Dugga Dugga -- 2

"Ma, o Ma", a pretty young girl, with beautiful doe eyes, and shiny black hair stands in front of the bathroom vanity mirror with a worried look on her face. She is intently studying the labels on two identical jars, each containing some gooey black and green stuff that looks like face cream.
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"Ma," the girl repeats again anxiously. "What do you think is better for my face? Dead sea mud and volcanic ash or Ashwagandha* and Ghritakumari?"
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In absence of any reply, the girl hesitantly assures herself, "Ghritakumari* sounds so beautiful. I think this will be better for my complexion. After all, it is made in India. There is no other way to go with this product than fair and more fair."
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She then carefully applies the greenish gooey, substance on her face, making sure that every inch of her face and neck is coated with the product.
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"Ma, can we meet Ghritakumari, when we go to India this time? I think am her fan. I want to follow her. Is she on Insta? Does she do Tik-Tok?," Lokkhi makes a pouty face and takes a selfie.

The mother, bent double over her phone, her eyebrows furrowed, her ten hands flying across ten different apps, does not even look up.
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"Didi, grow up. Think beyond your piggy bank and face mask. There is a whole Universe out there to explore before global warming destroys our Kailash," a fair and bespectacled young girl, marches in with a tall glass of emerald green juice, the color of the juice only a shade lighter that the green mask on Lokkhi's face.

She does not drink the juice however, holding it aloft like a statue instead, and keeps checking her phone every few seconds.
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"Why do you keep checking your phone? Is your boyfriend going to call you?" Lokkhi suppresses a giggle beneath her masked face.
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"Not BF idiot, IF" the fair girl murmurs, letting go off a very audible sigh.
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"IF?" Lokkhi squeaks.

The Mother keeps tapping, her bifocals hanging off  the tip of her nose, beads of perspiration shining like drops of pearls right atop her upper lips.
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"Intermittent Fasting re baba. Instead of only taking selfies, you should start reading your FB and WhatsApp forwards, Didi. IF is the range in US and India. Everyone is doing the 16:8".

"16:8 ?" Lokkhi squeaks again, just when the phone in Saro's hand starts beeping urgently.

"It's time, it's time. I did it, I fasted for 16 hours, " Saro jumps up, gulps her juice hungrily and quickly snaps into a squat position.
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"Dhurr no weight loss with IF. What everyone needs to do is Keto instead. Good food. Lots of fat. Eat as much mutton kosha you want. And still have a figure like me," Kartik walks in with a smirk, pushes Lokkhi aside and flexes his muscles in front of the mirror.

Well, he deserves to be narcissistic.He does indeed look good -- tight muscles, gelled hair, trim mustache. Looks like that Keto or whatever he keeps doing works. Now, only if he tried a little and stopped looking at the mirror so much, he could have a job, even get some role in Bollywood.

While the two of them argue about IF and Keto and Lokkhi keeps taking selfies of her green face, their pleasantly obese, fat bellied brother strolls in with a Krispy Kreme donut-laddoo in hand. He doesn't look into the mirror and focusing on his donut says,  "If I do Keto, can I eat as much mutton kosha as I like? With Luchi or Mishti Pulao?"

Kartik shakes his head in disbelief and looks disdainfully at Ganesh's protruding belly. Ganesh ignores him and takes a bigger bite of his cream filled donut laddoo.

Tension brews in  #12 Kailash Drive. It's always tense and chaotic around here. You couldn't expect anything else with four adult kids living at home.

**************

"Gonshaaa," the Mother's shrill voice pierces through all the arguments, "Eta ki sottiy? Is this true?" For a Goddess, she has a real shrill voice -- years of shouting at he worthless husband, her four kids and that Mahishasur has permanently raised her voice to a high pitch.

"What is true Ma?"

"That now back in my home, that "Bhuter Raaja dilo Bor" is a reality? Only instead of clap, you have to tap your phone and food arrives like magic?"

"Ahh, are you talking of Swiggy Ma? Or Uber eats?" Gonsha smiles benevolently at his Mother.

He loved them. Not mothers. The apps. They were the only reason he could survive all those la-re-lappa songs and intense arguments over Ganapati Visarjan for those 10 days in September. Biryani for dinner, Idli with gun powder for breakfast, Vada Pav or Khao Suey for lunch, and even his favorite Krispy Kreme donut-laddoo for midnight snack...it was pure magic.

"Sottiy tahole? Mandap e delivery korbe?**" Mother's face lights up with a 1000 watt smile. Finally there was something to look forward to after all that standing around in that weird pose for five whole days. She wasn't getting any younger and all that standing with a bent knee was taking its toll.

"No more of that Khichuri, labra everyday! Uff such a blessing." Dugga murmurs to herself.

Now she could have her favorite chilli chicken from Tyangra while posing at that ludicrously expensive pandal in Sreebhumi. She could order Beguni and Muri from Baagbazaar, waiting at Maddox square pujo pandal where no one seems to have heard of North Calcutta. The possibilities seemed endless. She should not forget the pack of Gelusil and Joan er Arok though, her digestion is not as good as it was ten years back

"And Gonsha, what is this? All these food bloggers are taking our recipes and posting them on Facebook, why re? Our Oshur doesn't even cook that well, why are they going crazy?" Dugga peers closer into the phone screen.

"Ei, don't complain about my cooking, free te ranna tar abar oto kotha," Oshur groans from the dining room.

"Plagiarism? Ke koreche? Let me get a internet lawyer. did they use our photos?" Saro jumps in and snatches the phone from her Mom.

"Thakurbari'r mangsho , Thakurbari'r Chholar' Dal, Thakurbari'r aloor chop, Thakurbari'r maggi..." she murmurs scrolling down the list.

