Monsoon Diary (6 page)

I would beg Annie for her vegetable stew. “Nothing else, just a spoonful of your stew,” I would plead.

Sometimes Annie feared Amina’s wrath and refused to share as well. Other times she relented and hurriedly handed me a secret spoonful. I would swirl it around my mouth as if it was a rare wine, fully savoring the rich coconut milk, soft vegetables, and the bite of chiles. I would close my eyes and swallow, trying to etch the stew into memory. After such scrumptious lunches, it was all we could do to keep awake during the afternoon classes before the school bell mercifully rang at four o’clock, loosening us home.

VEGETABLE STEW

The best stew I ate was on a houseboat (called
kettu-vellam
) in Kerala. At dawn the church bells clanged and woke me up. Mist hung low over Vembanad Lake. It felt like we were floating on a cloud. My parents were still sleeping. I stumbled to the back of the boat, drawn by the smell of piquant spices. A woman was sitting by the stove stirring some stew. She had slick, oily hair and wore a starched white
mundu
(skirt). When she saw me, she wordlessly ladled out some stew into a coconut shell and handed it to me with a smile and an
appam.
I went to the front of the boat, tore off pieces of
appam,
dipped it into the stew, and chewed. The water gurgled all around. The coconut trees swayed, stirring a gentle morning breeze. After finishing my breakfast, I returned to the back of the boat to hand my empty plate back to the woman. She had disappeared. Was she a mermaid, an angel perhaps? I don’t know.

Making stew in India used to be difficult because the coconut milk was made fresh by grating the coconuts, then blending it, then extracting the coconut milk by hand, that is, squeezing the grated coconut. The first milk, second milk, and third milk had to be separately squeezed out. As a result, my mother made this recipe only rarely, as a Sunday treat perhaps. It went well with almost anything—rice, Indian breads such as
puris
and chapatis and with
appams.
Nowadays, of course, coconut milk is widely available in cans, removing all the drudgery and preserving the taste.

SERVES 4

2 teaspoons olive or canola oil
1 small onion, thinly sliced
2 green chiles, Thai or serrano, slit in half lengthwise
4 1/4-inch slices ginger
4 garlic cloves, diced
2 medium potatoes, cubed
1 small carrot, chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
10 green beans, sliced into 1/2-inch pieces
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups coconut milk (available in cans in Asian markets)
10 curry leaves

Heat the oil in a medium-sized stainless steel vessel and sauté the onion, chiles, ginger, and garlic until the onions turn golden. Add the chopped vegetables, salt, and 1 cup water. Cover and cook over a low flame until the vegetables are soft. Stir in the coconut milk and heat until it just starts boiling. Remove from the heat. Garnish with curry leaves.

FIVE

Idlis and Coffee

“HERE,” SAID MY MOTHER, pressing a slab of asafetida into my hands. “Smell this.”

I was nine. I obeyed.

“It smells like a fart,” I blurted, wrinkling my nose as I turned over the hard, pockmarked resin in my palm.

My mother smiled approvingly, as if I had understood some fundamental cooking concept. “It is asafetida and it actually prevents farts,” she said. “You sprinkle it on gas-producing foods like beans and lentils so that they won’t give you gas. Unless you use onions, which serve the same purpose.”

We were standing in our kitchen, the mosaic-tiled floor cool against my bare feet, my mother in her starched cotton sari and me in my pig-tails and skirt, ready to flee. My mother was making yet another attempt to reveal to me the mysteries of South Indian cooking.

She recited complex rules, Indian rituals, and her own beliefs whenever she got the chance. Cumin and cardamom are arousing, so eat them only after you get married, she said. Fenugreek tea makes your hair lustrous and increases breast milk, so drink copious amounts when you have babies. Coriander seeds balance and cool fiery summer vegetables. Mustard and sesame seeds heat the body during winter. Asafetida suppresses, cinnamon nourishes, and lentils build muscles. Every feast should have the three P’s: papadam, payasam, and
pachadi—
lentil wafers, sweet pudding, and yogurt salad. A new bride should be able to make a decent
rasam.
If you cannot make
rasam,
don’t call yourself the lady of the house. And so it went.

At nine, I had little use for these niceties. The kitchen was merely a place I darted into between aiming catapults at sleepy chameleons or fighting with the boys over a cricket ball.

Mornings were the worst. It was the time when my mother cooked the day’s breakfast and lunch and needed the most help. Breakfast in our home—or, for that matter, most homes in India—wasn’t simply a matter of popping in a slice of toast or slurping some cereal. No, for us it was hot
idlis
or
dosas.

