I grew up in nineties Bombay. A Bombay that would soon be called Mumbai. A Bombay about to feel the biggest impact of India opening up to globalisation. A Bombay at the peak of her ‘sapno ka shehar’ attitude, owning it with full Bambaiyya swag.
More importantly, for me it was a safe place. I grew up inside a few childhood rituals, under the protective care of my paternal grandma, Papama. Here I share some of those rituals. Somehow they got left behind in those growing-up years.
Ubtan Bath
Steam and Golden Gram Flour
“Uddak bhochi taaaplyaa, zauke maa” Papama warns the 4 yr old me about the hot bath water. I am waiting for my special “yellow” bath. I stand bare in the small bathroom, a bit bored. Papama is in the kitchen next door, finishing the ubtan mix of gram flour, turmeric and milk. I start tracing my name on the white bathroom tiles, which are covered in water droplets. This is a new skill, and I am excited to master it.
Copper Chambus and the Final Splash
‘Hanngaa yaw ma” Papama calls me over as she enters the bathroom. She gives the ubtan one last quick mix and starts applying it: face first, then arms, legs, torso and back. Thinking about it now, the scent of the ubtan and the steam in the bathroom made it feel like a sauna.
The 4 yr old me says ouch Papama as the rough ubtan scrubs my skin clean. “Vattantu khelnu kashi zallya pale’ Papama gently scolds me for playing in the hot sun far too long. “Vaggi kari nave`’ I beg her to rinse the ubtan off quickly. She dunks the copper chambu into the stainless steel bucket and checks the water is just right - not too hot, not too cold. Happy with it, she tells me to shut my eyes. Then she pours chambu after chambu of hot water over my head. I get soaped and washed all over. Now comes my favourite part. When the bucket is nearly empty, she sets the chambu aside, lifts the bucket and pours the rest over my head. That gush of water thrills me every time. Before I can properly open my eyes, Papama wraps me in a bhairaas and leads me out to get changed.
Plaits
Five Minutes and Frizzy Hair
8.05 am every school morning, Papama braids my curly, frizzy hair. She always has just five minutes. My school bus comes at 8.10am sharp, or 8.12am if I am lucky. The time pressure never seems to bother Papama. She is confident and quick. She oils my hair generously, and I always complain ‘my friends will call me chip-chip chokhri”. “Ignore kari tanka” Papama tells me to ignore them.
I wish it were that easy, I think to myself. Teenage girls can be rather nasty. But how do I explain that to Papama now?
Quiet Blessings in the Morning Rush
Her voice cuts into my thoughts. “Tel ghalka baa, barenchi te” she reasons with me: oiling is actually good for my hair. I sulk but agree. I need neat plaits and there is no time. I make a mental note to talk to her about it after school. I can see my brother ready to leave. I can’t help envying him. He doesn’t have to go through this hair braiding malarkey.
I see my school bus turning the corner. “Bus aayle papamaaaa”, I scream as she ties off my second plait with a bright red ribbon. “Vhaee gottasa”, she replies calmly. “Gadbadi kornakkkaaa”, she tells me not to panic. She quickly hands me my school bag and water bottle. Then, with blessings and love, she waves me goodbye.
Kelay Hashale
Sweet Bananas After School
Sliced banana in a bowl of cold milk, sprinkled with powdered sugar. That was the after-school snack I looked forward to the moment I got off the bus. Haath paay dhuyi anni vaggi yaw khavnchak. Papama’s voice greeted me every single day. She would be busy making it as I came in after a long day at school.
An Anchor Called Kaley Hashale
I was sweaty, tired and hungry, and kaley hashaley was the perfect pick-me-up. The cold milk, soft banana and sweet sugar perked me up almost at once. One day we ran out of bananas. The 5 year old me threw a massive tantrum. I wanted kaley hashale and nothing else. Even a slice of chocolate cake would not do. Papama was stuck. I was refusing to eat - a new problem, since my family says I have always been one of the least fussy eaters around. My non-stop crying woke Ajju from his afternoon nap. Without a word, he got dressed and went out. Papama wondered where he had gone, but my antics kept her too busy to think about it. She tried a joke, my favourite book, my favourite cartoon on television. Nothing worked.
Nothing she tried was calming me down. Soon after, Ajju came back with a handful of bananas and handed them to a very relieved Papama. She quickly made the hashale. One spoonful and I went quiet at once. Kaley hashale was my comfort food - a big part of my daily routine. It gave me a strange sense of belonging at home. Without it the afternoon felt different, and for the 5 year old me, change was hard. So I held onto kaley hashale like an anchor. Even today, when I feel unsettled and unsure, I know what I reach for almost without thinking - banana, milk and sugar.
