The shirtless man was just grinding the spices in a large stone mortar to make a masala

Man crushing spices in mortar — Man grinding spices in a mortar

Wandering through the backstreets of Mumbai, I came upon a bare-chested man seated before a massive stone mortar. With nothing but a hefty pestle in hand, he was grinding spices in slow, deliberate strokes. In a country where electric mixers are sold on every corner, his persistence in such back-breaking labor seemed almost eccentric—until one recalls that tradition has its own logic. They say the aroma born of stone grinding surpasses anything that comes from modern blades; whether this is science or faith, I could not tell. The man himself offered no explanation, only the steady rhythm of pestle against stone.

Spices are the pulse of India: cardamom, clove, cumin, coriander—essentials not just for curry but for daily life. Each household’s blend becomes its signature, making every pot of curry different from the next. In that sense, the stone mortar may well be the last bastion guarding the individuality of family kitchens. Though the work is punishing, his expression remained calm, even amused, as if to say, “Yes, electricity is convenient—but this is truer.” Amid Mumbai’s chaos, the scraping of stone against stone struck me as a healthier rhythm than the horns and engines outside.

The golden powder born of his effort would soon vanish into a pot, lending fire and fragrance to some humble meal. Watching him, sweat prickling my skin, I already felt exhausted, yet he smiled—an easy, mischievous smile. In that moment I understood: in Mumbai, it is not the curry that burns hottest, but the labor that precedes it.

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