The Road
to Kali

Staring out over the city at the skyline free of smog, the dancing sunrays glimmer, creating pastel hues that merge with the swirling and rolling clouds. Their infinite glory paints a timeless Van Gogh sky. I can see the warm water of the Indian Ocean as it caresses the winding coastline—the aquamarine glow fading into the dark blue depths. From thirty kilometres away, on the highest point of a hilly suburb, I take in the breathtaking, one hundred and eighty-degree view of my hometown, Durban.

My feet stand on the base of an old German spy fort, weathered and ruined over time. With a pen in one hand and a notepad in the other, I can't help but think about the past. The gentle breeze brushes across my face, reminding me of the present, while the never-ending horizon extends into an uncertain future. There is a stillness that is unsettling. It is as though time has come to a halt.

Among us, there is a silent killer we cannot see or touch. A thief that is robbing our people of air and starving their lungs. I am living in what feels like the end of the world, yet the earth breathes and thrives.

There is panic, and there is fear, but the birds continue to sing, and the flowers continue to bloom.

I am a prisoner of my own choosing, with plenty of time on my hands—a precious commodity that just a few weeks before was as rare as black opal. I am living in a pandemic where hundreds of thousands of people are losing their lives, with no cure in sight.

There was a time in my past when I would have relished the fact that the world was ending; it would have meant my selfish wish to end my own suffering had been granted. Yet, to actually see the deaths of so many reminds us of what we have to lose. If there is a lesson to this, it all feels very familiar.

Sometimes we don't see the beauty or appreciate what we have until we are robbed of it. Losing something is easy, but when it is taken from you, that's when you yearn for it.

There are those who are hopeless and filled with despair, and there are those who have lost before and survived their own personal pandemic. To live and breathe today is a blessing; tomorrow is uncertain, but being able to think means there is will, and where there is will, there is always a way.

I faced the end of my world a long time ago and found peace and comfort in the strangest of places. I found myself in my darkest hour, and yet I welcomed love and let go of hatred. I challenged myself, I challenged others, and I became conscious of my purpose. This is my story of how food and love saved my life and how the global pandemic allowed me to reflect and question my existence. Learning yet another lesson, gratitude.

The South African Indian story has been distinctly personal for me. Not only am I a fifth-generation Indian male, but I am also the grandson of a political leader who played a vital role in steering the course of history for many South African Indians.

My great-grandfather, a short, loveable man, arrived in the former Natal Colony as a four-year-old boy in the early 1890s. He came with his parents from the Chitoor District of the former Madras Presidency, which is now part of the Tamil Nadu state in South India. My great-great-grandparents worked as indentured labourers for five years at Esperanza, near Umzinto, on the South Coast of Natal. After they completed their indentures, they moved to the Railway Barracks in Durban, when my great-great-grandfather obtained a job as a labourer on the railways. My great-grandfather was just nine years old.

For those who completed their indentures, freedom meant searching for other means to feed their families. Many Indians began working for the local city government. It housed over 3,000 Indian workers in wood and iron homes in the Magazine Barracks, just a couple of blocks from the local city buildings.

The barracks were single-storey structures arranged in single or double rows—chicken coops our ancestors called home. Just ten by twelve feet in size, they were built with sawn timber on cast-iron frames with a roof made of corrugated zinc and iron. The tin roofs turned to cymbals as the rain crashed upon the sheet metal. The home's floor was a combination of earth and dung raised by planking. Minimal food was provided by the government. Mere morsels which robbed our loved ones of nourishment handed out at the front of each home, where a Dutch barn door gave entry to what was, in essence, a prison. The buildings were locked at night to prevent escape—a freedom many dreamed of but rarely found. A dream of gateless homes with large windows that overlooked lush, sprawling lawns instead of airtight matchboxes, where the only ventilation was from overhead shuttered openings near the roof. Washing facilities and toilets—if they were lucky enough to have them—were communal and in a separate, often distant, building.

It was a difficult reality. Many of the Indian families of that time lived very simply yet somehow managed to endure. There were those who suffered in silence from the ills of malnutrition, plagued by debt caused by an unforgiving system. Some were forced to return to India once their freedom was earned and others who stayed learned new skill sets that provided a glimpse of a better future.

