Monday, May 15, 2000
Song Of My Mother (To Ammi)
by Tahira Naqvi |
Today, she is in my kitchen. Tall still, her lean and shrunken face mapped with lines too fine to count, her small black eyes sunk deep into their sockets, she cradles an emerald green karela in the palm of her hand, her fingers closing over the gourd gently, as if it were a child's face she is stroking.
"You haven't been patient Zenab," she says with a shake of her head, her eyes clouded just as they are when she expresses disappointment at being alone in Lahore and says, 'Your children leave to go to another country and you putter around in a big, silent house all day long wondering why you're alone.' It is not to me she will say this, it will to be someone else, a guest, a relative, a friend's mother. As a matter of fact she will avoid looking at me so that I may not observe the reproof in her eyes.
She sighs.
"It isn't me," I protest, "it's the karela."
"You have to prepare the karela properly if you want the bitterness to go away." Tiny strands of Grey hair, playing truant from her long, thin plait, have wandered on her furrowed brow, floating across the darkness of her skin like faint brush stroke.
I cannot tell her that often, beleaguered by memory's sharp resonance, I have tried to cook karelas her way. The words, reeking of failure, sit on my tongue like the bitter after-taste of karelas that have been done in a hurry. Long and hard I had labored, until my hands ached and my fingers became numb, and then a full day the smooth-skinned gourds sat in a colander while I waited; much later I realized I had forgotten the salt and so when the rinds were sharp and acrid still, I shrugged and thought, 'Ah, it's because I forgot to use the salt.' How could I tell her I had neglected to use salt before I washed the skins? She would look at me in disbelief, then, curling her fine eyebrows, ask, in a soft voice tinged with a hint of a reprimand, 'How could you forget something so important?'
"Amma, karelas in Lahore are different," I say bravely, "these come from Mexico and God knows where else, and look, " I point accusingly, "look how large the raised bumps are on these. How can you expect them to turn out like the ones from your garden?"
Her garden is in Lahore. There the karelas are small, delicate in shape and fine-skinned. But this afternoon she is in my town, a small New England town where summer recklessly crowds life into foliage with such abandon that the blue of the sky and the brown of the earth assume distant, foggy faces. And here, even though summer temperatures may rise to a hundred, karelas cannot grow. Summer is too short a season, too rabid in its abundance, too impatient.
"Zenab, wait, I'll show you," she says, a small, bony hand reaching for the vegetable knife. "You can get the same results from this karela, only you must know what to do." Silently I watch as she pulls the plastic colander toward her and begins scraping the thick nodular skin of the gourd in her hand with a slow, rhythmic movement. "Khrach, khrach, khrach." Tiny sparks of icy cold juice fly off in all directions, a speck of green lands on Amma's hollowed cheek and sits there like a bead. Her eyes are lowered, her brows are curled, her mouth set tightly in concentration. "Khrach, khrach, khrach."
The process of scraping the karelas is not new to me. I grew up watching my aunts do it too, every step of the ritual is deeply etched in my memory. I remember the cool, wet sensation of the juice as it flew into my face, the sharp acrid aroma of the skins combining with the smoke from my grandmother's hookah and filling my nose until I could smell nothing else, the brisk chatter of conversation interjected with laughter and head-slapping gestures that passed between my aunts, Amma and my grandmother, the picture of the naked, cone-shaped vegetables after they had been fully cleaned, each smooth and clear like a baby's behind, and myself, a girl-child who had no taste for such a bitter vegetable.
Next, she slices them and disgorges the seeds, which if they are swelled and orange-toned, predict an over-ripe vegetable and thus are cause for dismay. Small and bottle green today, they spill out from Amma's hand and form a mound in the colander. She peers at them closely.
"At one time I used to fry them and toss them in with the rinds," Amma says, always reluctant to throw out what may have even the most insignificant use. "But let's not worry about that now." She has begun to cut up the slices into narrow bands.
Birds, blue-feathered and red-breasted are creating a din. I think I also hear the plaintive "Kuhoo, kuhoo, kuhoo" of a cuckoo in a tree outside my kitchen window. The sun, visible only as brightness filtering through thick-leaved trees, is off on its way to dip into a horizon we can only imagine exists somewhere behind the jungle of woods at the western boundary of our lawn. The air is cooler; a quiet breeze blows strands of hair in Amma's face as she stands at the kitchen window, ready now to wash and rub the rinds. Turning the tap on, she lets the water run through her fingers and onto the karela skins in her colander. Then she bends and, taking handfuls between the palms of her hands, she rubs them, vigorously, energetically, until she is out of breath. Tiny beads of perspiration mark her forehead and there is a film of moisture on her upper lip.
"Let me do this," I say, placing my hand on her arm.
She shakes her head without pausing for a moment in her endeavors.
We dry the rinds with a paper towel and Amma sprinkles salt on them. Now they must sit in the colander for an hour at least.
The kettle whistles. I get up and make tea in a pot. She sits down at the kitchen table and wipes her face with her dupatta. A vein pulsates agitatedly in her neck, just where the long keloid scar from her bypass begins.
"Make sure the milk is boiling," she says as I remove the milk jug from the microwave. Quickly I slip it in for another ten seconds. It boils over.
An hour later she washes the skins again, rubbing them down vigorously once more. All the salt has to be removed. Another patting with paper towels follows. I pour oil from a small cup into the frying pan and wait for it to heat. Amma drops in the skins. They sizzle. A bitter sweet smell fills the kitchen.
"The idea is not to deep fry," she says, "just have the normal amount of oil you would have to cook any other vegetable." She turns the pieces around with a wooden spatula, watching the pan intently, keeping a close eye on them as they gradually darken, first to a ginger tinged orange, then brown.
I have already sliced one large onion, diced a tomato and chopped two long, slender, dark green chilies into tiny bits. Ground coriander and sharply-pointed cumin seeds have also been set aside on the counter to her right. She does not like peering into the spice rack or rummaging through the bottles there.
She signals with a shake of her head and I drop the onions into the pan. Increasing the heat under the pan, she moves the mixture around. The smell of onions cooking in oil draws water in my mouth. She waits until the whiteness of the onions is dissipated, then throws in a spoonful of cumin seeds and coriander. The gold bangles on her slim wrists, thinned from years of wearing, tinkle as she moves the spatula around, her eyes grow restful, the look in them calm. Tendrils of smoke, thick with the vapor of spices and onions, rise above the pan and move lazily upward. She places the spatula on the counter, leans back, a hand set on her hip, and watches the karelas through half-shut, dreamy eyes. I don't know what she's thinking.
The tomato and the chilies go in next. Gently everything is turned over. A lid is placed on the frying pan. Amma lowers the heat to simmer. I turn on the light in the kitchen and we return to tea. A second cup for us both. I heat the milk again. Outside the birds are silenced. The sound of an occasional car on the road snaps the evening hush, a cricket breaks into song, Kasim ambles in for orange juice.
"What's for dinner?" he asks, reaching for a glass from the dish rack.
"Karelas," I say.
"Not that bitter stuff again Mom!" he wails.
Amma purses her lips and sighs.
Ten minutes of simmering and the karelas will be ready. I lift the lid for a quick peek. My face is warmed by a sudden gush of steam. "It's not bitter," I say, "Nanima made it her way. She knows this trick which makes all the bitterness go away."
Kasim looks inquiringly at his grandmother
"Yes," she says, her face breaking into a smile. Stretching out her hand toward him, she draws him into her embrace.
***
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