“I want to go home,” she announced. “I want to have this baby in India.”
“Where in India?” Avi asked. “With Vasu?”
The idea of being with Vasu while she was pregnant didn't have much appeal but Saroj persisted that it was Avi who wasn't letting her go home. She maintained that fiction for a long time, even though she knew that there was nothing to go back to. But India was still home. The United States never became home. It was a foreign land, and even though Shobha and Devi said they were American, Saroj tried to instill Indian values in them. In Shobha she succeeded to a point, but with Devi… well the proof was in the payasam. Hadn't she just tried to kill herself? If only they had stayed in India, things would have been different, better, Saroj was sure of it.
•••
A whole week passed and the “incident” seemed unreal now, even though in the back of her mind there was a constant struggle. One Devi wanted to stay home and enjoy cooking and not talking, while the other Devi wanted action, wanted to get into that bathtub again and end it once more.
She had her first meeting with Dr. Mara Berkley, who seemed unhappy about Devi's silence, but took it in stride and asked Devi yes-or-no questions. She was pleased about the cooking.
“You know, those who think about death, don't cook,” Dr. Berkley told her sympathetically. “Inside you there's something that wants to live and taste and explore.”
Devi didn't know how to explain to the good doctor that it was to avoid looking inside her that she started cooking. It was her only escape from the silence outside, and the chaos within. It was the only way to not think about the answers to the questions everyone in her family was always asking, even if they didn't open their mouths.
“Have you started a journal?” the doctor asked and seemed very excited when Devi nodded.
Could she really call Saroj's old notebook a journal? Or was it a recipe book? Or was it Saroj's little secret unraveled? All those recipes she called her own were maybe not; at least one of them wasn't. One of the recipes actually belonged to a person called Girija.
While Dr. Berkley spoke with Avi, who had brought her to the doctor's office, Devi waited in Avi's Jeep, wondering if it would really be a crime if she started the car and drove away. She didn't have her credit cards or her driver's license, but so many people didn't and they got along just fine. Before she could tempt herself any further, Avi came back, a smile adorning his face.
“Do you want to drive, beta}” he asked, and when Devi raised an eyebrow suspiciously, he pulled out his wallet and handed Devi her driver's license.
It had taken Devi five tries at the DMV ten years ago to get her license, yet it was now that it made her most happy to hold it in her hands. This was freedom, she could go away if she wanted to, anywhere.
She felt like celebrating her newly found liberty.
Growing up, Devi's memories of hot-hot biriyani were associated with special occasions. On Saroj and Avi's wedding anniversaries, Saroj would make biriyani; on birthdays, she would make biriyani. It was her standard “happy news” dish. Shobha's marriage has been arranged, let's make biriyani.
Entering the kitchen, her driver's license ensconced safely in the front pocket of her Levi's, Devi felt an itch for biriyani. She put her hand inside her pocket and ran her fingers over the plastic texture of the license and smiled. Did this mean she was all right and that she could move back into her own place? She knew her father had canceled her lease and wanted her to stay with them while she recuperated. He had told her not to worry about anything but getting better. But all Devi really wanted to do was get away from the stifling presence of her entire family.
And what the hell was wrong with Girish and Shobha? Earlier it would take mammoth planning sessions between Saroj and Shobha before they'd come over for dinner or lunch, together. Now, for the past week, they'd come every night, together or around the same time.
As if it wasn't bad enough having Vasu, Mama, and Daddy hovering, now she had to also deal with Shobha's not-so-sharp remarks and Girish's overwhelming concern. Yes, she was going to run away. Drive down Highway i, sit on a vista point, and see the ocean slam into the rocks below. Go to Sausalito and look back at San Francisco. Do anything to get away from this house and the people in it.
“Do you want me to cook tonight?” Saroj asked her standard question. She tried every day to take the kitchen away from Devi's grasp, and every day Devi shook her head and got to work.
