Khau na...Jhaal Murri

It all began one fine day in September of 2002. I called A and informed him of my decision. He raised all the due concerns a new dad-to-be should, and I rah-rahed him down with my new-found confidence of a soon-to-be first-time mom. I had found the perfect solution to our fast-approaching childcare needs. This woman I'd found was a grandma missing her grand-kids back home in Bangladesh, she did not want to care for more than one infant and she knew how to change diapers. My child would have her undivided attention and love during the day, unlike in a daycare. And she could show me how to change diapers. Perfect.

"But she hardly speaks Hindi, and not a word of English", A said.

"We communicated fine. I talked to her for an hour today. We understood each other. No problem"

"She lives in a rented home with only her son, Badal. We don't really know her enough to trust her with our child", A came again.

"She came highly recommended. Her apartment is as big as ours. And I checked credentials. We're fine"

A & I had this conversation, in all its myriad avatars, a million times over the next seven weeks. A filled out all the paperwork in a neighborhood daycare, hoping that I'd change my mind. I did not. It was finally time for me to leave my 5-week old Ananya with this caregiver and go back to work. I dropped my baby off at Aunty's place at 8:30am. By 10am, all of A's misgivings were wrecking havoc in my mind.  What if all that he said was true and she wasn't a good care person. Maybe I should walk  back and check on my baby unannounced.

"Call her and talk to her first", my colleagues advised me. So I did, while they all gathered around for support. And this is how it went (I'll try to translate parts of it, as I understood her then, for you all).

"Hello aunty, this is Deepika"

"Ki Deepika?" (Who Deepika?)

"The baby's mom- how is the baby doing?"

"Ah! Onona ma! Onona to ghum hai. Badol dekhta hai" (Ah, Ananya's mom!. Ananya is lost. Badal is looking for her).

I swear the ground shifted under my feet.

"What did you say aunty? Where is Ananya?"

"Onona to ghum hai. Ami bathroom shnan gaya. Onona ghum gaya. Badol dekhta hai" (Ananya is lost. I went for a bath. Ananya got lost. Badal is looking for her).

"Peter, Tao, Juan Carlos--run everyone. Go find Shampa or Jayashree", I screamed. And everyone ran- they'd heard my worry. And even though no one understood what was wrong, they scatted to find and bring back my two Bengali colleagues.

"Aunty, stay on the phone. Talk to my friend." I ordered her as I saw Shampa running down the hallway towards me. 

"Shampa, she's lost my baby. Talk to her in Bangla. Ask her where she lost my baby." 

By now, I was close to hysterical.

"Cool it Deepika, we'll find her", Shampa said before she started jabbering away in Bengali to this Aunty. I hung on to every word. A few minutes later, Shampa turned to me with tears running down her face- tears of silent laughter.

"Ghum in Bangla means to sleep. (She did not say "guum" in Hindi with a Bangla accent- which would have meant lost, as I'd thought her to.) Ananya is sleeping, Badal watched the baby while she took a bath, she did not leave the baby alone for even a minute." 

The entire fellows room burst into cheers. It took the next hour for me to calm my nerves. And Shampa - she even told this incident to Dr. F. and all the ladies in admin. I was greeted with 'Onona to ghum hai' for a long time afterwards, in accents ranging from German, Chinese and Spanish to all kinds of American!

That evening, when I went to pick up my baby from Aunty's house, she welcomed me, with "Aa Beti, bosho. Cha Khabe"

For the next two years, I'd spend half hour every evening talking about Ananya's day over Aunty's excellent Jhaal Murri and cups of steaming hot, very sweet tea. These were the times that I learned about my baby's first smile, and roll, and step. And I transitioned from being Deepika, to "Onona Ma" for the rest of my life.

Jhaal Murri

(Savory Puffed Rice Snack)

Murmura/Puffed rice  1 and 1/2 cup

Onion 1 small chopped

Potato 1 small boiled and chopped

Tomato 1 small chopped

Green chillies 2-3 chopped (optional)

Salt and red chilli flakes to taste
Turmeric 1/2tsp

For tempering

Mustard Seeds 1 generous pinch

Mustard oil 1Tbsp

For garnish (optional)

Mustard oil 1tsp or to taste

1. Heat the oil in a wide mouth skillet and temper the mustard seeds.
2. Add the onion and saute till translucent. Then add the tomato, potato and spices. Stir fry to coat on low heat. Turn down the stove.
3. Add the murmura/ puffed rice and turn it over a few times, till the murmura is warmed through.
4. Transfer to a wide bowl. Add a bit of chopped onion, chopped green chillies, 1tsp of mustard oil and some sev. Toss and serve.

My two cents: My story may have sounded too far-fetched to you, but is absolutely true. Even after 8 yrs, I can gather  most of the key players in my story under one roof. I laugh at the memory now. But back then, it was like being in a scary movie. Most evenings after work, Aunty would sit me down for tea and snacks - Jhaal Murri was a favorite of hers with Cha. More often than not, I had to skip dinner afterwards. Even though she's not our babysitter anymore, I've kept in touch with aunty. Her grand-kids immigrated, and she's busy at home.  I'd forgotten about this dish till recently when I had it again at a friend's, with tea of course! And I felt like making it again and sharing the story with all of you, for old times sake and for the Flavors of Bengal  event hosted by Priya and started by Nayna.

PS: This is how I remember our conversation from back then. I do not claim to know Bengali language at all, so please excuse my take on Bangla.