Accompanient to খাশির্ রেজালা
I suspect I use food as a way to honor people, in life and after. I was not a red meat eater until I was 18, for a myriad of personal reasons. When my mom’s famous গরুর মাঙ্শ (gorur mangsho - beef curry) was on the table, I would eat a fair amount of the ঝল্ (jhol -curry broth) and the আলু (aloo - potato), but I avoided the meat. My majo khala made me…. well not quite love mutton rezala immediately, but rather spicy food at large. Please cook this to the best of your ability, and share a plate with a loved one. This is a special one and I wish I could make some for my khala.
My mom is the youngest of her siblings, she has 3 brothers and 3 sisters. বড়, সেজো, মেজো, ছোট (boro, majo, sajo, choto - oldest, middle, third, youngest). Eldest to youngest.
My majo khala (middle maternal aunt) was the first blood relative in my living memory to pass away. It struck me like a train, and really I got overwhelmed with seeing my mother cry, my father lose his stoicism, my grandma lose her best friend. But recently, I have made a pact with myself to try to remember their lives more vividly than their passing, as part of my constant battle reckoning with death. So if I may, I would like to say some things I never got to say.
My majo khala, as I always called her, was married at young age to a man who did not deserve her, yet the liberation war was no more than two decades removed and the rush to get to normalcy and raise a family was on everyone’s mind.
She had endured a terrible miscarriage early in her marriage but subsequently gave birth to my beloved Topu apu. The details are hazy to me, but not long before (or after?) it became clear that her husband, the man who would have been my majo khalu, had another family, elsewhere.
Divorces are frowned up in not-even-really that traditional Bangali culture. Till her passing she had been legally married to that man, whose name I do not know to this day, and a face I only vaguely remember.
But she was a single mother, and a brilliant one at that, to my Topu apu. My mom, despite being the youngest, worked the hardest to raise up the family financially. Everyone on my mom’s side of the family, my nani’s clan lived in the same two and a half floors of the same building. They raised each other, and brought each other up. My majo khala would do her darndest to raise the family and she was certainly one of the best cooks in the family.
When my mom and dad would be particularly busy or away for vacations my mom’s side of the family would often come and visit and stay with us. These were treats. And as kids who were just trying to avoid doing their homework, these were severely cherished. See my mom and dad would encourage us, even in the early 2000s-2010s, to live our lives offscreen - something I will be eternally grateful to them for. Two hours a week of video gaming on my PS2 on Thursday (after a long week of school) in front of the one Sharp CRT TV we owned. Television programs were a family activity, except for Toonami and Wrestling reruns on Saturdays. As a result, to pass the time, I became a necessary reader and a not so good writer.
I hope I have then painted a picture of how intense my desire to watch TV unsupervised by my parents was. My aunts, my grandma, and certainly my cousins did not mind. Alright so at this point my dad’s out of the country (so majo khala was staying with us), my mum’s at a meeting for the Insurance or the Hospital she was a director at - so that bought me about 2 hours. My older sister was on her phone, chatting with friends so she was not particularly interested in rewatching Pirates of the Carribean for the umpteenth time. I recruited my younger sister and we booted up the PS2, carrying our briefcases full of knick-knacks. We were on top of the world.
What happens next is a blur. Majo khala calls us to the dinner table to eat some khashir rezala and some bhaat. I was starting to open my young mind up to the possibility of red meat but the video games would not play themselves! So I rushed to the table and started devouring rice and jhol to start. Oh boy.
I was in tears. Each level of my body was in a different level of Hell, and Asmodeus had decided to turn my mouth into a tanning salon. My aunt was perturbed. She made me drink some water, some milk, and comforted me, told me she wouldn’t tell my parents. And then she said something I will never forget.
“খাবারে জদি না কান্না আশে, কনো ভাবে, খাবার ভাল হয় নাই ।”
“If the food does not make you cry, one way or the other, it’s not good food”
She was the toughest woman I knew, and I wish I could have told her that. I have known nothing but kindness from her. She was the softest of all the siblings, and I have never seen her get upset.
A lifetime later, my Topu apu got married to a lovely boy by the name of Johnny. This was the first family wedding where I remember every detail. I had never done all 4 days of a Bangali wedding before, and it was a wonderful time. But in retrospect I realize that there were tremendous sacrifices made leading up to it. For some reason her “husband” reappeared in the lead up to the engagement and the wedding, a frequent face at prenuptial processions and family meets.
At the time, even as a kid, I rationalized it as an attempt to reconnect with his daughter before she was whisked away to a foreign land. In reality, Johnny’s side of the family may have felt some reluctance to wed their son to a girl from a separated home, no matter how much we presented the reality that it took a literal village sized family to raise her. So in retrospect, I realise my majo khala did the toughest, most unfathomable thing. She allowed her husband back into her life temporarily, so that she could help her daughter have the marriage she never had - to a good man.
The খাশির রেজালা (khashir rezala - mutton rezala) at their wedding was nowhere near as spicy. Soon afterwards, Topu apu moved to Australia with Johnny. Not long after that, my majo khala just passed away, in her own bed, surrounded by people she loved and cherished. Up until her passing she was very close with my nani, and they used to watch ZBangla together, and reminisce about past memories. About the daughter they raised, the grandson they would have, and the community they had built. I wish I had spoken to them more, and spent more time with them, called them more often, asked for their stories. Maybe I should talk to Topu apu about it someday.
Perhaps not - I am somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer thought.
Johnny and Topu now live in Australia with their amazingly smart son Mikhail, who I hope to tell more intimate stories of his amazing grandma to someday. And his great grandma. I hope to be a better uncle than I was a nephew.