Serving Crazy With Curry (9 page)

After a while, add some ground
jeera, dhaniya,
and
elaichi.
You can also add a little
dal chini
and
lavang.
Fry for a little while longer, until the
dal chini
and
lavang
become sofl. Add tomatoes and cook until the tomato is completely squishy and the oil is leaving the sides. Then add the cut goat and nicely coat with the spices, tomato, and onion mixture. Let the goat brown a little and then you can add the chopped potatoes. The potatoes should be big in size, not little, because you want to taste them.

Fry for a little while longer, add water to cover the goat, and then put the pressure-cooker lid on top. Cook for two whistles and then remove. Sprinkle with chopped
dhaniya
on top before serving.

Devi flipped through the empty pages with a small smile. Saroj probably started this book before she and Avi moved to the United States. How hard it must've been for Saroj, Devi thought, not even sure what the spices she was so familiar with were called in the U.S.

She stroked the soft pages and sighed.
What a beautiful notebook,
she thought as she sat down on her old study table, pushing the bronze birds aside. She looked at the ornate pencil holder on her table and considered the two blue Pilot pens and one pencil carefully. Then she picked up the pencil, opened the page right after the goat curry recipe, and started writing.

The long sleeves of her black pullover slipped up as she wrote, revealing the bandages beneath, but she didn't notice as the red pencil with black stripes flew over the white ruled page.

LETTER FROM AVI TO DEVI

Dear Devi,

This is my fourth letter to you in your lifetime.

After I lost my arm and was trying to drink myself to death, the army head doctor told me that I should write letters. As many as I felt like to my friends who died in the war, to my parents, to that ex-girlfriend who was now happily married to some guy who hadn't lost his arm. I didn't have to mail those letters. They were for me, even though I wrote them for others. Then, I ignored his advice, but when you came into my world I started writing.

The first letter was a long time ago. You were nine days old and were crying your heart out. The doctor said, “Nothing is wrong, just colic. Deal

with it. It'll be gone by the time she's three months old.” The thought of having to hear you and watch you cry for three more months was absolutely terrifying. I couldn't accept that nothing was wrong. Something had to be wrong, babies didn't cry just for the heck of it. But they did and you did.

Saroj was exhausted, so I asked her to sleep while I walked with you. It soothed you and you'd stop crying, but the minute I tried to sit down or put you down, the wail machine would be charged again. So I walked with you that night, all night, and somewhere in between midnight and sunrise, and walking and nursing, you fell asleep in my arms. My arms hurt, my legs hurt, every part of my body ached, but I was afraid to put you in your crib, so I put you on a pillow in my lap and sat down at my desk. I thought I'd get some work done, but all of a sudden I was writing my first letter to you.

The second letter was when you stole money and broke that girl's nose. I was shocked at the violence you exhibited and I have to say, just a little proud that you actually broke someone's nose. I never told Saroj how I felt. She'd have had a heart attack if she knew I actually took pride in your actions.

The third letter I wrote because I was proud. You started working at your first start-up and I was so giddy that you'd be the next Veturi to be part of a new venture that would become a success. I imagined your face on the cover of
Fortune
and
Time.
I was thrilled.

In the past years I have written Saroj numerous letters, just two to Shobha, and you three, excluding this one. And now as I sit to write this fourth letter, I realize that all the reasons for all those previous letters are now trivial compared to the reason why I'm writing this one.

When Saroj called to tell me to come to the ER my legs started to shake as what had happened sank in. Even now I can feel the tremors in my hands, my legs, my heart. You are home now, and I'm still shaking. I'm still scared shitless and I can't breathe without feeling the fear rise in my throat.

I look at you and I see that nine-day-old baby who wouldn't stop crying and I think that maybe if I carried you again, you'd stop crying and go to sleep.

I can't imagine what we did, what Saroj and I did that drove you to
this weakness. I know, I know, you'll say that you're an independent woman and you make your own choices. But as a father, I'm not allowed that luxury. I can't ever say that I'm done with you, because a parent's job is never finished, never over, never completed. Even after I'm dead, I'll want to look over you and make sure you're eating right, sleeping well, sleeping alone.

