Acceptance and recognition are the two parameters on which surviving in a civilized society turns out to be a wee bit comfortable. Well, on reading this many or rather most of my well informed erudite Readers may not fathom what context I have in mind to hurl this stone of ignorance.
In the early 70's during our stay in Central Avenue - Calcutta, Ma would visit the China town in Teretti Bazar every morning. This market was a bustling quarters of the Chinese diaspora comprising of Chinese vendors and sellers. Anything Chinese from sauces, roasts, vegetables, spices, abacus, books and stationery would be available.
This market until date though in its faded glory , has the early dawn breakfast market with the oomph , though we know it isn't that was. The golden yolk of steamed duck egg in the Baos is no match to the rising sun!
Ma, would hire Lambu Or Kanua from the rickshaw stand and visit the market everyday for fresh catch and harvest.
My Baba was very particular in his choice of Chinese food. My Baba loved my Ma and all that Bangali she cooked but when it was Chinese, he was emotionally specific. The vegetables, the poultry, the meat. The kitchen accessories, the cleaver and the chopping board. The shape, size and colour combination along with its nutritional value with no tasting salt, colour or using of extra sauces. It was a regime for him which he convinced Ma to practice and she too would follow the same. Chow Mein should be cooked in a wok and not in a kadai! The cuts of soup and the sauted vegetables are not the same! You don't use a western chopping board to chop vegetables you should have a bacteria free tree trunk chopping board!
On weekends I would accompany Ma to the bazar, dangling my legs in Lambu's rickshaw. On Saturday's Ma would buy Chinese fried bread ( Yu Char Kway ) SiuMai and HarGow and Smoked Roast pork. Not to forget Bay's stuffed with Red juicy sweet pork.
We happily returned home with all things Chinese. Baba would be delighted to find all of it.. Familiar food is a carnival for the taste buds and none should be denied of their habitual platter.
Now let's get down to the present and the purpose of this writing.
Many a moons have gone and many a tides have had their influence on shaping the fate of the diaspora and it's the skyline. Tiratti bazar and it's inhabitants have evolved over time and gradual population displacement has eaten into the core of it's genuine fabric.
What I understand and make out of isthe Chinese community that occupied this business district of Calcutta had
undergone a seachange as most of it's Chinese dwellers have migrated to other countries. Many have married migrants and have forgotten their own and embraced the partner.
Fast forward 2016, after living and globetrotting I wished to revisit Tiretti bazar with no Ma or Baba to keep happy or glad. This time my daughter was with me and she being a travel and fashion photographer grew up listening to my outlandish tales of culture amalgamation.
We headed to Tiretti bazar and i fervently . reopened my memories and point of reference of this market place.
Excited in anticipation finally arrived but somewhere in the early hours of dawn I felt something amiss. Gradually my hibernating auditory canal turned restless, trying to sniff those familiar smells of fresh green herbs especially celery wafting from homes where soups for Sunday market would get ready. The roast pork with honey, why am I not getting those vibes of Tiretti market?
As the morning turned bright I found maximum five to six Chinese people around, sad souls left back I suppose.
The home chefs were neither local bengalis nor were they Chinese. Where have all the baos, paos, wanthons, Cantonese sausages gone?
The people were all hindi speaking but rattled off in Chinese. The foreign tongue set very well with the Central India communities.
Saw a few Chinese women married to Bihari men, one such character was the hero of today's writing - Balaram Sahu.
Balaram's wife Leekia Chang Sahu was Rabdi devi making shrimp ball soup and speaking Dihati and Balaram speaking in Cantonese.
I gathered courage in engaging in a conversation with them, just a rush of joy overtook my senses. I mentioned to Leekia Chang about my genetic ratio. She literally jaw dropped and called her husband in Bihari, he responded in Cantonese which meant I was faking my identity, how can one parent of mine be Chinese when I am so much black skinned, do not know the language but a few words?
Balaram Sahu himself was displaced but currently he was living, trading, married and speaking in Chinese, so it implies he is more Chinese than any other. I being a direct product of Chinese geneology, as my father was, but brought up more Indian, my identity had become a mockery to them.
Balaram Sahu seemed to be very proud of his Chinese wife and greater still his business under her wings was running well, the couple had swapped their true identities to turn locals and form as integral part of the diaspora, survival of the fittest. Here was I where my identity was doubted and questioned because for reasons they know best!
Gosh! The daggers they gave me! Shaolin's i suppose!
It was pure disappointment for me but then this is what change is all about. Things shall never be the same.. Time changes, time heals. Time sets in motion the nee eave.
©grace
No comments:
Post a Comment