The Probashi and memories of the kaalboishakhi

4 May 08: 5.30 pm: A dust storm whirls around the windows of the fifth floor whistling into the cracks. The countryside, usually visible for miles, loses itself behind a brown haze. The multi-storey that stands in front is the only thing still visible as the shadowy outlines of the silver-oaks that line the path toss their branches giving in to the wind. The rituals remain the same.

‘Aandhi!’ We rush to the window.

Thirty years ago it had been no different.

Windows slammed shut. Doors closed with a bang and latches slid into place. The evening would give way to sudden darkness. Light? Out of the question. The first gust had blown out the electricity. A dust storm was no nuisance in those days. It had great potential to be enjoyed.

Three little girls, all cousins but they weren't really sure what that meant, and a grandmother huddled in the dark. The storm was at liberty to expend its energy in the huge courtyard on one side of the room and on the lawns and in the branches of the mango trees on the other.

The pale green blossoms of the mango had given way to tiny fruit dark and …the mouth fills with saliva at the thought of the sour freshness. Not much flesh yet and the seed still soft.

Eager eyes peered through the window on to the lawn. The banana plant waved its leafy branches swaying like a man possessed.

Sweat prickled its way down the spine and hung in little beads along the neck. A little girl pursed her lips and blew. Her sister shuddered and smiled. The breath was cool on her hot little body.

The storm had come to an abrupt end. Doors and windows were thrown open and cool fresh air rushed into the room. Mothers and aunts were already on their way across the courtyard towards the kitchen taking stock of the situation.

The children rushed out onto the lawn…barefooted to catch the light drizzle that would not last long. The tiny mangoes lay scattered, hidden under piles of leaves shaken loose by the storm. Precious little piles lay guarded in each of the bunched up skirts. The grandmother moved about comfortably making a pile all of her own. She smiled as she inspected each little collection.

‘Go,’ she said. ‘Tell your mother to bring out the grinding stone.’

A child scampered off.

‘Bring the nicest banana leaf you can find.’

She made her way indoors.

Each little collection, deseeded and pounded to a pulp with a pinch of salt, a generous helping of sugar, a drizzle of pungent mustard oil and chilli flakes was stuffed into a neat green banana leaf cone. The triangular portion on top was tucked in to seal the packet. An aunt moved around with a pair of scissors snipping a little off the pointy ends.

‘Suck.’ She commanded.

The eyes crinkled with pleasure.

The grandmother’s collection went into a wok of hot spluttering mustard seeds. Her hands worked carelessly…effortlessly. A bowl of water, a scattering of salt and a pinch of turmeric…they all went in. As they bubbled up boiling and softening the little mangos in went generous handfuls of sugar.

The green mango stew? The aamer ombol?

That would not be on offer until it had cooled…until the fathers and uncles had all come home…until everyone sat down with the grandfather for dinner and finished every little bit that had been put onto their plates.