Serving Crazy with Curry

by Amulya Malladi

  How would they react? Devi wondered. Her father? He'd be devastated. Her mother? She would probably be very irritated. One, for losing a grandchild, and, two, for having a daughter who got pregnant out of wedlock. Shobha? Definitely angry. And Girish? Oh, he'd wonder and wonder and wonder and wonder.

  Was it worth it to go inside and face those people? Wouldn't it be better to just disappear into the night?

  Vasu sighed deeply and opened the passenger's door. “Devi? What's wrong?”

  Oh, and what about G'ma? She didn't know yet, but if they went inside she would know, too. And how would she react? She would be devastated as well. Devi usually told her everything, always had, but this she hadn't. This and everything else that followed.

  G'ma had known when Devi started dating a professor, old enough to be her father, at Cal. Older men were safer, Devi always said. No bouts of passion, but no bouts of violent, irrational behavior, either. G'ma hadn't judged her, though Shobha's eyes bugged out.

  “Doctor Menon? You're sleeping with that old fart?” Shobha was incredulous.

  “He's very handsome,” Devi said, reminding her that every female student who went through Dr. Menorfs class wound up having a crush on him.

  “He's old enough to be your grandfather,” Shobha said, “and if Mama finds out, you're dead. You're beyond dead.”

  “And how would she find out?” Devi asked, daring Shobha to be a tattletale.

  “Gossip, it flows,” Shobha told her.

  But gossip hadn't flown. Her three-month relationship with Dr. Menon quietly died down when she started dating a bookstore owner on Haight. That Saroj heard of. Everyone heard ofthat one. Devi Veturi was dating a black hippie with dreadlocks and was seen kissing him outside some Indian restaurant in Fremont.

  Saroj was furious. But Vasu stood by Devi, supported her, and told Saroj to mind her own business and not try to control her daughters’ lives.

  What would Vasu do now? Support Devi or hold up an accusing finger like the others certainly would? As Saroj most certainly would? And who could blame them? She threw their lives into turmoil and then she wouldn't tell them why. And now some black dude was showing up at their doorstep to tell them that six months ago she'd lost a baby.

  Maybe he hadn't told them, a hopeful voice within her whispered.

  Maybe he was just here to see how she was doing, to say hello, to hold her hand through this as he had through so many other crises. But the hopeful voice was crushed by the facts she was privy to. She knew Jay, knew him well enough to know that if he was here and heard that she wasn't talking after the “incident,” he would spill the beans. Even after the miscarriage he had tried very hard to convince her to tell her family and/or the father of the baby. He wanted to make sure there was a support system around her to help deal with the trauma of the miscarriage.

  Oh, that terrible night was vivid in her mind. All of it was stark, white against the blackness of other memories. She had heard of women losing their babies. It happened, they said, in the first trimester. She had heard that it was traumatic. Now she knew that no matter how many times she got pregnant, there would always be that one baby who hadn't made it. It didn't matter that the baby didn't have a name or a face. It had been her baby, growing inside her and then dying inside her. And there was nothing she could have done to make it live.

  Devi wanted to turn and tell Vasu. She wanted to open her mouth and just tell her the truth. But her lips stayed tightly locked. There were other forces within her that kept her silent and she weakly stared at the car by the side of the road in front of her parents’ house.

  She could leave and never come back, find a way to survive, or not. But she knew she'd already gone down that path of running away from her problems and it had been the path of a coward.

  Devi opened the car door and stepped out. She heard G'ma sigh noisily as she got out of the car as well.

  “What's going on?” she asked Devi, who caught her lower lip between her teeth to stop herself from crying.

  She opened the door and wasn't disappointed. The scene was straight out of a bad Hindi movie. Shattered teacups, tea, and a tray were spilled on Saroj's precious Bokhara. A newspaper was scattered on the floor by the coffee table. Saroj was standing rooted, shocked, tears flowing freely down her face. Shobha was distressed? Girish was holding her? Her father's face was buried in his hands and when he looked up, his eyes were red.

