The Blue Period

I am sure all of you readers have had some kind of blue period in your lives. Mine is composed on three canvasses.

The first one began many years ago in Kenya. My parents took me very often to Mrs. K___’s house. Mrs. K. had two redeeming qualities about her: her house had a large swimming pool and she made the most delicious chicken curry I had ever eaten. Even Arma, our cook, could not top that curry. This curry was redolent with spices – each piece of the chicken glistened in the thickened spicy sauce. It was served on each visit and I relished every morsel, licking my fingers joyfully. I didn’t bother with anything else that was served except for the rice.

One afternoon at her house, I heard someone mention that she was leaving for London and would be gone for several months. I went white with alarm. Who was going to make that curry for me if she was not here? Now what to do? I did the next best thing. I ate and ate and ate – after all, if this was my last supper at that house for months to come, I felt that I had to do justice to it and etch that flavor in my memory.

A few hours later, my father saw me lying on a deck chair looking stricken - green at the gills and blue in the face. He asked me if I was unwell. I just stared at him forlornly. I was so stuffed, I could barely move, let alone speak. My Mother came over and took one look and glared at me. She was horrified that I had behaved so badly – “no manners!” she cried. I muttered half crying about Mrs. K’s chicken and how I would miss it. My Dad had to carry me to the car. I was banished to my room with the clear understanding that no food would be forthcoming for the rest of that day.

Two more memorable instances came after that and the name “blue period” stuck as my family’s name for going blotto from over-indulgence.

The next episode occurred when my friend Madhu returned from a trip to India bringing with her a box of mithai. Mithai from India is authentic not the bastardized version that is sold here with gaudy colors beckoning the innocent. I had gone to visit her with P___ and she had put a plate of ten slim barfis coated with silver out for me to eat. While P and Madhu were talking away to one side of the apartment, I ate a piece. One taste brought in a rush of the colors, aromas and the earthy smell of India. I helped myself to another – after all, Madhu would want me to enjoy myself. I decided to have one for P___ as he was so busy talking and he surely would want me to have one for him. Then Madhu needed to be taken care of so I had a piece for her. Surely, she must have eaten lots of barfis, rasgoolas, ladoos, but an Indian can always tuck in another piece. Then I had two more for each of them. Four pieces were left and they looked so forlorn all by themselves so I ate all of them. Now the plate was clean. I also was beginning to feel a bit sugared up as these were made with khoya and were extremely rich.

Madhu turned to look at me and P__ by now had seen the empty plate. I was admonished right away for my lack of manners. I pleaded homesickness to no avail. Then Madhu piped up and said “oh, I brought a box especially for you”. I left her apartment with my reputation in tatters but with the box.

The last memorable incident was at a friend’s baby shower in the middle of nowhere in New Jersey. P___ was accompanying me and told me to “behave” myself and “not over indulge”. After all, he said it was a new Indian restaurant and they couldn’t possibly be serving tasty vegetarian food here in America. I fully agreed with him.

We arrived at the party. P went off to take photographs. I went to meet friends and peruse the lunch offerings. My first plate contained a soupçon of a few dishes. I like a few vegetarian dishes – paneer, bhindis (okra), aloo (potatoes), masoor daal, rotis and rice. My first bite of the matter paneer gave me a jolt – it tasted like my Mum’s. I quickly tried the rest of the food and was in heaven. I went back for seconds, then thirds, fourths and then lost count.

About an hour and a half later, P came over to check up on me and found me slumped on a chair at a table. Not being an arm chair, Reader, you can imagine how difficult it was to be slumped in it. Almost like what a seated dead body would resemble if someone had propped it up there and glued it to the back of the chair. My hands were resting listlessly on my stomach and I was white as a sheet.

“Can you move?” the voice asked me. I looked glassy eyed.

Then the reprimands followed swiftly “can’t take you anywhere”, “glutton”, “what will your hostess say?”

I was then forced up gingerly and taken to the back of the restaurant where another guest – a man thankfully, was walking round and round – I joined him and we both set off as prisoners out for fresh air. I had to smoke several cigarettes to help digest this meal.