Book Excerpt: They eat meat! The pursuit of an illicit egg in Gujarat

by Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar

Editor’s Note: At a time when to eat meat or not to eat meat has become a loaded political question, Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar tells the story of Panmuni and Biren Soren who move from Odisha to Vadodara in Gujarat. “It’s neat and clean and well-arranged,” a cousin who lived there tells them. Except the food habits are a little different. When the Sorens rent a flat from the elderly Raos, they realize that quickly as Mr Rao tells them “No meat-mutton-egg-chicken-fish. Nothing.” Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar winner Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar presciently explores how food and politics can come to dangerous flashpoint in the story They Eat Meat! from his new collection of short stories The Adivasi Will Not Dance. This excerpt appears courtesy Speaking Tiger Publishing Pvt. Ltd.

But old habits die hard. The Sorens did wean themselves—and quite successfully, to some extent—away from fish, chicken and mutton. However, at times, they would crave the simple sin of an egg.

There was a small shop in a far corner of the market near the Subhanpura Colony, run by an immigrant from Bihar. It was the only shop in the entire market which sold eggs, and there were always a fair number of people at that shop. Biram-kumang or Hopon would go there, look around to make sure there were no familiar eyes spying on them, buy two eggs, wrap them up discreetly, put them in their cloth shopping bag, and return home.

If buying eggs was a difficult task, cooking one was a mission in itself. Cooking more than one egg at the same time was the same as getting caught. If Hopon ate one egg on a given day, he would have the next egg only after a week or so, when Panmuni-jhi was sure that the odour of the egg she had cooked had wafted out of the house, out of Subhanpura Colony itself.

Also, disposing the eggshells was a problem.

Each morning, the Sorens would tie up all the garbage—vegetable peels, wrappers, waste paper, tea leaves—in the polythene bags they lined their garbage bins with, and either Biram-kumang or Hopon would throw these bags into the municipal garbage bin outside the colony. On days the garbage included egg shells, they would go even further. On some days, when they couldn’t throw the eggshells in the garbage, they would bury them in the kitchen garden.

On days like these, Panmuni-jhi would miss the freedom of Bhubaneshwar, and the cool sea breeze of the Bay of Bengal which touched each person in the same way. In Bhubaneshwar, Panmuni-jhi remembered, she would regularly cook two-egg omelettes for Rabi and Hopon. She would make delicious katla-machh which all the Santhal women of the city would praise. And, of course, there were the regular chicken and mutton dishes. The aroma of eggs, fish, chicken and mutton dishes would waft out of her kitchen and flow all over the HIG Housing Board Colony. No one raised an eyebrow, no one came to her house to grab her husband’s collar and demand of him: ‘Soren, didn’t I tell you not to cook non-veg?’ No. Instead, her neighbours would only ask her: ‘Bhoujo, ei dish tawmo kemti taiyar kawrochho?’ And she would happily tell them how she had made the dish.

In Odisha, Panmuni-jhi could be a Santhal, an Odia, a Bengali. In Gujarat, she had to be only a Gujarati. In Bhubaneshwar, all the Santhals of the city celebrated Baha, Sohrai and Sakrat together. They went to the Nandan Kanan Zoo for their yearly picnic and cooked jill-leto for all the guests. They even invited Santhals living in other places in Odisha, like Cuttack, Paradip, Rourkela, Baripada, and Koraput. It would be an impressive gathering. Panmuni-jhi came to know from Jhapan-di that there were Santhals living in Gujarat and working in offices.

Panmuni-jhi wondered if it would be possible for all the Santhals in Gujarat to go out on a picnic together and cook jill-leto openly. And when she had such thoughts, the demands to conform with the society she was living in made her feel constricted.

Yet, Vadodara continually impressed her. On her last visit to Jharkhand before Hopon’s board exams in 2002, Panmuni-jhi bought a lehenga-choli with appliqué- and mirror-work for a three-year-old niece. She also picked up a traditional woodwork sofa from the artisans of Vadodara district for her home. It was exquisitely carved and so finely lacquered that it shone. Their old sofa set was put in the back verandah and the new Gujarati sofa was installed in the drawing room. Panmuni-jhi further filled up the house with Bhitiya wall-hangings, bead-work torans and vases.

In less than a year, the Sorens had settled well in their new city. They had made friends, both in Biram-kumang’s office and in the neighbourhood. And while it was now well known that the Sorens were of Adivasi origin, they conformed to the norms—they went to mandirs, celebrated Hindu festivals, fasted on certain days, lit dhoop-batti in their house—and were accepted.

Mr Rao was happy at the manner in which Biramkumang and Panmuni-jhi had made Vadodara their home. His evening conversations with Biram-kumang at the gate more cordial and relaxed by the day. Meanwhile, Panmuni-jhi and Mrs Rao also became friends. One morning, after Biram-kurung had left for work, Mrs Rao surprised Panmuni-jhi by paying her a visit, because she was rarely seen outside her flat. After some small talk, she said, suddenly, ‘Please, Mrs Soren, can I fry an egg in your kitchen? Mr Rao won’t let me.’ Panmuni-jhi was stunned and for a moment she did not know what to say. It was so strange. Who asked such a thing, out of the blue? And they barely knew each other. Perhaps this was a trap. Had Mrs Rao seen Hopon bury the eggshells in the kitchen garden? What would happen now?

‘Mrs Rao—’ Panmuni-jhi said and stopped. Mrs Rao seemed to understand and said, ‘No, please don’t misunderstand, Mrs Soren. The family who lived here before you… Mr Rao sent them away. I haven’t had any non-veg for months. He won’t let me.’

That morning, Panmuni-jhi learnt how to make a spicy Andhra egg fry. After their meal, Mrs Rao went into the bathroom and Panmuni-jhi heard her gargle. When she was leaving, Panmuni-jhi gave her an elaichi as mouth freshener.

Over the next few months, Panmuni-jhi and Mrs Rao made periodic visits to Jhapan-di’s house in the CISF campus to cook their favourite meat dishes. Sometimes, Hopon joined them after school, to give his verdict on whose dish tasted better.