The Joys (and Mess) of Cohabiting

It’s not like I haven’t been writing. I’ve been writing checks, making to-do lists and marking them done. Groceries devoured in record time. That’s the soundtrack of our first year building a home together. Not exactly Hemingway, but M, curled up on the sofa with a mismatched mug, makes it feel like a symphony. We’ve been learning the waltz of cohabitation, two souls navigating the intimate choreography of shared laundry baskets and whispered secrets.

Our new home is etched with the stories of two lives merging, a tapestry woven with shared laughter and the quiet mending of old wounds. It hasn’t been easy, this learning to breathe in each other’s air, to navigate the uncharted territory of shared vulnerability. There are days when silence hangs heavy, a storm brewing in the unspoken spaces. But then, a hand reaches across the breakfast table, a hesitant smile breaks through the clouds, and I remember: vulnerability, like love, is a shared space. And with M beside me, even the roughest storms feel like a chance to rebuild, stronger, together.

An excerpt from Rabindranath Tagore’s poem “Haat” goes-

“Kumor paarar gorur gadi
Bojhai kora kolshi hari”

This roughly translates to –

“The potter’s bullock cart on the bumpy road,
carries many pots and vessels, I’m told.”

Hari is a terracotta pot, common in rural Indian households. So what’s in these pots? Well, in a misty winter morning, a ten-year-old me wondered the same while walking on the kuccha road that leads out of the village, towards the paddy fields. Accompanying me were my cousins and aunt. The sun was still waking up, and dense fog made it hard to see beyond a couple of hundred meters. I distinctly remember that this fog smelled like water and petrichor. A smell I haven’t encountered in long, living in cities where dense pungent fog have caressed the inner walls of my airways.

The path was damp and cold from the morning dew. Droplets had pearled on grass. I was walking, not knowing where we were going. Through chattering teeth, we were appreciating the previous night’s feast.

After a few minutes of walking through the dense fog, we came across the hut of a shuli or date palm tree tapper. Wispy smoke was emanating from an iron kadhai on an unoon (clay oven) fired with dried dung cakes or ghutey. He explained, this was a fresh batch of date palm tree sap or raw jaggery or gur, cooking slowly. A few earthen pots were kept nearby, filled with older batches cooling. The shuli, a farmer by day, was smoking a bidi in the cold. I was too young to recall his name, but what I do recall is the taste of freshly brewed jaggery. And you know it’s fresh because he got it out of one of the earthen pots kept aside. It was pure, unadulterated jaggery. The kind of pure that makes your throat sting as it goes down.

Being a Bengali, my heart beats faster as the month of Poush comes to an end. Poush Parbon is a festival we all eagerly await, celebrating the sun’s journey into Capricorn as per the Hindu astrology. It is an occasion where we express gratitude for the harvest season and relish the sweets that are prepared with seasonal ingredients like gur. In Bengal, where agriculture has always been the lifeline of the people, this festival holds a special place in our hearts. As the day approaches, our homes are filled with the fragrant aroma of nolen gur, which we buy from local grocery stores and sweet shops.

Pithe, a delicacy made of rice flour filled with coconut soaked in nolen gur, is passed around among family, friends, and neighbours. We savor patishapta, a thin crêpe made of rice flour and filled with coconut and nolen gur. Gur, has been used in Bengal for ages and probably even predates cane sugar in the region. When I was a child, the only thing that made me look forward to the biting cold winters was nolen gurer roshogolla, a spongy, melt-in-your-mouth dessert soaked in nolen gur syrup.

Nowadays, these sweets are available throughout the year, and gur is often found in a more basic form, mixed with sugar and turned into crumbly powder. So when I take a few teaspoons of this powder and mix it in my morning coffee, I don’t really find that familiar jaggery flavour any more. The moments are rather bittersweet.

See, I don’t really feel that Delhi is rude. It’s just passionate. Passionately arguing, cursing, party-shartying, foodie-ing, hustling, protesting, shopping, bargaining, adjusting, loving, helping, donating, feeding and most importantly, soldiering on. As the city of dreams for the larger part of north India, Delhi absorbs you, in its own prickly hospitality.

Before I landed, I had heard a lot about the capital. The people – rude, the air – toxic. Yet, twenty minutes after being carried to the Rajdhani by the Rajdhani, I was already at The Rajiv Chowk Metro Station. Everyone walked busy, dressed sharp, looking important. It felt like I was in New York. Made sense if Mumbai would be L.A. and Kolkata can well, aspire to be London.

The city is as diverse as the people it nurses. During my stay there, I could make out three rough segments of the city.

The Sarkaari

The clean wide roads, komorebi, beautiful boulevards with golden sunshine in the day and amber lighting in the night, red sandstone structures, absence of multi-stories, lush gardens colorful flowers, CRPF checkpoints and touristy beings.

The Business Class

Posh neighborhoods. Buildings like Tetris blocks with clean glass and wooden facades, fans-and-ferns on the balcony, sunlight is a luxury, dog walkers with exotic breeds (only) strolling on what little space the jet-black SUVs have excused, small patches of greens in the gated neighborhood where the sun seldom shines. It’s rather peaceful since people talk in whispers.

A bit of a blanket statement

The naukri, chaakri – suburbs. This is what looks like noise on the satellite imagery. Buildings huddled together, holding their shoulders close, often overlapping each other, hundreds of overhead wires blocking whatever sunlight filters down to the streets. The streets that are forever damp and dark. You look down and find confetti! Look closer. It’s either Vimal or Kamla Pasand or Pulse. Buzzing with broadcasts of television or private family feuds. Right on the edges, you’d easily find slums and small dump yards or an unapologetic mix of both.

Having left the city, it’s not like I miss Delhi every day. My lungs thank me with every single breath. However, there are certain things that Delhi just does the best. There hasn’t been any single weekend when we were out of options for places to go or restaurants to try out. When it comes to food, the veg-nonveg mix and specially chaat, Delhi is unparalleled. The public transport is massively underrated and pocket friendly. Positioned close to the erstwhile silk route, Indraprastha is one of the best places to buy. From mall-only deals to flea market steals, you’ll find it all. I do plan to return to Delhi time to time just for the shopping-amusement experience it has to offer or better even, just to joyride around the city on the metro using the card I proudly retain!

99 Types of dosa, excluding you.