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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Choti si Kahani Hai, Ek cup Chai Hai

I am a big time tea drinker. And I have a special fondness for only my kind of tea. The one with milk and sugar and then brewed with Red Label, with a single tea bag of Earl Grey for flavor. Dipping Marie in my tea and not counting them is another of my guilty pleasures. As I was browsing through my tea posts today I came across this post I had written for Of Chalks and Chopsticks -- a food fiction event some of us bloggers had indulged in for a while.

My story around a cup of tea is here (from July 2011)

And here is a list of all the entries by other bloggers for the same event and all of which revolved around a cup of tea.(again from July 2011)

If you are looking for great Tuesday reads do go through that list and you may find the perfect thing to pair with your morning chai.

Come, have Chai For I have News to share

For the longest time I have wanted to sit cozy and gossip over a cup of chai. Legs drawn together, feet tucked under, sitting close, a cup of warmth in my hand, speaking in hushed tones.javascript:void(0) About what ? I have no clue. I have friends with whom I talk mostly over the phone. We discuss everything from Romney to the Jupiter and Venus in the night sky. The sad part is none of them have the time or inclination to spend time over hot cups of tea. Now if we are talking dinner that is another story.

So my wish remains unfulfilled. Largely. Except for a couple of folks. But even with them it never happens like it did for my Mother. Every afternoon Ma would change into a crisp cotton saree for summer or a rustling silk for the winters.She would dab some of the Mysore sandal talc on her nose, tie up her long black hair in a plait and then put a kettle of water to boil. Some days a neighborhood aunt would drop by. On others Ma would go over. They would share stories over those cups of hot chai which I was not privy to. "Ja porashuno korte bos (go, get along with your studies)" was what they said if I lingered longer.

Naturally I nurtured a secret hope of such evenings, maybe even grander ones, once I was in charge.It is yet to happen. So when this thing--- that I have been desperate to tell you all along--- happened I wanted to sit right besides you, feet tucked under my pajamas,a cup of tea in hand.

And no it is not what you are thinking. No. Not at all. Okay, what are you thinking anyway ?

But I am eternally grateful to you for what happened. For your kind words, for your belief in me, for reading me, for telling me that you liked what I wrote. This wouldn't have been possible without you.

For like you, a very nice editor from Harper Collins (India) read my blog. And last year around summer she sent me a polite mail asking if I would be interested in writing a book. First I gulped and then decided it was one of those spams like the Nigerian government promising to transfer billions to my account. Turned out it wasn't. This was really, truly, a real life editor from Harper. She wanted me to write a book based on my blog, a food narrative along with my recipes. I was so struck by the wondrous nature of the whole thing that I of course said "Yes". Only a month later I realized what I had done but by then the contract was signed. The deal was sealed. And I was going to write a book. THE BOOK. The Bong Mom's Cookbook.

So I have been writing a book. It has been nine months. Given that number I now treat it like a third child in my womb. I have been putting my everything into it. My love, my emotions, my thoughts, my life. In fact I am so attached to it that I am having separation anxiety and am yet to hand over the manuscript. Every day when my girls are finally in bed, the dishwasher is humming a Dadra, the crickets outside have given up chirping, I sit on the black poang, open up MS Word and pour my heart into it. I am also dead scared (very unlike a third time new Mother is wont to be) and that is the reason I had kept it in my heart though my mind itched to share it with you long back.

But now I need your support, your trust in me, your wishes and your blessings. Send me all your good vibes so that I can do my best. Please, pretty please.Else my toes are going to curl up cold and the gestation stage might get longer than that of an elephant.

The Book: The Bong Mom's Cookbook
The Publisher: Harper Collins India
What is it about : More of a Food narrative than a cookbook per se. In short mine, yours and everyone else's life in food with recipes thrown in. More details as I write the book.
When: Will let you know as the thing happens

Now that you guys are in the loop trust me you are going to hear of my third baby as much as you do about Big Sis and Li'l Sis. And then don't come back and tell me that irritates the heck out of you.

There's an whole army of talented bloggers whom I owe big time for this whole blog thing. Almost all of them are on my reader you see on the left.

