Small Wins

By Uday Alexander

Raj cursed under his breath as he stared at the pantry. There was an entire array of Indian spices but he had run out of tinned tomatoes.  All saffron but no San Remo. No tinned tomatoes meant no bolognese sauce. And no bolognese sauce meant...

Raj shuddered.

‘These bloody children will kill me.’        

Stroking his grey moustache, he started pacing.

Since his grandchildren had come to stay in the last few weeks, Raj had become somewhat desperate to find food they’d actually eat. Not only had his daughter dropped them off with a long list - ‘No ice-cream’, ‘No empty carbs’, ‘No added salt’ - but they both came with their own demands. Once Raj had been a strict father, but that energy was long gone. With his grandchildren he struggled to say no. They knew how to work their Baba to get what they wanted.

When he finally put aside his pride and asked his Kiwi son-in-law for culinary advice, the answer he received was: spag-bol. For five days spag-bol was all that they ate. They never seemed to get sick of it. But no tinned tomatoes meant his perfect streak of hassle-free dinners looked like it was about to be broken.

Weary, Raj stopped pacing and looked again at his pantry. He would have to cobble together something simple with what he had. Something easy, a tried and tested crowd pleaser, praised by friends and family alike. He settled on his special chicken curry with rice.

Raj grinned as he placed a large plate of food in front of everyone at the dinner table.

‘Enjoy!’

The three-year old, Nova, burst into tears as soon as the curry touched her lips.

‘Too spicy Baba!’, yelled her five-year old brother Nikau, spitting a mouthful out violently onto his plate.

Raj’s wife, Priya, looked over at him in silent support. Raj sighed and went over to the freezer, pulled out spring rolls and chicken nuggets, and put them in the oven. Another day, another defeat.

Raj was tired. Cooking used to be an art he enjoyed; now it had become donkey work. Every night since the kids had come over he’d been making two sets of meals – one full of masala to his and his wife’s taste and the other bland and safe. He questioned if it had been a mistake to allow his daughter to marry outside their culture. It just made things so bloody complicated.

Raj was sure something had to be done. Now he was no culinary genius but maybe the Indian restaurants he ridiculed had the right formula. For all their white-washing of the classics there was no doubt they were successful. Sweet, creamy butter chicken and cheesy garlic naans kept Aussies coming back. Maybe he had to do the same.

Alas he quickly found that, whilst the kids ate his experiments, they didn’t particularly like them.

‘I want normal food.’ Nikau would complain.

Raj fumed, his patience wearing thin.

‘What is normal food? This is normal beta!’

‘I mean like mum and dad make.’

One night, Raj tossed and turned in bed. Unsure of why he was upset, Priya tried to comfort him. Raj wrung his hands then unloaded his worries on his patient wife.

He thought that although this was starting with spice, it was a symptom of a larger problem.  The kids were losing an integral part of their cultural identity. Eventually they’d shun their backgrounds and finally perhaps their grandparents altogether.

‘What if they forget they’re half Indian too?’, Raj fretted.

Priya however, had more faith. She knew that this was just a phase. Eventually Nova and Nikau would discover how scrumptious Raj’s cooking was and he’d forget he ever had to struggle to get them to eat it.

‘You know I married you for your cooking. They’ll learn to love it too.’

She offered him a suggestion. Maybe he was going about it all the wrong way. Maybe instead of trying to bastardise his food the way the kids liked it, he could try making their food to his taste. Use the ingredients he already had. A bit of chilli in their spag-bol, a bit of cardamom in their cottage pie, a bit of mint chutney with their chicken nuggets. Maybe this would satisfy him, giving him the small win he so desperately craved.

The next morning Raj got up earlier than usual.

A deliciously rich scent filled the air, waking Nikau. It was milky and sweet, nutty with hints of caramel. But there was something above it all, something else. Something that in all his seven years he’d never smelled before.

‘What are you making?’ Nikau asked his grandfather as he entered the kitchen, too short to see above the counter.

‘Oh you’ll see at dinner Nikau. It’s something magical.’

Raj shooed the boy out then started whipping the ivory-cream contents of the bowl with fervour. Nikau ran out to find his sister.

Bursting with excitement, he told Nova breathlessly about the strange concoction that was brewing in the other room. The two children couldn’t wait for dinner.

When it came time though, they were disappointed. On their plates was a steak each, accompanied by a beautiful dollop of what tasted like--

‘Oh. It’s just mashed potato.’ Nikau said with a frown. ‘I thought it’d be something different.’

Raj just looked at Priya and smiled.

After dinner he made everyone move to the lounge room and sit on the couch with their eyes closed.

‘Don’t open them okay. You too Nana! I’m going to put something in your hand,’ Raj explained.

Nova wiggled her toes in anticipation.

Raj carefully placed a cold wooden stick between everyone’s fingers.

‘Alright everyone. Put it in your mouth.’

Everyone followed the instruction.

There was silence as their tongues registered the unfamiliar taste.

‘Ooh saffron!’ Priya exclaimed. ‘Is this—’

‘Mmm this is so yummy Baba!’ said Nikau, his eyes shooting open.

‘Icecream!’ said Nova, lips smacking in delight.

‘This is not just icecream children. This is a very special sweet that I used to love as a child, from my home in India. It’s called Kulfi.’

‘I love it!’ Nikau shouted, leaping up.

Raj could barely contain his excitement and lept up too, grabbing his grandson in a tight embrace and kissing him on the cheek.

‘Thank you beta!’

Then they sat down and finished their dessert. And for the first time Raj knew things would be okay. He didn’t have to worry so much about his grandchildren losing their Indian identity. They had a Baba who loved them too much for that.