My family was able to save enough capital to try to find a better life. Anything was better than the cold reality of the barracks. Eventually, they moved to Stainbank Estate, where my great-great-grandfather and great-grandfather obtained a piece of land and started farming on a small scale. They grew bananas, mealies, ginger, and calabash to make a living. Food would begin to nourish my family in more ways than one. While working the land daily, my great-grandfather also obtained a job at the railways. After many years, his father eventually joined Lever Brothers at Maydon Wharf in Durban, where he worked for forty-four long years.

My great-grandfather, the first of the truly free men in our family, had an entrepreneurial spirit and opened a small corner store with his second son, selling fresh produce and sweets. They would open up the store early in the mornings as merchants from far and wide visited for their weekly orders. The store was called Reddy's Corner House. For many years it was a cornerstone of Silverglen, a charming neighbourhood set atop the hilly roads of Chatsworth.

I remember my great-grandfather vividly; he was always smiling. His hands constantly moved behind the counter. A visit to see 'short Thatha,' a name given to him because of his small stature, felt almost magical. Somewhere along the line, the gene-pool shifted; at just five feet tall, his great-grandsons would have towered over him. He was our Santa Claus. Seeing him in the shop meant walking home with a pocket full of candy, and for any kid, that was a great trade-off. A little time, for a little candy.

My father's father was known in the Indian Community as Dr. J.N. Reddy. He was an ambitious man who sought to course-correct the injustices of the past by first seeking knowledge, then obtaining power, and ultimately using influence to change many outcomes. He was a strong, determined man who was not easily won over and was rarely defeated. He was larger than life yet small in stature, much like his father, which was surprising considering he had a powerful voice. What he lacked in size, he made up for in competence.

He was a fearless leader who loved his community and heritage, some say even more than he loved his own family. By the early seventies, he had created the first black-owned shipping and logistics company. It was a monumental task, considering he did this during the apartheid regime after growing up on a farm in less than ideal conditions. The company was called Sealandair, and like his persona, it was a giant. It paved the way for many future entrepreneurs and community leaders. Private planes and an entire fleet of horse-and-trailers were housed in a street that spanned a few kilometres of the busy Sydney Road, located near the city centre. As a young boy in the early days of the newly democratic South Africa, I would marvel at the metallic beasts which bore bold emblems denoting the company name.

He was always an inspiration to me, my family, and our community. We never saw much of him as he was forever abroad addressing nation leaders and fighting the good fight. More often than not, we would see him on our TV screens when he headed the House of Delegates and Parliament. We grew to know him simply as 'TV Thatha' (Thatha is the Tamil word for grandfather).

My grandmother, Devi, was a beautiful but submissive woman who grew up from humble beginnings and whose marriage had been arranged. It was a different time then, and most women of that era found their role to be focused on keeping the household running. She spent her days caring for her three sons and daughter while my grandfather navigated the seas of uncertainty and challenged world values. She was a kind and soft-spoken woman who loved her family very much and supported my grandfather through both the good times and dark times in South African politics.

We often visited my grandparents in their home, where the family would sit together and share stories over a banquet-style feast prepared by my grandmother. She was an extraordinary cook. Her famous lamb biryani was perfectly layered; light, fluffy rice infused with the fragrance of star anise, cinnamon, cardamom, and saffron. There were crisp golden potatoes which, when tossed with the lamb, created a pillow of steam that released an aroma that permeated the entire home. It was a signal that lunch was served!

The meals would continue, course after course. The biryani would be accompanied by at least six different curries. There was creamy, rich butter chicken topped with toasted cashews. Mutton curry with soft potatoes that soaked up the spicy red Kashmiri gravy. Fish curry, sour from the tamarind, was tossed with gem squash and branjol (eggplant). Chicken curry made on an outside fire, infused with the smoke from the very wood it was cooked over. Tender tripe and sweet peas with gram dhal covered in a silky gravy. Finally, a mixed vegetable curry, a specialty on certain prayer days, and traditionally served with a soured porridge. It was a favourite that became a staple at most gatherings, especially for the uncles who indulged in the golden nectar of Scotland. Whiskey seemed to migrate from the Scottish Highlands to the hearts and stomachs of the South Indian males who lapped up the single malts like 'mother's milk.' Even the dead still indulged, a tot for those who passed was the first drink poured from every bottle.

