The Story of Moyna-di, our Spooked Cook!

Dr. Priyamita tells us about Moyna-di, a cook, in a large joint family. She feared ghosts and told strange tales. Why did the spooked cook go berserk? Read to find out, exclusively for Different Truths.

I was around 12 years old then. We used to live in a joint family, with my cousins and grandparents (total 11 members). I remember we were always in search of a good cook. My mother used to tell me that my grandparents were too fussy.  No cook could last for more than a year, thanks to their incessant demands.

Even the most palatable of dishes were dismissed with a disapproving “Khub ekta bhalo hoyni…” (not good enough)!  It was obvious (according to my mom) that, after hours of slogging in the hot kitchen, any self-respecting cook would be silently plotting a murder, if their entrée would be met with a disapproving look. And “Eta ki khawa jaye?” by our self-proclaimed family connoisseurs.

(My grandmother later told me that it was my parents who were the fussy ones, so I am not completely certain of the facts. But let us not digress.)

New Cook

Moyna-di was our new cook. The last two cooks had fled without any explanation! To everyone’s surprise, Moyna-di’s cooking did not earn the usual snide remarks and impassive faces but was relished with much gusto, finger-licking, and second helpings! It was hardly a surprise, then, that she was revered like a Pope and pampered like a newlywed bride with cotton sarees, toys for her kids, and occasional packets of sweets!

Now, I was quite a prankster in my childhood but most of the adults in the family always turned a blind eye to my pranks. Thanks to the fact that I was the class-topper (Bengalis and their weakness for academics)! Unfortunately, my cousins loathed me for this same reason!

My baby-like cherubic face and innocent eyes also ensured that I was never too harshly reprimanded for my transgressions! Several times my cousins got into trouble for some prank I had pulled off or got admonished due to some sarcastic repartee that I may (or may not) have indulged in… while I escaped, unscathed, with a self-indulgent “Dekhechho ki kaando…” (See, what a thing to do!) punctuated with some appreciative snorting…

Ghosts and Haunted Places

I was given to understand that Moyna-di was terrified of ghosts and haunted places. She could be found talking animatedly to anyone who’d care to listen.

She narrated enthralling stories about the return of some haunted spirit of our neighbour, who had hanged himself several years ago.  Perhaps the spirit had returned to our neighbourhood to complete some unfinished business!

I remember seeing my grandma, enraptured, listening to her stories, in the evenings. These she dished out quite as effortlessly as her maccher paturi and shukto.

Now, one afternoon, I was bored out of my wits. Everyone was indulging in their afternoon siesta, while I loitered around aimlessly. A mischievous idea struck me like a bolt from the blue (rather red!). My father (a doctor) oversaw the vaccination of children that year. And he had a whole lot of syringes stocked up in his cabinet.

I had nicked out one or two of them and had hidden them in my room. My grandma used to wear altaa on her feet sometimes (a red liquid used to adorn palms/feet). The bottle of altaa was kept in her room on the top shelf.

That afternoon, I sneaked into my grandma’s room and took the bottle of altaa. Then I went into the kitchen and got hold of the potatoes that had been kept aside to be cooked later by Moyna-di (some enticing aloo-bhajas were for dinner, apparently). I deftly injected each one of the potatoes with some altaa with the help of the syringes!

Blood Oozing Potatoes

Later in the evening, Moyna-di sat leisurely with the boti (a cutting instrument, used in all Bengali households) to slice the potatoes. To her horror, a bright red blood-like liquid oozed out from the first potato! She shrieked out in horror and nearly jumped out of her skin! Amidst the hullabaloo that ensued, my mother, aunt, and grandma, all rushed into the kitchen and tried to ascertain the facts.

I stood quietly near the door, observing the scene with subdued nonchalance.

“Bhoo… bhoo…Bhoot” was all that Moyna-di managed to gasp, breathlessly, while my mother pacified her by saying that the potato was probably rotten. And she should not panic! After much coaxing, Moyna-di seemed mollified. She looked askance at the other potatoes but picked up one more with trembling fingers. As she sliced it with the boti, there was a spurt of red liquid which spattered all over her saree! (I must have been ultra-generous with the altaa on that one).

There was no restraining her! “O ma go… ei baari te bhoot ache … amake baanchao…” (Oh my God, there’s a ghost in this house, save me!)  she shrieked on the top of her lungs and sprinted away from the kitchen. She ran helter-skelter like a mad woman, with her arms flailing wildly over her head.

The ruckus alerted our neighbours (the adventure-seeking types), who rushed over to the scene of the crime and gathered excitedly at the center of cacophony.

Abuzz with Curiosity

I stood sheepishly at the corner, wondering whether this time I had gone too far! The whole house was abuzz with curiosity over the blood-spurting-tubers! From Maa Kaali’s wrath to the afore-mentioned spirit of our hanged neighbour, there were theories galore! Some of our neighbour’s calculative speculation would have put Sherlock Holmes to shame!

My mother cornered me that night and I confessed that I was the mastermind behind the premeditated altaa-infused vegetables! She went berserk, partly because of Moyna-di’s plight but mostly (from what I figured) because if the unfortunate turn of events resulted in Moyna-di quitting, she would have to partake in the culinary activities! She threatened me with the quintessential weapon that all Bengali moms have, “Daara, baba ashuk, baba k bolbo” (wait till I tell your dad). Even my most remorseful look with my tearful angelic eyes failed to pacify her!

Aced the Exam

Thankfully, that evening my Maths test results came out and I had aced the exam (I had got either 49 out of 50 or 50 out 49). And when my mother told my father about the bloody-potato fiasco, he only chuckled indulgently, Then, catching my mother’s eye, quickly chided me half-heartedly with a “toke nie ar para jayna…” (Can’t deal with you anymore). My mother gave him a thunderous look and stomped out of the room.

I later learned that Moyna-di had to be cajoled and pampered (bribed) with a few new sarees, some mishti-paan, a big box of sweets, and some chanachur before she reluctantly returned to cook for us.

Thus, all’s well that ends well!

We ended up relishing Moyna-di’s mouth-watering delicacies for several years to come.  A little birdie later told me that she even narrates the Mystery of the Bleeding Potatoes to whoever is willing to listen…and this version of the story is now laced with bloodied footprints, whispering voices, and an invisible child’s spine-chilling screams as well!

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