Minu was a wizard with “machi”, pomfret, and prawns, and rawas, squids and clams. If it swam in water, she found a way to cook it, fillet it, fry it.
Illustration/Uday Mohite
Minu was my cook. To be honest, cooking doesn’t cover it completely. Caretaker and caregiver were more like it, master chef to my cats — she came to my home and hearth, 30 years ago, to primarily cook.
Mumbai city is a city of maids, “bais”, part-timers residing in little shanties, colonies, slums, chawls — looking to work in homes that are walking distance from their residences — these maids are on a timer, making “one or two items” per home. Over time, Minu’s part time “jobs” dried up and she came to be my “full time help”– though she went home nights, to be with her family. Minu’s smiling face always hid her burdensome back story, a relentless battle for daily survival, an everyday water tanker, “I have to get my buckets and utensils filled up in time before it moves” — ironically ankle-deep water seemed to be her wall-to-wall discomfiture throughout the year.
Minu was Bengali, at her culinary best with sea-food, the ladies at Sassoon Docks were her allies, she had access to the “galli guchis” of Colaba, yielding all types of underwater delicacies. Minu was a wizard with “machi”, pomfret, and prawns, and rawas, squids and clams. If it swam in water, she found a way to cook it, fillet it, fry it.
Minu was a wizard, she’d go “andaza”, never able to quite repeat the same dish twice, she may have been inconsistent with the condiments, but was never short on passion.
Minu was poor, in difficult Mumbai, her problems were aplenty, but she had pride, pride in her work, pride in her exactitude — and Minu was quick, she could do Indo-Chinese, the quintessential Mumbai favourite, in no time — she needed more time with her mutton biryani.
Minu was funny, she was a natural pantomime artist, every little incident, the more unpleasant for her, the funnier was the mime. In the early days when she was younger, she came home, with a massive swelling in her neck, “my husband beat me and then stopped,” she explained. “Why stopped?” I asked. “He hurt his elbow,” she chuckled.
Minu came from an era of maids/bais/ who’d envelop a home, surround it with love ; when my first cat came home, a beauteous black tabby I’d lovingly named her Tina Turner… “Billi ka naam kya hai, saab,” she asked me. “Tina Turner,” I answered. “Hmmmm… main unko Rani naa se bulayegi. Aa jao Rani,” she called out. As my black cat went to where the food was, Tina Turner was re-christened Rani.
Minu ran my home, her own problems, always took a backseat — great cooks can always sense a mood, so also Minu, she could sense a dal-chawal-aloo day, with a bit of dahi, “aaj machi-kadi aur kachumber”. Some Sundays were kosha-mangsho lunches, and then there were her special mixed noodles, a Minu special laden with pak choi, and spinach, and prawns and yellow and red bell peppers, and broccoli and zucchini.
Minu didn’t miss a day’s work. One evening, her son had met with an accident, and as he lay on a hospital bed, she called to ask if I could fend for myself for one night.
Life in a shanty can affect the toughest, dank water, disease, debilitating hard work, Minu developed diabetes, and from then on, she got pancreatic cancer.
I spoke to her a couple of hours before she passed. “Rani kaisi hai,” she asked. “Tell her, I’ll be coming over soon, she must surely be in need of a bath, and her nails need clipping, yes?”
Minu was able to smile through toil, and thunderstorms that would sweep away her makeshift roofs, and torrential floods that would speed through her home leaving destruction in their wake — rain and rodents that would gnaw at her saris, she took them all in her stride.
Minu passed away last night, a smile of her face, a smile that never faded, through the pain, through the rain, through life’s relentless downs, devotion was spelt MINU.
Rahul daCunha is an adman, theatre director/playwright, filmmaker and traveller. Reach him at rahul.dacunha@mid-day.co
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