A Gravy-Stained Empty Plate

By Pooja Poudel

Bindu stands before the stove, her face contorted in a mixture of frustration and determination. In her hands, she holds a block of paneer, its bland, rubbery texture making her nose wrinkle in disgust. But she knew Ramchandra, her husband of fifty-two long years, relished the tomatoey paneer curry with an unrivalled fervour. So, she grits her teeth and sets to work, expertly cubing the homemade cheese, and tossing it into a sizzling pan of gravy.

A few minutes later, the aroma of oyster mushrooms fills the air, their rich, earthy scent making Bindu's mouth water. She loves the way they take on the flavours of the spices, their fleshy texture almost meat-like in their savouriness. She hasn't eaten meat in decades, but the mushrooms bring back memories of feasts from her childhood, of spicy goat pakku and bhutan. She closes her eyes and savours the moment, letting the rich flavours transport her to a time long ago. Every Dashain, her father brought home a sturdy billy goat to be slaughtered on the day of Ashtami. With a swift stroke of the khukuri, the goat was slain, its blood offered as a sacrifice to goddess Durga. For the next couple of weeks, the family feasted on a variety of succulent meat dishes. Then, Bindu would start counting the days until the next Dashain.

As she places the steaming plate of dal bhat with three sides of curries and achar before her husband, Bindu can't help but feel a sense of resentment. He is leaving for a week-long pilgrimage to Gosaikunda the next morning. Her joints no longer let her undertake such adventures. As she fixes herself a plate, she watches him eat, slurping and the loud chewing which stopped bothering her a long time ago. After dinner, they get on a video call with their eldest daughter who lives in Connecticut with her family. She is still annoyed about the old man attempting such a demanding trekking trip. Before bed, Bindu makes sure he has packed all his medications.

When her parents married her off to Ramchandra, Bindu was only thirteen years old. Ramchandra’s family came from a long lineage of landlords and enjoyed all luxuries the modest village life could offer. They had goat meat with rice for dinner every day and it wasn’t long before the responsibility to prepare it was passed down on Bindu’s juvenile shoulders. She would sit beside the clay stove, constantly stirring the heavy-bottomed kasaudi for hours, feeding the fire, and taking in the savoury whiffs of meat infused with aromatic spices. Since her first day in the house, she was instructed to eat last, after each family member had been fed and retired to their rooms. By then, the food had gone lukewarm with only bones and fatty skin bits remaining in the kasaudi. Sat alone on the floor in the dimly lit kitchen, she greedily scraped every bit of the gravy, wishing for more as she sucked the bones clean.

A decade later, after the passing of his parents and the births of their two children, Ramchandra made a stern decision. He announced to the family that they were to begin attending the local ashram regularly and adopt a vegetarian lifestyle the yogi community promoted. Bindu did not question this change, there was no point. Every Tuesday and Saturday morning, the couple rose before dawn and made the journey to the ashram. She sat among the other women; her limbs gracefully arranged in the posture of meditation, her lips uttering melodious yet hushed intoned prayers she didn’t quite understand.

In the beginning, she was wholeheartedly supportive of her husband's decision to adopt a vegetarian diet. That was what wives did. But at times, her cravings for meat proved too strong to resist. On a few festive occasions, she had mustered all her courage and asked her husband if they could have meat to celebrate. But her requests were met with fierce glances, crude remarks about her religious morals and, once, a stinging blow to her cheek. The taste of blood in her mouth was a reminder of the dangers of defying her husband's wishes. She knew she must never again tempt fate with such a request.

The first few days after Ramchandra's departure are quiet and uneventful. Bindu cooks simple meals, takes leisurely walks around the neighbourhood, and speaks with her children on the phone. Though she cannot read, she scrolls through her phone and looks at the pictures her family and friends posted online. But as the days pass, they begin to feel longer and more tedious. She has never been away from her husband for so long, and she finds herself growing restless. Without him, there’s not much to do, no tea to be brewed multiple times a day, no elaborate meals to be prepared to his liking and no cleaning and washing to be done after him. The routine that once filled her days has vanished, leaving her with nothing but the silence of her own thoughts. It is on the morning of the fifth day that the idea strikes her - dangerous, yet thrilling, it makes her heart race with excitement. With unshakable determination, she decides to make goat meat curry for dinner that evening.

