Indian Food

Mapula is so unlike many of the other women here. She is always up front and brutally honest about what is on her mind. Though this occasionally causes problems, more often than not it is one of the main reasons I adore her. So I found it unsurprising that, after casually mentioning to her that I wanted to learn how to cook Indian food, she took it upon herself to approach the Indian owner of one of the shops, first berating him for being rude to customers and then asking if his wife would teach me to cook. As a result, today we headed over to the store to meet with the woman.

The Indian couple could not be physically more different. He was robust, filling in his clothes with a large, round, Buddha belly, his face young and jovial complemented with a bushy mustache and full head of thick black hair. She was tiny, barely keeping her baggy blue jeans on her thin frame. Everything about her focused on petite: her tiny feet always moving and tapping, her small, child-like hands with long fingers accented by clean opal nails. Her hair was back in a clip and she continuously tucked loose strands behind her ears. She wore a wind breaker that attempted to add bulk to her but instead simply seemed oversized. She struck me as cute and energetic, a busy mouse, even with the heavy dark circles that accented her eyes. I took them to be a result of her curious and wandering two-year old daughter who was naughtily into everything around the store while her parents took turns dragging her out of various bins and spaces.

I liked her immediately. Her English was excellent with no distinct accent from anywhere. She was outspoken with a personality twice as big as her body. We sat and talked while she intermittently gave me recipes and tips on cooking. Eventually we decided to make one of the dishes: a bean and onion mixture. We sat in the back room of the store, crouched over a crate where an electric stove had been placed, gradually adding various spices she had collected in discarded formula containers. A zesty, comforting aroma quickly filled the space as we cooked. I discovered that she had been living in South Africa for two and a half years. She planned to send her daughter back to India for schooling because she like the education system better there, especially the fact that computers were integrated from an early age. We discussed the differences in life between South Africa and India:

“The people here, they don’t like to walk.”

“My food is too spicy for them.”

“Some of the men here drink a whole liter of soda at one time. I can’t believe it!”

Eventually the food was ready and she offered me bread with my vegetable mix while bubbling:
”I love bread, my husband doesn’t, but I eat a lot of bread.”

She apologized for not having a spoon, but I explained I was used to eating without one. She said defiantly, “In my culture we don’t use spoons. It is said that is what God gave us hand for, but I say God gave us hands so we can use a spoon.”

The meal was delicious, spicy and refreshingly different from the majority of the food I encounter. I was so appreciative. This woman who had never met me had welcomed me, taught me, and generously fed me. I tried to think about the last time something similar had happened to me in America. I couldn’t come up with an example.