Food (scarcity) for thought

I am not easily perturbed by news of the pandemic, but today feels different, hollow. Last evening, the municipal corporation announced a lockdown-within-a-lockdown starting midnight where all supplies are suspended till May 16 except milk and medicines. As soon as the announcement was made, thousands of people flocked to stores to stock up. People only got a five-hour notice.

 

It wouldn't have mattered to me even if I had known. I came home from work and slept off, slept through the announcement and woke up only at midnight. Not that I would have rushed out anyway.

 

Even a few days back, the campus store had crates of eggs. I did not buy because I still had seven eggs in my fridge. My first thought following the news was, the eggs would be all sold by now. I was right. The entire store is empty other than the last few packets of biscuits and cookies. I looked at the aisles in dismay. I had been eating clean for a few months now (minimal processed food, large servings of fruits and vegetables and home-cooked food) and was feeling great. Would I have to resort to buying junk food if I ran out of supplies? I was wondering when I saw a person check out 15 packets of popcorn and about 50 packets of jimjam biscuits, vanilla sponge cakes, chocolate muffins, salted peanuts, and Haldiram's bhujia sev. Thankfully, I will not have to resort to eating junk food anymore. The person took it all.

 

Next, I went to the faculty lounge which had seen better days. We used to have fresh lemon water, buttermilk, an assortment of tea and coffee, another Cafe Coffee Day coffee machine and what not. Today, there were the last few bags of tea, no coffee, and someone left a bowl full of sugar. Looks like we ran out of sugar packets too.

 

Next, I went to the cafe to see how they are doing. They have groceries for the next four days or so and are still serving paneer and porota and chole, but no more vegetable fried rice, lockdown shingaras, or anything for that matter that requires vegetables.

 

As I walked back in the 45 Celsius heat, I thought about the days of yore when interviews were followed by grand faculty lunches with fish, meat, fruit custard and rabri (along with several main courses). I thought of faculty meetings and an unending supply of cha, shingara, dhokla, peyaji, and anything you fancied. The campus dogs look so emaciated; they are mostly sleeping all day because they have no energy to move. One of them whimpers on seeing me, telling me that it is hungry and asking for food. Its rib cage is jutting out, I can count it's ribs. It breaks my heart. I have no food with me.

 

I see my faculty-neighbor walking by. I stop to say hi. His spouse told me this morning that I should let her know if I run out of food. Her generosity embarrassed me. I am a single person, they are a family of four, yet they are thinking of their neighbors. The faculty tells me the same- let us know if you need food. I ask him what will happen if things go drastic? "I don't know," he has that contemplative look. "Maybe I can start chopping the banana plants and cook its stems." He is not joking. Thod (banana stem curry) is a popular food we eat, but for someone to seriously consider chopping trees from his garden sounded scary. If it came to that, I do not even have tree-chopping or thod -skills.

 

I came home and took stock of my fridge. I haven't eaten meat in more than 3 weeks, lacking some level of animal protein, but things are not bad for me. I have multiple levels of protection. The fruits and vegetables will last me for the next few days. Then I can switch to dry food (daal sheddho, khichuri, bhaat, oats). If needed, I can go out and get milk. If nothing, I have some adipose I have been storing for the last many years. I know that by the time I run out of all my options, the lockdown will be over.

 

When a pandemic doesn't target your stomach, it targets your head. It brings bizarre thoughts. Did my education and skills teach me to survive a catastrophe? Sure, I can cook, but can I chop down a tree? Or barbeque a bird? Or milk a cow if it comes to that? I was distracted with these thoughts while cooking and I forgot to peel the potol (pointed gourd). With the thick peel on, the curry tastes awful. Normally, I would throw it away and whine to my mom. Today, I ate the potol with peels and did not even bother complaining. 

It is stressful to think of things I do not have or cannot control, so I take stock of the things I have. I have some food (both perishable and dry). I have on-campus community support. I have clean drinking water, electricity, an air-conditioned office and a home with a fan. I have a job and an office that someone comes to clean every day. That should be enough to get me through. With this comes the realization of how hollow some of the core things in my life have become. When you are hungry and thinking of how to procure food, you do not wake up in the morning and wonder what papers you will publish this year and what international conferences will you go to this year. I am not going to chew on my research papers or my 10-page long CV to stay alive.

 

I absentmindedly look at the world data on Wiki. Cambodia, Nepal and Bhutan have no reported deaths. Some of these countries, I have been to as a tourist. Then, some of the developed countries I have lived in or aspired to be in have their death counts in thousands. Nothing that had glittered once feels like gold anymore. Everything has boiled down to the basics now- stay at home, eat when hungry, drink when thirsty, do not get infected, keep calm, take care of your mental health, stay alive, and take it one day at a time!

 

Once the lockdown is over and COVID-19 is past us, the first thing I will do is order a plate of Kolkata mutton biryani (with a boiled potato and an egg). I know that we had broken up last year. But I have thought of you every day, especially during my last four weeks of forced vegetarianism. And I have realized with unambiguous clarity what my heart truly loves and wants. Quoting Catherine from Wuthering Heights,

 

“My love for lockdown shingara is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for mutton biryani resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am mutton biryani! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”

 

sunshine