Seeing Ceremony: A Novel with Recipes

By Meera Ekkanath Klein

This feel-good sequel to the award-winning My Mother's Kitchen is all about family, good food, love and finding the way back home. Since the death of her husband three years ago, Meena's mother has wanted to see her oldest daughter married and so she organizes Meena's "seeing ceremony," a ritual associated with arranged marriages. However, eighteen-year-old Meena is not ready to be married and wants to leave her hilltop home in Mahagiri, south India, and attend college in California. The ceremony is a disaster. Her four years in America soon comes to an end and Meena is eager to return home and share her newly-acquired knowledge of agriculture and tea production with her family. On her journey back to India, Meena meets handsome businessman Raj Kumar with whom she has an instant connection. They end up talking for hours in the airport lounge. When they part at the departure gate, Meena doesn't think she'll ever see Raj again. Back in Mahagiri, her mother faces a threat to her home and livelihood. Meena could avert this disaster by agreeing to an arranged marriage. Will Meena have to go through yet another "seeing ceremony?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Homebound Publications
• Release date: Aug 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953340078

Meera Ekkanath Klein

Award-winning author, Meera Ekkanath Klein, deftly weaves her love of cooking and story-telling into an irresistible tale.  My Mother's Kitchen: A novel with recipes (2014, Homebound Publications) was selected as a Finalist in the 2015 Beverly Hills International Book Awards in the Multi-Cultural Fiction category.She was one of 40 authors at the celebrated "2015 Authors on the Move" fundraiser for the Sacramento Library Foundation dinner and auction.  She was featured on Capital Public Radio on April 2, 2015 and interviewed by host Beth Ruyak. She has participated in the "Local Author Festival" at the Sacramento Library and will be a presenter at the "Great Valley Book Fest" in October.A former newspaper reporter and columnist, Klein, honed her writing skills in a busy newsroom. She mastered the art of Indian cooking in her own mother's kitchen in the beautiful Blue Mountains or Nilgiris of south India.Klein currently lives in northern California and is completing a sequel to My Mother's Kitchen, as well as a YA book based on Indian legends and mythology

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

AT ODDS

(EARLY 1980)

MY MOTHER WAS ARRANGING MY MARRIAGE. AGAIN.

A seeing ceremony is not the same as a wedding, she said in a firm voice. You know, Meena, in ancient times a bride’s family would hold a Swamyamvara to choose the groom.

But we aren’t living in ancient times, Amma, I said. This is the twentieth century.

I know, Meena, but a seeing ceremony is how it is done and I think it’s a good way to find a suitable groom. I want you have an open mind about this. Her voice was very firm.

I want to go to college, not get married, I shouted, knowing I sounded a bit petulant.

My mother’s lips were a thin slash in her usually kind face. She glanced at our visitor before speaking to me.

Meena, control yourself. Her voice was cold. We have a guest here and she doesn’t need to see you acting like a five-year-old. You are eighteen and a young woman.

Before I could help myself I blurted, Then why do you treat me like a toddler?

Enough. My mother stood up and looked at the woman seated at our kitchen table. This was my old nemesis, matchmaker aunty. She was tall and skinny, a widow who favored white or pastel-colored saris. Her graying hair was twisted into a complicated knot on the back of her head and she had an annoying habit of snorting when she spoke. I looked down on the floor next to her chair and saw the inevitable cloth bag filled with bits of papers, notebooks and newspapers. Her bright eyes saw me looking at her bag.

Ahh, Meena you remember my matchmaking bag? she asked with a snort. Everything you need for a good groom is in this bag. She picked up the bulging bag and placed it on her lap.

We called this noisy woman matchmaker aunty out of respect, not because she was related to us. I don’t think I even knew her real name. She had been responsible for my first seeing ceremony nearly a year ago which had turned out to be a complete disaster when the groom failed to show up. I had refused to marry someone I had never even met. My entire family, including my mother, had been angry with me. I didn’t think I could stand my mother’s strong disappointment in me any longer and that is when I received an unexpected invitation from my uncle, my father’s only brother who lived in California. His letter contained a student visa application and an invitation to get my undergraduate degree at the university where he was a professor.

I will sponsor you, he had written. I’ll find a way to pay for your tuition if you can find money for the airfare to California.

I had shown the letter to my mother and she had seemed agreeable to my plans. We had talked about ways of raising money, maybe borrowing from the village money lender or asking a cousin for a loan. But now I was completely surprised by her insistence that I go through yet another seeing ceremony. The seeing ceremony was really an evaluation ceremony in my opinion. The groom or his family came to visit the prospective bride to evaluate her looks, her cooking skills and her home. I had felt like a horse or cow on display the last time I had gone through the ceremony. Perhaps this prospective groom would want to see my molars or check out my strong thigh muscles. When I mentioned this to my mother, she completely lost her temper.

