whiskey and words
by Sonali Kolhatkar
“Make sure they cut it into small pieces,” calls Baba, as I leave my parents’ one-bedroom cottage.
“No,” I say. “I like them bigger.”
He glares at me through unruly silver eyebrows. I ignore him and shut the door behind me.
I drive to the new Pakistani-run Halal store a few weeks after its grand opening sparked excitement among the South Asian residents of my immigrant-rich Southern California neighborhood. The familiar smell of warm spices envelopes me as I walk in. I make a beeline for the butcher.
“I need four pounds of goat please,” I say to Ahmed, the proprietor. “Large pieces, two to three inches, cubed. Shoulder meat, not the leg.” I want the tender flesh, with thin veins of fat running through it. Pricier, but worth it.
“What are you making?” he asks.
“Mutton curry, of course.”
Indians call goat, ‘mutton.’ In the land of our colonizers, ‘mutton’ is the flesh of sheep. But in India, the meat of our most revered ruminant, goat—second only to the cow, of course—is referred to as ‘mutton.’
I could ask Ahmed to chop the meat into smaller one-inch cubes like Baba prefers, but I no longer care about pleasing my father.
* * *
Years of cooking audaciously, by the seat of my pants, gives me the confidence to create my own recipes. In my kitchen, I bask in the sight of the packaged pink flesh, never frozen, carefully pastured and humanely slaughtered. I dump the mutton into a large bowl. In a food processor, I mince cloves of garlic and ginger and verdant chili peppers, and toss the pungent paste onto the mutton, carefully scraping in every last bit. A handful of fresh cilantro leaves, finely chopped, also goes into the bowl, followed by a large dollop of yogurt, and three teaspoons of garam masala—from a box, not freshly-made from whole, roasted spices, because I’m a working mother, and boxed spices are good enough for me—and a generous sprinkling of sea salt that I riskily eyeball.
I’m too lazy to wear gloves and plunge my fingers into the cold mixture, massaging marinade into meat. When I’ve rubbed the spices into all the crevices, I wash my hands, lathering soap rapidly for several minutes, knowing the smell will linger on my fingers for a day in spite of my best efforts. I seal the bowl of meat in plastic and refrigerate it.
It is Wednesday. The meat will need a day to tenderize, for the flavors to seep in. Tomorrow, I will cook the curry.
* * *
I used to be Baba’s favorite—I think. A memory lingers in my mind of being 8 or 9 and spying on a conversation between my parents and a family friend. The friend claimed that of their three daughters, my younger sister was Baba’s favored child. Baba said nothing. My mother cut in, no, it’s Sonali, the middle child. She’s his favorite. Baba smiled cryptically. I glowed secretly with pride.
It is entirely possible I made up this memory and that it was borne from an irrational need for a daughter to crave a special relationship with her father. Today, the warmest memory I have of my father, one that I can be sure I did not make up, was when he accompanied me to Texas from Dubai. I was only 16 and starting my freshman year at the University of Texas at Austin. Neither of us had ever set foot in the United States. I was leaving Dubai, where I’d been born and raised, and embracing the mythical dreamland of America, making it my new home.
We had stayed at a shitty Austin motel under the freeway, affordable but clean. On his last night before returning to Dubai, Baba asked if I would stay with him in the hotel room instead of at my dormitory. “Why?” I asked, cluelessly. I neither remember what he replied, nor if I stayed or left that night.
What I do remember is sitting next to him that last evening before he left as he poured a large glass of whiskey in the hotel room. I remember him crying that his little girl was moving to the other side of the world and how could he possibly leave her behind?
* * *
On Thursday, my fridge reeks of ginger and garlic and chili peppers. I pull out the bowl of mutton and unseal it. The meat is softer, pinker, gritty with marinade.
I have already sliced two purple onions and julienned a finger of ginger and a serrano pepper. I fry two sticks of cinnamon, six black cloves, six green cardamom pods, two black cardamom pods, and two bay leaves in a small puddle of oil, using my “instant pot” pressure cooker. I add in the onions, ginger, and peppers. The sizzle is loud, almost deafening. The nostalgia is thick.
Our house keeper would make this curry for the family when I was a child in Dubai. Baba routinely proffered criticism. Too salty, or not salty enough. Too spicy, or not spicy enough. Too chewy or too chunky, or both.
When he had nothing to say, there was relief all around. His silent consumption meant the curry was perfect. Baba only doled out critiques, never compliments.
I scoop the marinated meat into the pot and fry it with the mix of sizzling spices and onions. A steamy cloud of fragrance fills my kitchen and I salivate. The mutton is rich with fat. Its oils will rise to the top when cooked.
There are only a few ingredients left to add and I move quickly. Paprika and turmeric for color and smoky earthiness, red chili powder for just a little more heat, and a generous pinch of a substance few Americans know of—kasuri methi—dried fenugreek leaves, for that Indian version of umami, a hard-to-pinpoint depth of flavor that is only evident when absent.
Instead of fresh chopped tomatoes, I open a can of tomato puree—knowing my mother would be skeptical, but what she doesn’t know can’t irk her—and scrape it in and stir, stir, stir.
Although it smells luscious, the mixture looks lumpy and pink. A mere thirty minutes of pressure cooking will transform it into a delectable, reddish-brown stew. I seal the pot, turn on the pressure, start the timer, and walk away.
* * *
My childhood memories of Dubai were marred by Baba’s whiskey and words. He liked his drink served in a cut crystal glass with exactly two cubes of ice, topped off with water. He would go through three 2.5 liter bottles a week. By himself.
One night, at a friend’s dinner party he had drunk far too much. My older sister and I were impatient to get home. We whined and nagged. He looked at us in disgust. “I wish I’d never had these girls,” he pronounced loudly to our host, shooting his words like arrows straight into our hearts. Our friend looked away, embarrassed.
