Quirks & Quarrels

Matters of Gut and Hygiene

‘Do you fancy a salad?’

I tut my disapproval without looking up from my phone.

‘Not on a Sunday, c’mon. What about noodles?’

‘No, we had noodles earlier this week. How about some pasta?’

‘Pasta never travels well. Remember the last time we ordered it? By the time it reached, it had the texture of a wet sponge.’

‘How do you know what wet sponge tastes like? Wait, is this why we keep running out of Scotch-Brite?’

I throw Simran a withering look but she is too busy sniggering to notice. Gentleman that I am, I decide to ignore her wanton assault. With a touch of coolness, I resume the parley.

‘Pizza?’

‘Naah, not feeling it.’

‘Butter chicken?’

‘Sure. If we were in Delhi.’

We lapse into silence, our thumbs swiping, tapping, sliding with soulless grace. The appearance of the word ‘Calcutta’ stays my hand. I stare at the now-static screen, desire stirring awake in my gut. Zomato reminds me, as if I need reminding, that The Calcutta Club is one of my favourite restaurants. A cursory look at the menu is all I need. I clear my throat and place a gentle palm on Simran’s shoulder.

‘Listen. Why don’t you order the salad, or the pasta? Get whatever you want, I don’t want to hold you back. I’ll figure something out.’

She considers my winsome smile with narrowed eyes.

‘Give me your phone.’

‘Why?’

‘Are you ordering from The Calcutta Club again?’

‘No! I mean, maybe…. And why not? I’m a grown man. I can order whatever I like.’

‘You know what happened last month when you ate Mughlai Parantha from there.’

I flinch, but it’s far too late to change course. My mouth is already watering, drowning what little common sense I possess. I reassure Simran as much as myself.

‘Don’t worry. I will be better prepared this time.’

She shakes her head, wearing that look of resigned exasperation I’ve come to know so well. By the time she shrugs and looks away, I am already on the payment page. Thirty minutes later, I collect the delivery, unpack the food and set the table. Before I take the first bite, I fetch our medicine kit and fish out a strip of pink chewable tablets. I will need them the minute I finish eating.

Digene, my precioussss. Image Source

For a moment, I wonder how bleak life would be if the tablets didn’t exist, if the world was bereft of Digene. Then, I dismiss that gloomy notion and sink my teeth into the crisp, oily crust of the Mughlai Parantha. I can already feel a flicker of the heartburn whose flames will soon engulf me.

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Simran claims that before she met me she did not know ‘acidity’ could be a debilitating health condition. To me, this is an astonishing fact. Acidity has been a baleful presence in my life for as long as I can remember.¹

When I was growing up, it was one of those immutable facts about our world — like gravity, or Netaji being alive. My mother had acidity. My grandmother had acidity. My aunt had acidity. I have not accessed their medical records but I am certain that my neighbours, too, had acidity. It is the inheritance of all Bengali adults.

Same, Sherlock. Image Source.

But we do not let it dictate our dietary preferences. We burp and we grimace — clutching our bellies with our left, while reaching for deep-fried snacks with our right. We moan about the delicacies that upset the delicate balance of our bowels, and then we eat them anyway. Any flour-caked item that has frolicked in a vat of boiling oil — shingara, kochuri, peyaji, beguni — fills us with both dread and longing. The film of grease they leave on our fingers tells us what we already know, and yet, we soldier on. We do not let the fear of the impending acidity attack stop us because in a Bengali household antacids are never in short supply.

Bengal may not be the janmabhoomi of antacids, but it sure as hell is their karmabhoomi.² Pharmacies in Kolkata stock enough of these rosy medicines (available as tablets or syrups) to turn the Bay of Bengal pink. Toddlers in the region are known to have uttered ‘Gelusil’ or ‘Digene’ as their first words. When we travel, antacids have pride of place in our first-aid kits. They are our elixir, our panacea, surpassed in esteem by only Rabindra Sangeet and Ray.

In all our years together, Simran has never quite understood my relationship with Digene. She tells me I should avoid eating things that cause acidity — which is, of course, a ludicrous suggestion. When you have to choose between eating a mutton chop and suffering, or not eating one at all, it’s hardly a choice. You grab some kasundi and do what you must, and then leave the rest up to Digene. Simran calls this ‘a weird Bengali trait’ — a phrase she also employs to describe my family’s penchant for asking her, repeatedly, the question: ‘Chan hoy geche? (Have you taken a bath?)’

