The Grandmother, the Chicken Curry and the Fox

The Grandmother,
the Chicken Curry
and the Fox

(for my daughter Gayatri)

Even now, after so many years, I cannot cook, eat or smell a chicken
curry being cooked without remembering a story my grandmother used to
tell.

There was once a grandmother, who one day decided to cook a pot of
chicken curry for her family.

A cunning fox who lived in the hills nearby heard about the
grandmother's plans and craving for a taste of the curry, ran down the
hill to the grandmother's house.

'Grandmother, Grandmother, is the chicken curry ready?' asked the fox
greedily.

Now the grandmother had no intention of sharing her curry with the fox,
so she told him, 'No my son, I've not even cut the chicken and the
curry will not be ready for a while.'

She hoped that the fox will go away and trouble her no more. The fox
went away, but only as far as the end of the compound, where he waited
under the tamarind tree by the well.

The grandmother had in fact cut the chicken into small pieces and
rubbed them with chilly, turmeric and all the other spices that are
used to make a chicken curry. Soon she stoked the fire on the wood
stove in the corner of the kitchen, set the logs on fire and placed the
pot on it.

In a little while, as the pot heated, the impatient fox was back at the
window of the kitchen.

'Grandmother, Grandmother, is the chicken curry ready?'

'No Master Kurukkan, only now have I cut the chicken into pieces, only
now am I rubbing it with chilly and spices.'

The fox retreated again to his cool spot under the tamarind tree by the
well at the end of the compound.

Soon the pot of chicken became heated. The first whiffs of raw meat and
spices rose from the pot and was carried by the slight breeze to the
sharp nose of the fox who was panting away in the shade of the tamarind
tree. He ran to the kitchen window once again and asked between panting
breaths, 'Grandmother, Grandmother is the chicken curry ready?'

The grandmother closed the wooden shutters to the window and through
them replied, 'No my son, I've just placed the pot on the fire.'

With his head down with disappointment and saliva dripping from his
mouth the fox moved back to his cool spot by the well.

By now, the first bubbles were beginning to break on the top of the
broth as the curry began to boil. The juices of the freshly cut chicken fused
with the tumeric and chilli paste to form a wonderful hue of red and
yellow in the black pot. Meat and spices danced in the bubbly brew to the
rhythm of the boil and the crackling of the fire.

As the mixture boiled, the blending aromas lifted from the pot, floated
out of the dark kitchen through the closed shutters and pervaded the
world around the house. It stirred man and beast and all other living
things. Flies left their dung heaps and rode on the aroma to the
kitchen where they beat their heads on the closed shutters of the
window and died. Dogs rose from their sleep, trotted to the kitchen and
curled themselves outside the door waiting for the feast of leftovers.
Ramankutty, tending his garden, threw away his hoe, wiped his sweaty
brow and stared longingly at the kitchen, to a repast he knew he would
not share.

The fox's stomach rumbled, his head raged, he spun several times where
he stood and then darted back to the kitchen window, sure now that the
curry was ready. In a low pitch squeal he cried, 'Grandmother,
Grandmother is the chicken curry ready'. The grandmother in her old,
slow, voice gently replied that the pot was only just heating and it
would still be some time before she took it off the stove.

The fox stared at the window for several moments. He drew in his
sagging tongue, his eyes narrowed and he calmed his delirious mind.
Then, lifting his head as foxes often do, he carefully sniffed the air
and crept back to his place by the cool of the well.

Now, there is a moment in the cooking of a chicken curry when the oil from
the concoction in the pot rises to the top to form a thin red film on
the surface. This is the sign for the pot to be taken off the heat. By
then the meat is tender enough to leave the bone but not break away
from it. The potatoes are soft to the bite but not so soft that they
are mashed in the curry. Spices and herbs no longer argue their
separate tastes but have harmonised to form a single flavour in the curry.
The curry is now, with one final act, ready to become a curry. At this
moment, when the pot bearing the stew is removed from the fire, a small
amount of oil is heated in a separate pan to scald chillies, mustard seeds,
onions and a handful of curry leaves. When the mustard seeds begin to
pop, the entire mixture is poured over the curry. In this last
flourish of the ritual of the curry, the onions, mustard seeds and curry leaves add a medley of
tastes to the finished cooking; the hot oil scalds the curry and seals
its flavours. The curry is now complete and ready to be eaten.

When the loud sizzle and the sharp aroma of hot oil on the curry
reached the fox, he charged once more to the kitchen.

'Grandmother, Grandmother the curry must be ready', he cried, his cry
now not so much a question as a statement of joyous hope.

But there was no joy in the grandmother's reply. 'No my son,' she said,
' the pot is still on the stove, the curry is yet to boil and oh, the
meat of the chicken is still so tough.'

'That is a lie', screamed the fox, because he knew that the curry was
ready. No one can hide the sound of hot oil on curry. No one can mute
the sound of the temple bell once it is rung.

But no one heard the fox's desperate scream because the scream was only
in his head. Nor could anyone see the thoughts in his head as he
circled the well, round and round, going mad.

'I am done', he said to himself. 'There will be no curry for me today.
I will have to return to the hills with only the aroma and not the
taste of the curry.'

But even as he wailed and pitied himself, his fox mind had only one
thought - how to get a taste of the curry. Suddenly, he ran to a pile of
rocks that had been cleared from a new field that was being prepared to
be farmed, and taking the largest of the rocks, he plunged it into the
well.

The splash was so loud that the world fell silent for a moment
wondering what could have caused such a noise.

'Grandmother, Grandmother' the fox screamed for all to hear.
'Grandmother, Grandmother, your calf has fallen in the well. Oh, the
poor calf is in the well.'

When the Grandmother heard the loud splash followed by the fox's cry,
she left the kitchen and ran to the well to save her precious calf. And at that very moment the fox entered the kitchen and grabbed the pot of
curry. Holding the pot and curry over his head with his spindly hands he ran as fast as he could to his secret lair in the hills. There, not pausing for a moment he gobbled every last
bit of grandmother's chicken curry.

February 2002