The waiter is walking here. The restaurant is expensive, with a live band and quiet, wealthy patrons who speak quietly and wear velvet. I feel uneasy, I don’t really belong here.
But where do I belong? The waiter brings bamboo dishes, and I am suddenly hit with the answer.
Bamboo groves, hypnotising in their beautiful, dark green shadows, leaves whispering, trunks leaning into each other in the wind. Their strong, hollow wood is not what I seek today. I seek a flavour – earthy and pungent, so bamboo.
I walk into the cluster, the river rushing singing by. The evening sun is dipping, I need to be home before the spirits come to dance. I find them, pointing skyward, shiny with new covering. Bamboo shoots, saplings that are not yet inedible.
I gather them quietly as the bamboo whispers. Take, leave a little. Let it live a little. That is the rule of nature: leave to live, grow and prosper. My basket is heavy with the fruits of the earth. My hearth will be warm.
By the stove, I chop the bamboo, unwrap it like a scroll, the young purple sheaths falling off without much persuasion, revealing the barely green and largely white cores. I dice it the way it has been for years before me – hold the stalk, cut it, use the knife to lacerate the soft white flesh vertically, then horizontally. Shear them off, and watch the thin, uneven slices fall into the basket. The sound of bamboo shoots being cut is like a child’s whisper, full of words that blend into one garbled, sweet sound.
I soak the bamboo, get their poison out. Wash, soak, repeat. Leave it overnight, and sleep. Wait a day, do my work. And then, the day after tomorrow, it is ready. The bamboo must be boiled in the same water, and I throw in the fundamental salt, spice and turmeric. The fire and the pot are warm. I watch as the water evaporates slowly but surely. One of the things bamboo teaches you is patience.
Finally, as the pot simmers and the bamboo stock is reduced to almost nothing, I bring in the cumin and sambhara powders, shower them over the golden bits of bamboo. And then comes the pride of my kitchen, a recipe passed down from ages – Kartha Sambhara, filled with the flavours of earth. The bamboo is now almost ready. Almost. I place another pot on the fire, pour a little bit of oil, wish for pork lard that grandma had. I throw in mustard seeds, hear them pop and splutter in the hot oil, and smile. Outside, the winter mist is swaying in the morning breeze. The pot splutters again, calls me back. I throw in the curry leaves and angry red chillies and watch as mist of my own arises from the pot – hot, angry mist. I throw in garlic and chopped onions. I saute them, the motions soothing. This is how it has been done, this is how it will be done.
Then, the darling of the show. The bamboo shoots go in, and the kitchen erupts into a boisterous symphony of crackling and popping. I stir, make sure the oil coats everything. Then I toss in more salt, pepper, turmeric and chilli.
The pot sizzles, and I work on kneading leftover rice and rice flour to make Otti, the staple that accompanies the bamboo. I make a dough, pull apart smaller pieces, flatten them and toss them over the open flame until they puff up like a rooster about to crow. They shall be warm for a while, the kitchen is warm too. The bamboo is not a fussy or attention-seeking dish – it simmers happily, with occasional stirring.
There, it is finally done. It looks golden, tastes exactly like my mother made it. The Ottis aren’t that bad, soft and warm. I take the dishes, place them in our dining room. The family is drawn to the smell, the aroma. Nobody can resist a good baimbale curry. They waft into the room like moths to a flame. We sit and eat, as every family does. The tastes of a thousand years of careful curation and flavouring dance on our tongues. The morning has begun.
“Excuse me, ma’am? The bamboo, would you like to try it?”
The waiter is looking at me, tongs paused on what looks like mature bamboo with something in it. I smile, nod and watch my plate as the dish is plated, the bamboo inedible. Why do they call it ‘the bamboo’ if the bamboo is inedible?!
I eat, making my mind up. I must go home, to the bamboo clusters, and make some baimbale curry, tangy and spicy and the way everyone likes it. It’s not that difficult after all.