Meena, you are an extremely spoiled and selfish girl and not thinking about anyone but yourself.

When my mother lost her temper she didn’t yell. Her face grew darker and her brown eyes flashed with temper and she spoke in a quiet, almost gentle tone.

You will do as you are told, she continued. I’ve had enough of your insolence.

This would never happen if father were alive, I yelled. He would have never forced me into a marriage.

My mother’s stricken look told me I had gone too far. It had been barely three years since my father had died from a sudden heart attack and my mother had been devastated by his death. She had withdrawn from me as well as my twin sister and brother who had been only six years old at the time of our father’s death. It had been shocking to watch my mother’s thick black hair become streaked with gray. My mother had become an old woman and I had agreed to the first seeing ceremony in hopes of cheering her up. After the seeing ceremony ended in disaster, I thought we had come to some sort of understanding. I had actually hoped she would support my plans to go to America. But now it seemed she had her own plans for my future and had brought matchmaker aunty back into my life.

I ran out of the room, not caring if I was acting rude and childish.

CHAPTER 2

MY MOTHER

The Pandava brothers and their cousins the Kauravas were bitter rivals of the Kuru dynasty. Well, the story of Princess Draupadi takes place when Duryodhana Kaurava was crowned king. The five Pandava brothers shared a wife, a beautiful princess named Draupadi. Now, Duryodhana was always looking for ways to humiliate the Pandavas and knew that Yudhishthira the eldest Pandava brother had a weakness for gambling. He invited Yudhishthira and his brothers to a game of dice at his palace. His uncle Shakuni played with a pair of magical dice that allowed him to win, whatever the odds. As the night wore on poor Yudhishthira kept losing. He lost his horses, his chariots, his jewelry, his palace and even his brothers and himself in the game. Finally, only his wife, the princess Draupadi was left and Yudhishthira gambled her away too.

In their arrogance the Kauravas had the princess dragged into the court. She was declared public property and one of the evil Kaurava cousins, Dusshasana, pointed out that even her sari now belonged to them. That is when Dusshasana dragged Draupadi by her long hair into the center of the room, intending to tear off her sari. The princess wept and begged for someone to help her, but everyone turned away. Her husbands looked ashamed and Yudhishthira wept with humiliation and anger.

Dusshasana laughed at her frightened look and roughly seized the end of Draupadi’s sari and attempted to disrobe her. At first Draupadi tried to hold onto her clothing and dignity but Dusshasana was too strong and she found herself being twirled around like a helpless doll. Finally, she decided to call on a family friend for help. This friend was none other than Lord Krishna, an avatar of Vishnu. Then a miracle happened. Even as Dusshasana kept unraveling and tugging, the sari seemed to grow and grow. Soon yards and yards of material piled up next to Draupadi as Dusshasana tried his best to strip away the fabric. He finally grew weary and had to give up. Shakuni then grabbed the sari and began to tug it off, but after a while he too had to admit defeat. One of the elderly Kaurava uncles finally called a halt to this madness and to the astonishment of the courtiers, Princess Draupadi left the room with her honor intact."

—The story of Princess Draupadi as told my Meena’s mother

My name is Meena, short for Meenaskhi, the goddess who has her own temple in a faraway city. My home is the hilltop town of Mahagiri in a large and lovely white-washed house with a red tile roof. At this time, our household consisted of my mother, my twin nine-year-old siblings Appu and Thangam, a family cousin we called Muthi or granny, and Devi, our housekeeper and cook. My mother had a thriving cow milking business and she employed several men from the neighboring village. Among them was Raman, a cowhand, who was married to our maid Kashi. They had a one-year-old baby boy named Mohan. Kashi’s father Bhojan was one of my mother’s most trusted cowhands and her business confidant.

If the heart of our bungalow was the kitchen, and then the soul of the house was my mother. She had been devastated by my father’s unexpected death and she had never fully recovered from this loss. Even though she smiled and joked with us, there was always a hint of sadness in her eyes. She no longer wore the bright red bindi dot on her forehead; instead her forehead, which had more lines on it now, was adorned with the pale yellow marking made from sandalwood paste. After my father died, she had tried to wear white saris, to express her mourning, but this proved to be too impractical when working in the garden or milking the cows. She had given away her bright yellow and orange silk saris and now draped herself in more subdued colors. The muted blues, greens and grays somehow matched her somber mood and inner sorrow.

My father’s death had been particularly hard on the twins. They had clung to me for months and I had to sleep with one or the other each night. But now that three years had passed the thoughts of my father mostly brought me happiness and we all spoke of him with affection and warmth. Sorrow was for the old.

