Illustrated by Nidhi Joshi @thatnoviceartist
(Winner of Bound’s Food Essay Contest)
The smell of hand sanitiser and paper soap infiltrated the classroom and like a true enemy of children’s happiness, my teacher hesitated twice before finally announcing, “You can go for Break now.” Multiple silent cheers and fist-bumps-under-the-table later, the ritual of slowly opening one’s tiffin box began. In class 3-C, tiffins were opened slowly and dishes were boasted of loudly. I struggled with my tupperware for a good few minutes before finally opening it to the sight of roti and meen curry. Blood red gravy and chunks of fish greeted me with their usual spice-filled scent. It was a whiff of home that kept me from drowning in homesickness till the end of school day.
“Yaay! My mumma made Aloo ka paratha!”
“Oh wow! Priyanshi you got Chocopie? Give me a little na?”
“Bengan. Ewww. I’ve told mummy I don’t like bengan.”
Voices from different corners of the room loudly proclaimed their judgement of the day’s delicacy.
“Being accustomed to speaking in a complex jumble of Hindi, English and Malayalam at home, it often became difficult to comb out parts of myself that were incomprehensible to most others.”
A confused face eyed my tiffin for a good few seconds before asking,
“What is this?”
“Meen curry,” I replied.
My naive 8-year-old brain did not foresee the meaninglessness that the words, ‘meen curry’ held for my classmate. Being accustomed to speaking in a complex jumble of Hindi, English and Malayalam at home, it often became difficult to comb out parts of myself that were incomprehensible to most others.
A minute of eyebrow furrowing, nose scrunching and eye squinting later she replied,
“Smells disgusting.”
“Her sneer was seared into my memory.”
Before I could process the insult, she turned away to admire Shreya’s tiffin. Shreya’s mother had packed paneer for lunch.
That afternoon as I walked home after school – carefully avoiding the occasional cow dung cake that littered the road – I couldn’t help but think back to her scrunched up nose and squinting eyes. Her sneer was seared into my memory.
Tip. Tap. One tiny shoe in front of the other.
Tip. Tap. Cowdung. Jump.
Tip. Tap. Tip. Cowdung. Jump. Tap.
Pause.
I looked at my fingertips. Stained crimson by the fish curry, it still carried the scent of home.
“Smells disgusting,” she had said.
I raised my fingers to my nose.
Sniff sniff.
“Funny how quickly scent could turn into stench.”
Fish, tamarind, chilli, garlic.
Sniff sniff.
“Smells disgusting?”
Sniff sniff
“Smells disgusting.”
Funny how quickly scent could turn into stench.
Tipping and tapping, I made my way home.
“Have you ever been surrounded by the scent of kudampuli fish curry? It smells like a sweet mixture of tamarind and chilli powder that engulfs you in a wave of nostalgia and reminds you of all things home.”
“Amma! I’m home.”
“Oh good! I just reached five minutes ago. Could you take off this safety pin please?”
My mother was famous among the aunties at church for her exquisite saree-draping skills. But for all her skill, she struggled with removing the safety pins she had herself put in place.
“Thank you,” amma said. “Now go wash your hands and face, let’s have lunch.”
I could smell tamarind, chilli and garlic. Meen curry.
With a scrunched up nose and squinting eyes, I slowly made my way towards the sink.
The stench seemed intolerable.
*
Have you ever been surrounded by the scent of kudampuli fish curry? It smells like a sweet mixture of tamarind and chilli powder that engulfs you in a wave of nostalgia and reminds you of all things home.
My father was born amongst the rivers and seasides of Kerala. Having shared his entire childhood with the seas, he became a man of coastal customs. In life, the fishes inhaled in the seas and in death, my father inhaled the fishes. Therefore, many years and thousands of kilometres later, he continues to inhale fish in a land far, far away from the seas of his childhood. And I, his child, had learned to share a childhood with the seas I visited annually and the fishes I inhaled weekly.
The making of meen curry is quite an arduous journey. To start with, the fish must be cleaned, skinned and chopped into fine pieces. The act of chopping up fish is an art indeed. One must be aware of the exact joint and the exact thorn that keeps the flesh together. Only a well-aimed, precise cut would give you pieces of an edible size. My mother, who had herself shared parts of her childhood with meen curry, was rather skilled at this art too.
“In my home, this long, even tiring process is carefully carried out every week. And every week, I am enveloped by the scent of fish, tamarind, chilli and garlic, filling every pore of my body with warmth.”
The curry is made and stored, only in an earthen pot called a meen-chatti. Red-coloured and round bottomed, the chatti looks ancient from the very day of its creation. It is believed to impart meen curry its unique flavour and a malayali will only ever trust a chatti made in Kerala.
Following the cutting came the oil heating, mustard crackling and garlic heating that is routine to most Indian households. What sets meen curry apart from most other curries however, is its chilli and tamarind. Every week, two types of chilli powder are carefully selected and brought to my home. One being the spicy kind and the other, a mildly spiced Kashmiri mirch that is exclusively used to give meen curry its blood red colour. The kudampuli or tamarind, on the other hand, is often a souvenir from our last trip to Kerala. On every return from Kerala, we are accompanied by a few months’ supply of puli. As the stock nears exhaustion, frantic calls are made to a neighbour or friend returning from Kerala asking them to carry along some puli for us. A malayali only ever trusts puli from Kerala.
Among other spices, the boiling oil is showered with a generous serving of Kashmiri mirch. After adding water, the puli is pushed into the curry and allowed to cook for a while. Tamarind from Kerala floats in chilli from Kashmir, exchanging sizzling greetings.