  “What happened?” Vasu demanded, looking at everyone, including the black stranger in the room. “Who died?”

  Vasu couldn't remember a time when she was more shocked. How many secrets did Devi hide? Were any more left? And how would she find out about them? Did she want to?

  When Devi came back after sending Jay off, Saroj was the first to confront her. Vasu's fears that Saroj would start a rant about children out of wedlock were unfounded. Saroj surprised everyone with her reaction.

  “How could you not tell us? We lost… that baby was my grandchild, too,” Saroj said blisteringly her nose watering and tears streaming down her face. And then without warning she took a step toward Devi and surrounded her in tight arms. “Oh, beta, I wish this hadn't happened to you. Oh, I wish I could have protected you from this.”

  Vasu could see Devi's resolve not to cry weaken as she hugged her mother back. Tears started rolling down Devi's cheeks.

  Vasu expected Saroj to say and do a number of things, but this had not been a possibility.

  “But don't worry,” Saroj said, holding Devi away and facing her bravely. “It will be okay, you will have more babies.”

  Vasu wondered if Saroj was ignoring the fact that no one knew who the baby's father was. No one seemed to want to ask.

  After that there was a lot of hugging and a lot of crying. Girish stood away from everyone by the French windows leading to the patio, while Shobha sat on one of the antique chairs at the chess table.

  Devi seemed to say she was sorry as she looked each member of her family in the eye. When Shobha just raised her hand asking her not to do anything, Devi left and went into her bedroom.

  Vasu followed her, still unable to figure out what she could say. How could a miscarriage be a good thing? Was there anything good about this that she could bring to light and ease some of the pain?

  Devi sat down on her bed cross-legged and put a pillow on her lap. She smiled at Vasu and then shrugged again.

  “It was very difficult, wasn't it?”

  Devi nodded.

  “I lost a baby before Saroj, but I got pregnant again, just two months after that, so it wasn't so bad. But for those two months it was a deep pain and I can only imagine what you are going through. All I can say is that everything happens for the better. And even though I cannot come up with one good thing about you losing your baby, I am sure God has a plan and—”

  “Really?” Shobha asked as she stepped inside Devi's room. “Come on, G'ma, we aren't five years old, and so young that you can cook up these godly tales for us.”

  “Things get better,” Vasu said wearily. “They do. You have to believe in that.”

  Devi put her thumb up in a questioning gesture.

  “Yeah, G'ma, how?” Shobha added as she leaned against Devi's old dresser.

  “How do they get better?” G'ma shrugged. “God has a plan—”

  Devi flung her hands in the air and Shobha groaned dramatically.

  “Not the old he-has-a-plan nonsense,” Shobha said rocking against the dresser. “What about me? What kind of a plan did he have for me? That I should have no children?”

  Vasu shook her head.

  “And Devi had a miscarriage because this God of yours thought it was a good idea, right? And she was so thrilled about the whole thing, she tried to kill herself, right?” Shobha demanded. “Come on, G'ma, God's dead.”

  “Shobha,” Vasu said, stricken instantly. She had always been an atheist, this one, but now she seemed to have lost faith in the universe. For Vasu, losing faith in God was the same as losing faith in
the people, the world. Vasu was afraid for Shobha because without any faith, without any hope, the future was dark.

  “I don't see God coming out of any walls in this house trying to redeem our lives,” Shobha said. “If that hurts your feelings, you need to take it up with your God.”

  Devi put her face in her hands as she shook her head.

  “What? Now all of a sudden you believe in this God business?” Shobha asked.

  Devi lifted her face from her hands and shook it.

  Devi called herself unsure, an agnostic. She didn't know whether this God person existed or not, but she wasn't about to bad-mouth him. Her belief in God was shaky at best; she believed in him only because if he did exist, she didn't want to be on his wrong side.

  When they were younger, Devi would tease Shobha that she would have to face God's wrath because she said bad things about him. And even though Devi didn't really believe in this God, because she didn't say anything bad about him, she felt she was on the safe side.