My mom would steam
idlis,
rice-and-lentil dumplings, in the pressure cooker and open it with a
pouf
of steam just as we came into the kitchen. As we watched round-eyed, she would determinedly stay in place while the steam swirled around her glistening face. “I get a free facial every time I make
idlis,
” my mother boasted as she emerged. “Why waste the steam?”

Idlis
are made from a rice-and-lentil batter that is allowed to ferment for a day. It is a simple recipe with sensational results. I have never eaten a good
idli
in America, although countless Indian restaurants offer them. American
idlis
are hard and lack a tangy sourdough taste. For good
idlis,
you have to go to my hometown. If you’re lucky, a South Indian will invite you home for breakfast, and there you will encounter the authentic, spongy
idli
in all its glory. Or you can become your own expert
idli
maker.

MY FATHER, MEANWHILE, was obsessing over his morning coffee. In that he was no different from the average TamBram, a member of the Tamil Brahmin community. TamBrams speak Tamil and are Brahmins. Although caste has become a bad word in India and America, it was—and still is—an important part of the way Indians define themselves. Certain words can envelop an entire community and connote all its nuances, including food, clothing, religion, lifestyle, and even intelligence.

We TamBrams, the stereotype goes, are risk-averse, bookish, and brainy. We also have a fetish for coffee. Not instant coffee and never tea, but “pure” South Indian coffee decocted through a brass filter and mixed with boiled milk and a touch of sugar.

My father’s own coffee ministrations began at our local Leo Coffee House, where he went to buy coffee. While most families ended up buying preground coffee powder, Dad carefully selected raw coffee beans and demanded that they be roasted before his eyes. The coffee man, a long-suffering soul whom my father called Leo (after his shop), was considerably irked by the fact that he had served my dad for over a decade but still hadn’t gained his trust.

“I am roasting and grinding over one hundred pounds of coffee per day, and still your father thinks I don’t know my job,” he said bitterly every time he saw me.

“That Leo is color-blind,” Dad would retort when I mentioned Leo’s grievances. “The coffee has to be roasted so that it is in between brown and black. If it is brown, it is underroasted and won’t give enough decoction; if it is black, the coffee will have a burnt flavor. It has to be perfectly roasted between brown and black, and Leo can never get it right.”

The moment he got up, even before brushing his teeth, Dad would light the stove and boil a kettle of water. And there I would find him with his tongue sticking out as he carefully measured two spoonfuls of coffee powder into the brass filter and poured boiling water over it.

A smell can carry a memory, and certain foods can compress the memory of an entire childhood into them. The tastes and smells of my childhood were the twin bastions of TamBram cooking: idlis and coffee. My mother made the softest
idlis
I have ever eaten, while my father’s affection for coffee probably accounts for my own devotion to it.

As the coffee decoction dripped, Dad would busy himself getting the
davara
tumbler ready. Dad’s
davara
was like a miniature stainless steel Crock-Pot with a lip that made pouring easy. The tumbler was a stainless steel glass with a lip. Dad would pour the decoction into the
davara,
then mix in some piping hot milk until it turned caramel in color. He would measure exactly half a spoon of sugar, enough to remove the bitterness without adding any unnecessary sweetness. Then the real drama began.

Dad would pour the steaming coffee from the tumbler into the
davara
and gradually increase the distance between the two so that the coffee frothed and spread its pleasant aroma throughout the room. Back and forth he would pour, arching a hand above his head and another by his hip. The coffee would fizz and froth and dance until its surface was covered with moonlike craters and bubbles. Only then would my father take a satisfying sip of his favorite beverage.

After breakfast and coffee—diluted with plenty of milk for us children—it was time for school. My brother and I went in a cycle rickshaw, somewhat like a carriage but pulled by a man on a cycle instead of a horse. The rickshaw man would pull up to our front door promptly at 8:30 A.M. and honk twice. His carriage was already careening with children, and by the time Shyam and I got on, it felt like a sack of potatoes that threatened to tip over at any time.

My mom would stand at the gate, wave us off, heave a sigh, and go in for her own breakfast.

AFTER BREAKFAST, my mother typically went to the bazaar. This was as much a social trip as a household necessity; it gave her a chance to catch up with the other neighborhood
maamis
(ladies), and Mom, after all, was the quintessential Madras
maami.

Maamis
are an institution in Madras. Like the New York Ladies Who Lunch, they are a breed apart, possessing certain characteristics that distinguish them from the rest of the species. The easiest way to identify a Madras
maami
is by her flashing diamonds and rustling saris. When in Madras, you will spot thousands of
maamis
ambling around carrying jute shopping bags and giant black umbrellas to ward off the sun. They all wear star-shaped diamond earrings—not circular ones and certainly not modern, dangling affairs but Belgian-cut diamonds, six on the periphery and one in the center. The nose rings follow a similarly rigid code. The one on the left nostril is triangular, while the one on the right is a simple solitaire.

