The Hindi-Bindi Club (5 page)

Howdy, strangers! Long time, no see/talk. Thought I’d drop you a quick line to say: I’m home! :)

My mom had the Hindi-Bindi Club over for dinner tonight, soooooo you’re sure to get an earful from YOUR moms.

Ho-ho-ho and see you soon,
Kiran

Meenal’s Chicken Curry

SERVES 4

MARINADE:

1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast, washed and cubed

2 teaspoons fresh garlic, peeled and minced or 1 teaspoon garlic powder

2 teaspoons fresh ginger root, peeled and grated or 1 teaspoon ginger powder

½
teaspoon cayenne powder (adjust to taste)

½
teaspoon coriander powder

1 teaspoon salt (adjust to taste)

¼
teaspoon turmeric powder
^*

1. In a large glass bowl, mix together all ingredients.

2. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour, up to 24 hours maximum.

GRAVY:

2 tablespoons canola oil

1 bay leaf

1-inch cinnamon stick

4 whole cloves

2 cups yellow onion, finely chopped

½
cup tomato, chopped

3 cups water, divided ¼, ¼, ½, 1, and 1

½
teaspoon black pepper

¼
teaspoon cayenne powder (adjust to taste)

1 teaspoon coriander powder

½ teaspoon cumin powder

¼
teaspoon turmeric powder*

¾
cup fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped and divided ½, ¼

1 teaspoon garam masala*

½
teaspoon lemon juice

lemon wedges

1. Premeasure ingredients into small bowls and line them up in order of usage.

2. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat oil over medium heat. Add bay leaf, cinnamon, and cloves. Sauté 2 minutes. Add onion. Sauté until golden brown, then stir in tomato. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

3. Now you’ll thicken the gravy. Stir in ¼ cup water, cover, and simmer 3 minutes, then add another ¼ cup water.

4. Stir in black pepper, cayenne (if desired), coriander powder, cumin powder, and turmeric. Cover and simmer another 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

5. Add ½ cup water. Cover and simmer until water evaporates, stirring occasionally. Repeat with 1 cup water.

6. After water evaporates, stir in the marinated chicken, ½ cup fresh coriander, and garam masala.

7. Increase heat to medium. Cover and simmer until chicken is tender, 10–15 minutes.

8. Add remaining 1 cup water and lemon juice. Reduce heat to medium-low. Cover and simmer until gravy thickens.

9. Remove from heat. Remove bay leaf, cloves, and cinnamon stick. Pour into serving bowl. Garnish with remaining fresh coriander. Serve with lemon wedges on the side.

10. Eat with
chappatis,
or poured over rice.

*
Mom’s Tips:

         Turmeric is bright yellow and stains counters, clothes, plastic, etc. Be very careful when handling and clean spills immediately.

         For store-bought garam masala, I like the “Kitchen King” brand.

         Never, ever, under any circumstances buy “curry powder.”

Tomato Koshimbir

SERVES 4

2 cups tomato, chopped

1 cup yellow onion, chopped

¾
cup fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped and divided
½, ¼

¼
cup sour cream or plain yogurt

2 teaspoons sugar

½
teaspoon salt

1. In a bowl, combine all ingredients except ¼ cup fresh coriander. Mix well.

2. You can serve immediately or chill for up to 1 hour.

3. Before serving, garnish with remaining fresh coriander.

Preity Chawla Lindstrom: The Other Side of the World

“O
nce upon a time long, long ago, in a land far, far away,” I read the same bedtime story my four-year-old daughter Lina and three-year-old son Jack have requested every night this week. If I omit a single word, they will catch me, correct me. They have it all memorized. We three are piled in Lina’s pink-lace canopy bed. Downstairs, my husband Eric wraps up kitchen duty—I cook, he cleans, a division of domestic labor that works for both of us—and not for the first time, I give thanks for my blessings.

“Again, Mommy. Read it again,” Lina says.

“Pleeeease,” Jack says, preempting my prompt for the magic word.

