“Kuch Kha Lijiye” — A Journey Through Warmth and Memories of Extended Family

As Mini and I stepped into Pankaj Bhaiya’s house in Kalka, I was immediately struck by the sight of two graceful ladies, standing with warm smiles to greet us. With folded hands, they offered a gentle Namaste. I knew one of them was Pankaj Bhaiya’s wife and the other was Manoj’s (John’s) wife—but I could not tell who was who.

I looked back, hoping someone would rescue me from my confusion. Pankaj Bhaiya and John were busy arranging our luggage. There was no one to introduce us.

And then—like sunshine breaking through a cloudy morning—I spotted my Boudi (my elder brother Mejda’s wife from Ahmedabad) beaming at me with a smile that reached from ear to ear.

“Billoo bhai!” she exclaimed, rushing toward me with open arms. I hugged her with the same affection I always had.

“Inse bhi gale mil le,” John said from behind, chuckling. “Yeh teri Bhabhi Kshama hai. Aur yeh Pankaj Bhaiya ki wife hai—Neelam.”

Mystery solved.

As I sank into the sofa, a plate of poha landed in front of me, lovingly offered by Neelam Bhabhi. “Aaiye bhaiya, kuch kha lijiye,” she said, nudging the plate toward me.

Rumjhum, my nephew’s wife, chirped in, “Uncle, this is very delicious.”

That one phrase—”kuch kha lijiye”—followed us like a musical refrain throughout our Himachal trip. Whether in Solan at Suman Bhaiya’s house or in Bittoo’s home, we were lovingly ambushed by Neelam Didi and Anju Bhabhi with this irresistible offer.

At Suman Bhaiya’s house in Solan, Neelam Didi had made a coconut sweet.
“Billoo, yeh kha,” she said, handing me the piece with care.
Moments later, she nearly shoved a bowl of gulab jamun into my hands.
“Isse bhi kha. Sharma Sweets ke hain. You used to love these when you were here. They still taste the same.”

Then came the magical masala tea – flavour and aroma the same as it used to be 40 years back. Auty used to make it and she had passed on the same magic to both her bahus Neelam Didi and Anju Bhabhi.

Neelam Didi lived near Suman Bhaiya’s house. Back in those days, when I lived in Solan, Suman Bhaiya’s house was our second home—and so, seeing Neelam Didi was a regular joy. I do not quite remember when Cupid struck—but one day, the wedding card read: “Suman weds Neelam.” People even joked: “Who’s the groom here?”

But after nearly four decades, when I met them again, time had done nothing to change the bonds. For me, they were still Suman Bhaiya and Neelam Didi—and their warmth had not changed either.

This naming turned out to be helpful. Pankaj Bhaiya’s wife was also named Neelam, so naturally she became Neelam Bhabhi to avoid confusion.

It was the first time I was meeting Kshama Bhabhi and Neelam Bhabhi. I had seen Anju Bhabhi a few times before—she is a Lucknow girl after all—and we had meet whenever Bittoo visited his sasural. But I was taken aback by how Himachali she had become. Her accent, her Hindi, her demeanor—all spoke of the hills.

“I’ve been in Solan for three decades,” she laughed. “Of course I have picked up the accent! But whenever I talk to my sister, the Lucknowi lahzaa returns.”

Two days—one in Kalka-Parwanoo and the other in Solan—became the golden pages in the diary of our Himachal tour.

When we were planning to visit Shimla, the original idea was to just make a quick stop at Kalka. But Pankaj Bhaiya would have none of it.

“Tum log aaoge aur hamare saath nahi rahoge? Yeh ho hi nahi sakta!” he said sternly. “Go to Shimla and Solan if you must—but try crossing Parwanoo without staying here!”

Suman Bhaiya also put his foot down: we had to stay in Solan for at least a night.

We hesitated—we were a group of seven and thought we’d just have a quick tea and move on.
“Nahi ho sakta!” thundered John.

That sealed the deal.

The day we arrived in Chandigarh—my brother from Ahmedabad and I from Lucknow—Suman Bhaiya drove down all the way from Solan to receive us. And when we reached Solan after Shimla, Pankaj Bhaiya joined us again from Kalka.

What followed was pure magic. After a hearty lunch and a refreshing siesta in Kalka, we were taken to Pinjore Garden. On the way back, we stopped for dinner at a rustic but delightful Saini Dhaba.

That night, at Pankaj Bhaiya’s house, a musical mela broke out. For nearly 45 minutes, we sang, laughed, clapped, and danced. John turned a table into a makeshift tabla, and we belted out songs without caring for lyrics or tune. On Helen’s famous song, “Ishq ke hazaar rang,” Pankaj Bhaiya brought the house down with a hilarious imitation of her signature moves, pelvis gyrations and all!

What was remarkable was that many of us were meeting each other for the first time—but there were no barriers, no awkwardness. It was as if we had always known each other. A true extended family, woven together by love, laughter, and bottomless plates of food.

Mini and I, on our way back, kept wondering: Did we really meet them for the first time? It did not feel like it.

The cherry on top? As we were leaving from Solan, we had a simple lunch at a roadside dhaba. We thought our bellies were full, our trip complete. But back at John’s house, we saw him frying cutlets.

“Aaja, kuch kha le,” he said cheerfully.

We protested—we were too full. But John was not one to give up easily.
“Yeh to ho hi nahi sakta. Kuch to khao!” he insisted, looking at Mini and grinning.

He pulled out a diary—a treasure trove of 200 handwritten recipes—and showed it to her.

“Bhabhi, make Billoo work in the kitchen!” he said with mock-seriousness.

To avoid being recruited as his sous-chef, I quietly helped myself to a cutlet. It was easier to eat than argue.

Even now, back in Lucknow, every time someone says “kuch kha lijiye,” my heart drifts back to the hills—to the songs, the laughter, the hugs, and above all, the affection that turned those two days into memories for a lifetime.

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