— Nilanjana Raychaudhuri

It was a tiny piece of bread, the last slice at the end of the loaf.

This piece was not only tiny it was toasted to an inch of its life and it jumped out of the toaster and fell on the plate.

As Molly buttered the toast and then sprinkled black pepper on it, her mind drifted.

As a little girl, she spent a lot of time at her maternal grandmother’s house.

It was a large old red brick building with green wooden shutters, the ground floor was kitchen, pantry, scullery and servant’s quarters while the top two floors were lived in by Mollys grandparents (mums parents) and her mum’s uncle’s family. Imagine if you like, a large red cement house with a veranda running down the full length of the house and a long row of rooms on one side.

The veranda had wooden blinds and on hot summer afternoons, the maid would spray the blinds with cold water to keep the house cool. It was only an hour or two and then the cool breeze started blowing from the Ganga, less than a mile away.

Molly’s grandma always wore white. She had white hair, big diamond studs in her ears and nose, her skin was the rich color of hibiscus, and she was always impeccably turned out. Molly could not remember Dida in a disheveled state.

They lived on the top floor, away from the kitchens on the ground floor. So Molly’s Dida had a small makeshift kitchen with an electric heater and a few pots and pans just for breakfast, tea, hot water and the like.

She would put two pieces of bread under the heater before she started making breakfast, and by the end of the morning the two pieces were well toasted, just like the toast that jumped out at Molly this morning.

She would then spread it with butter (they didn’t have to eat margarine then, lucky people) and cover it with a generous sprinkle of salt and pepper. The butter was special too, it was not shop bought, it came from a special dairy that delivered large blocks of whitish butter wrapped in green banana leaves.

After everyone had their breakfast ,Dida would make herself a large bowl (yes, a white enamel bowl with a deep blue rim, not a cup) of Darjeeling tea and enjoy her toast and tea, relaxed in the knowledge that everyone else had been fed and watered.

Molly’s maternal grandfather was a very successful businessman. He worked long hours at the office and the family doctor had already warned him about diabetes and high blood pressure. Molly saw very little of her Dadu, her days were spent following her Dida around the house.

After breakfast, the servants would come asking for directions for lunch. Dida would explain what to cook and how. She would also give them the supplies and money for the shops, if they needed to buy anything that day.

With her worldly duties all done, Dida would retreat into the prayer room with Molly in tow. She learnt how to wash the flowers before arranging them into garlands, how to make sandalwood paste by rubbing a sandalwood stick on a round piece of stone and adding little bits of water, how to make wicks for the lamps by twisting little balls of cotton, how she did everything with such care and with such devotion.

After the prayer room was cleaned, she would offer flowers and sweets, and she would sing devotional songs for a long time.

Molly was a quiet child. She would just sit and listen.

After this was lunch which was short and simple on a weekday, as everyone was out. It was just Molly and her Dida eating together.

After lunch, Dida would sit down to make paan. This Molly just loved. The dark green paan leaves were stored under the large wooden dresser in Dida’s room. They were wrapped in a wet muslin, then kept in an orange plastic basket. All the condiments for paan were stored in a beautifully worked brass box with a heavy lid. Once you lifted the lid, there were little compartments with tiny spoons made for each different condiment and the scented betel nuts.

Once the paan making started, Dida would rip the central stem of the leaf to divide it into two equal halves and arrange the halves into two piles facing each other.

Then she would put slaked lime, finely chopped betel nut, black cardamom and others onto the leaves while laying them out at the same time. When all the items were put on every paan leaf, all of them got a nice soak of cool water to let it all settle, and then Dida started wrapping the paan leaves into tiny green pyramid shapes.

This was an art in itself and Molly sat next to her Dida and watched her for many months before she wanted to try too. Dida was delighted and taught her all the tricks of making good paan.

Wish you were here Dida. I would hide behind your white saree and climb up to peek into your armoire when you were not looking, or I thought you weren’t.

I remember a big dark blue bottle of ‘Evening in Paris’ standing at the back, too far back for my tiny hands.

Where’s that orange plastic basket with your pan wrapped in wet muslin?

Just as the paan was getting wrapped and put away, the maid would come and ask about washing. Dida would tell her which clothes, towels and sheets to wash. Molly still remembers the soap was not a powder or a capsule. It was a large cake of soap, which was cut in fine slices by the maid using a sharp blade. The pieces were then put in hot water and they dissolved readily. Molly loved to watch the big buckets full of soapy lather and how the maid would add the clothes in, one after another.

After this it was nearly time for afternoon tea and Dida would switch the electric heater on for the water. For Darjeeling tea, it was all very regimented. How many minutes the water boiled, how many spoons of tea leaves, how many minutes of soaking and then straining the fragrant liquor into tiny white bone china cups.

After tea, Dida would check if the clothes were put out to dry properly. Then she would make sure dinner was on track, if anything was needed.

It was soon dinner time and everyone sitting cross legged on the floor with huge brass plates with roti and vegetables and a few brass bowls with the other curries. Water was served in shiny brass glasses that shone like gold.

There were two cats who would come at dinner time. No idea how they knew, but they were always waiting outside while Dadu was having his dinner. When he took his plate to the washing area, the two cats followed him, knowing fully well that there would be a large portion of fish on his plate for them. Molly wanted to do this. So she asked him, “Dadu can I feed the cats tonight”? The answer was “yes, of course dear”.

When Molly picked up the big heavy brass plate with both hands and struggled out into the veranda, the cats came up to her and started rubbing themselves on her legs, as they did with Dadu.

Molly was not ready for this. She hastily put the plate down in the middle of the veranda and ran, worried that the cats will run after her.

The cats of course did no such thing. They saw the plate being put down and started eating right there, the same good food. A slight change in location, that’s all.

All the time Dadu ate, Dida would be watching, making sure everything was just right for him. After he finished, Dida and Molly would eat together, and they often had sweet chutneys and other items specially made for them. Dida was very witty and had an endless supply of stories for Molly.

Why, it seems just like the other day. When did life change so much?

The house is still there but the people have gone many years ago, after a long and bitter fight with cancer, dementia and Parkinson’s.

Molly still remembers how to fold the tiniest paan, how to chop betel nut on the special nutcracker, how to wash flowers before making garlands and she still hums the songs Dida used to sing – sweet memories of a very special relationship.