Chicken Manchurian

Pasted on the door of Shibu’s shop of knick-knacks were small sheets of tin. On them, written in tar was:

Lottery tickets of all kinds sold.

Flats available for rent, buy and sale.

Information about wedding venues available.

Information on Brahman sweet-makers and cooks available.

The jars in Shibu’s shop were somewhat empty. Inside one, a cockroach lay dead, dried-up. On one side was some bread, inside one tin box were some fake biscuits, inside one jar was spicy chanachur —as evenings progressed, this savoury snack sold well.

Shibu’s shop was not always this way. Even a few years ago it had been as shops are— abuzz with activity. Every jar was filled with so many different kinds of lozenge. Chutney lozenge, jelly lozenge, aniseed lozenge. There were chocolates, nuts, biscuits, cakes. Teep, bangles, neck chains, ribbons, clips. This shop was at a very good location. Right in front of Priyobala Girls’ School. Young girls would frequent it at all times. In the course of proffering these young girls ‘faau’, or free items, the jars emptied bit by bit. If after taking four-anna worth of chanachur, or four safety pins, a young girl said, ‘Shibu da, faau?’, Shibu would not be able to send her off disappointed. Holding her hand, he would thrust into it salted nuts or a few tiny crunchy-savoury nimki. The many fists —fists into which were thrust Shibu’s tiny nimkis once— that went off to their husbands’ holding metal kohl-pots…! To so many girls had Shibu, while pushing into their hands faau, said, ‘You’ve grown the nails too long, cut them now’, or ‘Why are there blisters on your hands, dear? Have to do a lot of work, is it?’

Pancha da was seated on the porch that was right in front of Shibu’s shop. This porch was now as deserted as Shibu’s head. On the vertical signboard beside the porch, written in English once was ‘Jolly Stores’. The boys from the local club, Amra Bangali (We are Bengali), covered it with tar a very long time ago. Seated beside that signboard, Pancha was scratching his head. Pancha Thakur, the Odiya cook, with paan in his mouth.

Shibu told Pancha, ‘Know what, Pancha da, if I had a few thousand rupees, I’d have done up the shop again.’

Pancha looked at Shibu. Not all of the buttons of Shibu’s shirt were present. Quite a few strands of his chest hair were white. After stealing a quick glance at Shibu, Pancha ejected a spittle with a pirik on to the street. That he was in a foul mood could be gauged from the very manner in which he spat.

After shooting a glance at the sky, then another at Shibu’s button-less shirt, Pancha said, ‘You’re of no use, Shib babu. No work came by on the sixth of this month; on the eighth, none. There’s a date on the thirteenth. That something might actually come by, there’s not even a sign of that. You’re not being able to do a thing, Shib babu.’

Then Shibu, pointing with his finger towards the words ‘Information on Brahman sweet-makers and cooks available’ stuck on the door, said, ‘You do see that I have written it out, don’t you? Market is bad.’

Right that very moment there came and stood in front of the shop a girl —kind of fair-skinned, roundish face, clad in a new taant sari — with her, a couple of more married women. Softly shaking her new shankha-ruli-wreathed hand, she said, ‘You all right, Shibu da?’ Perhaps, at some point in time, Shibu had pushed into this hand countless tiny nimkis. Blending a sigh into the air, Shibu asked, ‘Marriage?’

The girl said, ‘Hmm.’

At once Pancha looked at Shibu with scheming eyes.

Shibu said, ‘When is the wedding?’

The girl said, ‘Today itself.’

‘Oh! Then, of course, the thakur for all of your cooking would have already been fixed.’

‘Why?’

‘I supply cooks.’

Out of the corner of her eye, the girl glanced at the word ‘sweet-maker’ written in tar. Pursing her lips, she shrugged. This was a gesture of sorts. These days, in place of using words, any special message was communicated in this way. A grave and girthy housewife from the side said, ‘Are there any thakurs left now? Cyaterers are in demand. “Bahadur Cyaterer”.’

No sooner had he heard the word ‘caterer’ than Pancha’s forehead crinkled. Then, staring at the paisley of the sari covering the rear of the housewife now walking out of the shop, Pancha spewed out, grinding his teeth, ‘Sala Madhusudan.’

Madhusudan Saha was the owner of Bahadur Caterer.

