My hands are light as the turmeric falls from my fingers. The chicken turns orange, something thuds upstairs, a magpie screeches near the window. But it’s the weight of my hands I’m focused on. They’re fluttering, like wings of a hummingbird.
The chicken, I’m forgetting about the chicken. The sizzling gets louder, meat becoming charcoaled. The bits and pieces cling to the bottom. “Shit.” I pull out my earbuds and the wining sound of the oven timer chastises me as I rush to pour out the water.
The hiss of the pot intermingles with the melody in my earbuds, a tune from my childhood. Something my Ammachi used to sing. In the reflection of the kitchen window, I am faceless. Behind the billow of steam, I can almost see Ammachi in her khurta, bangles clanging against each other as she expertly flips our morning poori over the stove. Her long braid swishing slightly against her back, grey creeping in at the roots of her hair. Jaina Kutti, she calls, hearing me approach.
The feeling of scratchy, embroidered fabric; the smell of turmeric, and the appearance of slight wrinkles and a fat mole at the back of a neck; warm, callused hands embracing me from the sides; these are the things I remember about Ammachi. This is what I see when I close my eyes and recall what it was like to press my chin against her shoulder.
I asked once, when I was only ten, if one day her earlobes would fall off. “Ammachi, they’re too saggy,” I said seriously. I thought the earrings she wore, so fat and heavy, might pull her all the way down to the ground. I thought maybe that was why, in her old age, she had started sagging, getting shorter.
She laughed and slapped me lightly, chidingly: “In India, our ears are strong. Jaina Kutti, one day you will have these earrings and your ears will be strong, too.”
Poori was a staple in our kitchen only because I refused to eat it with curry the way you were supposed to; one day, as the sun was setting on my final years of infancy, I somehow mixed pancakes and poori in my mind. Likely it was because I was at a sleepover and Sharon’s mum only had leftover poori, so that was what we had for breakfast. From that day forth I demanded “puffy pancakes” for breakfast and my Ammachi, delighted to have her only granddaughter in Australia take to a cultural snack for the first time, was happy to oblige me.
I am twelve and eating puffy pancakes and then I am seventeen, watching Ammachi hiss in pain as her arm spasms over the pot of chicken. I take the spoon from her and she kisses my cheek, and together we stir the pot, the artificial smell of her Dencorub and arthritis cream dancing together with the spice. The kitchen smells of oil and medicine and love. But now I am twenty, and Ammachi is gone, and so are her smells.
I am desperate to find a way back to the taste of her chicken. I stir and I salt and I pour as though through the bottom of the pot I might be granted passage back to her.
My heart is heavy but my hands are light as I cut the tomatoes, sprinkle the herbs. Ammachi’s voice tells me too much, stir now, quickly, before it boils—and I follow without thinking, my hands dancing as though controlled by an external force; a force that feels like years of expertise, knowledge and culture. Seeing her reflection in the mirror again, I realise: my hands are light because my Ammachi guides them from beneath, our hands intertwined as she tells me the story of our culture in chicken breast, masala sauce and garlic granules.
Do you love stories of family history and connection? Browse our memory book, here; https://mountainashchapter.com.au/?cat=120
Would you like to try your hand at making a batch of delicious poori? Find the recipe here; https://www.vegrecipesofindia.com/poori-a-kind-of-fried-indian-bread/