“One more time, then lights out,” I say. “Deal?”

“Deal!”

“Okay, here we go…Once upon a time long, long ago, in a land far, far away…” When I reach The End for the second time, Jack’s sacked out, but Lina’s still rearing to go. Eric appears at the door, ready to provide backup.

No reneging tonight, kiddo. Mommy and Daddy have Big Plans. Eric tucks Lina in and carries Jack to his room, where he does the same. We wait until they’re
both
down for the count.

“Double-check,” I whisper. “Triple-check.” Our Lina’s a sneaky one, always coming into our bedroom, claiming to want a drink of water, or go potty, never mind that she just did.

Eric peeks into Lina’s room again and gives the thumbs-up.

Stifling our laughter like naughty kids, we sneak downstairs and into the garage.

“Man, the lengths you go to when you’re parents,” Eric says.

“Tell me about it.” I stop, bump into him. “Keys. Do you have the keys?”

He waggles his eyebrows and jingles them.

“You are
such
a stud.”

He laughs and kisses me.

“What was the first present you remember asking Santa for?” I ask.

“Lincoln Logs. You?”

“Guess.”

“Aw, don’t make me—”

“Come on, guess!”

“Ummmm…A musical jewelry box.”

“Nope.”

“A tea set.”

“Nope.”

“Gimme a hint, wife.”

“A hint, husband? Well…” I pat the trunk of my car. “You might try looking in here.”

“Oh, yeah?” He pops open the trunk and scans the kids’ goodies that we’re retrieving to wrap and rehide. “Hmmmm…” His gaze zeroes on a target. A slow grin. “A globe.”

“Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.”

Eric chuckles and shakes his head. “The things I do for love.”

“And sexual favors.”

“That, too.”

It takes a few trips to transport Santa’s loot inside. We sprawl on the floor by our Christmas tree and, from time to time, tiptoe upstairs to check on the kids. Still snug in bed? Yep. Eric passes Jack’s globe to me, so I can do the honors.

Oh, how I loved my globe, I remember as I wrap this one. I was four when Santa gave it to me. “Gifted me,” as my dad would say. He showed me where we lived and the places he and Mom were born and raised. (“Born and brought up.”)

“This is America,” Dad said. “We are here, just outside the capital, Washington, D.C.” Then he spun the globe clear around to the Other Side. He pointed to a peninsula similar to the shape of Texas—an analogy I’d make several years later—located above the Indian Ocean and below China. “This is India. Mommy and I lived just outside
that
capital, New Delhi.”

I was fascinated. Everything about geography intrigued me. Countries and capitals. Land and seas. Especially the notion of the earth being round—people living on the Other Side. My day their night, my night their day. The fact we looked up at the same sun, moon, and stars. And perhaps most mind-boggling of all: the possibility that thousands of miles beneath
my
feet walked
other people’s
feet!

Questions sprouted left and right in the fertile terrain of my mind. Why didn’t people fall off Earth the way my Fisher-Price people fell off the globe? If you dug a tunnel straight down into the ground, would you come up on the Other Side like a rabbit? (I attempted to answer this one myself and started digging a hole in the backyard, but after hitting rock after rock, I concluded any passage to India would require a bigger shovel.) And if the “rest of our family” lived on the flip side—grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins—did I have a brother or sister over there, too?

I was four. I mentioned that, right?

Well, that was twenty-nine years ago. Today I have my own preschoolers. Lina isn’t the least bit interested in globes. Hers sits atop the lavender bookcase in her room, serving the dual purpose of bookend and dust-catcher. She can’t dress it up, invite it to tea parties, or really play with it in any way—geography games don’t meet her definition of fun. It’s Jack who takes after me in this regard. He is the dreamer, the explorer, always wanting to know how things work. I’ve seen how he covets his big sister’s globe, which Lina refuses to relinquish. That sharing concept? Let’s just say we’re still working on it.

