"Whaaaat"? My grandmother would shout , above the din of rain drumming on the asbestos roof of the ancient, mud walled kitchen."Kya chahiye?" "Chinni, maaalkin",I want sugar,o mistress' the halwai(confectioner)would yell back from across a wall of water thundering down on the concrete courtyard.The reason why the pantry was accorded a place of pride amid the bedrooms, on the left side of the immense' aangan', was probably to curtail pilferage.
To the right lay the kitchen and dining rooms , asbestos roofed; from where the halwai' was screaming himself hoarse trying to keep his long nose and grease- stained dhoti as dry as possible.The oil was hot, emanating fragrant fumes into the cloud-filled sky , and he had just discovered that a crucial ingredient in his sweetmeats preparation was missing.
The stormy winds that evening had flung a stray tin drum into the kitchen garden behind, and raindrops battering the drum added to the din.
The halwai would make sweetmeats throughout the night.We would have been put to bed, and drifting in and out of sleep, we would catch whiff of laddoos, boondis and other delectable sweets being manufactured, as the rain too would eventually cease , making things easier.
Bright sunshine would greet us, next morning. Large aluminium drums full of delicacies would be ferried across the recently flooded, but rapidly drying courtyard,to disappear into the cavernous and mysterious pantry(out of bounds for us kids),and a very tired halwai would be sipping hot tea from a large , steel tumbler, grinning at us , as he awaited his ample rewards for his services.
All wages were paid in kind. A vast amount of grain was measured out, packed into gunny sacks, sealed, heaved onto shoulders and taken away with a salutation.
"Parnaam" the halwai would huff, out of breath, as he lugged the heavy sack home, some two kilometres away.
No sweets were doled out,not even on the pretext of tasting.It was presumed, and correctly so, that the' halwai' had done his job well.We would recieve them only in the afternoon, after the pooja was over, and the goddess had been offered the 'prasad'.
To the right lay the kitchen and dining rooms , asbestos roofed; from where the halwai' was screaming himself hoarse trying to keep his long nose and grease- stained dhoti as dry as possible.The oil was hot, emanating fragrant fumes into the cloud-filled sky , and he had just discovered that a crucial ingredient in his sweetmeats preparation was missing.
The stormy winds that evening had flung a stray tin drum into the kitchen garden behind, and raindrops battering the drum added to the din.
The halwai would make sweetmeats throughout the night.We would have been put to bed, and drifting in and out of sleep, we would catch whiff of laddoos, boondis and other delectable sweets being manufactured, as the rain too would eventually cease , making things easier.
Bright sunshine would greet us, next morning. Large aluminium drums full of delicacies would be ferried across the recently flooded, but rapidly drying courtyard,to disappear into the cavernous and mysterious pantry(out of bounds for us kids),and a very tired halwai would be sipping hot tea from a large , steel tumbler, grinning at us , as he awaited his ample rewards for his services.
All wages were paid in kind. A vast amount of grain was measured out, packed into gunny sacks, sealed, heaved onto shoulders and taken away with a salutation.
"Parnaam" the halwai would huff, out of breath, as he lugged the heavy sack home, some two kilometres away.
No sweets were doled out,not even on the pretext of tasting.It was presumed, and correctly so, that the' halwai' had done his job well.We would recieve them only in the afternoon, after the pooja was over, and the goddess had been offered the 'prasad'.
That's why the current trend of having one or two laddoo at frequent occasions don't satisfy my appetite.
ReplyDeletei wonder if you are supposed to have even those :)
ReplyDelete