With the phone in hand, I restlessly paced the apartment. It was 5pm on a Wednesday and there was no sign of Raamu. He usually knocks on the door by 3pm every single Wednesday. Where was he today? I dialled his cell phone number again. No answer. Raamu was not going to appear! My heart sank. Some Indian neighbours called to ask if I had heard from Raamu. That was a relief, in a way, to know that I was not the only person he had 'dumped'. Raamu is our Indian grocer. He delivers Indian -- or ethnic, as they call it here -- groceries to our doorstep. Before he came along, we had to drive 30 minutes to an Indian store. But one didn't get everything there; the more ethnic the requirement, the longer the distance to be driven. It was a 90-minute drive to the nearest Keralite grocer for a supply of drumsticks, plantains, puttu and appam powders and a host of other produce for the Malayali palate. Our husbands complain about the distance, although they devour the food without a whimper. It is difficult to convince men how important a few karivep leaves are to cooking. Raamu was our saviour and we women just about stopped short of worshipping him. Well, none of this solved my problem. Guests were expected for dinner. How could I make sambar without baingan (fondly called Indian eggplant), okra (read, lady's fingers) and karivep leaves? Vishu, a regular invitee, deems no meal complete without the traditional avial. How could I make good avial without raw banana and drumsticks? Life had taught me to be prepared with a backup plan. And so, I went into the kitchen and changed the menu to roti and some nondescript vegetable curry. I got away with dinner that night. On the weekend that followed, there was a call from Raamu. "Hello Madam, Raamu here," he said. Of course I knew it was him. Who else would call me 'madam' with such a pronounced 'd' and a heavy South Indian accent? Upset, I still was from the other day. But instead of apologetic, he sounded excited. "Madam," he said, "I opened new shop. Please come." After the "when, where, how come, how do I get there" etc that I asked in one breath, he gave me the details. It was just a few blocks away from my home. "How is it that this Raamu-guy makes you happy quicker than I can?" my husband asked. Ignoring the remark, I proceeded to the telephone and started spreading the word. The wives decided on a time to get together and check out his store. And during that wait, I reflected on my pre-marriage years in Bangalore. Cornflakes and porridge were my standard breakfast then. I had whatever the canteen dished out for lunch. Fruits and yoghurt constituted my dinner. Occasionally, some friends' kind mothers treated me to a good meal. My mother had urged me to pack some traditional curry powders and gadgets when I was headed for the US. I dismissed her with a haughty "Naa, I won't need all that." What is it that overcomes us Indians when we cross the border that makes us crave Indian food? Does the dearth of something have such an effect? Or could it be because a lot of us cross another border simultaneously -- one by which we exit singleness and enter the institution of marriage? Were our mothers successful, in a subconscious way, in making us believe that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? How could this happen to me, of all people, someone who yelled from the rooftops that the easiest way to a man's heart was 'right through his chest with a kitchen knife'? When my best friend Sumi was leaving for India, she handed me the puttu maker -- an ingenious cooking tool from Kerala. She and I had been very good friends for more than a decade, but I never bonded with her more than in that one moment when she parted with it. Friday nights, friends get together like before -- with lots of food. We head out to desi restaurants on weekends. Nearby Indian eateries ain't very good and are no fun -- 'cause we could have better food at home. So we drive a hundred miles to the suburbs of Chicago, where we have our favourite places. That would compare to travelling from Bangalore to Mysore to have lunch. My heart often goes out to those friends who are students here, leading single lives, in studio apartments. I invite them over, promising them good Indian food. The doorbell rang, breaking my reverie. The ladies had arrived. It was time to check out the new shop and bestow our good wishes. We were determined to do our bit at making Raamu's new endeavour a success. Lekshmi Nair is happy to report that Raamu's business is doing well. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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