Worst of all were the daily (and befuddling) restrictions stemming from the purity code known as enthho. Derived from the Sanskrit uchhishtho, enthho has become an amorphous term for Bengali Hindus, its interpretation varying from family to family. Anything that has touched your mouth or saliva becomes enthho. Observant Hindus will never bite into a fruit or sip from a glass and then offer the rest to someone else. The term becomes more puzzling, however, when applied to rice, which is not enthho when uncooked but becomes so after cooking. Once you have touched anything containing cooked rice, you must wash your hands before touching uncooked vegetables, fruits, spices, or even clean containers. The status of animal products—fish, meat, eggs—is less confusing. They are always enthho, cooked or uncooked. A bowl of cooked vegetables is not enthho and can be placed anywhere; but the minute the bowl comes into contact with anything containing cooked rice, it becomes enthho and can only be kept in an area (dining table, kitchen counter, refrigerator shelf) set aside for enthho foods.
The same rule applies to one's hands. When my husband, after sitting down for a meal, got up and opened the refrigerator to get iced water, he precipitated a crisis of pollution. For though he had not actually used his hand to eat, he had touched the plate containing rice and other foods. The refrigerator was immediately emptied of its contents, its interior washed thoroughly, and holy water from the Ganges (always stored in a small jar in the worshiping room) sprinkled over it for final purification. Naturally, my husband's comments about the meaninglessness of such practices did nothing to endear him to my mother. Later, I heard her lamenting to a visiting cousin about his refusal to learn the rituals of good health and purity.
No such reservations about nonbelievers, however, affected her response to some of my husband's friends who also had fled the ravages of the Pakistani soldiery. Both she and my father saw these young men as true refugees, since they were roughing it in the Bangladeshi Embassy. Expectations of conduct or conformity did not intrude between my mother and these visitors, whom she pampered with numerous Bengali delicacies. One of them often got his favorite dish—puishaak (a spinachlike leafy green) with tiny shrimp, ground mustard, and green chiles. Watching her undiluted delight in feeding him, I wished things could have stayed that way between her and my husband.
May is one of the hottest months in Bengal. The mercury climbs into the 90s and refuses to budge. The sun blazes from a mercilessly blue sky. And while the cracked earth, melting asphalt, and wizened leaves on the trees might create an illusion of desertlike aridity, the air is laden with a sullen moisture that drains one of all energy. May 1971 stands out in my memory as a relentless inferno.
The second month of the Bengali calendar, Jaishtha, runs from mid-May to mid-June. Every Tuesday in Jaishtha, married women observe a midday ritual—eating only uncooked rice flakes with yogurt and fruit, while men and unmarried women eat the normal foods. My mother insisted I join her in this practice. I agreed to, despite my husband's jibes about reverting to the Dark Ages. But one Tuesday, when he offered me a spoonful from his potatoes delectably mashed with mustard oil, fried onions, and fried chiles (a dish I loved), I could not resist. Convinced the gods would punish me for such transgression, my mother furiously gave vent to her frustrations, which were further exacerbated when, instead of showing contrition, my husband simply ignored her.
After this, I wondered what she planned for the most important ritual of Jaishtha—Jamaishashthi, when a Bengali mother-in-law prepares an elaborate midday feast for her son-in-law. The rationale (in a society where a woman's dependence on her husband was absolute) was that if he felt fussed over, he would treat his wife with care and affection. Would my mother choose not to do anything special for a son-in-law who showed so little consideration for all that was meaningful to her?
When the day arrived, I saw my fears had been groundless. My father was dispatched early to shop for a feast. When he returned, I rushed into the kitchen. The first thing I noticed was a huge head of rui (Bengal's favorite carp). This is an obligatory part of the son-in-law's feast. My mother would make a murighanto—a dry, spicy dish in which fried pieces of fish head are combined with diced potatoes and grains of atap (non-parboiled) rice. A paste of cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves blends with the fish brain to create a unique redolence.
Looking around, I realized that my mother had planned the menu specifically to please my husband. For starters, she would serve kalmi shaak (water spinach), stir-fried with chopped garlic, dried chiles, and the spice mixture called panch phoron. Eggplant fritters and a dal made with roasted mung beans would come next, followed by two vegetable items: stems of kachu (a kind of taro) cooked with ground mustard, fresh—ground coconut, and small shrimp; and a dish of banana blossom. Next came the carp head, followed by two Bengali specialties—prawn malaikari (made with clarified butter, coconut milk, and spices) and chitol in a fiery red-chile sauce.
This last item astonished me. We had never eaten chitol when I was growing up. It was a "difficult" fish—very bony in the back, very oily in the stomach—generally favored by the people of eastern Bengal. Later, my mother had learned from a friend from the area how to make fish balls with the bony flesh. But today she was ready to tackle the chitol because my husband loved it.
My offers of help were imperiously waved away. This was one meal she was going to prepare all by herself—a gift from mother-in-law to son-in-law. The heat of the June day mounted, carrying the rich, mingled aromas of cooking, but I felt oppressed at the thought of her being locked in the steamy kitchen. When a couple of my husband's friends showed up and suggested going out for coffee, I decided to stay home in case my mother did need help. She did not. By one-thirty, she was done—an amazing feat.
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