The lady doth protest too much. Image Source.

For the record, I find nothing objectionable about this query. As a child, I was taught that baths had to be completed in the day’s first half, and could, under no circumstance, be delayed beyond noon. It was an edict that was followed by everyone I knew: neighbours, friends, and relatives. To partake of lunch with an unwashed body was — and still is — an abhorrent idea to me. Sadly, my assiduousness has failed to rub off on Simran. She prefers bathing in the evenings and the vows of marriage forbid me from talking about the frequency of her showers. I have learnt, over time, to make my peace with her dubious habits. But every time we visit my parents, her laxity is brought into sharp relief.

In the eyes of my family, Simran is an honorary Bengali. She has a knack for the language, loves the cuisine, and is always interested in local gossip — qualities that have endeared her to my folks. But when it comes to ablutions, things get a little rocky. As morning warms into afternoon, and meal preparations draw to a close, each member of the household asks Simran if she has bathed. The question is often posed as a suggestion. In the early years of our marriage, this interrogation would alarm Simran. She has now grown accustomed to it, and dismisses it with a roll of her eyes and an emphatic: ‘No’. Her response puts the issue to bed — until the next day, when the routine plays out again, perhaps in the hope that persistence will eventually coax her into the bathroom.

My eighty-two-year-old grandmother is especially dogged in this pursuit. Every day she launches her investigation with renewed vigour, and every day Simran rebuffs her with grim determination. I am careful not to take sides, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I want my grandmother to prevail.

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Identities are rarely smooth shells. They are accreted over time, layer leavened upon layer, until an uneven coating coalesces into place, with proud crests accompanied by embarrassing troughs. My Bengali-ness is no different.

Last year, I wrote about my limited facility with Bangla and the gaps in my cultural education. These shortcomings are in addition to my disdain for rui, rice, and rosogolla. Such defects are grave enough to banish one from Bengali-hood.

Being Bengali

But I possess, in equal measure, other attributes that prompt people to tell me I am a ‘typical bong’. I’ve been told I speak English with a ‘Bengali accent’ and that my interest in books is ‘such a Bengali hobby’ (whatever that means). I’ve been blessed with the lethargy of my forebearers and I will physically fight anyone — I am dead serious, this is no joke — who thinks golgappa or panipuri is better than phuchka.

Word. Image Source.

I ask Simran for more examples of my Bengali characteristics. She replies in a heartbeat.

‘Taking long post-lunch naps. You nap for longer than some people sleep.’

‘I have told you many times that when I lie down in the afternoon, it is not to nap. That part of my day is earmarked for quiet contemplation. It is time I spend doing deep thinking.’

‘With your eyes closed?’

‘Yes, I don’t wish to be distracted. It is a meditative exercise.’

‘Never heard of anyone snoring so loudly when they’re meditating.’

‘Forget it. A civilian like you will not understand how a creative soul functions.’

‘Yeah, right. Oh, and you mix up your As and Os.’

‘What?’

‘Another Bengali quirk. You write it as Utpal Dutt, but say Utpōl Dōtto. Rituparna in text becomes Ritupōrno when spoken. It’s bizarre. Just spell it the right way. Why are you confusing the rest of us?’

‘Now wait a minute. That is how their names are meant to be pronounced! It is the proper enunciation. I cannot believe…’

‘And you break into Bengali when you are agitated.’

‘…. this. You think you will say anything ar ami bose bose sunbo. Ekdom na!’

‘Hence proved.’

‘Tomar proof er nikuchi koreche! Joto sob baaje kotha. Uff, eisob ulto palta jinis sune buk e betha korche. Digene ta kothay?’³

‘What?’

‘Arre baba Digene. Where is the Digene? All your nonsense has given me acidity.’

Simran shakes her head, wearing that look of resigned exasperation I’ve come to know so well. By the time she shrugs and looks away, I am already chewing on a tablet, letting the lozenge-flavoured bliss flood my oesophagus and soothe my troubles away.

1. You may know this affliction as ‘acid reflux’. As a class of people intimately familiar with it, we Bengalis call it ‘acid’, or, when it’s a particularly severe case, ombol.

2. Janmabhoomi = Place of birth. Karmabhoomi = Place of work.

3. I’ll let Google Translate help you decipher this rant.