Chronicles of an improbable journey-The Unoon

The Unoon

There are occasions nowadays, when a ragged piece of some long forgotten incident, streaks across my memory like the flash of a shooting star and leaves me stunned for a brief moment; at times even longer. Kishore Kumar’s songs have that effect; particularly when I am not trying to reminisce. This is one such piece that knocked me off while I was driving down Interstate 25 a few days back. The trigger, in this case probably was “Ghungroo ki tarah”.

My father’s twenty six year old bicycle, manufactured by a long lost company called Rover, had been my loyal vehicle through my teenage days, into college when I returned home and even when I started to work at Durgapur. There are too many bits and pieces of vivid memories involving that contraption and me. This just happened to cross my mind.

Late one afternoon, Mom found out that we were out of wood needed to light up the Unoon. We did not have a modern gas oven at that time. Mom would normally get up early, and prepare the “Unoon” or oven to take her through the day of glorious Indian spices. This piece of machinery consisted of a thin sheet of iron or tin, wound up in a cylinder, with two edges riveted together. One base of the cylinder was made heavy with – I don’t know what. The other side was raised with baked mud, in three mounds over the circle of the cylinder. So off I went with “my” bicycle, a jute sack neatly folded and clamped onto the spring-loaded 6 inch by 12 inch “carrier” at the back of the bike. You had to lift a small lever up, place whatever it is that you wanted to hold tight and snap it back on. I made my way through the 4th Street, in my blue jeans shorts that really should have been discarded the year before. Rode in front of the manicured lawns of our neighbor the Guptas, and then through the “cul-de-sac”, which usually was in a state of pitiful neglect with patches of mud left over from the last day’s rainfall and soggy wet patches of grass. Then over the high-drain which had a single slab of concrete over it – quite precarious for even a bicycle to cross. The drain and its immediate surroundings really stunk. For starters, It was open; It wasn’t meant for sewage; but the adjacent slum-dwellers made sure they donated their excretions into it and often beside it. Therefore, it was normal to hold your breath while crossing that area, which I did dutifully.
I was still quite young; so I could not get my feet to stay on the pedal all through its rotation while riding the bike. In fits and jerks, I crossed the green playing field of the worker’s quarters. Then onto the dirt road made with red gravel. At the corner, there was a quarter that had a Kali temple, that I always looked at and holding the handle on one hand, did a quick pronam with the other. Finally I stopped at the junction of this dirt road and Trunk road, looked at both sides and walked the bike over to the other side where they sold chopped firewood. Out came the sack, and I picked up the firewood and stacked them inside. Per instructions they had to be dry. Once in a while a sliver would enter my fingers and then I had to spend time trying to get it out. The next bit is almost hilarious. With a lot of effort, I picked the sack up and put it on the carrier, with two sides bulging out. If I had a rope I would tie it up, otherwise try to use the clamp to hold the sack in place. So the return begins along the same path. I push the bike to gain some speed before jumping on to the seat. Right at the first turn, the sack decides to lose its balance and either falls off altogether, or hangs precariously on one side. The invariable result is a pissed off me, walking the bike, holding on to the sack with one hand and the handle with the other, completely conscious of pairs of eyes belonging to worker’s families watching an officer’s kid carrying firewood on a twenty-six year old bike. It would be sometime, before I realized how wrong such classifications were.

The next morning I was up at 530 in the morning, helping Mom to light up the Unoon. The concept of the Unoon is quite simple; first some firewood is inserted from the top, to jam the top opening as best as possible. A few pieces of charcoal is put on top of the assortment; and then you place the lid of an empty shoe-polish box at the base through an opening, pour a little kerosene into it and light the kerosene up. Have a whole bunch of newspapers ready, to keep shoving in through the opening, till the wood catches fire. That in turn burns the coal – and you end up getting an oven burning for four hours at least with furious heat. I can’t imagine, sitting in front of that thing in the seething temperatures of Durgapur all day long. Hats off to the lady and all others who go through that dreadful process.

And so the Unoon was lighted and breakfast, prepared for Baba to leave at 715. Then it was my turn; my daily fare of rice, with some daal and ghee and potatoes prepared in a pressure-cooker. After I left, the Unoon went on; Mom went on with her cooking till mid-day at least. No fridge meant every day’s food had to be cooked fresh. The Unoon fed us; all of us; slowly but surely it also took its toll on Ma. The skin on her hands grew dark patches that are still there today.