Devi pulled out a sticky notepad that Saroj kept inside a drawer for making her shopping lists and started writing on it. When she was done, she handed it to Saroj, who quirked an eyebrow.
“I don't think your father is very fond of prawns, Devi,” she said, not quite sure what Devi was planning to concoct this night.
Devi just turned her back to Saroj and started attacking the herb pot's coriander section.
•••
If Devi didn't feel so suicidal already, now would be a good time to start feeling that way. Everyone, even Shobha, was being nice and kind. It was cloying, as if she'd eaten too many sticky-sweet jalebis.
Worst of course was Saroj. The woman couldn't leave her alone in the kitchen to do as she pleased. In the days after the “incident,” Devi completely took over cooking and had no clue why. Food was an essential; thinking about what to cook for lunch during breakfast, and what to cook for dinner during lunch, kept her mind busy. And during dinner, well, during dinner she thought about what to cook the next day.
If she couldn't use her tongue for talking, she felt she had to use it for something else and her taste buds, since the “incident,” had come alive. Food, which had been merely meals before, objects of sustenance, had become objects of art.
“If you keep cooking like this, I'm going to bloat up completely,” Avi said, grinning from ear to ear. He was very proud that Devi was working her way out of a postsuicidal slump through cooking. And then there was the food: it was as if almost dying had rearranged her genes and given her an instinctive insight into cuisine. She knew, she just seemed to know what to add to what to make the food taste just right.
“This is excellent biriyani… the spices, Devi… just wonderful,” Vasu said, smacking her lips in satisfaction during dinner.
Devi was pleased the Cajun prawn biriyani was receiving so much praise. She stroked the plastic flatness of her driver's license again and wondered if this would be the last meal she made at home.
She picked up a prawn and carefully removed the shell and then bit into the lush pink flesh. Would this be the last meal she ate? She wiped her hands on a napkin and decided to stop eating. As good as the biriyani tasted, it also made her nauseous.
Saroj seemed to be enjoying the food, and that surprised as well as pleased Devi. Mama never ate anything but Indian food. Once in a while she'd try Thai, but her heart was with good old-fashioned south Indian food. Growing up, Saroj served only Indian food in the house. There were no two ways about it with her.
“You can eat all the nonsense you like outside this house. In here, I will only make good Indian food,” Saroj told her family.
At least she didn't insist they become vegetarian like a lot of Indians abroad did. Devi couldn't imagine how her life would be if she couldn't eat salmon mousse or rogan josh.
“If we were in India, this would've never happened,” Saroj told Avi while they were clearing up the dishes after dinner. “Girls don't commit suicide like this in India, not those from good families at least.”
Avi always helped with cleaning up. Even though he was a hand short, he did what he could. Saroj couldn't fault him on that, but that didn't stop her from complaining about how slow he was, or how he put the dishes in the wrong place. There were serious problems in their marriage, but she didn't want to talk about those problems. Fussing about small household matters was easier than delving into the deeper, darker aspects of her relationship with Avi.
“No matter where we were, Devi would still be Devi,” Avi pointed out as he pl
aced a casserole with Devi's shrimp biriyani on the kitchen counter. “Save some for lunch tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Saroj said, tasting some of the biriyani and sighing in pleasure. She hated to admit it, but Devi was cooking like a veteran chef. It had been a week since she'd been released from the hospital and now everyone was afraid that they were putting on weight. Girish and Shobha were coming for dinner every night, the family was sticking together, ensuring that the “mute in the kitchen”—as Shobha called Devi—would have all the support she needed.
“What did she do with this biriyani? It tastes so good. I never would've thought prawns in this would work, but she knows. I can't understand it,” Saroj said as she ate some more of the biriyani before putting it inside Tupperware and sealing it shut.
Avi shrugged.
“She never cooked before, but now she wants to cook all the time, like my food is not good enough. What do you think?” Saroj was babbling and didn't really expect any answer.
“And she won't talk. It has been a week since she came back home and still, she says nothing. This is your doing. You spoiled her so,” Saroj continued as she stacked dirty dishes in the dishwasher.
