Musafir's Musings

From "Sameer and the Samosas" by Daniyal Mueenuddin - The New Yorker 12/3/2012.

“At the farm, I lived more and more according to routines, because only that way could I escape the paralyzing dread that sometimes came over me, the sense that I could trust no one, and that soon I would be driven away, to do God only knows what, to leave Pakistan a failure and work in America.  Fezoo brought tea out to me, as he did each evening, in the center of the lawn, and then, returning into the house, came out with a platter covered with a white embroidered handkerchief.

“What’s this? “I asked, sniffing the scent of fried food. I had decided while living at the farm, to keep to a strict diet: no booze, protein for breakfast and lunch, fruit for dinner, no snacks. At afternoon tea, Fezoo was to give me exactly three biscuits, in the evening, none. Thought I drank endless cups of tea and glasses of lemonade, I lived with a little, gnawing hunger, a mortification.

“Chaudhry Sameer Sahib sent this from his own kitchen, made by his wife,”Fezoo answered. “Samosas.”

“I’ll take just one, “I said, lifting the white cloth which was dabbed here and there with the oil that had soaked through.

The samosas were smaller than they usually are, two bites, very crisp, and fragrant, but with a minty fragrance. Lifted one of the carefully folded delicacies, looked at it, and then crunched into it.  Delicious! Hot beef minced with spices crumbled onto my tongue. Fezoo had put the dish on the table, next to the tea things, and now I waved him away.

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” I said.

Six more samosas, like browned pats of butter, sat on the dish. The layered crusts flaked off onto the plate, which had an oily sheen.  Sameer’s wife had even taken the trouble to heat the platter, to keep the treats warm. I washed my palette with the milky tea, then lifted by its corner another of the dainty triangular morsels.  Fabulous!  This one had a different filling, little bits of potato, almost crunchy, and so spicy that my eyes watered. Another bite and it was gone.  I must stop

Pouring myself more tea, adding milk and sugar, I eyed the platter, still charged with five delicate samosas. Each one seemed particular, unique, itself.  I laughed. “For fuck’s sake,” I said to myself “Don’t be such a fucking prune.” My stomach growled with eagerness. I took a sip of the newly poured tea, too hot, almost burning my tongue, then reached for   another samosa. Different again! This one had a tomato and chicken filling, sweetish but generously peppered. I worked my way through all the food on the platter, all the samosas, then finally, completely abandoning myself, licked the platter itself, and even that had a complex nutty Flavor, the flakes of crust melting in my mouth. ”