Thanks Miri, Mandira, Manisha, Indo of Daily Musings, Sra, Vani, Nupur of One Hot Stove, Mallika, Happy Cook, Cham, Sig, Sailu, Anita, Linda, Jaya of DesiSoccerMom, Supriya, Jaya of Spice and Curry, Soma, Pree, Sharmila, Eve's Lungs and Kalyan for being there and sharing your food.  And Cynthia I owe you big time for helping me through the jargon of the contract language.Then there are those who do not blog anymore but had set up the path like Indira of Mahanadi, Inji, Asha, Mallu Girl, Sunita and Vee. I think half of my book is going to be just Acknowledgments.

Mera wala Chai...

I often complain about how I want to drink my tea in peace.

In fact I complain so much that if BigSis makes a card for me listing a few things that I love-- right there at # 1 is "Mommy loves to Sleep" and # 2 is "Mommy wants to drink tea in peace". She has REALLY given me a card and two like that. I don't know if she is trying to get a message across---child psychologists would know better--- but that is the impression even you will get if you stayed 24x7 with me for at least a fortnight. For days fewer than that I strive hard to make an impression.

But in reality I think the day I have my tea to myself I will not know what to do with it.

A cup of tea with two little hands dunking Marie in it is "Mera wala Chai" and I want it to remain that way. Sniff.Sniff.

Here goes a little hand

Didi is not one to be left behind

Dunk...chomp...chomp

In a rush...marie slips into chai

All I want is some Tea and Then some Time to drink it

Got up 20 mins later than usual.It was a chaos.While was frantically trying to rush out in time had a squabble with BigSis who was waiting for her school bus.

"I won't tell you the fun thing we had in Social Studies", she said, still mad at me.

I ignored. I was late. The fuel indicator in my car was blinking furiously. I would not be able to beat the traffic today, my mind said.

Big Sis waited and then finally blurted out "I know Prime Meridian and Anti Meridian. Nyah, nyah, nyah nyah". She made faces at me.

I itched to ask more but my Geography is rusted. I need to do my homework. Now.

So today I will read Geography, I will go deep into International Date line and around Greenwich. I will not write my blog or read another one.At lunch when everyone will munch a sandwich I will walk longitudes.

And then I will wait for a day when I can drink tea in the setting sun and read Amanda Hesser's "Cooking for Mr.Latte" in peace. Personally I like that better than Geography.

For Susan's Black & White Wednesday.

Mashla Muri and Cha -- for a weekend

Mashla Muri is the homebody, gharelu cousin of sexy Jhaalmuri. It doesn't ask much from you. Roast some puffed rice to warm and crisp, add finely chopped onion and green chili. The chili must be the fiery, hot kind. Some finely chopped cukes are most welcome. Next goes some spicy mixture or dalmut.

While you pour the pungent mustard oil, let the tea boil to give you company when you need it most.

With a sprinkle of chat masala and a quick toss of the muri, Mashla Muri is ready, Sit back with your cup of tea and enjoy.

Have a nice weekend.

For a Cup of Tea

The Mashima* at 37B/1 was very stingy. Miser might be a better word to describe her. She complained about everything, about the corners not being swept, the brown stain not being scrubbed well from the teapot, the Rin bar getting over on the 28th instead of the 31st and about how much tea Manju drank throughout the day.

And the last one wasn't even true. But Manju kept quiet. The money here was good, Mashima's son who lived in Dallas made sure that Manju was paid well. And why only Manju ? He made sure that the cook Sarla's Ma, the watchman, the driver everyone got a good salary. Last time when he was here, he even gave Manju a perfume. It smelled of forest woods and dead flowers. One whiff and she would be transported to the tree laden haven of her childhood where the scent of new leaves mingled with wild flowers.

But Mashima was very unlike her son. As Manju swept the floors and scrubbed the bathroom, Mashima hovered along side always keeping an eye that Manju did not pour more bleach than necessary, did not run water for too long. And when Manju dusted the glass cabinets, carefully wiping the golden rimmed tea cups, the coffee mug with the blue windmill, the terracotta cups with white paisley pattern, Mashima sat at the dining table reminding Manju to be extra careful because they were all very expensive.

