By Fatima Raza
Amma is in
the kitchen. One hand is on her waist; the other holds a spoon. She gently
stirs the curry to which she has to add chickpea pakoras. She imagines her
granddaughter, Fatima, coming from school, and greeting her with an ‘Adaab’.
She pictures her face lighting up at the look of the pakora curry. Her
granddaughter, Fatima, arrives home. The fresh smell of curry leaves catch her
attention. Fatima smiles. The curry is on the stove, fresh and soupy. Amma
fries the pakoras as they hiss away in the oil.
Fatima
imagines the curry after it would be ready. A perfectly plated dish. Soft
pakoras in yellow curry. The dressing of ‘Baghaar’ or fried cumin. Fresh
coriander leaves sprinkled on top. Brown curry leaves visible in some corners.
On the table, Fatima finds the dish just as she expected it.
She takes
out the curry on her plate just like Amma has taught her to, carefully from one
corner of the dish. Otherwise, the gravy splits. She pours the gravy on a plate
of hot, boiled rice. One pakora rests on the corner of her plate.
Fatima
gently presses the pakora with her fork. It splits open to reveal its spongy
and moist inside. She thinks about her aunts and uncles in their homes. They would
all envy Fatima. Amma’s curry is popular amongst the whole family. There are
only a few people who can make curry like her.
Not many can
ensure that the pakoras aren’t powdery. Not everyone can balance the flavors of
the gravy. And very few can tell a story through it. Amma can.
Her bowl of
curry narrates the story of Hyderabad Deccan before partition. Of the
Hyderabadis who love sour and bitter dishes. Who say ‘Aye Haye’ with
that distinct tone of surprise. Who speak Urdu or Hindi in their own slow accent.
Amma’s curry; it catches Hyderabad- her childhood home- on a plate.
Fatima pops
half a pakora in her mouth. The juicy bite explodes inside her mouth. Next
comes the gravy with the rice. It has the tinge of yoghurt that it is supposed
to have. She feels she is in an old house in Hyderabad. Hyderabadis are talking
to her in their surprised tones andistinguished accents. They say ‘Aye Haye’
at the end of each sentence. Fatima smiles. As always, the dish is
perfect.
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