The question that I’m asked frequently, here in America is, “What do you miss about India?” I don’t have to think. The answer just flies out of my mouth: Food!
Nothing unifies the Indian expatriate community more than food. As I think ‘food’, my mind wanders, purposefully searching its inner recesses; I’m homesick and long for home-cooked food; food that nurtures, comforts, and soothes. Dal-chaval-subzi with bangda-fry, hot khichadi with ghee, masala dosa, idly-vada-sambar, channa-batura, puris, warm chappathis, chiken tikka roll, mutton biryani (sigh!), bhuna gosht, bisi-bele bhath. I remember rains being accompanied by samosa-chai, evenings hugged by an assortment of chaats, and dhoklas and pakodas caressing my taste buds. In my mind’s eye I can see, smell, and taste it all.
I crash-land into reality. The nearest Indian store is 20 miles (about 31 kms) away. I seldom get what I head out to buy and am baffled at the prices of what I do buy. By the time I reach the store, most often, the vegetables look old enough for me to prostrate before them.
My kids do not like those trips. They whine about how long it takes to get there and back and complain about the smell. “It smells awful mom,” they chorus together. I’m disappointed that the smells I find nostalgic are awful to them. But what really gets to them are the crowds.
Some things never change. You see, we Indians have a herd mentality. As a community we think alike. Truly, that’s what sets us apart. So when we know that Tuesdays and Fridays are fresh stock days, we all head to the store like the Gadarene swine, rushing through its small door, almost knocking each other down. All for karela, tendli or pudina. Unless you’ve lived away from India, for any length of time, it might be difficult to understand this longing for the ordinary. Indian vegetables are the most prized commodity in the Indian store because they seemingly link us to where we come from, who we are, and what makes our world go around.
There is no logic to what we do, it’s free for all and until we have what we came to get we don’t even bother to commune with one another. I pause momentarily, looking around. Children hold on to their parents tight, afraid they might get torn away in this melee. Obedient husbands holding baskets as their wives keep shoving these precious essentials in. Flummoxed bachelors wade through the store. Some of them, I’m positive, have never done this before. “What is this dal for?” I hear a man’s voice ask, followed by an enlightened soul’s discourse on its finer gastronomic merits. “Mama’s taught you well,” I muse. My own husband waits outside. He doesn’t mind that the kids won’t go in. He’d much rather wait out with them, preferring their din to the ruckus inside.
So I finally manage to break free and head to the check-out counters, which I find steeped in bedlam. As the store keeper works at breakneck speed, the aunty(ji) he’s helping remembers that she needs atta and heads off to find it. Collective groans sound off.
I check myself. I’m next. Finally done, disheveled me heads out. Today was a good day. “You okay?” my husband asks. “Yes!” I say victoriously, pulling out five glorious stalks of kadipatta.
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Preeti writes for chillibreeze.
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