The only time she softened was when Manju took out the coffee mugs, the ones with pictures of two little girls smiling out of the cup, hair blowing in the wind and something written in English all around. They were Mashima's grand daughters. Every New Year, Mashima's son would send a coffee mug neatly snuggled in bubble wrap and ensconced in a colorful box. And every year the mug had a picture of the girls in different stages of their life.

Mashima never drank anything in those cups. Neither did she ever serve anyone in those.The cups and mugs in the glass cabinet sat just by themselves, supercilious and a tad bored .

"There is a story wrapped around each of them. Those cups are my memories", Mashima would say. The golden rimmed china was her wedding gift from an Aunt in England who is no more, the mug with the Eiffel Tower was from her honeymoon in Paris, the black tall mug with the warli painting was what her son got her on his first job and the New Year coffee mugs was her grand kid's life in front of her.

"If you ever drop any of them, I am going to fire you", Mashima would threaten, drinking her morning tea from a chipped plain white cup with a rounded bottom.Manju drank her tea from a steel glass.Wrapping the edge of her sari around its warmth, she took a long sip, making a sharp sound with her lips. The tea was lukewarm and not sweetened at all. Mashima had been stingy with the sugar yet again.With a sigh Manju poured out the tea from the verandah, onto the downstair neighbor's potted tulsi plant.

Really with tea like this, there was no reason to work here anymore. But she couldn't do without the money either. And then there were the afternoons for which she pined.

The afternoons, when Mashima would go for a walk and her evening gossip sessions at the nearby park, Manju would let herself in to do the dishes and sweep the floor for the last time in the day. This was when Manju would put water to boil in a kettle, pour a generous amount of milk, add spoonfuls of sugar and stir in the tea leaves. Lovingly she would peel a knob of ginger and pound it in the mortar and pestle, to put in the boiling tea.

She would then pour the pale brown liquor in a cup carefully chosen from the glass cabinet after much deliberation.

Sometimes when the day was cloudy and there was a wind rustling over the horizon Manju chose the one with blue windmill, on especially hot days she picked the cup with the smiling sunflowers. But most she loved to drink from the mugs with the two girls on it. She would sit in the verandah with the cup in her hand, staring at the two smiling girls and think of the long limbed, dusty haired, brown girl playing in her village where the scent of new leaves mingled with wild flowers.

As the tea grew cold, Manju sat, counting the days until she would next meet her daughter.

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

*Mashima -- though it means aunt, elderly ladies in Bengal are respectfully addressed as Mashima

This is my entry for the Of Chalks and Chopsticks event started by Aqua and hosted by me this time. The photo cue for the fictions was here. I will be doing the roundup next week so if you are running late, please send in entries over the weekend.

Have a Ha-Tea Weekend

...drinking Tea and reading a book in a rocking chair by the window. Mine will definitely be an antithesis to that but a girl can always dream.

The two cups in the picture were my Mother's day gift from BigSis and Little Sis, who rather whose father knows about my cup fetish too well. There were also lovely hand made cards and a home made brunch. The books, Orhan Pamuk's "Museum of innocence" and "Best food writing 2009" were picked up by me at an amazing price when Borders near my home was going out of business.

While I am going slow with the Pamuk, I am enjoying the short essays in "Best Food writing". It is a lovely collection and though I cannot say I love all the writings, some of them are true gems. Apparently this collection goes back a few years, so you will find one for every year going back to god knows when.Try to get your hand on a copy if you enjoy food writing and love essays on food as much as food itself.

Edited to add: I am hosting this month's edition of  "Of Chalks and Chopsticks" started by Aqua.

The Picture: The Picture that you see in this post is what will be your cue for this month's entry. For details about this whole concept check here

And here are some more rules, shamelessly copied from Sra's blog:

1. Spin us a yarn - an original one. It could either be based on a real incident or could be something competely imaginary. Explore any genre: humour, romance, mystery, paranormal etc.

