Lina's Favorite Dish
Shanthi ripped the fat off the chicken with her fingers and tossed the bits into the kitchen sink. On the stove were sizzling pots and pans that she coated with a thin layer of olive oil. Lina didn't eat food cooked in the vegetable oil, buttermilk, and butter that would have otherwise gone into the dish, Shanthi remembered. She was watching her figure, trying to avoid the round hips, curved waist, and full breasts that had signified the women of Shanthi's lineage for generations.
Shanthi scooped diced onions into her palms and emptied her hands over the stainless steel sauté pan—the one she used only on special occasions. She sprinkled a few pinches of turmeric over the sizzling onions in the crackling oil, and stirred it with a wooden spoon. When the chicken pieces grew plump with the yogurt, nut, and assorted spices marinade, she lifted each piece and carefully placed it into the sauté pan. She poured a few cups of water over the meat and lowered the lid on top to capture the rising steam. As the spicy corma dish cooked, the water would turn into a thick creamy gravy infused with the succulent juices of the chicken. Shanthi remembered how much Lina loved this dish when she was a little girl.
When Lina was old enough to eat solid food, Shanthi began to feed her the traditional bhath and moorgi(1). With her fingers she would mix the soft warm rice and some chicken, sprinkle a hint of marsala, and bring it to Lina's eager mouth. She never took notice of the spice her mother added; she always responded with excited yelps of satisfaction and incoherent babblings for more. When Lina grew old enough to enjoy the elaborate birthday parties her and her husband eagerly orchestrated, Shanthi toiled all day in the kitchen preparing her daughters favorite Bengali foods; garlic nans, roasted and barbeque skewered beef and chicken kebabs, shrimp kebab marsala, and chicken biryani, but the most important dish was the chicken corma.
The parties had been elaborate with a hundred or so guests dressed in the most exquisite silk sari's imported straight from Bangladesh with hand sewn batik designs, fragrant flowery scents of women's perfumes, gold jewelry adorning every ear, neck, and wrist, and the good-natured gossiping over tea as the men removed themselves to their own private quarter. Her eyes would follow Lina playing in their manicured lawn with the children of their friends. Her dress was always the finest with puffed sleeves and laces around the waist, but she could never keep it clean. Though it had been over twenty years, Shanthi could still see Lina's chubby little fingers close around the golden brown thigh, dropping bits of rice stuck to the meat, on her new birthday dress.
The heart of a mother never forgets; rather, it beats stronger with the memory of every kiss, every smile, and every touch upon the body that she had sheltered in her womb. Shanthi scooped nine cups of rice from the straw bag of Basmati rice and dumped them into the boiling pot of water over the stove. She knew she was making more than they could eat in one night, but she remembered Lina's husband Rick who would be coming as well. When they were done eating, Shanthi would pack the left-overs in containers for them to take home. They could store the food for days and enjoy a bit of Bengali cooking for a change. Shanthi smiled at the thought of her daughter nourished by the food she'd prepared with her small wrinkled hands; the same hands that had fed her all her life. She didn't mind Rick anymore either.
When Lina had burst into the quiet living room with Rick in tow and announced their engagement, Shanthi had felt the ground beneath her feet split apart, plunging her to a bleary bottom where every thought, dream, and hope had shattered with her. Her husband had immediately risen from his Lazy Boy, eyes wide and reddening, vein throbbing at his temple, thundering at Lina for shaming the family and throwing away her life on an American boy of no worth or consequence –just an artist who lived half-way across the country in New York City.
Her husband forbade the union and threatened to disown Lina. Yet, as their daughter stood before them hand in hand with Rick, her posture stubborn, face unaffected, it was clear that she hadn't come to ask their permission. For the first time in his life, Shanthi's proud husband had begged. All the while Shanthi watched the scene unfold before her eyes, even seeing herself frozen in her chair, as if she were observing from some place above her body. They had never known that Lina was dating; it was only understood that she couldn't. Lina had not faltered in her decision. She had turned away and walked out of the door.
For four years Shanthi had not heard from Lina, but had endlessly dreamed of her. Her husband had never mentioned Lina's name again and it was expected that Shanthi do the same. He went to work in the mornings and returned in the evenings just as before. Shanthi had his food prepared and set on the table and he ate as usual. But he stopped listening to the music that had once freely carried through the house or read the Bengali paper that kept him entertained while sipping a hot cup of chai under the warm glow of the evening sun. Sometimes in the middle of the night Shanthi would hear his muffled weeping, as she struggled to silence the anguish in her own heart.
