Baingan Bonfire

A month ago these green trees were wet black branches and this blue sky was a mist weaving between them. It was the Easter holidays and I dressed the children in wool and joined some friends around a bonfire in Girlguide woodland (Crawley Division). There were sausages in pans the size of dustbin lids; a big tea kettle; marshmallows on sticks. When all of that was over and the children were lost in the woods, in a good way, I tried to be discreet as I pulled out two aubergines and asked Brown Owl for permission to roast them in the embers.

Awkward, that transition from hot dog to baingan ka barta. I lay them in the pit and reminded myself that any degree of faux pas is worth making to get that smoke into that vegetable. The children were making a den, dragging branches through the trees. The mothers warmed their hands round mugs of tea. I was back in a Panjabi kitchen, watching BNS (I never learned his real name) hold aubergines, and his nerve, over naked flames while they blackened, blistered, caught fire and still cooked on, their plumpness sagging. Then mash them and fry them with onions, garlic, ginger and more fire: red chilli and garam masala. Flambe! 

Revealing the glossy purple skins in this forest was a revelation of something of me, just as deeply coloured. I could have put on a big skirt and chunky necklace and performed a folk dance. I could have worn vermillion. I could have lifted high my voice and sung a bhajan. Or shouted down my phone in Hindi. Those vegetables, and that insistence on smoke and spice, mark me: I have a different tongue.