2. The story you write has to have some food - it doesn't have to be a recipe.

3. There is no word limit on the story you write, but it has to be written in one single post.

4. Posts written for this event CAN be shared with other events.

5. Please link to this post and Aqua's original post mentioned above.

Post your story and the recipe between now and June 30 and mail it to me at: sandeepa(dot)blog (at)gmail(dot)com


Include the following details in your mail:

1. Name and URL of your blog

2. Title and URL of your post

Raspberry Cup Cakes for a Tea Party

In the age and place I live, people are strange. They do not drink tea. Even if they do, it is the weird stuff, the echinacea tea, the dandelion tea, "please-don't-drink-me" tea but very rarely ever the simmering on the stove-frothy-milky-sweet-dhaba-style Indian tea.

I like the last kind. I patiently wait for the milk and water to simmer and froth, to put a teaspoonful of Lipton Red Label, to soak an Earl Grey tea bag in it, to sweeten it with sugar or Truvia when feeling guilty and then dunking my Marie Biscuit in that hot tea before I take a sip.

I do that every afternoon disregarding cries from my neglected kids who haven't seen their Mother all day. But I just need my tea exactly so, I need my inner strength to face home after a long day and so I brew my tea. The kids get a Marie Biscuit each, they are allowed to dunk their biscuits in my steaming cup. Their baby hands falter and often a sliver of Marie sinks into my tea, it's lumpy form settling at the bottom of my cup. Some days I don't mind. On rough days I do, I want to sip my tea in peace without a lump of Marie in the dredges.

But I never have a tea party. I don't call people and invite them to one. Not that anyone would come if I asked. Unless I said I would fry some pakodis and promised a dinner after wards. I have great friends that way. People don't have time to sit down and talk over only tea, they would rather grab a coffee and go and call to chat.

People have changed. They don't call out for "duto half cha"(two half tea) to justify their sitting and smoking all day on the rickety bench by Montuda's canteen. They don't acknowledge your hard work. No one thinks twice about passing your Mom's recipe as their own.They don't give you credit if it was actually you who inspired them. Being polite is no longer the norm.

So I drink my tea all by myself. I like it that way better. Even with the sunken Marie.

These Raspberry Cup Cakes are from Madhuram's Vegan Strawberry Cup Cakes. It was HC's raspberry cup cakes which had actually pushed me towards baking some. But I wanted an eggless version, and I wanted raspberry. Madhuram's strawberry cup cakes came to the rescue. They have vinegar. Can you believe...VINEGAR ? I was so awed by vinegar in the cake thing that I simply had to do it. And it is amazing, those cakes actually rise and are so moist inside without the buttery richness.

Since I used raspberry and not strawberry the measures were a little off for me. I added almost 3/4 th cup of milk and 2 tbsp of oil extra because my batter had become very thick. But those cakes were awesome. While serving I slathered some raspberry jelly on top and made a butter cream frosting like Happy Cook does. Only mine weren't as pretty as hers. Thanks Madhuram and Happy Cook.

I don't have any measurements so the recipe I have here is exactly like the original . But I did have to make some adjustments and I will add that as a Note.

Cup Hanger from Mother's Day

And yes I did have them with my tea, only I had my tea in under 6 minutes and that cup that you see in the first pic does not have tea. It is so pretty, a friend got me a pair from Italy and I don't drink from it. I just stare at it while I drink from my regular cup, that one I got from the job fair, the job fair which never resulted in a job...ok whatever.

Does this make this post good enough for a Tea Party at Anita's ? If yes, over there it goes.


Read more...






Original Recipe

Raspberry Cup Cakes

Preheat Oven to 350F

In a saucepan put about 20 raspberries, sprinkle with 2tbsp sugar, a little lime juice and let it sit for 30 mins. Then make a raspberry filling like this, only I didn't make mine very thick. Or else just puree the raspberrys.


In a mixing bowl combine together
1 & 3/4 cup flour,
1 tsp baking soda and
1 cup sugar.

In another bowl, mix
1/2 cup oil,
1 tbsp white vinegar/apple cider vinegar and
1 tsp vanilla extract

Add the raspberry filling that you made to above and mix. It won't mix well but try.

