Khavaan Maa and Her Bowl Full of Butter
Hemlata Chauhan fondly recalls her childhood in Surachand, a quiet village of Rajasthan, filled with simple joys and age-old traditions.
In the smaller chowk of my ancestral home, a metal kadi clings to the wall, inconspicuous beneath layers of yellow paint. If you don’t look closely, you’ll miss it. And even if you did notice it, you wouldn't know why it was there. One might even mistake it for a flaw, a misplaced hook, an afterthought. Like somebody put it there but forgot to give it a function. But it did have a job and it served us very well.
A thick rope looped through the kadi, its other end fastened to a ghariya– a sturdy wooden stick, almost like an oversized whisk– submerged in a matki of fresh chaas (buttermilk). It was a setup older than anyone in the house, a quiet machine of muscle memory.
Khavaan maa would sit in front of this old school manual machinery, pulling each end of a different piece of rope around the ghariya, with a rhythmic back-and-forth motion, churning, making us fresh butter every alternate morning for breakfast. Her hunched figure, sweet little eyes, and the way she carried herself, always called Maa, never Kaki (aunty), made me realise that I have only ever known her as an old woman. No one knows her real age, but then most of the older generation that lives in villages don’t.
She could be eighty, her hands having cared for and partly raised my father. She could be ninety, with her stories of seeing my grandmother arrive as a bride in this house for the first time. Her presence, her soft, plump figure moving swiftly through the house, through the chowk and kitchen, with an ease that only time can grant, was a reassurance that even after the passing of my grandparents, there is an older, wiser being for me to go and cry to.
No matter her age, her hands remained sturdy, strong and skilled in ways I could never match. While she did her morning routine of bilona, my father would set us up a chattai (mat) in the varanda. And our breakfast spread would look something like this: day old sogra or bajri ki roti, a small bowl of salt, another of red chilli powder. The only thing missing would be the makkhan (white butter).
Khavaan Maa, still at her bilona setup, would judge the moment when the froth was no longer just froth, when it had churned enough to become makkhan. With the edge of her index finger, she would carefully gather the butter from the sides of the buttermilk in the matka, then with a sharp flick of the wrist, she would drop it into a small steel bowl. She repeated this over and over, collecting every bit, until the katori was full. Or until my impatience got the better of me, at which point, she would simply place the freshly churned makkhan in the center of the chattai, surrendering to eager anticipation.
And then came the plating– sogra, topped with as much makkhan as I could take without being greedy, finished with a pinch of salt and chilli.
As a child, I never thought much of it. This was just the way things were, breakfast laid out, hands that worked without hesitation, people and their involvement in my life that felt as natural as breathing. But I never shared this with my city school peers either. Because who would understand? Who would see this daily ritual and grasp the weight of small acts, the mastery of hands that had done this for a lifetime, the quiet generosity of those who fed us? This fear of being labelled a gau wali manifested itself in my psyche because I never truly lived in my village and as a result I did not realise the importance of what was around me. It is a place so small that its entire population was fewer than the number of students in my school. So, what kids around me would truly understand the richness of it all and not think it “rural” ultimately meaning uncouth?
In the Jalore district of Rajasthan, often referred to as a dark zone because of scarcity, anyone with the means would send their children away to study, to build a future elsewhere. But the few times a year I returned, I was surrounded by the entire village. Our pol (gates) was never closed, and every community moved in and out of our home like it was their own. My little brother and I eagerly awaited these visits, where these routines brought together people from across the village, along with a gang of children who became our playmates for the season.
Khavaan Maa, the oldest member of the Nai (barber) community in our village, and her family have been closely tied to mine for generations. The women came to our house every other day to do bilona, while the men oversaw all things auspicious, lighting diya-batti for the gods, standing guard beside the bride or the groom throughout the wedding festivities, ensuring every ritual was carried out with precision. Ours was just one of many families in the village that depended on these relationships. From the simplest aarti in our home to a grand feast, from caring for the sick to the smallest daily tasks, none of it would be possible without the love and consideration of those around us. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t lived in such a world could truly understand that for a single family to exist and thrive, it really does take a village.
I recently visited Maa at her house. She can barely hear now, and our hour-long conversation looked less like talking and more like a screaming match. My throat burned from a terrible sinus infection after days of roaming in the Rajasthani heat, but we didn’t stop and she refused to let go of my hands the entire time.
She spoke about how nothing in this world could keep her from coming to our house and seeing everyone, except that she is simply too old to walk now. The sun dipped, casting long shadows around us, as if trying to stretch time just a little longer. As I reluctantly took my leave, her frail hands squeezed mine one last time. I walked away with a heart so heavy it felt like it could crush atoms.
I do not mean to brag, but I grew up insanely rich and maa is proof of that.
