Sara Banerji - Shining Hero

The shooting stopped. The silence that followed was broken by screaming from the injured and the sobbing of women.

Koonty had joined a traditional Hindu joint family consisting of Pandu’s father, Kuru Dadoo, and his younger son known as DR Uncle. There was also DR’s wife, Gadhari, and their three sons.

Pandu told Koonty, ‘It is OK for you to laugh and run even when my father is there. He is very modern and won’t think you are being disrespectful.’ And when she still seemed sad, he told her, ‘Perhaps you don’t like to live in a joint family situation. Would you like us to go somewhere else? To a house of our own?’ The idea filled him with dismay, but he felt ready to do anything to make Koonty happy. She shook her head. It was not that. ‘What is it then? What is it? What is it?’ But he could not discover.

Kuru Dadoo was delighted that Koonty had joined his household and felt sure that he would be able to make her happy, even when her own husband could not. He had known her since she was little and continued to pinch her cheeks or pop sweetmeats into her mouth as though she was still a little girl. ‘What is the matter with my little Koonty?’ he would laugh. ‘Why is she looking so sad?’ He would pluck a flower from the hibiscus bush and hand it to her saying, ‘For your hair, my pretty little daughter.’ He had two sons and three grandsons. This was his first little girl and he was making the most of her. Gadhari watched with envy for Kuru Dadoo had never popped a dudh peda into her mouth. He had never given Gadhari flowers for her hair.

Koonty’s longing for the baby to be rescued from the river was tinged with fear because they would see the gold chain round its neck and discover her shameful secret. But days, then weeks, passed and this did not happen, and a few months later she became pregnant. To the relief of her family, her sadness lifted. ‘If this baby is a little girl,’ she thought, ‘I will know that the goddess has forgiven me. It will mean that Durga rescued my baby from the river and is giving her back to me in a miraculous way. I will not be the killer of my baby after all if this one is a little girl.’ She stopped waiting for the baby lost in the river to be brought back to her because the goddess had replaced it in her womb. She decided to call her daughter ‘Shobita’ because that means ‘Sun’, for this baby was really the child of the Sun God, and not Pandu’s at all.

When Koonty’s baby was born everyone laughed because it was a boy and there were three in the household already but then, as Kuru Dadoo pointed out, ‘You can never get too many boys.’ But Koonty’s dark mood returned. ‘Postnatal depression,’ Meena Gupta tried to console Pandu. ‘She will get over it, don’t worry,’ but Pandu was not convinced. In the end, to take his mind off his young wife’s gloom, Pandu, indulging in a lifelong dream, sold the Hatibari chandelier, took the money and travelled to South India, where he bought twelve pure-bred Jersey cows.

The villagers arrived in their hundreds to see the gold-haired, dark-eyed beauties being unloaded from the lorries. They laughed aloud at the sight of the wide, fair brows and hornless heads. They bent and giggled in wonder at the vastness of their bouncing udders.

‘Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,’ was all Pandu seemed able to say, overcome with awe at the gracious appearance and prospective vast milk yields. ‘We must all work hard to make sure these pretty creatures do not suffer in our heat.’

Ice, prepared in the fridge, was crushed, poured into hot-water bottles and tied on the heads of the twelve new Jerseys. They stood in a mournful row at the shady end of their byre, looking silly under their ice-water bottle hats, water trickling down their eyelashes, their tails whacking exhaustedly at the attacks of fierce flies that were quite new to them. The darjee was called and set to work on his pedal Singer, stitching hessian coats for the cows to stop the flies from pestering them and Pandu had them dressed up till they looked like European women in frocks and hats.

Kuru Dadoo was shocked by his son’s new enthusiasm. ‘A zamindar should be out there, shooting tigers and sticking pigs, not spending his day in the dairy like some gwala.’

‘They are so beautiful, Papa. Look how they have dark round their eyes as if they have been painted with kajal. And don’t you admire their golden colour?’

Kuru Dadoo snorted with scorn. ‘If you wish for a beautiful golden creature with painted eyes why not go to Free School Street and find yourself a Nepali prostitute like I used to do.’

‘I prefer the local girls. And these cows are like pets.’

‘If you wish to keep pretty creatures you should go for cheetahs. My father had a hunting pair of great beauty and danger. Clever also. He never had such hunting luck when he was only accompanied with dogs. Shall I contact the zoo and see if they can obtain some for you?’

Gadhari was furious when she found out about the chandelier. ‘It was family property and worth a fortune. Why did you let him do it? You should take legal action against him,’ she raged at her husband. But DR Uncle, whose greatest joy in life was poetry, only smiled at his wife’s outburst, and said, ‘I’m sure it will be better cared for in its new home.’

A new-rich Parsee, called ‘Sodawaterbottleopenerwallah’ after the gadget he had so successfully marketed, had bought the chandelier. It now hung, pristine and resplendent in a brand new concrete and marble house in Alipore. No longer did sparrows perch and shit on its hand-cut Venetian pendants. No longer did pendants fall like leaves to be gathered up by the sweeper in the morning. No longer did it dangle sideways like a drunk going home from the foreign liquor shop.

The village gwala turned up at the Hatibari to give Pandu advice on how to care for the new cows and use the milk. ‘You do not know how to make ghee, Sahib, so I will show you. First we make kheer, then we turn that into butter, then we turn that into purest ghee,’ he said and began a demonstration on the Hatibari stove that took such hours that the cook was unable to prepare the midday meal.

The gwala brought milk from his own herd of desi cows and Pandu was forced to watch while the gwala and his daughter boiled it, stirring it till it was thick as heavy cream, and clotted with skin round the sides.

‘Surely that’s enough,’ pleaded Pandu. But the old man was merciless. He had known Pandu as a little boy and was not the least in awe of him. ‘We go on till the milk is solid,’ he said. It happened at last and the crusty lump that had once been twenty litres of fresh milk was crushed on the spice grinding stone till it separated into butter.

‘But I have read of butter being made in Western countries and it is not done like this at all,’ said Pandu. ‘There they take cream and beat it till it separates from its buttermilk. It is a much quicker process than this.’

The gwala roared with scoffing laughter. ‘If we made butter by such careless techniques in this hot country our butter would be left with water in it and go bad in no time. Now we cook this butter, always stirring, slowly slowly, into purest golden ghee.’ This took another hour of stirring. ‘Now see how the solid has fallen to the bottom, Sahib, and on top the butter oil is gold and clear. We pour this off carefully and there we are.’

‘Now I show you how to make channa,’ he said, just when Pandu thought he was to be let off the hook. ‘After that you can get cook to make it into all Bengal sweets, rossogulla, Lady Kenny, Gulab jaman and so on and also channa. We heat up the milk then curdle with alum.’ Pandu remembered alum. His father had used it to stifle the bleeding of razor nicks.

The boiling milk swished into two parts almost at once, as the alum was poured in and the old man brandished a soft firm lump of snow-white curd. ‘Now we grind again then mix with a little soojee. Roll in little balls then boil in syrup flavoured with cardamom pods till the jamans rise to the surface …’