Diamonds and silk saris are a
maami
’s uniform, along with a liberal dose of talcum powder, which she loves because it makes her appear fairer than she is. As the day wears on, rivulets of sweat make their way down her face, snaking through the talcum powder and giving her the appearance of a streaked Kabuki dancer. The
maami
’s simple solution: applying more talcum powder.

The sari is the only garment a
maami
will wear, whether it is to the beach, the bazaar, or the Music Academy to catch the latest classical concert. When there are power cuts, as there so frequently are in Madras, the
maami
is never at a loss. She simply pulls out a powdered handkerchief from within her blouse and waves it back and forth—a fragrant fan that drizzles talcum powder on those sitting nearby.

She wears her hair in a tightly coiled chignon—or bun as they call it in Madras—with a string of fresh jasmine around it. A bright red
bindi
on the forehead, clinking bangles on her arms, and heavy gold chains around her neck complete the regulation
maami
wear. When it comes to footwear, however, the
maami
has no clue. She will spend tens of thousands of rupees on an expensive silk sari, then wear cheap flip-flops or bulky sneakers because she thinks that spending money on any accouterment worn below the waist is a waste of money. Traditional
maamis
scorned exercise, so the sneakers were never an option. The newer crop, however, has learned about cholesterol from sons and daughters living abroad. Thanks to prodding from overly concerned offspring, these
maamis
dutifully walk up and down the beach board-walk in lieu of aerobics.

Every
maami
follows a set routine. She is up at dawn and busies herself with Hindu traditions that promote the welfare of her family. She circles the
tulsi
plant, since this holy basil will ensure the prosperity of her progeny. Her husband may be an avid gardener who grows rare jasmine and heirloom roses in Madras’s hot climate, but the
maami
is only concerned with the
tulsi
and the
karuveppalai,
or curry plant. The curry plant supplies leaves that she uses in her cooking. To paraphrase an old saying, you can take the
maami
out of Madras, but you cannot take the curry plant away from her. There are transplanted maamis who now live in Washington, D.C., growing giant curry plants inside their homes. Even the most timid
maami
will become a daring smuggler when it comes to carrying curry plants across borders.

Like all
maamis,
my mother was obsessed with her curry plants and grew several varieties all around the kitchen. Right in the middle of her cooking, she would dart outside, grab a few curry leaves, and use them as garnish. At the market she would demand a sprig of curry leaves as a bonus for all the vegetables she was buying.

Usually, my mother went to the market in our neighborhood, but sometimes she liked to go to the sprawling Pondy Bazaar in the center of Madras, where rows of stalls sold everything from plastic
bindis
to pomegranates. Pondy Bazaar came to life at noon, when Madras
maamis
finished their chores and hit the streets. They converged under the translucent awnings that filtered out sunlight, and bargained spiritedly. Pondy Bazaar had everything: tasty tangerines stacked into pyramids, ripe
sapotas
and redolent pineapples, baby greens wet with dew, juicy red tomatoes, red roses strung together into garlands, tiny white jasmine buds wrapped in banana leaves, colorful glass bangles, peacock fans, and hundreds of other kitschy household items.

By the time Mom bought her vegetables, the midday sun had climbed high in the sky. Hotel Saravana Bhavan beckoned with its tasty offerings, crisp
vadas
or
dosas,
washed down with frothy shots of coffee or fresh lime juice. Mom ended her trip by stopping at Naidu Hall, famous for its bras and “nighties,” airy nightgowns made from the softest cotton. By the time she came home and had a quick nap, we were on our way home from school.

IF I DIDN’T HAVE homework in the evening, I sometimes accompanied my mother on her shopping trips. My favorite was the Ambika Appalam Depot, a compact shop filled with hundreds of spice powders, ready-made snacks, hot vegetable puffs, and of course,
appalams,
fried lentil wafers that are perfect accompaniments for rice-based South Indian cuisine. Although Ambika made its name through the quality of its
appalams,
I liked the shop for its bread, soft warm loaves that were baked on the premises. They were small and brown, and if you asked, the two harried salesmen who took orders would slice it right there in front of your eyes and wrap it in newspaper clippings. I would take the warm bread, tear open the paper, and greedily wolf down several slices while my mother stocked up on spice powders and
appalams.

ON SATURDAY MORNINGS my parents took us to Adyar Woodlands for breakfast. Shyam and I lived for these outings. By the time we ambled over at nine o’clock, the place was already bustling. Since the owner was a friend of my dad’s, we always managed to get a table. Ordering at Woodlands or, for that matter, any family-owned restaurant in Madras was an art form. There was no written menu, and the day’s specials were scribbled on a blackboard above the cashier’s table.