Pakistani Ginger Chicken

The silver filigree antique jhumkas you see in Ami’s earlobes- she gave them to me when I was 18- and the irresponsible teenager that I was, I lent them to a dorm mate who lost them. It didn’t even occur to me that they were missing till I saw this photo recently.

Andaaza

I watched Ami, as she stirred the pot in a circular motion.

Round and round her arm circled, the gold bangles glistening on her wrist. Clink, clink, they went as she stirred and stirred.

The same gold bangles given to her by her Ami, when she married my father in her China-red and gold brocade gharara.

All twelve of them, 22kt gold, passed on to me as part of my trousseau. I don’t wear mine when I cook. They lay wrapped in muslin and velvet, in a safety deposit box.

I stand in my kitchen alone, making Ami’s Pakistani Ginger Chicken, and I think of her milky arms and hands, as I stir the pot.

And I hear her.

“A small pour of oil, just enough to make the bottom of the pot glossy,” she says as she tilts the bottle into the pot.

She chops an onion through its crisp layers. Not like a chef, but like a mother.

Meticulously, slowly.

As my eyes start to water, she says, “Sauté them till reddish-brown. Then add some ginger for khushboo (fragrance).”

“But for how long, Ami?” I ask her.

She does not know.

“Just keep watching as the colour changes,” she casually says.

She’s chopped some blanched tomatoes.

“But how many?” I ask her again.

She still does not know.

“Enough for double the amount of people we’ve invited,” she laughs, and adds the mound of chopped tomatoes into the pot, the fresh red juice dripping down the sides of her hands.

I tilt my head and try to imagine the number of tomatoes she’s used.

Ami stirs the pot till the tomatoes become jammy and candy-like.

She adds some salt, and a heaped spoon of brick-red chilli pepper.

Then a smidgeon of turmeric, staining her fingertips yellow; the colour of the robes of Buddhist monks.

Without ever tasting the contents of the dish, she continues to stir with brisk movements.

Clink, clink.

The steam from the pan turns the window above her stove opaque.

The window which looks out into the lawn with the trees, the same kind of trees whose leaves used to turn a garnet-red by the time it was my birthday every Fall.

Now the chicken goes in. She slathers it with the tomato sauce reduction, and continues to stir.

“You’ll see. The oil will start to separate from the sauce. It means it’s almost done,” she tells me.

“Maybe a little bit more chilli powder,” as she reaches for the jar.

She adds a pinch of red dust. She then turns to the sink, cups water in her hands and lets it seep onto the chicken.

“It’s almost done,” she says, decidedly.

“But how long has it been, Ami? How will I know?”

“You’ll just know, the way I know, the way my Ami knew. By andaaza, it’s all estimation.”

She covers the pan, places the wooden spatula in the sink and asks, “Tea with milk and cardamom?”

I nod and reach for the cumin-spiced wafers to go with the tea.

When I am in my kitchen chopping fresh coriander for ginger chicken, I remember the clinking of Ami’s bangles, and her arms as she stirs and stirs.

Clink, clink.

Ami’s Pakistani Ginger Chicken