Monsoon Diary (3 page)

I was firmly convinced that among all her grandchildren, I was her favorite. I was her first grandchild, and she took great pleasure in bathing me, dressing me up, perfuming and powdering me, kissing me silly, and telling me stories to make me laugh. There is a Tamil word,
paasam,
which refers to bonds of blood that are nurtured by time into an irrational, all-consuming love. That is what I felt for my grandmother, an attachment that began when I was a baby and was strengthened by her affection for me.

My grandfather called my grandmother Ponnu, which is akin to calling someone Goldie. The name alluded to her fair skin, unusual in South India. My grandfather was tall, bald, and dark, his color contrasting starkly with the white clothes he always wore. When my grandparents walked together, they looked like salt and pepper.

I called my grandmother Nalla-ma, which means “good mother,” and my grandfather Nalla-pa. I’m not sure how I came up with those names, but I think of them now as a measure of how happy I was with my grandparents.

MY GRANDFATHER DOTED on me too. I saw little of him, since he was busy at the clinic with his patients. But he came home for lunch, a light meal of rice,
rasam,
and a couple of vegetable curries. I would sit in his lap and watch him eat, begging for choice morsels with upturned chin and eager smile. He always yielded, giving me sips of
rasam
and pieces of fried
papadam,
in spite of my grandmother’s admonition that these were not suitable for a toddler.

The author with her grandmother, Nalla-ma.

Like all Indians, my grandfather ate with his right hand, using his fingers to mash the rice with the
rasam
into an oatmeal-like mixture. Then he mixed the vegetable curry with the
rasam
rice before popping the whole thing into his mouth.

As I got older, I began to appreciate eating with my hands, which allowed me to savor the warm food through pliant fingers rather than a cold, hard fork or spoon. In fact, Indians believe that hands add flavor to food. When an Indian wants to compliment a person’s culinary skills, he doesn’t simply say “She is a good cook.” He says that “she has good scent in her hands.” Just as a green thumb raises healthy plants, scented hands cook tasty meals.

My grandfather invariably ended his lunch with yogurt and rice mixed together, to which he would add a little vegetable curry. Then he did something I thought curious. He would pick out the black mustard seeds, cumin, fenugreek, and other spices that specked the white landscape of yogurt, hold them between his thumb and middle finger, and flick them deftly from his plate. Why he objected to these spices, I don’t know and didn’t think to ask. Perhaps they interfered with the antiseptic whiteness of pure yogurt, perhaps his tolerance for spices was low, or perhaps he was merely following his father’s or grandfather’s example. Whatever the reason, a colony of spices would encircle my grandfather’s plate after each meal.

Nalla-pa would lean back in his chair, belch heartily, and tweak my cheek. In spite of himself, his eyes would return to the small circular vessel containing my grandmother’s
rasam.
As a doctor, he didn’t want to overeat, but as a husband he couldn’t resist his wife’s food. Suppressing a smile, my grandmother would ladle some more
rasam
into a tumbler and hand it to him.

“It’s a chilly day,” she would say to make him feel better. “Much better to end the meal with warm
rasam
instead of cold yogurt.”

Nodding gratefully, my grandfather would tilt the tumbler and empty the
rasam
into his mouth. Not once did the tumbler touch his lips. Indians of my parents’ and grandparents’ generation never sipped—they thought it unsanitary to be spreading germs by sipping cups, even if the dishes were washed afterward. Instead they used tumblers with rims to pour coffee, tea, water, or
rasam
down their throat.

I would watch my grandfather’s Adam’s apple bob as he aimed the
rasam
into his mouth and swallowed continuously without closing his lips.
Glug, glug, glug.

My grandmother made spectacular
rasam:
a mild yellow lentil broth enlivened by tangy tomatoes and fragrant cilantro. While
rasam
is typically made with tomatoes, other ingredients can be substituted as well. After my brother was born, my mother was given
rasam
with mashed garlic to increase the flow of her breast milk. Anyone who got a cold was fed
rasam
with fresh-ground pepper to open the sinuses. When the monsoon ravaged the red earth of Coimbatore and sent streams of water shivering down the drain, my grandmother puréed rice with
rasam
and topped it with a dollop of warm ghee. I would sit by the windowsill and watch the swaying trees arch under sheets of rain while my aunt spooned the
rasam-
rice mixture into my mouth.

Good
rasam
is the vegetarian equivalent of chicken soup—a comfort food that perfumes the air and soothes the soul. To this day, everyone in my family measures their
rasam
against my grandmother’s and falls short.