‘What’s the point of cursing uselessly?’ Shibu said. ‘Won’t he do business?’

‘Business? Hunh! They only make a spectacle, a spectacle. They put on band-party-like costumes— tie around the neck, socks on the hands… The public these days are a kind. Do they go to eat, or watch the drama?’

Shibu stared at the vacant tube-light frame on the wall.

‘Do you know who cooks at Madhusudan’s, Shib babu?’ Pancha continued. ‘Manoj and Hemanta. Do you know who Manoj’s father is, Shib babu? Keshto naapith. That barber’s still shaving the heads of mourners at the Kashi Mittir cremation grounds. What will his son cook? How can he cook? And I, Panchanan Panda, master cooks since three generations. Beside me, that Manoj, that Hemanta, are all mosquitoes! Understood? Mosquitoes. Rats.’

Meanwhile, a man —somewhat elderly— arrived at Shibu’s shop. Hastily picking up the small portable board with lottery tickets clipped to it, Shibu said, ‘Tomorrow is Cherrapunji. First prize, five lakh. Nagaland, day after tomorrow. Three lakh —big bumper…’

Holding out his hand, the old man said, ‘Let it be. Today, let lottery be.’ His fingers sported four stone-studded rings.

‘Then?’ Shibu enquired.

The old man placed his stone-adorned hand on the board. Then, with the index finger of the other hand, he touched the stones one after another, like children tapped their fingers one by one in the counting game ikir-mikir-chaam-chikir, and said, ‘Here, this one is milk from Haringhata Dairy; this, State Bank’s interest; this, name comes up in the lottery; and this: may my youngest set forth for her in-laws’ holy abode…. Ha ha ha. I have fixed the youngest daughter’s marriage! Got that? The boy is a schoolteacher; seventy-two pairs of shoes collect outside his house twice a day! Got that?’

Shibu did not quite seem to well up with joy. Had he thrust nimki into the fist of that old man’s youngest daughter too!

Making his face like someone who was ill, Shibu said, ‘It’s done?’

‘Yes, bhai, done. Oh, the way I suffered! Absolutely nothing came of that matchmaker Joga Ghotok. Then, the moment I went to the Computer Ghotok, within three months the marriage was fixed.’

‘Now, who is this “Computer Ghotok”?’

‘There, they’ve made that thing above the scanning centre, haven’t they? “The Couple”. Isn’t it written, “Marriages are fixed through computers here….” Do give a good thakur, would you, Shibu….’

Pancha stood up. He said, ‘I am right here.’

‘I will have about two hundred and fifty people, you know. A hundred and fifty among them would be the bridegroom’s party. I will do a heck-of-a-variety of items, such that the buggers remember; damn well they’ll say, yes, the items Nitish Mittir did indeed!

‘Will keep a tight leash on the sweets. Have to quell their taste buds with the fried rice. Can you do it?’

‘What are the items going to be?’ Pancha asked.

‘Say, radhaballabhi, alur-dom, chholar dal, fried rice, fish orly, chicken manchurian, or whatever it’s called, that….’

‘Why go to all that trouble, sir? What I’d say is, let me do a machher kalia nicely, and rather chunky fish fries….’

‘Fish fry and all have become outdated. Why, my tenants fed their guests fish rolls. I must feed mine fish orly.’ Then, lowering his voice, he said, ‘But not of bhetki-fetki. Either of aar fish or bhola fish. Rather nicely, with mustard-fustard, salad-falad …. you got it, right?’

Pancha started to scratch his head. ‘I mean, the orly, I… quite…’

‘Don’t know?’

‘I mean, haven’t ever quite made…’

‘And that manchurian…?’

‘I mean, even that … before…’

There was defeat writ large in Pancha’s head-scratching. His gaze was directed towards the ground, shame etched in his eyes.

Nitish Mittir merely said, ‘O, understood. You don’t have modern thakurs in your stock. I will arrange for a caterer. Though, when that thakur of yours is from the old times, seems like he’d be able to do the vegetarian fare rather well.’

Vegetarian be it, thought Pancha.

#

After having searched for the address, Pancha went to that Mittir house on Nandalal Bose Lane. The key job of the wedding itself had been taken up by Bahadur Caterer. Pancha knew Manoj, its cook. At the wedding house, there were ten or twelve widows in all, there was the priest, the Brahmin, the family’s spiritual mentor, or Gurudev —they wouldn’t eat anything that had been in the vicinity of fish and meat. What would have to be cooked? So, moong dal, phulkopir dalna, mochaghonto, and so on.