Fried samosas were passed across the table with all their crispy golden deliciousness. Meanwhile the lone Greek salad at the further reaches of the sixteen-seater dining table would await the health fanatic who always had a version that involved steaming or baking everything. Dessert would be a vast array of different Indian sweets; sticky gulabjamu and a rich, creamy saffron-infused favourite called soji. It was a semolina dish served at almost every celebration, especially weddings. The trick, the elders said, to truly enjoying soji was to eat it on the same plate you finished your meal on. The sweet-savoury combination took it from a great dish to a spiritual awakening. There were always leftovers, and parcels would be packed for every aunt and uncle, each having their own favourites.

The saying “less is more” definitely does not apply to an Indian family lunch or gathering. More is always more.

Love across different families is expressed in many ways, but one constant remains in an Indian home; food is the language of love, and it is expressed in abundance. Suffice to say that food comas were frequent. It often meant the living room would become a waystation that housed snoring men who had filled their bellies and strained their livers.

I didn't know it then, but my palate, from an early age, was exposed to a unique style of cooking. I began to collect a vast library of culinary information from the numerous experiences around the table and through observation.

On my mother's side, I was gifted with two human beings who were more like guardian angels than grandparents. I spent more time with my mother's parents than I did with my father's. They were more like second parents and made our childhood very special. Both were actively involved in our early development.

My father's side of the family was also close to us. Although my grandfather's pursuit for change meant he hardly had time for family, we had our visits, which was enough. His was a different type of love, stern and forceful, but it was love, nonetheless, and he meant well. He grew up hard, and his way of loving his family was based on providing a better life than he had growing up. Today, I understand his love better than I did back then. I realise it was shown by preparing his family for the harsh realities of the real world. He wanted to ready us for a world that was unforgiving. It was different from my mother's family, who emphasised compassion, which, for a child, was easier to relate to.

My mother's mom is a special woman, better known to us as 'Aya,' a term of endearment used by Indian grandchildren to describe their grandmothers. Krishnievelie married my grandfather at an early age, something that was normal in those days. She found her place as the matriarch of the family. She didn't complete her schooling, but she was a highly intelligent woman who stood firm by my grandfather's side. It was a love story that deserves its own book. Together they created their own wealth and raised a family of educated professionals at a time when all the odds were stacked against them.

Aya's true talent was food. She could cook anything and everything. It amazes me to this day how one person could single-handedly create so many beautiful dishes daily and still be able to stand by the end of it. I often asked her why her food always tasted so good, and she would simply say that her special ingredient was love. A little bit of love goes a long way. To me, she was always beautiful, with her radiant skin, neat dark hair, which always smelled of coconut oil and rose water, and a smile that could calm the stormiest of seas.

My mom's father was probably the most special person in my life. He was a true gentleman. He had qualities most men prayed they could possess. He was a brilliant man with a strong frame. He was dark in complexion and very handsome, with wide-set shoulders and a muscular torso. Beneath it beat a heart of gold. He had a way about him, soft-spoken yet compelling; when he spoke, you listened. He loved his family very much, especially his grandchildren, and lived every day for his family. He respected women, other points of view and embraced everyone. It was his approach and world views that gave us a zest for life and an appreciation for all living things.

Nat Naidoo—the apt nickname given to him after his favourite singer, Nat King Cole—was a talented musician. I will never forget those times when all of us would sit in wonder and listen to him play the harmonium or the piano while my grandmother sang.

Even at home, I marvelled at how well-dressed and groomed he always appeared, with his distinguished silver-grey hair and professor-like glasses. Grandpa Nat was truly a renaissance man who valued art, music, and knowledge… but most of all, a rich and loving life with his family.

Growing up in Silverglen, Chatsworth was a very happy time, considering the early years of my life were shadowed by the darkness of the apartheid regime. The Indian community was forced to live in certain areas due to the Group Areas Act passed in 1950. The community was vibrant, and we were never short of anything. Small businesses flourished, kids played on the streets, and families would laugh over dinner-time stories. Aromatic scents and the chitter-chatter of happy households would fill the air as the evening descended. The homes were small and close together, so the area always felt alive. This was our District Six—similar to the famously vibrant neighbourhood in the heart of Cape Town.

Food was always something the Indian community enjoyed. Whether we had a lot or a little, food always made us feel good, and it was a way of expressing our love for one another. Even more so today, it is a catalogue of memories, a time machine that transports us to any place in time. It gives us access to an infinite timeline where we can go back and have a meal with those who are no longer with us or experience a time when things were just a little less complicated. It is a blessing we continue to share, generation after generation.

