Paper Palate

There are many reasons to read Shoba Narayan’s memoir, Monsoon Diary; one could read it for the grace of her liquid prose which carries the reader from page to page on a cloud of sensual remembrance. Or, one could read it for her transcriptions of her family’s South Indian vegetarian recipes, classics one and all, redolent with spices and seasonal produce. Or, one could read it for its coming-of-age story, a tale steeped in tradition and rebellion, conformity and conflict, intellect and passion.

Or, you could do as I did, and read it to hear Narayan’s voice as an author whispering her memories into your heart, weaving them into the fabric of your being. Her story is like the scent of fenugreek, which lingers on the skin long after it has been ground, cooked and consumed: it slips into the reader’s consciousness, and takes the imagination unawares to unfamiliar places and times which become suddenly intimate, so deftly does she wield memory’s brush.

An artist, Narayan employs the eye of a painter and sculptor in examining her life, while she uses the language of the poet to describe it. Although her use of imagery is beautiful, she stares unflinchingly at the ugliness of life as well, though she somehow manages to imbue even disappointment with a fragile tenderness that is both as bitter as methi and sweet as rosewater.

Food, of course, is a recurring thread throughout the book, from the first chapter where she describes her ceremonial first feeding of rice and ghee at the Krishna temple, to the last, where she and her new husband sit in a hammock, eating bread and drinking wine together, perfectly contented. In between come descriptions of shared meals and snacks, cooking for feasts and preserving food for winter, all meticulously rendered in loving detail that begs the reader to step into the pages and participate in the ongoing scene.

It is a delightful confection of a book, but it is not devoid of substance. It holds the sum of Narayan’s human experience as a young woman in India and the United States, and it shows that an ordinary life, lived well, is a thing of poetry, a jewel, brighter than stars, and sweeter by far than any promise of glory.

I have not yet managed to try any of the recipes from the book, though I have to say that when I carried it up to pay for it at Borders, the clerk burst into a wide smile and said, “That is a wonderful book!” As she rang it up, she cheerfully continued, “My sister and I made every recipe from it, and they were all wonderful. It made the book that much more real for us.”

I can think of no more ringing endorsement for the recipes, or the book than her words, for indeed, Monsoon Diary, comes across as a narrative that is not about an exotic girl from a strange place. It is the real story of a real young woman, who really lived her youth fully, and was able to write it down such that it became a very real part of many different strangers’ lives.

It is, in short, a wonderful book.

Rating: 9