I wonder if it was me who drove you here. If it was my success that compelled you to attempt suicide. I wonder if maybe we'd stayed in India, like Saroj wanted, this wouldn't have happened. I wonder and wonder and wonder, and as I wonder, I see you in that bathtub, bleeding, and my hands start to shake again and there's a tremor that runs through me. I feel like I have malaria again, like I did when we lived in Jorhat, sick, shaking, unbearably tired, and feeling that something inside me is dying, draining, falling apart.

Is there anything more terrible than seeing your child trapped in such a horror that she wants to die? Could there be anything more painful, more torturous than this? I would happily give away my only arm if I could save you, help you, hold you. But you seem distant, it seems as if a cocoon has enveloped you and we are all walking around like shadows, making a small impression but not enough to wake you up from your nightmare.

Life is so much fun, Devi. I wish you could have some fun, so much fun that you will never, ever think about dying again.
We
should be afraid of death because that affirms our faith in life. When we embrace death, we give ourselves to the wasteland of hopelessness.

I will hold your hand through this. I will grab your hand and hang on until this is over. I will tie you up, imprison you, until I make you realize that your life is worth living, that your life is brilliant, that you are an amazing girl, and you're the one who makes the sun shine brighter forme.

I love you, Devi, live for me!

Daddy

There Is a Mute in the Kitchen

Devi never cooked. It wasn't that she was a terrible cook; she just didn't cook very often. Saroj had tried to teach her children to cook without having them actually cook in her kitchen, messing it up, and she'd failed.

“Some girls are just not domestic,” she would complain, ignoring Devi when she pointed out that all her attempts at learning were thwarted because Saroj couldn't stand even the idea of anyone else but her cooking in her kitchen. Saroj lived in fear that Devi, Shobha, or even Vasu would put things away in the wrong place or ruin her perfectly managed kitchen. That was unacceptable and to avoid any kitchen mishaps, Saroj banned everyone from using her kitchen. She never said it out loud, but everyone knew anyway.

“How dirty can she make it?” Vasu interfered once when Devi pleaded that she be allowed to try a chocolate cake recipe a friend of hers had made all by herself.

But when it came to the kitchen, Saroj ruled supreme and no one could make cake or anything else there.

So after a childhood of only watching the cooking process in the kitchen, it gave Devi immense pleasure to walk into her mother's kitchen and start cooking. She knew no one would argue, make a
scene, or ask her to leave. She was a suicidal mute, who would want to take a chance and tip her scales off again?

The idea of eating Saroj's regular, everyday, garden-variety mint chutney didn't sit well with Devi. She wanted to eat something else, make something new, start fresh.

And she liked the idea of cooking, being in a kitchen, an uncomplicated world of spices, produce, lentils, meat, poultry, and rice. There were no arguments here. This was sacred land. Her mind could wander on all sorts of possibilities here and she wouldn't have to worry about where she ended up. Anything was possible and everything was acceptable, as long as she kept her mind confined to food and cooking.

Devi found the dry apricots in the pantry. They weren't exactly old, but they weren't bought yesterday, either. She couldn't imagine why Saroj would've bought them, but was glad she had because they were perfect for what she had in mind. Devi soaked the apricots in sugar water while Saroj watched, her nose crinkled.

“The
samosas
will get cold, Devi,” she said. “Why don't we eat these now and you can tell me what you want and I will make it for you later.”

Devi didn't even bother to acknowledge Saroj or the questioning glances of her family. She knew they were staring at her, trying to figure out what she was up to. Saroj was hovering inside the kitchen while Avi, Girish, Vasu, and Shobha stood by the counter that separated the large kitchen from the spacious dining area. The house had been built to Saroj's specifications when Avi's company started making money, and the kitchen was the crowning glory. Everyone knew that and maybe that was why Devi took great pleasure in spilling a spoonful of sugar on the marbled floor.

Saroj was ready to run with a hand vacuum and wet cloth when Avi pulled her out of the kitchen.