I was subdued the next day and even though I wanted to apologize to my mother for my outburst I couldn’t find the words or courage. With each passing moment it was getting too late to say sorry. So both of us pretended I had never yelled and we went about our day. We avoided each other and spoke only when it was necessary. Muthi and Devi tried to play peacekeepers.

She’s your mother, Muthi said in a soft voice. She just wants the best for you.

But what if she’s wrong, Muthi? I asked.

The older woman looked taken aback at my question. She fingered the large gold thoda earrings on her long ear lobes and shook her head.

In my day, mothers always knew what was best.

I didn’t bother arguing with her because I knew she would never change her opinion. Later that evening while the twins were taking a bath and before the evening prayers and meal, I decided to visit the quiet kitchen. I sighed to myself as I looked out the kitchen window. The sun was setting and the long shadows looked spooky among the eucalyptus trees that bordered our property. I turned away from the darkening trees and looked west. The hillside on this side of the house was covered in green tea bushes and the natural green carpet was bathed in golden light turning it into a magical kingdom. Soon the sun would disappear over the highest hill and darkness would fall on my home. I looked around the old room. It had seen better days but it still had a welcoming comforting presence. I could feel the love of many people who had worked hard in this room to prepare pilafs, curries, breads and sweets to feed us all these long years.

I heard a noise behind me and turned around to see Devi entering the kitchen to start preparing the evening meal.

Devi, I called out.

She was startled at the sound of my voice but when she saw me, her face lit up with a huge smile.

Kutty, what are you doing here in the dark?

Nothing, I said, moving away from the window. I was just thinking how much I’m going to miss this kitchen.

Devi shook her head at me and turned on the kitchen lights. Yellow light bathed the familiar room. The walls were smoky, having absorbed the flavors and spices from thousands of meals. There were bunches of onions, herbs and garlic braids hanging from the rafters. Harvested potatoes, cabbages and a few carrots were stored in baskets beneath the table. The hearth which took up most of the space in the kitchen was used primarily for heating large pots of water. Nowadays Devi used the two gas burners to do most of the cooking. I sometimes missed the smell of wood smoke and frying onions. Somehow cooking on the gas stove didn’t conjure up the same aromas. However, nothing remained the same and even I had changed over time. I had grown in the last couple of years. No longer skinny and shy, I had matured taking care of my mother when she was grieving for my father and there was a self-confident air about me.

I wish I knew what to say to Amma, I said to Devi as I watched her chop onions and peppers. I don’t like being angry with her.

Devi wiped her streaming eyes on the end of her cotton sari. I know, little one, she said. You will have to find a way to apologize to her. She loves you and will listen to you.

I nodded, not quite convinced. I know but I don’t know what to, Devi interrupted me.

Kutty, she said, even though she knew I hated to be called child, Sometimes you have to step away to get the best look. Your mother loves you but you are her daughter and you are just as strong and independent as her. I know you will figure it all out.

Devi pulled me into her strong arms and I found comfort in her sturdy body. After a few minutes she pulled back and looked up at me.

Both of you spoke in anger, she said. You need to forgive her and then try to convince her about your plans.

I don’t know what to say I sighed. I need to talk to someone.

How about your Scottish friend?

You mean Mac?

Devi nodded, busy kneading whole wheat flour for our evening rotis. Of course Mac would have the answer. I’ve known Mac since I was a small child and he was the kindest man I’d ever known.

Go talk to your friend and let me get on with making my lemon rasam and rice, she said. I’ll make it the way you like.

Devi’s lemon rasam was a creamy blend of red or yellow lentils, garlic, hing and fresh lemon juice. It was tangy and soothing and delicious over freshly cooked Basmati rice and dipped into warm rotis.

I telephoned Mac and asked if I could visit him. He invited me to afternoon tea and we agreed to meet the next day. Making those plans made me feel a little better, more proactive and positive. That evening after dinner I once more ventured into the kitchen looking for my mother. This time of day had always been sacred to my mother who liked to use the quiet of the evening to unwind. When I was young, I had enjoyed being part of this nightly ritual, but for the past few years I usually came in just to say goodnight and sometimes to get a glass of water before going to my bedroom. During my high school years I had homework and sometimes sleepovers or time with friends. But tonight I was feeling sad and wanted to spend time with my mother and Devi and so I slipped into the warm kitchen. The fire had been banked down in the hearth, and all the burners on the gas stove were turned off.

Devi called out to me, Come in, kutty, we were just about to have some turmeric milk. Would you like some?

I nodded yes and locked the door leading to the front of the house before joining the two women. The kitchen was dim and Devi’s shadow danced on the white washed walls. My mother was seated at her usual spot, right in front of the fireplace. She was leaning against the warm wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. I felt teary-eyed as I joined her on the straw mat.

I’m sorry, Amma, I said leaning against her warm body.

