Chicken Curry, Made With Love

Chicken Curry, Made With Love

    Ashraya smiled to herself as she bustled about the little kitchen of her father’s apartment, preparing to cook a chicken curry for that night’s family get-together. Monsoon rain drummed on the walls as she turned up the gas oven, and she couldn’t help thinking how good the pounding sounded, like some sort of galloping deliverance from evil. She took a moment to prepare herself mentally before going about her task – although her father wasn’t there, his presence still made itself felt.
    ‘You must take over all the household duties fully now that your mother has moved on to her next life,’ he had said less than six months ago, in this very kitchen. ‘Keep a clean house, do not spend the housekeeping money on unnecessary items, and most importantly, remember your mother’s recipes and cook them well, for a man likes to eat good food.’
    At eighteen, Ashraya’s life had been turned upside down by her mother’s death. She had selflessly spent many years nursing the increasingly frail woman, protecting her from her husband’s violent outbursts, putting any thought of marriage or personal happiness on hold. Afterwards, she had tried hard to overcome her grief and do as her father expected. He was only a small, wiry man, but he was extremely intimidating just the same. And she had eventually done well, entertaining her older brothers and their wives on many occasions, as well as her father’s business partner once a month. He had grudgingly praised her, although his standards were so high that she often despaired of living up to them.
    And now, on this grey, rainy day, she would outdo her best with a chicken curry to be remembered. All the ingredients had been prepared, and slowly she started adding them to the great pot on the oven. Melt the ghee, the solidified oil that was commonly used for cooking in India. Add spices – cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, star anise, curry leaves. The delicate fragrance of the spices rose into the air as they were heated, giving the kitchen a familiar, warm, tangy smell that seemed like an old friend.
    “I know you are here, mother,” Ashraya whispered lovingly as she stirred the spices in the oil. “I am making this special curry just for you, to honour your memory.”
    Chopped onion. Ginger. Garlic. More intense spicy smells drifted through the air. She smiled as she stirred them around the pot. This recipe had been her mother’s favourite, and she was proud of being able to cook it so well. Soon it was time to add the prepared curry paste, along with turmeric for the distinctive yellow colour of the curry. She remembered the first time she had tried to cook this recipe after her mother had died. She had forgotten the turmeric, and her father had been most harsh with her. Never had she forgotten an ingredient again, even after the bruises had faded.
    Ashraya hummed dreamily as she stirred the contents of the pot. The smell was tantalising, and she knew it would only get better. Anticipation grew as the time neared to add the meat. She had been especially careful in preparing it – using only the best parts, trimming off all skin, fat and cartilage, keeping it well protected from the ever-present flies. She had chopped it neatly with the sharpest blade she had, and disposed carefully of what was left in the furnace down in the apartment block’s basement. The bigger bones had been troublesome – and the horrible head, with it’s glaring, accusing eyes. But now it was all burnt, gone forever. And it was time. She tipped the meat into the pot, where it sizzled enticingly. She stirred the spices through, then put the lid on the pot and went away to scour the bathroom.
    When she returned to the kitchen hours later, the rich, warm, spicy scents made her mouth water. She stirred the cooked meat mixture, remembering the times her father had been proud of her cooking. Gradually the beatings had lessened as she had gained some skill, not burnt the rice or chapattis and had perfected the art of good presentation. She knew her mother would be proud of her, and sighed with the happy feeling that the knowledge gave her. Chopped tomatoes. Stir. Creamed coconut. Stir. Simmer. Her brothers and their wives would be impressed too. Almost a pity their father would miss this meal.
    Ashraya heard voices outside the door, and went to let her visitors in. Two of her three brothers were there, accompanied by their wives, still shaking water from their umbrellas and commenting on the rain. She led them to the formal dining table, the perfect hostess as she offered them refreshing chai-and-fruit punch.
    “Where is our father?” her eldest brother asked.
    “He went down to the river after breakfast to praise Ganesha on his feast day and ask for the blessings of Shiva,” Ashraya answered, word perfect after much practice.
    “In this weather?” asked another.
    “He is serious in his devotions.”
    “And he has not returned yet?”
    “I know not where he could be. Perhaps he will return in a little while.”
    Ashraya went back to the kitchen, pleased with her convincing act.
    ‘Thankyou, mother, for giving me the strength to follow through.’
    She quickly fried the samosas and arranged the various sambals, or dipping sauces, on a tray and took them to the dining table. She returned to get the stuffed butter fruit, better known elsewhere as avocado, from the ice box, and took those to the table as well. There, the starters were served and now all she had to do was check on the consistency of the mango sorbet she had made for dessert, cook the rice and chapattis and add the finishing touches to the curry. Her special curry. Her third brother arrived while she was busy sautéing the basmati rice in ghee, apologising that he was late after seeing to the comfort of his heavily pregnant wife. He joined the others at the dining table as Ashraya finished up her cooking.
    ‘Now for the final touches, as well befits you, father.’
    Ashraya found it hard to keep the bitterness from her voice, although it was no more than a whisper. She left the rice to gently boil, quickly heated the chapattis and stirred in the final ingredients of the curry – sugar, to combat the acidity of the tomatoes, salt and chopped coriander. She was more than pleased at the way her curry had turned out, and served it along with the rice in two large, burnished bowls. Her guests were complimentary about the starters, but they were all concerned about the absence of Ashraya’s father.
    “Relax,” she urged them. “I’m certain he will be back any minute now. He never misses a meal.”
    She watched in satisfaction as they filled their plates with rice and curry, tore their chapattis and started eating. The compliments continued – it was the best chicken curry they had ever tasted, the meat was superb – so tender, the spices so tasty, the flavours so balanced. Ashraya smiled as she lowered her eyes modestly. She had indeed gone to much trouble over this meal to make sure it was perfect. If only her father could have tasted it. When the main course was eaten, she cleared the plates, served the mango sorbet and drinks, then offered to switch on the small black and white television that was the crowning glory of the apartment. Although not affluent, their father had saved hard and proudly brought the television home, to the envy of all their neighbours.
    The news report was just starting. Countless numbers of people were dead after the Ganges burst it’s banks that morning. Many devotees swept away in the raging waters as they prayed. Men, women and children missing, feared drowned. Her brothers looked on in shock as the news sunk in. Their mouths hung open, their after dinner cups of chai and lassi forgotten. Their wives began to wail; it was a disaster. Ashraya left them and returned to the kitchen, her domain. She would join them later and pretend to grieve. Right now, she wanted to savour the moment, just as they had savoured her wonderful chicken curry. Let them add two and two together, let them make the logical assumption. They would never suspect the true final resting place of their father’s body.