When he died Shanthi had wandered from room to room, struck by the desolation that surrounded her in the empty house. His funeral was held at the local musjid(2) where prayers were said beseeching Allah to show his soul mercy and allow him safe passage into the afterlife. Everyone wore simple garments of white; the women in long white salwar(3)'s and orna's covering their heads and the men in long alkala(4)'s and white caps. They raised their cupped hands in front of their faces and recited the words the Imam read from the Qu'ran.
That day Shanthi had wept for the husband she'd lost, who could never again be her constant silent partner, enduring the burdens of fate together. She wept for the daughter who had abandoned her without a word or a backward glance at what she had so dishearteningly relinquished. She'd cried into the stiff arms of an unfamiliar woman whose small children looked on with fear and confusion reflected in their eyes. She'd wept, no longer ignoring the increasingly suffocating ache in her chest; until there was nothing left but a cold numbness in her heart and mind where no thought had strength to flourish.
Then she'd spotted her, like the promised rainbow after a raging monsoon, arching over the wrecked land once the rain had ceased. Her daughter teetered by the doorway of the musjid searching from face to face for the eyes of her mother. Shanthi's tears renewed and she hadn't been quite sure if Lina was really there. Then, her eyes fell upon Rick as he dazedly looked about, and she knew she could not have been dreaming. Lina's eyes had caught hers and she broke through the crowd, in her white pant suit and blouse, to reach Shanthi. Her once long black hair had been cut short and dyed to a light brown. She was small and slender, her body merely hinting at the curves that threatened to repossess it if she were not careful. Lina's honey colored skin glowed with youth, and the face that regarded her was a mirror of her own younger self. Lina's once full cheeks had sunken, revealing high cheekbones that settled beneath dark brown eyes whose whites burned red from crying.
Shanthi had not needed words to break the silence of four years. She had reached out her arms wrapping them around Lina's neck and brought her to her bosom, rocking her as she had done when Lina was a child. As a layer of dust upon a forgotten treasure scurries in every direction from one hearty blow, so did the people at the congregation stir and distance themselves from the three. Their horror and disapproval at Lina's sudden appearance and at Rick's intrusive presence was clear, but like a blurry image in the distance they all faded into the background.
Since that day, they had spoken over the phone once a week to keep in touch. It was enough to satisfy Shanthi; for once a week was better than not at all. It was during these phone calls that Shanthi had asked Lina to come to Phoenix for Lina's 26th birthday. Rick was invited too of course. Although Lina had not been sure if such a long trip were possible considering the full time jobs she and Rick had, Shanthi persisted, and in the end Lina agreed.
Shanthi lifted the lid of the pot of chicken biryani and the steam billowed forth, carrying with it the savory smell of spicy roasted chicken mixed with plump brown rice. The white rice had finished cooking and was now steaming in the pot. She had put some beef and chicken kebab's in the oven and had also prepared a creamy lentil soup. The shrimp marsala, set on a low heat, now sputtered in the sauce pan as curled jumbo shrimp swam in the spicy red sauce.
They would arrive at seven –a half hour. Shanthi spooned the items into individual serving dishes and set each dish at the center of the long mahogany table in the dining room. She hadn't used this table since her husband's died. She took out the china from the cupboard and set the table for three. As an afterthought, Shanthi placed a spoon, a knife, and a fork beside the settings meant for Lina and Rick. She wouldn't need them, but she was sure Lina and Rick didn't eat with their hand as she did. She found eating with her hands much more satisfying and less of a hassle than it is to wield a knife to cut meat her teeth were naturally made to tear; or use a fork and spoon to manage her food when her hand had always known how to make a ball of rice and curry.
After setting the table, Shanthi quickly washed away the day's sweat and fatigue, and dawned fresh clothes: a deep green salwar with light beading and her orna, which modestly concealed her breasts. Her hair she tied in a neat bun gathered at the nape of her neck. Shanthi went back downstairs, feeling nervous and excited, and took a moment to close her eyes and inhale the scent of all the foods she'd made. She imagined a young Lina running into the kitchen to ask her mother to name in Bengali all the items she'd prepared. When Shanthi was through Lina would beg her for a chicken thigh from the corma. Shanthi had never refused.
