Chutney!

Preface

My father is a generous storyteller, carrying with him a treasure trove of tales. One story, in particular, seems to replay in my mind more frequently than others, and it’s the very story you will read today. If not my favorite from his repertoire, it holds a special place in the top three of his cherished tales. In the recent few years, I ardently nudged my father, over the phone, (among other things like eating less white rice or embracing the practice of yoga) was to journal or document these conversations that he passed on to me as stories told over the course of my adolescence as a means to coddle, entertain, else simply delivered as anecdotes accompanying fatherly lessons. Each time, his stories come to me, in a wave of thoughts for occasions where they seem fit like a glove, serving the ideal example in that life situation- I miss him feverishly, but I am shy of saying so. I have so many words sometimes but not enough to tell him, especially over a random “how is your day going?” phone call. Separated by vast continents and oceans, I long to revisit these tales as a tangible connection to him, sometimes yearning to hear them firsthand in his presence.

I’ve reached a stage in life where I understand that merely instructing people, even one’s own parents, on what they should or shouldn’t do rarely yields results. But through all these years, I have truly wanted to share these stories, and since I was unable to coerce, persuade or even bully my lazy father to deliver these notes to me, I will try in my most incompetent capacity, to bring you these stories from the 60s from the wild, east, rural and eclectic state of Bihar in India, resplendent with colors, lessons, experiences that will make you smile, to say the least.

Here is a story that I have titled “Chutney!” as narrated by my father who recited this riveting tale in a relaxed disposition, as he smiled and sunk back into his armchair savoring nostalgia. It was plastered all over his face as his lips softly curved into a smile as he revisited this part of his memory. They say nostalgia is a conflicted and a bittersweet emotion. Batcho studied and psychoanalyzed “nostalgia.” Her analysis revealed a notable correlation between nostalgia and perceptions of the past relative to the present. It tugs the homesick person between past and present, between how things were, how things are, and how they could be. So, this story is soaked in unadulterated nostalgia. It stems from my father’s memory of this time and recounted by me, in essence – doubling this emotion. So, perhaps our versions may differ, but the sentiment remains same. In my opinion, nostalgia is a delicacy and if shared, even better and what makes it exciting is that it is cooked purely by a hunch, never by a preordained recipe.

Story

The dusty, winding road groaned beneath the weight of summer heat, its surface uneven and rough, as May’s humidity thickened the air with every step. In the distance, the melodious strains of a wedding procession echoed through the tranquil countryside, as it made its leisurely yet animated approach on foot from a neighboring village. Dusty tangerine skies with dancing cloud patterns above expanses of lush green lentil fields, their vivid hues contrasting with the soft beige and pastel tones of the surrounding wheat crops stretched for miles. The village women lined up on the rooftops, with their faces plastered in white powder that bled with sweat on their brown faces mixing into colored cheeks of rouge, making them look like caricatures of a political satire. Shining in their gawdy sarees, they cheered gleefully as the baraat arrived. The evening breeze relieved attendees from the heat of the afternoon, and the wind carried with it, the promise and anticipation of fragrant, sweet mangoes, conceivably the only forgivable and redeeming thing about Indian summers.

Weddings in India are our domestic Coachella. Everyone is dressed up and is competing for their best lehengas for sake of the gram while sifted in light sparkle of self-importance, but no one really knows what exactly is happening. Recent years have witnessed a surge in opulent displays of wealth, captivating global attention with extravagant performances for personal guests by music icons like Rihanna. Wedding venues transform into modern-day Versailles, echoing an era of lavish splendor. Netflix has a couple of shows dedicated to the modern-day Indian weddings where champagne runs like water and money flows mimicking a meandering river. But this story is from a time when India did not have the kind of vulgar wealth that it has now. The country was primarily agricultural and under heavy government regulation. The Indian government tightly controlled various aspects of the economy, including industrial licensing, trade, foreign investment, and pricing. Industries were subjected to stringent regulations, requiring permits and approvals for setting up or expanding businesses. This resulted in widespread poverty and sluggish economic growth across India. In states like Bihar, a rural wedding often amounted to little more than a modest dinner gathering, extended as a gesture of hospitality to the entire groom’s village. Additionally, there was the possibility of a dowry provided by the bride’s father, comprising essentials for the new couple’s daily life, along with some gold as part of the tradition.

A grand, sumptuous spread was laid out on the floor, where rows of groom’s side of the guests were seated on home sewn comfortable cushions. Male members of the bride’s extended family graciously took turns serving dishes on unique plates called pattals, crafted from dried Saal or Dhaak leaves. A feast of swollen, puffy pooris, spicy potato curry, chana daal, pulao (rice with cumin and peas) and crunchy pakora fritters were served to the hungry baraatis. Along with it, went balls of rasogullas soaked in cardamom spiced sugar syrup and the orange colored crunchy boondi. This was a time to rejoice in a never-ending feast. The baraatis were infamous to eat til they could longer breathe and then slept in the village in beds arranged by the bride’s family. A freeloader’s paradise looked something like this. It was time to party and eat till you could not put another morsel in your mouth for the next few days.

