God Bless the Pandit

‘Stop, stop … no, no. No more. Back in the day I could destroy ten puas in one go. But no more oil and ghee, not at my age.’ Suresh Nath covered his thali with his left hand, bringing it up to his chest, repeatedly, like an umpire in a cricket match.

‘Babuji, have just one more. It’s fresh from the kadhai. I won’t insist on another.’

Majhli unloaded a hot pua on the plate despite her father-in-law’s protests.

‘Tsk, tsk … can’t you see there are two here already? How will I eat one more?’

‘Oh ho, it will just sit quietly in your stomach. Have a light dinner afterwards. Are they not good?’

‘No, no. They’re delicious. Just like your mother-in-law used to make.’

‘Ammaji was too good. We can never cook like her.’ Majhli beamed with pride but thought it wise to praise her mother-in-law.

Majhli, the middle one, was the wife of Suresh Nath’s middle son. Her name was Savita Devi. She turned to leave the room, plate in her right hand. Suresh Nath took a long look at her for the first time – the woman who had brought him a pua with such affection! His gaze fell upon her robust build and he was lost in reminiscing about his wife. The room felt full for the first time in years. He wanted to drop the term ‘Majhli’ and call her Savita – she had insisted on the last pua with just the right, ‘Have one more. It will sit quietly in the stomach.’

His eyes flitted to rest on the blurred photograph of his wife hanging on a wall, and it felt like she was there, watching everything, saying, ‘Don’t get too used to this … told you … the day I die…’

The room had a bed, a mattress, a bed sheet, and a small stool, all bought by her. Filling in for a dining table, the stool now creaked and groaned, like Suresh Nath, even under a jug of water. Two plastic chairs had accompanied them when they moved in. They were long gone to door-to-door scrap dealers chanting, ‘Sell your waste paper, iron, tin, plaaasssstiiiiiccccccc…’ and had been replaced by two more. The ceiling fan was the only thing modern in the room, turning in circles, attempting to enter into harmony with Suresh Nath’s life. The low guttural whirr of the fan disrupted the quiet within Suresh Nath. His matka silk kurta, and dhoti – divorced from the colour white – hung on a peg, awaiting the day he would reach out to them. The khadi jacket, stitched for his younger son’s wedding, had entered a stable relationship with dust after months of neglect.

Suresh Nath no longer remembered the sour bits in his thirty-five years of marriage, but the happy memories did not let him sleep in peace to this day. As long as his wife was alive, the three daughters-in-law did not dare to breathe against her will. Even a ten-minute delay in Suresh Nath’s morning tea would ruin the day for the sons and their wives.

‘They remember to feed their men and children. But pay no attention to the one who feeds the family? Is making a cup of tea that much of a task before serving your kids breakfast? Arey, my sons themselves are wife-worshippers. Why blame the daughters-in-law?’

‘I will make tea myself from tomorrow. To think that even with three young daughters-in-law, the man of the house has to go without tea and biscuits! Not anymore. As long as I am alive, the old man will have everything served on time. Of course I cannot know what happens after I die. Although he says, ‘My daughters are great!’ Arey, let me die and you’ll see. You will starve for food. God knows what families they have come from – they don’t even know how to respect elders.’

Suresh Nath would implore her to stay shut. Sometimes he would erupt, ‘Don’t you make a mountain of my belly! Why do you have to create a scene every morning? It’s the kids’ school time. I’m not a patient in a hospital. I won’t die if I skip a dose.’

In the midst of their quarrel, the eldest, guilt-ridden daughter-in-law would serve tea and biscuits, sometimes muttering, ‘I couldn’t get up early. Why didn’t Ammaji wake me up?’

‘Huh! This is what I have to do now? Knock on your doors every morning?’

The three daughters-in-law had their work divided. The eldest, Dulari Devi, would prepare breakfast. Savita Devi took care of lunch. Dinner and doing the dishes were the youngest, Bindu’s, duty. The eldest would also see to tea and snacks throughout the day. She was the one to face her mother-in-law’s ire no matter which one of the three was in the wrong. ‘The eldest daughter-in-law is the second mother-in-law of the house!’

Suresh Nath had puas and kheer two to three times a week. During the time he was still working, his friends and colleagues were ardent admirers of the puas. Sitting in the faculty office, Daya Upadhyay would often enquire, ‘Suresh Babu, which one was it today? Kela pua, doodh pua, malpua, or lal pua?’

