In India, every terrace has a tale to tell, it’s the breathing space of a house and a hub for a host of activities. “What’s in this bottle?” I enquired, busy unpacking the goodies, bought by my husband during his recent trip to India.
“That’s murabba, your aunt made it”, he replied. Suddenly, everything else was irrelevant. I pushed aside the stack of Maggi Noodles, soan papdi and chikki packets. Tearing off the enormous amount of tape, I quickly opened the bottle and the sweet smell of mango with just a hint of spices hit me right away! Oh! The sheer joy it brought can’t be expressed in words.
Have you read our spicy, tangy sweet edition dedicted to pickles?
My fondest memories of summers spent on our sprawling terrace in early April reawakened with that very bottle! In India, every terrace has a tale to tell, it’s the breathing space of a house and a hub for a host of activities. Back in the day, during the mango season, the ladies of the neighbourhood would gather on their terraces and become busy making achaars, papads and murabbas.
My grandmother with her snow-white hair and lively eyes, wearing a perfectly starched sari, would settle on the charpai and with the papery skin of her hands, she would gently pat the mangoes before spreading them out according to their ripeness and size. The dense air would be filled with the aroma of drying chillis and spices, and oftentimes the ladies would treat us to some folk songs, or my dadi would spin magic with her storytelling!
As children, we too would try our hands at rolling out the papads, which would often end with hilarious results. Once the pickle was ready, it would be transferred to the bharanis which were then stored in a cool place. As the ingredients fermented, the mango pickle (in its vinegary glory) aged and developed tons of flavour and deliciousness.
Almost all the terraces accommodated vast containers or pots of seasonal green plants at a time before organic farming came into vogue. Lunch would regularly include steaming hot white rice or rotis, dal, sabzi (fresh from the terrace garden) and a dollop of pickle with the scrumptious papads.
The terrace also served as a kaleidoscope of the most precious memories of our childhood when we would pluck tamarind from the ginormous tree beside our terrace and pound it with jaggery, curry leaves, salt, red chillies, and later shape them into tiny balls. Our ‘play kitchen’ would then become a frenzy of activity as we ‘cooked’ and served our family members our delicacies. It was also our haven where we played hopscotch, hide and seek, and cricket with our friends. A time when friendship was real and not dictated by a virtual world. Then as night fell the terrace would become our vast bed where checkered mattresses and quilts, stitched by the meticulous hands of my dadi, would be spread out and we would fall asleep with the stars watching over us.
And no wedding was ever complete without a shamiana adorning the terrace! All the wedding festivities like haldi, sangeet and mehandi took place here. Since the terraces were usually relatively close to each other, sometimes even sharing a common wall, guests were typically divided between two or three terraces. After all, a wedding never meant that it was confined to just one person’s house. Food and refreshments were passed to and fro, from one terrace to the other.
With the arrival of Makar Sankranti the sky would break out into a riot of colours and images with numerous kites soaring in the sky. What fun it was to learn how to fly a kite and watch our older siblings make the razor-sharp manja. We were often warned never to touch it lest it cut our hands! On most sunny days the winter woollies and quilts were laid out neatly on the terrace walls so that they were sun-kissed. This was also the time when my dadi and mom would arrange the pulses on the mats and then bask in the golden glory and catch up with our neighbours. The news would be exchanged and suggestions/advice would be implied. Everything from rishtas to recipes would be discussed here. ‘Beti kay liye acha rishta hoto batana’ or ‘kal ki dal ka swaad hi kuch aur thaa. New recipe?’. Everything under the sun was spoken of.
But with time, these memories seem to be fading fast, like the pages of an old book. Worn. Dull. Distressed. After all, this was from a time when life was real and not about making reels. The lazy, carefree days when we had all the time in the world and there was beauty in a simple life. A life that was controlled by emotions and love and not by devices, likes and hashtags.
