One warm April afternoon in Srinagar, Safiya (Saba) and I decided to leave work early, very early, at 11:00 am to go to her home for lunch. We made up an excuse – doctor or was it the pharmacy? – fed it to the orphanage cooks and matrons and off we went. I had given the children tons of homework and they were happy to see me disappear. Saba and I took an auto-rickshaw to her home, after much haggling about the rates (she is an expert haggler), and eagerly looked forward to the simple and tasty lunch Aunty (Saba’s mum) had cooked. We were sure she’d be happy to see me – no annoyance at the sight of an unexpected (and uninvited guest). In fact I knew she welcomed it – she loved to tell me tales of her childhood, the insurgency and Kashmiri life while she watched me eat.
We reached Saba’s home in a small suburb of Srinagar and jumped out of the rickshaw even before it stopped. Saba paid the driver, hushing my protests, and we ran up the stairs to the front door of the house. Saba had her own key so she opened the door and we stepped in. Surprise, Surprise, no one was home. Aunty had gone off to visit her beloved brother – she did that at least twice a day, if she could help it. Saba and I groaned. We were hungry. Quick-witted Saba went into the pantry of the small and basic kitchen that only had a gas stove, a large mortar pestle, a sink and two small cupboards for storing spices and cutlery. She opened one of the cupboards and took out a steel box, full of crumbled ver, and used her fingers to take 2 tablespoons worth and put it into a small steel bowl. I look at her, filled with wonder – what was she doing? She smiled at me ” So Mummy is not here, so what? I’ll cook for you. Wait a few minutes while I step out.”
She returned in about five minutes. She’d bought a bit of lamb meat and promptly started cleaning it. I offered help but all she would let me do was clean and soak the fragrant rice kernels. I watched her cook – pounding garlic in the mortar, frying the meat in ghee, chopping the vegetables and mint for the salad, while we snacked on some almonds and sipped green tea. The food was ready in about an hour – we ate hot and flaming Rogan Josh (the best I ever tasted), plain fragrant rice, a salad of tomatoes, onions, green chillies and mint with salt and vinegar. Saba and I enjoyed our meal immensely – talking, laughing, teasing while we ate – and when we could not eat anymore, we lay back on the cushions on one end of the kitchen and slept until we heard Aunty’s voice.
Its been three years but the taste of Saba’s hastily, but lovingly, cooked Rogan Josh still lingers on my tongue. My heartfelt gratitude goes out to her for sharing her home and food with me.
