Potato Curry
by Arathi Vallipuranathan
She carries a bowl of pureed vegetables to the dining table, where her baby is sitting in her booster chair, crying for her dinner. She smiles, placing the bowl on the red book in front of her and raises a spoonful of her food. Her baby stops crying and opens her mouth.
This was her new life, the one she dreamt of from the other side of the ocean. This was their new life, the life he wanted for them, away from their starvation, their poverty, their war.
She feeds her daughter, returning her smiles and mimicking the sound of trains until the bowl is empty and her daughter starts yawning, ready to say goodbye to the day. She holds her in her arms as she drifts off to sleep, rocking her back and forth. She then gently lays her down in her crib so she could make her husband his dinner before he returns home.
The three of them are happy in their small apartment, filled with mismatched furniture and peeling walls. The soft evening sun floods the room through the chipped window frame, the baby bathed in golden light.
********
My mother is dying. The doctor doesn’t know yet, she doesn’t know yet, but I do. Seeing her thin wrists, her body engulfed by the hospital sheets, I know she won’t get through this again.
I visit her every day after work, sitting in the red cushioned chair, holding her hand as we look towards the evening sun. I can never get comfortable, not in that silence, that chair, that room. I want to tell her about my day, my plans for tomorrow, the new shoes I bought, the paper cut on my thumb. There are so many things I want to say to her, want to hear from her, but I can never find the right words in my mother’s tongue.
“You bring me something to eat.” Her grip tightens as I meet her eyes, her mouth moving to find the correct words in English.
“Do you want a snack? They’re going to bring dinner at seven.”
“No, no, I need real food. Bring me yours and we will share.” Her hand reaches for my face as I fumble through my wallet for cash.
The chicken sandwich I bought from the restaurant downstairs is left untouched. I don’t know what she wants from me. I can never understand her.
********
Her husband comes home angry, just like every other evening. There’s not enough money; there was never enough for him. There’s never enough to eat, either, but he always has his plate full.
“No man can work on a handful of rice and some carrots.”
“But our girl …” She watches him head towards the living room with a bottle in one hand and a plate in another and hears him throwing her small purse off the side table. She doesn’t complain for the rest of the night. She knows better. She also knows it’s time for her to move on.
She shares a meal with her daughter, whose laughter fills her up.
********
“Auntie gave me some food for you to eat.” I set the plastic bag on the table under the window and place two styrofoam plates.
“She said that when her son was in the hospital, she made him dhal every day.”
She takes the outstretched plate and waits for me to settle down in my seat before eating. “Potato curry is better for sickness. Will you make some tomorrow? I wrote it down somewhere.”
I keep my eyes down at my plate, eating as an excuse to stay silent. How can I tell my mom I don’t know how to? How can I face her as a daughter who learned nothing from her mother?
As I throw away the plates in the small bin by the door, my mother softly calls out to me.
“You must work hard at the office, so don’t worry about me.”
I turn to face her, but she is looking out the window, the corners of her mouth turned down.
“Really, you should not worry about me anymore.” She finally faces me, and I race to her side.
Something’s wrong. What’s wrong, Mom? Please, I want to help you but I don’t even know where tobeginpotatoecurryisthatwhatyouwantpleasewhatshouldI-
“Ma, I-”
“I know.” Her voice is soft, softer than my hands that her calloused ones enclose. “I know.”
I hold back my tears.
********
“Did you not study? How can you come home with mark like this?”
“It’s just one test! Why are you-”
“Do you want to be me? Bad back, broken feet! You— ”
“Oh my god, I didn’t fail.”
“Go to school for what? Playing?”
“It’s not even bad! I can’t—I can’t be perfect! You’re always like this!”
She watches her daughter slam her bedroom door. Letting out a deep breath, she heads to the closet to grab a broom, letting her stress out on the spiders tucked away in the corners in the tiny apartment the two of them share. Every passing day she finds it more difficult to talk to her daughter.
A few hours later, in the dead of night, she softly knocks on her door with a bowl of pomegranates. She slowly opens the door to see her daughter hunched over her desk, over questions she never got the chance to answer when she was a girl. She quietly walks over and places the bowl on the corner of the small desk, the only spot free from the sea of papers.
“Please work hard, but don’t stress too much.” She lightly touches her shoulder before turning around to the door, hoping her daughter understands.
Her daughter reaches for the spoon. “Thanks.”
********
I find a worn red leather book in the kitchen drawer. I’ve never seen it before, which is strange, since this apartment isn’t big enough for me to forget what I have.
I flip through the yellowed pages and find the blotted ink of my mother’s fractured English. Her handwriting, too large, too placed-out, too precise, reveals recipes of her motherland and my past. When did she write all this down?
“Dinner is on me, then,” I say to myself.
I flip to the page for potato curry and rummage through the cabinets in search of ingredients. This will make her feel better. I carefully follow the instructions, praying it will turn out edible. As I set a timer for the pot, my phone starts ringing. No one I know calls me on a Sunday, so I ignore it.
As I listen to the timer tick and the pot boil, I skim over the rest of the pages and find a note on the back cover.
For my good daughter to eat good food.
All my love.
Oh.
Oh. This is what I wanted for so, so long.
My phone is ringing again, but the shriek of the timer grabs my attention instead. I quickly grab a spoon and taste the curry, burning the roof of my mouth. It doesn’t taste the same. But it’s ok; it’s mine and she’ll love it all the same.
I run around our apartment, grabbing my coat and packing the curry. My phone is still ringing as I put on my shoes. This time I answer, fed up with whoever is calling.
“This is Sunnybrook Hospital. Is this Ms Kumanan’s daughter?”