just inside the front door. You know, the ones with heavy metallic clasps containing of an assortment of hand-me-down clothes collected over multiple generations. Babul’s home was no exception. These clothes, now only in their second or third lives, were not quite ready to be given away to the needy neighborhood hobos. Only when they were threadbare and smelly, those decades old garments were ever discarded by the next generation of people. So māshi mā wasted no time in rectifying the situation and quelled any budding rebellion with a heavy woolen sweater that mysteriously materialized in her hands, jamming it on top of me before I could utter a syllable in protest. In retrospect, no protest of mine would have made the slightest difference, it was a “no-win” situation. Next I know, a rather coarse, scratchy and heavy scarf strongly smelling of Vicks VapoRub was wrapped around my neck accompanied by an explosive “tchāhh!” with an appropriate mixture of exasperation and love.
māshi mā called out to my mom across the narrow pathway that separated the two homes. The two ladies leaned out their kitchen windows and exchanged the usual morning pleasantries over tea from the warmth of their respective kitchens, commiserating about their two “senseless” (a favorite adjective of theirs) brats who would otherwise be no better than those street urchins were it not for the protective embrace and watchful gaze provided by them.
And thus we ventured out, my friend Babul and I, on that foggy morning, well protected on the upper parts of our physical selves, but the lower limbs were clad in shorts, ready to slay the dragons of the day.
No more thanda lege jabey, thank you!
By Subir Ghosh
Printed in the Hindusthan Times of 19Nov2005
One phrase every Bengali worth his sweater has grown up with is " thanda lege jabey". It is the ultimate warning of impending doom, an unadulterated form of existentialist advice. "Thanda lege jabey". Thou shalt 'catch the cold'.
'Catching the cold' comes easy to Bengalis. It's a skill that's acquired almost immediately after birth. Watch a Bengali baby and you would know. Wrapped in layers of warm clothing even if the sun is boiling the mercury, the baby learns quickly that his chances of survival in a Bengali household depend on how tightly he can wrap himself in cotton, linen and wool. Bengalis have almost romanticised warm clothing, so much so that Bengali art has found eloquent expression in a form of quilt-stitchwork called kantha. I'm sure wool-shearers even in faraway Australia say a silent prayer to Bengalis before the shearing season (if there's any such season). I'm also sure the very thought of Bengalis sends a chill down the spine of many a sheep.
In winter, the quintessential Bengali's outfit puts the polar bear to shame. Packaged in at least seven layers of clothing and the head snugly packed inside the queerest headgear, the monkey cap, he takes the chill head on. Easy lies the head that wears the monkey cap. With a pom-pom at the top, it's not just a fashion statement; it's a complete fashion paragraph.
I remember strolling down the Walk of Fame in Hollywood on a pleasant May evening. My eyes scanned the glittering stars on the asphalt - each an ode to a Hollywood heavyweight. Suddenly, my ears caught the unmistakable Doomsday warning - 'thanda lege jabey'. I stood transfixed. The Hollywood Walk of Fame is probably the last place one would like to get caught 'catching the cold'. I turned around. There was this Bengali family braving the American chill. The young brat of the family was adamant that he didn't want any more clothing but mom wouldn't have any of it - "sweater porey nao, thanda lege jabey." I need not translate that. Mom won, and the family - sweaters et al - posed for a photograph.
For a race that is perpetually running scared of cold weather, Bengalis have a surprising affinity for hill stations.
Probably, warmth of heart is best preserved in shawls, pullovers and cardigans. In an age when you are judged by how cool or uncool you are, the warmth that the kakus, jethus and mashimas exude can melt icebergs. I wouldn't trade that warmth for any amount of cool. However, the monkey-cap may look cool without the pom-pom.
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