By Kyntiewborlang Kharakor
Like Tungrymbai, this piece was tenderly wrapped and allowed to ferment. Months later, when the weather was favourable, it was finally unravelled; the leaves carefully stuffed in the bin to prevent the dogs from investigating. Fingers, flat out like the bottom of a steel mug, pressed word by word to shape an overall even texture. The foul smell of ‘SELF-DOUBT’ lingered in the room for a while (will readers like it? Is the recipe correct?). Next, it was stuffed in a black karai with a mug of water, refilled several rounds, and left to boil and simmer till the stench finally turned into an ‘insatiable smell of hunger’ that hits the soul. At this particular point, the cook garnered enough confidence to proceed forward and fashion the real taste of winter.
“Bah Bah, Bah Hep, Bah Nah, Bah Rit, Bah Lung, Bu Rit, Titi, Bah Duh!!” – our roll call was taken during one post-exam November evening in Dr. K’s clinic. Fondly, he teased Mei as “Ko Lok CRP”; being a Central Government officer, father had to man his DFP post in Tura for the whole year. A simple appointment for deworming tablets turned into a full-fledged interview. “U sumar brow ne u shim interbiw!”, Bahbah overheard an annoyed Meisan’s complaint through the curtains. Dr. K is the faint ‘cheer’ to father’s ‘CHHHEEEEEERRS!!!’ – he always drops a hefty family discount on every clinical visit. It was a common thing, these roll calls; like Mr. Jairaj’s articles/letters in The Shillong Times. I loathe the fact that I am the only male child without the prefix ‘Bah’ in my name. I demanded an explanation from my grandmother. As I tried to gently pass the warmth of my youthful hands onto her wrinkled cheeks, she took a vow of eternal silence.
Bih recited lines from the Khasi Primer – “B: Bol, Bek; U Bu bad ka Bih ki ia shongkulai dieng.” Her playful taunts taught emotional endurance, AND she had a colour cable TV: the only one in a colony of a dozen tenants. Her heart is as big as her Assam-type verandah, with space for hordes of slippers on Sunday PCN nights (Peitngor Cable News). The slippers in her verandah dwindled and vanished when father got a transfer back to Shillong and bought an Akai TV and subscription of Bah Bil’s Cable TV Network.
‘Sawdong ka lyngwiar shawla’ the eight siblings fought for the prime TV throne which offered warmth and the best TV stare mode. The taped-up remote on life support was always in the queen’s hand during evening hours for Doordarshan Shillong. Ki Kam u Bah Besbha, Rymmuin Darling, Ka Pang Khyllah, Mano ba bha Shyiengkrung, U Thlen and various other folktales, Tang Shikyntien, and the myriads of dramas performed by the SBUK were thoroughly enjoyed. Once, father brought home Bah Besbha.
PCN was such a hit that it was coined into a Khasi word, a synonym of ‘Lorni’ (eavesdropper); as in, “Ïa I tai i PCN lei ju lah peit sliam re!” (can’t tolerate that eavesdropper). From success stories of SSLC toppers to crime news, humorous snippets to an embarrassing exposé, inspirational people, entertainment and weird talents – PCN had it all. Life was slow then—the boy who ate chillies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner became a hot topic of discussion for the whole week, till PCN aired another Sunday story that had all the makings of a blockbuster hit.
“Madan Lyngkhuit” offered immense joy, pleasure, and an unforgettable gift every winter – a gift of cracked heels to all the children. The bamboo forest and Bahdiang’s Rynsan Biskot could not muffle the echoes of screams in the late afternoons emanating from caning therapy sessions followed by an excruciating heel scrub. Bahbah’s Sisyphean effort with a pumice stone, lemon-mixed glycerin, and KRACK cream treatment deserves every bit of praise and gratitude. He said, “If you wear your sweater inside out, ‘Suid Tynjang’ will kidnap you in your sleep and put you on top of a leaf in the middle of the forest.”
In the midst of Anurag, Prerna, and Mr. Bajaj’s ‘dhum-ta-na-na-na-na’ (Ekta Kapoor’s Kasauti Zindagi Ki – mother’s favourite), the youngest three dozed off like kittens around the cosy floor. We woke up in our bed and it was all gone! ALL GONE! Suid Tynjang must have really carried and placed us on this fleeting leaf of time. Warm winter family nights, cracked heels and scaly cheeks, PCN… it stopped! When, where, How and Why… We forgot to leave a bookmark. It’s like finding a needle in haystacks. As we flipped back through the overlapping layers and pages of our memory, one thing for sure marked the shift, and that was the onset of cellphones… and with it, the quiet disintegration of familial bonds.
While feeding fresh charcoal into the ashy embers to keep the fire alive, as the adamant woman and the kids are out on their alu-muri/alu-chat spree… the nostalgic aroma of tungrymbai wafts through the cold winter lanes, nudges the skylight, and slips into the cosy study. The scent trail shapeshifts into a key that unlocks the treasures deep inside the hippocampus. Forbidden to taste due to health reasons, I devoured it with my nose – the olfactory indulgence was my cheat code.
Like the weary hound who brought the delectable paste into the LURI LURA market, I wish to leave a lingering, eternal FRAGRANCE on the readers that etches itself into memory, refreshed every winter season, as they stumble upon this op-ed (with joy, hopefully!).
(The writer is a borderline-late millennial. Word to the wise – comparison is the thief of joy. Each generation brings its own flavour.)
