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Nonfiction

Delbahar and Ghee

By Prasanta Mridha
Translated from Bengali by Shabnam Nadiya

Translator’s Note: Discovering Prasanta Mridha’s essay series “Lost Livelihoods” was a delight. The first one I spotted was about black market Indian mill-woven cotton saris—a flourishing business during the early eighties. I was instantly transported to my childhood.

There were many products being smuggled from India, but saris are the contraband I have a direct memory about. Bangladeshi mill cottons, according to my grandmother, had not achieved the softness of Indian cottons. (She has revised her opinion since then.) I recall the crowd and crush of Hawkers Market or Gausia Market. I am eight or ten or twelve, trailing my grandmother, who is looking for not just bootleg Indian cottons, but saris made at a particular mill. They were the best, she told me as she recounted vivid details of the Kolkata store she had visited with her cousin during her pre-Partition stay.  

I remember the traveling vendors that Mridha describes as well, although they were less common in our more urban area. They were always women, and they always carried their wares in tightly bound square bundles. They came by households calling softly, Anyone home? Unlike other salespeople they didn’t shout—after all, they were selling contraband.

Mridha’s essay series was inspired by West Bengali writer Kinnar Ray’s pocket-sized book Vanished Livelihoods. He wanted to do a similar book in the Bangladeshi context, and over the course of a year, he published his essays in the literary supplements of various dailies. In his preface, he notes that many readers got in touch with him to tell him about professions he didn’t know about, or didn’t know had disappeared, or ones that still survived in different regions of the country.  

In the preface, he also mentions professions he didn’t include, either because he didn’t know of them, or didn’t know enough to write about them: some are familiar to me, some not. I knew of the earwax cleaners (they still exist, and it seems only men avail themselves of this service), as well as the “healers” who pulled out the “pain bugs” from teeth. A profession I didn’t know about: cows’ teeth cleaners. His essays made me think of professions I had grown up seeing, that seem to have disappeared, which I didn’t find in his book: the jaundice-curing “healers” who would place a “medicinal garland” on the sufferer’s head and pour water, “washing away the yellow.”

Some of these people showed up daily (like street food vendors), but for some, their entry into our lives depended on seasons or festivals. The dhunuri, for instance, the men who fluff up the cotton in duvets; they were harbingers of winter. They used a special stringed tool, almost like a musical instrument, and their call sign, as they walked neighborhoods, was to twang it. That distinct twang punctuated my fall days, predicting the future: winter break, badminton, palm-tree juice, crisp air, bhapa pitha, steamed rice cakes with jaggery.  

As I read Mridha’s essays, I was excited to find the known and unknown. And sometimes the known in disguise. The taffylike sweet that he describes with the poetic name of delbahar (the heart’s beauty), I grew up knowing as the more prosaic, but descriptive, tana: literally, “pulled.” Perhaps this is where the beauty of the quotidian rests: in that space between the poetic and the prosaic.


Delbahar

I don’t know what it’s called in other regions of Bangladesh, but in Khulna it’s delbahar. That’s how it’s known. The conjunction of two Persian words, “dil” or “del” and “bahar,” creates the word delbahar. Dil means heart, mind, soul. And bahar means beauty or splendor, or grandeur, or glitz. Another meaning of bahar is spring. Delbahar can mean the beauty of the heart. Or perhaps the splendor of the mind. Or, going a bit further, the spring of the heart.

Persian words in Bengali—no matter how grandiose they sound, the thing itself is not that complicated. It’s only in name that it possesses “the beauty of the heart.”

A bamboo pole, quite thick. The kind that is known as a tolla-bansh. The kind that can be used for a pillar in a house. This pole, about five to six feet in length, has a reddish gamccha, or cotton towel, wrapped around the top. In the summer, the towel needs to be moistened frequently. Beneath the towel is a firm dough made of flour and jaggery. If the towel isn’t moistened, the sweet dough will simply melt. This is why the top of the bamboo pole looks thicker. It doesn’t strain the imagination to think of the pole with the towel-wrapped tip as a giant matchstick. The genie from Aladdin’s wondrous lamp, or Kumbhakarna from the Ramayana, or Ghotatkoch from the Mahabharata are the only ones capable of striking it against a matchbox and lighting it up.

A man walks with that pole resting against his left or right shoulder. The pole slants backward against his shoulder. Every few minutes he calls out, Eiiii delbahar! This is back when none of the rickshaw-pullers or even any of the street-vendors wore trousers. So this man carrying the bamboo pole is wearing a lungi; a limp shirt bought from the second-hand wares of Nixon Market covers his torso. If his call attracted a customer and they came to stand beside him to buy some, he lowered the pole to the ground parking it parallel with his body.

A pouch made of sacking hung from his waist. Or perhaps the pouch was slung from the pole. He looked at the customer with questioning eyes. What do you want? Which one?

All the words I’m using to explain what this thing is—well, back then, the child customer didn’t need any of this to know what delbahar was. That glance from the vendor, or even just his standing still was enough for the child to blurt out what they desired. But the seller was also forever prepared to plug his wares. A motorcycle, 1 taka; a bell, a monkey, a watch, 50 paisa each; and a simple strand of delbahar twisted around a stick was 25 paisa. Those were the prices.

The pouch that hung from the pole contained slivers of bamboo, of different sizes and shapes. Once the customer informed him of what they wanted, he began to make it. This process was worth watching every single time. The pouch disgorged a handful of small sticks. Within moments he had formed two wheels using the sticks, then pulled the flour and sugar dough into thin strands, and wrapped it around the wheels. He connected the two wheels to each other with another stick. These were then fully wrapped with delbahar. He also constructed bamboo stick handlebars, and covered them with twists of delbahar. Thus, in the blink of an eye, a bamboo delbahar motorcycle was crafted. He handed it over to the customer. The customer, the child, could now begin to eat the delbahar from whichever part of the motorcycle they desired.

Instead of a motorcycle he could craft a bicycle in the same way, narrowed around the middle. But this time there was a smaller amount of dough in his hands. His hands could swiftly create a bell. A monkey too; the thin tail listing to one side. If none of these were what the customer asked for, then perhaps a watch, which required the smallest amount of delbahar. Yes, in your hands, it looks exactly like a watch. If you want, you can wear it on your left wrist, and snap or tug bits off with your right hand to stuff in your mouth. The man can easily shape a cricket bat. Or tiny rackets, whether for badminton or tennis. And aside from all these, there was always the simple twist of delbahar on a stick. As far as I can recall, that was the cheapest—25 paisa, which people still called char anna, or a quarter.

In the early eighties, the delbahar vendor could be spotted every single day in front of the school. He would come and go mostly around half past nine or ten in the morning. Once he was done with the school, he would move toward the city, toward the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. But he was rarely blessed with true aficionados over there. It was unlikely. The stadium during a game, or the school playing fields, or our neighborhood streets on the weekends: he moved forward, calling out, that bamboo pole slanting against his shoulder. But I cannot remember ever seeing him in the evening or even in the late afternoon. So perhaps no one ate delbahar in the evenings.

Delbahar had never piqued my curiosity enough for me to seek out where the thing was made. At that age, when I first bought delbahar from the vendor, there was no reason for me to harbor that kind of curiosity. Within a decade, however, during the early nineties, just as people my age began leaving our small town, gradually the delbahar vendors also began to disappear.

One evening around that time, we spotted a delbahar vendor. We weren’t buying from him; perhaps it was his break. Perhaps he was having a smoke as he stood near us. When we asked, he told us there were delbahar factories in the Nagerbajar area of the town. Each day, the vendors bought their desired amount of delbahar from there and twisted it around their poles. Two other kinds of delectable street foods were also prepared in those factories—ata-kodma (another dough-based sweet) and teeler khaja (a sweet snack covered in sesame seeds). The method of preparation was similar for all of them. Each required flour, sugar, and even a little milk in varying amounts. But, the vendor told us, whereas in the past they would use cow’s milk, these days it was merely powdered milk.

Someone asked from the side, “From tins?”

He had barely finished his question when someone else quipped from another side, “Yeah, right. If they did there’s no way they could sell delbahar at these prices. They must make do with the powdered milk that comes in sacks.”