RASAM

A heartwarming comfort food that South Indians eat with rice as a first or second course accompanied by vegetable curries,
rasam
is served in America as a starter soup on a winter night. I offer a diluted version as a hot drink with appetizers or fried
papadam
.

SERVES 6

1 cup
toovar dal
(red gram dal)
2 teaspoons olive or canola oil
4 plum tomatoes, chopped
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon asafetida
1 teaspoon
rasam
powder (available at Indian grocery stores)
1 teaspoon tamarind concentrate (available as Tamcon in Indian grocery stores)
1 teaspoon ghee
1/2 teaspoon black mustard seeds
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
Chopped fresh cilantro

In a heavy 1-quart saucepan, cook the dal at a bare simmer in 3 cups of water until most of the water has evaporated and the dal has the consistency of a paste, 40 to 45 minutes, stirring frequently during last 15 minutes to prevent scorching. You can also cook the dal in a pressure cooker until it is soft, about 20 minutes.

Pour the oil into a 2-quart vessel, and heat over a medium flame. Add the chopped tomatoes, salt, turmeric, asafetida, and
rasam
powder, and sauté until the tomatoes are soft. Add 3 cups water and
stir in the tamarind paste. Cover and bring to a boil. Simmer uncovered, stirring occasionally, for about 5 minutes.

Add the dal paste and 2 cups water to the tomatoes, stirring to
incorporate. Bring the
rasam
to a boil, stirring occasionally. The
rasam
should be the consistency of thin soup.

Heat the ghee in a small skillet, then add the mustard and cumin
seeds. When the mustard seeds start sputtering, pour the oil mixture into the
rasam.

Garnish with chopped cilantro sprigs.

THREE

Sun-Dried Vegetables
on the Roof

ALTHOUGH MY GRANDPARENTS WERE devout Hindus, they strongly believed in a Catholic education minus its religious instruction. When I turned three, my grandparents enrolled me at a nearby preschool called Avila Convent. I went there for a couple of hours each day and spent the remainder of the time at home with my grandparents.

Sometimes I accompanied my grandfather to his clinic. He set me up behind a large wooden table and gave me his stethoscope, plastic droppers, and sample-sized medicine bottles to play with. The nurses indulged me by becoming patients and letting me poke and press their hands. I could hear Nalla-pa in the adjoining room, questioning patients and dispensing an array of colored tablets for various ailments. His ability to cure pains and illnesses seemed magical. All through my childhood, I believed that I was going to become a doctor and take over Nalla-pa’s clinic, until a high school biology class convinced me otherwise.

Most of the time, however, I stayed home with my grandmother. She taught me how to cut vegetables with a blunt knife, clean corners without skimping on disinfectant, and spice food with a liberal hand. “Use your fingers to add spices; only then will the food carry the scent of your hands,” she said. We talked a lot, or rather she talked and I listened. She would discuss the day’s problems, include me in her reveries, or make fun of the neighbors.

Nalla-ma delighted in performing hilarious imitations of her neighbors, most of whom she cordially disliked. She was sure that one of her neighbors was bribing the servants to extract household gossip; another was funneling away the city water that belonged to her. She had feuds with everyone in the neighborhood.

Once, she became suspicious that a neighbor was stealing coconuts from her trees and decided to set up a booby trap to catch him in his criminal act. That evening Nalla-ma and I went up to the roof to count the coconuts on the trees. I could barely count to ten, but that didn’t faze Nalla-ma. She gave me a bunch of stones and told me to place one stone down on the roof every time I counted ten coconuts. Although I didn’t realize it then, it was my first math lesson.

After several recounts, we agreed that there were sixty-six coconuts spread among six trees. Then Nalla-ma stirred up a black, tarlike concoction that she smeared on each of the coconuts with a broom tied to a long stick. It was made from a poison ivy–like plant, guaranteed to cause itching and rashes. “Let him try to steal my coconuts now,” she said darkly, even though no theft was ever discovered.

In all her interactions with me, my grandmother presented herself with ruthless honesty, almost in spite of herself. In this age of political correctness when most people are afraid to voice their opinions and are guarded even with family, Nalla-ma stood out as someone who revealed herself completely, warts and all. What greater gift could she have given to the all-absorbing mind of her first grandchild?

