Gouri always woke up at dawn, when the first rays of the sun illuminated the horizon. After performing her morning ablutions, she swept her tiny one-room house clean. Then she took her morning bath and put on a cotton saree. Then she lit her stove and brewed some tea for herself. She drank the tea with puffed rice and then headed to the temple.
By the time she reached the temple, it was already bustling with devotees. The priest was performing the morning puja, and the temple premises were filled with the divine fragrance of flowers, incense sticks, sandalwood paste and ghee diyas. She bowed quickly before the Radha-Govinda idol, seeking their blessings, and then headed straight to the kitchen to cook bhog for the deity.
There were multiple chores waiting in the kitchen. Hari Mama, the elderly man, peeled and chopped the vegetables, rinsed the rice and lentils and washed the utensils. Mohan, the young boy, carried provisions and fetched water. But Gouri alone cooked the bhog to be offered as naivedya. The menu was not fixed — on some days, it was khichuri, on others, it was poori and fried brinjal, and on yet others, mohanbhog was cooked.
After finishing cooking, she carefully served the food on the plates meant for the deities, placing a tulsi leaf on each of them. Then the priest sprinkled a few drops of Ganga Jal around the plates, and Gouri arranged the plates before the deity. The priest’s throaty chanting reverberated through the temple: “Om Apavitrah Pavitro Va…”
After the evening arati, when the temple bell fell silent and the courtyard emptied, Gouri packed the leftover bhog in a brass bowl and left for her home. She was a young widow when Hari Mama took pity on her and recommended her for the position of temple cook. Since then, her life had revolved around the temple.
Gouri looked forward to the evenings when, after the day’s hard work, she finally got to rest and spend time with Khiroda Pishi. She didn’t know much about Khiroda Pishi’s whereabouts. She must have been from the neighbourhood. Whenever she asked Khiroda Pishi where she lived, she answered cryptically, “The world is my abode, dear.” It was difficult to guess her age from her features — she might have been eighty, ninety or even a hundred years old. She looked frail and emaciated. Her face was lined with numerous wrinkles; only her eyes looked bright like embers. Gouri never heard her approaching. One moment the doorway would be empty, and the next moment the old woman would already be standing there, smiling.
“Is there khichuri today?” Khiroda Pishi would ask hopefully. Smiling, Gouri would reheat the bhog on her stove and serve it on a plate to Khiroda Pishi.
Khiroda praised her cooking. They talked about small things—weather, temple gossip, childhood memories. Khiroda Pishi’s eyes would become moist whenever she talked about her childhood in Radhapur. With time, Gouri began to wait for her every evening. She became her friend and confidante.
One day, the temple authorities announced that there was a widespread LPG crisis due to the war and that there would be no more bhog until the fuel supply returned. Gouri lost her work and her food. She didn’t understand the war or geopolitics—only that her stove had gone cold.
At night, when Khiroda Pishi came, Gouri broke down and confided in her friend.
The old woman calmly said, “If fire is your problem, why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Then she leaned forward and blew softly into the empty stove. A blue flame blossomed like a flower.
Gouri’s eyes widened in astonishment. She became speechless. At last, when she regained her composure, she asked in a shaky voice, “Who… who are you, Kh… Khiroda Pishi?”
“Don’t be afraid of me, my child. It’s true I’m not human. I’m a wandering spirit. That’s why I can only appear after sunset. I starved in my lifetime. That’s why I kept coming for the bhog.”
Gouri let out an audible gasp. A spirit!
“But I need to think of an alternative livelihood for you. Why don’t you start a tea stall in the evening, child? I’ll provide the fire.”
“Gourir Cha Ar Ta” started the following week in a cart. Gouri brewed tea and fried tele-bhaja. Workers, rickshawpullers and passersby gathered around her cart. The stall was doing brisk business. Gouri slowly began to regain her confidence and rebuild her livelihood.
One day, the LPG supply returned and temple bhog resumed. But on the advice of Khiroda Pishi, Gouri kept the tea stall. She now had financial independence and she didn’t want to lose it.
It was the night of Amavasya. The stove was burning quietly between them.
The old woman watched the flame for a long time and said, “You won’t need my breath anymore. The cylinders will come again tomorrow.”
“Then you will still come to eat?”, she asked anxiously.
The old woman smiled.
“No, child. My time here is over. Tomorrow I must begin another life.”
The flame flickered once as she blew gently into the stove — for the last time. Before leaving, she said, “When I come back to this world, perhaps I will again taste your cooking.”
The next evening, when she lit the stove alone, she thought that somewhere, a newborn child must have taken its first breath.
Glossary:
Khichuri: Lentil and rice porridge
Arati: A Hindu religious ritual of worship where light from a flame — fueled by ghee or camphor — is waved in a clockwise motion before a deity.
Tulsi: Basil
Mohanbhog: A traditional Indian sweet dish made from roasted semolina, ghee, sugar and milk.
Bhog: The act of presenting the food to the deity.
Naivedya: The food prepared specifically for the deity.
Prasad: The food after it has been accepted, blessed, and energized by the deity.
Tele-bhaja: fritters
Gourir Cha Ar Ta: Gouri’s tea and snacks
(Word limit: 899 words, excluding glossary)
Image Source: Unsplash
