OF CHAMPAGNE AND CHICKEN CURRY.

OF CHAMPAGNE AND CHICKEN CURRY.

The phone rang just as I was about to depart for my lecture. It would not be a hyperbole to confess here that my lectures at the University have become quite popular of late. My car keys which were lying on the dining table , just waiting to be picked up , would have to malinger for a little while more.

My students , scholars and regulars of Post –Colonial Architecture in India, come and attend my lectures at the Kharagpur campus of the Indian Institute of Technology( IIT) with as much anticipation and eager curiosity , as I myself had been when I was a student here. Teaching at my alma mater has provided me with a sense of utter gratification. Being the youngest female staff in the entire faculty, I am always given the pride of place . IIT has umpteen branches and tentacles spread like a honeycomb all across India. But IIT ( Kharagpur) rules the roost because the best of the students securing the top ranks in the All India Joint Entrance Examination , get to study here.

“Can I have a word with you, Rumi?” a baritone reverberated around the ear-piece and was successful in sending across a shiver of cold sweat down my spine.

I have known Abhi, that is Abhishek Dasgupta, since our childhood days. He had a wonderful voice even when we were school-going toddlers. Abhi and myself were next door neighbours at Ballygunge Place, Kolkata. Our house which had boasted of a large portico in front, has been bought by the owner of a renowned restaurant chain , specializing in Bengali cuisine. My paternal grandpa was a famous literary figure of ‘60s and ‘70s. He had taught us both - myself, Rukmini Mukherjee and Abhi.

“ But I have a demonstrative lecture at just about an hour from now. Infact,” I paused to catch my breath, “ I was about to pick up my car keys”.

Despite living in a residential campus area, we, the teaching staff avail of our own means of transport to commute and travel distances. My vehicle is ( believe me!) my father’s vintage Austin. I had arranged to bring it to my campus, when I had joined the faculty at IIT Kharagpur. Very close friends call me by my nickname, Rumi. Right from childhood, myself and Abhi were such close buddies that it was arranged that we would have our meals , every alternate day , at each other’s place by turns. My favourite had always been hot chicken curry made with pure mustard oil ,and cooked by Abhi’s mother , ‘ mashima’ to me. The sheer culinary skills of the lady had made her very popular in our entire locality. On Abhi’s birthdays , mashima used to prepare prawn curry , cooked with coconut milk. This is a very favourite dish amongst us, the Bengalees.

“ Rumi, it has been years since we have met. I would love to see whether my childhood sweetheart has remained the same as when I had left her. I have come to Kolkata after a decade.” Abhishek paused . He could almost hear a sharp rattle of keys and a panting breath, an unmistakable mark of his friend for years, Rukmini.

Abhishek recalled quite clearly , in an instant , like a flash from deep-seated memory, their expedition to Darjeeling from their school. They had both studied at South Point , a reputed co-educational school in a posh south Kolkata locale. They were taken on a trekking trip from the school. What he had enjoyed most during the trip had been their dorm stay. Before, he had read in novels by Charles Dickens that sleeping together with other kindred souls was much fun. It was Rumi’s grandfather , who had taught about literature and classics when both were very young. Staying at the dorm meant having food together . And the food was heavenly.It was in the ‘80s that they had trekked in the adjoining areas of Darjeeling, Kalimpong and Kurseong. They were taken to the Tenzing Norgay Mountaineering Institute located at Darjeeling and there both of them had decided that they would be mountaineers , later onwards in their lives. Rukmini had fallen ill during one of the trekking excursions. She began suffering from respiratory problems. Coming back home, Rumi was diagnosed with Ventricular Septal Defect ( VSD) , a congenital heart disease where the patient suffers from a hole in the heart.

“ So what Abhi ! My lecture starts about an hour from now. And I have to rush if I ‘ve to make it on time”, Rukmini gushed , a sense of unmistakable hurt in her voice.

“ But Rumi, have you forgotten ? It’s your birthday today. I was visiting your parents yesterday, to pay my respects to them. Your mother , bless her soul, took me to your room and left me there. I ,” Abhishek Dasgupta paused, because a sense of impending thunder squall seemed to hover at the other end. “ I was turning over your things, Rumi. Guess what I found out? Our very old childish , amateurish RECIPE BOOK!!” Abhi paused here to let the effect of his words sink in.

“Don’t you remember how we used to try out dishes like apple pies , black forest cake and soufflé, out of the magazine –scisorred pages!! I found this snap of yours , with this written at the bottom,” Abhi was perspiring now with sheer exhilaration . “ I wish I could show you, Rumi. It shows you clad in a saree which most probably belonged to your mother . It is a black and white one and you must have been no more than seven-eight years old then.” Abhishek was smiling now, “ The photograph is signed in your own handwriting. It says ‘ To me on my birthday’. Rumi, it brought back so many memories.”

