Mammachi's Red Fish Curry
I read in one of Elena Ferrante's books that "memory is the only respectable tomb." I find it difficult to look at memory; something that holds so much warmth and tenderness, in such a morbid way. Tombs are associated with death and decay, while memory is the only remnant of what's gone forever. How can that be a tomb?
Whenever I think of the word "memory," the first image that rushes to my mind is my grandparent's house in Peechi. As a physical space, it still exists but the emotional space it held for all of us has been touched by the sepia of time and nostalgia. However, bits and pieces of that space silently seep into the present, greeting me like a long lost acquaintance when I finally recognize it amidst the swarm of images flitting past my brain. When we lose an emotional space, whether it be with a person, place or anything for that matter, what stings more than the overall loss is the retention of tiny details that lurk on the corridors of our mind with no rhyme or reason. Quite ironic, right? In the context of a major loss, retention of anything must be counted as a blessing. However, these details, the residue of life lived; they don't fit in anywhere. Not in the past, present or the future. They just float around, sometimes hitting us right on the face.
Like the mouthwatering smell and taste of mammachi's red fish curry that greets me on a random Sunday morning as I sip my tea. The last time I devoured that was about three years ago, and back then, I had no idea that it'd be the last time. That's the odd thing about lasts. You are always almost aware of the firsts but never the lasts. They sneak up on you without warning and steal the moment from you even before the bittersweet taste of realizations awakens your senses.
Coming back to the fish curry. For me, that fish curry is not just a random dish from the usual sumptuous lunches in Peechi, but rather a symbol of a lot of things. It carries with it mammachi's nonchalant and perhaps, a little indifferent approach to cooking. I have heard quite often that the secret ingredient that elevates the taste of food is love, and every time I hear someone say that, I get this image of mammachi in her messy apron saying, "hold my beer."
Mammachi never cooked with love. Her culinary interests (if you could call it that) were rooted in a sense of unavoidable duty. A responsibility that couldn't be put off, and hence she always worked in the kitchen with a mechanical rhythm. In an age where mindful and therapeutic cooking is glorified, mammachi was the pioneer of an indifferent and mindless cooking, and surprisingly, it worked. Every single time. Maybe when you don't care too much about things, they naturally fall into place (the theory of detachment is laughing from the corner). Sometimes I used to get the feeling that my grandfather, who barely stepped into the kitchen or lend a hand, was the one who couldn't stop describing the endless beauty and charm of grinding spices and mixing them together; the true vicarious pioneer I'd say, always ready with a set of instructions in his "never stained by the kitchen smoke' arsenal of cooking tools. As I grew older, especially during that age when people find it necessary to impose customary kitchen training on young girls, I could pick out mammachi's subtle irritation more and more. But that never stopped me from enjoying the heavenly fish curry and multiple servings of rice (law of detachment has always been my strongest weapon).
If you ask me, why the red fish curry stands out, I don't have an answer. Perhaps, it's the effort. Or it could be the descriptions of taste that accompanied the cooking process or it could be just a random choice on the part of my brain that isn't exactly an expert at choosing things for myself. But the red fish curry stands, declaring its unsullied power over every other dish mammachi has cooked for us till now.
It is also the reminder of time in Peechi, marked by the different meals. The way the atmosphere around changed with the anticipation of each meal. Only food carries memories so heavy with such ease and perfection. Sometimes I can't help but wonder if the emotional space of Peechi had its headquarters in the kitchen that never ceased to move for years. Perhaps it's the stillness in that one space that never stood still that reminds us of what has been lost; memories of what sustained our hearts and stomachs, haunting our present with tiny details that always evade capture. And maybe, the beauty of memory lies in that evasiveness. Of never submitting to anything, of always flowing past. Because, once captured, a memory ceases to be memory. It becomes a tomb. I'd rather choose a ghost over a tomb.