I would often take a stroll on the terrace of grandma’s home and gaze at the Kanchenjunga peak in the morning. The sight lies entwined with my childhood memories. My grandfather used to work at a jute mill in the small town of Bhadrapur. Bhadrapur is a town in Jhapa district in the Mechi Zone of south-eastern Nepal, bordering India. Though the only “border” I could discern between the Indian villages and Bhadrapur was a small river, the Mechi. We would cross it on a bullock cart and this rendezvous with the countryside enthralled me.
There was a customs office located right as we crossed into Nepal and people going out would have to stop and get their luggage scrutinised. My maternal grandfather’s home was just next to the customs office. Lined in front of our home were innumerable foreign goods shops, and I remember that imported goods were a craze then. Upon returning home to Kolkata (then Calcutta), I would flaunt my prizes — 3D erasers, magnetic pencil boxes, imported pencils with a rubber top and so on — in school.
My mother, brother, sister and I would go to Bhadrapur every summer vacation. It was the most refreshing experience, a flight to a fantasy land beyond the hustle and bustle of Kolkata.
In the small villages of Nepal, I no longer felt subdued by giant buildings packed close together. Even the songs of the birds were replaced by the cacophony of honking. As a child, I wondered if the whole world lived in Kolkata. The rains used to clog the drains, black and green moss covered the yellowed buildings and from some cracks, plants and trees managed to spring up. Amid these sights, the aroma of groundnut roasted in sand in small earthen pots excited my senses and was responsible for anchoring me to this city full of surprises. Though my fascination with Kolkata deserves a whole novel, my adventure trips to Bhadrapur were singular and significantly contrasting.
I wonder now how grandma managed to live an entire month with so many of us — 10 children — at a time. All visiting from different cities. The home was sustained by limited resources. I remember pulling up small pails of water from the well every day. It was so invigorating, to be able to draw water from the bosom of the earth, and not stand under metal pipes for a shower in the bathroom.
Ten of us would be ready for the most-awaited breakfast within half an hour. I remember grandma using a mud-baked chulha around which we sat huddled like inseparable pea pods. She would pass the paranthas from one child to another. The ash from the chulha was used to clean the utensils later.
Grandpa would then collect all the clothes and soak them in buckets. My grandmother would cure us all with her herbal remedies from her strange jars. She also came up with some home-made concoction to work as a detergent! Two of us children would scrub the clothes, two would dip them in water and two more would stand by, waiting to wring the water out of the clothes. I hated the job of drying the clothes on the clothesline and being the eldest child, I knew by default how to get work done without batting an eyelid.
Life was hence easy. The joys of the city, the television screen and visits to Victoria Memorial and Birla Planetarium were nothing compared to this. In the afternoon, we all slept lazily or gossiped on the wooden floor. It used to be cool and airy then, a blessing as electricity was in short supply. Grandfather would come home in the afternoon with loads of watermelons, litchis and so on. Grandma would divide them for us, and we feasted on them served on pieces of newspaper.
All this was a measure to avoid wastage of water and washing extra utensils. Recruiting a domestic help was considered taboo by grandma. She would appoint one of us to feed the leftovers to the cows on the roads. Nothing ever went into the wastebin.
Oil cans were used to store water, old clothing was turned into bags or jholas. Shoes and dresses passed from one child to another as we grew up. Old saris were used as dusters, woven into rugs, and made into diapers for babies! We would pluck the leaves from the henna plant, dry and crush them, sieve them through a fine mulmul cloth and apply them on our hands in beautiful patterns. There were small mud patches close to the well where we grew vegetables. Not enough for all of us, yet a delight to the hungry eyes of the city dweller.
Bhadrapur was so small that we would walk everywhere. Every time, my cousin and I went to buy vegetables, we saved a few coins to buy barf (ice-cream) from the ice factory on our way back. Once in a while we would rent a jeep and go to nearby cities. Else, the humble bullock cart was always there. I would keep sliding down towards the road and hold on to the sides as tightly as possible, to avoid falling out.
Smoke or pollution, I was not aware of their presence then, nor of their potential as the greatest menace for mankind. I hardly knew biodiversity and ecology. All I ever eyed lusciously was the old but huge samosas in the shop in front of our home. We would yearn for a bite into this sumptuous snack which would again be served on newspapers! No talk of tissue papers or paper plates in those days!
Instead of ironing, I remember my aunts would hold the edges of the sari tightly at the four corners and sway it. Within minutes it would dry out and then be folded neatly without any need to be ironed.
We had two cows and so milk was in abundance. The cream was churned every day and the buttermilk distributed to neighbours to make delicious curry. The cow dung was utilised by grandma as fuel. I would look at the dung cakes and wonder how they could be fuel.
Neighbours shared their belongings during marriages and other ceremonies. If something was purchased by our neighbour, it was meant to be used by all the others. The large copper cooking pans, my grandma’s proud possessions, graced several weddings.
I never saw grandma hoard too much, show off purchases or maintain a lifestyle for the sake of making the relatives go green with jealousy. Life was to be lived, and whatever was needed was bought. A suitcase purchased once seemed to last generations. There was no embarrassment when we cousins wore similar dresses or dresses made from old silk saris. It was not a matter of lack of resources, but an act of pride in consuming judiciously and sensibly.
I remember my grandma’s life as simply sustainable. Perhaps the sustainability came by an acceptance of human life as ordinary and of cohabiting with the rest of the natural world.
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