Magic, Mystery, and Chingri Macher Malai Curry
Written By Srabondeya Haldar
My grandmother was a magician – I am sure of it. Her lair was the kitchen; and her element – fire. To my four-year-old self, there could be no other explanation. Every morning she would enter the kitchen at six o’clock and brew her cup of tea, and as the tea took effect she would go through the grains, the vegetables, and the spices. By midday, the house would begin to fill with the aroma of her newest creations. Day after day, she would bring her innovations to the table at the designated time – breakfast at 7 a.m., lunch at 1 p.m., and dinner at 9 p.m. – never a moment early and never a moment too late. I would be lying if I said I didn’t find comfort in her routines. For the fifteen years that I ate her cooking, my grandmother’s food was always warm, always wonderful, and always served with a smile. Even today, I believe that my grandmother’s warmth was inexplicably connected to that flame in the kitchen with which she spent hours in a day. And as a four-year-old who was taught to fear the gas stove and its fire, there was no other explanation – my grandmother was a magician.
By the time I was ten years old, I became more observant of my grandmother. Still very much convinced of her magical abilities. Like druids of old, she was very knowledgeable of her craft. She always knew exactly how long to boil the rice, how much ghee would perfect the dal, and how much chili powder could be tolerated by my father (a mystery I have yet to solve). What I also noticed is that my grandmother was eager to learn. She had a bulky notebook in which she would, very meticulously, write down her recipes and reviews. Moreover, she would spend afternoons carefully placing cut-outs of recipes from magazines and newspapers into her notebook. The entire family would excitedly await Saturday afternoons when my grandmother would experiment with a new recipe. From mutton biryani to vegetable au gratin to ilish macher jhol to chili chicken – every Saturday afternoon was a culinary adventure. Only in retrospect do I understand how much the family bonded over those Saturday lunches.
By the time I was fourteen, I became more aware of my grandmother’s magic. I noticed how she made me doi mach after my exams. I noticed how she always made phane bhaat when my mother traveled. I noticed how she made an extra roti for my father when he had an important meeting. And I also noticed how she gave my grandfather the “good” biscuit with his tea. She always knew how to take care of people – never asking for anything in return.
On a winter afternoon, when everyone else had gone to sleep, I found my grandmother working on her recipe notebook. As I sat next to her, she slipped me an orange slice and continued with her work. I asked her – “When did you learn how to cook?” She looked at me in surprise and responded, “I don’t remember. I must have started when I was a little older than you are now.” “Were you always good at cooking?” a follow-up question. She laughed, “No! but with practice, I got better.” Now the real question – “Will you teach me?” She responded, “Of course! It is a life skill… what would you like to learn first?” I hesitated for a while, “What do you like the most?” She took a deep breath and responded “Chingri macher malai curry.” “Then that is what I want to learn first,” I declared. She closed her notebook slowly and leaned towards me with a mischievous smile “You know… we have all the ingredients… should we make it now?” I agreed with ill-concealed excitement.
That day I officially became my grandmother’s sous chef (pronounced: apprentice). The first twenty minutes were spent on a scavenger hunt through the kitchen to gather the supplies. Then my grandmother asked, “Ready?” I nodded. She slowly turned the knob of the gas stove and the fire came to life. Over the next hour and a half, I watched as my grandmother put together shrimp, onion, turmeric, coconut milk, and other items to make a thick golden curry that smelled more decadent than it looked. She lifted one piece of shrimp from the pot and handed it to me. I looked at it in awe. It was the best thing I had ever tasted – and it was perhaps my favorite memory of my grandmother.
Today, I am twenty-two years old. It has been almost seven years since I last ate my grandmother’s cooking. The food does not taste the same. I find myself in a new kitchen in a city far away from home, and I am plagued with the question – what do I make for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? To be fair, the internet has been a constant friend, supplying me with recipes – old, new, familiar, and foreign. I spend Saturday mornings looking through thousands of recipes and making my grocery lists. The gas stove and I are now friends. We have experimented with new recipes from around the world – well at least the “World Wide Web.” For the most part, I do not think I am a terrible cook. However, I miss when I was four, I miss when I was ten, and I miss when I was fourteen. I miss when there was a routine. I still find it strange that somewhere down the line I became in charge of maintaining one. And when I am overwhelmed by creating this routine, I find it comforting to go back to the basics – chingri macher malai curry. Even though I struggle with navigating the supermarkets and translating the names of ingredients, tasting that first piece of shrimp in the golden curry brings back a sense of wonder. Today, on a similarly quiet winter afternoon, as I sit down with my bowl of malai curry, I am grateful to my grandmother for filling my childhood with magic.