“Let her be,” he said firmly. “And I'll clean the kitchen if it gets too dirty.”

Saroj's chin jutted out and she removed Avi's hand from her arm. “I was only trying to help her,” she said tightly.

“Don't help her, just let her figure out whatever it is she's trying to figure out,” Avi replied just as tightly.

“Why are we standing here watching her?” asked Shobha as she smothered a yawn. “It makes me very uncomfortable to look at her as if she's some lab rat.”

“Do you have to go back to work?” Girish asked Shobha, who shook her head. “Then just shut up and watch,” he added with a smile.

“Mama, did she hit her head on the bathtub or something?” Shobha turned to her mother, ignoring her husband. “I mean, she never seemed all that interested in cooking before.”

“I don't know,” Saroj said and winced when Devi indelicately plucked mint leaves from her precious herb pot on the kitchen windowsill.

“What is she making?” Vasu asked.

“I don't know,” Saroj repeated, sighing as Devi indelicately opened a closed Ziplock bag of ginger and the three big pieces fell on the kitchen floor. “I think she's making a chutney for the
samosas.
I am not sure.”

Devi picked up the pieces of ginger and left them on the counter. She took one piece and started peeling it.

“Ginger-and-apricot chutney?” Girish wondered aloud.

“Let's all not forget the mint,” Shobha reminded.

Saroj grimaced, looking at her herb pot, which now had lost its symmetrical look. She was so careful with it and Devi had just demolished all that work. The neat freak inside Saroj wanted to rage: the mother kept her quiet.

Devi made a ginger, apricot, and mint chutney, along with a good amount of chipotle chili peppers found in a bottle, hidden deep down in Saroj's everything-is-in-there pantry. The end result was a fiery, smoky, tangy concoction that beat the pants off of Saroj's mint chutney.

Devi told herself that she knew the difference between “afraid of suicidal person” praise and real praise. This was the real thing. Her chutney was a success. Pride swelled inside her and for the first time in a very long time she felt a small measure of confidence. But then she thought of all the coming days and panic filled her. She couldn't just make chutney every day and get a sense of accomplishment. Oh God, what was she going to do?

After the last
samosa
was eaten without anyone saying anything to Saroj about how good
they
tasted, Girish opened the conversation up to more serious matters, beyond food.

“You gave us quite a fright,” Girish said tenderly, his gaze holding Devi's. “We're very happy you're home.”

Devi nodded and slid a forefinger on her plate, scooped up some chutney, and licked her finger, daring Saroj to tell her she was eating like
ajunglee.

“Why? What happened? You couldn't tell us?” Saroj asked as Devi sucked noisily on her forefinger. She scooped up some more chutney and shrugged.

“What do you mean by that? You have to talk… you can't just…” Saroj became silent when Avi glared at her. “We don't want to put any pressure on you,” Saroj said on a long-suffering sigh.

“But you are putting pressure on her all the same,” Vasu snapped at Saroj, flustered, and then looked at Devi, forcing herself to be calm. “How about a walk? Some fresh air?”

Devi picked up her plate and ran her tongue on it. She set the plate down, perversely pleased that she'd been able to do what she just did without Saroj yelling the place down. As a child it was a treat to lick a plate smeared with remains of delicious goodies and she used to have to do it stealthily, but now, now she was a basket case, she could do anything she wanted to do.

Devi nodded to Vasu. On her way out, she realized that for the first time in her mother's house, she'd not picked up her plate, rinsed it, and put it inside the dishwasher. She'd also left the kitchen in a small mess. It made her happy.

Of all the places she'd been to in the United States, Vasu loved California the most. Partly because all her family lived here, and partly because the weather was always pleasant and nature was within touching distance.

“I feel that nature balances herself in California,” Vasu began. “It never gets oppressively hot as it does in Hyderabad. There, sweat patches everywhere, underarms, on the back, everywhere. That is
what summer is all about, sweat patches and thighs sticking to plastic chairs. It is so embarrassing to get up in a crowd and hear that plopping sound when your thighs separate from the chair.”