  It surprised and disappointed Vasu that neither of her granddaughters had a healthy respect for Hinduism or God. She dutifully prayed every day, did her pujas, and followed the rituals. She felt she showed the world that you could be religious and broad-minded. To Vasu religion was personal and she didn't believe in all the ostentatious ceremonies held in the name of religion. Marriage, thread ceremonies, death ceremonies, pregnancies, maturity, and God knows what not. To her they seemed fraudulent exercises designed for people who didn't really have faith in God and only followed ceremony as a pretense. Vasu had tried to inculcate the same sense of religion in Saroj, but she'd gone her own way. Saroj was a social Hindu who went to pujas and the temple because it was a social event. She went to meet with friends and find India in the United States, and show off her heavy gold jewelry.

  “Even if you don't believe in God, you have to believe in fate,” Vasu said to Shobha, carefully measuring her words. She didn't want to give her false hope, but she wanted her to at least have some hope. “You can't have children, yes, but Devi can and when Devi has another child, you could be part of that child's life. Not like a mother, but like a second mother.”

  Devi looked up at G'ma and stuck her tongue out comically.

  “She's saying she doesn't think so,” Shobha muttered. “And I agree. All she'll want me to do is change shit diapers and put up with the baby when it cries.”

  Devi nodded in agreement.

  “See, she doesn't want her kid to have a second mother, just a nanny,” Shobha said with a half smile.

  Vasu looked from Shobha's sad face to Devi's stricken face and wished there were a more tangible proof of a better tomorrow that she could offer them.

  “I don't know what to say,” she finally admitted in defeat. “I always tried to …” She let her words trail away in frustration.

  “Don't worry, G'ma,” Shobha said as she fidgeted with Devi's wooden jewelry box on the dresser. “Life goes on.”

  “Yes, it does.” Vasu nodded in agreement and smiled at Devi. “It does, Devi. You will see, things will get better. They already have.”

  “Remember when G'ma gave this to you, Devi?” Shobha said, stroking the ivory-inlaid design on top of the jewelry box. “I was so jealous. I wanted this box so much.”

  “I brought you something else,” Vasu reminded her.

  “Yeah, but I was fifteen and didn't really care for the leather-bound edition of the Mahabharata as much as I did for an authentic Rajasthani hand-carved jewelry box,” Shobha said as she flipped open the box in question.

  “So you didn't like the book?” Vasu asked playfully. Devi grinned.

  “Loved it,” Shobha said, sounding distracted as she went through Devi's jewelry. “I have no idea where it is. Probably somewhere here, tucked away with Mama's books. But I …” Her fingers stopped moving through the jewelry all of a sudden and Shobha closed the box shut forcefully.

  “If I gave you a jewelry box would you have been more careful with it?” Vasu asked, still playful.

  Shobha looked as if she were in a trance. She threw a glance at Devi and then blinked her eyes.

  “Maybe, G'ma, just maybe,” she said. “We should go. Girish looks like death warmed over and I'm so tired, I can hardly stand.”

  Vasu watched Shobha leave and then turned her attention back to Devi. The poor girl, how hard must it have been to keep this a secret? And how much must she have hurt that she wanted to kill herself?

  “Don't you worry, Devi,” Vasu said confidently, “you'll have another baby.” But Devi was staring at the jewelry box that Shobha had just closed with unswerving eyes.

  DEVI'S RECIPE

  LAMB CLITORIS

  The day everyone found out

  Jay once told me that the pomegranate seed is sometimes compared to the clitoris for being pink, succulent, and an aphrodisiac. So I decided to name the recipe Lamb Clitoris in honor of Jay, the clitoris, and of course the day when my wall of secrets fell apart around me.

  I put some flour, salt, and spices in a freezer bag and then put the pieces of lamb in and then went shake-shake-shake. The lamb was nicely covered with the flour. I browned the lamb and then put it aside.

  Then I fried some onion with cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom, added some tomatoes and then the lamb, and cooked until the lamb was all flaky. I mixed chopped lettuce, pieces of avocado, and pomegranate seeds, along with a little bit of lemon juice.

