[ad_1] Many years ago, on a crisp spring afternoon, I was sitting with Phuphee peeling alle (bottle gourd). Whenever she cooked alle, in any form, she would never fail to mention Gandhiji and how it was his favourite syun (dish). When Phuphee wasnât present, other family members would often laugh about it, poking fun at…
[ad_1] A few months after my little boy turned three, we went to stay with Phuphee for a few weeks. He loved playing in her garden and we would go on all sorts of adventures in the apple orchard that sprawled behind the house. It was a wonderful time, or so it seemed until he…
[ad_1] I had just finished my first year at medical school, and was visiting Phuphee for the summer holidays. The days were hot but a constant breeze made the heat tolerable, even pleasurable at times. One such hot, breezy afternoon, an elderly gentleman and his wife arrived. When it was hot, Phuphee usually made ice…
[ad_1] One balmy July afternoon, a few weeks before I got married, two families from the village arrived at Phupheeâs house. We were sitting on the verandah, tumbling in and out of a light sleep after a heavy lunch of riste te paalak (meatballs with spinach) when we saw them walking towards us. The families…
[ad_1] When things got a little intense for Phuphee and she needed a breather, she would drop what she was doing and go for a walk. She would throw on her keep (upper section of a Kashmiri burka), grab a small basket and knife, and walk into the nearby forest. At the door, before she…
[ad_1] âYou just have to dig deep enough to find the beating heart under all the rubbleâ | Photo Credit: Zainab Tambawalla One day a dispute of an odd nature reached Phuphee. She was in the kitchen standing over a bubbling pot of bumtchoont ti maaz (quince apples and meat). It was a balmy August…