Finally, chunks of chopped fish are added to the gravy and the meen curry is left to cook. Simmering and hissing like a witch’s cauldron, it spreads its aromatic presence into every corner of the house. In my home, this long, even tiring process is carefully carried out every week. And every week, I am enveloped by the scent of fish, tamarind, chilli and garlic, filling every pore of my body with warmth.
“When emotions are trapped in a cage of unutterability by language, they often find a way to seep through the gaps of one’s culture.”
I could be in any corner of the world, but that smell will always manage to conjure up images of an ancient looking, red, mud pot placed on a stove with a boiling red liquid and chunks of fish in it. The liquid would simmer and smell and bubble and hiss, like a beloved grandmother who, in her old age, had found sole refuge in being bitter. Yet a single morsel of rice soaked in meen curry could engulf you in waves of love.
*
In most Asian cultures, the verbal equivalent of ‘I love you’, is often unutterable to its people. The malayalam translation of the words ‘I love you’ is ‘Njan ninne snehikkunnu’. The malayali’s equivalent of the words ‘I love you’, is often gestures of love. When emotions are trapped in a cage of unutterability by language, they often find a way to seep through the gaps of one’s culture.
Meen curry was not only a symbol of culture, but also an expression of love. The tiring journey of its making was a declaration of my mother’s love. In allowing me to drown my plate in gravy before she could, my sister showed me love. There was love in the detailed marine-life-documentary my dad created every day, with his words and dramatic pauses in response to our question, “What type of meen is this?” In our collective chorus of, “Mummy! What delicious meen curry!”, we showered her with love. In our household, dinners were filled with minute-by-minute reconstructions of our day, punctuated by the spice-filled scent of meen curry that made home, home.
Buried deep under the pile of butter chicken, and chhole bhature Delhi offers, are clusters of puli-importing, fish-smelling, love filled malayali homes.
Armed with their coconut recipes and meen chattis, they left Kerala behind at a very young age to find livelihood in their city of dreams. In their years of toiling hard they may or may not have been able to amass wealth, but the one thing they would all manage to do, was to create mini-Keralas wherever they went. In the weekly meen curry making, in the monthly coconut stockpiling and the annual Onam festivities, these malayalis carry home with them.
For an entire community housed thousands of kilometres away from Kerala, meen curry was home away from home. For 8 year old me, meen curry was the warmth of my family packed into a tight little box. Tamarind, chilli, garlic. Red gravy and chunks of fish. Simmering and smelling and bubbling and hissing, it brought me home.
*
Tipping and tapping, I make my way home. I open the door and proclaim, “Amma, I’m back.”
I am surrounded by the aroma of meen curry.
Inhale.
Tamarind. Chilli. Garlic.
“In a city which shames you for being different, the ability to carry your identity on your fingertips is often a curse. From sneers at the smell of your food to giggles at the sound of your accent, Delhi christens every malayali with various shades of shame.”
I slowly walk to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. The sight of a red mud pot filled with blood red gravy and chunks of fish greets me. Simmering and smelling. Bubbling and hissing.
It has almost been a decade since that day in class 3-C when I first knew that the scent of my home could be the stench of machhi for some. The tiny shoes have been replaced by a size seven now, but my fingertips continue to be stained by blood red gravy.
In a city which shames you for being different, the ability to carry your identity on your fingertips is often a curse. From sneers at the smell of your food to giggles at the sound of your accent, Delhi christens every malayali with various shades of shame.
In the years to come, I would battle parts of my identity often, be it the language I speak or the colour of my skin. From cries of, “You are kaali, I don’t want to play with you.” to “Oh what are you saying ‘andu gondu pondu’? What language is this? Malayali?’ I learned shame very young.
“I finally learned the art of combing out parts of my identity that were incomprehensible to others and hiding them within the deepest corners of my soul. Untraceable. Uninsultable.”
Over the years I have resented my identity, patronised it, disliked it and distanced myself from it. As of late, I have learned to live with it. To forgive myself. For being a malayali, for uttering words that sound not in the least like ‘andu gondu pondu’, for eating fish, for carrying home around with me in my crimson fingertips that smelt of tamarind, chilli and garlic.
I have now learnt to be a Delhiite at will and a Malayali at beckon. I could fawn over chole bhature on the street and wolf down rice soaked in meen curry at home. I finally learned the art of combing out parts of my identity that were incomprehensible to others and hiding them within the deepest corners of my soul. Untraceable. Uninsultable.
My strife with meen curry only lasted a few days. The familiar spice-filled scent, sour taste and crimson gravy won me over in the matter of a few dinners. Simmering and smelling, its love was like a bitter grandmother I couldn’t help but be affectionate towards.
*
“Sakshi, recite the table of three.”
“Ma’am, three oneza three, three twoza six, three threezar nine….”
I looked around as Sakshi rattled away the table of three.
Break had just gotten over. Most students of class 3-C had curry stains on their uniform and oil stains on their white shirts.
Sniff sniff.
Tamarind.
I looked at my fingertips. Crimson.
Lifting them to my nose, I inhaled their scent.
Sniff sniff.
Tamarind. Chilli. Garlic.
Home.
I smile.
*
A guide to reading Malayalam
Meen curry: fish curry
‘Kudampuli’ or ‘puli’: Also known as Malabar tamarind, it is an important ingredient of most recipes in Kerala
Meen-chatti: A special type of earthenware used only to cook fish curry
Njan ninne snehikkunnu: I love you
*
Sneha Alexander is currently pursuing her graduation in sociology from Delhi University. You’ll spot her walking random streets, earphones in, humming along to an old hindi song. An avid reader, she also has a newfound interest in learning new languages.
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