Of kebabs and love

I am not sure when I first met a kebab, but I have my strongest memory of coming across one when I had just moved jobs to Delhi. It was, all said and not done, not a happy meeting, where the kebab was as tired as I was and the waiter holding it on a tarnished tray even more so. It was outdoors, which almost inevitably put the strongest crimp yet in the proceedings, since it was cold and windy and no one had heard of central heating or heavy winterwear. I was not bright enough to remember that Indian homes do not do anything to make guests warm, except perhaps bring out the electric heater just when the visitors’ assorted noses have gone white with incipient chilblains and their fingernails turned a violent blue, deprived of any feeling and all motion. Of course, there is an advantage in this; at this stage of frostbite, you do not taste much and, even if it is dreadful, you eat it, at least to keep warm.

And in this sort of environment, the kebabs circulated. I am convinced, and have often said it in various writings and in stories I tell – not too apocryphally – that those were the same kebabs I had met on various occasions, held out mutely by the same tired waiters at the same tired parties where the same tired people had the same tired conversation. It took some years of looking fearfully and wonderingly at these platters of small sections of very dead (well, actually, I do hope they were) meat with the consistency of rubber and of the temperature of very old and abandoned vulcanised rubber tyres that wandered past me before I came across a kebab that was, in every way, worth knowing.

That was at the home of a dear family friend. His wife had gone off to parts beyond the reach of the sliced onion to visit a son and I was taking the place, temporarily, of a younger friend, a relative almost. We sat in the garden, nicely wrapped in sweaters and warm woolly socks (which you just cannot wear to a terrace party that is going to be featured in the gossip papers the next day, my dear!), a dog breathing heavily and steamily at our feet, chatting about friends, family and folks that should be neither seen nor heard, when he asked me if I would like to eat a kebab. I was unsure, and seemed to communicate that to him, since he laughed and, still chortling into his snow-white beard, vanished kitchenward. He was back in a few minutes, holding a large plate that sent up small spirals of fragrant smoke. There was, I sniffed hard, a gentle acrid pong of fresh-cut onions that lingered. Having given the dog a morsel to keep him distracted from the rest of the offering, my friend set the plate down on the garden table and waved me to attack.

I was rather suspicious, rightfully so, considering my experience until that moment with the ubiquitous kebab in Delhi. I looked warily at the plate. It was loaded with small sections of what seemed to be dark red tubing, sliced onions and fresh coriander leaves scattered over it. Go on, my friend urged, still grinning. I reached out, picked up a fork and stabbed one of the pieces. It was surprisingly soft, but somehow resilient. I brought it to my mouth and felt the heat it gave off. And one nibble later, I was hooked. It was hot and soft and spicy, fragrant and delicious. Add a squeeze of lemon and a slice of onion (come on, who are you planning to kiss anyway, my friend urged) and it becomes a small bite of heaven. Seeing my gustatory delight, my friend made it a point to serve me those kebabs every time I went to visit in cold weather, which is when the kebabs traditionally come out to play.

My friend has gone away to where I hope he gets lots of kebabs even nicer than those he fed me and I left Delhi some years before that. But the taste stays with me, as does the vision of him smiling happily at me in the dim light of the garden, as we both chewed on those morsels of spiced meat and talked about life and living. And in his memory, I eat kebabs today, seeing him again with every bite that I relish.