Sights, sounds, and smells can transport us to places we love in mere seconds. I hear the Call to Prayer and suddenly I am in Pakistan, walking the dusty streets of Shikarpur. I smell curry and shut my eyes – I could swear I am at the Marhaba in Murree. But I’m not, I’m in Central Square, the fragrant smells of the Indian restaurant wafting across the street luring me back to my childhood and begging me to enter.
The imagination is a wonderful, terrible thing.
In the novel Anything Considered Peter Mayle takes his character back in time through his sense of smell:
“Memories often return through the nose. As he inhaled the odor of sanctity, a blend of ancient dust, mildewed prayer books, and crumbling stone, Bennett was taken back instantly and vividly to his school days.”
Last night I refilled my masala dhaba, My masala dhaba is a spice box that my husband gave me seven years ago. It was one of the loveliest Christmas presents that I have ever received. Yesterday, as I took spices out of their boxes and bags and put them into my masala dhaba, I was like the character in Mayle’s book: vividly transported back to my childhood.
I wrote the piece below after I had received the gift and I offer it today – a tribute to spice, color, and memories.
For years I have kept my Pakistani spices in a large Tupperware bowl with a red lid. The kind that you use to bring the gargantuan pasta salad (that no one will eat) to a potluck dinner. The lid is sticky with the years that the bowl has held spices and (sometimes) dust. Christmas 2010 I received a proper spice box as a gift. Not a western spice rack, but a genuine masala dhaba (spice box) of stainless steel.
Yesterday, while making a chicken curry, I transferred the spices from the Tupperware to the masala dhaba. It was like someone had told me I had won the lottery. I can’t stop looking at it.
It is shiny and beautiful, full of the colors of Pakistan – yellow/orange turmeric, red pepper, black pepper, red/orange masala spice, light brown coriander, darker brown garam masala, and to add a Middle Eastern flare – green/brown zahtar.
The spices sit like contented children in a circle, satisfied in their round stainless steel bowls. A small spice spoon pokes out of the bright orange-yellow turmeric in the center. The lid is see-through so the colors are visible even as the spices keep fresh. It is magnificent.
These are the things I love about where I was raised. The simplicity of colorful spices, the feel of a dupatta over my shoulders as I wear a colorful, silk shalwar kameez; the smell of curry cooking, and anticipation of hot naan and samosas to come; the glitter of bright-colored bangles in a shop at the local bazaar.
I love being able to duplicate these small things even as I look outside and hear the sounds of my current reality. Sounds that make me feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz as she realizes she is not in Kansas anymore.
4 thoughts on “Masala Dhaba Memories”
I wanted to share an essay my daughter wrote about how her understanding of race has developed from her youngest years in Morocco, the in-between years in Minnesota, high school in Tunisia and now college in St Paul. What is the best way for me to do that? With the current discussion taking place in the US I thought it was very timely and insightful from a TCKs perspective.
I’d love to take a look! Feel free to email me at communicating blog (at) gmail.com Thanks so much for sharing about this.
So beautiful and I know just what you mean. I enter the Indian restaurant and I feel a sense of home. I hear the call to prayer and it is comforting. We are moving to South Asia in 6 weeks and a masala dhaba is on my list of things now to acquire! Also, pouring over your writings about TCKs as I am about to have two of my own.
thank you for getting it! It’s called “saudade” in Portuguese. Excited for your family as you head off. There must be a million details to take care of. Will you be in India? Also, have you heard of families in global transition? It’s a great group of the globally mobile and I think you’d love it.