"Thakurbari'r Maggi? That is my recipe. Mine. Totally mine" Lokkhi shrieks. "OMG, I am famous. They are copying my recipe".

"Uff Ma, you are too much. This is not us, not Durga Thakur. This is Robi Thakur, Rabindranath Tagore", Saro shakes her head in disbelief. How did she land up in this family of idiots? How?

"Ohh Robi? He rote such good songs, aha. He cooked too? I always knew he was multi talented," Dugga smiles fondly thinking of her favorite bard.

"Achcha Gonsha make me a list of what food to order in the Mandap. There are so many reviews of where to eat for Pujo that I am getting confused now. We have only five days and I am getting older, can't eat that much anymore," Dugga hands over the phone to Ganesh and finally sits back, relaxed and smiling..

"Dada, I kintu want phuchka with jhaal-mishti-tok water," says Lokkhi sliding up to Ganesh.

"I want momos Dada, and Hakka Noodles, but ask them to deliver before 5:30. I have IF", Saro picks up her books and stands behind Ganesh's shoulder.

Kartik shuffles his feet and meekly says, " Dada oi Shiraz er Biriyani ar Rezala, 2 plates, we can share. Biryani is allowed in my Keto."

"Ami vegan. For me, Dosa with coconut chutney only," groans Mahishashur from the kitchen.

Shib finally stirs up from the recliner and says, "Duto shingara, bonde ar ek cup cha".


*Ghritakumari -- Aloe Vera
*Ashwagandha -- Indian ginseng
**Sottiy tahole? Mandap e delivery korbe? -- So it's true! They'll deliver at the Puja pandal.





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Mahalaya, Thin Arrowroot biskoot and Birendra Krishna Bhadra

I set a lot of alarms on my phone. From the first wake up call in the morning to alarms notifying me when the elementary and high school bus is supposed to come, I have a series of them set up in variety of tones. My wake up alarms are so melodious that I often snuggle in and go into deeper sleep hearing them.

This was not the case with my parents. We, or rather my parents had only one moon faced alarm clock, white and chrome, which stood on two tiny legs and had two buttons around the top. It was wound by a key like all clocks were on those days and I am sure the alarm was set in a similar fashion. Standing on its two legs, it looked exactly like how you would draw an alarm clock. It also had a jarring, steely noise, that would not only wake us up but also the neighbors and any stray dogs or cats in the street outside.

However, unlike me, my parents rarely needed an alarm. My mother's body clock would be naturally set to a fixed time in the morning when she would wake up. In turn she would go around acting as our very own human alarm. We didn't need a clock.

There were only 2 or maybe 3 days a year that our Alarm clock with the jarring alarm would be put to use. Two of those days would be when we had to catch the early morning train to go to my grand parent's home.

And the third day would be on Mahalaya! This day marked the end of PitraPaksha and start of Debi Paksha, the fortnight when Ma Durga would arrive. I did not pay any attention to these details though. For me, Mahalaya was synonymous with the radio program Mahishashurmardini, aired by All India Radio at an ungodly hour on this day.

We never did say "Mahi-sha-shur-mar-dini".
"Mahalaya shunte hobe", was the phrase. We have to listen to Mahalaya. It was not a day, it was a phenomenon.

To wake us all up in time for that program, the alarm would be set to an ungodly hour of 3 in the morning. To be sure that the hour is not missed, my diligent Baba always set a couple of practice alarms the evening before.Reassured by that earth shattering krrr-rr-ing a couple of times he would finally set it to 3AM the next morning.

He then checked the new set of radio batteries repeatedly and set the dial to Akaashbaani. My Mother kept her clothes ready to change into the next morning. It was no ordinary radio program after all.

"Kal bhor bela uthe Mahalaya shunte hobe. Ghyaan ghyaan na kore uthei chaan kore nebe", I would be coaxed repeatedly the night before, to wake up and take a shower the very first thing in the morning.

Honestly as much as I was excited for DurgaPujo, I dreaded the early morning Mahalaya. I was never a morning person and waking up at 3AM was not my forte. My parents were ardent fans of the event though and would be up before day break . Tightly holding a pillow over my ears I mostly slept through the jarring alarm and the sound of morning ablutions. My Mother tried various methods like untying the mosquito net and letting the soft net fall in a heap over my sleeping self. I did not budge.

Finally she would patter away grumbling about my insouciance. As the first pink ray of sunlight hit the earth, the radio would crackle and there was this resounding voice reverberating over ether and entering our home through the radio. The deep baritone of Birendra Krishna Bhadra, traveling from afar and bouncing off the walls of our house. There was some magic in that chant that pushed even someone like me out of the bed, and rubbing my eyes I would sit around the dining table listening to him invoking the Goddess. Crisp Thin Arrowroot biscuits dipped in cups of sugary tea, mingled with 'Bajlo alor benu..." on Mahalaya mornings.

Strains of the same voice would float around from neighboring houses too and the neighborhood would be all awake in their separate homes, united by the power of the single voice reciting "Ashwin er sharod o praate..".

I never managed to listen to the entire Mahalaya program ever and dozed off some where between the chant and the songs, carrying the voice deep in my heart. A voice that I would never forget even when radios were replaced by television and later youtube channels. On Mahalaya I still listen to the original version of mahishahshur mardini. In my early days in the US, it was cassette tapes but now Birendra Krishan Bhadra lives on over the ether once again via on-demand internet.

Tomorrow early morning it will be me and Mahalaya once again. With Birendra Krishna Bhadra, Thin Arrow root biscuits and cups of sugary cha. My girls will sleep on.




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