Today my heart is tinged with sorrow. The person who I had for many years celebrated Eid with passed on yesterday. I had looked forward eagerly to wish him today on Ramzan Eid but his phone was not responding. It was never like that before. He would call back as soon as he saw my missed call.
On the last Eid, when we were still in lockdown, I had called him. In the past, that was the ritual. I would call around 12 after he had finished his namaz and he would say, 'Aa jao'. We would then drop everything and sally forth to his place, confident of a delicious home-cooked meal.
For Eid-ul-Zuha Dwayne raved over the chicken curry. Queenie even attempted to ask his wife for the recipe, knowing that the ingredients would be very special. We used to take a gift over for the house, maybe a divan set or a centre piece. The festival brought us together.
'Insha Allah, agle Eid milenge' he had said last Eid, somewhat regretfully. Little did we know that that was the last time we would be speaking.
We would speak of the old days, not very long ago, when he had personally supervised the furnishings for our new home in Porvorim. He would take the trouble to come all the way from Vasco with his men and work in our empty flat before it was occupied. Soon the cupboards went up. The bed got underway. The curtain rods were fastened. He made the kitchen cabinets and the trays to Queenie's satisfaction.
Bashir was a perfectionist. I remember him saying he was going to provide some more embellishment for the cupboard - at no extra cost. He followed it up with a spare and elegant design for the masthead for the bed. He loved his work. He had to face many difficulties with shortage of staff and rising expense of materials. But he always persevered, and got the job done.
As I run my hand over the contours of the bed and the cupboard, I know his hand would have been there too, shaping it, moulding it, bringing out its potential.
Several times he would come to our place in Vasco, to receive the advances for his work. He would call first. Then when he came, he would wait patiently for us to emerge in the living room. Once, on Eid, he came over with Eid lunch for all of us. Dressed in spotless white he gaily sat pillion while his son chugged away on the scooter to deliver the other meals.
Usually dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt, Bashir was a simple and hard-working man. He would update us on the work in our new home, and the way to go forward. Even when large sums of money were exchanged we always trusted him. I often told him how grateful we were for giving us such a beautiful home to live in. I urged him to drop in anytime when he was in North Goa, have a meal, and proceed.
This Eid, as is our custom, we ordered mutton biryani from out. The Gosht Lucknowi biryani came in a clay pot tightly sealed in a flour paste. It was prefaced with Galouti kebabs with mint chutney. Matka Phirni made it complete. Queenie added slivers of almond to lace it.
However, since this was a combo offer, the quantity of the biryani became less for us.
I immediately suggested we order another biryani. Queenie threw in Rogan Josh and a naan.
It was when we were waiting for the second order to arrive that Bashir's daughter's chilling message reached us. 'We lost dad yesterday,' she had texted.
For the first time, we had, as advised, slow cooked the clay handi of the first biryani over mini-angeethis (lamps) placed in a mini clay oven. As the flames licked the handi, I felt the smoke rise.
I like to think the second biryani was Bashir's way of keeping his promise to us.
Comments
I specially liked the last para where you looked at the timing of the message as one wherein Bashir was still in your midst, serving you his home made biryani.
Written straight from the heart - a truly beautiful piece.