Back Home | Juno Negi

I

“Light nahi hai!” Sandeep greeted me as I thumped the uneven sack on the floor, where it fell with a dull thud.

“Wah! Look at the vegetables you brought back this time!” he exclaimed, grinning at the sack before I could complain about the heat.As I struggled to let go off the bag from my shoulder, he handed me a glass of water. For a brief moment, I stood there holding the dripping glass. I wanted to retrace my steps back to my home, my village Nauni, a tiny hamlet nestled in Garhwal in Uttarakhand. I felt a strong impulse to hop on the first bus that would take me back.

“Why aren’t you coming inside!” Sandeep reproved me before disappearing behind a tattered curtain that led its way into what seemed like a kitchen space. I remained standing at the entrance, clutching the glass of khaara paani—salty as the sweat soaking my body. I pulled down my mask which was already hanging loose below my nose. I washed my hands with the water and splashed some on my face. A few drops dripped through my lips and into my mouth. I winced.

Sandeep appeared again. Before he could complain about me standing outside, I began to untie my shoelaces. As I stepped inside the room, my eyes rested on a frayed durrie, its colour many shades dirtier from lack of washing.

We had a similar durrie at our home in Nauni. Ma would place it in the open front yard, or chauk, for me and my sister, with Chandu tied by our side, while she hurried to finish the household work—the cooking, washing, feeding the cows, and the three of us. She would then sweep the entire house and the chauk. Sometimes, the husk and grass would come our way, causing Chandu and me to sneeze at the same time. It always made Ma laugh.

I settled on the durrie in the room.

Sandeep gave out a cry, “Arrey bhai! sit on the chair, please. The durrie has not been washed in ages!” I assured him that I wanted to spread out on the floor as I had been sitting for the good part of my day—a 10-hour bus journey—squashed and stiffened. I needed to stretch my legs for a bit, I told him.

We chatted up for a bit. We were meeting after two long years. Sandeep and I had been classmates since class 6. We went to Deriyakhal Inter College together, but weren’t the best of friends until class 7. Since then, he has not only been with me through thick and thin but also made sure he is there for my family whenever we need him.

My mother always trusted Sandeep with the details. She always thought I was meant for the cruder work, while Sandeep had an eye for specifics. When my sister Suman had to be married, I fetched patilas, invited villagers, laid out chairs, brought fuelwood, while Sandeep handled the finer things that I was sure to miss—making sure the baraat was received warmly, the guests served properly, and nyota collected in a proper manner. We made a great team. At 22, Suman was married off. I and Sandeep were 18 at the time. Our mother was old; my father dead, years ago.

“Chhassssss”

I was jolted out of my thoughts by the smell of jakhya seeds in mustard oil. Sandeep is cooking something, I thought. “What are you cooking, bhai? It’s already 5! Don’t cook for me at this hour. Tea will do.” I called out to Sandeep over the sound of the tadka.

“What? I can’t hear you!” Sandeep shouted from the kitchen. Then without waiting for me to repeat it, he continued, “Arrey bhai, I had a few boiled potatoes and two chapatis left over from this morning. While the tea simmers, I will quickly rustle up some aloo ke gutkhe for you. You must be hungry by now.”

I could already smell the boiled potatoes being tossed in hot mustard oil and jakhya, seasoned with the basic spices just like Ma used to prepare. She never used any extra condiments. “Salt, chilly, turmeric, coriander. These are enough to make or break a recipe.” she always said. The only special condiment she knew was the home-made pisyun loon. I would watch her prepare the salt almost every 15 days or so. The sound of the rocking batta/grinding stone against the flat sil felt like music to my ears. “What are we eating the rotis with, Ma?” I would ask her, my eyes full of smoke. She’d lift her head in-between, blinking and squinting due to the smoke. Blowing on and off on the firewood, adjusting the chipped logs, she’d say, “Run and fetch some dhaniya and pudina from the sagoda, Bicku. I will prepare a chutney.”