Create a well in the center of the dry ingredients and add the wet ingredients. Stir together but do not over stir.
Note: At this point my batter was very thick. So I added almost 3/4 cup of Milk and 1-2 tbsp of oil. I did this gradually starting with little milk so that I did not add excess milk.

Grease 12 muffin cups or cup cake liners. Pour the batter in them

Bake for about 22-24 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Remove from the oven and place on a wire rack to cool. When cool, slather the cupcakes with raspberry preserve, butter cream and top each with a whole raspberry.

Ek cup kara Cha -- a cup of strong Tea

He had a slight built. His face was weathered. Fate had not been kind to him and it showed in those deep lines. His sparse hair around the temples were already turning white. They shouldn't have. He was Ma's younger brother, five years younger to her black dark hair.

Bring water to boil

Almost every Saturday he stopped by at their home after the half day at office. Every Saturday Ma would keep aside the choicest piece of fish from the day's macher jhol, some tarkari and ladle-fulls of dal before she served lunch. Baromama never arrived in time.

The water merrily bubbles

Ma would sit, waiting at the dining table long after everyone was done.Some days she would crane her neck out from the verandah at the lane now empty at noon, and finally go off to take her nap. Baba who generally was averse to the human race and found more kinship in The Statesman editorial than any mortal, would fold up the paper around three in the afternoon, declare, "Nah Khoka aaj ar elona" (No Khoka is not coming today) and retreat to his study. She still waited, occasionally glancing out of the window, beyond the football field, trying to locate the very familiar hunched figure with a battered briefcase in hand.

The water boils furiously

It was strange that she and her other siblings liked him so much. You wouldn't think kids looked beyond the exterior, the materialistic outer cover, to the honest soul within. You wouldn't believe they preferred a warm heart to a cadbury's dairy milk.

Spoonfuls of fragrant tea leaves

He would eventually come, much after lunch around tea time. Ma would get agitated, "Saradin kichu khas ni (You have not had any food almost whole day)", she would complain. He would smile sheepishly and mutter something about getting late. He didn't want lunch. Tea was all he wanted, tea was something he survived on. A cup of strong black tea was his lifeline. "Khali pete cha khas na, omlette kore dichi (Don't drink tea on an empty stomach, have an omlette)", Ma would say, trying to rejuvenate her young brother in that half day every week. Ma had this theory about the stomach being totally empty four hours after you ate anything at all.

Getting ready to pour

She would make the omlette. Carefully breaking two eggs into a bowl and then beating the eggs with a fork. Sometimes she would add a tablespoon of Milk as she had read in Femina. She would beat vigorously, the fork making "ting-ting" noice against the bowl. She would add a handful of chopped onions and some chopped green chili. On the nonstick Trupti pan, she would spread the omlette and fold it, the center well done and the sides crisp.

Baromama would eagerly have the omlette amidst noisy sips of tea. He would praise her omlette making skills and launch on his favorite topic, his future dream project.

They say you can see your future in tea leaves

There would be many more cups of tea that he and Baba would gulp down throughout the evening. There would be arguments, Ma would give advices, distant relatives would be discussed as the water boiled and tea leaves brewed.

It has been more than a decade that she has missed such Saturdays. But she still waited for one of her trips back home, to snatch half a Saturday to see if Baromama still came home after half day at work. If Ma still waited for him at lunch.

That will not happen though. The early morning call across the oceans last Tuesday just confirmed, Baromama would not come home on the Saturdays she would visit Kolkata this summer, he would never come home again.

This is a part of my Food Fiction series. It might seem strange but it is the simplest food that has all the fiction entwined around it. This post goes to Aquadaze for Of Chalks and Chopsticks. What is your Food Story ? Send it over to Aqua.

A Cuppa to revive...

Hope you all had a great weekend. Ours was hectic but fun. Now I need a cup of this and the time to drink it peacefully.

I love Twinings Earl Grey and dip a teabag in my regular Indian Chai. Weird ??? But that is how I like it.