Between the two of them, I have my own homegrown, informal focus group. I’m a brand manager for a toy company, and my kids are chockful of strong, opposing opinions. The only thing on which they agree is books. Both love fairy tales, myths, and legends, as do I. I smile as I tie a ribbon around the newest additions to our library.

After Eric and I finish our tour of wrap-and-hide duty, we walk hand-in-hand to our room. This is my favorite time of all. The time when I snuggle into bed beside my husband and drift off to sleep with the knowledge I love and am loved beyond measure.

It’s been that way from the start for Eric and me. We met in graduate business school at Northwestern. He said something brilliant during the first week of marketing class. We sat in concentric, horseshoe-shaped rows, me in front, him in back. I turned to see who’d spoken and caught his eye. I smiled.
Good one.
He smiled back.
Thanks.
When he dropped his gaze to his notebook, writing something on the page, a tinge of pink flushed his cheeks, instantly endearing him to me. Smart, cute, and shy.

“I’m going out with that guy,” I whispered to my friend.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Okay, I’ll take the one next to him.”

She didn’t. I did. We still joke about it.

That Friday, at Happy Hour, I invited Eric to dinner at my place. I grilled New York strip steaks, baby red potatoes with dill and lemon butter, and summer squash. Afterward, we did our homework together and watched
Forrest Gump
as a reward. He told me later it was the best first date of his life, and he was so buzzed from our goodnight kiss, he wasn’t sure he should drive.

We were both at a point in our lives where we’d test-driven enough models to know what we wanted, and very soon, we found everything we were looking for in each other. Eric proposed during finals. We married a year later. We both found jobs that excited us in Minneapolis. Minnesota is Eric’s home state. It’s a place I never imagined I would live, but after discovering this unexpected jewel, I never want to leave.

People sometimes ask if we, or our parents, had any issues with our religious differences. The answer is no. No problems whatsoever.

I wish this was always the case. I’m glad no one asks that question, because buried down deep is a blemish I’ve covered up, a memory that still prickles at my conscience every so often of another time, another place.

Once upon a time long, long ago, in a land far, far away…

A
n odd thing happens in the middle of the night. Out of nowhere, I remember a children’s book. Not bought in a store, mass produced, but one of a kind, given to me.

Gifted me
…

A finger of panic plucks me upright by the collar. At once, I’m wide awake. Where did I put it? I have an inkling, but it’s been so long. Is it still there?
Please, tell me I haven’t lost it.
I glance at the red glow of the digital clock on the bedside table. It’s two in the morning, but I can’t wait until a decent hour. I’m compelled to find the book
right now,
reassure myself it’s safe. I ease out of bed, careful not to wake Eric, and pad downstairs, my sock-feet silent through the house.

It’s because I’m thinking of India again…. Ever since that email from Kiran.

My heart leaps as I find the book, swathed in two yards of achingly familiar, deep violet silk. I touch the delicate gold-embroidered border. It’s the
duppatta
that matched my favorite, figure-flattering
salwar-kameez
. I bought the pants-tunic-scarf ensemble on my last trip to India. I was eighteen. Two trips preceded that, one when I was an infant, another when I was in kindergarten, for a grand total of three months of my life.

My parents aren’t immigrants who often pilgrimage to the Old Country. It takes too long and costs too much with airfare $1K+ a pop. But more than anything, it’s too upsetting for my mother to be there, and for my father to leave, so they prefer flying our relatives here and sparing themselves the grief.

My own nostalgia abated as I grew up, pursued my studies, and focused on the ground beneath my own feet, securing a toehold and forging my own place on this round earth. But there was a time when I could think of little else, when I yearned to return, like Peter Pan’s Wendy remembering Neverland.

Now in the still of a winter night, I sit cross-legged in front of the gas fireplace in the study, my time capsule in my lap. I draw a breath and unravel my cherished gift. From its protective silk cocoon, a book emerges. Handcrafted. Bound with emerald green thread. I gaze in wonder, transfixed under its spell. I half expect the book to open on its own, flap its pages, and take to the air like an enchanted butterfly.