“And maybe if you were a little more compassionate, Devi would have come to us, not found a knife to hack through her problems,” Avi retorted angrily and then calmed visibly. “Damn it, Saroj, this is no one's fault. It just happened. Deal with it.”
“Deal with it?” Tears sprang into her eyes. “My baby … just…” She was sobbing now, and Avi flung the hand towel he was holding on the counter.
“I can't stand with this constant rona-dhona. You need to get a grip and stop crying at the drop of a—” Avi stopped speaking, raised his hands in defeat, and walked out into the living room in frustration while Saroj stared out the kitchen window, bewildered and hurt by his tone of voice and his words.
A long time ago when she cried, Avi would put his arm around her and cajole her into a good mood. But sometime in the past three decades that changed. It used to be he couldn't stand it when she cried; now he couldn't stand her when she cried.
In the living room her family sat without speaking to each other. Her mother was sitting next to Devi who was watching the news on CNN, while Shobha stood on the stairs with her cell phone glued to her ear. Girish was reading the newspaper, and Avi was lighting his pipe. He had given up cigarettes but in the past three years, since he'd retired, he smoked the pipe occasionally. Saroj tried to stop him, but gave up after the first few arguments.
Is this what she wanted?
She had done it all perfectly. Married a financially viable man, had two beautiful children, and had seen one of them married, while the other … well, she saved her younger daughter's life.
Yes, she was where she wanted to be, but this was not how she'd expected to feel when she watched her family. She hadn't thought that seeing them all succeed would make her feel like a failure.
“Damn it, I have to go to work,” Shobha said, flinging her cell phone on the leather couch next to Vasu. “Sorry, G'ma, it's just… those fucking idiots. I have to go.”
“It's late, beta, can't it wait until tomorrow morning?” Saroj asked.
“No, Mama, it can't,” Shobha muttered, not even looking at Saroj.
“Shobha, I know, but…”
Shobha looked up at Saroj in exasperation. “I'm a VP of a company. I have responsibilities. Since you know nothing about working in the real world maybe you should keep out of it.”
“Fine, leave,” Girish said lightly, as if Shobha hadn't been speaking in a loud voice, as if everything was business as usual, which unfortunately it was.
“How will you get home?” Shobha asked Girish as she opened the front door.
“I'll get home,” Girish said and went back to his newspaper.
Shobha said her good-byes hastily and left, slamming the large mahogany front door on her way out.
Saroj's heart sank. She had stood by her man while he worked insane hours to set up a company. He hadn't done it on his own. She'd helped, hadn't she? She'd kept his home life happy, kept him content, kept his children out of trouble. She knew what having a career was all about and she knew that sometimes work slid into the nighttime. She understood Shobha had to leave, she'd just hoped … She shook her head as the tears sprang up again. There was no point in crying. No one in her family respected her. She didn't have a job, had never worked, and they always reminded her ofthat.
She went back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up.
“I'm sorry about Shobha,” Girish said, following her in. He pulled out a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water from the fridge.
“You don't have to apologize,” Saroj said with a half smile. He'd never bothered to be so polite before. This was a first.
“I know… but she'll never apologize,” Girish said and shrugged. “She's busy. It's the end of the quarter … oh, what the hell, she's always busy and always rude and always angry. I guess you're right, I shouldn't apologize for her because if I did, I'd have to quit my job and take up apologizing full time.”
Saroj bit her lip. She didn't know what to say. He was saying something bad about her daughter and a part of her wanted to jump to Shobha's defense. On the other hand, Girish was Shobha's husband and Saroj felt that a husband of all people had the right to bad-mouth his own wife.
“I'm planning to ask Devi to give me a ride home. The doctor thought it wouldn't hurt for her to spend a little time on her own. So Avi and I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea,” he told Saroj. “Maybe that'll… I don't know …”
“Is that okay, you think?” Saroj asked, concerned and nervous. “She hasn't driven since or been alone. It should… nothing will happen, will it?”