I would race out of the kitchen, slipping into my chappals, careful not to break off the strap. I knew Ma had a way of repairing it by tying a piece of cloth string around the overhanging part of the strap, then pulling it out of the vacant hole before tightening it into a knot—big enough to not pass through the hole, and flat enough to allow a comfortable walk. I would run past our chauk all the way downhill towards our fields. I knew the best spot to pluck fresh coriander. Even though our fields were covered with wild herbs, there was a particular patch where the best ones sprung. One could smell them from afar. Chandu and I would often spend our afternoons there. I would rest my back on the walnut trunk, legs outstretched on the field bund, surrounded by the minty smell. Chandu would disappear to chase a butterfly or, sometimes, a feral cat. At other times, we would team up to chase away troops of langurs swinging from our trees. “Chhhhwaaa chhhhwaaaa..!” I would go, Chandu barking his lungs out. Hearing us, the other villagers would join in. An army of dogs would take charge—Chandu, Tipu, Marshall, Moti, and others would drive away the langurs until they disappeared into the distant valley.

Suman and Ma would be furious by the time I would come home with the coriander. “I have to rush to the fields, Bicku! Your sister will prepare the chutney now. Eat the roti and then finish your homework!” she’d instruct. Grabbing the dathhari and kudaal in her hand, she’d rub the former on a stone surface, sometimes on the edge of our stone staircase before hurrying off with a piece of old saree wrapped around her waist. I would throw a fit to irritate Suman as I never liked the chutney that she prepared. She was never good with flavours, nor had the perfect way of doing things—what we call sagor—like my mother possessed. She would pull out the sil-batta with great struggle, complaining that I never helped. She would throw some coriander and mint leaves on the sil, and ask me to peel some garlic buds, then would crush them all together in haste. She would move the batta in a motion so wrong that the sounds never matched those of Ma’s. It irked me. “This is the only option. If you don’t want to eat this, then just dip your roti in chai!”, she’d yell at me lumping a spoonful of the chutney on my roti. Later, she’d help me with my homework and cleaning. She was not a bad sister; just a bad cook.

Sandeep came in with a bowl of fresh aloo ke gutkhe with crisp chapatis, and two steel tumblers full of steaming chai. My eyes shone at the sight. He smiled at me, “I know this is your favourite meal!” He patted me lightly as he placed the tray on the floor.

“Before I forget, I have brought freshly plucked coriander and mint from the fields this morning. There’s garlic too. Better take it out from the sack. The leaves must have wilted by now. We’ll make chutney!” I said with a mouthful of roti and aloo. Clutching the tea in his right hand, Sandeep untied the sack with his dominant hand. He was the only left-handed person in our circle. As much as we were in awe of his ‘skills’, the elders always chided him for not being right-handed. His family made many unfruitful attempts to overturn his ‘abnormality’. He told me how his parents would often wrap his left hand with a cloth so that he would be obliged to eat with the right . Another time, his mother applied henna on his left hand and asked him to finish his homework while the henna was still wet. They only gave up when Sandeep lost his right-hand index finger a few years ago, although he never told anyone how he lost it.

Sandeep opened the sack and pulled out the herbs, rai leaves, and the radishes. I saw him smelling the mint on his way to the kitchen. It made me smile.

When we finished school at the age of 18, we had no idea what to do with our lives. Sandeep had a good physique, and was inclined towards the armed forces. I, on the other hand, was not blessed with a good stature. Nevertheless, I accompanied Sandeep on the daily morning and evening runs. We would be up before the sun, and by the time we returned soaked in sweat, Ma would have heated some water for our washing, and would later serve us tea. “Work hard both of you, and do well.” she would say in her motherly tone. We would nod at once.

But when Sandeep failed to get through two consecutive army recruitments, he decided to move to Delhi.

“My family has a few contacts there, and I will find something to work. It is a big city. It will absorb me”, he had shared his plan with me days later on our way to Dinu boda ji’s flourmill.

“…But I don’t have any contacts there. Where will I go?”, I sounded worried. “I will try and find some work. If things go well, you can follow suit. That way, you won’t have to worry about the staying bit at least.”, Sandeep had reassured me. The rest of the day and its conversations are etched in my mind till today. I replayed them in my mind.

Walking out of the flour mill, Sandeep continued, “Bicky, I don’t think you can leave chachi this soon! You will have to make sure she has no qualms about you leaving her alone…”

Sandeep was right. After Suman’s marriage, I was her only family, Chandu and I. It was almost dark by the time I came home. Ma was in the kitchen, her shadow visible on one of the walls. She was kneading the chapati dough.

“This came out to be eight kilos, Ma! I’ll take the rest tomorrow. Boda won’t open the chakki day after.” I told her. She seemed unbothered by it and placed the tea kettle on the chulha, and asked me to fetch a glass for myself.

“Won’t you have it?”, I asked, surprised.