The years have yellowed the edges and stiffened the paper, so it makes a crinkly sound when I turn the page; otherwise, it appears well preserved. My fingers itch to touch the beautiful, flowing script and meticulous illustrations of a coastal west Indian town, but I don’t risk smudging the black ink. There’s something mystical about words on a page, their enduring legacy, their power to warp time and space, rouse long-dormant memories, so they feel as fresh as yesterday….

The crash and hiss of the Arabian Sea breaking against the rocks. Lanky coconut palms and lush green paddy fields swaying in tropical breezes. White sand, as soft and fine as powdered sugar between my toes. The stains of red soil and red curries. The layered
bebinca,
at least a thousand calories and seven kinds of sin in every sweet spoonful. Cashew
feni,
a pungent moonshine that went down like liquid fire, made me want to skinny-dip in the Arctic, and reeked from my pores. Most of all, I remember the heady rush of first love.

The book is his creation.

“People die,” he said one night as we lay on the beach under a blanket of twinkling stars and a crescent moon, talking about life and the ramifications of existing in this universe. “But their stories live forever.”

I read each line of his book, and the space between, some over and over, some with a catch of breath, and some with my eyes closed, for I, like my children, have memorized it all. And as with them, I too want the favored tale replayed, to savor anew.

When I’ve read from start to finish three times, I put down the book and turn out the light. I go to the two-story, arched window, where I tip back my head and peer up into the night sky. It’s snowing and overcast, so I can’t see the moon or the stars, but I know they’re there, just as I know that thousands of miles underneath my feet walk other people’s feet.

I touch the cold windowpane. Steam circles my fingertips.
I’m thinking of you. Do you ever think of me? Is that twenty-
year-old young man still alive somewhere inside you? Does he remember me, as the eighteen-year-old inside me remembers you?

In the lamplight, snowflakes descend from the heavens like angel wings. As I stare, hypnotized, the winter wonder-land of Minnesota blurs. A magic carpet materializes in my mind’s eye. I smile a secret smile and imagine myself un-latching the window and unhooking the screen, climbing onto the flying carpet in my blue-and-green plaid flannel pajamas and hitching a ride to the Other Side of the World.

The Other Side of the World
…

“W
e should split up,” Riya-
didi
said. “The shops close at noon.” Riya wasn’t actually my cousin, but my cousins’ cousin. Still, she told me I could call her
didi
—older sister—which gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling of connection I never had in my eighteen years at home.

My immediate family exemplified the stereotypical American suburban demographic in many ways, including but not limited to: two kids, one of each flavor; a black Labrador Retriever named Ash; a soccer dad and a mom who carpooled us from one activity to another in her Volvo station wagon.

Here you might expect me to launch into stereotypical differences such as our house smelling like curry and incense instead of chocolate chip cookies or apple pie (yes, sometimes); or my parents prohibiting drinking or dating (no, never…okay,
once,
but it was the exception); or the facts we were not white, not Christian, and therefore not in the “cool” majority (not an issue in our cosmopolitan D.C. suburb of McLean, Virginia).

No, in my family, those things didn’t matter all that much. Certainly, they didn’t alienate us. What did was more subtle: Unlike most American families, we didn’t have relatives outside our tiny nucleus residing in the country. No extended family. And that more than anything else made us feel, at times, we didn’t yet belong.

My parents’ close-knit Indian-immigrant community provided wonderful surrogates. Outsiders usually assumed we
were
related. But it wasn’t the same. In India, I felt the difference. Felt what was missing.

That year marked the fiftieth wedding anniversary of Dad’s parents,
Dadaji
and
Dadiji,
an occasion mandating our attendance. Most of our large extended family had migrated from New Delhi to the west coast metropolis of Bombay, now Mumbai. (Half a century after independence from British rule, many cities reverted to Indian names. Bombay’s
Mumbai,
Calcutta’s
Kolkata,
Madras is
Chennai
. But then, it was Bombay.)