The delbahar vendor had chuckled. Whatever they used, no one could say it was adulterated. So many children in town ate it, licked it, slurped it every single day and they never got upset stomachs.

Back then, the concerned clamor over the adulteration of consumer goods produced by national and multinational corporations didn’t exist. But the products hawked by the sellers and vendors in the local marketplaces didn’t contain adulterated ingredients. The manufacturers they bought their wares from were careful about that.

That day, his break over, as the delbahar vendor got up to move away from us, he asked, “Want a little delbahar?” and pulled off the fabric covering the tip of his bamboo pole. I spied the colors of our childhood. A mound of sweetened flour, white with a reddish tinge, piled on the bamboo top. Perhaps some of us thought he was trying to sell some to us. Someone said, “Aren’t we too old to eat this kind of thing?”

Another held up his cigarette. “These days this white candy is the one we consume.” He pulled long and hard before joking, “I guess this is our delbahar.”

The vendor replied, “You could just try a little, to see if it’s still the same delbahar as when you were schoolchildren. Just . . . for no . . . for no . . . ” He was too shy to say “for free” directly.

Someone said, “OK, give us some on a stick. We can all yank off a bite from there. Don’t you know, Bengalis will even eat tar if you give it to them for free?”

The man laughed. He watched us, young men, eat his delbahar. “Is it the same?”

“Yes, it is,” one of us said, adding, “but don’t give us anymore.”

The vendor smiled as he walked away calling, “Eiiii delbahar!” He was exceedingly happy at having brought back our childhoods for a moment.

But now, just because we want him, we cannot have him back. The shops around us stock so many kinds of scrumptious delicacies. How can the delbahar vendor let loose his call here? It has been twenty years since that chance meeting, and I cannot find a delbahar vendor even when I look. As if he took the beauty of the heart, or the splendor of the mind, or the spring of the heart, and just disappeared from the childhoods of today. 

 

Butter Simmered to Ghee

The man carries a medium-sized narrow-necked clay pot, locally known as a mait, in one hand. He skews a little to that side. Which is natural, because the mait is almost full. About half or perhaps a little less of the vessel is filled with water, and on that water floats butter. The mait‘s opening is covered with a plate with a raised edge; on the plate sits a set of scales and weights.

He shifts the mait from one hand to the other as he walks. This is essential. Essential because how long can someone carry a weight in one hand? A heavy, water-filled pot. The man has traveled from the north.

Back then, the people of Bagerhat and Khulna regions thought of greater Faridpur as the north. But they had no idea how far Faridpur was. Perhaps the man had come from the north, but he had most certainly not come from Faridpur. Perhaps he was from Madaripur or Gopalganj. If not, even the district of Mollarhat in the Bagerhat region was toward the north. Perhaps that was where he came from. But all of it was just “the north.” Hence, he was a northerner.

A northerner has arrived for a southern gig, in the hopes of making a living. All he has is this pot.

Today I can calculate the geographical distance and appreciate that he had traversed that distance by boat, to reach Fakirhat, a thana or sub-district of Bagerhat. Then, he took the train to get to the town of Bagerhat. Perhaps a fellow traveler had journeyed on to Khulna. Perhaps more than one had done so. It was enough that he was visiting this small town by himself, or perhaps with a compatriot. Khulna was, in comparison, a much larger town. Others had headed that way. These men made this trip every week. And they made it in the season when the cows in their area yielded an abundance of milk. Once the milk was churned into butter, off they went.

It is very early in the morning still when the whey vendor comes out in the streets, also carrying butter. His butter is covered with a banana leaf. He spoons out the measure of butter the customer wants from the mounds of butter floating in buttermilk. But the northerner isn’t selling butter or whey like the whey vendor. If he was, he wouldn’t have arrived when the morning was almost done; he would come at dawn, or early in the morning. His reason for showing up at this hour is entirely different. He is here to extract pats of butter from his full mait, weigh them on his scales, and simmer the butter into ghee. Ghee made right in front of the customer. The householder will have no doubts. This ghee is truly pure.

Still, can the man get the upper hand with the householder? When, calling out his chant, he arrives at a house, if the household has run out of ghee to even spoon on plates at mealtimes, he might be summoned. As soon as he stands in the doorway he is asked, “Where is this butter from?” The man offers up his address. The next question is the real one, and he knows he will be asked this. Is this butter made with milk from a cow or a water buffalo? If it’s cow’s milk, then it will turn into gawa ghee. If it’s water buffalo, or mohish, it will become moishal ghee. He knew he would face this question. This mistrust existed in the past, it’s still there, and has increased in scope. The man bites his tongue, indicating that this question is truly embarrassing for him. He has come all this way, after such exertion, braving the borders of the districts and the sub-district—do they really think it is to make them ghee with butter from water buffalo milk instead of cow’s milk?

What television does now sellers did back then. They never scrimped on their spiel about the captivating qualities of their wares. This was ingrained in a seller’s very nature. These vendors rhapsodized about their butter in the blink of an eye. They knew their patter inside and out. They could beguile the hearts and minds of the masters of the house with every word they uttered. Although those words were spoken in a regional accent, for the audience, the approach and delivery meant his pitch wasn’t dismissed out of hand.

On the other hand, why shouldn’t the customer hold his own? The simmered ghee made by another northerner hadn’t been that pure. Although their price is a little higher, the ghee available at that sweetmeat store in the town isn’t that bad. True, they don’t simmer and make the ghee right in front of you like this, but still, it’s a reputable store. Their wares aren’t bad at all. Now the man scatters odes to his ghee like buckshot. In fact, to prove just how pure his butter is, he suggests that the customer smear a little butter on some cotton wool and set it alight. If the butter contains anything other than milk, how will the wick hold the fire? He also slips in a description of exactly what the flame looks like if the milk is pure. And, anyway, as soon as you start to simmer it, you can tell it is proper gawa ghee just from the aroma. No one in their village keeps water buffalo. Nothing but cows graze in their fields, so there is really no point in telling him anything about water buffalo ghee.

He has finally succeeded in making himself somewhat credible. Both sides are ready. Now, the real deal. The man wants to know how much ghee he should prepare for them. He completes his measuring and places the weights on one end of his scale. He asks the householder to bring him a pot in which to simmer the ghee. The pot arrives. He places weights on the scale until it balances evenly against the pot. Now he places a slab of butter in the pot.

The most astonishing thing about these men was their ability to eyeball measurements. It was a fantastic skill. The butter that he sliced off with a large, smooth spatula, at one go or several, would be exactly the weight that had been requested.

The householder’s eyes are ever wary at that moment, to make sure there is no sleight of hand during the measuring. Perhaps there is some trick to the weights, or in his hands. Perhaps there is or perhaps there isn’t, but one must admit that his powers of estimation are amazing. At one try, he has extracted exactly the amount of butter needed. Now to simmer it.

If it was a two-person team that arrived to simmer butter into ghee, they usually carried a portable kerosene cooker or stove with them. They would find a slightly sheltered spot, or perhaps settle beside the cooking house of the household, or perhaps under a tree, and begin the simmering process in a cast-iron or aluminum pot. If it was just one man, how could he manage to carry a stove or cooker by himself? In that case, he would ask for a stove or a cooker. If a household possessed a portable burner, he would seek permission to use that. No matter what the equipment, his job was to transform the butter into ghee before he left.

This is what he is attempting now.

He has placed a single slab of butter, or perhaps a couple, in his pot. He melts the butter at a certain heat. The butter melts and turns liquid, and gradually the oily liquid begins to thicken. And to granulate. And if the butter had indeed been churned from cow’s milk, a heady aroma permeates the surroundings as it transforms into ghee. Some householders, with their seasoned eyes and noses, can tell while the process is still underway whether or not the man is about to deliver pure gawa ghee or not.

If the pot in which the ghee is simmering is kept above a certain level of heat, the insides begin to burn. Then the flame needs to be lowered, and the burnt sides scraped in. The man has experienced hands. He does it slow and right until the butter begins to foam. It’s his job to take care and make sure the heat remains at the right level for exactly as long as needed at each step.

