t h e f o o d The Time Food Saved the Day

Tanisha Agrawal

Crumbling pieces of paper fluttered through the air like birds trapped in a cage. Giddy with summer, I flew down the uneven road in the torrid heat to reach Mariam’s house. The roads seemed to be at peaceful slumber, but the country certainly wasn’t.

It was the day of Eid, the most prosperous and perhaps most significant festival for Muslims. India, my country, has housed several religions for years now. Despite the celebrations these religions offer, ups and downs are an integral part of the country’s history. Religious clashes between the Hindus and Muslims erupted sporadically. The country would transform into a battlefield, with ordinary citizens massacring each other, bloodshed, grief, and hatred all galore. Today was one such wretched day.

Mariam and her family had been our dearest friends for years. We were Hindus; they were Muslims. But that didn’t matter to us. After all, we are liberal. We love everyone. We are loyal to our people over religion. Mhm sure…

Every year, Mariam’s family cordially invited us for Eid celebrations. We watched them pray, gave them Eidis, or gifts, and ate food. The food. The heavenly food. The Biryani, the Cambaabur, the Maamoul. Oh my god. But...the Sheer khurma. The sheer-khoor-maa. Mariam’s mother, Amina, who we lovingly referred to as Amu Aunty, made the best sheer khurma, rich and creamy and elegant dessert made during Eid. The way she ground the nuts, boiled the milk till it turned a golden brown, and garnished them with spices was mesmerizing. The steam would rise, and the smell would waft across the corridors, rooms, and through the walls to reach our nostrils.

That day, amid celebrations and greetings, the news interrupted us by blaring reports of people killing each other and the police being ruthless. It blatantly broadcasted those grieving the dead. Inadvertently, the room was divided. Divided by religion. What came next, I had never expected. Never in my life. I was too naïve and ignorant. One of Mariam’s family members blurted out, “These people are filthy; look how they just kill us.”

And from there began the exchange of comments from both sides: rude, ugly, offensive comments. I felt like I was dropped onto a battlefield, unarmed and vulnerable. I cannot explain more of what happened because it simply does not deserve to be reprinted.

Just as the next bombardment of insults was on the brink of beginning, Amu Aunty appeared from the kitchen, carrying an aroma of sweet, cooked milk with her. In her gentle voice she said, “Sheer khurma is ready.” We looked at each other. Stared at each other. Glared at each other. We slogged through the hallway, tension higher than ever. The distance between everyone was greater than ever. I didn’t know which side was mine. I felt caught in between people being physically repelled by each other.

As we neared the steaming sheer khurma, the heat seemed to subside. Tension alleviated. Our eyes lay on the pot, the pot glistening with brown milk. Poignant eyes met. Smiles broke out. Apologies were exchanged. My father reached for his handkerchief and wiped droplets of sweat from his temples. Mariam’s father let out a sigh.

Everyone settled around the round table. It was was covered by a white sheet embroidered with colorful flowers, almost like a veil on a bride. I stared at my plate. I could see myself in its huge, perfectly round, almost moon-like surface. I looked like a bride. Silver bowls were placed on the circumference with a myriad of food in each of them. Sour, sweet, salty, bitter. You name it and that taste would find its way on your palate. After all, it was the Romance of Ramadan! Placed in the center was a glass bowl, clear like crystal, standing out among all the pearls. I leaned towards it. Wedded to the almonds and dates, the vermicelli submerged in the milk added a punch of flavor to the Sheer khurma. It was scrumptious, satisfying, and serene.

Who would’ve thought that homogenized milk with nuts and vermicelli, a match made in heaven, could weave us back together? Alas, we aren’t handcuffed to history. We don’t have to churn the waters for war. We don’t have to live in a planetarium of crime and hatred. We can live together, especially if there is Amu Aunty’s Sheer khurma.