Of food and grief

What food means to me. And can it solve grief ?

The rain that falls outside is invading the home of frogs. The frogs are staging a revolt in a cacophony of noise. I sit on the floor of the kitchen happy that there is enough sound to drown the crumple of the chips bag in my hand. And the chips that are inside my mouth. “Crunch!!” I am astonished that a few crumbs like this can make such a noise. I can hear the bangles of my wife stirring in her sleep. I am scared to wake her up and catch me in this compromising position. I don’t use my teeth to crush the chips again. I let the chips sit inside my mouth and get wet. And then using my tongue push the shapeless amalgam that the crisps have become to the top of my mouth. Then swallow. There is no sound in my mouth. Everywhere else is an opera.

My relationship with food has always been complicated. Some days it is my best friend. There it is sitting in front of me like a plate of maccha besara (fish in mustard paste) and rice with steam billowing from it. I remember the seeds of mustard which are immersed in a balmy hot water bath and ground in a silapua (sil batta/stone grinder) till the black finite turns into a golden infinite paste. It is the story of a fish which once abundant is now rare to find. The memory of the slit green chilies still bringing out the saliva like they are sitting right in front of me now.  The purity of rice promises comfort. And an afternoon nap that makes you question every decision you ever made. My father sits in front of me and meticulously picks the bones of the fish. The banker turns into an artist. A special empty plate sits in between all of us, my parents, my sister, and me. Soon it fills up from the rejects of our plates. The bits of fish skin that taste too bitter, the fish bones that were once part of the whole are now separate, the fatty bits which some of us don’t like. Our stomachs fill up along with that plate. And our souls.

I wish I could eat like my wife eats the crab curry her mother prepares. Once she sits for that meal, she lets food dictate her ways. She is not bound by the clock. Or the constructs of time. Whole crab curry prepared as a magic potion guides her through everything. She tastes the onions, the cumin, the coriander, the ginger, the garlic, the cardamom, the cinnamon, the mustard oil, the garam masala, the water, the bits of magic that her mother hasn’t yet put down in the recipe. And then she eats the crab. She crushes them with her teeth. She pulls them apart with her engineer fingers. She presses the pincers until the meat oozes out. She bangs the claw on the plate till they hold no more meat. And as a punctuation there is rice. I have lost her on many afternoons like this.

Yet I have often hated food. I have hated all the good things it made me feel. I have hated how I have turned to it at the times I needed love. I have hated how many times I have hurt my mother and wife just because they hadn’t prepared my favorite food. I hated that until recently I couldn’t even make food to save my life. I have hated how much I let my mood swing just by one morsel of a tasty bit. Some days food wraps me up in a shining golden-brown guilt. Of chicken fried until there is no memory left inside it. I can no longer tell any bit of it apart. Something is playing on the TV. None of it is distinct. There are no plates. I eat it out of the bag that it came in, scared to take it out and let the shame of the volume of food cover me. There is no company. No memory stands out. They all converge. One into the other. Like a train of regret. With no station to stop.

Try to think about any memory that sits with you, food sits with it and with you. Remember back to the school farewell where many hearts were healed and broken by letting out held-back proposals. The panipuri erupts in a spicy memory. Your tongue burnt, your eyes watery. The day she said yes? The choco-bar surely had a hand in it! The day you got married? The gosht curry, with tender mutton that melted in your hands and your mouth. Heck, even your first kiss. The faint taste of strawberry balm on her lips. Even in its absence, food makes its presence felt.

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And remember the day that Bapa (my grandfather) died?

The knock on the door tells you a story. Urgent but soft. The bustle of the morning is yet to be upon us.  There is a voice at the other side of the door, hoarse with tears. Are these the tears that I had made my mother cry, the night before? When I shut the door in her face and refused to have dinner? For not preparing a plate of chicken curry? The hunger and guilt seem to have wrapped me into a state of inaction. Yet, I get up and open the door. Maybe I can say sorry? Would that make it all right?

“Baba, bapa chali gale” (Son, grandfather is no more)

The early morning drive to your village that I have often craved is now upon me. And I dread the end of the journey. How would he look in death? Will he fill the living room like he did when he tiptoed around to find what was for lunch? Can I see his near-toothless smile one last time, like he did when we had fish for lunch AND dinner? Can I witness his irritability when there is no non-vegetarian fare to eat?

When I see him, he is merged into his bed. I can no longer make out his long arms or legs or comforting belly. Nothing contains him anymore. He is shapeless. Like the food prepared for the guests who have arrived to say their final goodbyes. If he was alive, he would have coaxed my grandmother or aunt to prepare a fish curry. Now in his absence, food seems to be the last thing on anyone’s mind. Except me. My stomach growls from the hunger and guilt of last night. Serves me right.

On the twelfth day of his passing, there is a ceremony to remember him. Guests beyond friends and family reach a tiny village in Odisha to say their last prayers. On the menu among other things is fish curry. Before anyone eats custom dictates that a plate is prepared for the departed . People say if given enough privacy the departed soul comes for one final meal. And sure enough, when the twitter of the guest dies down, and no one (except me) is looking bapa comes. He is a crow today. He smirks at all the vegetarian food and sinks his beak straight into the fish. Soft, white, and gelatinous. I say my last goodbyes. The crow flies off soon. The plate is almost untouched. Except for the fish curry. That is gone.

Everyone is talking about my grandfather. His literary exploits, his hand in the teaching reforms in Odisha, his affable nature. Me and my mother talk about bapa’s plate and the crow that came. There is a smile and light still. We will shave the guilt off our souls. One fish curry at a time.

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