Culture & Lifestyle
As a child growing up, roasted corn was our only snack. Now, every mouthful takes me back.
Roasted corn, or bhuteko makai, was what we all ate but like all children, we wanted what we couldn’t have. And so, we’d crave those biscuits, bread, chocolates and noodles. If anyone of us had had any of this to eat at home, brought in by a guest, it would be the talk of the school the next day.Anup Ojha
Growing up in Barlanchi, Tanahun some two and a half decades ago, there were few avenues for us kids to indulge in chocolates, instant noodles, bread and biscuits. The shops in my village didn’t stock these guilty pleasures. The nearest shop that did sell these chocolates and biscuits was nearly an hour away—across the Risti River that marked the boundary between Tanahun and Lamjung—in Sotipasal. Even if we made it there, it was not like we could afford these indulgences.
For my brother and I, our tiffin of choice was corn. After coming home from public school wearing a pair of sandals and blue shorts, we’d sit down to a snack of roasted makai, washed down with a cool refreshing glass of buttermilk (moi) or a nice frothy cup of milk tea. Then, we’d play marbles, chungi or football with a ball made out sheets of paper stuffed into a sock.
Roasted corn, or bhuteko makai, was what we all ate but like all children, we wanted what we couldn’t have. And so, we’d crave those biscuits, bread, chocolates and noodles. If anyone of us had had any of this to eat at home, brought in by a guest, it would be the talk of the school the next day.
Every evening, when we were at home, we would look down time and again at the serpentine Thado Khola, a river that runs only during the rainy season, which would be visible through the banana leaves. The purpose was to see if any visitors were walking along the river’s banks, coming up towards our house. My grandmother had her own way of predicting if we’d receive visitors—in the kitchen, if the flames produced a sound, then a guest would be arriving that day.
The reason we so looked forward to visitors was that they’d come laden with biscuits, noodles, chocolates, or fruits like apples and grapes—all of which were rare, delicious treats for village kids like me.
But without visitors from outside, we were stuck with corn, whether we liked it or not. But personally, I never felt bored of the same lunch. My grandmother, who is no longer with us, would sometimes prepare bread, selroti, puwa, haluwa and lattey (sweet rice), but that was rare. Corn was our daily tiffin, as it grew abundantly in our fields. My grandmother, who used to be the sole authority in the kitchen, would sometimes make rice out of corn, but that I never liked.
As a kid, there were advantages of having roasted corn for a snack. You could go out to play by stuffing your pockets with the hard kernels of roasted corn. We’d make sure to wear pants or shorts with multiple pockets, so each could hold a handful. During Dashain, my father, who knew of our proclivities, would make sure to buy clothes with extra pockets, and on the day of tika, those pockets would be filled with coins, and one and five rupee notes. On other days, the pockets would either hold corn or marbles.
Corn was pervasive during my school days. In our classroom, friends would come to school with pockets full of maize, and during class hours, we would put our head under our desk, or block our faces with a textbook and try to eat the corn without making a sound. But our teachers could always recognise the smell, even if there wasn’t a sound. We’d then get sent to the principal’s office or out of class.
During breaks, we’d play a game of corn. Everyone who had brought corn from home would stand in a circle with the roasted kernels in our hands. We’d throw them up as high as we could and try to catch as many as we could in our mouths. Whoever could catch the most corn in their mouths was the winner.
Two decades later, biscuits, bread, noodles, all manner of fruits and soft drinks are now easily available in Pakhurichwok on the banks of the Thado Khola, just down the road from my home.
But I am now in Kathmandu and those biscuits, noodles and bread that I once craved have lost their appeal. Instead, I have started to yearn for corn and moi. My mother, who still lives in Barlanchi, knows this. So, everytime I go home, she packs some roasted corn with fresh ghee and salt to take back to Kathmandu. Even my relatives, when they come to Kathmandu, come laden with roasted corn.
Come to my room and you will find airtight jars of roasted corn so that they remain fresh. And whenever I eat them, the crunch and the smell takes me back—to my village, my friends, the smell of freshly-turned soil and that game of football played with a sock.