Monsoon Diary by Shoba Narayan Page A

clear pecking order that had little to do with each girl’s talents, personality, or brains, and everything to do with her mother’s culinary prowess.
    At the top of our lunch group’s hierarchy was Amina, a Muslim girl whose mother sent fragrant
biriyanis,
redolent with herbs and spices. Being Hindu, Brahmin, and vegetarian, I was technically not supposed to eat her chicken
biriyanis,
and indeed, I would have received a clip on the ear from my mother had she found out. I circumvented my mom’s clear instructions not to eat meat by having Amina remove all the chicken and meat pieces before giving me morsels of rice.
    Every Sunday, I cycled to Amina’s house, ostensibly to play chess but really to feast on her mother’s food, something I knew my parents would frown upon if they found out. A thin but definite line divided Hindus and Muslims in conservative Madras. Like other traditional Hindus, my parents bought their groceries from Salim Store, since they considered Muslim merchants more honest than Hindu ones. Our family doctor was a Muslim lady who treated us for myriad health problems but rarely if ever visited our home. My parents encouraged us to befriend Muslim children, but the tacit understanding was that we wouldn’t eat at their homes because they cooked and ate beef. While I had no desire to eat meat, I couldn’t resist the delicious meals that emerged from Amina’s school lunch box.
    After Amina came Annie, a Syrian Christian from Kerala whose mother sent feathery, pancakelike
appams
with a spicy stew of potatoes, onions, peas, and coconut milk. The
appams
tasted somewhat like the
idlis
my mother made and therefore held little appeal to me. But Annie’s vegetable stew was a world apart from the
sambars
and
rasams
that I was used to. It was rich with spices and full of cashews and other expensive nuts, which I loved even more than Amina’s
biriyanis.
    Sheela was a Golt (a person speaking Telegu) from the neighboring state of Andhra Pradesh. Her food was similar to mine, but her pickles were mouthwatering. Her mother was a genius at taking the simple mango and turning it into a variety of hot pickles. The mangoes were chopped or grated, then liberally doused with sesame oil, mustard-seed powder, asafetida, and lots of chili powder, which turned them into a juicy, spicy, lip-smacking condiment that we never tired of.
    Outside our core group were other girls, “wanderers” who moved between lunch groups in search of the best food. We would only accept a wanderer if she had something we wanted to eat. The wanderers usually had the best food, which was how they bargained their way into whichever group caught their fancy.
    Within the confines of our core group, there were clear rituals. We all opened our lunch boxes at the same time and looked around. The person who had the best lunch, usually Amina, opened negotiations. Amina would casually glance around the circle until her eyes came to rest on a lunch box. If it was mine, I wouldn’t hesitate.
    “Here, Amina. You want my lunch?” I would hold up the entire contents of my lunch box eagerly and hopefully.
    Amina would purse her lips as she studied my lunch box. “Maybe just a tiny piece,” she would say finally.
    Grinning victoriously, I would allocate a generous portion of my lunch for Amina in exchange for a meager portion of hers. Once the first barter was made, the rest of the group could begin negotiations. On a good day, I got bite-sized pieces of everyone’s lunch so that my own humble lunch box looked like a miniature picnic table lined with a variety of dishes. On a bad day nobody wanted my lunch and I had to eat the entire thing myself. Most of the time, however, I would barter my lunch with a few people while the others would pass on my food, either because they were allergic to okra, tired of
idlis,
hated vermicelli, or just didn’t want to part with their own lunch. The worst days were when Amina refused to share her lunch for reasons best