But there were still moments where the householder was fooled, or as the local lingo would have it, took a hit or a dent. It did happen sometimes. The deception would begin at the very beginning. There was no way that butter was from cow’s milk; it had to have been water buffalo. Back then the sellers had yet to figure out how to sneak in Dalda (hydrogenated vegetable oil) or some other product that looked like butter in there; but trying to pass water buffalo milk as cow’s milk happened. And not every pair of hands could yield good ghee. Depending on the region, there was a widespread saying: Not all sheikhs sell oil, some use it on their beards. Some ghee makers rubbed the oil on their beards, meaning, they came close to messing up the ghee-making. No matter how long they simmered it, the color didn’t quite hold. Or the ghee burned. Or if it didn’t burn, it didn’t granulate properly.

Once the simmering was done, the maker would sieve the freshly made ghee into a clean vessel. Or he cooled it by fanning it and pouring it into a glass jar. Gawa ghee made by expert hands truly took on a glorious hue. It was pleasing to gaze at the ghee in the transparent glass jar, the color a mix of slight red and yellow. And the aroma of the freshly simmered ghee would be pouring out of the open mouth of the jar.

The man’s work is done. It’s time for him to leave. He unties the gamchha from his waist, wipes his face with it, and stands waiting. Perhaps he glances at his creation now and then. Once the give and take with him is complete, he will again take to the streets with his chant, “Have butter/want ghee?”

That chant can be heard no more. In the last two decades several big companies have developed and marketed what they claim is the purest ghee. They come in tins or jars and are of many different kinds. And yet, the color of that old-time ghee!—in all senses of the word, I seek what is now lost. 

 

From Lost Livelihoods. © Prasanta Mridha. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2017 by Shabnam Nadiya. All rights reserved.

English Bengali (Original)

Translator’s Note: Discovering Prasanta Mridha’s essay series “Lost Livelihoods” was a delight. The first one I spotted was about black market Indian mill-woven cotton saris—a flourishing business during the early eighties. I was instantly transported to my childhood.

There were many products being smuggled from India, but saris are the contraband I have a direct memory about. Bangladeshi mill cottons, according to my grandmother, had not achieved the softness of Indian cottons. (She has revised her opinion since then.) I recall the crowd and crush of Hawkers Market or Gausia Market. I am eight or ten or twelve, trailing my grandmother, who is looking for not just bootleg Indian cottons, but saris made at a particular mill. They were the best, she told me as she recounted vivid details of the Kolkata store she had visited with her cousin during her pre-Partition stay.  

I remember the traveling vendors that Mridha describes as well, although they were less common in our more urban area. They were always women, and they always carried their wares in tightly bound square bundles. They came by households calling softly, Anyone home? Unlike other salespeople they didn’t shout—after all, they were selling contraband.

Mridha’s essay series was inspired by West Bengali writer Kinnar Ray’s pocket-sized book Vanished Livelihoods. He wanted to do a similar book in the Bangladeshi context, and over the course of a year, he published his essays in the literary supplements of various dailies. In his preface, he notes that many readers got in touch with him to tell him about professions he didn’t know about, or didn’t know had disappeared, or ones that still survived in different regions of the country.  

In the preface, he also mentions professions he didn’t include, either because he didn’t know of them, or didn’t know enough to write about them: some are familiar to me, some not. I knew of the earwax cleaners (they still exist, and it seems only men avail themselves of this service), as well as the “healers” who pulled out the “pain bugs” from teeth. A profession I didn’t know about: cows’ teeth cleaners. His essays made me think of professions I had grown up seeing, that seem to have disappeared, which I didn’t find in his book: the jaundice-curing “healers” who would place a “medicinal garland” on the sufferer’s head and pour water, “washing away the yellow.”

Some of these people showed up daily (like street food vendors), but for some, their entry into our lives depended on seasons or festivals. The dhunuri, for instance, the men who fluff up the cotton in duvets; they were harbingers of winter. They used a special stringed tool, almost like a musical instrument, and their call sign, as they walked neighborhoods, was to twang it. That distinct twang punctuated my fall days, predicting the future: winter break, badminton, palm-tree juice, crisp air, bhapa pitha, steamed rice cakes with jaggery.  

As I read Mridha’s essays, I was excited to find the known and unknown. And sometimes the known in disguise. The taffylike sweet that he describes with the poetic name of delbahar (the heart’s beauty), I grew up knowing as the more prosaic, but descriptive, tana: literally, “pulled.” Perhaps this is where the beauty of the quotidian rests: in that space between the poetic and the prosaic.


Delbahar

I don’t know what it’s called in other regions of Bangladesh, but in Khulna it’s delbahar. That’s how it’s known. The conjunction of two Persian words, “dil” or “del” and “bahar,” creates the word delbahar. Dil means heart, mind, soul. And bahar means beauty or splendor, or grandeur, or glitz. Another meaning of bahar is spring. Delbahar can mean the beauty of the heart. Or perhaps the splendor of the mind. Or, going a bit further, the spring of the heart.

Persian words in Bengali—no matter how grandiose they sound, the thing itself is not that complicated. It’s only in name that it possesses “the beauty of the heart.”

A bamboo pole, quite thick. The kind that is known as a tolla-bansh. The kind that can be used for a pillar in a house. This pole, about five to six feet in length, has a reddish gamccha, or cotton towel, wrapped around the top. In the summer, the towel needs to be moistened frequently. Beneath the towel is a firm dough made of flour and jaggery. If the towel isn’t moistened, the sweet dough will simply melt. This is why the top of the bamboo pole looks thicker. It doesn’t strain the imagination to think of the pole with the towel-wrapped tip as a giant matchstick. The genie from Aladdin’s wondrous lamp, or Kumbhakarna from the Ramayana, or Ghotatkoch from the Mahabharata are the only ones capable of striking it against a matchbox and lighting it up.

A man walks with that pole resting against his left or right shoulder. The pole slants backward against his shoulder. Every few minutes he calls out, Eiiii delbahar! This is back when none of the rickshaw-pullers or even any of the street-vendors wore trousers. So this man carrying the bamboo pole is wearing a lungi; a limp shirt bought from the second-hand wares of Nixon Market covers his torso. If his call attracted a customer and they came to stand beside him to buy some, he lowered the pole to the ground parking it parallel with his body.

A pouch made of sacking hung from his waist. Or perhaps the pouch was slung from the pole. He looked at the customer with questioning eyes. What do you want? Which one?

All the words I’m using to explain what this thing is—well, back then, the child customer didn’t need any of this to know what delbahar was. That glance from the vendor, or even just his standing still was enough for the child to blurt out what they desired. But the seller was also forever prepared to plug his wares. A motorcycle, 1 taka; a bell, a monkey, a watch, 50 paisa each; and a simple strand of delbahar twisted around a stick was 25 paisa. Those were the prices.

The pouch that hung from the pole contained slivers of bamboo, of different sizes and shapes. Once the customer informed him of what they wanted, he began to make it. This process was worth watching every single time. The pouch disgorged a handful of small sticks. Within moments he had formed two wheels using the sticks, then pulled the flour and sugar dough into thin strands, and wrapped it around the wheels. He connected the two wheels to each other with another stick. These were then fully wrapped with delbahar. He also constructed bamboo stick handlebars, and covered them with twists of delbahar. Thus, in the blink of an eye, a bamboo delbahar motorcycle was crafted. He handed it over to the customer. The customer, the child, could now begin to eat the delbahar from whichever part of the motorcycle they desired.

Instead of a motorcycle he could craft a bicycle in the same way, narrowed around the middle. But this time there was a smaller amount of dough in his hands. His hands could swiftly create a bell. A monkey too; the thin tail listing to one side. If none of these were what the customer asked for, then perhaps a watch, which required the smallest amount of delbahar. Yes, in your hands, it looks exactly like a watch. If you want, you can wear it on your left wrist, and snap or tug bits off with your right hand to stuff in your mouth. The man can easily shape a cricket bat. Or tiny rackets, whether for badminton or tennis. And aside from all these, there was always the simple twist of delbahar on a stick. As far as I can recall, that was the cheapest—25 paisa, which people still called char anna, or a quarter.

In the early eighties, the delbahar vendor could be spotted every single day in front of the school. He would come and go mostly around half past nine or ten in the morning. Once he was done with the school, he would move toward the city, toward the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. But he was rarely blessed with true aficionados over there. It was unlikely. The stadium during a game, or the school playing fields, or our neighborhood streets on the weekends: he moved forward, calling out, that bamboo pole slanting against his shoulder. But I cannot remember ever seeing him in the evening or even in the late afternoon. So perhaps no one ate delbahar in the evenings.

