Guava Curry

 

Guava Curry

I have heard of apple curry, date curry, and mango curry—of course, everyone knows those—but guava curry? That was something out of this world. When I first heard about it, I thought someone was pulling my leg. But the woman who told me the story was not known for lies. She was a person of impeccable reputation, the kind who never twisted a fact for fun. And this wasn’t a story she told in self-praise—quite the opposite. It was about a mistake she made in her youth, one that turned into unforgettable family folklore.

So, let me tell you the plain and unadulterated story that happened over sixty years ago, and you can decide for yourself whether it’s a deliberate piece of humour or something innocent that deserves sympathy.

Her name was Suma—the daughter of a poor farmer from a remote village. She had studied only up to class three in a lower primary school, the highest level available there. Many of her classmates chose to fail deliberately so they could continue receiving milk powder and bulgur—a cracked wheat grain the government distributed free to schoolchildren. But Suma refused to let her report card be tarnished for such free food.

She left school early, but she could still write letters, read stories, and do basic arithmetic. She was not average—perhaps even better than average.

Had Suma married a poor man’s son, she might have used her freedom and intelligence and eventually become an enlightened, self-taught woman. Fourteen is hardly an age at all—it’s only the beginning of understanding, of learning, of becoming.

But fate had other plans.

When a wealthy family proposed marriage to her solely based on her beauty, her father was overwhelmed. The matchmaker brought the proposal from a prosperous man who owned twenty acres of cultivable land, four pairs of bullocks, a bullock cart, and lent money and grain to neighbours at interest. He lived in a house that, if not entirely brick-built, at least had a tin roof—fireproof, unlike the thatched homes around, which always lived in fear of spark and wind.

So Suma’s father thanked God for granting his daughter a rare chance to prosper and live comfortably. Yet he knew there was a price. What could a poor bride’s father afford to pay? His account had only one balance: his self-respect. He would have to endure insult, stay silent, and accept his inferior status forever.

He couldn’t afford a dowry or gifts for festive occasions, but he comforted himself with the thought that peace was more important than pride. After all, daughters are meant to live and flourish in a different family. And so, he agreed to give his daughter in marriage.

The groom’s name was Damru—Damu, the nickname.

In the days leading up to the wedding, Suma’s father, mother, and aunt took turns training her on how to behave in her in-laws’ house.

“Don’t talk back, and that’s considered rude,” said her aunt.

“Eat only when they ask you to. Merely being in the kitchen does not mean it is proper to eat whenever you feel like,” added her mother.

“Drink the water in which one of the elders has dipped their toes—it’s holy,” her father advised. Then he added, “Wake up first, sleep last, stay in the kitchen, always keep your head covered, and remain in the shadows.”

Her aunt would quiz her like a schoolteacher:

“What will you do after you bathe?”

“Will take a sip of the foot-water,” Suma replied softly.

They nodded in satisfaction. She was ready.

When the day came, Suma’s father confessed to the groom’s father that he could not afford to host a large wedding procession.

“That’s fine,” said the groom’s father kindly. “Invite only me, the boy, the priest, and the barber. After the wedding, send your daughter and son-in-law home in a palanquin.”

And so it was accomplished—a simple ceremony, with no music save the conch, no crowd except a few neighbours, just quiet joy and trembling hope. There was a modest meal of rice, dal, and saag—boiled green leaves lightly seasoned—and the tastiest chutney made from hog plum, which the barber of the entourage remembered fondly even in his old age.

For a week, the young bride stayed at her husband’s house, observing rituals and learning customs. Then, because she was not yet physically mature, she was sent back to her parents’ home.

A year later, when she was ready, she returned—armed with all the advice in the world and determined to be the perfect wife.

Everything she had learned—how to stay silent, how to obey, how to serve—she followed faithfully. Everything, except one thing: what to cook that would please everyone.

Suma was put in charge of the kitchen. Breakfast, lunch, tea and snacks in the afternoon, dinner—she had to prepare them all. She became a machine programmed to produce something steaming on the plate at a specific hour—no slip allowed.

The kitchen had a hearth: not an electric or gas stove, but a firewood chulha with stubborn, spiky twigs that needed constant blowing through an iron pipe to keep the flames alive. She did her work in that dark kitchen, which, in those days, had no electricity.

She was not allowed to go outside—not even to the kitchen garden—because a daughter-in-law must not move freely. The elders believed such beauty, if seen by outsiders, could attract evil eyes or witchcraft. So, Suma stayed indoors, cooking whatever vegetables were brought to her.

Every day, something went wrong. One day the curry was too salty, another day too yellow from turmeric. Sometimes the chillies were missing; sometimes the vegetables were half-cooked. Each meal seemed to fail in turn.

And in that house, no one praised Suma—only criticised.

“A daughter-in-law learns through scolding,” said the elders. Even the children mocked her. No one stopped them; no one reminded them that the cook was their elder and deserved respect.

But Suma stayed quiet. Her silence was her only armour.

Then one morning, her mother-in-law brought a small basket of vegetables: ribbed gourd, yam stem, ivy gourd, and… guava. A strange combination indeed.

Suma looked at the basket and thought hard.

“Yam stem can be boiled or fried,” she reasoned. “Ivy gourd—that’s for frying. But guava…” She hesitated. “Perhaps my mother-in-law is testing me. Maybe she wants a curry with gravy. She told me not to make dal, so there must be some curry with gravy for the rice.”

And thus, she decided: she would make guava curry.

She chopped the guavas as if they were potatoes, boiled them with turmeric, salt, and chillies, and seasoned the curry with a generous amount of mustard. The aroma filled the kitchen, and she felt proud of herself.

When it was time for lunch, she served everyone rice, fried yam stems mixed with ivy gourds, and finally the guava curry.

But as soon as they started eating their lunch, an explosion of laughter shook the house—loud, unstoppable, collective laughter, as if everyone had been waiting for that exact moment.

Suma froze, confused and frightened.

The laughter slowly subsided, and the mother-in-law turned to her son, ignoring the trembling girl.

“Look, Damu,” she said dryly, “I’m at my wits’ end. From today, you will teach your wife how to cook.”

Damru replied, “I don’t know cooking either, Ma. If you say so, I’ll send her back to her parents. Let her learn there.”

And so it was decided.

The next morning, Damru rode his bicycle with his wife seated on the rear carrier, pedalled all the way to her parents’ house, dropped Suma off, and left immediately. He didn’t even accept a glass of water, as if to underline his anger.

The girl, in tears, confessed to her mother, “I made guava curry. Why didn’t you ever tell me not to cook guava?”

The house filled with shame and astonishment. After seven days, her father took her back to her in-laws’ house, begging for forgiveness.

“She will never make guava curry again,” he promised humbly. “Her mother and aunt have taught her cooking all over again.”

The family relented, and Suma resumed her duties in the kitchen.

This time, she had learned one more thing—not from her elders, but from life itself:

When you’re hurt and there’s no one to listen, cry. Crying soothes the heart like nothing else.

-----------------------------------------

By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore 13/11/2025

----------------------------------------

Please visit the following Amazon link to view and order my short story collection Ther Remix of Orchid ebook at https://amzn.in/d/eLPcHk2 

and for paperback of the Remix of Orchid at https://amzn.in/d/9y7cAXF