She put an arm around me and hugged me close, ‘Shh. It’s alright, Meenakutty. she said, using a childhood endearment. We both said things we didn’t mean. I love you and want the best for you."

She pulled away so she could look at me, Kutty, I grew up as an orphan and even though my aunty Seetha took care of me, I missed my mother and her love.

She was silent as she remembered her mother. I had heard the story about how her parents had tragically died when the bullock cart driver had fallen asleep and let the animals lead the cart into a muddy ditch. The driver had managed to jump out, but he couldn’t get to her parents who were trapped under the overturned cart. The ditch was filled with the heavy monsoon rains and her parents’ bloated bodies had been discovered the next day.

Ever since then I promised myself that I would make sure my children were safe and had someone to take care of them. Then your father died…. Her words trailed off.

I leaned closer to her and she sighed and continued, I am terrified that I too will die and you will be an orphan.

I know, Amma, I said.

Just go through this seeing ceremony for my sake, kutty, she pleaded with me. I think you might be pleasantly surprised.

So against my better judgement, I agreed.

My voice was a little unsteady and I took a deep breath. I just want everything to remain the same.

My mother put an arm around my shoulder and hugged me tight.

Change is the only thing that is constant, my little one. If we didn’t change and grow, we would all remain babies.

CHAPTER 3

MAC

THE STORY OF THE SELKIE

A SCOTTISH LEGEND

Once upon a time there was a fisherman who lived on the famous Pentland Firth in the North Highland County on the shores of the grey Atlantic Ocean. He earned enough to feed his family by fishing, crabbing and trapping lobsters. Now not far from where he caught lobsters and shellfish were large rocks that attracted huge groups of Selkies or seals. The fat creatures with their silken coats lay on the rocks sunning themselves. The fisherman wanted to catch one of these Selkies and sell its beautiful coat. He saw a huge bull seal with a beautiful pearly gray coat and decided to hunt the creature. He approached it cautiously, sliding on his belly, with his huge hunting knife in his hand. He was so quiet that he was almost upon the dozing seal before it caught scent of him and turned to flee but not before the fisherman slipped his knife into the seal’s flesh. The seal gave out a terrible cry but managed to dive off into the ocean.

The fisherman left the shore, despondent about losing his hunting knife and the big Selkie. He was sitting by his hearth that evening when a stranger knocked on his door. The stranger, a bearded young man with big brown eyes, asked him if he was a Selkie hunter and when the fisherman replied he was, the young man said he had a buyer who was interested in proposing a business partnership with the fisherman. The young man insisted that the fisherman come with him and meet the businessman right away. The stranger was on a horse and asked the fisherman to climb behind him.

Instead of taking the fisherman to the village, the young man rode to the edge of the ocean. They dismounted and he asked the fisherman to look into the crashing waves. When the fisherman leaned over the side of the cliff, the young man pushed him into the cold sea. The man thought he would drown but by some miracle he found he could breathe underwater. He saw an open door ahead

Reviews for Seeing Ceremony

[Amruuta Tikekaar · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Beautifully written !! A must read , don't miss please !

[bettytaylor56 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Warning: This book will have you craving the delightful Indian cuisine. As you read the pleasant love story you will be tempted to try the recipes in the back of the book. You may even yearn to see the gorgeous south India scenery Klein describes so vividly.This is a sequel to Klein’s first book “My Mother’s Kitchen: A Novel with Recipes”. Both books are all about family, friendships, love, and good food. Meera’s mother thinks it is time for Meera to marry, so unbeknownst to Meera, her mother has arranged for a ‘seeing ceremony”. Marriage is the last thing Meera is thinking of, especially after the disastrous incident a year ago. Meera refused to marry a man she has never met, so her groom failed to show up for the seeing ceremony where Meera would feel like a horse or cow on display for the groom and his family. She might as well open her mouth so her teeth can be checked or let them feel her strong thigh muscles. No, this is not for her. Fortunately, Meera received a visa from her uncle in California and was able to spend the next four years in a college there. Now she has returned to India, to her deceased father’s tea plantation, and is eager to share her knowledge of agriculture and tea production with her family. But once she arrives back at her home, she learns that her mother is facing a threat to her home and livelihood.I enjoyed reading about the culture of India and how it clashed in several ways with the life that Meera lived in the US. Klein’s lyrical writing style led me into another world. “Time has a way of slowing down when you are on an elephant ride. There was no rushing the huge beast. You just have to sit back and enjoy the slow swaying movement.” Meena’s world is populated with interesting characters such as the matchmaker, the fortune teller, and Meena’s inquisitive twin siblings. The descriptions are a feast for all five senses – the beauty of the landscape, the smell and taste of the food, the sounds of bead necklaces as the wearer moves. The description of farming methods (moving every few years so the fields are not overused) was very informative, as were the worship rituals.