Chicken Curry

Brown the onions, and don’t fry them like last time.

Fahim stirred the cubes of onion, watching them slowly take on the warm brown hue his mother always insisted on. Behind him, his phone buzzed– unanswered– as messages poured in:

Fahim, are you coming today?

No hear from you in long time.

Come soon. I know you have off today.

Suraiya was sharp– she always remembered his schedule, even when he hadn’t responded in weeks. He did plan to visit today, just later than usual. And he’d never show up empty-handed; that would break one of the first tenets of Bengali hospitality. Between his full-time job and grad school, Fahim barely made time, let alone family. Meals were an afterthought– tuna and mayo on untoasted bread, cereal with cold milk, maybe sliced banana if he was feeling ambitious. Cooking was a rare event, usually reserved for when cousins visited and he needed to be impressed. Today, though, he was trying. Months had passed since he’d touched the stovetop. He hoped that showing up with chicken curry would offset his silence and broken promises in visiting. But the onions were darkening– too much. He’d left the heat too high, trying to rush the oil. Panicked, he lowered the flame and blew over the pot.

Two tablespoons of ginger garlic paste. Stir on medium heat for five minutes.

He opened a small ziplock bag filled with his mother’s homemade ginger-garlic paste. A sharp scent rushed out. He remembered her crushing cloves and ginger while watching Bangla dramas, the sound of pestle meeting mortar mixing with over-the-top mother-in-law monologues on TV. That mortar always smelled of garlic, no matter how many times it was washed.

He stirred the paste into the onions. He used to ask why she didn’t just buy the store version.

“Not the same,” she’d say.

Two bay leaves. Two cinnamon sticks. Three or four cardamoms.

Fahim used clean glass jars for spices– unlike his mother’s beloved old peanut butter jars, each sticky with memory. He rinsed the dry bay leaves, snapped the cinnamon sticks like she taught him, and tossed in four cardamom pods– the landmines of South Asian cuisine. Bite one wrong, and the whole dish turns bitter. He always wondered why they were there in the first place. “For aroma,” she’d say.

One spoon cumin, coriander, turmeric, and chilli.

The turmeric melted into the dark base, glowing yellow like dandelions. He remembered going to school with stained fingers, hiding his hands in his pockets during lunch. That, and eating with his hands, always set him apart. It was intimate– touch, smell, taste all together.

His phone buzzed again. This time, it rattled against the pot. His mother was calling, he let it go to voicemail.

He turned back to the pot– only to find the base sticking. He scraped at it. Had he added coriander? Or was it cumin? He sniffed both. They smelled the same. The spot smelled like cumin. That must be it.

He sighed. Maybe this wasn’t going perfectly– but the effort mattered, right?

Once everything dries, pour a third cup of water. Stir. Let the water dry until there’s just oil left. Do this three times.

It was the most tedious step, some skipping it altogether. But his moms wore by it– three times, no less– for the smoothest curry. He started the cycle. The kitchen became filled with the scent of roasted spices. His mind drifted.

On election night, in 2008, Barack Obama just became the first Black president of the United States. It was a historic night– a feat of its own even for the Bangladeshi community. Fahim, eleven, watched with his dad.

“They say he’s Muslim too,” his father whispered.

“That’s a rumor,” Fahim replied.

“His middle name is literally Hussein.”

Meanwhile, Suraiya sat alone at the table. Not cleaning, not cooking. Just sitting. A tear slipped from her eye, that she sneakily wiped away without garnering attention. Fahim caught this and asked what was wrong.

He’s my age, and he’s the president. What did I do with my life? Cook? Clean?

At eleven, Fahim didn't know what to say. He stood there staring blankly at his mother, unsure of how to respond. He stood there unequipped, while Suraiya sat unarmed and vulnerable.

He stirred the pot again. Back then, dinner was lentils, chicken curry, spinach, and basmati rice– laid out on Bangla newspapers on the floor that served as trivets. He remembered the exact layout. His mom had been forty-seven that night, an age Fahim won’t be near for another two decades. He was twenty-seven now with his own anxieties. He made fifty-eight thousand a year, while his software engineer friends were breaking six figures. He had a therapist, friends, and a support system. Who did she have? Did she cook to stay grounded? Was this how she coped?

Why is your oil sticking to the bottom? Were you paying attention?

The pan sizzled violently. He jolted back to the stove– more curry burned at the bottom. Another mistake, he tallied them: overcooked onions, lost count of spices, now this. Was it worth showing up with this dish? He thought of how effortlessly she cooked. Compared tot hat, his attempts felt juvenile– like he was playing house.

Still, he pressed on.

Time to add the chicken. Stir until coated. Let sit for ten minutes.

“Amma, it’s almost eleven,” Fahim had complained once.

“That’s because you forgot to defrost the chicken,” she snapped.

This time, he’d remembered.

Back then, they bought meat from the Bengali butcher. Everyone in the building knew each other. Locals called it the Curry Building because of the never-ending smell of chicken and beef curries floating through the halls. Now, he went to an Uzbeki butcher fifteen minutes away. Friendly, but not the same.

Bismillah, this better turn out good, he thought.

He covered the pot and searched for a container. His mom still wanted her plastic Tupperware back. He refused. Hot food melts plastic, he warned her. Forever chemicals. She didn’t care. This was one of many small disagreements he welcomed– anything but marriage and career talks. He pictured her peeking through the peephole, seeing him holding the glass container like an offering.

When he moved out, she had knocked on his car window right before he left.

“You’re going to need this,” she said, handing him a knotted plastic bag full of containers.

“Rice, spinach, lentils. And chicken curry.”

He buckled the bag in the front seat, like a passenger.

“Call me when you get there,” she said. “Text me how you’re doing.”

She wiped away a tear, thinking he didn’t see.

“I’ll text you,” he promised.

Back in his kitchen, the curry had thickened– dark and glossy. He packed it into a glass container, placed it in a bag, and buckled it in the front seat. On the drive over, he researched every possible response:

This curry is awful. At least he didn’t come empty-handed.

I already cooked. He hadn’t thought of a comeback for that one.

He parked outside the old building and stared. Same scent, same walls. He knocked on the door. Suraiya opened it. Her eyes lit up– but not enough for words.

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing to the bag.

“Chicken curry. I used your recipe,” he said.

“Is that why you’re late?” she asked bluntly.

He froze. No prepared answer. No excuses.

“Next time,” she said, “just text.”