If food gives us the ability to travel in time, Kali is the roadmap to our future. In order to travel forward in time, we must first create our future by acknowledging our goals in the present. Kali is not a place or a destination. It is an idea and benchmark that we will never quite reach; it is forever moving. Kali is the highest goal. It is not meant to be achieved but rather aspired to. By forever chasing our goals, we are constantly redefining ourselves. It is progression and evolution.

This is my journey, and the road to Kali.

The late eighties was a crazy time. I was just a little boy, but the world was changing at a rapid rate. In South Africa, tensions rose as potential talks with the National Party became a reality. Political uprising and the hope of a brighter future loomed on the horizon as Nelson Mandela pressured the apartheid regime to address the possibility of a democracy with the help of my grandfather and so many others.

My mother's cousins were extreme activists who fought like foot soldiers; brilliant men who grew to become professors and CEOs of some of the world's largest NGOs. Men like Kumaran Naidoo and Professor Kovin Naidoo fought on the frontlines of battle, often beaten and arrested, and sometimes even tortured. While they forced change through extreme measures, my paternal grandfather, Dr. J.N. Reddy, sought a different route. Both approaches were extremely instrumental in the fall of the apartheid regime, but at times they did not see eye to eye. However you looked at it, it was a war, and war has to be fought on all fronts, with each party playing a vital role.

The decade spawned brilliance, giving birth to many innovations. By 1989, the worldwide web was invented, the first episode of the Simpsons aired, we launched the first GPS satellite into space, and I discovered Michael Jackson's album, Bad! And boy, did it change my life. I was obsessed. His music went through my body and touched my soul. I spent my days dancing in front of a TV, replicating every move and gesture. I danced everywhere, demanding an audience and a stage wherever I went. Years later, tipsy aunts would remind me of my escapades as a teenager and how exuberant my brother and I were. They would squeeze our cheeks when they saw us, reminding us of how they changed our diapers and wiped our bottoms, restraining me from dancing like Michael at every funeral I attended.

Apart from my love for Michael Jackson, family was and still is the dearest thing to me. I loved listening to stories shared by my loved ones, absorbing everything that was told to me. It was a time of learning, leading to the building of a sturdy foundation that started from observing the basics. It was when and how I was introduced to the culinary world.

Growing up, spices were around us all the time. It was only later in life I realised this knowledge passed down to us from our parents and grandparents was priceless. Spices are complex, robust, and can turn a simple dish into something magical if the understanding of how and when to use them is understood. Indians cook like Merlin, creating magic by wielding the organic powers of herbs and spices.

From an early age, I would visit my mother's parent's home; it was a short drive, so we spent a lot of time there. It was a large, beautiful Tudor-style house with an immaculate white exterior, steeply pitched roof and overlapping front gables. It was timeless, sturdy, and strong. It was a home that reflected the man who built it.

Their home was a marvel to look at, especially in a time when a little had to go a long way; homes were a dream that few possessed. Being the smart and ambitious man that he was, Grandpa Nat subdivided the house and rented the units to other families. He was a particular man who took pride in everything he did. One of his prized possessions was his garden.

With exquisite care and patience, my grandfather transformed a once dirt-bare plot into a place of beauty and enchantment, reminiscent of a scene from the film, The Secret Garden. As a young boy, I played there often, entering through the 'secret' arched entry that opened mysteriously between two commanding rose bushes. Every imaginable plant and flower seemed to live there in harmony. Typical of my grandfather, everything was well cared for and lacked for nothing. He tended to every leaf as if they were hairs on his own head. Its cupid fountains, trailing vines, and abundant fruit trees were as picturesque as the Garden of Eden. I would lie on the soft, leaf-padded ground and stare through the trees' arching canopy into the expansive sky above.

There was something magical about that home. It was as if the sun never set. It was a sanctuary that stirred our imagination and allowed us to be whatever and whomever we wanted to be. My brother, Peroshin, who I call 'Po,' is my best friend. He is only a year and a half younger than I am, and as boys, we were always together. There was nothing we didn't do or couldn't do together. We frequently were mistaken for twins, something my mother thought was hilarious. She often dressed us up in matching outfits, something she'd learned from seeing how Princess Diana dressed Prince William and Prince Harry. On a hot day, you would find us running around barefoot, playing in the garden, climbing trees, and sneaking through bushes to get to the neighbour's house. There, we pretended that we were two great adventurers off to find a forgotten, hidden treasure. My parents would probably agree that hidden treasure normally meant trouble.

