The spoon
“But you don’t smell like curry”, said Paul. I smiled at him, realising that I have finally managed to blend in. I could feel spring in my mind. The long, grey winter finally came to a close. It was a long one, two years to be precise. Two years! Since I have been trying hard to be English, to be one of them. I could smell the budding leaves as I slowly slung my coat over my shoulders, and walked towards my apartment.
As I walked down the lane with Paul, I saw the new Indian restaurant had finally been setup. They have been working on it for almost a month now. I wasn’t much excited about it, but still I slowed down a bit as I approached them. I could see Paul walking past me as my legs froze in front of what was written “Biriyani House”. The pungent scent of once my favourite dish beguiled me.
I saw Paul coming back and babbling, but I couldn’t hear what was that about. All I could hear was a kid asking his mother about lunch. He was all worn out, probably tired after a long day at school. I could see myself there, my mother slowly running her hands over my head and telling me about the “special dish” she had prepared. How could a mere whiff take me back to my past? How could it reverberate my mother’s voice inside my head? How could I remember the flavour of that special dish that my mother fed me.
“Do you want to try something Indian today?”, I asked Paul glaring at the entrance.
“Sure”, he said.
They served us two biriyanis, perfectly wrapped in a clay pot. As soon as I opened it, an aroma just breached into my head triggering all those sensors on my tongue, which were deprived of spices for a long time. The fragrance of chicken, butter and spices dominated it, followed by a subtle scent of basmati. I could say that I smelled salt too.
Paul was quick to grab the spoon and knife. I was always amazed by the finesse he handles food with. He could actually pry the spines out of a fish molee using a fork. I didn’t want to be thought of as some kind of culinary barbarian, who ate like a third-world savage. I almost took up the lifeless utensils before the Indian in me kicked in. How could I eat “the” biriyani with a spoon! How could I enjoy it if I don’t use as many senses as possible? I could probably taste it, but wouldn’t the flavour be lost if I don’t touch it? Using a spoon would tamper the scent which I couldn’t afford. I didn’t care about the two years I spent anymore, at least not until I had finished my biriyani.
I put the spoon down, and touched the basmati gently with three fingers. I felt the temperature, it was pretty hot. I could feel the amount of butter mixed with it as I mixed the right amount of masala with my first bite. I could smell the mixture as I placed it into my mouth, giving me a pretty good idea about how it was going to taste. It tasted exactly similar to what I had perceived! Just a mere touch “captured” the flavour for me. I finished it slowly, savouring each and every bit of what was left. I ceremoniously finished the meal by licking my fingers.
“That tasted like heaven”, said Paul while we left the place.
“You probably didn’t eat it right if you compared it with anything else”.
