LITMIR.BIZ

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or “morning evening.” I had asked Indian friends about it when she emailed it to me, but nobody had heard of such a poetic dish. Small balls of mashed potato, seasoned with coriander powder, cilantro, and chopped green chili enclosed in a pocket of spinach, rolled in corn flour, deep fried, sliced in half and presented in a rich tomato based gravy. The whole dish is surreally beautiful, the black line on the edges, the green, the white, and the red, and I believe it is meant to conjure the look of the moon in the morning. It tastes so delicious. In addition, we learn how to make our own homemade Indian cheese, paneer. Quite simply, it is milk heated and curdled with lemon and then squeezed until it forms a solid block. This simple cheese is the basis for many Indian dishes.

      Her husband, hair freshly washed, smiles up at me in a flash, as he sits on the carpet on his computer. Is there anything more beautiful than the look of wet, black hair? I’ve always been charmed by it. A soft peacefulness floats in this apartment, a sweet hammocky feeling of calm. They have no artwork, no fancy TVs. They are basic people and decorate with small symbols of their shared life: a magnet from Jamaica, a framed caricature of them both from another beach vacation, and small odds and ends which create the quilt of their lives. I can’t help but see them and soak them in. I’m a spy of sorts.

      Later, while sampling these lovely treats we have prepared, I ask her personal questions, as I tend to butt in whenever possible.

      We have been married a year, she says when I ask.

      My wife looks so young, doesn’t she, says her husband, with pride and amusement; I look like an old man next to her.

      But they are the same age and look it. I suppose he is telling me, Inside I feel so old. But I don’t know why he would feel this way. I see him as one of the many bright stars from India, shiny-eyed, working in the tech world in new Virginia, a man whose old culture is only a whisper.

      He leaves through the sliding glass door into the parking lot. His BMW is parked outside, glimmering even under the shade of the trees. The license plate says MIRACL BOY. Oh, I ask, impertinently, why is he a miracle boy?

      She laughs a laugh that comes like muffled bells, and a tinge of reticence bathes it, Oh, because he is a miracle boy, she said, and I laugh, too, and I leave it at that, there is something so softly said, which is, You are not there yet. I perceive this subtlety and let it go.

      And then I get to thinking: How we all do this dance. This stepping forward and pulling back, the hurting and loving we do our whole lives. And how I’ve come into her house, I’ve essentially invaded, I’m learning her family recipes, I’m cooking them, I’m eating them, I’m writing about them even, and even worse, I will enter and know more and more until I will know as much as I can. They will stand raw and naked, eyes bright, smiling. And they are freely giving.

      And it just kills me. And then, I suppose we will love. And then, I can stay or just go away. And we deal with this all the time, don’t we, this approaching, retreating, and think not much of it. But it seems to me so essential to us and who we are. I realize that I, too, must give, not just the twenty dollars that I give her at the end. This can’t be a prostitution of culture, of food. It is given with her eyes looking into mine. I have to give myself as well.

      I think about this during the week: I have to give.

      I LAUGH WITH her during those two hours, and write all the details. And make plans for the next week. Her cooking is delightful and again, so different from my first teacher, Stella. Crested with her own style and tastes. She adds, as I’ve told you, a bit of sugar to everything, twice as many chilies it seems, and always a jarring dose of lemon juice. At first, I’m not used to these flavors in Indian cooking but as time goes by, I find I add them myself as well.

      As the weeks go by, I have leaned a chockload of treats from her—a deliciously savory version of Mattar Paneer, the famous peas and cheese curry of Northern India—but without cream, simply bathed in an extremely spice-laden rich tomato-based gravy. A sumptuous stuffed okra dish with coconut. Malai Koftas, rich potato dumplings in a creamy soaked gravy. And one day, she produces Indian jewelry for me to see, and I buy a wedding set of extravagant turquoise jewelry. But it is a special day when we feast on a delicious assortment of chapathis that I have learned not so expertly to roll. She had pulled out the important skinny Indian rolling pin to create the ever-popular Aloo Paratha, a flatbread filled with a savory potato stuffing, a staple item in any Northern Indian home, and a spicy paratha stuffed with shredded carrots, and for variety, a green chili paneer variety. We are tearing off large chunks and dipping them in curd and mint chutney. My lips are burning and I am having a serotonin high induced by all the green chilies.

      Her husband, as usual freshly showered, comes padding on, usually to check the laptop on the sofa and then go wash his car.

      There is a festival this weekend, if perhaps you would like to go, he says.

      Yes, says Mishti, an Indian one.

      Oh?

      It is at our Krishna temple. You should come. There will be lots of foods and things.

      I would like to understand more, so I ask her about this worship of Krishna, which is perceived as a cult in this country, merging with Hare Krishna. But I learn that they are followers of Vaishnavism, a devotion to Vishnu (God) as personified by Krishna. Who is Krishna? The eighth avatar, or incarnation of Vishnu, who is the all Supreme Being. Some say he is a Christ figure. As a young boy Krishna is the foster child of cowherds and shows his divine nature by conquering demons. As a youth he is the lover of the gopis (milkmaids), playing his flute and dancing with them by moonlight. The play of Krishna and the gopis is regarded in Hinduism as an image of the soul’s relationship with God. The love of Krishna and Radha, his favorite gopi, is celebrated in a great genre of Sanskrit and Bengali love poetry. You will recognize him, if you ever look at devotional Hindu art, as the beautiful man with blue skin (Krishna means “black” in Sanskrit), with golden clothes and peacock plumes in his hat. And there is his most famous moment: with his friend, the great warrior Arjuna, about to go to battle. Arjuna turned to him and asked, Why should I fight? Where am I going after life? Whereupon, Krishna turned and thus spoke the famous scriptures: the Bhagavad Gita.

      That night, I read about Krishna and Vaishnavism. I read the great principles, of which the first three are:

      1. An absolute reality exists.

      2. True success in life comes only by understanding reality and our place within it.

      3. Science gives a limited picture of reality; abundant evidence suggests that part of reality exists beyond the reach of our senses and scientific instruments.

      AND SO, I know learning to cook is a humble way to approach the whole idea of reality. There are transformational, alchemical natures to the act that imply spiritual initiations. A potato, given care, becomes much more than a potato. It becomes something sublime. It feeds us as we grow. Cooking, eating are the threads of our communal and family life.

      The next week, Mishti and I are making potato and tomato curry. The smell of curry patta (fresh curry leaves) fills the air, an indescribable scent and flavor. This ingredient confuses Western cooks. Is that where curry powder comes from? No, curry powder is an English invention, and probably comes form the Tamil word for stew, kari. Curry leaves are from a small plant, the Sweet Neem, and have a smoky flavor and scent, almost mushroomy. And, of course, they are quite medicinal in Ayurveda, which is the traditional, native medicine of India that utilizes natural plants and herbs. Good for digestion and diabetes. The scent however has no words for description, but has a lovely warmth.

      The usual car washing is happening in the parking lot. As we sit down to wait for the stew to cook, Mishti pulls out a large book.

      What is this?

      Our wedding pictures, she says.

      I have not dared to ask if it is a love marriage or arranged, but whatever it is, it is working. One can feel the love between these two.

      I have noticed their pictures do not festoon the wall like most couples.

      Oh, she says

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