Artwork by Ali Choudhry. Image courtesy of the artist.
It’s all a game, the naming of spices
so you hover over the cup full of…whatsitsname?
and recognize immediately
the flavor of steaming Pilau
it’s garam masala, you say
garam masala from the bazaar
behind your home, in the Old City,
your tongue travelling back
into the winding streets, mazelike, to arrive
at the exact place where the shopkeeper sits
like a fat god
among heaps of spices
a riot of colors and the shopkeeper himself
a repository of names and uses
snaps into action the moment
the names escape your lips:
garam masala, zeera, zaafran…
except here, in this new world,
you find a blank face
staring back at you
and declaring in hushed tones:
Wrong. Answer.
the Old City crumbles to ashes inside your head
the bazaar retreats immediately
to an obscure nameless place
it is garam masala, you know it,
the taste and smell as clear and present
as the back of your hand,
but you smell again,
just to be sure
and return with the same name
the wrong name.
‘we need the English name, please?’ says he
those are the rules of the game,
and no argument
to the contrary will suffice here,
you are no longer in the land, garden of spices
your mother’s kitchenette
steaming with flavors and concoctions
too late now to realize that the spices left your hands
long ago, when the Dutch came knocking on the Straits of Malacca
to borrow some spices, please?
leaving with samplings
always coming back for more and more
shipfuls traversing back and forth across the Indian Ocean
till the spices found new homes
till the spices changed their names,
so that one day
two hundred years later,
you would be asked to name them in English
and you would be unable to locate them,
long since stolen
from the bazaars of your childhood
Co.Ree.Ander. Car. Da. Mom
Asa. Fo. Tee. Da.
Moo. Haa. Med
you recite the syllables, slowly and deliberately
the Chinese girl next to you is good at this game
her parents had the prudence to name her
Susan instead of Ah See
as her grandmother had suggested
unlike you, she knows the price of changing continents
Moo. Haa. Med.
this will be your name
three syllables in return for a lifetime
there is no place for anger here
‘You must change your life.’
Syed Jarri Haider is a young poet who first entered into English poetry with a course on form, themes and images held by Desi Writers’ Lounge. Presently enrolled in the law program at UNSW Australia, he is trying to figure out Sydney’s transport system, and his new life as a potential migrant.