Shanthi walked into the kitchen again and stood before the last dish on the stove, the one that took the longest to cook but tasted the best. She lifted the lid from the pot and the smells of the corma overpowered her senses. The fresh herbs she'd cut over the pieces of chicken were now floating in the creamy white sauce. She stuck a fork into a thigh and it slid all the way through to the bone. It was done. Shanthi carefully ladled the hot corma into a wide serving bowl, placed it at the center of the table, and covered it with a plate to keep it warm.
It was ten after seven and Shanthi was expecting her daughter any minute. Her pace quickened as she rushed into the kitchen for the kebabs. She lined the kebabs on a white platter, garnished them with a sprig of basil and thyme, and carried the platter back to the dining table. Her eyes strolled over the foods that her own mother had taught her to make as a girl. Then, she took her seat. The stillness and quiet that were the usually indifferent tenants in her home, now began to approach her with an ever steady gait. Shanthi focused intently on the rays of the setting sun as they bled through the windows, spilled across the walls, and creeped toward the tips of her toes splayed on the red carpet.
She remained immobile for a long time. Each minute that ticked by added to the agony swelling inside her breast. It was the agony of a mother, one that had no cure when it was caused by one’s own flesh.
A loud chime echoed through the quiet, breaking the daunting stillness that had settled in the house and in her bones. Shanthi started in her chair and recited a quick prayer of gratitude to Allah as she rushed to get the door. Each step brought her closer to Lina. Each foot fell to the beating in her heart. Her shaking fingers closed around the knob and opened the door.
“Hi, Ama.” Lina stood before her with a wide smile.
(1) Rice and chicken
(2) a.k.a. mosque
(3) Traditional dress worn by women. The salwar part resembles a dress and a matching pant. The orna resembles a long scarf or shawl that normally conceals the chest and in some occasions the head as well.
(4) Similar to the salwar but designed for men.
Rachel Begum is a a third year English Writing student at Plattsburgh State University. She was born in Dhaka, Bangladesh and came to New York City to live with her father in Queens at the age of two. Her life has been a struggle between three different cultures: the Bengali culture of her parents' upbringing, the more strict Islamic culture that her parents ardently followed, and the American culture that her parents feared and which she couldn't avoid. Her unique voice comes from her experience and struggle to find her identity beyond the labels of culture and tradition. She writes because she feels that her voice can both empower and speak for others, especially children of immigrant parents, who silently struggle in the same ways.
Shanthi ripped the fat off the chicken with her fingers and tossed the bits into the kitchen sink. On the stove were sizzling pots and pans that she coated with a thin layer of olive oil. Lina didn't eat food cooked in the vegetable oil, buttermilk, and butter that would have otherwise gone into the dish, Shanthi remembered. She was watching her figure, trying to avoid the round hips, curved waist, and full breasts that had signified the women of Shanthi's lineage for generations.
Shanthi scooped diced onions into her palms and emptied her hands over the stainless steel sauté pan—the one she used only on special occasions. She sprinkled a few pinches of turmeric over the sizzling onions in the crackling oil, and stirred it with a wooden spoon. When the chicken pieces grew plump with the yogurt, nut, and assorted spices marinade, she lifted each piece and carefully placed it into the sauté pan. She poured a few cups of water over the meat and lowered the lid on top to capture the rising steam. As the spicy corma dish cooked, the water would turn into a thick creamy gravy infused with the succulent juices of the chicken. Shanthi remembered how much Lina loved this dish when she was a little girl.
When Lina was old enough to eat solid food, Shanthi began to feed her the traditional bhath and moorgi(1). With her fingers she would mix the soft warm rice and some chicken, sprinkle a hint of marsala, and bring it to Lina's eager mouth. She never took notice of the spice her mother added; she always responded with excited yelps of satisfaction and incoherent babblings for more. When Lina grew old enough to enjoy the elaborate birthday parties her and her husband eagerly orchestrated, Shanthi toiled all day in the kitchen preparing her daughters favorite Bengali foods; garlic nans, roasted and barbeque skewered beef and chicken kebabs, shrimp kebab marsala, and chicken biryani, but the most important dish was the chicken corma.
The parties had been elaborate with a hundred or so guests dressed in the most exquisite silk sari's imported straight from Bangladesh with hand sewn batik designs, fragrant flowery scents of women's perfumes, gold jewelry adorning every ear, neck, and wrist, and the good-natured gossiping over tea as the men removed themselves to their own private quarter. Her eyes would follow Lina playing in their manicured lawn with the children of their friends. Her dress was always the finest with puffed sleeves and laces around the waist, but she could never keep it clean. Though it had been over twenty years, Shanthi could still see Lina's chubby little fingers close around the golden brown thigh, dropping bits of rice stuck to the meat, on her new birthday dress.