“I already had one glass while you were away. Anyway, get two then.”

The dough was done by the time the tea came to a boil. She filled both the glasses, the long stream of boiled tea going “tarrrrrr…”

“Sandeep is moving to Delhi. He will look for a job there.”, I confided in her over the first few sips.

She stopped moving the ladle even though still holding it, the other hand tightly gripped around the cooker handle.

“And where are you going?”, she looked straight into my eyes.

Her face was glowing in the firelight. Years of working in the sun, and more years of working beside the chulha, had tanned and aged her beyond the years. I realized this was the first time in many years that she had bothered to look me in the eyes. Most of our conversations were otherwise carried out as a secondary chore. We would be occupied with our work, while also communicating with each other.

“How do you mean?”, I asked her, confused. By then she had gone back to the cooker and ladle, secured the lid, and was now readjusting the firewood.

“Bicku, you are twenty now. You know you have to start working. I don’t want to force you into things, but I don’t want you to suffer the fate of your fath…”, she stopped all of a sudden.

I knew we never talked about my father. He had died when I was about six. I came to know later that he had not been in the best of his health as my mother would tell me and Suman. Villagers told me a different story. “He was an alcoholic, jhaanjhi aadmi!”, they told me. Then on, Suman had decided for us that we would not pester Ma about our father. I had agreed. Now, when I think of it, I know Suman knew a lot more.

“What happened to papa?” this time I was adamant I wanted the truth, and to my surprise, Ma provided it, “He was an alcoholic. He was not a bad person, just fell into bad company. He was smart and hardworking; he could have found a job anywhere in the sheher. But he never left the village! He always said he would work here, never leave his gaon. And what did this gaon give him? It sucked him into this. These people will never work a day in their lives, but borrow and steal money to drink it all in one sitting! Only if your father had the stomach to steer clear of this and move out!”

She blinked her eyes a few times and brought the loose end of her scarf on her eyes. She kept still for a few seconds before blurting out,“Sandeep is right in moving out of the village. You should too. Find a job there”, and she went outside to wash her hands.

I first came to Delhi in the summer of 2018. I had kept in touch with Sandeep who had moved there earlier that year. Months later he told me that he had found a job in a local departmental store as an attendant that would also require him to double up as the store keeper. He had managed to find a shared accommodation in a North Delhi colony. In other words, I was welcome to join him there. “We’ll find some work for you too.”, he had called me up.

Ma was happy. Suman expressed her happiness over the phone. Chandu was clueless.

I was up at 5 that morning. Ma was already in the kitchen rolling the last of chapatis. She had packed some food for me—Aloo ke gutkhe in the middle of four chapatis, folded and wrapped in an old Amar Ujala sports page. She found an old polythene bag and tied the contents in it.

I caught the only direct bus that plied from Deriyakhal to Delhi.

“One ticket to Dilli.”

“Dilli where? ISBT?”

“Yes, ISBT. How much?”

It cost me 345 rupees. I handed the conductor a 500-rupees note. He printed out the ticket, turned it over, scribbled a 155 and encircled it. He handed me the ticket and moved on to the next passenger. Confused, I nudged the passenger on my right to enlighten me. He pulled his head inside the window, and explained, “See, he has written the owed amount here…ek sau pachpan. When the bus stops for lunch, he will have some change. You will get it then.”

The journey was uncomfortable and tiring throughout.

“Summers are the worst in Delhi…Temperatures of 40-45 degrees are quite normal there…We have the cool breeze in our pahad, and Delhi has its loo!” people had warned me.

I was jolted out of my nap by the bellowing conductor calling out all the passengers to get down. It was about 4 in the evening. I grabbed my bags, and climbed down to a footpath. A dozen voices were heard calling out, “Auto? Auto? Bhaisahab auto?” I clutched my bags tighter, and moved along the crowd. A few steps ahead I saw a building on my left—Maharana Pratap Interstate Bus Terminal, Kashmere Gate, it read. So grand, I thought.

A week after my arrival, I got a job in a nearby restaurant. I had a good grip on Indian flavours and techniques, and was a Pahadi.

“Pahadi cooks are in great demand here!”, Sandeep and his roommate told me. “There’s not one restaurant in the entire Bhajanpura which doesn’t have a Pahadi cook!”

Things were going good and Delhi was my new home now. Sandeep would often bring unsold groceries from his store, and I would cook for the three of us. Ours was a single-room accommodation in a congested alley of the neighbourhood. I always wondered if I would ever be able to move out into a larger place and bring Ma along.