The actual wedding ceremony only commenced after midnight. Beforehand, most guests enjoyed a hearty dinner and engaged in festivities, including singing, dancing, and lively conversations. Now let me introduce you to the central character of this story. He arrived as one of the guests from the bride’s side. He was all of twenty, dark skinned, wore a thin moustache which still showed of his peaking adolescence. He was lanky, about the height of a jungle berry shrub and wore freshly stitched pantaloons paired with a beige shirt. The sweat patches drenching his arm holes and turning them in a darker hue of cream and his feet showed of cracked and dusty heels, spoke subtly of his destitute state of affairs. Let’s call him “Sunil”.

Sunil, a newlywed himself, found himself in the predicament of being currently unemployed. Rumors circulated in the village that he was on the verge of securing a position as a constable at the local police station. However, upon closer inspection, whispers suggested that this narrative might have been concocted to attract a prospective match offering a substantial dowry. In an era where a government salary elevated a man’s status significantly in the marriage market, promising alliances with wealthier and more attractive women became almost inevitable. These were the times, women remained within domestic walls and looked after their families so the only way of securing a good future was to marry a decent man who made enough and if were salaried, meant that there was consistency in paychecks along with some additional perks like subsidized rent, education for children and groceries.

Sunil, now married to a slender, fair-skinned bride, had managed to accumulate a modest amount of gold, a noteworthy feat in their poverty-stricken village. Ironically, in that patriarchal setting, the combination of marrying a beautiful woman and accumulating a respectable dowry had a profound effect on a man’s ego, sharpening it to new heights. With pride, he displayed his newfound wealth, which also included a shiny, new motorbike and a golden engagement ring. He made sure everyone noticed, seeing these possessions as emblems of his prosperity and his newfound social standing with a streak of good luck. His arrogant demeanor knew no bounds, and each time he zoomed past on his gleaming bike, a collective sense of irritation swept through the villagers. The roar of his motorbike seemed to echo the brashness of his boasts.

Sunil was unhinged and ready to impress the Baratis, was assigned a task by one of the seasoned, elder men: to gracefully serve a round of chutney to the dinner guests. That way, he could not find delusional grandiosity seeping into his conversations and fueling further gossip in the wedding crowd about how he managed such a thick, solid gold ring on his fingers.
The rows of guests were bustling and packed, each seat occupied with animated conversation and laughter filling the air. The rounds of service had begun and Sunil single handedly had run three rounds of serving chutney. And each time he served a round of chutney to the guests, he would jiggle and jounce his ring-clad finger a bit too close to their faces. With a gleeful smile, he’d exclaim, “Chutney, chutney!” ensuring they couldn’t miss his flashy ring.

A few guests had already noticed and congratulated him for the gold, but nothing could hold Sunil who was drunk and dunked in the glorious possessions of his dowry. This was important- his sole gold ring because it shined and filled his heart with a restored sense of self-worth. But very quietly, he was being observed by an attendee guest. Among the dinner eaters, sat a silent man with a big moustache that covered half his face and the ends of his moustache knotted tight and groomed gently with a twist. He adorned a fine muslin white kurta and a crisp, starched dhoti and on his head, he wore a saafa, that he gently removed and put aside as he readied himself to eat the meal. He was the neighboring village’s landlord. A rich man with generational wealth and quiet demeanor, he was observing Sunil for some time now, but the bemusement was slowly burning into an itch of irritation. As he was just about to put his third morsel in his mouth, came Sunil with his little serveware of chutney with his vexing behavior. Unaware of the social status of this landlord, he hovered his ring finger a little too close to his face and slowly the landlord’s face contorted as he fidgeted with his mouche. He took a slow breath and looked Sunil in the eye and said, “No, thank you!”.

But Sunil was sinful, and he did not stop pestering. He plunged forward again and shook his ring finger while protruding the ladle on his plate saying, “Chutney, chutney”. It was enough. The tall, moneyed and serious landlord stood up and pressed his dhoti pleats neatly by running his two fingers to smoothen it out. He then fixed Sunil with a deep, stoic stare that Sunil was just beginning to process. Before he could fully grasp the landlord’s irritation, something extraordinary happened. He slowly unbuttoned the top button of his fine muslin kurta and reached his hand to his chest. To everyone’s surprise—yes, it had now become a spectacle, with people stopping their meals to watch—the somber landlord pulled out a thick, rope-like gold chain with a humongous locket. Extending it to Sunil’s face, he quietly said, “Put the bloody chutney on this, you dumbass.”

Silence for a few seconds broken by a raucous laughter of the crowd. A loud cheer. An embarrassed Sunil and a smirking landlord. The scene was written for history and passed as a lesson for generations. Sunil did not leave home in shame for two days in a row.

My father finished the story, stood up from the armchair and winked. He said, “I hope this story reminds you to never trust and be impressed by a man who shows off his wealth. Empty vessels make a lot of noise.”

Fast forward to my midlife, I come across people in my daily life who cannot stop talking about what they have accumulated over the years and in my head, just two words play in a soft whisper, “Chutney, Chutney!”