Keya Sarkar: Down to the basics

A lot of my childhood memories are those of the time I spent in my maternal grandfather's house. My mother's father was a lawyer and believed in a spartan lifestyle for himself and his family. So his seven children literally had to survive on two or three sets of clothes and many vegetarian meals - the latter unthinkable in middle class Bengali households.

He obviously had other plans for the wealth he earned as a successful lawyer: investing in land. So my memories of my grandfather's house in Kolkata were one of men coming from various parts of Bengal bearing produce from the land he owned. Although his house in Kolkata was large, it was congested. There were his children and grandchildren, and more often than not, my mother's cousins were temporarily parked there too, either because they were in some financial difficulty or needed to be in Kolkata to pursue higher studies or careers.

So all the farm produce that used to be delivered - mangoes, litchis, jackfruits, potatoes, onions or cereals - had to be accommodated in a city house not meant for large-scale storage. So beds were always elevated by bricks to accommodate the fruits and corridors always had areas cordoned off with bricks to hold the potatoes and onions.

If, however, the produce included fish from any of the ponds he owned, it would instantly be distributed among relatives or large quantities consumed by the inmates, not usually given to excesses.

My years in Mumbai had, of course, made me forget this style of existence. Neat apartments in gated communities require a whole different lifestyle. Much of what I consumed was bought through rolled-down car windows while getting back from work. In the hurly-burly of life in the fast lane, anything stored not within eyesight was easily forgotten.

Now years later, as I live in a house that I inherited from my mother that was built by her father, my life seems to be coming full circle. I used to be quite house-proud in an urban kind of way. I used to worry about the paint on the walls and the polish on the furniture. But now I am beginning to give up. My front yard is a medley of bottled preserves, depending on the season. Tomatoes are either being sun-dried or pickled. Tamarinds are being dried in contraptions to keep monkeys at bay. Mangoes are getting pickled in bottles of various sizes to separate the sour and tangy from the sweet.

But as we grow more and more of our own vegetables or acquire years' supply of cereals from friends growing them organically, our house is beginning to bring back my childhood memories. It is not easy to store 30 kg of potatoes and hang up 25 kg of onions and also make way for mangoes and jackfruits and coconuts. Large drums sit at various corners of the house with different indigenous rice varieties and a place has to be found for mustard and sesame.

All my friends and former colleagues, who are now far more prosperous than when I gave up a corporate career a decade ago, are buying bigger cars and fitting out fancier and fancier kitchens. But my aspirations are getting incredibly modest. Every time I visit somebody in any nearby village I eye the covered verandah they have running almost all around the house. What a lovely place for storage. With no sofa sets and chest of drawers and music systems getting in the way. I am amazed at how basic my needs have become.