A Persian Dream

The temperatures soared to about 41C in Dumka, the second capital village of Jharkhand, one of India’s poorest states. I had uncomfortably seated myself in the front seat of the town squires dusty old 4×4, no air conditioning and his trusted driver, Panditji. He wrapped a moist checkered cloth around his head to take me on an arduous journey back to Sainthia station for my train to Kolkata.

The town was rife with the troubled undercurrents of unruly political campaigners for the elections next day and Panditji assured me that we could expect trouble enroute, not in the political sense but from the states police force who could stop any car and make way with it for “duty reasons”. Sweating, more from the stress of being unceremoniously dumped on the road in the middle of nowhere than the heat, we made our way through meandering roads flanked by wheat and maize fields glowing golden in the harsh sun. I quietly sipped on warm bottled water accompanied only by the sounds of the creaking gear shift and the rattling of the wrecked body of the car.

We reach the empty station in 3 hours, I bid Panditji farewell, wishing him luck on his journey back and made my way, alone into the quiet old station platform. I tried to find the poster indicating train information, it was all written in Bengali, I peep into the inquiry office and see the personnel snoozing, a momentary slap to beat mosquitoes angling for his blood. I chose to ignore and made my way to platform no. 2 and parked myself outside the door of the Station officer-in-charge. I still had an hour to kill, a lone handcart stood on platform no. 4 with its vendor selling steaming tea and biscuits. I was too hot and tired to traipse all the way across to the other platform and decided I would sit here and await the arrival of the train.

There was not a soul at the platforms, the afternoon sun and the shade under which I was sitting made for a soporific setting, I was dozing off and at the same time clutching on to my belongings to make sure a stray vagabond would not make way with it when suddenly there was a thud of a lock opening behind me and the Station officer-in-charge walks out, stretching and yawning. He looks at me, scurries away inside, and is back with his hat to complete his avtaar. Clanking his stick he sits on his chair staring intently into the horizon of the train tracks.

I was a little perturbed that my moment of tranquil was broken by this hindrance, but in hindsight reflected that there was some other living soul here. I thought I could suffice going back to my day dreaming but thought to myself it was better to acknowledge his presence. I asked in Hindi when the train no. 13188 was due and which platform. He looked at me after a few seconds too late, and I was not too sure whether my presence was welcome in his rustic dreamland.

He answered it would come on platform no. 4 (well, good, that is the time I would go pick my chai) and then suddenly got up. “come in” he pointed me into his office, and ushered me in. I was momentarily worried as to what was going to happen, when I gingerly step in to see a garishly done up mint green walled space, a rickety old table in the middle of the room and in the corner, on a small desk with a computer, a young boy playing Prince of Persia, a computer game from the 1990’s. Mishra as I read on his nameplate, introduced me to his son (who gives a small nod while not looking away from his screen) and places a chilled glass of water in front of me. Mishra then starts talking, and talk he did.

He hailed from a small town of Barajamda in Jharkhand, he was posted as Station officer-in-charge a few years ago and had made Sainthia his home ever since. His wife died out an an unknown illness and he lived alone with his son in a small hutment collective north of the station. He looks wearily at his son and indicated that one day his son would complete his education and become a big officer in Mumbai. The topic veered towards Mumbai (by now I had made my introduction and place from where I come from, it was no rocket science I was not from a village or small town) and he asked me where were all the “industries”. I explained the geographical spread and he looked at me and says “nahi, bollywood“.

Oh Jesus, this was one of those starry eyed and smitten old timers who were enamored by the glitz and glamour of Mumbai and Mishra had found the perfect old scapegoat to regale him with stories of celebrities. I mumbled something about Andheri and the suburbs being the to-go place, throwing in the occasional big names such as Amitabh and Shahrukh, seeing his eyes twinkling in ecstatic delight. I had half a mind that he would have decided to favour him by planning his trip to Mumbai sometime soon, when he says he has an orchestra? …. What ?

Before I know it, he is singing a melancholy song about a fair maiden who collects water from the town well, ending somewhat tragically in a suicide pact between her lover and she as they plummet down the very same well which feeds her fields. The crescendo of the song reaches its maximum as she falls with her love. I am, by now, a little agitated that I would miss my train as this is certainly where he was dreaming to be, Bollywood and his orchestra and I was his one way ticket to it.

I hear the chugging of the train right before (I believe) he asked for my contact details and his son has forgotten his game and stuck by his fathers side, seemingly excited that he would get to travel to Mumbai too. I get up, indicating that I have to rush, but decidedly consider one last thing, I ask him to give me his number and say if I could think of something for him I would call him, but I had absolutely no connections with anyone in the entertainment business per se.

I get into my train, find my seat and reflect on the happenings. It is a given fact that small towns and their people look at the greener side of things in city life, where money is abundant and everything looks like a rich, royal, fit-for-a-Persian kings dream. I detest to think that people should not dream but in such cases it seems such a difficult pill to digest. I was unable to help him even if I could, nor would I have ever dissed him from what he considered a melodious hobby which could materialize into fame. I still am clueless how I would play a part in his and his sons Persian dream.

I came back and recollected this story and cooked up a recipe reminiscing about what inspired me from Dumka. This jam recipe is a metaphorical version of the experience, made out of caramelized onions (onions being the staple of Jharkhand with many meals), caramelized due to the intense heat and with the Persian influence of a popular fruit used in Persian cooking – the pomegranate. This jam or condiment goes perfect as a sweet and spicy inclusion for many dishes right from toppings from brie melts on toasts to crackers. Make this dish this summer and you will not regret it.

Sweet and Spicy Pomegranate Onion Jam

Ingredients

• 1 large Pomegranate (juiced) – rub the pomegranate on a granite surface to loosen seeds from the pulp
• 2 dried Kashmiri Chillies, seeded and broken into pieces
• 1/4 tsp Nigella seeds (onion seeds)
• 1 tablsp Olive Oil
• 1 Kg Onions (thinly sliced)
• 2 tablsp Brown Sugar
• 1 tablsp Cider Vinegar
• Salt to taste (about 1/2 tsp)

Directions

• Dry roast the chilies in a non-reactive pan and cook on low heat till fragrant. You can retain some of the seeds for the spice but can make do without it too. Add the pomegranate juice and bring to a boil till some of the juice is reduced. Cool the mixture down and then blend into a fine puree in the blender.
• Meanwhile, heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the thinly sliced onions and stir thoroughly, keep cooking over a medium to low heat till the onions caramelize and turn a light shade of brown. Add sugar and nigella seeds and stir well till the sugar melts and the onions turn a deeper shade of brown.
• Once fully caramelized (this process should not take more than about 8-10 minutes) add the vinegar. Increase heat and add the chile puree and cook, stirring occasionally for about 5 minutes or until it comes together as a wet mix. Stir in salt.
• You can bottle and refrigerate this for upto 2-3 weeks.

I would choose to check on him in a few months or years to come, on the progress of his sons education, It is but the most natural thing to ensure that that’s the best I could expect from him at this point of time