  I cut the pita bread open, put the lamb curry in, and then the lettuce-avocado mixture. All done!

  These days whenever I cook, I stop to think that if my baby were alive, what would I be cooking? Where would I be? I think about it a lot. I think about it a lot while I cook and then I imagine that the child was to be and the child was as old as me and I was as old as my mother and everything was different.

  Deader Than a Dead Relationship

  Saroj made her own spices. It was something she believed in and couldn't imagine why people would buy those ridiculous packets of ready-made spices available in Indian grocery stores.

  “It is simple to make,” Saroj said when she saw Devi write rasam powder on her shopping list. “I just ran out a few weeks ago. But we will make it together. Okay?”

  For a moment Saroj thought Devi would refuse. She probably thought that she didn't need her mother's help and Saroj wanted so much to help.

  Devi nodded and struck rasam powder from the list.

  “Should we make it now?” Saroj asked, pleased, and Devi nodded again.

  “Good,” Saroj said as she rolled up the sleeves of her kameez. “Very, very simple.”

  Saroj brought out her cast-iron pan, the one she'd brought all the way from India when she once went on vacation. “This is the best pan to use because it gets very hot,” Saroj said and started going through her spice cabinet.

  She heated the pan and started filling it with coriander seeds, black peppercorns, cumin seeds, fenugreek seeds, mustard seeds, a few sticks of cinnamon, fresh curry leaves, and a little asafoetida.

  “You have to be careful not to burn the seeds,” she told Devi. “The spices come alive when they are roasted like this. Can you smell it?”

  The kitchen air thickened with the smell of the spices, their essence spilling out of the hot cast-iron pan. The mustard seeds started to splutter a little and Saroj shook the pan, moving the whole spices around. Right before they turned dark brown (she always knew when that time was) she picked up the pan and, using a wooden spatula, poured the mixture inside the coffee grinder she used especially for spices.

  “Don't use Daddy's,” Saroj told Devi. “Coffee ruins the taste of the powder.”

  She then added oil to the hot cast-iron pan, which immediately caused sizzling, broke open three dried red chilies, and dropped them in.

  “This makes the flavor of the chili come out,” she told Devi as she put the lightly fried chilies into the grinder as well.

  She started the grinder, stopping to smell the spices and feel their textures with her
fingers at regular intervals. When everything was ground to a fine powder she brought out the medium-sized airtight glass container labeled RASAM POWDER and poured the powder inside it.

  “There, wasn't it simple?” Saroj said, flushed with delight. She could teach Devi how to cook as well. No one was born knowing the basics and even though Devi was doing a fabulous job, when it came to Indian food and spices, how could the girl know anything? She needed Saroj's advice.

  Devi smiled and then started scribbling on the shopping list again.

  Saroj wondered if it had made any difference at all or would Devi have been just as happy if she'd bought the rasam powder from the store.

  That evening Devi made rasam, but she served it with a flaky pastry on top.

  “This is really good,” Shobha said as she bit into the pastry soaked in rasam.

  Everyone joined Shobha in complimenting the food, but they were all subdued. Girish was so withdrawn that even Saroj felt sorry for him. She wondered how bad things had gotten between him and Shobha. Just because she didn't acknowledge something was wrong didn't mean she was blind or stupid. She saw what was going on, could feel the tension between them, and was unhappy because of it. But if Shobha didn't talk to her about her problems what could she do? She couldn't help those who didn't ask for help. And even if Shobha came and asked for help to make her marriage better, Saroj wasn't sure what assistance she could offer.

  How could she offer any marital advice when her own marriage was in ruins? Just because she didn't acknowledge that, either, didn't mean she didn't know it.

  Vasu was sipping the rasam from her spoon slowly, her head lolling a little, almost falling into the bowl. The news of the miscarriage really shook her up. Saroj understood. Devi had been closest to her and Vasu was probably wondering why she knew nothing about Devi's life as it had been a few months ago.