A feast of curry and courage
A feast of curry and courage
Inthe sultry haze of a Ceylon afternoon in 1966, where the air hung heavy with frangipani and the faint curl of woodsmoke, young Denzil sat in the long, shadowed hall of his family’s home, his fingers wrapped around a battered tin tumbler. The water inside, drawn from the old brown clay pot in the corner, was calm and carried the earthy whisper of the earth it came from. He took a slow sip, the liquid slipping down his throat as he leaned back in a creaky wooden chair, his thin shirt clinging damply to his boyish frame from the day’s wanderings. Setting the tumbler down with a gentle clink, he let out a contented sigh, the kind that comes from a belly well-fed and a heart at ease. “I’m so full today,” he murmured, half to the breeze, half to the world.
From the kitchen, where the clatter of pots mingled with the rhythm of bangles, his mother, Susan, was stirring a pot of sambol, her dark braid swaying as she worked. She poked her head out, her face a blend of curiosity and playful scolding. “Full, are you, Denzil?” she called, wiping her hands on her faded cotton frock. “And what, pray, did you stuff yourself with at John Mama’s almsgiving?”
Denzil’s face broke into a grin, his eyes alight with the memory of the feast. His bare feet swung beneath the chair, brushing the cool stone floor. “Oh, Amma, it was grand! They had everything — pork curry, crisp pappadam, dhal, brinjal, boiled eggs, and curries too many to name. But that red pork curry — spicy, but so good I couldn’t stop eating!”
Susan stepped onto the veranda, hands on her hips, her expression dancing between amusement and exasperation. “Red pork curry, is it? And who was ladling out all this food for you, my boy? Tell me, was there a fried egg in the mix?”
Denzil’s grin faltered, just for a moment, his brow creasing. Who had served him? His mind drifted back to the almsgiving — a lively blur of banana leaves spread across the floor, the chatter of neighbors, the clink of ladles against clay pots. Was it John Seeya’s daughter, Juliet, with her quick, shy smile? Or Andrew, John Seeya’s son, always teasing him about his skinny legs? Or perhaps one of the grandsons — Ashley or Ranji, his mates who’d been sneaking extra pappadam when no one was looking? He scratched his head, the memory a kaleidoscope of colors and tastes.
“Who keeps track of such things, Amma?” he said at last, a touch of impatience in his voice. “You don’t go to an almsgiving to jot down names! You sit on the floor, eat the finest food in the world off those big green banana leaves, and let the moment carry you. That’s what matters.”
Susan shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “You and that stomach of yours, Denzil. It’ll land you in trouble one day. Now come help me with this sambol before you start dreaming of more curry.”
Denzil laughed, hopping up, the veranda creaking beneath his feet as the Ceylon sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft shades of amber and gold.
Later, as he helped his mother in the kitchen, lugging pots and pans while she conjured her tropical magic for the family, Denzil’s mind wandered. Why had Amma asked about fried eggs? His thoughts flickered to the almsgiving for his grand-uncle, a month after John Seeya’s passing, where he had eaten a fried egg. He remembered his mother’s old warning, half-serious, half-teasing, that eating fried food — especially a fried egg — near a well might draw the attention of a devil lurking in its depths. The idea tickled his adventurous spirit. When the kitchen chores were done, he slipped out to the well in the yard, its cement rim worn smooth by years of use. Leaning over, he peered into the shadowy water, half-expecting to see a mischievous spirit staring back. Nothing. He circled the well, his bare feet pattering against the ground, his eyes scanning for any sign of a lurking devil. The well stayed silent, its surface still, reflecting only the fading light of the day.
“No devils here,” Denzil muttered with a grin, satisfied that his mother’s tales were just that — tales. And with the sun sinking lower, he turned back toward the house, the scent of sambol and the promise of another adventure lingering in the warm evening air.
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