Delbahar had never piqued my curiosity enough for me to seek out where the thing was made. At that age, when I first bought delbahar from the vendor, there was no reason for me to harbor that kind of curiosity. Within a decade, however, during the early nineties, just as people my age began leaving our small town, gradually the delbahar vendors also began to disappear.

One evening around that time, we spotted a delbahar vendor. We weren’t buying from him; perhaps it was his break. Perhaps he was having a smoke as he stood near us. When we asked, he told us there were delbahar factories in the Nagerbajar area of the town. Each day, the vendors bought their desired amount of delbahar from there and twisted it around their poles. Two other kinds of delectable street foods were also prepared in those factories—ata-kodma (another dough-based sweet) and teeler khaja (a sweet snack covered in sesame seeds). The method of preparation was similar for all of them. Each required flour, sugar, and even a little milk in varying amounts. But, the vendor told us, whereas in the past they would use cow’s milk, these days it was merely powdered milk.

Someone asked from the side, “From tins?”

He had barely finished his question when someone else quipped from another side, “Yeah, right. If they did there’s no way they could sell delbahar at these prices. They must make do with the powdered milk that comes in sacks.”

The delbahar vendor had chuckled. Whatever they used, no one could say it was adulterated. So many children in town ate it, licked it, slurped it every single day and they never got upset stomachs.

Back then, the concerned clamor over the adulteration of consumer goods produced by national and multinational corporations didn’t exist. But the products hawked by the sellers and vendors in the local marketplaces didn’t contain adulterated ingredients. The manufacturers they bought their wares from were careful about that.

That day, his break over, as the delbahar vendor got up to move away from us, he asked, “Want a little delbahar?” and pulled off the fabric covering the tip of his bamboo pole. I spied the colors of our childhood. A mound of sweetened flour, white with a reddish tinge, piled on the bamboo top. Perhaps some of us thought he was trying to sell some to us. Someone said, “Aren’t we too old to eat this kind of thing?”

Another held up his cigarette. “These days this white candy is the one we consume.” He pulled long and hard before joking, “I guess this is our delbahar.”

The vendor replied, “You could just try a little, to see if it’s still the same delbahar as when you were schoolchildren. Just . . . for no . . . for no . . . ” He was too shy to say “for free” directly.

Someone said, “OK, give us some on a stick. We can all yank off a bite from there. Don’t you know, Bengalis will even eat tar if you give it to them for free?”

The man laughed. He watched us, young men, eat his delbahar. “Is it the same?”

“Yes, it is,” one of us said, adding, “but don’t give us anymore.”

The vendor smiled as he walked away calling, “Eiiii delbahar!” He was exceedingly happy at having brought back our childhoods for a moment.

But now, just because we want him, we cannot have him back. The shops around us stock so many kinds of scrumptious delicacies. How can the delbahar vendor let loose his call here? It has been twenty years since that chance meeting, and I cannot find a delbahar vendor even when I look. As if he took the beauty of the heart, or the splendor of the mind, or the spring of the heart, and just disappeared from the childhoods of today. 

 

Butter Simmered to Ghee

The man carries a medium-sized narrow-necked clay pot, locally known as a mait, in one hand. He skews a little to that side. Which is natural, because the mait is almost full. About half or perhaps a little less of the vessel is filled with water, and on that water floats butter. The mait‘s opening is covered with a plate with a raised edge; on the plate sits a set of scales and weights.

He shifts the mait from one hand to the other as he walks. This is essential. Essential because how long can someone carry a weight in one hand? A heavy, water-filled pot. The man has traveled from the north.

Back then, the people of Bagerhat and Khulna regions thought of greater Faridpur as the north. But they had no idea how far Faridpur was. Perhaps the man had come from the north, but he had most certainly not come from Faridpur. Perhaps he was from Madaripur or Gopalganj. If not, even the district of Mollarhat in the Bagerhat region was toward the north. Perhaps that was where he came from. But all of it was just “the north.” Hence, he was a northerner.

A northerner has arrived for a southern gig, in the hopes of making a living. All he has is this pot.

Today I can calculate the geographical distance and appreciate that he had traversed that distance by boat, to reach Fakirhat, a thana or sub-district of Bagerhat. Then, he took the train to get to the town of Bagerhat. Perhaps a fellow traveler had journeyed on to Khulna. Perhaps more than one had done so. It was enough that he was visiting this small town by himself, or perhaps with a compatriot. Khulna was, in comparison, a much larger town. Others had headed that way. These men made this trip every week. And they made it in the season when the cows in their area yielded an abundance of milk. Once the milk was churned into butter, off they went.

It is very early in the morning still when the whey vendor comes out in the streets, also carrying butter. His butter is covered with a banana leaf. He spoons out the measure of butter the customer wants from the mounds of butter floating in buttermilk. But the northerner isn’t selling butter or whey like the whey vendor. If he was, he wouldn’t have arrived when the morning was almost done; he would come at dawn, or early in the morning. His reason for showing up at this hour is entirely different. He is here to extract pats of butter from his full mait, weigh them on his scales, and simmer the butter into ghee. Ghee made right in front of the customer. The householder will have no doubts. This ghee is truly pure.

Still, can the man get the upper hand with the householder? When, calling out his chant, he arrives at a house, if the household has run out of ghee to even spoon on plates at mealtimes, he might be summoned. As soon as he stands in the doorway he is asked, “Where is this butter from?” The man offers up his address. The next question is the real one, and he knows he will be asked this. Is this butter made with milk from a cow or a water buffalo? If it’s cow’s milk, then it will turn into gawa ghee. If it’s water buffalo, or mohish, it will become moishal ghee. He knew he would face this question. This mistrust existed in the past, it’s still there, and has increased in scope. The man bites his tongue, indicating that this question is truly embarrassing for him. He has come all this way, after such exertion, braving the borders of the districts and the sub-district—do they really think it is to make them ghee with butter from water buffalo milk instead of cow’s milk?

What television does now sellers did back then. They never scrimped on their spiel about the captivating qualities of their wares. This was ingrained in a seller’s very nature. These vendors rhapsodized about their butter in the blink of an eye. They knew their patter inside and out. They could beguile the hearts and minds of the masters of the house with every word they uttered. Although those words were spoken in a regional accent, for the audience, the approach and delivery meant his pitch wasn’t dismissed out of hand.

On the other hand, why shouldn’t the customer hold his own? The simmered ghee made by another northerner hadn’t been that pure. Although their price is a little higher, the ghee available at that sweetmeat store in the town isn’t that bad. True, they don’t simmer and make the ghee right in front of you like this, but still, it’s a reputable store. Their wares aren’t bad at all. Now the man scatters odes to his ghee like buckshot. In fact, to prove just how pure his butter is, he suggests that the customer smear a little butter on some cotton wool and set it alight. If the butter contains anything other than milk, how will the wick hold the fire? He also slips in a description of exactly what the flame looks like if the milk is pure. And, anyway, as soon as you start to simmer it, you can tell it is proper gawa ghee just from the aroma. No one in their village keeps water buffalo. Nothing but cows graze in their fields, so there is really no point in telling him anything about water buffalo ghee.

He has finally succeeded in making himself somewhat credible. Both sides are ready. Now, the real deal. The man wants to know how much ghee he should prepare for them. He completes his measuring and places the weights on one end of his scale. He asks the householder to bring him a pot in which to simmer the ghee. The pot arrives. He places weights on the scale until it balances evenly against the pot. Now he places a slab of butter in the pot.

The most astonishing thing about these men was their ability to eyeball measurements. It was a fantastic skill. The butter that he sliced off with a large, smooth spatula, at one go or several, would be exactly the weight that had been requested.

The householder’s eyes are ever wary at that moment, to make sure there is no sleight of hand during the measuring. Perhaps there is some trick to the weights, or in his hands. Perhaps there is or perhaps there isn’t, but one must admit that his powers of estimation are amazing. At one try, he has extracted exactly the amount of butter needed. Now to simmer it.