I remember locking myself in the bathroom and crying until my mother knocked, saying it was time to leave. Baba drove us home, drunk.
There were many such instances. Some I’ve buried. Others stick out like thorns, pricking me when I least expect. For years, I had convinced myself it was my own ambition and desire for independence that drove me out of Dubai and to college at such a young age. In truth, I was fleeing Baba, his whiskey, and his words.
* * *
I unlock the pressure cooker as though I’m unwrapping a birthday present. I know what to expect but still, I’m nervous with anticipation. Inside, a bubbling hot lava of mutton and spices greets me.
I dip a spoon into the liquid and skim off some of the fat. I taste a little bit. It’s almost perfect. I allow the curry to cool and its steam rises in comforting swirls.
When the curry reaches room temperature, I spoon it into a casserole dish with a lid and pop it back into the fridge. It needs one more day before consumption.
At night, when I visit my parents in their cottage, Baba asks me if the curry is ready. I say, “no, it’ll be ready tomorrow.”
“I thought you cooked it today,” he whines.
“I did. The flavors need one more day to mature.”
“Hmmph.” He scowls and I meet his eye without blinking.
* * *
The last time I had delighted in mutton curry was—unexpectedly—on a cruise to Alaska. My mother had insisted on treating all of us, against her stingy husband’s wishes, to a family holiday. The Norwegian Pearl’s head chef was Indian and his dinners were revelatory. I, however, was not able to appreciate the decadent buffets, for my attention was taken up by Baba and his needs.
On our first day, he insisted on afternoon tea but there were no tea cups or hot water kettle in his cabin. I spent hours wandering through the pricey shopping center of the grand cruise ship, searching in vain for a tea cup and kettle, finally procuring them by special request from the kitchens.
To Baba, the cabins were too small, the lobby too modest, the chandelier not grand enough, and, compared to the other cruises he’d been on, this one—that I’d picked out—was simply not up to Baba’s standard. His incessant complaints eclipsed my enjoyment. My own children were quite young then. But Baba was the biggest baby, whining the loudest, demanding the most attention, and requiring the most interventions. By the week’s end, I was exhausted and barely able to appreciate the chef’s delicacies.
After the cruise, I spent weeks hating him for ruining my vacation, and myself for allowing him to. Why, I wondered, did Baba have such power over me? Why did I tolerate his behavior? Why hadn’t I analyzed his narcissism before? I resolved to change the pattern of our interaction.
I was more than forty years old when I realized I didn’t need Baba’s approval.
A few years after the cruise, my younger sister got married and my family traveled to Vancouver together for her wedding. By then, I was neither Baba’s favorite, nor he mine. One afternoon, he grumbled about the lack of tea options. I brought him a cup filled with boiling water and a tea bag I’d found at the hotel and placed it in his hands.
Ordinarily I would have followed this up with the question, “is this okay?” but this time, I walked away before he could articulate a complaint about the temperature of the water, the size of the cup, the quality of the tea bag. I would meet his needs, not indulge his ego. For the first time in my life, I felt liberated from his tantrums.
* * *
It is Friday and I have been soaking a cup of basmati rice for an hour. In a heavy bottomed pan, I fry cumin seeds in clarified butter until they sputter and release a sublime scent. I strain the rice, rinse it in cold water, and stir it for several minutes with the cumin, toasting the grains. I add salt and cold water, cover the pan, let it come to a boil, then simmer it until all the grain are just cooked and separate easily from one another.
The mutton curry has been sitting on my countertop, coming to room temperature from the fridge. While the rice cooks, I zap the curry in the microwave until it bubbles and is ready for a garnish of fresh, chopped cilantro.
My parents come over for dinner from their cottage, a “granny flat” located in the backyard of my Pasadena home where they have lived for the past several years after relocating permanently from Dubai. They are bent and hobble slowly, using walking aids. My mother praises the wonderful smells in my kitchen and I beam. Baba says nothing.
My husband and kids are excitedly fluttering about, desperate to dig in. I spoon curry and rice onto plates and sit back, taking pride of place at the head of the table. I glance at Baba and force myself to look away before he can catch my eye.
I have built a fortress around my heart, one he cannot break into. It has taken a lifetime to buttress my soul, to gird the soft places inside me where a little girl desperately wanted her father’s love and blessings.
The mutton is spiced perfectly. It is tender and complex. Rich with heat, juicy and thick. Baba opens his mouth to speak. For an instant, before I can stop myself, I wonder if he will exclaim approval like the others at the dinner table. “You should have had them cut the meat into smaller pieces,” he declares, staring into my eyes.
I survey him. Once a lot taller than me, Baba, at eighty, is now hunched over and bent. His jaw sags but under the wrinkled jowls, teeth grit.
I lift an eyebrow and meet his eye. “This is how I like it.” I stuff a large bite into my mouth and smile at him, chewing slowly, savoring the curry.
Photo of Sonali Kolhatkar
BIO: Sonali Kolhatkar is an award-winning journalist, host, and executive producer of Rising Up With Sonali, a radio, TV, and podcast program. She is also Senior Correspondent at Independent Media Institute, a columnist at OtherWords and Truthout, and has written for LA Times, The Nation, Salon and more. Sonali was awarded a writer-in-resident position at Hedgebrook and won third-place in Empyrean Literary Magazine’s Winter 2025 short story contest. Her books include Bleeding Afghanistan (2006, Seven Stories), Rising Up (City Lights, 2023) and Talking About Abolition (2025, Seven Stories). Her debut novel, Queen of Aarohi, is forthcoming in 2027 by Red Hen Press.