On a crisp spring afternoon, Phuphee and I were sitting on the verandah chatting after our lunch. She had rustled up a simple dish of pootche gande ti thool (spring onions and eggs) and served it with hot rice and roahane koadur aanchaar (a pickle made from the tender green stems of young garlic).

She was telling me the recipe for pootche gande when the gate opened and a large party of people walked in. Before they reached the verandah, she called for Aisha, the household help, to bring the samovar, chinipyaale (small cups without handles) and some kulchas.

The party was headed by an elderly gentleman who looked annoyed and angry. Before he even sat down and caught his breath, he started narrating his tale of woe. ‘Kyahaz dapai hamsheera, maehaz chu sitam. Yemyis nechtvyis karyov khaandar badyeav armaanoav magar nazar laejj kamyistaansinz.’ (What can I tell you, my sister. I am facing such hardship. We got this son of ours married with so many hopes and dreams, but I don’t know who has given us the evil eye.)

He sat before Phuphee beating his chest with his hands. It startled me a little, but Phuphee didn’t so much as flinch. She watched him calmly and, after he had tired a little, he sat back and pretended to cry.

Phuphee asked him to speak plainly about why he had come. He stopped his non-crying and wiped his........

© The Hindu