“No, no,” Girish said. “She seems to be pretty much back to normal, except for the talking and the cooking. And the doctor did say that those who cook are not very inclined to commit suicide.”
“Did she?” Saroj smiled. “Devi does cook so well. Thanks, Girish, for everything.”
“Good … well… I'll see what I can do,” Girish said and sauntered out of the kitchen with his glass of water.
Saroj went back to her cleaning, her heart feeling just a little light. Someone had noticed her, someone had paid attention, and for today, that was enough.
devi's recipe
cajun prawn biriyani
Day 8 after coming home from the hospital
The classic recipes are goat, lamb, vegetable, and/or chicken biriyani. But when I was in New Orleans, at this restaurant, they served Louisiana barbecue shrimp, which was simply delicious. When I asked the waiter what was in the shrimp sauce, he rattled off a number of spices (rosemary, thyme, basil, Oregano, et cetera) and so, I went with memory.
I marinated the raw prawns in mashed garlic, rosemary, basil, Oregano, thyme, sage, paprika, black pepper, white pepper, cayenne, and onion powder, along with a dash of Worcestershire sauce.
I decided to cook the rice in the pressure cooker, always quick and easy. I heated some ghee in the pressure cooker, added crushed cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon, and a bay leaf for a minute or so. Then I added some onions and fried until the onions became golden brown. Then went in the rice, and enough water, and I closed the pressure cooker. The rice was ready in ten minutes. In a separate pan, I sauteed the marinated prawns in butter, along with extra chopped garlic and the marinade, and added them to the cooked rice. I garnished it with chopped fresh coriander and voilä, Cajun prawn biriyani. I served it with some regular cucumber raita.
Mama had been so sure that Daddy would hate prawns but I saw him clean out each one on his plate and even get a second helping. Sometimes we forget why we don't like some things and then when we try them again, we realize that we had been wrong.
Giving Serious Thought to Adultery
Girish was a classical music buff and in the beginning of their marriage, Shobha joined him for a few musical events and lectures. Once he dragged her to a basic violin seminar in t
he hope that she would start appreciating the string instrument (his favorite) as he did.
It had been six months after they returned from their honeymoon in Hawaii, where they spent most of their time separately. Girish went scuba diving and hiking around the Na Pali Coast, while Shobha drank colored drinks with umbrellas in them and read a good book about advanced databases and a bad one about a schizophrenic woman, a paperback she picked up at the hotel's gift shop.
“Music is life, Shobha. There is music in everything. Don't you agree?” Girish asked on their way to the seminar at Stanford. Shobha gave him a smile and nodded, trying to infuse as much enthusiasm into her demeanor as she could. After all, technically, they were still newlyweds.
The man giving the seminar was a frail old gentleman with a deep London accent who kept waving his hands as he spoke. His brown pants hung loosely on his hips and Shobha was sure that one more vigorous gesticulation with his hands and the pants would drop. Needless to say, she didn't pay much attention to the lecture. But something did catch her wandering mind. Apparently a violin has four strings designed for the notes: A, D, E, G. You can get other notes, too, by using fingers to shorten the effective length of these strings.
The old man in his accented voice told the audience, “To get the F out, you will need to actively finger the G-string.”
First, Shobha just stared at the man and then looked around to see how everyone was reacting; everyone seemed serious and intent on what the man would say next, some were even taking notes. But when the old man repeated how one could get the F out, Shobha started to laugh softly.
“What the hell is so funny?” Girish asked in a tight whisper.
“Didn't you hear him?” Shobha asked, tears brimming in her eyes as she tried to stop laughter from spilling out of her.
“What?” Girish demanded impatiently.
“You have to finger the G to get the F out,” Shobha whispered loudly, cracking up yet again.
Girish didn't get it, but then again he never got it. The joke remained as elusive to Girish as did Shobha's G-spot.
Serving Crazy with Curry Page 10