Pancha said, ‘Why don’t I make a few pantuas? It’ll be a full-on royal thing.’

The eldest son of the household said, ‘Don’t make a fool of us. Does anyone make all that anymore? We will pick the sweets up from a shop.’

‘Then do chhanar dalna. I’ll make it in a way that——’

‘You’re fooling us again! With so many winter vegetables, why cottage cheese? Trying to be too clever all the time!’

‘What items is that caterer-thakur making?’ Pancha asked.

‘Oh that, of many kinds. All new dishes. You won’t be able to do all that. Chicken manchurian. Can you make it?’

Pancha was silent. O Jagannath! May that manchu be scorched in salt!

#

On the day of the wedding, a massive oven lay in the pandal on the roof. Manoj and Hemanta were smoking cigarettes. Three assistants were involved in prepping. One was removing the red coat off the peanuts’ skin. The colour of the skin —white, pale. One had chopped onions and spread them over a huge dish. Another was busy with the dense-kheer-like paste of posto. A bowl full of green peas— how delightful. Raisins had swelled up to the water’s fond touch. This was one magnificent array. Pancha made his way in. He said, ‘Some especial item, Manoj?’

Manoj said, ‘Chicken Manchurian.’ He made the cigarette dance between his lips.

Pancha ran his eyes over the lavish display of ingredients spread on the floor. Among the vegetables and spices were a few bottles. Must be sauce. A few paper-boxes. What was in them?

‘What, Pancha da,’ Hemanta asked, ‘your ghyant–labra are done?’

Pancha nodded his head sorrowfully and said, ‘Hmm.’ Then, in order to say something, he drew a huge amount of air into his lungs. In the breath-breeze was onion–garlic–ginger–nutmeg. After that, he ended up blurting, ‘Manoj, will you tell me how you’ll make the dish, bhai?’

Manoj didn’t look at Pancha. Puffing out smoke in the air he said, ‘Hey Nagen, get the garlic ready.’ Now, Hemanta looked at Pancha, he smiled. He said, ‘All this is formula-cooking. Everything made to measure, not a thing out of place. Can this stuff be taught like “say A for apple, B for boy…”? Stay with us in prepping for a few days, tell Madhusudan babu. Then slowly…’

Pancha made off in a flash from there. He went to his own phulkopi and kolamocha in the second-floor kitchen. A light aroma off the kolamocha floated in the air. Pancha bared his heart to them.

The middle-aged aunties showered praises on Pancha. In the mocha, in the dal, were coconut balls and coconut flakes. In the phulkopi curry, the peas were a luminous green, staring haughtily. Neither had they melted nor were they raw.

A grandmotherly woman asked, ‘How did you make such a beautiful colour, dear?’ Pancha melted in delight. The aunties wiped their plates clean of everything. Pancha felt great joy.

These dishes had been prepared by Pancha during the day. A little late into the evening, wearing clean clothes, he arrived to eat. He’d got along with him his son Motilal —he was studying in Class Ten.

There was an outlandish display of cut vegetables on every table. A duck made with eggplants, a flower of beetroots-and-carrots, a lotus of onions. The ones who would be serving were dressed in coats, neckties. In Motilal’s eyes, on his face, were streaks of light —he kept staring, amazed.

Pancha wouldn’t have come. He wouldn’t care to eat Manoj’s cooking. But he would eat that Chicken Manchu today. Would eat it, and most certainly crack the mystery. He’d caught on to the fish-finger just right after eating it in exactly such a venue.

The last batch was for cooks and servants. Was that Manchu there in the last batch, Pancha wondered to himself. Cold radhaballabhi and alur-dom fell on the plate. Motilal picked up a card he’d found. No sooner had he read some of it than he said, ‘Hear what they’ve written:

i

The Cast of Characters

Famous Actor Fried Rice

Actress Chicken Manchurian

Supporting Actor Radhaballabhi

Villain Butter Fry

Sad Baul Salad

Guest Artist Fish Mexican

In Comedy Roles Plastic Chutney and Papad

Syrupy-voiced Male Singer Rajbhog

Honey-voiced Female Singer Pranhora

Accompaniment Ice Cream

In Pop Music Paan

In other side roles Lemon, Salt, Water…

Motilal was reading it and laughing, and Pancha’s chin was hardening. In the end, he said, ‘Stop.’

