LITMIR.BIZ

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them up.

      A yellow vinyl album is produced, with an airbrushed flower on the cover.

      It is simple, and plain. Not like the large white silk and pearlized albums Americans would have. It is simple, until you open it up!

      And then, she and her husband become the loveliest prince and princess one could ever imagine. I am quite honestly in awe, in the way one would be looking at the pictures of royalty from a fairy tale. She is covered in jewels, colors, and henna spirals in patterns on her hands. He is in a stoned turban, proud. Both are beautiful and golden. And then there is page after page of celebrations using old methods—the rubbing of turmeric, the women bringing terracotta pots of water to the party, the festive kaleidoscope of colors, platters of endless dishes and sweets. I find myself not quite jealous, too strong of a word. Colorless, lacking in spirit. As if I am Cinderella looking at the stepsisters’ finery. I have been divorced for five years now. I have lost in some sense, my grounding as a woman. And did I ever have it? I am a victim and a beneficiary of my culture. I stand in such freedom, to go where I like, to be whom I like, to see anyone I wish. And yet, I feel uncared for, unloved. I feel I am not part of an endless web of relations, like these ones I see in jewels before me. I did not have a family decide my spouse, and perhaps, it would have been better. We are more free and yet, we are just lost in space, it seems.

      I’m reaching out to be in the presence of connectedness as well, through the vehicle of food.

      I see her family; her mother looks like a beautiful mature version of herself. And I see the groom, not in family shots. I see him standing ceremoniously in front of a framed picture. It is, it seems, the same picture I see in their altar with Ganesh and the incense. And where is his family? I ask, with innocence.

      She smiles warmly and her eyes glisten.

      Oh, she pauses. But she doesn’t hesitate or leave me out. She tells me with all her heart.

      They are passed away. They died in the earthquake of 2001.

      Oh my God. I am so sorry. All of them?

      Yes, all of them. The entire family. Except for Duli.

      I look at her and back to the picture next to the frame.

      Yes, he was there in the rubble. For five days.

      There is a silence, not awkward, just appropriate.

      The dal we are making has signaled it is ready for the next step with three insistent whistles from the pressure cooker. Life always intervenes.

      I just say, I am so sorry and try to comprehend such a thing, but I can’t.

      And she told me with such openness, as if their story was now allowed to pass to me, as I had become a person to them. I felt honored.

      As we added the tadka, which is the last finishing touch of spices to the dal, Mishti’s husband Duli drives up to the parking space in front of the sliding glass door, his BMW newly washed and gleaming, the license plate clean and white: MIRACL BOY.

      THE NEXT WEEKS pass by quickly as we sizzle and fry such delicacies. Mishti’s spiciness has now suited my palate, and I welcome it. We move onto such wondrous dishes as Khadi, a very popular quick and easy yogurt sauce enjoyed in many Indian homes, flavored with a typical spice mixture, served with breads or rice. I realize this sauce is no doubt the origin of the “curry,” doctored and hideously malshaped, we knew back in the ’70s, brought over by English colonists. It is the creamed casserole party dish, with copious amounts of dusty lemon-colored curry powder and the little side dishes of raisins and peanuts. My grandmother made it, bathed in cream. And I learn chole, the chickpea curry, savory and spicy, a must for the everyday vegetarian, served with raised yeast bhature breads. I am taught to roll these with the lightest pressure, like the breath of a baby, very fast but very soft.

      And then, one day I walk in to see a pile of odd boxes, from liquor stores.

      Oh, are you moving, Mishti?

      Yes, she says gleefully. We are going to Connecticut for relocation.

      And then, by the end of the month, they are gone.

      THE GANESH STATUE is always accompanied by a tiny mouse. Upon further investigation, I learn that the mouse symbolizes a minute vehicle for a cryptic subject. Because these small animals live in darkness, under the ground, it reminds us to always keep looking around, sniffing out knowledge, to illuminate ourselves with the inner light of wisdom.

      I keep thinking about Duli. I really wanted to ask him something. One day, after they had found out I was a writer, Mishti called him from washing his BMW. She pattered on in Gujarati and he came running in. This was early on.

      So you are a writer! he said.

      Yes.

      I love, you know, to go to Borders. Sit around reading. I’d like to write something one day. I have actually, he said, a good story in mind.

      Now keep in mind everyone says this to writers, all the time, constantly.

      Really? Well, why don’t you write it?

      Ohh, he laughed. No. I cannot.

      We left it at that.

      But I wanted to ask Duli later, after the wedding album moment, Tell me everything. How did you do it? How did you survive for five days? Did you have water? Did you hear your family? How did you sleep?

      There are so many questions. I want to hug him, and say, God, man!

      Only I can’t. I just smile and say, Hi, as I stir okra curry.

      He seems a different person now. In my eyes, he now possesses the distinction of tasting death, which I haven’t. I truly believe if you have had this happen, you are different from others. Was I ever lying under the rubble of a building for five days? A writer is a very curious being. A human being has to, however, respect peace and be kind. So I often balance them, failing a lot of times, but in this case, I just don’t feel I am quite there yet to ask and receive such knowledge. Now when I drive by their complex, missing those sessions cooking Gujarati food, I wonder on that. Mysteries are mysteries, I tell myself. Being mystery is enough, isn’t it?

      MISHTI LEAVES FOR Connecticut. They start a new life, with a few boxes. I miss them.

      MISHTI’S MATTAR PANEER

      This is the ever-popular dish of pea curry with cheese that you can find in most Indian buffets, but this version is spicy and doesn’t contain the usual buckets of cream. In fact, it contains none at all, so it is a quite healthy and protein-rich main course.

      * 2 cups of peas, either fresh or frozen (I find the organic variety infinitely better, but then organic anything usually is)

      * 3 onions, preferably Vidalia

      * 4 dried red chilies

      * ¼ cup oil

      * 2 tablespoons homemade ghee

      * 6-7 cloves

      * 2-3 bay leaves

      * 1½ teaspoons red chili powder

      * ½ teaspoon garam masala

      * 3 tablespoons cumin powder

      * 1 tablespoon coriander seeds, lightly toasted in a tawa or flat pan

      * 4 garlic cloves

      * 1 piece of ginger

      * 1½ teaspoons salt

      * 1½ cups fresh tomato puree

      * About 3½ cups water

      * 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

      * 1 teaspoon sugar

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