We were typical boys who enjoyed playing cricket and soccer on the streets with friendly neighbours. The screams of “car” could be heard echoing from street to street as families came together to play outdoors, clearing the 'field' at the sight of motorists. Local bins became cricket stumps, and red Slazenger balls would roll across boundary pavements. Our field was the streets, but it did not stop us from imagining a roaring crowd cheering on the gladiators of the oval. Competitive from an early age, neither my brother nor I liked to lose, so we were often the boys who would slide on unforgiving concrete to save a run or tackle the opposition. We were warriors on the frontline, which meant we often came back with cuts and bruises, battered and covered in dirt, but those were the hazards of war. It was a different time, before social media and the internet. Today, we are able to send an email or message to friends and family across the world in seconds. But even though we didn't have that growing up, we had true connections which felt more real. Friendships were not earned through 'friend requests' but built through shared experiences that you lived and overcame together.

Living outside felt natural; we cherished the moments we shared with the people around us, and it was almost impossible to get us to stay indoors. Why would we? Staying indoors meant being confined to the boundaries of four walls as opposed to experiencing a world that was vast and limitless. As young kids with overactive imaginations, we found excitement in everything. A giant boulder in the middle of the garden would make a fitting ship for a captain sailing to distant lands, where seas of grass were ravaged by cunning pirates searching for their next bounty.

Although we had the freedom of playing outdoors, Indian homes still focused greatly on discipline. A call to come back in was something we pretended to never hear…until Aya hunted us down with a shoe in one hand and a green chilli in the other. It was a warning that, if not taken seriously, would result in tears—rubbed on the lips, a green chilli can be brutal!

Children's rights? In those days, you had to put up or cut the cackle. If you pushed the boundaries, you would often go to bed with a red bottom, lips that felt as if they were stung by wasps, and worst of all, an empty stomach.

If we wanted to play, we had to do our part, which meant helping out around the house or waking up early to accompany my grandparents to the local spice markets. We would walk the aisles in search of aromatic spices that were essential for Indian cuisine. As we passed the vendors, the strong aroma of roasted spices and fresh herbs filled the air. It was intoxicating… compelling. Together with the electric colours of the dyes, flowers, and garments on sale, it became a sensory experience that cemented its place in my memory. My grandparents would pick through the mountains of fresh produce—something that required a certain amount of skill, like a game of Jenga. If not done correctly, the piles of earth-encrusted potatoes would quickly disintegrate into an unforgiving landslide. Like boulders, they tumbled and rolled, eventually crashing into the empty crates that were neatly stacked beside the market stalls.

Back at home, I would help Aya unpack the produce. The herbs and vegetables were washed outside, and the spices left out to dry. I would sit by her side and listen to her sing. Blessed with an amazing voice, she would sing traditional Indian songs. Even though I didn't understand a word, watching her dressed in her sari with her hair tied up and her famous red dot made me feel at peace. I loved listening to her. It would be a sound in my earlier years that woke me up in the morning and put me to sleep in the evenings.

Doris Day's Que Sera Sera, was another song she often sang; the lyrics spoke of letting things happen as they should. “Whatever will be will be.” It was definitely a sign of the times. It really did feel like everything moved slower then, and time moved at its own pace. Maybe it was because it was before the tech revolution or the birth of the 'internet of things,' but connections between people were like recipes … real, comforting, and filled with a kindness the world today sees too little of.

Grandpa Nat would join us after unpacking his supplies. He loved to buy in bulk… packs of razors, cases of sterilised milk, and a variety of toiletries were added to the shopping list. A creature of habit, he would sit on the porch, open his male grooming kit, and sit for what felt like hours, tending to his nails. When he was done, he found his place, as he did for most of his life, next to Aya, singing to her “You are my sunshine” while snapping green beans.

I used to sit as a child and watch them both; they were soulmates. Their love and simplicity in everything they did created joy in their lives and those who were fortunate to be touched by their love. As I grew, I would dream of a love like that, only to find it 25 years later.

It was while spending this time with my grandparents that I learned the names and uses of the different spices and herbs.

Whole spices can be used either in their natural form or dried, roasted and combined to form a spice powder. Blended together, these are called masalas. The same process works with herbs. South Indian cuisine typically uses dry masalas, roasting them as they cook to enhance the flavour. Without knowledge of the basic aromatics, herbs, and spices, Indian cooking becomes an impossible task. Classic condiments are also just as important, as they cut through the richness, adding another layer to the cuisine. I will teach you what was taught to me.