If it was a two-person team that arrived to simmer butter into ghee, they usually carried a portable kerosene cooker or stove with them. They would find a slightly sheltered spot, or perhaps settle beside the cooking house of the household, or perhaps under a tree, and begin the simmering process in a cast-iron or aluminum pot. If it was just one man, how could he manage to carry a stove or cooker by himself? In that case, he would ask for a stove or a cooker. If a household possessed a portable burner, he would seek permission to use that. No matter what the equipment, his job was to transform the butter into ghee before he left.

This is what he is attempting now.

He has placed a single slab of butter, or perhaps a couple, in his pot. He melts the butter at a certain heat. The butter melts and turns liquid, and gradually the oily liquid begins to thicken. And to granulate. And if the butter had indeed been churned from cow’s milk, a heady aroma permeates the surroundings as it transforms into ghee. Some householders, with their seasoned eyes and noses, can tell while the process is still underway whether or not the man is about to deliver pure gawa ghee or not.

If the pot in which the ghee is simmering is kept above a certain level of heat, the insides begin to burn. Then the flame needs to be lowered, and the burnt sides scraped in. The man has experienced hands. He does it slow and right until the butter begins to foam. It’s his job to take care and make sure the heat remains at the right level for exactly as long as needed at each step.

But there were still moments where the householder was fooled, or as the local lingo would have it, took a hit or a dent. It did happen sometimes. The deception would begin at the very beginning. There was no way that butter was from cow’s milk; it had to have been water buffalo. Back then the sellers had yet to figure out how to sneak in Dalda (hydrogenated vegetable oil) or some other product that looked like butter in there; but trying to pass water buffalo milk as cow’s milk happened. And not every pair of hands could yield good ghee. Depending on the region, there was a widespread saying: Not all sheikhs sell oil, some use it on their beards. Some ghee makers rubbed the oil on their beards, meaning, they came close to messing up the ghee-making. No matter how long they simmered it, the color didn’t quite hold. Or the ghee burned. Or if it didn’t burn, it didn’t granulate properly.

Once the simmering was done, the maker would sieve the freshly made ghee into a clean vessel. Or he cooled it by fanning it and pouring it into a glass jar. Gawa ghee made by expert hands truly took on a glorious hue. It was pleasing to gaze at the ghee in the transparent glass jar, the color a mix of slight red and yellow. And the aroma of the freshly simmered ghee would be pouring out of the open mouth of the jar.

The man’s work is done. It’s time for him to leave. He unties the gamchha from his waist, wipes his face with it, and stands waiting. Perhaps he glances at his creation now and then. Once the give and take with him is complete, he will again take to the streets with his chant, “Have butter/want ghee?”

That chant can be heard no more. In the last two decades several big companies have developed and marketed what they claim is the purest ghee. They come in tins or jars and are of many different kinds. And yet, the color of that old-time ghee!—in all senses of the word, I seek what is now lost. 

 

From Lost Livelihoods. © Prasanta Mridha. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2017 by Shabnam Nadiya. All rights reserved.

দেলবাহার মাখন জ্বালিয়ে ঘি

দেলবাহার

বাংলাদেশের অন্য অঞ্চলে কী বলে জানি না, খুলনা অঞ্চলে একে দেলবাহার বলে, এই নামেই পরিচিত। দুটো ফারসি শব্দ ‘দিল’ বা ‘দেল’ আর ‘বাহার’ যুক্ত হয়ে তৈরি হয়েছে। বাংলায় অর্থ করলে দাঁড়ায় দিল/ দেলÑ হৃদয়, মন, আত্মা। আর বাহারÑ শোভা, সৌন্দর্য, জৌলুস ও চটক। বাহারের আর একটি অর্থ আছে বসন্ত। দেলবাহার অর্থ : মনের শোভা। অথবা হৃদয়ের সৌন্দর্য। অথবা একটু দূরের অর্থ হৃদবসন্ত/ হৃদ্বসন্ত।

তা, ফারসি শব্দের বাংলা অর্থ, শুনতে তা কেতায় যত মনোহারী হোক, জিনিসটি কিন্তু অত জটিল কিছু নয়। সেদিক থেকে বলতে গেলে শুধু নামেই দেলবাহার। একখানি বাঁশ, বেশ মোটা, যাকে বলে তল্লাবাঁশ। ঘরের খুঁটি হয়, এমন একটি পাঁচ-ছয়ফুট বাঁশের আগায় লালচে রঙের গামছা পেঁচানো। গামছাটা কিছুক্ষণ পরপর ভেজাতে হয় গরমকালে। ওই গামছার নীচে ময়দা আর গুড় মিশিয়ে বানানো একটু শক্ত মণ্ড। কিছুক্ষণ বাদে না ভেজালে ও মিষ্টি মণ্ড গলে যাবে। বাঁশটার মাথার দিকটি তাই মোটা হয়ে আছে। কোনও ধরনের কষ্ট কল্পনা ছাড়াই ভেবে নেয়া যায়, আগায় গামছা পেঁচানো একটি খুব বড়ো দেশলাইয়ের কাঠি। একমাত্র আলাউদ্দিনের আশ্চর্য চেরাগের দৈত্য কিংবা রামায়ণের কুম্ভকর্ণ কিংবা মহাভারতের ঘটোৎকচই তা অনায়াসে ম্যাচ বাক্সর গায়ে ঘষা দিয়ে জ্বালাতে পারবে।

ওইটি ঘাড়ে করে নিয়ে হাঁটছেন একজন মানুষ। ডান কি বাম ঘাড়ে। পিছনের দিকে একটু হেলানো ওই বংশদণ্ড। একটু পরপর হাঁক দিচ্ছেন, এই দেলবাহার! যে সময়ের কথা, তখন প্যান্ট পরা রিকশাঅলা দেখা যেত না, ফেরিঅলাও নয়। তাই ওই বংশদণ্ড বহনকারী মানষটি লুঙ্গি পরা; নিক্সন-মার্কেট থেকে কেনা কোনও ন্যাতানো জামা গায়ে, তার ওই হাঁকে পাশে কেউ দাঁড়ালে, কি কিনতে চাইলে বাঁশটা নিজের শরীর সমান্তরালে লম্বালম্বি দাঁড় করাতেন।

লোকটির কোমরের কাছে ঝোলানো একটি চটের থলি। অথবা বাঁশটির মাঝখানে বাঁধা সে থলিটি। ক্রেতার দিকে উৎসুক চোখে তাকালেন, অর্থাৎ কী চাই? কোনটি চাই?

এখন যতটুকু কালি আর কাগজ খরচ করে বোঝানো লাগছে জিনিসটি কী, কেমন, সেদিনের প্রায় শিশু কি বালক ক্রেতাকে তা জানানোর প্রয়োজন পড়ত না। ওই চাহনিতেই অথবা তার থেমে দাঁড়ানোতেই ক্রেতা বলতে পারত কী চাই তার। কিন্তু বিক্রেতাও তো সদা প্রস্তুত জানাতে। মোটরসাইকেল ১ টাকা; ঘণ্টা, বানর, হাতঘড়ি এগুলো ৫০ পয়সা, আর শুধু কাঠিতে পেঁচানো একটুখানি দেলবাহার ২৫ পয়সা। এমনই হিসেব।

ওই মোটা বংশদণ্ডের মাঝখানে বাঁধা থলিটিতে আছে ছোটো ছোটো বাঁশের কাঠি। বিভিন্ন আকৃতির। ক্রেতা তার প্রত্যাশামাফিক জিনিসটি চাইলেই তিনি বানাতে শুরু করবেন। সেই দৃশ্যটি প্রতিবারই চেয়ে চেয়ে দেখার। ওই থলি থেকে বেরুল ছোটো ছোটো বাঁশের কাঠি। তাতেই মুহূর্তে তৈরি হয়ে গেল চাকা, সে চাকায় টেনে টেনে সরু করা ওই ময়দা ও চিনির মণ্ড পেঁচালেন। তারপর দুটো চাকা আর একটি বাঁশের কাঠি দিয়ে জুড়ে দেয়া হল। সেখানেও পেঁচানো হল দেলবাহার। তৈরি হল বাঁশের হ্যান্ডেল, সেখানেও দেলবাহারের প্যাঁচ। এভাবে প্রায় চোখের নিমিষে একটি প্রকৃত মোটরসাইকেল দেলবাহার প্রস্তুত। তুলে দিলেন ক্রেতার হাতে। ক্রেতা, সেই শিশুটি কিংবা বালক বা বালিকাটি এখন ওই মোটরসাইকেলের যে জায়গাটি থেকে মন চায় খেতে শুরু করবে।

