The Konkani Sambharḍe (or Sāmarḍe) is the regional wooden spice container of the western coast of India. It is carved from a single block of wood, with the compartments hollowed out one by one. The craftsmanship isn’t decorative; it’s structural. The wood has lasted for decades. The beauty of the box is that it breathes – it lets the spices stay dry without trapping moisture inside.
Many of these objects – the Dori Danda, the Sev Sancha, the Hamam Dasta – are no longer used, but sometimes I find myself using them intentionally, just to remember my grandmother. At first, I was drawn to moments where we were together in the kitchen, the small rituals. Over time that turned into an interest in the kitchen itself.
One of the most integral parts of the wedding day is the card, and it became important and special at my parents’ wedding too. Both sides created their own wedding card. But what is fascinating is a short message, handwritten on the card in black ink by my mum, addressed to my father!
Thakuma making kaanthas, the cotton spreads on which babies are laid or swaddled, made from layers of the soft cloth of old sarees and dhotis, stitched together, then embroidered using the simple kaantha stitch, tiny lines of colourful threads running across the fabric. Like the life-lines drawn from far away Khulna and Mymensingh – the origin points of her life.
An old album of photographs, likely taken between 1970 and 1985, is one of the few things I keep in my room from my grandmother’s working years as a Gram Sevika in Kakopothar. Somehow, it has become what I hold onto most.
I have met my grandfather through his quirks and collectibles – books ranging from the theatre of the absurd to Rumi’s philosophical ruminations, silver votives carved with exquisite care, sea shells with his and his wife’s names engraved on them, Dutch wall paper borders extending to 24 feet long, ebony wood chillums never used, and playing cards printed with astounding clarity. My entire childhood was spent finding little treasures all over the house, and invariably, when asked, I was told they belonged to my grandfather, CR Das.
Receive a new story from somewhere in the Indian subcontinent in your inbox every week!