Dastaan e -Murgh Musallam-a grief journey

“Murgh Musallam”, how do you say it, Papa? I rolled my “r” and emphasised it to grasp an unfamiliar word. I was eight years old. I was seated under the red pot-bellied shamiana to eat breakfast before rukhsati on the dastrakhwan. I felt like royalty as I dug into the dish. One whole chicken was served to four people along with bakarkhwani. It was my mamu’s marriage in 1982. That was my first introduction to this dish in a remote village called Mahdouli in Bihar.

This was taken in 1995 in Ningah.

A year later, in 1983, a German delegation of engineers descended on our sleepy Ningah Colliery, part of Asansol West Bengal. They came home bearing candles and towels as gifts.  My parents had made Murgh Musallam and various kebabs to welcome them. I still remember their red faces as they struggled with the chilli in the food gulped with soda water. I had forgotten about this for this memory to resurface when my son picked German as his 3rd language in 2014.

Over the year, Murgh Musallam receded in the background. No one had time and inclination. It was too complicated. Only when my father retired and returned to our village, Jitwapur, in Bihar, did this dish find it's way back to our dining table. My father cooked this dish for his grandchildren. Every year, he cooked, be it in Bihar or in Delhi, where I lived. It was his go-to dish to please his small grandkids. He cooked even after suffering from Dementia. He prepared it even when he coped with a nasty fall. He cooked on New Year's Evening.  As he marinated the chicken in dahi & gently rubbed the garam masala on the chicken, we could feel his love for us. It was a celebration for his advanced year and his grandchildren. Ever in Covid year, he cooked it. We felt the pandemic recede as he tied the chicken stuffed with browned onion, kaju, and kishmish. That is one happy memory of the lockdown days when he delicately carved the chicken. I can still see the glow on my mother’s face, the anticipation in my son’s eyes, and how my daughter dug in the food.

In 2023, my father was no more. He passed away in Oct 2022. It had been a difficult few months without him & we still find ourselves pooling in grief.  My kids are now in class 11, and one is in college.  The eldest was going back to his college soon. He is proficient in German now. I try to cook “Murgh Musallam” to awaken my numbed emotions. On the outside, I looked like a functioning adult. On the inside, darkness has found a place in my heart. I craved my father’s touch. I wanted to hold his wrinkled hand and never let go, but he was not there, except my mother was very much there.

 I decided to cook Murgh Musallam from scratch. I cooked, cut, stuffed and threaded the chicken. I fried the chicken lovingly and tried to follow all the steps that my father did under my mother’s instruction. I cooked because I wanted to feel my father’s presence. To honour his legacy of love toward us. To celebrate his life, which was the classic story of the rags to riches. I wanted to give hope to my kids that people live in our memories and foods. I cooked because food is one constant in uncertain times.

Laughter echoed in my ears, and I could see most of them assembled—my father,mamu, and us kids—except this time, it was my kids, mummy, Hashmat, and myself. My thoughts were jumbled as I untangled the thread and cut the chicken open—the chicken glistened as gold in my hand in my small, shoe-sized kitchen. My memories were mixed up as the juice trickled into my mouth with a hint of sugar and lime. For a moment, I felt whole. 

It would be two years since my father died. It has been a strange time. Some days, I don’t register that he is no longer there; I keep listening to his voice recordings; other times, I almost ring his phone to ask his opinion. Grief is the price we pay for love, they say. Grief is the companion that walks with you, holding you as you falter. Grief is the love one has for the person gone. Grief is everywhere, and so is love.

My father smiled in a selfie we took together. (2018)