একইভাবে তৈরি হবে মোটরসাইকেলের জায়গায় বাইসাইকেল। পেটের দিকটায় সরু। দেলবাহারের ওই ময়দা ও চিনির মিশ্রণের ঢেলা কম। একটা ঘণ্টাও তৈরি হতে পারে তার হাতে, খুব দ্রুত। বানরও, তার সরু লেজটিও বেঁকে থাকবে একদিকে। আর এর যদি কিছুই না-চাই, যাতে দেলবাহারের পরিমাণ খুবই কম প্রয়োজন হবে, সে ক্ষেত্রে তৈরি হবে হাতঘড়ি, হ্যাঁ, হাতে নিলে একেবারে দেখতে হাতঘড়িই। চাইলে বাম হাতে পেঁচিয়ে একটু একটু ডান হাতে ভেঙে বা ছিঁড়ে নিয়ে মুখে তোলা যাবে। ক্রিকেট ব্যাট লোকটি বানাতে পারেন অবলীলায়। ব্যাডমিন্টন কী টেনিস খেলার ছোট্ট একখানি র‌্যাকেটও। আর এসবের বাইরে তো থাকছে অল্প একটু দেলবাহার পেঁচানো একখানি কাঠি। যতদূর মনে পড়ে, দামের দিক দিয়ে সেইটিই সবচেয়ে কম, ২৫ পয়সা, এখনও যাকে সাধারণ্যে বলা হয় চার আনা।

আশির দশকের শুরুতে ইস্কুলের সামনে প্রতিদিনই দেলবাহারঅলাকে দেখা যেত। সেই সকাল সাড়ে ৯টা-১০টার দিকেই তার মূলত আনাগোনা। ইস্কুলের পর্ব শেষ হলে শহরের দিকে, বাজারের ভিড়ভাট্টায়। কিন্তু সেখানে তো আর প্রকৃত ক্রেতা প্রায় জুটতই না। জোটার কথাও না। খেলার সময় স্টেডিয়াম কিংবা ইস্কুলের মাঠগুলোর সামনে আর ছুটির দিনগুলোতে পাড়ার রাস্তা দিয়ে। ওই বাঁশটি ঘাড়ে নিয়ে হাঁক দিতে দিতে এগিয়ে চলেছেন। কিন্তু সন্ধ্যার পরে অথবা একেবারে বিকালের মুখে কখনও দেলবাহারঅলাকে দেখেছি বলে মনে পড়ে না। তাহলে, সন্ধ্যায় কেউ দেলবাহার খেত না।

কখনও তো দেলবাহার নিয়ে সেই কৌতূহল তৈরি হয়নি যে, গিয়ে দেখি কোথায় তৈরি হয় এই বস্তু। যে বয়সে প্রথম তার কাছ থেকে কিনেছি তখন তা মনে হওয়ারও কারণ নেই। আর প্রায় এক দশকের ভিতরে। নব্বইয়ের দশকের শুরুতে আমাদের বয়েসিরা যেমন শহর ছেড়ে আসতে লাগল, দিনে দিনে দেলবাহারঅলাকেও তেমন দেখা যেত না। কিন্তু ওই সময়ে একদিন একজনকে তার কাছ থেকে দেলবাহার না কিনলেও তার বিশ্রামের সময়টুকুতে, অথবা আমাদের কাছাকাছি দাঁড়িয়ে বিড়ি-সিগারেট টানছেন, তখন জানতে চাইলে জানিয়েছিলেন, এর জন্যে আলাদা কারখানা আছে শহরের নাগেরবাজার এলাকায়, সেখান থেকেই তাঁরা প্রত্যেকে পরিমাণ মতো দেলবাহার কিনে এই বাঁশের আগায় পেঁচিয়ে নেন। সেখানেই তৈরি হয় আরও দুই পদের ফেরিঅলার মুখরোচক খাবার আটাকদমা ও তিলেখাজা অর্থাৎ তিলের খাজা। এগুলোর প্রত্যেকটির তৈরি-প্রক্রিয়া প্রায় একই। প্রত্যেকটিতে দরকার হয় পরিমাণমতো ময়দা, চিনি, একটু নাকি দুধও দেয়া হয় সেখানে। তবে লোকটি জানিয়েছিলেন, আগে যেখানে গরুর দুধ দেয়া হত, এখন পাউডার দুধ। কেউ একজন পাশ থেকে বলল, টিনের? বলে শেষও করতে পারেনি, অন্যজন যোগ করে, তা’লি আর এই দামে দেলবাহার বেচা লাগদ না। বস্তায় যে গুঁড়া দুধ পাওয়া যায়, তাই দে।

সেই দেলবাহারঅলা শুনে হেসেছিলেন। তবে যাই দিক, তাকে কোনওক্রমে ভেজাল বলা যাবে না। শহরের এতগুলো শিশু ও বালক-বালিকা প্রতিদিন এই জিনিস চাটে, চেটে চাখে, তাদের কোনও পেটের অসুখ তো হয় না।

তখনও পর্যন্ত, যেখানে এখন প্রায় প্রতিটি বহুজাতিক ও দেশীয় কোম্পানির ভোক্তাসামগ্রীর ভালোমন্দ ভেজাল নিয়ে সর্বত্রই এত তৎপরতা, তা ছিল না; কিন্তু বাজারের হকার ফেরিঅলা যে মানের জিনিসই বিক্রি করুক, সেখানে ভেজাল দিত না। তাদের কারখানা বা যেখান থেকে প্রতিটি মাল কিনতেন তাদের সেখানেও সেই সচেতনতা ছিল।

সেদিন, আমাদের কাছ থেকে ওই দেলবাহারঅলা তাঁর বিশ্রামটুকু নেয়া হয়ে গেলে সরে যেতে যেতে বললেন, খাবেন নাকি একটু দেলবাহার বলে বাঁশের আগায় গামছাখানা সরিয়েছেন। দেখি, সেই শৈশব বা বাল্যের রঙ। সাদার সঙ্গে ঈষৎ লালচে মণ্ড বাঁশের আগায় এক তাল মিষ্টি ময়দার স্তূপ। আমাদের কেউ হয়তো ভেবেছিল বেচতে চাইছেন লোকটি। একজন বলে, ‘এখন আমাগো এইয়ে খাওয়ার বয়েস আছে নিকি?’ অন্যজন হাতের সিগারেট তুলে দেখায়, ‘এহোন খাই এই সাদা চকলেট’ বলেই একটা টান দিয়ে ধোঁয়া ছেড়ে চরম রসিকজন হয়ে বলল, ‘এয়েই আমাগো দেলবাহার।’

লোকটি জানালেন, ‘এমনি এট্টু খাইয়ে দেখতেন সেই ইস্কুলে পড়ার দিনের মতন এই দেলবাহার আছে কি না? এমনি এমনিÑ’ লোকটির সংকোচ হচ্ছিল মাগনা কথাটা বলতে।

একজন বলল, ‘দেন এক কাঠিতে। সবাই সেইহেনদে এট্টু এট্টু ছিঁড়ে নেবানে। বোঝলেন না, বাঙালি মাগনা পা’লি আলকাতরাও খায়।’

লোকটি হেসেছিলেন। আমাদের তরুণমুখে দেলবাহার খাওয়া দেখছেন, ‘আছে সেইরম?’

‘আছে।’ একজন একথা জানালেও, সঙ্গে বলে, ‘আর দিয়েন না।’

লোকটি একটু হাসতে হাসতে ‘এই দেলবাহার’ হাঁক ছেড়ে চলে গেলেন। আমাদের এই মুহূর্তের বাল্য ফিরিয়ে আনতে পেরে যারপরনাই খুশি তিনি।

কিন্তু, এখন তো চাইলেই আর তাকে পাওয়া যাবে না। চারদিকে প্রতিটি দোকানে কত পদের বাহারি মুখরোচক খাবার। এর ভিতরে দেলবাহারঅলা আর কীভাবে হাঁক দেয়।

সেই ঘটনারও এই প্রায় বছর কুড়ি বাদে এখন খুঁজলেও কোথাও একজন দেলবাহারঅলাকে পাওয়া যাবে না। যেন, সেই সঙ্গে মনের সেই শোভা কি হৃদয়ের সৌন্দর্য অথবা হৃদবসন্তটুকু তিনি নিয়ে চলে গেছেন এখনকার শৈশব আর বাল্য থেকে!

