This Green Fish Curry Was the Best Meal I Ate While Hiding From Inspectors on an Oil Tanker

“You don’t have a visa to enter the country,” he said.

 Of course, I didn’t. We weren’t supposed to go there. But one couldn’t choose where an oil tanker needed to pick up the next oil consignment from. And I was a supernumerary – the captain’s wife – so they couldn’t change their plans for me. We were already on our way out of Brazil, (where I did have the visa to go out and experience all that Rio de Janeiro had to offer) and it was too late to disembark and take a flight back home.

So, we sailed to West Africa with the decision that I would remain locked in my cabin for the duration of the stay there, and nobody would need to know that I even existed on this ship. There could be the odd ship’s agent, loading master, customs or port official who could come on board to inspect or for other business during the loading process. The messman and I prearranged a coded knock on my cabin door, so I could take in the tray of food he’d bring for me.

I felt like I was in a spy film. I’d creep to the window and peer out. The loading pier would be swarming with officials in the sweltering heat, going about their daily jobs in their blue overalls and orange helmet. Unaware of a pair of eyes following them – a pair of subversive eyes – present in their country. Thanks to my habit of over-imagining things, I created these immense sagas involving me being dragged out from under my bed and imprisoned for years in a forgotten jail, languishing there until I was rescued. Or dead. I checked if I could hide under the bed, or if locking myself in the bathroom would work better?

A knock on the door. Not the coded knock I was waiting for.

Panic. I couldn’t actually fit under the low cabin bed. Another knock, a little more urgent.

"Ma’am?’"

I ran to the door and pressed my ear against it.

"I’ve brought your lunch."

Damn. You were supposed to use our code. I opened the door an inch. It wasn’t the messman, but the chief cook himself. Of course, he didn’t know the code. A spicy aroma wafted in and tickled my nose. My stomach responded with enthusiasm.

‘Where’s X?’ I asked.

“Oh, he’s a little busy. I made this curry for you. You know, the one you were mentioning the other day. So, I thought I’d bring it over myself.”

He beamed like a child, offering up the green fish curry that I’d talked to him about.

I took the tray in and sat at my desk, moved my books aside and laid out the plate and cutlery. The smell enveloped me in a warm hug. I realized I was feeling really lonely, cooped up in my cabin, with no one for company except the local radio station. I put some white rice on my plate and ladled the fish curry on top.

Grabbing my cutlery, I tucked in. After a couple of mouthfuls, I stopped. The fish curry was divine. I could feel the tang of the tamarind cutting through the freshness of the coriander leaves. The fish was so fresh, buttery soft and flaky. But something was missing. Something very vital for its authentic taste. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

I tried again. And then it hit me. Why exactly was I eating a fish curry and rice meal with a fork and knife? Dining in the ship’s mess room required such formalities. The officers dressed in their uniforms (and me in something other than sweatpants) all sitting around the table, waiting to be served our three course meals. But I was in my cabin. I didn’t have to follow any rules. This was fish curry and rice. And I could eat with my fingers. No questions asked.

I dove straight in, mixed the fish with the rice, licked the sauce off my fingers and scooped a ball into my mouth. Ah, this was more like it. I felt the heat of the masalas from my grandmother’s recipe. I smelled the fish markets my father would buy the fish from. I saw my mother stirring the curry in her kitchen. I felt their love as I tucked into my lunch.

I was hiding in a cabin in a faraway country, but I was home.