He craved curd rice; the authentic variety not the insipid kind that the canteen sold at lunch.
Ammachi made it in a big steel bowl, with sour curd and fresh rice and pickle; always mango pickle where the pungent after taste coated his tongue for a while.
Hurtling along in buses through the muddy roads of a small village in Kerala, he would wait to arrive at Ammachi’s house, amidst all the mangoes and the pineapple jam. Then his Ammachi would wait for them outside and he would run to her, his small feet whipping up a miniature dust storm. She always scooped him up in a big hug and she always kissed his cheek. She was the only person who was allowed to do that, he hated being kissed. Ammachi had a little moustache, tiny whiskers under a small nose. He would always rub it while she was asleep. He was just curious, moustaches were for men. Ammachi’s moustache always tickled him when she kissed his cheek.
Ammachi smelled of a mix of talcum powder and sweat and something else, perhaps some kind of fruit. She had a smell you would associate with old people, that always got caught somewhere in her clothing. Her hair always smelled of coconut oil. Her hugs always smelled of a happier time.
He always got a 500 rupee note every summer. She knew he didn’t use it, but she gave it anyway. Don’t all little boys need someone to give them things their parents refuse to give them? Money and unlimited jam on warm toasts where no one asks you to stop eating so much sugar? He always had bread for dinner and no one was allowed to question that; his Ammachi just wouldn’t have it.
As the evenings grew darker and the crickets grew louder and he would sit with his Ammachi on the verandah eating tapioca chips. The helper who was possibly as old as the house would make faces at him from behind a wall. He would make faces back, his face stuffed with chips. They would sit there until the mosquitoes got the better of them and then they’d go inside the house; another day, that in retrospect was really something, having ended silently.
Among these whirling thoughts, he realized that his craving for curd rice had given way to his craving for several other things.
Although it is really hard to recreate something so special, I thank my friend Ashish for letting me make an attempt.
Ammachi made it in a big steel bowl, with sour curd and fresh rice and pickle; always mango pickle where the pungent after taste coated his tongue for a while.
Hurtling along in buses through the muddy roads of a small village in Kerala, he would wait to arrive at Ammachi’s house, amidst all the mangoes and the pineapple jam. Then his Ammachi would wait for them outside and he would run to her, his small feet whipping up a miniature dust storm. She always scooped him up in a big hug and she always kissed his cheek. She was the only person who was allowed to do that, he hated being kissed. Ammachi had a little moustache, tiny whiskers under a small nose. He would always rub it while she was asleep. He was just curious, moustaches were for men. Ammachi’s moustache always tickled him when she kissed his cheek.
Ammachi smelled of a mix of talcum powder and sweat and something else, perhaps some kind of fruit. She had a smell you would associate with old people, that always got caught somewhere in her clothing. Her hair always smelled of coconut oil. Her hugs always smelled of a happier time.
He always got a 500 rupee note every summer. She knew he didn’t use it, but she gave it anyway. Don’t all little boys need someone to give them things their parents refuse to give them? Money and unlimited jam on warm toasts where no one asks you to stop eating so much sugar? He always had bread for dinner and no one was allowed to question that; his Ammachi just wouldn’t have it.
As the evenings grew darker and the crickets grew louder and he would sit with his Ammachi on the verandah eating tapioca chips. The helper who was possibly as old as the house would make faces at him from behind a wall. He would make faces back, his face stuffed with chips. They would sit there until the mosquitoes got the better of them and then they’d go inside the house; another day, that in retrospect was really something, having ended silently.
Among these whirling thoughts, he realized that his craving for curd rice had given way to his craving for several other things.
Although it is really hard to recreate something so special, I thank my friend Ashish for letting me make an attempt.
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