Curry, bowlahs and banana leaves: Chatsworth’s golden tummy days

The Vedan View

“Looking at life with humour, heart, and a hint of spice.”

JERALD VEDAN

BEFORE the drive-thrus and before burgers came in sizes bigger than your head, Chatsworth knew how to eat. We had shops that sold honest Indian grub, no fancy names, no plastic cheese. Payday? Off-The-Hook fish and chips. After prayers? Banana leaves, boss. The real ones.

Not those shiny green plastic things at temple feasts now. No, I’m talking proper leaves, sliced fresh from the backyard, scrubbed clean, laid out like green plates from Mother Nature herself. We sat cross-legged on the floor, steaming curry before us, eating with our fingers like civilised people. Science says banana leaves kill bacteria. We just knew the curry tasted better.

Meals were simple but glorious: rice, roti, khitchdi with tin fish, thick sour porridge Granny stirred till her arms ached. Meat was for rich days. The rest of the time it was tripe, trotters or liver, cooked like only District aunties knew how. Neighbours swapped curries as if the whole place was one big buffet. “Take this pot to aunty across the road,” Ma would say.

Back came her dhal with strict instructions: “Don’t scratch the enamel, eh?” The real hero? The bowlah. A ten-gallon paint drum turned miracle worker.

Bottom open for firewood, holes on the sides for air. It cooked meals, boiled water, heated irons, even singed wool off sheep heads. In winter it became our fireplace, with everyone huddled around, listening to Granny’s stories and arguing over who got the last piece of fried sheep ear. Sometimes it was so cold we’d toast our hands over it till the skin nearly smoked.

And feeding the bowlah was the chopper, the hatchet that chopped wood, scared off rats, and kept the fire roaring like a champion. Oh, and the pickle jars! Lime pickle, mango pickle, vinegar chillies that could wake the dead. We ate them all.

Today, kids wrinkle their noses at curry and rice. They want pizza with stuffed crusts. They’ll never know the smell of tin fish curry rising with wood smoke, or the thrill of licking pickle off your fingers while the family argued about cricket scores. Me? I’m vegetarian now. But I remember those days when food in Chatsworth wasn’t just eaten. It was lived.

Vedan is an attorney, community leader, and social commentator based in KwaZulu-Natal.