Suresh Nath had explained, innumerable times, the preparation, taste profile, and the pros and cons of every variety of pua.

‘What are the characteristic features of the four puas, Babu Saheb? Tell us which one is the best.’ Srivastava ji, the geography teacher, would demand to hear again in detail.

‘Arey, Srivastava ji! A thick batter of maida, bananas, sugar and sooji goes into making kela pua. Add some khoya to the maida, then simmer the pua in thick milk, and you have doodh pua. Don’t even get me started on the malpua! Mix just a little bit of maida with khoya, only so the batter doesn’t disintegrate in the kadhai, and the malpua is matchless! Add munakka and ground cashews, and it’s pure havoc! Cut the pua into small pieces and you have sweets, one big piece and you have your pua. Lal pua is the commonest of the four, patented by the lower and middle classes.’

‘Hahaha … patent on puas?’ The room would erupt with laughter.

‘Arey, listen. There’s more. Lal pua is made with a batter of atta or maida with sugar. It has its own specialties. Fried to a crisp, it’s pure bliss. Give someone who has loose motion or migraines four to five puas, then see for yourself. Saves you a trip to the doctor.’

More laughter.

‘Waah, not just taste and sweetness, the pua is also a measuring unit of class. Astonishing!’ Manbodh Tiwari would say, his hands swaying in laughter.

Srivastava ji would advise, ‘Bhai, the school should have a weekly special lecture on puas so the students can also benefit from Suresh Babu’s exquisite knowledge. Hahaha…’

Suresh Nath, who loved to explain the types, sweetness, taste profiles, and health benefits of the puas, like an authority on the subject, would proudly comment, ‘Have a pua at somebody’s place and their status, upbringing, and the level of their daily meals is revealed right away. Even if they serve good pua with cashews, raisins, and khoya, the curry on the side gives away the culinary skill of the women in the household.’

‘The taste of sweet pua with hot, spicy curry is out of this world,’ he would continue, ‘And when served with chutney! Ah! You know, all puas are good. But doodh pua has no parallel. You’ll have a full belly but the heart will yearn for more. The milk should be thick though. Doodh pua made in runny milk is like roti-doodh only. And the malpua, it is not something just anyone can master.’

Suresh Nath was shattered upon his wife’s demise. His sons divided the house he had built into three sections.

The eldest daughter-in-law, his Badki, fed him, along with her three children. Sometimes she would snap, ‘Everyone is equal when claiming their share. But the duties are all mine? Why can’t they all feed Babuji on a weekly basis?’ But Suresh Nath would never agree. He would say, ‘If Badki feeds me, it is all good. If she doesn’t, I would still be fine. But…’

Majhli and Chhotki, the youngest, would have tea and snacks sent to him every time relatives from their families visited.

Suresh Nath never raised his voice over food or tea even while his wife was alive. He could eat bland curry and dal without a word. When asked, he would say, ‘There are people who go on without salt for years. Does it affect them? Besides, one should cut down on salt in one’s old age. Keeps the blood pressure in check.’

Despite craving some, he did not ask his sons’ wives for kheer-pua. Although he relished the kheer and pua his daughter brought him when she visited, he never failed to scold her in front of the daughters-in-law. ‘Why do you bring these every time you come? Don’t I get kheer-pua here in my house?’

The daughter would say, ‘The pua in ‘your’ house and the ones I make are not the same. I have learnt from Maa.’

She was right. Suresh Nath could taste his wife’s love in the pua their daughter made.

Every month he received a pension of 19,000 rupees of which he kept only 1000 for himself, distributing the rest equally among his sons. The occasional pension increment was put away for the upkeep of the house – painting and whitewash, or as a contribution to the annual Dussehra celebrations in the village. News of pension hikes and arrears reached his middle and younger sons before him. Then followed a list of pending work: ‘The old motor is not good, the house needs a submersible water pump, everyone in the mohalla has one. The stairs need cementing, a little rain and the verandah becomes a pool.’ And more. The two younger sons were direct: ‘What does Babuji need money for? He doesn’t go out, doesn’t have to get groceries. One thousand rupees is more than enough for him.’

