I put dates in a saucepan and cover them with water, letting them soak. I could speed it up by boiling them, but why hurry? I’m an old man with a birthmark on his face and all the time in the world. I had to learn how to pour my regret and despair into chutney, just to keep my sanity. The trouble with immortality is that you still get old, it just lasts forever.
I stone the plums, twisting their halves apart. The dark skin rips and gives way to underlying flesh, bright yellow of human fat. I feel nauseous, and only a whiff of ginger and allspice keeps me on my feet. I wish I did not have to remember the sound of my brother’s skin ripping, and my surprise at the yellow grains right under it. I bruise the mustard seeds, releasing their aroma. I simmer the plums in vinegar, sugar, cinnamon and ginger. I need another pan.
And another onion. I chop it, blinking away hot, pungent tears. I did not want to kill my brother. Even though I remember little, I am certain that I loved him. It was God’s appetite for flesh that made me a murderer. I gave God what I treasured most-and he punished me for the generosity of my sacrifice. He wanted neither my grain nor my brother. I suspect that no sacrifice of mine is going to satisfy him.
I quarter peaches and apricots, and squeeze lemon juice. It burns through a fresh cut on my palm, and for a moment I forget about everything else, immersed in the present pain. It passes. Cloves, ginger and cinnamon. Sugar and allspice. Nothing nice about it, but that’s chutney for you.
I grind turmeric and mix it with pitted apricots and chopped onions, with cayenne pepper and grated orange peel. I add coriander and crack walnuts. They split, their rough furrowed meat showing between fractured shells. I temper their bitter iodine with vinegar and brown sugar. Poison and acerbity and sweetness. Only salt is missing, and I cry harder. Peaches and apricots bubble, exhaling the aroma of innocence and sun. I smudge my tears and start on coriander chutney.
Green and red chili peppers are so festive, they remind me of winter, when all is quiet, and I am almost able to believe in a different, nicer God, younger than me. But the smell of coriander and coconuts returns me to a hot, unforgiving place; I can almost see the sun-parched hills. The scents are so primal that I can almost smell the greasy burnt lamb; I imagine my brother’s voice, rising over the din of his herd. I don’t think I will be making mint chutney today.
Instead, I blend lentils-channa dal and urad dal-with mustard seeds that pop like tiny fireworks. I mince coriander with chili peppers and grated coconut, and add water. Coriander chutney is easy to make, and its bouquet is more complex and bitter than others. It becomes me-I am a bitter old man, my hopes and kindness bled from me over the past eternity. I pay and I pay and I pay for my only crime. That’s justice for you.
The smells of allspice and ginger and coriander and turmeric and apples and mangoes and raisins and lemons and peaches and cranberries and apricots and onions mingle together in an orgy of fragrance, and leave my apartment through the window, reaching for the sky. I used to sacrifice the fruits of my labor; then I gave the flesh that was most dear to me. Now I sacrifice chutneys, I sacrifice spices and fruit and fragrance and onions and tears. What else can I give? I have no brother anymore. I walk over to the window and look up expectantly, like I do every day, looking for a sign that my sacrifice has finally been accepted. I stand by the window and wait for forgiveness.
The question “Who’s in charge here?” may apply on very large scales…
Willow Robertson smoothed the skirt over her thighs and perched on the examination table. Her hands gripped the edge, and she spent some time studying them-pale, with the slightest yellow tinge. Like nicotine. Jaundice. Old T-shirt.
She chased the thought away and instead rehearsed her words for Dr. Margulis. She arranged them carefully in her mind, fearful that the moment she started talking they would scatter like pearls, the string of resolve that tied them together broken.
She looked out of the window at what used to be tundra just a few decades back and now became the pale scrub of pines and oaks. The sun beat down on the tarmac roads and the haggard town of hastily erected houses, shops, hangars, but people stayed indoors. Not safe. Even the farmers had to work in full protective gear.
Dr. Margulis entered the examination room, and as she walked she flipped through Willow ’s chart, skimming every childhood hurt (appendectomy at six, a leg broken on the monkey bars at ten), every adolescent embarrassment (laser removal of acne scars at fifteen, corrective eye surgery at seventeen), and every adult self-denial (tubal ligation at twenty-four, breast reduction at twenty-eight).
“What can I do for you?” Dr. Margulis said.
Willow gripped the edge of the table harder, watching the half moons on her nails pale into white. “My mother died last week.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Dr. Margulis’s face folded along the well-worn lines into a habitual grimace of sympathy. Every doctor Willow had ever seen had that prefab expression, and these days their faces assumed it almost automatically. Too much cancer. Too much sun.
“It’s all right,” Willow said. “I mean, she was in her eighties.” And answered the unspoken question, “I was a late child. Anyway, since my parents are gone now, I would like my alterations reversed.”
“Your skin?” The doctor did not hide her surprise.
“Yes. And hair. I understand why my parents did it to me, they wanted me to have a better shot at getting ahead, but now I can do what I want. Right?”
“Of course. It’s just… what are your coworkers going to say?”
Willow shrugged. She did not have an answer to that. People’s opinions mattered less to her with each passing year.
“Don’t you like being the way you are?”