Why a Bengali Traveller was Flummoxed By Afghani Hospitality

Syed Mujtaba Ali from Sylhet—in erstwhile East Bengal, now Bangladesh—a Bengali writer and traveller, spent a year and a half teaching in Kabul from 1927 to early 1929. Drawing on this experience, Mujtaba Ali later wrote Deshe Bideshe (Home and Abroad), which was published in Bengali in 1948. In his account, Ali provides a first-hand insight into critical junctures in Afghanistan's history, when King Amanullah, the sovereign king of Afghanistan from 1919 to 1929, attempted to steer his country towards reform by encouraging education for girls and introducing the choice to not wear the burqa. His chronicles have now been translated into English by Nazes Afroz, a journalist who was associated with the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) as a senior editor. In this excerpt from the translated work, In a Land Far From Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan, which will be released on 16 April 2015, Ali recalls his time in Khwajamollah, a village located about two-and-a-half miles away from Kabul, and his apprehensions about Abdur Rahman, a man he hired for his domestic chores. 

I rented a house in the village of Khwajamollah, about two and a half miles away from Kabul. I acquired a servant too, along with the house.

Principal Girard, the head  of the college where I was going to teach, was French. He introduced us  formally, ‘His name is Abdur Rahman. He will do all your bidding—from polishing your shoes to killing your enemies.’ It meant he was my ‘Harfan-Moula’, my ‘Jack of all trades.’

… I had seen two giants in Kabul. One was this Abdur Rahman—I will talk about the other one later.

I measured him from head to toe with a tape—he was six feet four inches. His width was proportionate to his height. His arms came down to his knees and his fingers hung like a bunch of plantains. His feet were the size  of a small boat. His shoulders were so broad that if he had been Amir Abdur Rahman instead of my chef, he could easily have carried  the entire weight of Afghanistan on them. His mouth  stretched from one ear to the other—he could have swallowed a whole banana sideways. His nose sat atop his face like a rugged mountain, and he had no forehead. His head was covered with a big turban but I had no doubt that it was so small that a baby hat would have come down to his sideburns.

… I felt reassured by his size and strength. But I was slightly apprehensive too. He would cook for me like Bheem and like him he would be my bodyguard too. But what if he  ever grew angry with me? Then? I was searching for an example, when suddenly it came to me.  A philosopher had once asked Dwijendranathto have quinine when he had fever. Dwijendranath said, ‘Quinine will get rid of my fever but who will rid me of the quinine? Who?’

Dwijendranath did not have the quinine. But I am a Muslim. I had to do the opposite of what the Hindus did. So Abdur Rahman instantly got the job of being my major-domo, chef-de-cuisine and handyman—three in one. When I informed him of this,  he muttered, ‘I will try to make Sahib happy with my chashm, sar and jaan’ —meaning, ‘with my eyes, head and life.’

I asked, ‘Where did you work before?’

He answered, ‘In the army, in charge of the mess. I finished there just a month ago.’

‘Can you fire a rifle?’

He laughed heartily.

‘What can you cook?’

‘Pulao, qorma, kebab, faluda—‘

I said, ‘You need ice to make faluda. Is there an ice-factory here?’

He said, ‘From the mountains of Paghman.’ He pointed at the snow peaks through the window. It was mid-summer, yet one could see the white snowy ridges on the high blue mountain peaks. I asked  in surprise, ‘One goes up so high to get ice?’

Abdur Rahman replied, ‘No, Sahib, in the winter, people make big holes in the ground at a much lower level to store ice. In summer they dig the ice out and bring it down to the city on donkeys.’

He proved to be resourceful too. I discovered that there were no utensils or crockery in the house. I told him, ‘Go and buy everything from the market. You probably won’t be able to cook tonight. Make lunch tomorrow. And, by the way, I need tea in the morning.’

He left with the money.

…It was not the month of Ramzan. Yet I thought that if I was lucky I might get my dinner at the Sehri time.

I dozed off while waiting for the meal and was awoken by a sound. I saw Abdur Rahman waiting with an aftaba—a water jug used for washing hands—and a bowl for me to wash my hands. It was summer, yet as I was washing my face I sensed how cold the water of the Kabul river was. I was sure that it would create contours of relief maps on my face in no time.

Looking at the dinner table I had no doubt that my servant Abdur Rahman had indeed been in charge of the army mess.

A kilo of lamb qorma was swimming in a thick gravy of onion and ghee, not in a small bowl but in a big dish, a few nuts and raisins were playing hide and seek here and there, while one outcast potato was trying to kill itself by drowning in one corner. There were eight jumbo-sized shami kebabs on a plate. A big serving dish was full of pulao with a roasted chicken sitting on top.

Seeing me speechless, Abdur Rahman hurriedly said, ‘I have more in the kitchen.’

You could scold someone if he served three portions of food to one person. But what could you do if he served food for six people and said that there was more?

The cooking was excellent and I was hungry too. So I ate much more than an average Bengali normally would. That was the opening night and Abdur Rahman was checking out my ability to eat like the way a student of medicine concentrates on his first cadaver dissection.

When I could eat no more, I said, ‘Bas—enough. Fine cooking, Abdur Rahman.’

Abdur Rahman disappeared. He returned with a plate of faluda. I told him, taking care to show a great amount of appreciation, that I did not like desserts.

Abdur Rahman disappeared again. This time he came back with a tumbler full of crushed ice. I was at a loss, ‘What is this?’

He showed me by removing the ice. There were grapes underneath. He said, ‘Barki grapes of Bagh-e-Bala—the best in Afghanistan.’ He then sat down with some ice and grapes on a saucer and started rubbing each grape very gently with the ice —in the way that women in our land rub lime on a pumice stone to prepare it before making pickles. I figured out that the grapes were not cold enough; so it was a special way of making them colder. It was not necessary—my tongue and palette froze when I tried to bite the grapes. I ate about eight of them with the courage of the Khyber Pass just to prove to Abdur Rahman that his master was not an uncivilised barbarian. I could not manage any more. I told him, ‘Enough, Abdur Rahman, now you go and eat properly.’

But who was going to listen? Now Abdur Rahman appeared with arrangements for tea. Kabuli green tea. It gave off a pale yellowish hue when you poured it. Sugar was added in the first cup and nothing in the second. Like that, the third and fourth cups followed—Kabulis drank about six cups. But the cups were small—like coffee cups.

After the tea ceremony, Abdur Rahman vanished for about ten minutes. I thought of bolting the door in case he came back with something else. Possibly he had forgotten his roasted camel.

Abdur Rahman re-emerged with a sackful of almonds and walnuts and a small hammer. He took position in the corner of the room with his legs folded and started to crack nutshells.

He came to me with a handful of nuts. He said, with his head lowered, ‘Sahib did not like my cooking?’

‘Says who?’

‘But you didn’t eat enough.’

I said,annoyed, ‘What nonsense? Will you compare your size with mine and guess how much I am capable of eating?’

Abdur Rahman did not get into a debate. He went back to his corner to crack open more nuts.

An extract from Syed Mujtaba Ali's " In a Land Far Away from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan", translated by Nazes Afroz. Reproduced with the permission of Speaking Tiger Books.