Our house in Nauni was a traditional structure that stood from the time of my grandfather. It was spacious—had three rooms below, and three above, with a big chauk. A stone paved staircase connected the ground floor to the one above. The slanting roof was built with flat stones that are difficult to get today. Massive patthaals were shaped and smoothened to lay the roof. The chauk was also paved in large flat stones with an urkhyal—a hole about 5-inches deep that is used for pounding grains. A six-feet deep narrow opening called a kulana ran parallel to our house where the excess water flowed. I once dropped Chandu into it. I was 5 and holding little Chandu when the accident occurred. I remember my father running down to the kulana. Chandu was bleeding from his nose when papa brought him back. I was inconsolable that day.

II

Two years after I first came to the capital city, I was at the ISBT Kashmere Gate again. Although I had visited Ma and Chandu four times in the last two years, this time I knew it was different. I was not a part of the average crowd of commuters, but a tiny speck in the mass exodus that was to sweep the entire nation in the coming days. The government had allowed interstate movement of the stranded migrants, and every single migrant wanted to rush home. The entire country was on the streets it seemed—men, women, children, infants clinging to their mothers; some with masks hanging from their ears, some with handkerchiefs tied across their noses. I looked around and could not identify a single soul. Hordes of policemen were interspersed among the crowd wielding their lathis to manage the crowd. Groups of families were crouched all along the roads.

Soiled and shattered, I reached Nauni. The bus dropped me off at Rajpal chacha’s tea stall and rattled away. I dropped my bags on the bench next to the tea stall, and pulled my mask away.

I breathed in.

The familiar smell of the pine filled my nostrils. I closed my eyes. Something brushed against my left leg. I opened my eyes to find Rajpal chacha’s Bhammu wagging at me. I patted him, picked up my bags, and walked towards home. The path downhill was carpeted with pine needles. I brushed them aside with my foot as I walked along, careful not to slip. A langur was watching me. I smiled at him and ambled by. It felt like Nauni was in a different world of its own, untouched by the virus that had apparently gripped the entire earth. Life here, was oblivious to the malady that had left a thousand dead. People here, were going about their daily routine just as before, noses and mouths out in the open! The simplicity of my village touched me for the first time in 24 years! It took me a pandemic to realise what I had left behind. For the first time in 24 years, I understood what my father had meant.

Chandu was ecstatic on my arrival. Ma was relieved. I was happy. I bent down to touch her feet. They were soiled and rough.

“Chiranjeev! You’ve reached safe!” Ma wouldn’t stop the bhukkis, repeatedly touching my forehead and chin, and then kissing her own hand.

“Ma, you are still going around bare feet in the fields. Why don’t you wear the new slippers that I brought you last time?” I was annoyed. “I tried those, beta, but the straps are a bit tight and uncomfortable. Paer kaatt-ti hai wo…I like my old ones better, but this Chandu took one of those somewhere and I can’t find it…Anyway, you wash your hands and face, I will make some tea.” saying this, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Later that evening, I went for a stroll to my old spot near the mint patch. I stood there for a long time. I could smell fresh soil ploughed and tilled over. My mother, bare feet, working tireless hours in the sun to tend to the fields. I removed my Sparx sandals and tossed them behind the walnut tree. I went ahead and let my feet sink in the soil. I felt a slight tingle rush through my entirety. A warmth filled me up. Now, I knew why Ma did not wear slippers. I went back behind the tree to get my sandals and found Chandu playing with one of them. At some distance ahead, was one of Ma’s slippers, the piece of cloth on the strap half chewed.

I spent the following months working in the fields. Many others who, like me, had moved out to the city had come back in the aftermath of the nationwide lockdown. Sandeep had chosen not to come back. “I will survive” he had told me when we last met before I left for Nauni. “…But whenever you feel like coming back, you are welcome to stay with me.” he promised.

Return-migrants like me found no work in the village, but we had our fields to look after. Swathes of land that had been abandoned and turned barren in the last decade were weeded and tilled; ploughed and sown! Chandu and I got back to driving away langurs, and so did Tipu and Moti (Marshall had died last year), joined by the new brigade comprising of Bhammu, Laatta, and Johnny. We borrowed a pair of oxen from Dinu boda. He was the only person in entire Nauni to still own a pair. The sounds of “Bo bo bo bo! Chho chho chho! Raaaa! Raa! Ra!” were heard again after a long time. When a farmer ploughs a field, s/he utters frequent commands directed at the oxen, that might sound gibberish to the unknowing, but on closer inspection, one realizes that the words are no less than a language that the farmer uses to communicate with the oxen. Why the animals come to a standstill on being told, “Ra! Ra! Ra!” is an enigma that not many understand. I was fortunate that I did.