Last batch. One of servants and low-lives. Much from the card didn’t fall on the plate. But the Manchurian did. O Hari! Crisp fried balls made from boiled chicken after casting out the bones and mincing it. Their skin daubed in parts in sour-and-spicy curry, in parts in garlic flakes. Shutting his eyes, Pancha, with a lot of concentration, wrapped the whole of his tongue around that edible item.

The curry is, of course, the sauce. The taste of a bottle. There’s pepper inside the balls. Have they put caraway seeds or what? Is the sour-like taste only because of vinegar, or there’s juice from lemons as well?

‘How’s it, Pancha da, how’s the food?’ Manoj asked.

Pancha sneered, ‘The blind boy’s name is Padmalochan, the lotus-eyed! Why keep such a difficult name for chicken pakodas?’ he added.

‘Pakodas? Ha ha…’

The sound of this ‘ha ha’ no longer remained by its lonesome. Manoj’s three helpers, too, burst into laughter. After that laughed the porcelain plates, the glasses, the water jugs, the spoons.

The very next day, Pancha returned home after buying a smallish chicken. Onions, garlic, tomatoes. Everyone was struck. Saying ‘My name is Pancha’, he took a women’s magazine out of the bag. On its cover was a cooked food item plated decoratively. Written on top was: ‘All New Recipes’.

Pancha’s daughter looked at her mother, the mother looked at the daughter. Lighting a beedi, Pancha called his son, ‘Hey Motilal, what are you doing?’

‘Studying,’ Motilal replied. ‘The properties of carbon dioxide.’

Pancha said, ‘Listen, come here.’

Once Motilal arrived, Pancha handed him that magazine of brand-new recipes and said, ‘Take out Chicken Manchu.’

Motilal started to read aloud the table of contents: ‘Kochushaaker Ghonto, Doi-potol, Vegetable Kebab, Mangsher Kochuri, Lobongo Lotika, Bandhakopir Manchuri…’

‘Isn’t Chicken’s Manchuri there?’

‘No.’

‘Read the one of cabbage only, then.’

Motilal read on: ‘As winters end, eating cabbage no longer feels nice. But I am telling you about a dish; if it’s cooked this way, you’ll like it a lot. Ingredients:

Cabbage 1
Minced chicken 500 gms
Onions 2
Ginger paste 50 gms
Green chillies 2
Raisins, grated cashews, salt —to taste
Butter 250 gms

‘At first, rip the scrap leaves off the cabbage. Have the meat minced. Mix cashew-nut granules and raisins in that. Now, a little artistry. In the way petals from a lotus are removed one by one, remove the cabbage leaves, one by one, slowly. Then, coating the leaves with layers of that minced meat, fold the leaves inwards again, gradually. Now, deep-fry them in butter. Cut them with a knife and serve them hot.’

No sooner did they hear ‘butter’ than everyone guffawed. Pancha’s wife, daughter … Only Pancha remained with his forehead creased.

Motilal kept reading. ‘This dish is tasty to such an extent that you will be able to steal the very heart of the one who’s dear to you. That is why I have named this dish “Bandhakopir Manchuri”.’

The chef had, drawing from the word ‘manchurian’, punned on it: she had put together ‘man’, meaning heart, and ‘churi’, meaning to steal, and come up with ‘manchuri’ —heart-stealer!

‘Goodness! The boy’s shit is heavier than the boy,’ said Pancha, after which, for a few moments, he kept sitting, wordlessly. Then, all of a sudden in fact, he said, ‘My name is Pancha. I will show them! Annapurna, bring the bonti.’

Totally disregarding going to the shop and so on, he sat down to cut the chicken. He showed his daughter and wife how small they’d need to chop the garlic pieces. He put the chicken pieces to boil. Pancha’s wife said, ‘What is all this?’ Pancha said, ‘Chicken Manchuri.’ Motilal came and plonked himself down there. Pancha said, ‘You go and do your school work.’ Still Motilal wouldn’t budge. Motilal’s wish was to be a caterer. He’d put on a tie around his neck, gloves over his hands…

Annapurna chopped garlic. Annapurna’s right hand had six fingers. During the dwiragomon, when after a wedding the bride returns to her father’s home for a second time, her husband had brought her over —never taken her back. The son-in-law had said, ‘A six-fingered woman is an olokkhi.’ Harbinger of misery, of misfortune. Only a few days after, son-in-law had married again.

