Winterludes - II

Hot Water

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Ah, those winter days of yore in my hometown when one struggled to get out from the warmth under the layers of blankets and comforters. The morning fog used to be heavy, trees and structures barely visible, menacing and mysterious. On those cold early mornings even sun seemed to struggle, unwilling to peek through the thick veil. The air would be crisp, for sure, but not clear, usually a combination of moisture and overnight smoke from the waste burning in the neighborhood gathering spots by the more adventurous. Not much would be stirring outside except for a chorus led by that neighborhood lead stray, the self-appointed guard dog, answering the challenges raised by local roosters.

In those days, the households had coal-fired stoves, the chulhā, in the kitchens. Our house had two - a smaller, portable one used for only non-veg items. In my family, that was not meat or fish, just different egg preparations, usually hard-boiled in an open pot. Even that pot was not used for any other cooking, only for such nirāmish items. Occasional omelets were prepared on a different tava, with little bits of onions and super-hot green chilis. You wouldn’t dream of such tāmasi bhojan being cooked on the main chulhā or using the regular pots and pans while my grandma was still alive. Over time, my mom put a stop of this practice along with the introduction of angrezi silverware (“cutlery”) and dinnerware (“crockery”) for our daily usage. Gas stoves would come to our neighborhood much later which made our kitchen more integrated into the main structure instead of an appendage attached but separate from the main house.

The process of getting that chulhā roaring for chai and nāshtā was a fascinating one for me as a child. This needed to be the very first task in the morning, before most of the family was actually up. Our moms would direct the household help to get some kindling and/or dried cow-patty to get the fire started. Next came some larger chunks of coal of different sizes, hauled in from a big pile in the back of the house. These were added in a precise packing order with smaller ones at the bottom, larger ones at the top. The chulhā was then left alone to hiss, crackle and belch for the next ten to fifteen minutes. Heavy black smoke rose from every kitchen in the neighborhood, slowly diffusing in the morning stillness mixed with evaporating dew, until the coal chunks were glowing to the acceptable redness without smoke.

Very large metal pots of water were next put on the now-roaring chulhā for hot water which was indeed the most essential ingredient and precious commodity for human activity. While cold water drove some  morning activities – teeth were brushed lightning fast, faces scrubbed with impressive, if not faster speed, hot water was the elixir of life during winters. Most of it was reserved for the adults, for multiple rounds of steaming tea, often with neighbors solving the world’s thorniest problems. On some days, though, the kids enjoyed the briefest of baths using the minimal amount of remaining lukewarm water available. Or at least, we splashed the water around in the bathroom, making appropriate “ooooh ooooh” wailing noises. Hardly any water actually touched the body and it was mostly for wetting the floors, walls and other bathroom fixtures to let our moms know that we were following the “next to godliness” level of cleanliness. I suspect the Moms knew this but picked their battles carefully, intervening only when the rings around the collar started getting darker or the air getting ripe in our presence.

I remember waking up early and watching the twisty column of murky air curling up and before the large kettle was put on the stove. The morning soundtrack of the world had not fully started and certainly it was not at a level of the modern-day cacophony. Besides the usual sounds and occasional neighborhood territorial claims of the misguided roosters, the warnings from the stray doggies and a few reluctant songbirds, we were usually graced by a certain Bengali gentleman every morning who made his rounds in the neighborhood. Dressed in traditional monk’s garb, he was associated with the local chapter of the RK Mission aāshram. The gentleman walked around with a beatific expression, singing ho-ray rāmā ho-ray krishna, rāmā rāmā ho-ray ho-ray at a brisk pace, accompanied by small manjirā (finger cymbals) cling-cling-clinging, keeping perfect rhythm with his brisk pace and impeccable chanting. He came around only during the winter months as I recall. Opening my eyes to this beautiful and peaceful symphony of world coming alive was indeed a treat. At the end of the season, he would come around and collect some chandā money. Our extended neighborhood was a mix of religions and I don’t recall anyone ever raising any concerns about their respective faith being challenged nor being stingy with their offerings to this monk at the end of winter. No one ever seemed to exhibit any existential crises or experienced any khatrā apparently in those days over such matters.

Which brings me to another winter memory, that of Shri Brij Bihari Trivedi or BBT. BBT was a short, chubby, middle-aged gentleman with a large belly. A lifelong bachelor, he had a gravelly voice and wore white khādi dhoti and a homespun top generally, with an undershirt if the weather was inclement. He had thin, close-cropped white dome and greying hair on his chest. Imagine the pot-bellied deity but without the elephant head. And he loved laddoo’s as well although I don’t think any modern-day musak (mouse) ever existed that could bear his weight. Usually in the employ of my grandparents at their publishing house and bookstores, he had come to stay with our family for an extended period one winter while my dad was overseas on a six-month research & teaching trip to the UK.

My friend Babul and I found BBT utterly fascinating. In turn, he found in our circle of kids an enthralled audience. He regaled us with multiple stories from Ramayana, Mahabharata, etc. on a daily basis. Besides some occasional embellishments for effect, I later found out that his versions were surprisingly faithful to the original scriptures. He had either been exposed to classical texts in his youth or had studied them during any downtime while working for my grandparents.

BBT did have one peculiar trait though which I clearly remember. He did not think that Krishna was a “worthy” deity, what with the episodes of childhood petty larceny (mākhan-chor!) or later peccadilloes during his early adulthood with the gopi’s, etc. BBT clearly did not believe in second-chances or redemption for Krishna. Ironically, he seemed to be totally oblivious that his name (literally, a resident of Braj bhumi) was a moniker of Braj's most prominent citizen, Krishna himself! The neighborhood kids who joined me and Babul during many of these impromptu storytelling sessions those winter mornings would tease him at the end. He would end his stories every time with Bolo Baccho, SitāRām, with the rest of the kids chanting with Bolo Baba, RādheyShyām! BBT never wavered the slightest, he would just smile, anticipating our rejoinder with a twinkle in his eye. Never did he correct us nor push us to make us change our response.

BBT, wherever you are on this earth or most likely off it now five decades or so later, you were always a gentleman, always open-minded, unfailingly polite and a true human being. On this super-chilly morning in the northern hemisphere, I can still hear in my mind the cling-cling-cling of finger-cymbals from the monk from RK Mission as well as those memories of eager anticipation of the stories of BBT. The world needs many more of the both of you, with all the hot air being pumped in the unsocial media, while what we need is just plain hot water.

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