The Bittergourd Superstition

Lunch with the four special ladies from the Quality Laboratory was always enjoyable. The conversation was largely varied and entertaining, filled with gossipy banter about the colleague across tables, or a worried discussion about their teenage children. Both Sumadi and Abuma were local Indians, while Sarah immigrated from North India when she got married ten years ago. Lorraine, their young Filipino supervisor, was an amicable lady of few words.

The three Indians often brought food from home, religiously adhering to their weekly vegetarian diet. It was a welcoming contrast to see the assortment of flavourful curries and yoghurts that they whipped up, as my mother’s culinary skills were limited to boiled vegetables, steamed fish and tofu. (Well, I exaggerate.)

We were having lunch as usual when Sumadi opened her packet and the mouth-watering aroma of belachan (prawn and chilli paste) filled the air. She began to dish out some to Abuma, and smiled shyly when I paid her a compliment, offering some to me. Observing that she had little for herself, I declined. Yet amid my protests, she placed a spoonful on my plate and instructed me to try it.

Noticing her packet lacked a healthy nutritional balance, I suggested, “Hey, now that you have so little to eat, why not take some of my bittergourd?”

She hesitated. I could see that she was tempted to accept, but refused uneasily.  I had remembered her eating the dish two days back, and it could not have been about sharing food and utensils too, since she had initiated the offer. Dismissing the thought, I quickly attributed her refusal to maternal instincts, hoping to fatten up the young intern ‘at her growing age’, as motherly figures may say.

I scooped the slices deftly from my plate, attempting to reciprocate with an undeclared attack. It was brusquely stopped midair and directed back firmly. It was quite unlike Sumadi’s character to be so insistent. Opposite us, Lorraine raised her eyebrows, puzzled.

Finally, Sumadi explained that in her cultural upbringing, bittergourds meant a bitter implication for relationships. It was a social inhibition to serve the dish to guests. Even for family consumption, she would leave it in the wok, and portions would have to be collected individually! Abuma was nodding vigorously in agreement, while the other three of us listened incredulously. It was in treasuring our friendship that she disallowed me from sharing the dish. I never looked at bittergourds in the same light again, at least when eating with the both of them.

This event was brief, but it jolted me from complacency towards understanding intercultural behaviour. I had assumed that I was sufficiently exposed to the Indian culture, by having attended Indian weddings, and living in an Indian household in Australia for a month. Personally, bittergourds had been but a type of vegetables.

Yet, Sarah’s ignorance of this superstition proved that there were still many intricate differences in traditions and practices within people of similar race. Thus, my key to effective intercultural communication would be constant alertness, attentive observation, then finally seeking to clarify when in doubt. Who could tell which other words held a different connotation, or when an object entrenched underlying meanings?