Once a lavish spender in his sunny days, Suresh Nath now counted the coins tied to the end of his dhoti. His youngest son accused him of mindless extravagance every time he hosted occasional visitors from the village or his daughter and her children who lived in the city. Suresh Nath was in a fix every time an acquaintance paid a visit, or when he craved tea. Utensils clanking in the kitchen at odd hours reminded him of his wife. Rahul, his grandson’s home tutor, told him many times, ‘Baba, why don’t you get a tv and an inverter in your room? You suffer for no reason. A month’s pension will get you a tv. Then an inverter the following month. You don’t lack for anything, what don’t you have?’

The last question pierced him. If only he could say, ‘What do I have? Except for this old, decrepit bone-house, and no right over my own money.’

Thanks to Rahul, Suresh Nath got to have tea in the afternoon. But with tea came instructions: ‘Babuji, keep an eye on him. See if he teaches the kids or just passes the time.’ Duty served with a cup of tea. He would nod.

What hurt more was when Nanhak, Viresh or Jitendra Ojha walked in on him when he was having a meal. Ojha ji often said when Suresh Nath’s sons and daughters were not around, ‘God, don’t make a man a widower. Especially in his old age. Your thali had a different rutba when Bhabhi was alive.’

Suresh Nath objected, ‘Food is not a problem. And I should cut down on oil and ghee anyway, at my age.’ He buried his cravings in his grapes-are-sour statements. In truth, the health advice might have worked for others but Suresh Nath’s stomach could digest stones even at his age. Relatives and acquaintances told him, ‘Your eldest feeds you. You should give him more money, even if it is 2000 or 3000 a month.’ Akhilesh, the eldest, hesitated to ask himself; he was afraid that demanding more money from his father would cause a stir in the household. Especially since Babuji had already spent 22,000 rupees out of his arrears over his wife’s surgery. He hoped the old man would help him with money for his daughter’s wedding.

‘Suresh bhaiya is in?’ Jitendra Ojha’s voice brought him back to the present.

‘Come, come. Have a seat, Ojha ji.’ Suresh Nath pointed to the chair beside him. Ojha ji, had retired, and come to live in the mohalla for his grandsons’ education. The two men were partners of idle time, sharing their highs and lows with each other.

‘What’s happened, Suresh bhaiya? You’re getting more respect these days! Pension hike? Arrears? You are keeping something from me for sure. You’re being served puas that are better than Bhabhi’s!’

‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ Suresh Nath turned grave. Lowering his head, he broke the pua into pieces, and with the head still lowered, grabbed a piece and started chewing.

‘Is it a bad time or did I say something wrong, Bhaiya?’ Jitendra Ojha waited for a response. Suresh Nath took a gulp from the glass and let out a long burp.

‘Ojha ji, ever since I made your acquaintance, I have never kept secrets from you. What can I tell you? There is no hike and no arrears. Yes, but god has shown mercy. You have seen my meals before. You see my plate now. Whatever the reason, there is a change for sure.’

‘Bhaiya, do tell me the reason so I can pull the same trick on my daughters-in-law at home.’

Suresh Nath rested all five fingers of his right hand on the pua and turned to look at Jitendra Ojha. ‘You have good daughters-in-law. You kept your hold on your children from the start, that is why. Don’t tell this to anyone. Not even at your home. Swear on my life…’

‘Trust me, Bhaiya. You are no less than my elder brother. I swear on your life. You have known me for so long now. Have you heard otherwise?’

Jitendra Ojha could hear the tremors in Suresh Nath’s voice. ‘The elder daughter-in-law’s little daughter told me one day: There’s an ulcer on Chhoti Chachi’s back and it’s not getting better. Her brother called a pandit. The pandit read her palm and her stars, and advised her to feed some old, helpless man white food – chhena, dahi, kheer – every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He said the ulcer would heal. He also said not to skip medicines. That medicine and faith together would complete the healing. Since that day, Chhotki has been serving me chhena for breakfast. The ulcer is getting better. Last month she was in Bangalore to see the doctor when that pandit paid another visit. Majhli asked for a way to help her husband’s business grow and for her kids to get serious about their studies. The pandit did his math, then he told her to donate red things every Tuesday and Saturday, or feed some old, helpless man red food on those two days. Today is Tuesday.’

Tears soaked the pua as Suresh Nath choked on his words.

‘God bless the pandit!’