CHAPTER TWO:
The Plan! The Master Blender! The Holy Mix!
It all started that afternoon, when we were seated on the terrace of a house, that was still under construction. This is where we used to hang out for the last two years or so. The owner of the house was known to us, since his relatives were spread all across our locality. But the man himself used to stay in a faraway city, due to his professional commitments. He had purchased the land and started constructing the house, that he wished to occupy, once he had retired in a few years’ time. So basically, there was no rush in finishing the construction, and we had found ourselves a well sheltered venue for our ‘adda’, an integral part of your existence in Kolkata. We almost created a community centred around this house, as our head quarters. We sat on the ground floor and chatted during the afternoons. We set up a carom board on the mezzanine floor, complete with a light bulb on top, to amuse ourselves with friendly tournaments, during the cold wintery evenings. We also sat on the terrace in the summer evenings, and stared at the beauty of the night sky, kept a vigil on the neighbours close to the house, and their daughters. Whenever someone would look for us, they knew where to find us and came straight to this house.
The only flip side was that, being an unfinished building, it was open to everyone. So there would be evenings when a group of random people would take possession of the terrace, sit at a dark corner in a circle formation, and pour into their glasses indecent servings of alcohol. We wouldn’t get to see their faces or their drinks, but we could hear the clinking of glasses, the incoherent voices and the occasional fits of uncontrolled laughter. There were also periods of relative calm, which usually meant that the people above on the terrace were not drinking that evening, but instead, were praying to Lord Shiva and smoking weed. It would not be fair if I don’t add at this point, that there were times when one of those dark corners would be taken up by our group as well. There were four prominent inner corners to that terrace, and two more makeshift corners, due to the design of the building, and there were times, usually during the major festivals, when each corner was taken up by a different group. Many times, in the darkness, no one would have a clue as to which group had occupied the next corner. So every group focused on their own corner and their own glasses. What a bunch of non-judgmental folks we used to be!
Sintu, one of my closest five friends in life, was seated next to me as he passed me the half smoked cigarette. It was almost lunch time and the other friends had left already. The two of us sat on the terrace since the sun wasn’t too strong yet in February. Sintu’s house was a stone’s throw away from there, while mine was a four minute walk. As I took a drag on the stick of Filter Wills, Sintu called out to me;
– “Mota?”
This was the name he addressed me by, out of sheer love. His Jethima (auntie) had heard it a few times and had rebuked him more than once, for calling me ‘Mota’ which meant ‘Fat’. But it didn’t change much in terms of our addressing each other.
– “Hmm?” I responded, exhaling a puff of smoke.
– “Today is Shivratri, we should do something!”
– “Like what?” I asked back nonchalantly, as I passed him the ‘counter’ back.
He took a drag and with a mischievous smile, said;
– “Siddhi khabi?” (Would you have some Siddhi?)
I thought about it for a moment, and it felt such a good idea. Within the next few minutes, it was decided that we will prepare Siddhi for that evening. We quickly discussed the ingredients required, and assigned tasks to each other. Sintu would procure the ‘Bhang goli’, the most important ingredient and the hardest to get. I would be responsible for the milk, the second most important ingredient. I would also purchase some flavour enhances, nuts and curd etc. to make it tasty. These were the more expensive ingredients, but also the easier ones to find. Except for the milk! Both our houses had a very minimal consumption of milk and there was none left in the afternoon, barring a small pot for the evening tea, maybe. That would simply not do. So we revisited our options and decided to bring other people into the picture.
Our first choice was the trio of close female friends we had, namely Piu, Moon and Munni. All these girls were seen to be within our circle of intimate friends, and we were more than happy to include them in our little adventure. Piu and Moon were also sisters, so their house was the first stop we made that afternoon, as soon as our plan was confirmed. Both Piu and Moon were excited about the plan and overjoyed that we wanted them in on this one. They were also eager to contribute to the cause, and snuck out almost two litres of fresh milk from their fridge, and handed it over to us.
After procuring the most important ingredient, Sintu and I parted ways and headed to our respective homes, where we had our lunch and indulged in a little siesta, a mandatory element on the afternoons of holidays. During lunch, I revealed my plan to my brother and my sister in law, who were both very excited. My sister in law had never had Siddhi before and was very keen to give it a try, while my brother, acting like the experienced one, shrugged it off as just another small event. He kept saying;
– ‘Come on, I am used to all these adventures. What do you think of me?’
My father was still employed with the Calcutta Port Trust and unfortunately, it was not a holiday for him. To make matters worse, it was one of his occasional night shifts and he had to leave for work around 8:30 pm, only to return the next morning. My boudi (sister in law) suggested that since my father would not be home, it would be nice if I offered it to my mother as well; after all, it was all due to the religious festival of Shivratri and being a deeply religious woman, she wouldn’t object to it.
Early that evening, I purchased the necessary stuff as per the plan, while Sintu went and found the core item of Bhang goli, and the two of us regrouped at Sintu’s house, where I observed the master blender use his amazing skills to grind the Bhang paste into the milk, bit by bit.
– “It’s all about the details!” he declared, “and details need patience”, as he plucked bits of the dark spherical object, the size of a golf ball, and ground it meticulously into the white milky liquid. Once it blended in, the paste disintegrated into leafy, fibrous material, and the art was all about blending it so well that the fibres couldn’t be felt while gulping down the drink.
It was for over an hour that Sintu kept at it, adding the taste enhancers one by one and stirring them for the ideal blend, and eventually he looked up at me with a smile and announced;
– “Now, we are ready!”
There was a common tradition of rubbing a copper coin into the drink, and it was supposed to have a significantly sharper impact on whoever was drinking it. But since we had women involved, we decided to refrain from doing any misadventures to put them under risk. So we poured the bucket’s contents, a dull white liquid that would leave a muddy sediment once it settled down, into two large PET bottles of 2 ltrs. each, and a small bottle with the left over quantity.
Sintu suggested that I should first go home and deliver one big bottle to my family, since there were four members there. The other big bottle would be taken by Sintu to the girls’ house. It was expected that I would need to drink some with my family and Sintu would have to drink some, when he serves the ladies. After fulfilling our external obligations, we were to return to the terrace of our HQ by 9:30 pm, to enjoy the last small bottle in the company of each other.
With everything settled, I picked one bottle and left for my house, where my brother and Boudi were eagerly waiting for my return. My father had just left for his work, and I insisted on a quick and light dinner due to the special occasion, and everyone agreed. The focus was clearly not on the food that evening. After dinner, I took the bottle out and poured a glass each to my Dada (brother) and Boudi (sister in law), who couldn’t do enough to conceal her smile. My mother refused to partake in this activity and tried to appeal to our collective conscience, but my brother, the eldest among the three, dismissed her by pointing out that this was the ideal way to show respect to Lord Shiva.
I piled some emotional pressure on my mother as well. It was that period of life, when my fortunes had surprisingly turned in my favour, and I had been selected to join the most prestigious Business School in India, starting in a few of months time. I used this tool to threaten her, that if she didn’t join us for this family bonding exercise, I would not join this institute of dreams. That seemed to work, as she finally relented and accepted half a glass of the beverage I poured for her.
All four of us raised our glasses and shouted “Bom Bhole!” as a tribute to the Lord Shiva, and started to sip from our glasses. Boudi was somewhat tentative and therefore slow in drinking, as was my mother. I was also slow, but that was probably due to experience. My brother finished his glass in one gulp and stretched his hand out for another serving. When I cautioned him to take it slow, he laughed at me and declared;
– “You are just a kid, what do you know? All this, is just a child’s play for me!”
