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 iswhat 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
“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 iswhat 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
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