Box of Rain

Raj Kapoor and Nargis in an iconic still from the film Shree 420 (1955)

"Don't threaten me with love, baby. Let's just go walking in the rain."

- Billie Holiday

 

When I was younger, I saw life around me in its myriad hues. I saw it through a rose-tinted eyeglass I had crafted carefully through the years of my youth. And I believed in the romance of the rain. 

Calcutta is a city of bespoke romance. An oft-repeated event is customized to the individual skin. Like walking in the rain.

This fading, gloriously old-fashioned city is frozen in time. Fairy dust spewed by a mischievous imp floats around on some rare, wet, summer nights brewing trouble, drawing people together and spreading love. 

On such nights with a last magical stroke of the clock, time stops. Somewhere in the city, a woman big with child rests her tired muscles on a hard metal bed in between pregnant contractions. Her waters break in a frenzied gush. Almost in unison, the sky which has been still, breathless and silent till now, erupts in thunder, lightening and rain. The rains, they come. The lovers, they rejoice. They jostle for space under a single, slightly bent umbrella. their shoulders graze each other lightly, occasionally. It sends twin frissons of an awkward desire through two shy young lovers. They move away in embarrassment, only to be cajoled back into the space under the umbrella by the persistent pressure of Lady Rain, Patron Saint of Romance. 

 

An image from the newspaper of the wet streets of Delhi

Now I am older. I wear the bottoms of my trouser rolled. My days lie enveloped in a grey shroud. My deep slumber is interrupted by the ceaseless patter on candy striped window awnings. I wake up to a world pooled with slush, mildewed bread and green life crawling up my once-white walls.
I walk through flooded stretches of crater-sized potholes, markers of streets that once were. I collide with abandoned cows, cars with "Gujjar Boys" emblazoned on the back glass, bits of flotsam, bits of jetsam. I come home empathizing with drowned crows and bedraggled cats. I bring with me a trail of slime.
Romance just doesn't cut it anymore. My head crawls with hypochondriac nightmares. I can almost feel clumps of mould sprouting out from under my chin.
I crave for comfort food. I crave my mother's monsoon meals that cure everything from a case of blues to a cloudy cold. I crave the smells emanating from her magical kitchen that pierce through the grey blanket with the brilliance of a drop of sunshine trapped  in a multi-faceted crystal.
Every evening, I come back home and collapse on a rubber mat in a sodden tangle of rubber slippers, oversize umbrella and wet plastic bags and go over my wishlist before I can summon up the courage to let the damp out of my body and soul.

Wishlist

Khichudi:

Variously adapted and adopted as khichri, kedgeree, khicharee.
Food for the Gods. Simmered in gigantic cauldrons, it is the kind of yellow that feeds the masses and spreads festive joy.
Food for the body: A hearty and wholesome brew of the sort that is a cure for every ailment in its varying degrees of mildness and severity.
Food for the soul: the piping hot, bright yellow and glutinous mass is sunshine on a plate. Top it with Alu Bhaja (thin strips of turmeric and chilli coated potato deep fried in boiling oil), Beguni (batter-fried slices of brinjal) or Begun Bhaja (thick slices of brinjal fried in the same way as the potatoes), thick slices of fried aromatic Hilsa (the goddess of all that is fishy in Bengal) and/or a fluffy omelette stuffed with onions and green chillies. For this meal I would enter into a Faustian pact. This meal on a rainy day and my cup runneth over for now and evermore.

Onion Pakoras:

The crisp outer layers melt in your mouth to reveal the sweet onion bulbs inside. It is like popping a liqueur chocolate in your mouth and waiting for the surprise of alcohol melting all over your tongue. A delicate underpinning of green chilli and cilantro, a fine dust of the mysterious chaat masala and three bowls of tomato, mint and green chilli sauce form the  trusty sidekicks for the pakoras which launch an unabashed attack on the wet gloom. These golden fritters shaped like the tentacles of some alien octopi emerge onto the gray horizon like half a score visiting stars from a  neighboring galaxy.

Chicken Soup:

The strangely titled books such as Chicken Soup for the Latter-day Saint Soul have done little to take away from the ubiquitous comfort of inhaling the aroma of a large bowl of steaming old-fashioned chicken soup. The hunks of meat, the chunks of onion and carrot and the brown broth oozing with fresh flavours come together in a perfect opera. They sing to me of sunny days and warmer climes. This soup regulates the temperature around the cockles of your heart.

  

Coffee:

Not the kind that comes with smiling faces and elaborate maple leaves etched into its foam. Not the kind that makes you giddy with its decaf, low fat, mocha, caramelized, hazel nutted options. Just a (normal sized) cup of my mum's hand-beaten frothy and light coffee made out of Nescafe,  granulated and refined sugar and Mother Dairy's double toned milk and served in my favourite cup which is slightly chipped around the edges. Hot enough to sear the tender flesh at the edge of tongue. Hot enough to burn a chink into the gray armour clothing my heart.

Jalebi:

If a pretzel was born in India, it would be called a jalebi. However, it would be sweeter on the palate and more pleasing to the eye. This light and airy counterpart of the clunky European baked confection is a treat for every season. The hot molten jalebi breaks into a thousand delicate drops of sweet sugar syrup in your mouth. Hot jalebis fresh off the griddle served with a chilled kheer (a concoction made by boiling rice,milk and sugar) or a thick slab of vanilla ice cream are the stuff of a rainmaker's nightmare. They foretell days of endless sunshine without a drop of rain.

 

Gene Kelly singin' away in the rain

Checking things off my wishlist will mark a return to romance. The romance in simple things. The joy in a simple life. It will make me want to walk in the rain without a care. It will make me want to sing...in the rain.