Steamed Dumplings

I never really liked her. I had known her as a child growing up. She was my neighbour’s sister.

My neighbour was a fat, rosy cheeked woman with a roll of jasmine in her hair at all times. She had a lilt in her voice whenever she called my name. And she called me often. Through the chain link fence that separated our homes she would pass every delicacy she cooked into my eager hands.

She always placed them on these gleaming oval plates of steel. To this day the memory of that plate brings a pang of nostalgia to my heart and a leap of eagerness to my stomach.

I don’t think she was beautiful.  Looking back, her features were bland, her teeth too large and her eyes too small. But to me with all the enjoyment of childhood, her voice was the most musical thing I ever heard, her smile the most charming and the food she cooked worthy of a gourmet chef.

It was simple food. Nothing exotic. Our sleepy town was yet to wake up to cuisines beyond the state. Steamed dumplings soft as cotton wool and doused with a liberal helping of ghee and dusted with sugar. Jackfruit chips hot and mouth-watering with that little touch of sweetness to make it just right. Onion fritters gleaming brown and delicious – crispy on the outside and tantalisingly soft on the inside. I loved them all. And with eager, greedy childish hands I grabbed at everything she gave me and devoured it in my favourite spot on the crook of a tree in the bottom of the garden. 

Many years passed by. I went away to study, got married and had two children. I returned to my home to live with my family. My parents had moved away, and I was mistress of my home. I called to my neighbour when I got back. She greeted me warmly and pinched the cheeks of my sons through the fence. A minute later she pressed plates of steaming dumplings into the hands of me and my sons. I was home, and nothing had changed.

When they told me she died, I went over to see her. I had never actually been in her home. At least, I could not remember it. I looked around with curiosity feeling strangely separate from the mourners around me. My eyes were drawn to her lying there. Her face was bloated and had that strange pasty complexion the dead always have. People were crying around me. I screwed up my face to force some tears, but they would not come. I thought I would feel sad, but I did not. The person lying there had nothing to do with the rosy cheeked lady who had given me a heaped plate of fritters just two days ago.

As I tried to slip away, someone introduced me to her sister. She was going to come and live there they said. I had seen her as a child and had thought she was very ugly. She was fat like her sister … but there the similarity ended. She was dark and had an ugly wart on her chin. And from that wart grew a hair that waggled when she talked. She had a low voice and piercing eyes. And she asked too many questions. What do you do? What does your husband do? Do you cook? Do you have a maid? What do you pay her? My blood was boiling. What business was it of hers, I wondered. I was still insecure in my ability to manage a home and family and prickly at the thought of every query and slight – imagined or otherwise. I mumbled a few polite words and slipped away.

I saw her almost everyday after that. I tried to avoid her, but it was almost impossible. She would stand at the fence and watch everything I did. When I played with my son. When I bought vegetables from the vendor. When I interviewed a new maid for a job. Even when I said goodbye to my husband when he left each morning.

If a friend came over she would be there watching. If I got a delivery, she would be there watching. And the questions never stopped. I started to resent her more and more. I railed against busy bodies and cursed the inquisitive. But nothing changed.

It was about a year later and my husband was travelling. Torrential rains kept the maid home. To add to everything else I was laid low with a viral fever. Two young and energetic boys don’t mix well with a viral fever. I was exhausted by the evening and could barely get to my feet when the doorbell rang. Cursing, I dragged myself to the door. I was feeling alone, abandoned and unloved. My mood did not improve seeing her there.

She pushed into the house uninvited and after placing a gigantic bag on the table, proceeded to tidy up. I watched her weakly from a chair. She did not stop talking. “I did not see you all day. I know your husband is travelling. Your maid did not come in and you did not pick flowers for the prayer. I did not hear the prayer bell in the morning.” As she spoke she quickly and efficiently cleared up the multitude of toys on the floor, washed and dried the dirty dishes and stacked them in the cupboards. I considered protesting, but I was too weak to say a word.

And then she opened the bag and from it she extracted two large gleaming steel containers of food. The boys came running at the smell. They had lived on a diet of milk, bread and fruits since I had fallen ill. They looked at her expectantly but first she filled a bowl with some hot rasam and rice and gave it to me to eat. The aroma of pepper tinged with mustard and cumin filled the air and steam rose lazily from the bowl. And then she took out two gleaming oval plates of steel. And on them she laid out steaming hot dumplings soft as cotton wool and doused with a liberal helping of ghee and dusted with sugar. As the boys devoured them, tears pricked my eyes. I brushed them away and looked across to her. She smiled down at the boys and tousled their hair, I saw the care and concern I had never noticed before. In my feverish state I could see my neighbour in her smile.

She came across to me. “My daughter lives far away,” she said. “I wonder who looks after her. Next time call me if you need help.” I nodded and putting my head down on her lap, I slipped into a dreamless sleep.