More than Masala

Category B: First Place (2024) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Isabelle Annissha

As I stood in the cramped tangerine-tiled kitchen of my ancestral home in Adhanur, the humid air, thick with the aroma of spices, embraced me. The scent wafted gently as the warm afternoon sunlight streamed lazily through the rusty windows. Outside, the faded roads wound through the village like light brown ribbons, weathered by years of monsoon rains and the weary tracks of countless ox carts, shaded by the ancient banyan trees.  It was a world away from my usual life in Melbourne. There, spices came pre-ground in neat jars, their aromas muted and distant. Here, they were alive.

My periya pāṭṭi (great-grandmother) sat by the clay oven, her gnarled hands bore the marks of hardship from her days as a young bride. She was thrust into a life of toil and sacrifice. Her hours spent cooking elaborate meals for a large household. She worked the pestle and mortar expertly. Each twist of her bangled wrist released a burst of aroma, filling the kitchen with the rich scent of freshly ground jeera (cumin) dhania (coriander), and manjal (turmeric). I joined in, my hands moving instinctively to crush the spices. The rhythmic grinding of spices became a meditative act, connecting me to the generations of women who had stood in this very kitchen, their hands performing the same motions. Their hearts carried different burdens. Periya pāṭṭi’s saree, a faded but meticulously kept cotton piece, rustled softly as she shifted her position on the low wooden stool to instruct me.

“Add the dhania after the jeera has cracked to release its oils,” she advised, her voice gentle but firm. The pungent, earthy smell of jeera seeds crackling in hot oil mingled with the sweet, citrusy aroma of freshly ground dhania.  The bright yellow of manjal, had a slightly bitter, musky scent. It added vibrancy to the dishes we were preparing, its golden touch staining our fingers. It evoked memories of haldi ceremonies for mother and grandmothers. They told me of the hope they had for me, that despite my distance from India, I wouldn’t lose touch with these cherished traditions.

My ammama (grandmother) measured out krambu (cloves) and lavanga pattai (cinnamon). Their spicy, woody aromas blended with the sharp scent of freshly ground milagu (black pepper). The intense, almost medicinal fragrance of the krambu made her recall the times she had cared for her ailing husband with traditional remedies, as they couldn’t afford a doctor and Western medicine was out of reach. After his death, she was left with four children and a mountain of debt. Now, her hands, strong from years of manual labor, deftly rolled out chapatis while recounting her strive for survival. She spoke of days spent working in the fields and nights spent sewing clothes by the dim light of a kerosene lamp. She had the constant fear of losing her children to hunger. Her voice cracked like the jeera, revealing the weight she carried every single day.

Beside her, my Amma (mother) stirred a simmering pot, the rich aroma of poondu (garlic) sautéing in nei (ghee) filled the air. This scent reminded her of the years she spent in devoted motherhood, caring for me. She spoke of career opportunities forgone and dreams buried deep- leaving behind her life in India to give me a better future. Each stir of the pot was a reminder of the sacrifices she made, trading her own aspirations for the hope that I would never have to make the same painful choices.

I listened intently as they shared. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the vibrant colours of the kitchen into a mosaic, as the weight of their sacrifices became clear. My life in Australia, filled with freedoms and opportunities they could only dream of, was built on the foundation of their hardships.

As we sat down to eat, my ammama served the first banana leaf plate to me. “We lived through our struggles,” she said with fervour, “so that you can live your dreams”.  The soft grains of rice were warm and comforting in my fingers. Feeding myself with my hands, the flavours burst on my tongue. The masala we made was more than a spice mix. It was a bridge connecting me to a lineage of strength and perseverance. In that humble, tangerine-tiled kitchen, I realise that this space was more than just a place for preparing food; it was a sanctuary.  

The spices we ground by hand were not just ingredients; they symbolised endurance and resilience.  

They seasoned not only our food but our lives, binding us together across time and distance, welding their pained past to my privileged present.