Rukmini had always had the deep seated penchant for dressing herself in a way that would be attractive to others. Her mother had trained her in culinary skills , right from her nascent years. So when she was just twelve years of age, on the threshold of her teenage , she had prepared an omelette for her grandfather , in order to be one step ahead of Abhishek , who had been the latter’s favourite for his mathematical and analytical ability. She had stuffed the omelette with parmesan cheese, tomatoes , capsicum and slices of cucumber . Her grandfather, Chittoprasad Mukherjee , had been so pleased with her that he did not keep this event a secret. He did not leave a single soul in his neighbourhood incognizant of the fact. And, years later when Rukmini was about to enter her baccalaureate years at college , her granddad had revealed to her , his long cherished wish of tying her up with his favourite student , Abhishek , in matrimonial bondage.

“ The recipe book has newspaper and magazine items collected by you and me over the years,” Abhishek was gushing in what apparently was a one-sided soliloquy. “ Rumi , are you listening? Almost all major trains from the station at Howrah traverse via your educational hub. Besides, I am yet to see your quarters at Kharagpur. I have brought this bottle of vintage champagne Dom Perignon along with me.”

Rumi had traversed years back , just hearing Abhi’s voice over the phone. They were the best of friends for years until they had parted ways. For building up their careers , of course. Rumi excelled in the All- India joint entrance examination and got to study at IIT ( Kharagpur) where years later, she would again join as one of their teaching staff. Abhi , despite having a flair for mathematics, opted to study American Literature at the University of Massachusetts , US of A. The fact that her childhood friend and sweet heart had called her on her birthday and has plans to literally come over for the occasion , had brought that years-forgotten and shelved-for –rare-moments smile unto Rumi’s countenance.

“ Abhi , are you serious? It would be really great to have you here today. And, thanks for reminding me for I frankly had quite forgotten. I would be home by five in the evening. I ‘ll inform my gatekeeper of your arrival . You could collect the keys from him and let yourself in , in case you arrive before I do.” Rumi , was absolutely certain that her friend would make himself at home , despite her absence. She made a mental note about the keys that needed to be kept with Imran, their quarters’ caretaker –cum-cook. She began speculating about the dishes that needed to be prepared for Abhi. Her friend , had been a gastronomic aficionado for years. The recipe book that Abhi was talking about , Rumi quite vividly recollected , had her magazine-torn pages with jottings from Abhi , which said that some were worth trying , while some were not worth it. She recalled when on one occasion, herself and Abhi had secretly prepared a dish of ‘biriyani’ ( courtesy : Rumi’s recipe book) and had made a day trip to the park adjoining the Botanical Gardens , to satiate both their taste buds and their parched souls. It was on that day that Rumi was kissed for the first time by Abhi.

Abhishek had taken a local train from Howrah that he knew would halt at Kharagpur station. The mini satellite township is an hour’s journey by train. One can also get there by road. Abhi was carrying with him a small traveller’s backpack and was looking forward to surprise Rumi after so many years of absentee friendship. Alighting at the station and arriving at the educational hub , proved to be quite hassle-free for Abhi . He looked at his Rado watch. 4 p.m. Dusk at Kharagpur was a pleasant sight, thought Abhi. The suburbs of the city proper were drenched in slowly fading sunlight. Rumi’s caretaker –cum-security guard , who introduced himself as Imran , opened the gates for Abhi. “ Madam ne bola mujhe aapko bithane ke liye” ( Madam, has instructed me to let you in), Imran said , with a smile on his countenance , which revealed his betel-nut chewing habit.

Abhi entered a spotlessly clean dining area , which had a centre wooden table with four chairs , arranged all round it. There was a refrigerator, the door of which Abhi opened, feeling quite at home , and poured himself a glass of chilled water. There were few bouquets which had arrived, most probably in the morning. “ Rumi ‘d never change her habit of maintaining cleanliness”, thought Abhi. A peep into her other two rooms ( master bedroom and one guest room ) revealed equal Spartan living.

“ HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO Y-O-U”, Abhi shouted as soon as he heard a key turn in the door knob. Rumi entered and immediately was ensnared in a welcome embrace.

“ I bought these on my way,” said Rumi, showing a bunch of grapes , bread loaves, packaged cheese and a pet bottle of Thums Up. Abhi was prepared for the moment . He immediately produced the cork opener and the bottle of champagne overflowed on to Rumi’s table. Rumi didn’t know how to react for some moments. Abhi was standing before her , uncorking a bottle of champagne on her birthday. “ I should be happy”, Rumi said to herself. Yet, years of pent –up feelings were welling inside her.

It was Abhi who broke the news. He had come to her for good. He was just testing whether Rumi would choose a life partner in the meanwhile . For though he knew she was entirely focused on her Spartan spinsterhood, it was Abhi who felt from the very beginning that they were meant for each other. He had a deep love and respect for her, Abhi confessed. And it would give him immense joy if she accepted his offer of marriage.

“ Are you kidding ? Or is this some kind of a practical joke, Abhi?” Rumi blurted . “ You ‘ll have to believe me when I say that I have come to India with nothing on my mind than finding you and making you agree to marry me . Will you, Rumi?”

What Rumi said , was immaterial. Because her words were drowned by the tears of joy and mutual laughter that had enveloped both of them.