EVERY MORNING I woke up to the sound of my grandmother shouting at Maariamma, our maid. Maariamma was a widow of indeterminate age and erratic bladder control, with whom Nalla-ma had a testy love-hate relationship. In Hindu mythology Maariamma is a fierce, vindictive goddess, who inflicted smallpox and chickenpox on errant devotees and accepted blood offerings as sacrifice. Our own Maari, as we called her, was the complete opposite of the goddess for whom she was named. A dark, wrinkled woman with gray hair and no teeth, Maari accepted the abuse that Nalla-ma heaped on her with cheerful equanimity.

Nalla-ma viewed Maari with a combination of irritation and suspicion. It infuriated her that of all the maids in our neighborhood, old Maari was the only one she could get. She had tried employing younger, more efficient maids, but they always quit, sometimes after dramatic tirades and always in the middle of a job, because they couldn’t stand Nalla-ma’s harsh tongue and meager wages. “Just my luck to be stuck with a half-wit that nobody will employ,” Nalla-ma muttered. “And one that isn’t even a proper Hindu.”

Every now and then Maari appeared for work clad in a sparkling white cotton sari and a matching scarf around her hair. We knew that the sisters from Avila Convent had been at work again. Whenever a Catholic priest arrived from abroad, the sisters went into missionary overdrive, converting the neighborhood poor to Christianity with offers of clothes, food, books, and money. Our Maari was one of the many who lined up outside the church, tempted by the pristine white garments that the sisters handed out and the envelopes of cash that she needed so badly. But she always reverted back to Hinduism after a few days, preferring her dime-sized
bindi
and colorful saris to the Spartan clothes of newly converted Christians. Apparently, her Christianity commanded a higher price than the sisters could afford.

While even I—a four-year-old—could see that Maari had many shortcomings as a housekeeper, she had one redeeming quality: she was an expert at making
vatrals
and
vadams,
dried dehydrated vegetables such as okra, cluster beans, and eggplant that are pickled, sun-dried, and stored for the winter. In taste and texture, they are like chips.

To Nalla-ma’s chagrin, Maari was better at making
vatrals
than she was, for it required finesse and patience, both of which Nalla-ma had in short supply. So Nalla-ma ceded the role to Maari, whose main occupation in the summer months was to make and store large quantities of
vatrals,
which Nalla-ma then packed and sent to her sons, daughter, nieces, and nephews. When my parents came to visit, as they often did, they always returned with bags of
vatrals
and
vadams.

COME JUNE, Nalla-ma, Maari, and I set off to the bazaar to buy large quantities of whatever vegetable was in season and therefore cheap. This wasn’t a simple exercise because Nalla-ma’s favorite shopkeeper, Raju, whom she bullied into giving her the best bargains, took flight the moment he saw her, for he knew her haggling ways. So we took a long, circuitous route to the market that deposited us behind Raju’s stall. Then we crept around and ambushed him.

“Ah, you have come,” Raju said resignedly when Nalla-ma sprang up before him like a genie. “My income today is going to be cut in half.”

“What are you saying, Raju?” Nalla-ma chided. “I am your best customer. Who else will buy such large quantities of vegetables from you?”

“And who else will give those vegetables to you at such a low price?” Raju replied without missing a beat.

They went back and forth a bit before Nalla-ma demanded in a businesslike tone, “So, what is in season today? I need four kilos, so you better give me the best of what you have.”

“The okra and carrots are good,” Raju mumbled. “But leave some for my other customers.”

Raju was a thin, curly-haired man with a protruding jawbone and a permanent worried crease on his forehead. As Nalla-ma picked through his vegetables, she kept up a lighthearted banter while slipping a few extra carrots into her shopping bag. Cheating Raju out of vegetables gave her inordinate glee, because she was convinced he charged her extra. “He thinks that just because I am an old woman, I have no sense of how much things cost,” she muttered as she scooped up kilos of okra, green chiles, and bittergourd. We hauled the vegetables home in a smoke-belching, auto rickshaw that Nalla-ma hired for her market trips.

Back at home Nalla-ma and Maari went into overdrive. A chart hanging on the kitchen wall served as their manual. On it Nalla-ma made a list of vegetables with cryptic notations next to each. “Okra— first batch, inferior variety: Bought June 16. Soured June 18. Roofed June 20. Stored in light blue plastic container on June 24. Not yet moved to pantry.”

Making
vatrals
was a three-step process, and each step took time. The vegetables were washed, then sprinkled liberally with rock salt and placed in a covered vessel so that the salt would draw out the water. The next day the water was drained and the vegetables were soaked in sour yogurt, which is to
vatrals
what vinegar is to pickles—it gives the flavor. Once the vegetables had absorbed some of the sour yogurt flavor, which took another twenty-four hours, they were taken upstairs to our roof and spread out to dry in the sun for two days.