In a matter of few months, our village had come alive. Empty houses were filled once again and barren fields made productive.

I looked at the gahath-filled koda parantha on my plate— topped with a dollop of fresh home-made butter. I was reminded of the time when I was craving for koda roti while in Delhi. I had enquired the price of finger millet flour in the nearest departmental store. It was being sold at 150 rupees/kg. I had retraced my steps and eaten rice for dinner.

I ate the last of my parantha bites. I knew I did not want to go back to Delhi.

III

“I am so happy that you decided to come to Delhi again, Bicky! It is a matter of few days before you slip back to the city life. I have already put in a word for you with my store manager. His uncle owns the Shahi Darbar restaurant near Jhilmil and is looking for a ‘tandoori guy’, and you fit the bill!” Sandeep told me excitedly later in the evening.

We prepared toor dal, rai, and chapatis for dinner. Sandeep had already prepared the mint-coriander chutney while I had gone out for a walk. We sat down on the durrie for dinner. I grabbed some rai in my first roti bite, dipped it in the dal, and put it in my mouth. I had only begun to chew it, when Sandeep gave out a cry,

“Aye! Wait! I forgot the chutney!”

He came back with the mixer jar clutched between his right arm and chest, the other hand holding a spoon. He put a spoonful on a corner of my plate. The water from the chutney was beginning to flow towards the roti on my plate. I grabbed the roti in my hand at once. I used my index finger and thumb to sweep a bit of chutney for tasting. I had learnt it from Ma. While making chutney on the sil-batta, she used to rock and press the batta in rhythmic motions to grind the ingredients and then bring it all together in the centre of the sil using her index and thumb, repeating the motion till it turned into a fine paste. She would use the same index-thumb motion to finish the last of the dal/saag on her plate.

“Chutney made in a mixer-grinder can never compete with that made on a sil-batta!”, I remarked. “Well, why didn’t you carry it along then?”, Sandeep retorted. We laughed even as I knew I was crying inside. I had made up my mind to stay back in the village. I was quite driven that I would make a living out of my fields. I was adamant that I wouldn’t leave Ma and Chandu. I wanted to do what papa could only wish for. I wanted to live in Nauni. Then what changed? I had asked myself this morning as the conductor was scribbling a 155 behind my ticket.

Sandeep spoke while I was still lost in my thoughts,

“Now that the lockdown has been lifted, things will go back to normal. No one will bother about these ‘maks’, and ‘sanitijer’. All these people who rushed back to their villages, they’ll all come back just as they had left. Didn’t you too? I think you did the sensible thing.”

Did I? Or did I just do the obvious, something which was expected of me? Something that is expected of all young men with the responsibility of the household?

The day I was leaving, Ma had told me, “If you stay back in the village and choose to till your fields, you will still be considered an idler, a berojgar!. You have to move out, Bicku. There’s no work for you here, not for anyone. Whatever days are left in me, I can afford to spend them in our fields, you cannot!”. For the first time in my life, I had seen her eyes well up with tears.

“I am a bit tired, yaar. I think I should sleep.” I told Sandeep. “Also, let me know if you hear back from your manager. I am eager to start.”

“Of course, I will. You sleep for now. Take the bed.”

“No, I will be comfortable on this durrie. But, yes, I will need a blanket, a thin one if you have.”

“Blanket? In this weather? Are you out of your mind?”

“I feel a little cold, that’s all.”

Sandeep opened the bed box and pulled out an old shawl that I recognized at once. It was Ma’s! “You forgot it with me when you left in haste during the lockdown. Here, take this for now!” he flung it at me. A whiff of musty odour tickled my nostrils. Sandeep was on his phone and the lights were still on. I lay down on the durrie and tucked myself in the shawl pulling its top end taut over my face. I pressed the extra part under my head. A sliver of light peeped in through a tiny burn hole on the shawl. Ma had beaten me up for ‘playing’ with a matchbox that day, the day I had burnt a hole in her shawl.

I smiled.

For a brief while, I was back home.