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Memories of Another Day

The kheer bowls began arriving one after the other, the day after Ramzan Id. The first supply was from my wife's tailor, Mohammad Nizam. Then came another lot from another tailor, Rafiq. As we arranged these in the refrigerator, Fowzia, one of our Muslim neighbours turned up with a bowlful. More supplies followed from Muslim friends and neighbours. Soon, there appeared to be nothing but kheer in the refrigerator.

The kheer surplus created problems. A diabetic, I am forbidden to eat sweets. My wife is not partial to them. The teenaged daughter likes sweets, selectively. Give her chocolates, kaaju katli or jhangiri, she can demolish them by the dozens. But kheer is rather low on her list of favourite sweets. The traditional kheer is a cousin of the South Indian payasam made from milk, sugar, dry fruits and so on. But the Ramzan kheer is a bit different. Muslim housewives add their own special spices which makes the flavour stronger. Small pieces of chopped dry fruits float on top while the vermicelli remains at the bottom.

The top ranking payasams in the South are the ones made from milk and vermicelli (Semiya). The Ramzan kheer resembles the latter. The vermicelli settles at the bottom and has to be scooped up and eaten with a spoon. Fortunately, we had plenty of guests at home during the last days of Ramzan Id, who were glad to polish off the bowls of kheer and leave the refrigerator empty.

I don't know when it all started. Our Muslim neighbours and friends have always offered us sweets and other food items for all their festivals. On Bakr-Id, we got supplies of fresh mutton in big chunks. The meat was often so soft, one could eat it with a fork. The biryani was a bit too oily for our taste but it was difficult to resist. The kheer was a permanent dish from their households, though, occasionally, we received other dishes like egg halwa, badam biscuits and made to order chivda. Whatever dishes we received, it was the spirit behind the gesture, that we learned to appreciate.

But some of my most memorable Ids were spent in Ahmedabad. The folks at Fitwell Tailors, who stitched all my clothes, were close friends. They were eleven in number and lived at Jamalpur, a stronghold of Muslims. The father was a huge figure. He no longer came to the shop, but often acted as the 'Master cutter' from home. The family was quite impressed and thrilled that someone like me who belonged to a different world and religion was prepared to accept their friendship so readily. 'You are my 12th son,' the father would boom. 'But if we ever function as a cricket team, you shall play in the eleven and not remain the 12th man.'

On festival days, I was always invited for lunch. Along with the father, uncles and all the brothers, I sat in a circle, in front of two huge dishes and some smaller dishes for onion and cucumber. One dish contained dozens of thick chapatis and the other was filled with steaming, fragrant, mutton curry. We did not need individual plates nor cutlery. The chapatis were taken up one by one, torn into small pieces, dipped into the fragrant gravy and put into the mouths. The father saw to it that I got more than my share of soft, mutton pieces. The women kept on replenishing the chapatis and mutton dishes.

Looking back, I am amazed at the amount of food we finished off. No one frowned or raised eyebrows if we burped loudly. That was the ultimate accolade for the meals. One of the servants brought fragrant paan and supari. We also sipped fragrant sherbet in between morsels. The sherbet was often a forbidding dark green in color, but tasted wonderful and whetted our appetite. Kheer was also served, but I was so satiated that seldom tasted it.

For many Ids, the same procedure was repeated. Everyone in the area came to know me well. We often gossiped about local politics, cricket and films. The father asked me if I wanted to nap a little but I made my excuses and went home. That was the story of the 1970s. Having left Ahmedabad for Mumbai, I lost track of my friends. But I learnt that Ahmedabad had changed for the worse. Often rocked by communal riots, the divide between Hindus and Muslims widened. Sometime in the mid 1990s, while on a visit to Ahmedabad, I decided to pay a surprise visit on my friends. But the tailoring shop was no longer there. It had been burnt during one of the communal riots. No one knew if my friends had relocated the shop.

On that particular day, there was some communal tension in the city. I made my way to Jamalpur only to be stopped by the police. One of the senior inspectors recognised me. 'What are you doing here?' he asked. 'Come back for good?' I told him I wanted to meet my old friends. He shook his head. 'I can't let you go to that part of Jamalpur,' he warned. 'It is not safe. People are throwing stones at the police and we may have to use tear gas.' I waited for sometime, but there was no improvement in the situation. Since I had a flight to catch, it was not possible to meet my old friends. I only prayed they were safe.

V Gangadhar

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