The heart of a mother never forgets; rather, it beats stronger with the memory of every kiss, every smile, and every touch upon the body that she had sheltered in her womb. Shanthi scooped nine cups of rice from the straw bag of Basmati rice and dumped them into the boiling pot of water over the stove. She knew she was making more than they could eat in one night, but she remembered Lina's husband Rick who would be coming as well. When they were done eating, Shanthi would pack the left-overs in containers for them to take home. They could store the food for days and enjoy a bit of Bengali cooking for a change. Shanthi smiled at the thought of her daughter nourished by the food she'd prepared with her small wrinkled hands; the same hands that had fed her all her life. She didn't mind Rick anymore either.
When Lina had burst into the quiet living room with Rick in tow and announced their engagement, Shanthi had felt the ground beneath her feet split apart, plunging her to a bleary bottom where every thought, dream, and hope had shattered with her. Her husband had immediately risen from his Lazy Boy, eyes wide and reddening, vein throbbing at his temple, thundering at Lina for shaming the family and throwing away her life on an American boy of no worth or consequence –just an artist who lived half-way across the country in New York City.
Her husband forbade the union and threatened to disown Lina. Yet, as their daughter stood before them hand in hand with Rick, her posture stubborn, face unaffected, it was clear that she hadn't come to ask their permission. For the first time in his life, Shanthi's proud husband had begged. All the while Shanthi watched the scene unfold before her eyes, even seeing herself frozen in her chair, as if she were observing from some place above her body. They had never known that Lina was dating; it was only understood that she couldn't. Lina had not faltered in her decision. She had turned away and walked out of the door.
For four years Shanthi had not heard from Lina, but had endlessly dreamed of her. Her husband had never mentioned Lina's name again and it was expected that Shanthi do the same. He went to work in the mornings and returned in the evenings just as before. Shanthi had his food prepared and set on the table and he ate as usual. But he stopped listening to the music that had once freely carried through the house or read the Bengali paper that kept him entertained while sipping a hot cup of chai under the warm glow of the evening sun. Sometimes in the middle of the night Shanthi would hear his muffled weeping, as she struggled to silence the anguish in her own heart.
When he died Shanthi had wandered from room to room, struck by the desolation that surrounded her in the empty house. His funeral was held at the local musjid(2) where prayers were said beseeching Allah to show his soul mercy and allow him safe passage into the afterlife. Everyone wore simple garments of white; the women in long white salwar(3)'s and orna's covering their heads and the men in long alkala(4)'s and white caps. They raised their cupped hands in front of their faces and recited the words the Imam read from the Qu'ran.
That day Shanthi had wept for the husband she'd lost, who could never again be her constant silent partner, enduring the burdens of fate together. She wept for the daughter who had abandoned her without a word or a backward glance at what she had so dishearteningly relinquished. She'd cried into the stiff arms of an unfamiliar woman whose small children looked on with fear and confusion reflected in their eyes. She'd wept, no longer ignoring the increasingly suffocating ache in her chest; until there was nothing left but a cold numbness in her heart and mind where no thought had strength to flourish.
Then she'd spotted her, like the promised rainbow after a raging monsoon, arching over the wrecked land once the rain had ceased. Her daughter teetered by the doorway of the musjid searching from face to face for the eyes of her mother. Shanthi's tears renewed and she hadn't been quite sure if Lina was really there. Then, her eyes fell upon Rick as he dazedly looked about, and she knew she could not have been dreaming. Lina's eyes had caught hers and she broke through the crowd, in her white pant suit and blouse, to reach Shanthi. Her once long black hair had been cut short and dyed to a light brown. She was small and slender, her body merely hinting at the curves that threatened to repossess it if she were not careful. Lina's honey colored skin glowed with youth, and the face that regarded her was a mirror of her own younger self. Lina's once full cheeks had sunken, revealing high cheekbones that settled beneath dark brown eyes whose whites burned red from crying.
Shanthi had not needed words to break the silence of four years. She had reached out her arms wrapping them around Lina's neck and brought her to her bosom, rocking her as she had done when Lina was a child. As a layer of dust upon a forgotten treasure scurries in every direction from one hearty blow, so did the people at the congregation stir and distance themselves from the three. Their horror and disapproval at Lina's sudden appearance and at Rick's intrusive presence was clear, but like a blurry image in the distance they all faded into the background.
