The aroma of soiboom eromba filled the air of the makeshift kitchen in the courtyard. The older cousins were helping Meme’s mother prepare the eromba, the ingredients of which had been pre-boiled. One was peeling the small red potatoes; another was sorting out the inch-cut taro stems and the fermented bamboo shoots, soiboom. The eldest was mashing red chillies with ngaari into a thick paste. The paste would then be mixed with the rest of the ingredients.
It was the third day after a full moon. The night-blooming jasmine was dispersing its sweet fragrance. The cousins had specifically requested Meme’s mother to arrange their small party in the courtyard, under the clear night sky.
Bembem did not have cousins on her father’s side, and she hadn’t visited her maternal cousins in a long time. She loved the banter among Meme’s cousins. It reminded her of the occasional visits to Ima’s natal home when Ima was in the prime of her health. She saw her mother’s demeanour change to that of a little child’s whenever they were there. Bembem cherished that side of her mother – laughing freely, her hair open, swimming in the river holding a brass pitcher, and plucking berries. Bembem had often thought if Ima had been a child of her age, they would definitely be best friends and could play football together. The thought made a smile appear on her face. Ima and football? No way! Ima hardly knows how to kick a ball!
Chicken stewed slowly on firewood. Meme’s mother garnished it with cilantro, giving the main dish its finishing touch. Apart from the stew and soiboom eromba, there were boiled chayote chunks, and a special accompanying dish – u-morok metpa. It was a paste made of ngaari and u-morok, mashed together and garnished with finely chopped herbs like fish mint and coriander.
One by one, banana leaves were laid out. Dinner was served, beginning with piping hot rice. After the excitement of playing with water guns and colour powder and the fits of laughter that followed, Bembem was famished and ready to lick her leaf clean.
“Bembem, do you want this u-morok metpa? Have you ever tasted u-morok?” asked the eldest cousin before serving.
“No, Che, I have never tried it, but would like to.” Bembem had read in a magazine that u-morok was known by different names in different parts of Northeast India where it grows. The magazine also mentioned that it was declared the world’s hottest chilli in the Guinness World Records in 2007.
The aroma of the world’s hottest chilli gave her the jitters. But seeing all the cousins and even Meme relish it, Bembem felt left out and decided to give it a try. She believed tasting it was a rite of passage, which Meme had already crossed.
It is my turn today. Bembem thought.
“Just take a little on your fingertip and try it first.” Meme’s mother suggested.
Bembem carefully tasted it. Okay, this is unusual, but tasty. I think I like u-morok.
The red bits of u-morok among the white fish mint root and green coriander caught her eyes and Bembem decided to try it again. This time, the red bit.
Ho Ima! What is happening to me?! Why am I suddenly seeing lights?
Am I dying? I am dying.
I can’t see anything now!
I AM DEAD!
“Is she dead?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Relax, she will come around.”
“What will I say to her father? I am so embarrassed.”
“I have heard of fainting spells after consuming u-morok.”
“What time is it now?” asked Bembem, opening her eyes.
“Are you okay? Does your stomach hurt?” said Meme’s mother.
“No, I am fine but what happened? I thought I was dying,” said Bembem.
“You ate too much u-morok,” the eldest cousin remarked.
“Don’t overact now, Bembem. You were out for hardly ten seconds,” another cousin joked.
Bembem looked around and saw there was a power cut.
“It went dark all of sudden and I thought I was dying,” she said with a sigh of relief. All of them started laughing at the unusual coincidence. Bembem also joined in.
Baba had cleaned Bembem’s room, changed sheets, and arranged her study table. Everything looked different. It felt different but Bembem had no energy left to think. As soon as she lay down on her bed, she fell into a deep slumber.
Gham
Gham
Gham
“What are you weaving, Ima?” asked Bembem.
The sky had a hint of pink, marking the arrival of the sun. Apart from the chirping of a few early birds and the sound of Ima weaving on her backstrap loom, there was silence all around.
“Oh, this? This is your phanek for the coming Yaosang. Don’t you think it’s lovely?” said Ima, hands separating the yellow threads, her eyes focused on weaving.
“It is lovely. But what are these red designs on the border?” Bembem came up to her to take a closer look.
“Oh, these are u-morok motifs.”
“But isn’t it unusual to weave this motif on a phanek?”
“It is. But I plucked all these red u-moroks yesterday, and I was inspired.” Ima showed Bembem her basket where the spools were kept. But there was no spool in it, only u-morok. Ima took up one u-morok and weaved it in the phanek.
Those are not motifs! Those are real u-morok!
How can one ever wear clothes with u-morok on them, let alone its motif!
“Don’t worry, dear. If you don’t like this design, I can put another motif on it.” It was as if Ima had heard Bembem’s thoughts.
“Well, to be honest, I don’t like it at all.”
“Alright, then. I will use this motif. Open my hand and see for yourself,” said Ima, putting out her right hand, tightly clenched into a fist.
Bembem looked at Ima’s hand and wondered. She bent down to see what it was.
It was the coin.
Excerpted with permission from ‘A Magical Yaosang’ by Linthoi Ningthoujam in Regional Stories Of India, Sarabjeet Garcha, Linthoi Ningthoujam, and Madhumita Gupta, Scholastic Books.
