A Pot-Bellied Bottle of Salt

She ran a damp cloth over the counter wiping off some imaginary dust. It was gleaming and clean. She leaned against it and looked around. It was a brand-new kitchen. Every surface sparkled. There was no trace of dust or grime or soot. It looked modern, elegant and its straight lines and pleasing colours, were in many ways, a balm to her eyes.She refused to call herself obsessive. But yes, sometimes in the quiet of the night, when she was alone, she would admit, that she liked things sparkling and clean. And this kitchen in many ways was all that she had dreamed about for a long, long time. Her eyes went to the neat, matched set of bottles filled with all the pulses and spices required for cooking. She smiled again. Everything was soothing, clean, fresh, and sparkling. Then her eyes stopped at a large old shabby pot-bellied plastic bottle with an ugly brown lid. The salt cellar. She had thought of changing that bottle but had not yet found the right replacement for it. As she stared at the bottle she was transported back in time.

She was a little girl sitting in her mothers’ kitchen. A very different kitchen. It was clean no doubt, but a far cry from the modern gleaming kitchen of today. She could see her mother lifting the grinding stone and pounding the spices into pulp. The aroma released filled the air in a tantalizing mix that tickled the tastebuds and made the next meal feel like a very long wait! The black slab and stone had been in the family for years. It was difficult to maintain and difficult to clean. Heavy, awkward, and definitely not, what one would call, elegant. But her mother swore by it, and no amount of persuasion would make her swap it for modern appliances. She herself was a little girl sitting cross legged on the floor and doing her homework with inky fingers while her hair tumbled around her face. Every now and again her mother would give her something to nibble on, or a spoonful of something to taste. She could remember it at all just like it was yesterday.

Soft, molten rice and lentils cooked together in an aromatic mixture with cumin and pepper. Broken wheat cooked with saffron, and milk and ghee and sugar into a mouthwatering sweet. Tangy tamarind broth laced with fenugreek and asafetida with carrots and peanuts simmering in it. Crisp brown fritters with onions dipped in a mint sauce. They exploded against the palate. She closed her eyes. She could remember all of it like it was yesterday. Her diminutive mother, her saree tucked around her waist, peering into every dish and every pot to examine the colour and the texture of the food so it was just right.

She tried to picture the kitchen and gave an almost involuntary shudder. While it was clean and neat, it was a far cry from her sparkling kitchen with matched bottles.

Spices filled jars and boxes of all shapes and sizes, most of them pressed into service after initially carrying something else. Innocent looking jam bottles carried fiery chili powder and spicy pickles. An incongruous looking bottle of calcium tablets shaped like a puppy with floppy ears carried sugar. There were numerous other bottles and jars with their labels torn, hiding the mysteries of their past while carrying a full array of spices. But the one thing she could not ever forget was the pot-bellied bottle of salt.

She remembered the day her dad had brought it home. It had been a bottle of eclairs. Her father worked in the confectionery industry, and eclairs had been the new find of the year. Chewy caramel outside and soft melting chocolate inside. She had been so excited to see the bottle and had greedily dipped her hand into it grabbing three eclairs to eat right away. She pulled another half dozen out to give to her closest friends and then rationed all the others. She would eat it one a day and stretch it out as long as possible. She remembered coming home one day from school and searching for her pot-bellied bottle. But it was nowhere to be found. She went into a frenzy looking everywhere for it. She searched high and low pulling things out until her mother tapped her smartly on the head and pointed to the kitchen shelf. There stood the jar filled to the brim with salt. Her shocked eyes turned to her mother. What had happened to all her eclairs? Surely, her mother had eaten them all. Her mother grinned and pointed to another tin.

“Why did you transfer them?” she asked.

“Oh! That bottle is perfect for salt, my hand goes right in to measure it out,” her mother said smiling. It seemed a little sacrilegious to fill her precious bottle of eclairs with salt. But her mother was firm, gave her an éclair and sent her on her way.

It was a silly memory but had stayed with her throughout the years. Many many years later, as a young woman learning to cook, she remembered that salt bottle again. She had sat down with her mother, to try and make a list of recipes.

“How much of this?” she asked? “How much of that?”

But her mother was hopeless. “I have no idea,” she said. “A little bit of this, a lot more of that.” She shook her head despairingly and tried to work out approximate amounts.

And then she got to the salt. “Add salt,” her mother said.

“How much?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said her mother. “I just put my hand in, and my fingers seek out what I need.” She demonstrated by putting her entire hand into the bottle.

She remembered that day clearly and for the first time understood why her mother had wanted that particular pot-bellied bottle with a wide mouth. She still could not understand the recipes or the amounts and with a defeated sigh turned away.

Years passed by and she soon had a kitchen of her own and began to understand what her mother had said. It was hard to direct some recipes as so much was done by instinct. And she too, like her mother learned to measure by the feel of her fingers. But try as she might, she never found the right bottle for her salt. And every day when she measured out her salt from an inconvenient bottle, her mind flew back to the bottle of eclairs which now contained salt. Many years passed and her parents grew older and moved away to a smaller home.  

She returned to the family house to make a home with her children and husband. The house was old and no matter how beautiful outside, things inside where not so good, and an old house needed renovation. Pipes were corroded and light fittings were old; electric lines were giving away and there was water seepage everywhere. And so, somewhat reluctantly she began the process of change.

As the renovations began, she was beset with memories – every nook and cranny had a story, every door and window had a tale to tell. As the old things were ripped out, she felt like part of her life was being thrown away. But slowly she got excited about selecting new fittings, new fixtures, and wall colours and tiles – all to create something new and beautiful. And most important of all to her was the kitchen. She loved to cook churning out mouthwatering meals for the family. It excited her, challenged her and it satisfied some inner core of her being. In many ways it gave her a link between her family and her parents and grandparents before that – old family recipes that came with old memories.

And today standing in that kitchen she looked around it with a sigh. The old kitchen had been replaced – gleaming black granite in the place of the old stone slab. She had found it difficult to maintain, yet when the workmen had removed it, a pang had gone through her. She could almost smell the spices in the air and the myriad meals her mother had cooked there. Part of her had wanted to hold on, but the feeling passed, and she let it go.

She had never been a person for sentiment, but somehow, somewhere a little pot-bellied bottle had slipped through. She had tried to find a replacement, but nothing seemed to work.

“It’s all in your mind, there are so many options out there,” her friends told her.

Her husband laughed at her “Are you telling me, you can’t cook without that? Millions of women do!”

But somehow that bottle seemed so intrinsic to her memories and her cooking in that kitchen. She gazed at it wondering whether to keep it or not.

Her maid walked in then and looked around with a big smile. She was excited and there was a sense of wonder on her face. Her eyes too went to the bottle of salt.

“Shall I throw this out?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to change this?”

There was a pregnant pause. “No,” she replied. “I am not going to change it.”

Her maid looked at her incredulously.  She looked around the kitchen and looked at the bottle again.

“Shall I at least soak it well and remove the label?” she asked almost pleading.

She looked at the bottle with its torn and faded label. But the words were still clear for all to see “Eclairs – Chewy caramel with soft chocolate.”

She smiled transported back to the times when her father had brought her eclairs and her mother had taken over the bottle and filled it with salt.

The bottle looked incongruous beside the other new and gleaming bottles. But it had a pride none of the others had. They had been bought because they looked good on the shelf but this one had history, depth, and had over the years held eclairs and salt, but now also held a lifetime of memories.