 

মাখন জ্বালিয়ে ঘি

লোকটির এক হাতে মাঝারি আকৃতির একটি ছোটো মটকা বা মাইট্। সেইদিকে একটু কাত হয়ে হাঁটছেন। তাই স্বাভাবিক এজন্যে যে, ওই ছোটো মাইট্টা প্রায় পুরোটাই ভর্তি। অর্ধেক ভরতি জলে বা তারও কম জলপূর্ণ সেই মাইটের জলে ভাসছে মাখন। ওপরে কলাইয়ের কানা উঁচু একটি ছোটো থালা, তার ওপর দাঁড়িপাল্লা বাটখারা।

হাঁটতে হাঁটতে লোকটি হাত বদল করেন। এ কাজটি অতি প্রয়োজনীয়। অতীব জরুরি এজন্যে যে, একহাতে কতক্ষণ আর ভার টানা যায়? ভারি এ জলপূর্ণ পাত্র। লোকটি এসেছেন উত্তর থেকে। উত্তর বলতে তখন বাগেরহাট ও খুলনা অঞ্চলের মানুষজন বৃহত্তম ফরিদপুরকেই বোঝে। কিন্তু ফরিদপুর কতদূরে সে ধারণা নেই। কিন্তু লোকটি হয়তো সেদিক থেকে এসেছেন, কিন্তু তা কোনওভাবেই ফরিদপুর নয়। হতে পারে মাদারিপুর কিংবা গোপালগঞ্জ। তাও যদি না হয়, বাগেরহাটেরই থানা মোল্লারহাটও তো উত্তর। লোকটি হয়তো সেদিক থেকেই এসেছে। কিন্তু সবই তো উত্তর। তাই উত্তরের মানুষ। উত্তরের এ মানুষ এসেছেন দক্ষিণের খেপে, রুটিরুজির ধান্দায়। হাতে তার সম্বল এ পাত্রখানি।

এখন ভূগোলের হিসেব মিলিয়ে বুঝতে পারি, ওই দূরত্ব তিনি নৌপথে পাড়ি দিয়ে এসেছেন ফকিরহাটে, বাগেরহাটেরই থানা : তারপর রেলগাড়িতে চেপে এসেছেন বাগেরহাট শহর। হয়তো তাঁর কোনও সহযাত্রী চলে গেছেন খুলনাতে, হয়তো তাঁরা একাধিক। ছোটো এ শহরে তাঁর একা আসাই সই অথবা দুজন। খুলনা তুলনায় অনেক বড়ো শহর, সেখানে গেছেন অন্য কয়েকজন। এ কাজ তাঁরা সপ্তাহে সপ্তাহে করে থাকেন। আর সেই সময়ে করেন, যখন তাঁদের এলাকায় গরুতে প্রচুর দুধ হয়, সেই দুধ থেকে মাখন তুলে তারপর বের হন।

খুব সকাল তখনও, শহরের রাস্তায় ঘোষ মশাই বা ঘোলঅলা বের হন, তিনিও মাখন রাখেন সেই মাখনের ওপর থাকে কলাপাতা। যার যে পরিমাণে চাই, ঘোলের ওপর ভাসমান মাখন থেকে চামচে কেটে কেটে দেন। কিন্তু এ লোকটি তাঁর মতো ঘোল বা মাখন বিক্রেতা নন। আর সে কাজটি করতে হলে এ বেলা উতরে যাওয়ার সময়ে তার আগমন হত না, তিনি আসতেন ভোরে বা সকালে। এখন তাঁর আসার কারণ একেবারেই অন্য। তিনি তাঁর ছোটো মাইটভর্তিমাখন থেকে পাল্লায় মেপে পরিমাণমতো মাখন জ্বালিয়ে ঘি বানিয়ে দেবেন। একেবারে সামনে বানানো ঘি। গৃহস্থের এ নিয়ে কোনও প্রকার আপত্তি থাকবে না। ঘি প্রকৃত অর্থেই একেবারে খাঁটি।

কিন্তু তাও কি চাইলে এ লোক গৃহস্থের সঙ্গে পারেন? হাঁক দিতে দিতে কোনও একটি বাড়ির সামনে এলে, সে বাড়িতে দুপুরবেলা পাতে খাওয়ার ঘি ফুরিয়েছে, সেখান থেকে তাঁর ডাক পড়তে পারে। গৃহস্থের বাড়ির সামনে দাঁড়াতেই তাঁর কাছে জানতে চাওয়া হল, এ মাখন কোথাকার? লোকটি তাঁর সাকিন বাতলালেন। এরপরের প্রশ্নটিই আসল, এটিই যে তার কাছে জানতে চাওয়া হবে, সেটি যেন তার জানাই ছিল। সেটি হল, এ মাখন গরুর দুধের, না মহিষের দুধের। গরুর হলে হবে গাওয়া ঘি, মোষের হলে মইষাল। এ প্রশ্নটি যে তাঁকে করা হবে, তা তাঁর জানা ছিল। তখনও অবিশ্বাস ছিল, আজও তা আছে, বেড়েছেও মাত্রায়। কিন্তু লোকটি শোনামাত্র তার জিভে কামড় দিলেন। অর্থাৎ, এ প্রশ্ন তাঁকে করা সত্যি বিব্রত করা। এতখানি পথ পাড়ি দিয়ে, এত কষ্ট করে, জেলা ও মহকুমার আল্ ডিঙিয়ে এই যে এসেছেন তিনি, তা কি তাঁদের গুরুর দুধের বদলে মোষের দুধের মাখনের ঘি বানিয়ে খাওয়ানোর জন্যে?

একটা জিনিস তখন ছিল, এখন পণ্যের ক্ষেত্রে সে কাজটি টেলিভিশনই সেরে দেয়। যে কোনও পণ্য নিয়েই প্রচুর মন ভোলানো কথা বলতে তাঁরা কোনওভাবেই পিছপা হন না। বিক্রেতার ধর্মই তাই। এ লোকেরা তাদের মাখনের গুণকীর্তন করতেন প্রায় এক নিমিষে। সোজা কথায়, বেশ কথা জানতেন তাঁরা। বাড়ির সাহেব কি বাবুদের প্রতিটি কথায় মন ভুলিয়ে দিতে পারতেন। সে কথায় খানিক আঞ্চলিকতার টান থাকলেও, শ্রোতার জন্যে পরিবেশনের কায়দাটি একেবারে ফেলে দেয়ার মতো ছিল না।

ওদিকে ক্রেতাও সহজে ছেড়ে দেবেন কেন? এর আগে কবে উত্তর থেকে এমন আসা এক আগন্তুকের জ্বালানো ঘি খাঁটি ছিল না। এর চেয়ে দাম একটু বেশি নিলেও শহরের অমুক মিষ্টান্ন ভাণ্ডারের ঘি একেবারে ফেলে দেয়ার নয়। সেখানে এ লোকের মতো সামনে জ্বালিয়ে ঘি বিক্রি করে না ঠিকই, কিন্তু সে দোকানের সুনাম আছে। তাদের জিনিস তো খারাপ নয়। এবার লোকটি হয়তো নিজের পণ্য নিয়ে কিছু কথার র্ছরা ছোটাবেন। এমনকি এ মাখন কেমন খাঁটি তা বোঝানোর জন্যে বলবেন তুলোর আগায় একটুখানি মাখন মেখে তারপর জ্বালিয়ে পরীক্ষা করে নিতে। এতে যদি দুধ ছাড়া অন্য কিছু থাকে তাহলে ওই সলতে কীভাবে জ্বলবে। আর খাঁটি দুধ হলে কীভাবে জ্বলবে, তাও জানান দিয়ে দেন এক ফাঁকে। আর গাওয়া ঘিয়ের গন্ধ তো জ্বাল দিলেই টের পাওয়া যাবে। তাঁদের গ্রামেই কারও মোষ নেই। গরুর ছাড়া অন্য কোনও প্রাণী চরে না তাঁদের মাঠে, ফলে তাঁকে মোষের ঘিয়ের কথা বলে কোনও লাভ নেই।