Since that day, they had spoken over the phone once a week to keep in touch. It was enough to satisfy Shanthi; for once a week was better than not at all. It was during these phone calls that Shanthi had asked Lina to come to Phoenix for Lina's 26th birthday. Rick was invited too of course. Although Lina had not been sure if such a long trip were possible considering the full time jobs she and Rick had, Shanthi persisted, and in the end Lina agreed.
Shanthi lifted the lid of the pot of chicken biryani and the steam billowed forth, carrying with it the savory smell of spicy roasted chicken mixed with plump brown rice. The white rice had finished cooking and was now steaming in the pot. She had put some beef and chicken kebab's in the oven and had also prepared a creamy lentil soup. The shrimp marsala, set on a low heat, now sputtered in the sauce pan as curled jumbo shrimp swam in the spicy red sauce.
They would arrive at seven –a half hour. Shanthi spooned the items into individual serving dishes and set each dish at the center of the long mahogany table in the dining room. She hadn't used this table since her husband's died. She took out the china from the cupboard and set the table for three. As an afterthought, Shanthi placed a spoon, a knife, and a fork beside the settings meant for Lina and Rick. She wouldn't need them, but she was sure Lina and Rick didn't eat with their hand as she did. She found eating with her hands much more satisfying and less of a hassle than it is to wield a knife to cut meat her teeth were naturally made to tear; or use a fork and spoon to manage her food when her hand had always known how to make a ball of rice and curry.
After setting the table, Shanthi quickly washed away the day's sweat and fatigue, and dawned fresh clothes: a deep green salwar with light beading and her orna, which modestly concealed her breasts. Her hair she tied in a neat bun gathered at the nape of her neck. Shanthi went back downstairs, feeling nervous and excited, and took a moment to close her eyes and inhale the scent of all the foods she'd made. She imagined a young Lina running into the kitchen to ask her mother to name in Bengali all the items she'd prepared. When Shanthi was through Lina would beg her for a chicken thigh from the corma. Shanthi had never refused.
Shanthi walked into the kitchen again and stood before the last dish on the stove, the one that took the longest to cook but tasted the best. She lifted the lid from the pot and the smells of the corma overpowered her senses. The fresh herbs she'd cut over the pieces of chicken were now floating in the creamy white sauce. She stuck a fork into a thigh and it slid all the way through to the bone. It was done. Shanthi carefully ladled the hot corma into a wide serving bowl, placed it at the center of the table, and covered it with a plate to keep it warm.
It was ten after seven and Shanthi was expecting her daughter any minute. Her pace quickened as she rushed into the kitchen for the kebabs. She lined the kebabs on a white platter, garnished them with a sprig of basil and thyme, and carried the platter back to the dining table. Her eyes strolled over the foods that her own mother had taught her to make as a girl. Then, she took her seat. The stillness and quiet that were the usually indifferent tenants in her home, now began to approach her with an ever steady gait. Shanthi focused intently on the rays of the setting sun as they bled through the windows, spilled across the walls, and creeped toward the tips of her toes splayed on the red carpet.
She remained immobile for a long time. Each minute that ticked by added to the agony swelling inside her breast. It was the agony of a mother, one that had no cure when it was caused by one’s own flesh.
A loud chime echoed through the quiet, breaking the daunting stillness that had settled in the house and in her bones. Shanthi started in her chair and recited a quick prayer of gratitude to Allah as she rushed to get the door. Each step brought her closer to Lina. Each foot fell to the beating in her heart. Her shaking fingers closed around the knob and opened the door.
“Hi, Ama.” Lina stood before her with a wide smile.
(1) Rice and chicken
(2) a.k.a. mosque
(3) Traditional dress worn by women. The salwar part resembles a dress and a matching pant. The orna resembles a long scarf or shawl that normally conceals the chest and in some occasions the head as well.
(4) Similar to the salwar but designed for men.
Rachel Begum is a a third year English Writing student at Plattsburgh State University. She was born in Dhaka, Bangladesh and came to New York City to live with her father in Queens at the age of two. Her life has been a struggle between three different cultures: the Bengali culture of her parents' upbringing, the more strict Islamic culture that her parents ardently followed, and the American culture that her parents feared and which she couldn't avoid. Her unique voice comes from her experience and struggle to find her identity beyond the labels of culture and tradition. She writes because she feels that her voice can both empower and speak for others, especially children of immigrant parents, who silently struggle in the same ways.
