America 101: The big mansion the marriage broker raved about in Chennai turns out to be a one-bedroom apartment with linoleum flooring and mini cockroaches. My brand-new husband is an entry-level programmer and not an executive. But there’s a dishwasher, a washing machine, and running hot water all day. He tells me not to get too friendly with the Indian neighbors in 2B, they will start borrowing sugar and coffee just like in India.
The masala dabba contains more than spices: The seven little containers transport me to Amma’s kitchen, her soft mul cotton saree a bouquet of spices enveloping me in its warmth, the clink of her bangles as she whips curd into buttermilk with the mathu a melody I yearn for.
I tell him I’m out of spices, saving the last of Amma’s.
Cooking perfect rice is an art: The first day I make rice, I undercook it, the grains unevenly cooked, the texture jarring; the next day, it’s an overcooked mush. Patti and Amma never let me help in the kitchen, and Amma didn’t write down the recipe. Over two days of hot rice thrown at me, as his name hidden in the wedding henna on my hands starts to fade to an ugly orange from bright red, hot rice grains slithering down my cheeks like fire ants, I discover that he married me for sex and maid services, that it takes two cups of water to one cup of rice and soaking the basmati for twenty minutes to get that perfectly fluffy rice.
I don’t tell him the sex isn’t all that great.
Know your neighbors: I ran into 2B Aunty at the trash receptacle today. Aunty is wearing a saree, and says softly: “help venumna kelumma.” Tamil! I smile tentatively, scurry back to my apartment, restlessness in my bones.
I try to hide my smile from him.
Soak tamarind in hot water to soften it: Amma can make rasam in her sleep, but I struggle with this most basic dish. Some days it’s too sour - like my marriage, some days the heat of the pepper singes my palate. He yells about the little bits of tamarind fiber that resemble striations from the second-degree burn on my stomach.
Amma says rasam, like life, is a perfect balance of sour, sweet, and heat.
Wash okra before chopping: He curses my family the day I wash the ladyfingers after chopping them, making a sticky mess beyond salvage. He makes me eat it while he eats the pizza he ordered for himself. These days, I make the crispiest okra perfectly seasoned with chili powder and hing that he greedily finishes, leaving me the blackened pieces in the bottom of the pan.
I don’t tell him those are the best pieces.
Garlic for a happy married life: My mother-in-law advised me to use plenty of garlic in my cooking, winking “It’s good for the bedroom”. When I come to bed smelling like garlic, he turns away disgusted. I know lemon juice gets the smell off my fingernails.
I pretend I’m sorry for forgetting to use lemon juice on my garlicky fingers some nights.
Getting rid of garlic smell: See above.
Handling pregnancy cravings: During the first snow of my life, in the first six months of my married hell, the little life in me makes me crave Amma’s hot peppery milagu kuzhambu that she made on rainy evenings. I write to Amma for the recipe along with news of my pregnancy. It turns out perfect, tamarind cooked with a spicy paste of black pepper, red chilies, and coriander seeds. I spread the white rice on my plate, ladling the jam-like kuzhambu on top. When I reach for the ghee, literally salivating, he smacks my hand. “You already look like a cow. Get it, a cow gives milk, doesn’t need milk or ghee?”
I hate him.
Chilies are nature’s narcotics: One day my brain loses control over my hand, the hand loses control over the number of chilies I put in the coconut chutney for the soft white idlis. The fiery heat numbs every other pain, the river of endorphins washing away the debris of scars. In the burning euphoria of that moment my secret cookbook is born.
One I promise to never pass on to my daughter.
Baby makes three: My hope that he would change when the baby comes are dashed. He is irritated by the colicky crying of Nitya. Blames me for the cost of diapers, baby formula. As if I went and had the baby all by myself. 2B aunty brings a gift for Nitya and pathiya sappadu, after he leaves for work. I find $10 in the pudgy folds of Nitya’s palm after she leaves. Tears that wouldn’t fall at his cruelty fall freely at this kindness.
I don’t tell him about 2B aunty’s visit.
Sneaking veggies into your child’s meals while starting a business to escape your dreadful marriage: Nitya is three and has learned to fear her appa even though he hasn’t laid a finger on her in love nor anger. She chatters nonstop when he’s not around. When she refuses to eat her vegetables, I trick her into gobbling it down by mashing them with her favorite dal rice.
I see 2B aunty on our walk today. She mentions she’s been cooking for the desi students in the building but is unable to handle all the orders. Would I be interested in making a little extra money? I think about it all day. When I tell him of cooking for the students, how much they’re willing to pay, adding facetiously ‘why would I cook for strangers?’, he yells at me for saying no to easy money, to get off my butt and do something useful other than watching tv all day.
I don’t tell him what the students pay, or that I now have my own bank account.
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