Devi tugged at the sleeves of her shirt without thinking about it. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to participate in this conversation. Knowing her grandmother, she was probably supposed to hang around, listen, and then learn. With G'ma there was always a lesson to be learned from stories. All stories had morals and everything was an education. Unlike other grandmas who probably told stories about fairies and princes on white horses, G'ma told stories about tough women, wading their way through the morass of societal rules to only sometimes win.

The all-time favorite story of Vasu's to tell when Shobha and Devi were younger was that of the
Rani
of Jhansi. Vasu probably associated herself with the Queen of Jhansi, the queen of a small province in central India.

“Her father was a Brahmin and her mother was a beautiful, cultured woman,” she would start the story every time, referring to the
Rani's
parents.

“What does
cultured woman
mean?” Shobha would ask before the story could move on, which was her ploy once she was a teenager to try to not let the story continue. “Is this one of those euphemisms for doormat?”

Vasu, unlike Saroj, was not easy to bait, and despite Shobha's best efforts, the oft-told story would continue its course.

“She married
Raja
Gangadhar Rao and became the
Rani
of Jhansi. Her given name was Mannikarnika, but after marriage she was called Lakshmi Bai.” Vasu would enjoy telling this part, twisting her tongue around the difficult Hindu names.

“Okay, in the rest of the world women change their last names, God knows why, but here they changed the poor girl's entire name. What about her identity?” Shobha wouldn't be able to help herself from getting on the feminism soapbox.

Devi usually listened quietly to the story without interrupting G'ma too much. That way the story ended soon and they could quickly get done with the moral of the story and the lesson of life
G'ma was trying to impart. In trying to stop the stubborn Vasu from continuing with her story, Shobha was only making her more determined and was also extending the time it took to tell the damn story.

“They had a child, but the boy died when he was only four months old. Stricken with grief, Gangadhar Rao adopted another child, Damodar Rao. But after Gangadhar Rao's death, the British refused to acknowledge the adopted son as legal heir and tried to annex Jhansi. They offered the
Rani
a pension and asked her to leave Jhansi. But the
Rani
refused and fought in the battlefield to save her country from the British. She started the first war of independence.” Vasu's voice would climb up with pride as she told this part. “She tied her son up on her back and went on a horse to fight the British. That is courage and love for one's country.”

“But she died, right?” Shobha would be bored by this time.

“Yes, but she died a warrior's death,” Vasu would say emotionally. “She was a brave woman who never gave up her integrity, no matter how bad things got. You should remember that, both of you. You should fight till the end, not give up in the middle and lose the battle.”

“Why fight on if you're going to lose the battle anyway?” Devi wanted to know. “I'd have taken the money the British offered and taken care of my son.”

“Yeah, and what happened to that poor kid anyway, the one she strapped on her back? Talk about improper child care, someone should've called social services,” Shobha would put in.

“The story isn't about the boy, it is about
Rani
Lakshmi Bai and how she stood by her integrity and her …”

By then Devi and Shobha would start demolishing the story and never concede that the
Rani
of Jhansi was a brave woman who fought a losing battle because it was a fight worth fighting.

It wasn't like either Devi or Shobha had anything against patriotism or the Queen of Jhansi; it was part of their dealings with Vasu. She would always tell them how wonderful India, her country, was, and they would always fight back that the United States, their country, was better.

But now as Devi walked with Vasu in the park near her parents'
house, she remembered the Queen of Jhansi and wondered if she had failed after all to learn the moral ofthat story. Hadn't she given up, midway, not wanting to make it to the end? Among all of G'ma's tough-woman stories, not one ended with the heroine committing suicide or even attempting it. Did G'ma now look at her and see a coward? Devi wondered with dread as she tugged again at the sleeves of her shirt.

“Of all the people I know, you were the last person I thought would commit suicide,” Vasu said, speaking about the “incident” for the first time.

Vasu stopped walking, put her hands on Devi's arms, and shook her lightly. “You were supposed to come through winning. What happened?”

Right there, she looked like Saroj, Devi thought. Maybe this was where Mama got it, that nagging bad temper.