এবার তাহলে নিজেকে এক প্রকার বিশ্বাসযোগ্য করে তুলতে পেরেছেন তিনি। তাহলে এখন উভয়পক্ষই প্রস্তুত। এবার আসল বিষয়। লোকটি জানতে চাইলেন, কতটুকু ঘি তিনি তাঁদের দেবেন। তখন এ পরিমাপের হিসেব সেরে লোকটি তার পালায় বাটখারা তুললেন, গৃহস্থকে বললেন, যে পাত্রে ঘি জ্বাল দেবেন তেমন একটি পাত্র দিতে। সে-পাত্র এল। পাত্রের সমপরিমাণে বাটখারা দিয়ে পাল্লা দুদিকে সমান করার পরে। এবার লোকটি ওই পাত্রে তুললেন মাখনের এক চাঙড়।

এসব মানুষের সবচেয়ে অবাক করা বিষয় ছিল, তাঁদের হাতের আন্দাজ। দারুণ সেই গুণ। একটা বড়ো আর সমতল হাতায় প্রথমবার অথবা কয়েকবারে যে পরিমাণে মাখন আন্দাজে কেটে তুলে মাপ দিলেন, দেখা গেল তাতেই চাহিদামতো ওজন হয়েছে।

সেখানে, ওই ওজন মাপামাপিতে তাঁর হাত কোনও খেল্ দেখিয়েছে কি না, গৃহস্থের চোখ সেখানে সদাসতর্ক। কিন্তু হয়তো বাটখারা অথবা হাতে কোথাও কোনও কারসাজি থাকলেও থাকতে পারত, হয়তো থাকতও অথবা থাকত না, কিন্তু ওই আন্দাজটা যে ছিল বিস্ময়কর সেটি মানতেই হবে। একেবারে প্রয়োজনীয় পরিমাণমতো মাখন তিনি তুলেছেন। এবার জ্বাল দেয়ার পালা।

এ মাখন জ্বাল দিয়ে ঘি বানানো মানুষের যদি সংখ্যা দুজন থাকেন, তাহলে তাদের সঙ্গে একটি কেরোসিনের কুকার অথবা স্টোভ থাকত। একটু আবডাল মতো জায়গায় অথবা কোনও বাড়ির রান্নাঘরের কোলে অথবা কোনও গাছতলায় তাঁরা অ্যালুমিনিয়াম অথবা লোহার পাত্রে মাখন জ্বাল দিতে শুরু করতেন। আর যদি একজন মানুষ মাখন নিয়ে আসেন, তাহলে তো তাঁর হাতে একটি স্টোভ বা কুকার ঝুলিয়ে রাখার সুযোগ কোথায়? সেক্ষেত্রে তিনি চুলো বা কুকার চাইতেন। যদি কোনও বাড়িতে হিটারের ব্যবহার থাকত, বলতেন সেখানে তাঁকে মাখন জ্বাল দেয়ার সুযোগ করে দিতে। তবে এক্ষেত্রে যে প্রকার সুযোগই থাক, তাকে মাখন জ্বাল দিয়ে ঘি তুলে দিয়ে যেতে হবে। এখন সেই কাজটি করবেন তিনি।

বড়ো একখণ্ড মাখন তাঁর পাত্রে একটু আগে তিনি তুলে নিয়েছেন, অথবা দুই খণ্ড অথবা তারও বেশি। এবার এক নির্দিষ্ট পরিমাণ আঁচে তিনি ওই মাখন গলাবেন। গলতে গলতে তা একসময় তরল হবে, ধীরে ধীরে সেই তেলতেলে তরল ঘন হবে। এমনকি একটু দানাদারও। আর গরুর দুধের মাখন হলে, ঘি হতে হতে চারধারে ম্ম্ করা এক গন্ধ বেরোবে। কোনও কোনও গৃহস্থের অভ্যস্ত চোখ আর নাক এ প্রক্রিয়া চলতে চলতে বুঝে যাবে, লোকটি আসলেই খাঁটি গাওয়া ঘি তাদের দিচ্ছে কি না।

যে পাত্রে ঘি জ্বাল দেয়া হবে, একটি নির্দিষ্ট তাপমাত্রার বাইরে গেলে পাত্রটির ভিতরের চারপাশে পুড়ে আসবে। তখন প্রয়োজন হবে আঁচটা একটু কমিয়ে আর শক্ত হাতায় বা চামচে ওই পুড়ে পুড়ে ওঠা পাশটা বারবার কুড়িয়ে দেয়ার বা চেঁচে দেয়ার। লোকটির অভ্যস্ত হাত। তিনি ধীরে ধীরে কাজটি করবেন কখন ঠিকঠাক বুজকুড়ি উঠবে। সেই তাপ কতক্ষণ রাখতে হবে, প্রতিটি ধাপ অতি যতেœ সম্পন্ন করা তার কাজ।

তবে, সেখানেও যে ঠকাঠকি, কিংবা ওই অঞ্চলের ভাষায় গৃহস্থকে বাড়ি দেয়ার বা টাক দেয়ার বিষয় থাকত না, তা নয়। কখনও কখনও সত্যি এমন ঘটত। ঘটত একেবারে শুরু থেকেই। ওই মাখন কোনওক্রমেই গরুর দুধের ছিল না, ছিল মহিষের দুধের। তবে ডালডা বা মাখনেরই মতো দেখতে অন্য কোনও পদার্থ মেশানোর কারসাজি তখনও তারা ঠিকঠাক শিখতে পারেনি, কিন্তু মোষের দুধকে গরুর দুধ বলে চালানোর প্রচলন কখনও কখনও ছিল। আর সবার হাতে ঘি ভালো হত না। অঞ্চলভেদে এমন কথা তো প্রচলিত ছিল বা আছে। আয়ে সুতার ব্যয়ে কামার; কিংবা সব শেখের কাজ তেল বেচা না, কেউ কেউ দাড়িতেও মাখে। এ দাড়িতে মাখা, অর্থাৎ কাজ প্রায় পণ্ড করার মতো ঘিঅলাও ছিলেন কেউ কেউ। যত জ্বালই দিন, তাদের ঘিতে রঙ ঠিক ধরত না, অথবা একটু যেন পুড়ে যেত। অথবা না পুড়লেও ঠিক দানা তাতে উঠত না।

জ্বাল দেয়া শেষ হলে, লোকটি একটি পরিষ্কার পাত্রে সদ্য তোলা ঘি ছেঁকে ঢেলে দিতেন। অথবা পাখার বাতাসে ঠান্ডা করে ছেঁকে ঢালতেন কোনও কাচের বোয়েমে। খুব ভালো হাতের অথবা ভালো হাতের তোলা গাওয়া ঘি সত্যি অসাধারণ রঙ ধরত। স্বচ্ছ কাচের বোয়েমে সেই ঈষৎ রক্তিম ও হলদের মিশেল ঘিয়ের দিকে তাকিয়ে থাকতে বেশ লাগত। আর বোয়েমের মুখ থেকে তখন আসছে ভুর ভুর করে সদ্য তোলা ঘিয়ের গন্ধ।

এদিকে লোকটির কাজ শেষ। তিনি এখন যাবেন। মাজার গামছা খুলে একবার মুখ মুছে দাঁড়িয়ে আছেন। একবার একবার হয়তো তাকিয়ে দেখছেন, নিজের কীর্তির দিকে। তার সঙ্গে পাওনা-দেনা শেষ হলে এবার রাস্তায় নেমে আবার হাঁক, আছে মাখন, ঘি তোলবেন?

এ হাঁক এখন আর শোনা যায় না। এরপর, এই গত প্রায় দুই দশকে দেশের কত বড়ো বড়ো কোম্পানি একেবারে খাঁটি ঘি বলে টিনজাত বা বোয়েমভরতি কত পদের ঘি বাজারে ছাড়ল, ছড়াল, কিন্তু সেই ঘিয়ের রঙÑ সব অর্থেই এখন হারায়ে খুঁজি।

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