There are so many memories, locked inside of us. Memories that we hardly ever untangle. But one fine day, you’re reminded of them and you wonder how that memory managed to survive years, or even decades of neglect. Like someone pulled that strand from your mind and put it in a pensieve, to be retrieved later.
It was recently during my conversation with my cousin Priyanka that I was reminded of such a memory. This was possibly 15 or 20 years earlier, when I was in school A person, more than just a single memory. The memory of a particular Chaatwala, on Cotton Street (where I grew up).
He had a thela, the likes of which were common among vendors of that time. It was a tall bamboo structure, on which rested a big, cicular wooden tray. On the tray were mounted a kerosene stove and a couple of utensils to hold the chaat ingredients. The stove was fitted with an iron tawa, with a couple of samosas and tikkis placed along the edge.
The chaatwala was rather slow in his movements and in his cooking. He would always take time to fire up the stove and heat the tawa. He would leisurely take out a bulb of onion and peel and chop a small portion of it. Once the tawa was hot enough, he would somewhat lovingly pour a little oil to it and sauté the onions for a couple of minutes. Then he would crumble a samosa (or a tikki) onto it, add a little watery tamarind chutney and mix and mash the mixture over low flame. At times, I would get impatient with the chaatwala’s leisurely pace. But the taste of the chaat more than made up for all of it, I think.
The chaat was served in a dona made of dried leaves, stitched by a single twig. In the dona went the hot mixture, followed by some more of the watery tamarind chutney and just a dash of dahi (again a watery solution). Another dried leaf was given to cover it, in case I wanted a takeaway. On countless days that chaat made the bland home food palatable. There were so many times I rushed back after school, so that I could treat myself to a serving of his chaat.
He seemed quite old to me at that time. But looking back, I think he must’ve been maybe in his late 50’s. He was short and frail, and wore a loose half-sleeve t-shirt and a faded dhoti. Behind his thick glasses were kind eyes. He spoke gently and respectfully, addressing us as ‘bai’, reserved for older/ married daughters of the household.
We eventually moved out of Cotton Street. And after a couple of years, I moved out of Kolkata. As I write this, I realize that at some point in my childhood I must’ve had his chaat for the last time, without the knowledge of the same. Priyanka tells me his son has followed in his footsteps. I imagine a younger person at that thela, but I’m unable to substitute the memory of the chaatwala. I don’t know if the chaatwala is still alove or not. But a part of me imagines myself having that serving of his chaat, for one last time.
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