A Bag of Oil | Suzanne A.H.

I was delighted to find out that the new cook at my fiancé’s apartment is an archetypal Bengali woman named Joba. Even though she was older than me by a few years, she preferred calling me didi. A marked improvement from the previous cook who used too much garam masala in true North Indian fashion, Joba had a very pleasant disposition about her along with the ability to use the right amount of spices. She often hummed tunes from her motherland as she cooked; songs I can faintly recall from my own childhood days in Kolkata.

At the time, my father had worked a transferable job. I can still remember the wafting smell of loochi sizzling in hot oil by the roadside as I walked to my early morning science tuition. Through the misty sunrays an ominous raga would float out of an ajar window overhead, coalescing with the unique sounds of each household tuning into the first radio segment of the day. Oft times the different notes of Ranbindra Sangeet merging with morning Aarti and squealing children formed a strange sort of harmony that brings me a sense of comforting liveliness in retrospect. Even though my family was transferred out of Kolkata shortly before I hit puberty, I retained my fluency in Bengali, almost like a fostered child of Bengal.

The first time Yuvraj, my fiancé, heard me in conversation with his cook, he was in awe. He later told me, “I know you can speak other languages, but it’s extremely surreal to witness it. Like as if I am spectating a part of your life that I could never truly be a part of. If I forced myself into it, its essence would get lost in translation.”

During that week-long stay, Yuvraj requested me to teach Joba a few healthy dinner recipes. Joba usually came to work twice a day; at seven in the morning and around eight at nighttime. I took to coaching her during the second shift after she was done cooking for the other two members, Rajiv and Onkar of the shared flat my fiancé was living in. We began small. I showed her how to make a smoothie bowl out of seasonal fruits and grains. She was quick to grasp the concept of this westernized super food. Although, she did conjecture with a veiled taunt in her tongue, “Ahaha…how times change, didi. Instead of eating a nice bowl of fluffy rice with ghee, people want to eat…. how you say……is…ismoothie. Very hi fi…han.”

Most of what Joba said amused me. She had a sense of harmlessness even in her judgement. I assured her that smoothie was nothing fancy, just fruit churned in yogurt; a consensus she was pleased with. During our lessons, she would chatter continuously about her life, not in an overbearing sort of way. It was more of a reminiscence as if she had found an old photograph that unleashed a waterfall of memories that she couldn’t hold within its brink. I learned that she was born in a small village called Methli. After her father had died of an incurable cough, she was sent to work in the city as a house help to a renowned lawyer, Bhotto Chatterji. She spoke fondly of the man. She said that she considered herself luckier than most to have found a kind family. Mrs. Chatterji had spent all her days in the kitchen perfecting age old Bengali recipes for her cookbook. Joba believes it was in that kitchen where she discovered her knack for cooking.

She cooked religiously, somewhat like an artist. Her pitch-black hair was always tied into a slick knot at the back of her head, with a small net covering it. She always washed her hands twice before commencing her work and another two times after finishing. She followed the exact order of a recipe without fail, no matter how insignificant the detail was. “Didi, if you fry the lonka first, the dal’s spiciness won’t be sharp. So that when we add garlic, there’ll be a very nice balance of spicy and sweet.” She would prattle on, irrespective of whether she was asked. She especially liked talking about the various kinds of food she had learnt to make over years of working in different states.

The Chatterjis married her off at a nubile age to a nice boy with a stable monthly income. With time, his drinking overpowered his niceness and Joba found herself moving around the country with her bootless husband and the three children they shared. He looked for odd jobs as a construction labourer while she worked as a cook in any house that would take her. Most nights, he didn’t come home. Some nights when he did come home, he would have blown away his daily wage on a bottle of cheap liquor.

“Why don’t you leave the fellow?” I wanted to ask her, but I didn’t, of course.

Besides, Joba never truly complained about her husband. She told of his qualities for the sake of narration, as a part of her life’s story. There seemed to be so little sadness in her voice, that it almost sounded as if she was reporting a piece of someone else’s life. Perhaps it was that infectious pragmatic aura about her that never made anyone look at her with pity. She was very well put. She drew a large red bindi on her glabella with the same vermillion she wore on the parting of her oiled hair. I noticed that although cracked, her heels always boasted a border of bright alta.

On the last night of my stay, I taught her how to make oat pancakes that she insisted on calling patishapta, after the common eastern breakfast crepe. She plagued me with questions about the recipe, “Does the milk go before the eggs in the batter?”