At the peak of the
vatral
season, Nalla-ma had several processes under way at the same time, which was why the chart was invaluable. Every inch of space in the kitchen was given up to
vatrals.
On the counter were several vessels of yogurt at various stages of fermentation. Each vessel had a color-coded paper label so that the yogurt could be monitored for peak sourness. If left too long, it would curdle and become rancid; if used too soon, the vegetables would not acquire the right sour taste and flavor.

After soaking the vegetables in sour yogurt, Maari and I put them in large, square pieces of muslin and carried them up to the roof to dry. Once the vegetables turned crumbly dry and brittle with not a drop of water in them, they were stored in tall, multicolored plastic bins. A few days into the
vatral-
making process, my grandfather protested that the whole house smelled of sour yogurt, an odor that wouldn’t dissipate till the fall.

IN JULY the wind changed. The days were still fiery, but the afternoon thunderstorms carried a whiff of the monsoon rains that would soon invade South India. The heat of the day combined with the afternoon showers made vegetables ripen quicker, sometimes skipping the tender interim stage that was so crucial for making
vatrals.
In the market Raju lamented over his hard vegetables and high prices. The pickings were slim, and by mid-July Nalla-ma and Maari deemed the
vatral
season over. It was time to clean up and finish operations before embarking on making
vadams,
waferlike rice-flour chips that didn’t need vegetables to provide their flavor.

Unlike the slow, deliberate, multistep process of making
vatrals,
vadam
making was more spontaneous, like a brush stroke, and had to be done all at once. This speed suited Nalla-ma’s personality, and she took charge from poor Maari, who was reduced to being the sidekick and assembling the ingredients.

First Maari hand-pounded the rice in our ancient, heavy stone grinder. There were enough flour mills in town, but Nalla-ma insisted that hand-pounded rice flour gave the
vadams
a nice crunch, whereas milled flour was too fine and lacked texture. Maari insisted that Nalla-ma was making her hand-pound the rice not for its texture but to torture her. Wisely, she refrained from saying this in front of Nalla-ma.

Our grinding stone had been given to my grandmother by her parents as part of her dowry, and she bragged that the ancient granite had been quarried and seasoned up north, where the quality was better. The knobby black stone had a cylindrical hole in the center, into which Maari poured small quantities of raw white rice. In her hand was a long wooden pounding stick capped with a thick iron cylinder at its base. With the steady, graceful movements of a dancer, Maari lifted the stick high and dropped it down on the rice with a dull thud. I squatted on the floor and watched the rise and fall of the stick, hypnotized by its rhythm and fascinated by how easily Maari dropped the stick in the center of the hole right on top of the rice instead of hitting the sides. The earthy perfume of ground rice filled the air, lulling me into a contented somnolence. Every now and then Maari would pause and I would dip my ladle in to stir the rice around. After an hour of pounding, the rice took on a grainy yet soft texture that I haven’t been able to duplicate with any of the modern gadgets that litter my kitchen these days.

On
vadam
day Nalla-ma woke up at 4:00 A.M. Maari had been asked to sleep at our house the previous night, and we roused her from her slumber. Nalla-ma brewed a pot of hot, strong coffee. We trooped up to the roof carrying bins of rice flour, tapioca, spices, buckets of water, and two portable kerosene stoves.

While Maari cranked the temperamental stove to get it going, Nalla-ma mixed all the ingredients in an iron wok and rapidly folded in the oil until the mixture became a slick, gleaming dough that didn’t stick to the sides. When the dough reached a pasty consistency, Maari doused the stove with water and Nalla-ma removed the heavy wok to let it cool.

By then the sun was coming up. My grandfather and I were conscripted into action. We took spoonfuls of the white
vadam
paste and quickly spread it into a circle on the cloth. We had to work rapidly, since the paste would harden if we didn’t use it up right away. By seven o’clock we had taken all the paste and flattened it into
vadams.
They were thin and would dry quickly. By the end of the day, we could empty them into the bins to deep-fry later. These
vadam
fritters were the perfect accompaniment to a South Indian meal. To this day, when I bite into a crisp
vadam
or
vatral,
I think of my grandmother’s intent face and rapid calligraphic movements as she cajoled, rolled, and shaped a simple rice-flour mixture into a delicious treat.