A Chulha
The day had arrived. It was barbecue day. All my friends would be arriving soon. I raced home from work, put the pasta on to boil, checked the fridge was working and the drinks cold, straightened my garden furniture into my favourite configuration and plumped the pillows. I searched for my speakers to connect to the laptop only to discover the puppies had, as the week before, chewed the wires. So I pulled out the pliers and electrical tape and jerry rigged the connection once again.
In the kitchen, I chopped vegetables for my infamous pasta salad, mixing in the spicy chilies that my Indian friends could not do without. The chicken was removed from its usual black plastic carry bag provided by the chicken vendor, cleaned and the preferred marinade of buckets of curd and packets of spices mixed into it. I double wiped the plates (in India you wash everything again just before using it for some reason) and shook my head over the usual lack of glasses. I found bowls for the crunchy fried snacks but left them in their packets so the humidity could not render them inedible. And I mixed up the French cheese dip – which never tasted very French after I added the black pepper, onions and of course, chilies. (Even I now found it dull to eat just plain). After cleaning and slicing the carrots for the dip and setting it all out. I was done.
I glanced at my cell phone. Ten to 8. The party was planned to start around 7:30, but here no one is ever on time and I knew the first arrivals would not be here for at least another 20 minutes. I went out to look again at my new barbecue. It was red and gleaming. I settled it more carefully on the bricks, checked the large bag of natural charcoal, straightened the stack of newspaper and then wandered out along the beach looking for dried leaves and twigs for starters.
When I got back to the gate, the first guests were just pushing through the front door clamouring greetings. My dogs were barking joyously and jumping and leaping around the visitors. I was the only one with pets, so my friends spoiled my dogs completely with attention, table scraps and romps on the beach. My little house was suddenly full of activity, people busily trying to jam more bowls into the fridge, fit another bottle on the shelf. Cell phones littered the table in the hallway. Shoes lay scattered in front of the door.
Everyone talked at once – a total cacophony of English, French, Tibetan, Hindi, Tamil and Bengali. It seems everyone is bi-, tri- or more lingual around me and languages slip and slide between us depending on the story, or the participants or just the need for the perfect word. My friends all came from different parts of India, almost all from big cities. They were used to city life, challenges, noise, and schedules and now reveled in their small town lives despite the comparative lack of activities and night life. My beach house was a favorite weekend getaway and they came often and stayed late.
Eventually people shifted to the terrace and caught site of the barbecue. There was a general inspection and great excitement expressed over the bag of charcoal, the lid to the barbecue and the tools I had put out to manage the cooking. Unbeknownst to me, none of my friends had ever had a barbecue or even used one. I was sent back to the terrace to sit down and four of the guests set out to get the fire ready.
First a great pile of charcoal was loaded on the barbecue, until they realized that they had not considered the twigs and the paper. The charcoal was removed by hand into the rice bag sack again and sheets of newspaper rolled with twigs inside. Charcoal was dumped back on. Lighters were flourished and paper ignited. It glowed red and then turned to ash, rolled too tightly to catch. After some discussion the charcoal was pushed out of the way, the paper wadded and pushed underneath and the charcoal pulled over it. Ah, the twigs! Finally ready again, the lighters were brought out. But it was quite a windy evening and the initial flames blew out.
There was great conversation about where to move the barbecue and in which direction it should face. After several false attempts, the “perfect” spot was agreed upon, more newspaper wadded up and the lighters came out of pockets. The fire did not catch. I got up once to assist but was sent back to my seat without being allowed to make a single suggestion. My friends were going to do this. Alone.
Now some disagreement surfaced about the best way to start the fire, and suddenly one man had found a tray used for carrying bricks and taking some charcoal and materials had moved to the other side of the garden to make his own fire. Another decided it would be easier on the ground level and was on his haunches in the sand bending over his pile of charcoal with great concentration. The others remained by the barbecue, turning it this way and that. All had now decided some kind of fan was needed and people moved to and fro looking for cardboard, magazines or palm leaves to fan their flames.
By now every one was now rather covered with black marks from the charcoal. T-shirts, shorts, arms, fingers and faces showed evidence of their intense involvement in their task. We are in the tropics in South India and even though it was January, it was still very warm. Perspiration dripped, smearing the black marks.
Now there were three very smoky flames going. There was furious fanning on all sides, calls were made for drinks to be sent from the kitchen. It was not possible to leave the firesides for a moment. I dutifully delivered the orders, and retreated to my comfortable, breezy observation post. It had been two hours now. Tempers were flaring a bit higher than the flames from the heat, the exertion, the frustration and probably hunger. The struggle continued.
About 10:30 another guest breezed in through the seaside gate with hearty greetings all around. Now this man was NOT from the big city. He was one of those guys that can do anything, figure out anything, fix anything. He was always the man to call in any emergency, somehow able to find the right thing, person or solution in his massive network and range of experience to help. In India, this means he is one of the most important men around and to be actual friends with him considered very lucky.
He took in the situation at a glance. And then came straight to my seat. “WHAT are they doing?” He asked. I shrugged with a grin. He went to the kitchen to empty his pockets of lemons and called out, “Is this what we have to put on the barbecue?” He pointed at the enormous bowl of marinating chicken. I nodded. “Do you realize how long that is going to take to cook? It is already 10:30!” I nodded again. “I think they might need your help.” He sighed. He never really had much time to relax, someone always needed something and he spent his days racing from rescue mission to rescue mission.
“All right,” he said. “Get me some charcoal.” He pulled out some tongs and a dosai pan for holding the coals afterwards. Then picking up a few pieces from the bucket of coal I brought, he set them on the flaming gas burner. “We can’t wait, I better get them going here or no one will ever eat.”
Ten minutes after his arrival, glowing coals were installed on the cleared barbecue. The three smoky fires had been picked over for the hottest chunks which were added to the pile – the unlit pieces put back in the rice bag for later. And the chicken had been started on the stove to speed the cooking process before it was shifted to the grill for the expected charcoal flavoring everyone taking turns to flip the meat over the collaborative flames.
Forty-five minutes later, a somewhat cleaner and now extremely proud crew dug into the first real barbecue of their lives swearing it was definitely best thing they had ever eaten. I sat happily amid the jumble of conversations, jokes and story telling half of which I could not understand, enjoying the smell of masala and smoke in the air, the colour of the coals glowing red in the garden, the feel of the breeze lightening on its way in from the sea and the look of the Indian moon shining down on another perfect ending.
Feel India 