Locomotoring

This is a story surrounding a young Rangpur lime tree that is growing in our courtyard. Some might know the name Rangpur from Tanqueray Rangpur Lime gin. It turns out that this lime is from my ancestral land.

In Bengal, we have a lime called Gandhraj, literally translates to the king of fragrance. The closest it comes to is the smell of thai lime leaves. But the fruit is smooth skinned. Like thai lime, it isn’t juicy. But unlike thai lime, it is the fruit of Gandhraj that has culinary uses. Bengali food tastes the best when eaten with your fingers (link). A single fruit of Gandhraj can be cut into quarters or six pieces and shared by the entire family. The fruit is squeezed with your fingers leaving the amazing aroma on the plate and on your fingers. Every time you bring your food to your mouth, the fragrance of Gandhraj causes a palate cleansing effect.

In my mom’s kitchen, Gandhraj pairs most commonly with masoor daal (red lentil). Unlike the punchier daals from north of India, Bengali daals are simpler affair. Masoor daal cooks quickly. Add a simple tadka, say cumin or mustard, with a few aromats, say green chillies, and ginger, and we are good to go. So, Gandhraj comes along and adds the fresh notes without adding a sour flavor.

A dish where Gandhraj is the king is called Panta Bhaat. The story I was told is that panta bhaat was invented in times of famine. Cooked rice, often leftover from those who could afford, was fermented in water. The resulting concoction, with a texture of congee, was then eaten by those who couldn’t afford. Eaten at room temperature, the fermented rice was mixed with salt, green chillies and muddled with Gandharaj. It was easy on the stomach during our hot summer months and the watery concoction filled one up. The fermentation aided sleep. Our family loved Panta Bhaat. Mostly because, multi-course Bengali meals could get tiring meal after meal, particularly during summer months. I am told that Panta Bhaat is now served in fancy restaurants. And that annoys me. Why?

My first attempt at replicating the quintessential flavor of Gandharaj was to grow a thai lime tree. My thai lime had started its life in a pot in an apartment balcony over two decades ago. Now it grows tall in my yard. I love my thai lime tree. I use the leaves profusely. I salt ferment the fruit and use it for pickles. I lightly squeeze the lime juice in curries. But there is no squeezing the lime with my fingers on my masoor daal, the pith has a bitter flavor that lingers on fingers and nose. My latest attempt to replicate the Gandharaj is a dwarf Rangpur lime, dwarf because we didn’t want the tree to take over the stamp sized courtyard.

The other day, a friend had come by and she had wondered about the lime. She knew the prior occupant in the courtyard, a maple that has since been transplanted to the shady spot under the oak. The maple had got too unwieldy for the spot. I wanted to explain why the choice of a dwarf lime. The Gandhraj story is so long in my head that I decided to condense the story and tell her that the lime variety was from my ancestral land.

What I hadn’t realized is that in saying so, I had made a wish and that wish came true.

This is the second season for my Rangpur lime tree and the young tree is covered in small limes. I was telling my mom that I was attempting yet again to grow a lime similar to Gandhraj and that internet was convinced that Rangpur lime, a mandarin and citron hybrid from Bangladesh, is it. To that she responded that her grandfather was an influential zamindar (land owner) in Rangpur district. He was an attorney working for the Maharaja of Rangpur.

I dug deeper and found references to court cases where my great grandfather was involved. I was expecting to read about cases where he represented the Maharaja. Instead I found cases where he was the defendant or plaintiff. One case in 1919 where he was a plaintiff was more interesting than the rest. It was a temple land dispute. He had purchased a land, and when he had tried to take possession, he had run into a dispute. The early 1900 court language was rather hard to parse, so Gemini came to rescue. Here is what I gathered.

The claim was that the person who sold it was a trustee and a trustee wasn’t allowed to just sell off temple property unless there is a dire “legal necessity” (like fixing a collapsing temple roof), which wasn’t the case here. Therefore, my great grandfather’s purchase was void.

My great grandfather had appealed to the Calcutta High Court after losing in a lower court battle.

The High Court judge had found that the 1729 deed stated that the land was given to a man for the worship of “God”, to be enjoyed from generation to generation. The High Court then noted a critical flaw: It named “God,” but it didn’t name a specific deity.

Under Hindu law (now? back in the early 1900s?), apparently you can dedicate property to a deity even if the physical idol hasn’t been built or consecrated yet. However, you must name the specific deity (e.g., Shiva, Vishnu, Kali, Durga) so the court knows exactly who the trust is meant to benefit. A broad, generic dedication to “God” is void due to uncertainty. The court literally cannot guess which of the many Hindu deities the original giver had in mind. Because the original 1729 deed failed to create a valid religious trust, the land was never legally “God’s” property. Instead, it simply belonged to the family as private property. Consequently, the person who inherited that land and sold it to my great grandfather had a perfectly legal right to do so. The High Court overturned the lower court’s decision and ruled entirely in favor of my great grandfather, granting him full ownership of the land.

This case reminded me of Trevor Noah’s routine about the British colonization of India (link)—featured in Afraid of the Dark.

In the end, the fact that my great grandfather was a land owner, possibly a privileged and clever one, didn’t matter. My great grandmother became a widow at the age of 18 and had to emigrate when the British partitioned the Bengal between east and west. Rangpur remained in east Bengal, now Bangladesh. She lived a long life, it was very hard when she was young and she rarely spoke when she grew old (link).

What won’t change is that the Rangpur lime tree, growing in my courtyard is from my ancestral land. It is yet to be verified if the tree is indeed the Gandhraj of my childhood days.