Her swollen feet ache against speckled gray linoleum. She wipes sweat from her face with the free end of her sari. She stares blankly at the pegboard behind the countertop where her cooking utensils hang, all slightly coated with grease. Tasting from a cupped palm, she frowns as usual, theres something missing. Even now that there is barely space inside her, it is the one thing she craves. Ashima has been consuming this concoction throughout her pregnancy, a humble approximation of the snack sold for pennies on Calcutta sidewalks and on railway platforms throughout India, spilling from newspaper cones. She adds salt, lemon juice, thin slices of green chili pepper, wishing there were mustard oil to pour into the mix. 1968 On a sticky August evening two weeks before her due date, Ashima Ganguli stands in the kitchen of a Central Square apartment, combining Rice Krispies and Planters peanuts and chopped red onion in a bowl.
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