I open my eyes and smile as the sunlight furnishes my bedroom with a luminous flush. The birds have created the usual hullabaloo making it impossible to sleep another wink. There is the clinking of silverware in the kitchen where Ma is pouring fragrant tea into an ancient ceramic teapot. She puts a tea cozy over it to keep it warm. A kettle is perched on the gas stove emitting steam like thoughts as I saunter in. We take everything to the verandah with a plate of biscuits for a few moments of silence as we peruse the morning newspaper, especially the Sunday supplements. The Xasi trees planted by my father sway in tandem as a slight wind blows. Soon this quiescent will be disrupted as the preparations start for the first meal of the day. Deuta will take a few cloth bags and leave for the weekly market that descends twice a week near our home, holding up traffic, vendors occupying every square inch of space on the road. Chaos will ensue as soon as he returns, and I am tasked with sorting the products on a dola. “How many times will this man get the same vegetables,” Ma grumbles.  

In our sprawling backyard is a Moringa, Jamun, and several Banana trees that stand in solidarity with the Bharalu. Today, I am picking some curry leaves, the ground flecked with fallen Jamun which smells like wine. The afternoon has turned unseasonably humid, and I am sitting in one of the cooler rooms in the house. I might be playing with my plastic tea set, but my eyes and ears are on high alert. The cotton candy man has walked by several times, and I am tempted. In the house diagonally opposite to us khuri has been up since six. Their house help, a petite teenager who also looks after the children has swept the courtyard till it is spotless. They wring out the water from clothes that have been freshly washed and I have lost count of the number of buckets filled with washing that is now drying in the hot sun. The women have been in and out for the better part of the day.

Meanwhile, our next-door neighbor is working on her loom. Even in the heart of the city she has managed to keep chickens and cows. The lady of the house supervises everything and sometimes a plate of phehu would arrive. On certain occasions, a handwoven mekhela would be given to our mother. Today, I caught a glimpse of her working furiously on a new pattern. Her eyebrow furrowed as she concentrated.

The front gate suddenly swings open with a clang, and I rush outside. An old gentleman in a dhoti and starched white shirt enters with what look like two live chickens, one in each hand. The birds are squawking but he walks nonchalantly towards our front door. I run inside and inform my mother and the whole neighborhood in a high-pitched voice that a poultry seller has come to sell his wares. 

“Arrey, kokaideu,” my mother gasps, adjusting her faded cotton sador and accompanies our unexpected guest inside. I am summoned to fetch my father who is playing a game of solitaire in his study. The chickens are taken to the backyard. One thing I have learnt over the years is to not get overly attached to chickens and ducks. You could be eating one of them at lunch. Meanwhile the guest is offered water and tea is being prepared grudgingly by my older sister. This man whom we now realise is an uncle of some sort laughs aloud because he had heard me announcing him to the entire world as a murgi bepari. My cheeks grow red with indignation. How was I to know? I flounce off to tell my sister that this unknown person is staying for lunch. I will be laying the table in some time, Ma’s porcelain ware will be especially brought out to adorn the hand embroidered tablecloth. I wonder if the crows were cawing loudly this morning. Those crafty birds that know when someone is going to pay a visit.

Ma’s food is simply divine. The families next door are vegetarian. Their children smell the air appreciatively and ask me what’s cooking. I smirk and inform them with glee that it is chicken. Every Sunday without fail curry is cooked in mustard oil with a little butter added towards the end. At other times mutton or pork. Sometimes a curious child would ask me if I ever ate a fish head, and I would retort that I often did. “The eyes are my favorite part,” I lied.

There is always enough on the table for a guest even if it is unexpected. Homemade pickles of amloki, Aam, darkened with age give off an enticing aroma along with steaming Joha rice. Masor tenga, murgi manxor jul, at least two kinds of sabzi, fried potol, pudina chutney with homegrown mint, a finely chopped salad which the Assamese refer to as ‘satney’ with the ch sound absent from the Assamese alphabet. After the meal there might be a payokh or just pan-tamul to help digest the meal.

The visitor departs. Mother’s knees hurt after standing for hours in the kitchen; her arthritis has flared up. She lies on the bed and groans, her hair still in a braid. The cotton mekhela sador has become limp from the relentless heat. The bedroom is like a furnace. She tells me to bring the clothes down from the roof. Today the bed sheets and curtains have been washed along with the rest. They have been baking in the sun for quite a few hours. But this being Assam, the weather turns, the sky is suddenly overcast. Even as I hurriedly snatch at the clothes pins, I feel the drops on my head. Soon there’s hail as well.

 “No wonder the frogs were creating such a ruckus. Make sure your uniform is dry for tomorrow,” my exhausted mother sighs.

Footnotes:

1.Xasi tree: Agarwood. It is used to make perfume, incense and is considered quite valuable. These trees are often cultivated for profit in many parts of Assam.

2.Dola: A round platter made from bamboo. Found in most Assamese households and used for a variety of tasks but mostly for removing the chaff from rice.

3.Jamun: Commonly known as Java plum. Its purple fruit is relished for its juicy sweetness especially with a little salt.

4.Khuri: Aunt in Assamese.

5.Phehu: Colostrum from cows right after they give birth.

6.Mekhela: The bottom part of traditional Assamese attire usually tucked in over a petticoat.

7.Dhoti: Traditional wear for men comprising of a long piece of white cloth draped like trousers.

8.Kokaideu: Older brother in Assamese.

9.Amlokhi: Indian gooseberry.

10.Aam: Mango.

11.Masor tenga: A tangy fish curry.

12.Murgi manxor jul: Chicken curry.

13.Pudina: Mint.

14.Sobzi: Sautéed vegetables.

15.Potol: Pointed gourd.

16.Payokh: Rice pudding made with milk and sugar occasionally jaggery.

17.Pan -tamul: Betel nut and leaf.