Annapurna was chopping garlic. Tiny garlic flakes would embrace the manchurian pieces. Manchurian was a modern dish.

Annapurna’s husband was a man in his prime. A modern young man, a radio repairman in Baleswar. At the time of the marriage, he’d said radio engineer. Annapurna’s finger was never lopped off. Annapurna had been married once. Even if the finger was operated upon, who would marry a girl who had been married once before? Pancha had dictated, and Annapurna had written: I am a beggar, worth no more than the dust of your feet. Prannath, dear lord of my heart, give me some place at your feet.

I’ll live like a slave, she had written, a slave to the fellow-wife.

No response had arrived.

Scraping the boiled chicken off the bones, Pancha marinated all of it with chilli powder. Broke eggs, mixed flour, put two pinches of baking soda.

Motilal said, ‘Should I tell you why things turn fluffy when baking soda is put in them? Carbon dioxide gas is produced. Upon emission, it causes them to puff up…’

‘Shut it!’ said Pancha.

Pancha prepared the balls. Fried them until they were red. They had puffed up rather well. Now Pancha poured soya sauce and chilli sauce. Adding tomatoes and garlic flakes, he kept tossing the balls. But…

But the balls fell apart … They continued to come apart … ‘Haaye, haaye!’ lamented Pancha and, out of the blue, landed a slap on his own cheek! ‘I failed, dear Anna! The manchuri didn’t work out.’

Motilal picked up a small piece, blew on it, and tasted.

‘What, Motilal! Speak,’ Pancha said in a piteous tone. Motilal was petrified to even move his head.

‘What is it? Tell me…’

‘Baba-go…’ shrieked Motilal, distressed.

Pancha hit the metal wok with the spud with which he had been cooking. A sharp thhong sound emerged. He pulled hard at his hair. And then he got up, and out. Annapurna took the wok down. Scorched patches had formed at the bottom of the wok by then.

Pancha plodded along the road. The coconut shells, the scraps of saal leaf belonging to the street said, ‘Could you do it, friend?’ Pancha replied, ‘Un-hunh, I am not one of you. I didn’t lose, I will not lose no matter what. I have made sponge balls off stale cottage cheese and floated them in curry, I have filled sugary syrup into the veins, the bodies, of crispy, flower-shaped amritis. I have made even gulay fish equal to nectar. How dare the balls come apart!’

Damn! The amount of flour must have been less. Or was it the chemical? After all, everyone is adding chemicals to new dishes these days. Baking powder, citric acid, ajinomoto. There is no chemical called ‘ajana-moto’, is there, Pancha wondered. Not all the names were known to him —some were ‘unknown-like’— ‘ajana-moto’. Would he work in prepping with Manoj and Hemanta for a few days, Pancha considered.

Na … nahin…

Pancha reached in front of Sribhavan. A pandal had been set up in Sribhavan. On either side of the entrance, women made of white thermocol were blowing into conch shells, in greeting. Microphone-testing 1-2-3 was being carried out. Pancha slunk out of sight. He knew every nook and corner of this house. He had taken on many a job in it. Pancha went to the cooking area. Mithun was cooking.

‘Arre, it’s Pancha-duh. Ol okow?’ There was the sweet-smoky scent of 410 zarda in Mithun’s mouth, the clump of juice from the tobacco affecting his speech a little.

‘No, nothing. I was passing this way, so thought…’

‘Oh. Have paan. How’s business?’

‘Work! There’s none. What are the items?’

‘Ballabhi, Kashmiri, chhola, rice, chicken manchurian…’

‘Manchu? Hey, I swear, Mithun, will you tell me a little how to cook this dish? Tell, no, bhai…’

‘Arre guru, what’s there to tell?’

‘Tell me, no, bhaipo.’

‘Arre dhur … go home, would you…’

‘Tell me only the spices…’

‘There are many spices.’

‘Tell, do.’

‘You’re causing a lot of trouble, aren’t you!’

‘You won’t tell?’

