The curry-patta plant, and a flood load of memories

Today, the husband went to the Indian grocery store, and got me jewels for our refrigerator. Drumsticks (from the moringa plant), Indian green chillies, guvar (cluster beans), and a packet of curry-patta (curry) leaves.

When I opened the packet of curry-patta leaves, there was a piece of a stem and hanging on to it were twigs full of dark green curry leaves.

As I held the stem, a flood of memories came rushing back. I have been homesick lately, and have been dealing with a couple of things. Hence, my absence from this blog, this happy space of mine for more than two months.

As I carefully transferred the curry-patta leaves into a glass jar, and pinched off the top of those fiery chillies (they stay for longer in the refrigerator this way, without going bad or getting a fungus), the little patch of green at my mother’s home came alive in my mind’s eye. It’s an L-shaped patch that runs parrallel to the boundary wall, and there’s a horizontal patch in the front as well.

It is only a small patch but it is home to a nice, bushy Tulsi plant (Indian basil), lemon grass, the night jasmine plant, colocasia, aloe vera, ixora, Plumeria Pudica (or Nag Champa) and many other plants and shrubs. This patch once also had a lovely curry-patta tree.

It was abundant and gorgeous, and we never had to buy curry-patta from the vegetable vendor. And it was generous in its bounty and so neither of our neighbours had to buy curry leaves too. It provided for everyone. Whenever we had a guest or a visitor, he or she never went home without a bunch of these precious leaves that are such an essential part of Indian cooking, and the Indian pantry. Whether you are making bateka-poha, sambhar, upma, or a variety of other shaaks or kadhis, the curry-patta leaf is indispensible and lends its distinct flavour to all of these dishes and more.

I speak of that beautiful tree in the past tense because it met a rather sad fate. It had rooted and bloomed (oh, the scent of its flowers!) in the corner of the L-shaped garden patch. That part of the boundary wall was shared with a neighbour. They always helped themselves (and we didn’t mind at all) to the fresh curry leaves whenever they wanted. Either in the morning when they were making a hot breakfast or during lunchtime, or even when evening fell.

But somehow they were very cross with the tree. They often complained that it shed too many leaves on their side of the courtyard.

One day, they gave us an ultimatum. Chop this tree off or our gardener will do the task.

We didn’t know what to do. We tried to reason with them: “It’s a tree. It will shed leaves.” “But it provides all of us with so much curry-leaves.” But they couldn’t be pacified. Soon their garderner came over and chopped up the tree in a way that only a little part of its trunk/bark remained.

We didn’t fight with our neighbours because my parents always believed that we must have peaceful, if not friendly relationships with those who lived next-door, or at the back or front.

The week it was chopped off, the lady of the house at whose behest the tree was chopped off complained to my mother: “This is a problem, I have to buy curry-leaves now. I don’t like this unnecessary expense”

We didn’t know what to say.

The poor, little trunk grew a few twigs but it has to this day, never regained its full glory.

We are still on speaking terms with the neighbours. They have planted a curry-leaf plant in their own garden. My mother had given them a baby plant that had come up near the mother plant which was chopped off.

Today, I remembered that tree, and perhaps foolishly, and with some kind of hope, put the bark in a jar of water. Perhaps it may sprout a root. And I can replant it.

But I miss the curry-plant tree that was chopped away. I remember it like one does a dear, old friend. Perhaps we may meet again – in another life, in another form.