She takes great care to avoid the butchers in her own locality. Instead, she sets off on foot, slowly but steadily walking for half an hour until she reaches the other side of town. There, she comes across a seemingly clean meat shop and enters its doors with curiosity. Inside, she finds a small crowd gathered around the counter, their eyes drawn to the carcass of a goat that lies upon the white marble surface. Its head and legs below the knees have been removed, but the bare skin, speared with turmeric, glistens in the light. She watches in fascination as the butcher and his assistant chop the meat with swift, precise movements, using huge wooden logs as their chopping blocks.

When it is finally her turn, Bindu approaches the counter and asks for the best part of the goat, free of bones and skin. The butcher looks at her curiously, but obliges, weighing out a kilogram of meat and placing it in a package for her. She pays the steep price of 1300 rupees, a far cry from the 4 rupees she had paid the last time she bought goat meat, almost half a century ago. She clutches her prize and hurries home, her heart squealing with joy and anticipation. On the way, she buys a small packet of meat masala.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but she starts preparing for dinner. She moves with a sense of purpose, her every movement calculated as she prepares the ingredients. She pulls out the onions, tomatoes, ginger, and garlic from the fridge and begins to chop, each slice precise and measured. The meat, untouched, sits waiting on the dining table.

Bindu places the pressure cooker on the stove and turns up the heat, the flames licking hungrily at the metal. She adds a splash of mustard oil, and minutes later the air fills with the sizzling sound of whole spices hitting the hot oil. The amalgamated aroma of cloves, cumin seeds, timur and crushed cardamom takes over the kitchen, a comforting and familiar scent. The onions are caramelised to a light brown, and she tosses in garlic and ginger, followed by a spoonful of turmeric. In an instant, the contents of the cooker are transformed, the yellow hue of the turmeric shining brightly. She adds a generous amount of meat masala and stirs the concoction before putting in the meat. She sprinkles some salt and a heap of dried chilli powder, infusing it with the spicy flavour that she had been forever denied by her husband’s palate. The meat starts to cook with the promise of a delicious meal hanging heavy in the air. When the oil begins to separate, she puts in the chopped tomatoes along with some hot water. Finally, she puts the lid on the pressure cooker and lets it whistle a few times. She, then, starts a cup of rice in the rice cooker and plugs it in.

With each whistle, her senses come alive. She turns the stove off and waits patiently, a deep hunger growing within her with each passing moment. When the last of the steam has escaped the pressure cooker, she carefully lifts the lid to reveal the bubbling, steaming gravy within. She adds chopped coriander, an essential ritual and stirs it in. Then, she grabs a spoon and carefully scoops out a little gravy to test the salt. Blowing on the spoon to cool it, she brings it to her lips and lets it gently touch her tongue. The warm, savoury gravy is heavenly, and she is transported back to the few times she had cautiously sneaked a taste of meat gravy at wedding receptions and family gatherings. She could never risk taking the pieces, but the taste was imprinted in her memory.

Bindu takes a plate and scoops out a generous helping of rice onto it. On top of it, she puts a heaping portion of meat and gravy. She rinses her right hand and dives in for the feast. Her wrinkled fingers gently tear apart the fibres of a chunky piece and guide it to her mouth. It disintegrates between her ageing teeth easily, revealing the slightly gamey flavour of mutton. It is so tender and delicious; her eyes start glistening with emotion. The familiar taste on her tongue evokes memories from her childhood, of shared meals with her family during festivals. One particular memory brings a flood of joyful tears to her eyes. The day after Dashain every year, she remembers her mother, with a sly smile, presenting her with a small bowl of crisp-fried lungs which she had secretly saved aside, just for her.

She takes a bite of the rice soaked in thick gravy and a beautiful hint of cardamom floats in her mouth. She keeps eating with a sense of urgency, greedily and ferociously as if time was of the essence as if each bite was a miracle. When she is finally done, she feels as if a bottomless pit in her belly has been filled. The gravy-stained empty plate in front of her is a testament to the pure, unbridled joy she had just experienced. She stores the rest of it in the fridge for the next meal. She finishes the last portion of the meat in the afternoon her husband is supposed to arrive. When Ramchandra calls to say he is almost home, the kitchen still smells strongly of cooked meat and spices. Unbothered, Bindu lets it linger on.

Pooja Poudel came across a short story writing contest announcement and immediately felt something ignite within. A passionate story formed in my head and I wrote it down. It had been several years since I had written anything (except for work). Even then, I was just a teenager rambling away and trying to shape and understand my thoughts. I had never published or shared my writing anywhere. So it was an unexpected surprise when my story 'The Man on the Bus' won the first prize in the nationwide contest. This validation provided the confidence to believe I was capable of creative writing and my stories were worth sharing. Since then I have been writing religiously and giving birth to fictional stories that are inspired by experiences I have encountered around me.

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