Keeping it simple

APARNA JACOB succumbs to nostalgia and whips up an Indian culinary creation, which certainly impresses her husband!

No matter how hard he tries, my husband Justin’s Hindi never goes beyond chapatti, daal, pyar, nahee, kidhar hai and Puneet Chhabra (a Punjabi guy whom he dislikes intensely).
This particularly becomes a problem when he wants me to recreate something he ate at my mother’s house, and cannot name or describe it adequately. For instance:
“You know those round things your mother makes…”“What colour?”
“White, ever so slightly brown.”
“Sweet or savoury?”
“I’m not sure, maybe both.”
“Breakfast or lunch?”
“Both, I think.”
“What did we eat it with?”
“The green long thing…”
At this point I usually give up. For two reasons. One, I’m perpetually homesick and miss everything my mother cooked; and two, because cooking Indian food in Sydney is an emotionally painful, tiresome and frustrating experience. I try not to think about it. On weekends, I call my mother so many continents away and ask her for obscure recipes like ginger curry, mango and jackfruit seed, or spicy prawns that I hope to replicate in my tiny kitchen in Sydney.
She painstakingly lists ingredients and spices I could never buy at Coles, but could maybe get my hands on if I went trawling through the Indian stores in my area.
“Are you writing this down?” my mother would ask, and I’d lie, “Of course!”
Truth is, I just like to listen and imagine the taste of coconut chutney with spluttered mustard seeds and red chillies on my tongue, or imagine sinking my teeth into soft fluffy idlis. Or imagine the comfort of fried green banana and beans toran with steaming white rice. And those chapattis every morning, perfectly round and soft and fragrant from homemade ghee.
Feeling desperate, I wander into the corner “Indian” store. These are always Bangladeshi stores, but I can’t be bothered correcting people who call every dark skinned person of Southeast Asian origin, Indian (or worse, ‘Paki’). I usually come here once a month to buy a certain phone card called “Another Indian Phone card…” The guy who owns the store stands behind the display of samosas, chicken patties and assorted mithai: almond barfi, coconut barfi, pistachio barfi, peda, ladoo, glaring jalebis and less glaring jalebis.

Truth is, I just like to listen and imagine the taste of coconut chutney with spluttered mustard seeds and red chillies on my tongue, or imagine sinking my teeth into soft fluffy idlis.

I’ve now known the guy behind the counter for four years (though I still don’t know his name) and he’s always polite with his ready smile and honest answers.
“Are the samosas fresh?”“No.”“Is the mithai fresh?”“No.”“Is this masala good?”“No.”
(Does my bum look big in this?
No.)“Phone card for you today?” He’s smiling.
“No, I’m just looking for something,” I say and go to the back of the shop where gigantic bags of spices and grains recline on the floor. There are stacks of Mysore sandal and Lux soaps, Shikakai and Sunsilk shampoo, Fair and Lovely and agarbatti. Hair oil sits next to Bedekar’s achar, poha next to a DVD of Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar. Gulab jamun and idli and dosa mixes, hing and sambar powder jostle with dried fish for their space on the same shelf. There’s Shaan, MDH and Mangal masalas for all conceivable preparations: kormas, biryanis, salan, tandoori, dum aloo, Jal farezi,you name it! I pick up a chana masala for $1:80.
I rush home. An onion is quickly chopped, garlic and ginger crushed and sautéed in hot oil. 2 tbsp of the channa masala fried and a can of chopped tomatoes tossed in. I drain and add two cans of chickpeas. In five minutes, I’m gobbling a bowl of hot and very authentic tasting chana masala. My eyes are teary and I’m not entirely sure if it’s the spice or the emotion.
For Justin’s dinner, I decide to go all out and make him fake bhature to go with the chana. I enjoy his disbelief as I present the plate with bhature on the side and a proud sprig of coriander atop the chana.
“Wow! Chappati!” he says, eyes filled with wonder. He looks so grateful.
“And what do you call this, sweety?” He’s chasing a chana around the plate with a piece of bhatura. Pathetic. I hand him a spoon.
“Chickpeas,” I say, making it simpler for both of us.