Saturday, August 4, 2012

Butter

I made my way down the steep hill, bare feet above mossy felt, shedding the scales of youthful joy and momentous laughter, knowing each time that  my mother would be pleased. My bangles chiming along the way, doing their own enchanting dance around my slender arms, I would hurry home down the hill.

Aji, my father's mother, filled this jar especially well. She added a few sugary kisses and a bag of lemon drop lollies, the candy she would send me on my way with. Our weekly jar of ghee, butter, my mother would wait for so anxiously. She rarely went up to Aji's house herself, although we lived at the bottom of the hill and she owned the house we lived in. I would imagine that she would much rather keep her distance from Aji, for her moments alone with my grandmother would probably be spent grumbling about my father.

On those mild summer mornings, I was her messenger. Waking up early to the sound of bhajan, Indian chanting, the house slightly stale from a tang of masala and onion, for the evening’s dinner was always curried, I would find my mother dressed in silk, sweeping the back porch. She would ask me to wash up and pick out a dress. I had so many, stitched with lace, soft cotton, and sewn together in her moments just for me. I gathered up the yellow one with a ruffled collar and three white buttons along the chest, a mirage of speckled bangles, I rarely lived without, and I would wander through our house waiting for a jar. My mother would give me an empty one, still oily from last week’s ghee, and I would scurry away, over the hill. In all of my four years of life, this was my one chore. Hardly did I consider it much of a chore, rather a privilege being able to collect my grandmother's treasured butter and delivering it to my mother to simmer and sauté the weeks chicken and lamb and chickpea and potato dinners.

I'd sit at Aji's table next to her handicapped son, my uncle Jai Ram, he was much younger than my father. Not saying much, he would smile at me plenty, I remember the fear in my belly when he would give out a grin. I waited, drinking fresh milk from a small porcelain cup and eating spoonfuls of honey while Aji filled my mother's jar. Down the hill, my mother waited for me, only coming to see Aji when my father allowed.

After two seasons of honey and butter breakfasts and my delivery down the hill, we waved goodbye to our island with the hills. That would be the last that I would know of Aji. I like to imagine that she would continue to wake up early those mornings, boiling, watching it foam and sputter, caramelizing and carefully separating; spreading out her glass containers, smelling of nutty butter, cleaning up after Jai Ram.

Years later, my father would occasionally surprise me with a bagful of lemon drops. I couldn't quite taste these without craving honey and the smell of sautéed butter.

Written for dVerse Poets where Brain is helping us share a childhood memory, or other bits of history.

32 comments:

  1. that has to be hard moving away from family like that...and those treasured mornings...love that you included the uncomfortable feeling you got from the uncles grins...i imagine it was not quite the same....very nice piece...

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    1. Thank you, Brian. I think we were forced to suspend a part of reality when we moved so far away. Thanks for this awesome prompt and I loved your presentation with it. :)

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  2. Awww... such cherished memories of some special moments. I love the details in the contents of the jar. How it was such a happy thing for you to go and collect the full one even at four years old. Good to remember those times but, sad to have moved so far away.

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    1. I love that thought, Bren, I think I will hold all of these moments inside of a jar. :) You are so cool!

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  3. I love the taste and smells of ghee butter, masala and onion in the air ~ Though my tongue can't take curry and other hot spices, I am fascinated with the food of your native land. I enjoyed your story and thank you for sharing your lovely heritage ~

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    1. I prefer the milder taste too. Thank you for reading Grace.

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  4. However old we are, whatever we have done in our lives and have moved far away from our past there is always that tug back with memories such as this. We tell of these memories to our children and perhaps they will tell their children too; they are so precious.

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    1. Thank you, she is in all of my favorite memories. I plan on keeping these stories alive through the little ones. :)

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  5. Translating poems is much easier. This I really enjoyed. The details, a better piture of the heart of the piece. The fluid writing and transisition from thought to thought. Excellente. Memories are like an invisable tattoo hid in our mind. Or something like that. Once we have them, like a tat, they are with us/

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    1. Yes, invisible yet perceivable and solid. How lovely...thank you for your introspection, Henry.

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  6. evocative, colour, spice, amazing memory.

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  7. "shedding the scales of youthful joy and momentous laughter"--oh the joy of having a task that made so many happy! (Like the few times mom let me take the tin pail to the farm across the field for milk.)

    "In all of my four years of life, this was my one chore"
    this is at 4 years of age, not death at age 4--right?

    The smells, the tastes, the grinning Uncle, the image forever of Aji cooking the ghee! All of this makes this poem so delightful! It has the feel of authentic oral history--one that combines a food tradition with a story telling tradition--both having to do with the mouth. Thank you.

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    1. No, I've had twenty-eight more beyond the first four. ;-) Thank you for sharing the parts that struck you and for sharing our own memory. :)

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  8. What a beautiful memory! Thanks for sharing.It's the simple memories that make up the best histories. Peace, Linda

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  9. oh so very nice...lovely story telling and even more enchanting as it is such a different culture..love all the touches...and sad you had to move away but so great that you're still kinda connected through the taste...much enjoyed this piece archna

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    1. I'm so glad that you enjoyed, Claudia. There is much to carry through our senses. Thanks so much for your lovely words. :)

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  10. Lovely evocation of a time and place long gone. I was reminded of cider with Rosie by Laurier Lee perhaps you should write your version!

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    1. Thanks John, I don't know of this story, I'll have to look it up!

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  11. So nice Archana ....all the images flowed as I read it....childhood memories are so sweet when it is told so nicely.........loved it...<3 <3 <3

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  12. Very nice memories ... somewhere down the lines I realized you write a lot like Khaled Hosseini ... you really have a way with words :-)

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    1. Wow, thanks for the compliment. I haven't read anything by him, but I know how he is admired so, that really is a nice thing to say. :-)

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  13. Love this term: "lemon drop lollies" :)

    Also this part: "On those mild summer mornings, I was her messenger. Waking up early to the sound of bhajan, Indian chanting, the house slightly stale from a tang of masala and onion"

    "I remember the fear in my belly when he would give out a grin" ... This made my heart race a bit. I was afraid something bad was about to happen.

    This was a delicious rendering. I enjoyed it very much.

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  14. What a marvelous write! I really enjoyed this.

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  15. Lovely writing - and something a little different for you!

    Isn't it funny how one little thing can stir up so many memories.

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    1. Right, and I couldn't get it out in usual stanzas since so much is evoked from one simple memory. Thanks Sherry!

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