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I planted a curry leaf tree in my backyard to recreate the week I spent every summer with my grandmother, Dolly Mumma, at her bungalow in Borivali. A part of Mumbai, that in the mid-90s was a village coming of age. Chickens roaming the street near shiny Maruti 800 cars.

When the concrete porch turned blistering hot, Mumma would send me out to her lusciously green curry leaf tree to pick out eighteen curry leaves. I’d rinse them then stand on her rickety wooden stool and ceremoniously release them into Mumma’s signature prawn curry, simmering together like lazy volcanic lava. The air heavy, with a citrusy fishy aroma and my stomach twisting in impatient hunger as Borivali lapsed into hot siesta.

I’ve had similar dreams for my curry leaf tree. I want it to grow tall and abundant like Mumma’s tree.

I’d have handfuls and handfuls of aromatic dark green leaves. Not just for Mumma’s prawn curry but to add everywhere with reckless abandon.

All I had to do was water it and loosely follow the instructions on the tag. Soon after, I’d have handfuls and handfuls of aromatic dark green leaves. Not just for Mumma’s prawn curry but to add everywhere with reckless abandon. As if it were coriander - the garnish we Indians take for granted. 

You see, the thirty-three leaves my plant had when I bought it fell out after a couple of months. It looked like a lonely stick in the mud whose mum forgot to pick them up from school. Giving off “meh” vibes. Like the food, I served up when I was first learning to make Indian. Watery Dahl one time. Raw Chana Masala another time.

It looked like a lonely stick in the mud whose mum forgot to pick them up from school. Giving off “meh” vibes.

Six precious stalks of the most aromatic leaves. I remember adding all 36 leaves ceremoniously to my rendition of Mumma’s curry. That day, I created a lunch where everyone licked their bowls clean. I tried acting humble while my thigh quivered, excited to finally cook something people loved eating. 

I fertilised the tree some more and binged on curry leaf care videos. But for the rest of that summer, it did nothing. The stalk didn’t grow a single leaf or a single inch. No new leaves arrived. Reminding me of the summer I binged on celebrity Indian chef Sanjeev Kapoor’s YouTube channel but cooked, nothing.

Last year, I went to uproot the tree. It had been a wet, cold winter, and I was sure I had killed it by transferring it to the ground. But as my hand grabbed the core stalk, I noticed tiny green buds ready to burst like pimples. My gut told me to wait.

Like it had when I was learning to make fried Boomla  - a type of lizard fish commonly known as Bombay Duck or Bombil. I was about to give up on making those too. But I was rewarded when I decided to trust my memories of cooking them with Grandpa. I used smaller Bombay duck, marinated them all afternoon in turmeric, chilli powder and salt and then coated them in rice flour.

Trusting myself led to crispy, spicy, melt-in-my-mouth Bombil my mother-in-law was jealous of.

And so I watered the tree some more, gave it fertilizer and even though I felt ridiculous, decided to give it a name. Arjun, I called it after the brave warrior prince in Mahabharata. In exchange, I was rewarded with enough curry leaves to cook a dahl, a fish curry and a curry leaf pesto.

But this spring, I’m waiting. Placating myself that something is happening even though I don’t see any leaves. Like when I’m prodding the mutton for hours on the stove and coaxing it to relax into a tender Bengali Kosha Mangsho. 

Should I give my tree, correction, Arjun, some space? Move it back into a bigger pot? Make it jealous by purchasing another sapling. Or just wait for it to all come together. Like I do when I’m making a batch of Dahl Makhani. 

What a twisted relationship to have with one’s tree, I think as I anxiously twist the curry leaf stalk cutting I got from mum’s tree. Should I plant it to propagate a new plant? Or, you reckon I’d be cheating on Arjun?

Growing a Substack should be easier than growing a curry leaf tree. But it’s not. Which is why I’d love if you shared this story

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This piece felt really hard to write. Thank you to

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