A Life of Spice

The Little Divas

I was about seven when a young, newlywed, gorgeous Indian woman with a serious UK accent invited me to her house for a “special celebration.” It did not sound tempting till she told me I could not only bring friends but that she would serve my favorite foods.

A few days after accepting this lunch invitation, six of the nosiest, giggliest girls you would ever meet showed up at her house. Barely had we stepped in when we were asked to remove our slippers and then move onto a large balcony. There, her husband, an eye surgeon, came out and with a large steel pitcher in his hand and then began to wash our feet. I was mortified. My friends did not seem to care as they giggled and wiggled. Not me. Was he implying we were unclean?

The lady noticed. “Come, Monica, let me dry your feet and then we will eat.” I could smell the toasty cumin and hear the sizzle of the bread frying in the wok. It smelled good enough to forgive her husband’s thoughtless task. She used a small towel to dry off my wet feet.

We were then asked to sit in a circle and she began to hand out presents—a dozen red bangles, a red stole and a silver coin. We were restless as she tried to explain the reason for the gifts and the significance of each thing. Where was the wonderful food that we could smell?

She must have sensed it. She went into the kitchen and came back with tiny silver platters filled with black chickpea curry redolent cinnamon and cloves, golden semolina pudding dotted with sweet raisins and crunchy cashews, deep-fried balloon bread scented with cumin, lentil wafers, a mild home-made mango pickle and even a bowl of sweetened yogurt.

As we ate the hearty and nourishing meal, she began to tell us a story about Kanjaks. Our group pretended to pay attention as we gobbled as much as our little mouths could hold. Kanjaks—young pre-pubescent girls—are revered in various parts of India as incarnates of Goddess. Girls are the very essence of purity and bliss, she said. The washing of the feet, the giving of the gifts, feeding us such a lavish meal—we were being treated like Goddesses, she said.

Recently when I was reminiscing with my mother about how great this lady’s food used to be, my mother turned to me, surprised that I had not understood the real meaning of what her friend had been trying to do. In India, where killing a female fetus was considered “normal” and boys were thought of as the more desirable offspring, she was reviving this age-old tradition to give little girls like me true self-esteem. To ensure, I think, in her own way, that when these Kanjaks grew up, they had the same pride about bearing daughters as they did sons.

And I thought I was there for the food.