“Yes.” I lied, having no real knowledge of it. It didn’t matter to me, but I knew she’d care. She watched me intently with furrowed brows and chewed on her beetle leaf-stained lips as she observed my cooking. I almost felt like I was performing in front of an examiner. I waited for the pan to hiss, before asking Joba to get me a stick of butter from the fridge. She told me we were out of it and suggested we use oil instead. Stretching to the top shelf, she produced a murky green bottle of mustard oil. It was coated in a sheen of gunk. My fingers slipped over it as she handed it to me, and an unhappy realization crept up my spine. “Is this oil fresh?”

“No, didi I’ve reused this oil.”

“Since when have you been reusing this oil?” I asked sharply, as I whiffed the bottle.

“Why, only three-four days I think…” She shrugged. “This oil is from last week. I made aloo puri-“

“You cannot reuse oil!” My voice boomed. “That too, such old oil. Goodness….this is terrible. I cannot believe I have been eating this food since a week.” I muttered, involuntarily switching my language. Joba squirmed; her ever-smiling face appeared to have been slapped out of the blue. Understandably, she couldn’t make sense of my sudden outburst.

“I didn’t know I couldn’t reuse oil.” The poor woman mumbled incredulously.

I took a deep breath to calm myself and replied, “It causes severe heart diseases, Joba. You must never reuse oil again in this household or any other household. Is that clear?”

“What should I do with the leftover oil then?”

“Well, throw it out.” I frowned.

“A whole bottle of oil?” She looked like she had been shot. A mask of pain soon replaced her shock.

“Yes!” I said firmly. “It’s bad for the heart. It causes heart attacks. It’s like drinking poison. Slow but a sure shot ticket to the wormiest grave. It’s just oil Joba, it’s not a big deal. We’ll buy more.”

Joba heard me in silence. For the rest of the evening, she didn’t question me any further. Neither did she sing any songs as she wiped down the kitchen tile. Before taking her leave, she nervously raised a swollen polythene bag to my face and asked, “Didi, is it okay if I take the oil instead of throwing it away? I could use it at home.”

I was astounded, “Of course not, Joba! How can you still have the guts to consume this poison? You have three little children at home. Have some sense!”

Joba reluctantly threw the bag of oil and took her leave. After a hefty dinner of oat pancakes, Yuvraj and I sat on the balcony to talk about our days. The weather was starting to get nippy, so we poured a little rum to warm ourselves with. I informed Yuvraj of the day’s events and that he should look into the workings of his own kitchen. I was still fuming at the thought of having compromised my health for someone else’s lack of knowledge. So Yuvraj tried reasoning with me by saying, “These are illiterate people, honey. You need to herd them around.”

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual to prepare for my flight back home. I sat on the balcony with a cup of coffee long after the darkness cleared, watching early risers set out with mufflers around their necks. In the distance, I could see Joba walking towards the house. Her brightly colored sweater was bobbing up and down amidst the fog. I wondered if she always walked that fast. I could make out the flower embroidered on her balaclava as she reached the porch below the balcony. I heard the rattling of her spare key as she let herself in and set out to do her chores. She hummed ever so softly as she prepared breakfast, filling the house with an aroma of curry leaves and mustard. Usually, everybody is asleep at this hour so she made sure the clanking of utensils was down to a bare minimum. She even ran the faucet to a gentle whisper. Finally, she wiped down the kitchen tile, cleared out last night’s trash, and bounced out the door, entirely oblivious to my presence.

I watched as she walked to the disposal unit near the gate, holding the black bag of filth away from her in a manner that made her tilt to one side. Moments before she was about to toss it away, she hesitated. She set down the bag, reached into it, and after scanning her peripheries, pulled something out. Something swollen.

From where I was seated on the balcony, I couldn’t tell for certain what treasure Joba could have possibly found in the trash, but I felt my stomach drop with the weight of privilege.

Suzanne, a 23-year-old aspiring writer, was born and schooled in Assam. Spending much of her childhood, from ages nine to eighteen, in the splendid residential setting of The Assam Valley School, she discovered her passion for words. Writing stories and poems with a somewhat juvenile perspective, some of her works found their way into school publications, while others were shared among friends for entertainment.

Currently in her fourth year of medical school in Jaipur, Suzanne holds the conviction that she could make a greater impact touching lives through her mind rather than treating them.