In search of lost time

While winter holds us in its grip, I cast my mind back on my childhood in our village. Somehow, my memories of the shivering mornings and snatched second rounds of sleep under the warm quilt are not so much about the harshness of winter as the taste of bajra (millet). A village staple in the semi-arid areas of North India bordering Rajasthan, bajra was consumed in several forms. In winter, we invariably ate bajra-khichri in the evening with ghee or butter. The ghee was proudly desi, certifiably pure. And the butter, with its distinct salty tang, was called neoni. The reason for the salt taste was that neoni was made by heating milk all day in an earthen cauldron and then fermenting it overnight.

The nightly helpings of bajra-khichri certainly warmed our bodies from inside, but early next morning, we were always close to freezing. And then we’d dash into the kitchen, walls dark with soot without a chimney. We’d all lunge for the bajra-khichri container; everyone liked it in different textures. While some liked the paste-lump, others liked the upper crust or the inside crispy parts. And then we’d wait for the milk to arrive from the cattle yard. With a dash of milk, bajra-khichri was simply heaven. We didn’t use spoons or fork — the idea of using cutlery seemed absurd. With nimble fingers, we mixed in just the right amount of milk, feeling the cold as the khichri slipped down our throats.

And then of course, the cold would get a bit too much for us, and we’d run back to dive under our quilts, slurping on khichri-sodden fingers, much to the annoyance of my father.

And the next thing to do on those wonderful winter vacations? Well, just soak up the sun, or if it was cloudy, make a bonfire and savour the warmth as we lazed around some more.