‘Un-hunh.’

Pancha left. Went to the street. And returned again. He went near the haapish-ghulghuli. That was the bay window through which smoke from the kitchen escaped. Because many a time cooks ‘smuggled out’ goods through that ghulghuli, it had been named ‘haapish-ghulghuli’, the window through which things ‘vanished’ into thin air. Pancha looked around once.

Just a little before evening fell, Pancha arrived behind Sribhavan, wrapped in a shawl. There was a load-shedding just then. He stood under the ghulghuli. Sticking his foot in the groove between the bricks, he held the pipe tightly. How strange! In the ghulghuli lay a polythene packet, inside which were a few pieces of fish. Chhee! Pancha had never done such a thing in his life. Everything was visible through the window.

There, the food’s being cooked … There, the chicken scraped off the bones … His eyes were trained on the goings-on visible through the window. Someone came and said, ‘Thakur, within just another hour we’ll seat the first batch.’

Mithun said, ‘Then let me make the manchurian.’

‘What?’ said the man. ‘You still haven’t?’

Mithun said, ‘Chinese food shouldn’t be cooked and kept aside.’

Jai Hari. Pancha had arrived at just the right time.

Green chillies were added to boiled pieces of white chicken. Ginger, shredded.

What is that sugar-like thing he sprinkled? Oh, ajinomoto.

Mithun started to break and add eggs. Now, he took a white, powdery kind of thing from a paper-packet and began spreading it over the chicken.

What is that? Flour? Why would flour be in such a packet?

He began to mix everything together using both his hands. Added a small amount of black sauce. Someone like an elderly mistress of the house came into the kitchen and said, ‘Do give me some cornflour, Thakur, will keep it aside. I will make kulfi.’ Mithun then poured some from that packet into a cone-shaped paper packet.

Now it’s clear. What that paper packet has is called cornflour. That is what has to be rubbed on to the chicken. Hope I can remember it. ‘O Kunti, O Mother, be my saviour! Be my saviour! The chariot, its wheels, have sunk into the earth!’ —Korno’s dialogue from the Mahabharata. Pancha would not be able to remember ‘corn’, but … Korno, Korno, Korno … That very moment, all of a sudden, Pancha heard a shriek. ‘Hey you bastard, come down!’

Pancha was startled out of his wits. His grip over the pipe loosened. Korno-Korno-Korno. Pancha was falling. ‘Fucking fish-thief!’ Pancha heard. ‘Caught him right in the act!’ Pancha was about to catch hold of something. Korno-Korno-Korno… Pancha fell. The whole universe sounded with a clang. Bit by bit, the generator’s clamorous clatter ceased.

#

Pancha was in the hospital, lying on the floor, a pipe inside his nostril. Saline water was entering his hand, one drop at a time. His eyes were ajar. Through his gaping eyes he was hazily seeing meat. The doctor was meat, the nurse was meat, the midwife was meat. The sweeper was meat, his wife was meat, his son was meat. A huge heap of manchurian. Annapurna was stroking Pancha’s forehead, enveloping him with tender affection equal to all her six fingers.

Was it raining? Pancha heard the faint burbling of rain. Annapurna’s six fingers were flowing away. Someone came and stood in front. Shibu? ‘What is it, Shibu, dear? Is there any work?’ There was a piece of paper in Shibu’s hand. Shibu stooped towards the bed and said, ‘You’ve won a lottery prize, Pancha da. Twenty thousand.’ Pancha heard. Did he hear that right, or did he mishear it? Pancha closed his eyes. As soon as he opened his eyes, he saw syrup, sticky, on Shibu’s skin. Shibu seemed to be saying something more. ‘Do you hear, Pancha da,’ he was saying, ‘do you hear? I want to marry Annapurna.’ Pushing Shibu aside, Motilal came and stood in front of Pancha. ‘Baba,’ he said, ‘give me that money. I will be a caterer, Baba, a caterer.’ There was sticky syrup all over Motilal’s body. Flies wafted in. Pancha drove the flies away with both his hands; with both his hands he clasped Motilal, and then, with his tongue, started licking his body —as though a mother-cow were cleaning the viscous birth-grime off a newborn calf.

Pancha, unmoving, was staring into space. In reality, in that moment, a mystifying new dish was being prepared in the kitchen of his soul.