Aftertaste

The concoction always made me retch. It felt wrong, slimy, sliding down my throat, and the occasional obstruction of a cashew I despised even more, getting stuck between the crevices of my teeth. To hate payasam was a sin for a Malayali, but I hated it with a burning passion.

​

I remember that day when, unexpectedly, it felt right, more right than ever before. My hesitation was replaced with a surprising comfort as Aishu scooped the scalding, bubbling liquid on her palm and blew on it with utmost care. I watched her soft lips, her easy breath, the way steam curled between us. I wanted to tell her it would be too hot, yet her gentle smile reassured me, as if saying it was all okay. Her hand reached out for me, inviting me in. When I bent down, my tongue touched the centre of her palm. Sweetness, heat, a pulse thrumming under the taste. Her eyes peered into mine, searching, “Is it good?” The tremor of her hand, the rosiness of her cheeks, the sweat trailing down her neck, and the softness in her voice all lingered in my memory since then. “It’s perfect,” I  whispered and joy and guilt collided, sharp and dizzying. She erupted into a smile, proud of her achievement, and continued stirring, sneaking glances my way, carrying a withheld question. I stood beside her, fear rising that she would see how much had changed in me. Anxiety pressed on me. If she knew, would she be disgusted and then tell her parents, whose words would reach mine? Would I become a stranger in my own house?

​

“What are you thinking?” she asked, sensing the shift in the air. I couldn’t bear to meet her eyes, so I continued blinking, staring ahead. I cleared my throat, “I will go get the glasses.”

​

We ate it in a deeply uncomfortable silence. I wanted to read her thoughts, I wanted to taste the payasam from her hand one last time.

​

I will never come back. I will never get to meet her again.

​

As I left, she gave a tumbler of it to share with my parents. A formal politeness that had never existed between us echoed in my voice. I hurriedly put on my shoes to leave. Her hand once again reached out to me. Her face cradled into my neck. She lifted her face, her eyes moist with tears. My fingers touched her hot face to wipe them away as I had done many times before. I didn’t know why she was crying. Did she argue with her parents again? “Stay for some more time…I need.. I need to tell you something”, her voice whimpered.

​

What she said changed everything. From that moment on, we looked at each other unabashedly.  It altered the rhythm of our days and nights. At the subsequent gatherings for Onam and Vishu, no one noticed as I crept into the kitchen in the pretence of helping out, as I blew into her ear, as she suppressed her giggles, as our fingers collided for a beat longer when I passed her the salt. My mother, who knew my capacity to burn down the kitchen, was taken aback by my sudden interest in cooking and was ignorantly pleased that I had finally come to my senses.

​

Aishu always found a way to serve me the payasam first, and I secretly devoured it, my lipstick marking the rim of her glasses and her neck.

_______________________________________________________________________

I only go to weddings for the sadya. So does half the crowd, the proof is the mob that floods the dining area the moment it’s announced, leaving the bride and groom stranded with an appetite filled with flashbulbs, congratulations and custom smiles, for the taking pictures with people they are supposed to know.

​

I stay back, watching her. Not running first this time. The gold weighs down on her already crouched shoulders. The heavy foundation covers her dark circles, the lipstick and gloss cover her patched, torn lips. I stare at the ‘Anand weds Aishwarya’ plaque, daring me to rip it apart, its certainty almost obscene. My mother pesters me again, tugging at my sleeve with yet another forsaken duty, another guest to greet, to share how happy I am to see my younger brother married, to answer when I will get married, to talk to prospective grooms, each plotting their own escape.

​

My brother gently brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear. Rage flashed through me. I wanted to dunk him in the huge pot of steaming water served to the guests with the sadya. I didn’t have the right to complain; she didn’t dare to run away with me, and he continues to smile, innocent, oblivious to our secret history. The proposal was an idea that conjured up in the mind of some jobless uncle with too much time and too little imagination, two software engineers, same caste, perfectly aligned jathakam. “Culture” was contained perfectly and curbed before it could rupture or gain a new form and spill.

​

To run away would be exile, to leave our families, to leave the familiarity of a home, to build our own secluded life, to be another secret someplace else. When you spend your whole life hiding, you never learn how to step out or escape. Our love blossomed in the blinding light and heat of her kitchen and ended over a phone call with a single muffled  “sorry” from her side.

​

Finally, the groom, bride and their families began to eat. We sat opposite each other on long tables, with occasional photographers popping in to capture our gluttony. I didn’t want to eat. For the first time in my life, a sadya felt like a punishment, like food forced fed in prisons. I wondered about all the other sadyas I ate merrily, banking on the probable misery of a legitimate and socially accepted union. I didn’t blow on the rice and sambar or chew it; it burned my tongue, and my unfeeling body swallowed it dryly. You always sweat when you eat a sadya, your body nurturing the taste but foreseeing the subsequent food coma. It fills in the crevices, maybe left by the dowries, the loans, the unsatisfied bickering relatives. I was not full, I would never be full, so I ate like never before. My mother nudged me, her eyes warning me to slow down.

​

The rushed, scrawny server asked in his Hindi-Malayalam accent, “Payasam?”

There was Palada payasam and Sharkara payasam. I asked for both. Both my parents stared at each other, uncertain and confused. I reached for the Sharakara payasam first, but my mother’s hands clutched my wrist. “That’s the jaggery one, you hate that even more, right?”

“I know,” I answered, and downed the slightly bitter and spicy brown Sharkara payasam. The sugar coated my teeth, and adamantly clung to my throat; it was disgusting. The sambar, aviyal, curd and all the other dishes churned, threatening to erupt. I lifted my head to meet Aishu’s eyes as she stood up to leave with her husband. Her folded sadya ila was not empty. Her eyes met mine, steady, as if she’d always known this was how it would end. They all got up to wash their hands. I downed the white pale Palada payasam, which tasted nothing like hers. It was thinner, bland, a tasteless imitation of what I once enjoyed.  I knew then my body had had enough. I walked to the washroom, hoping I wouldn’t create a spectacle before I reached it. I loosened the pleat tucked into my bloated stomach, and it all came up, food and endless pinching memories.  I splashed my face with the water, desperately seeking refuge, smudging my kajal. The same kajal she taught me to wear.

​

“You okay?” a voice floated in from outside the washing area. At the door of it stood my perfect brother, my parents’ darling son.

​

“Yeah..um.. Just ate a bit too much.” I said, avoiding his gaze, as Aishu drifted to his side.

She looked at me, distraught.

​

“Since when did you like payasam?” he asked, handing me the tissues.

​

“I just like it now…” I mumbled, wiping away the evidence of my shame.

​

“Come to the main hall, Amma is waiting for you. The payasams were great, right?” he said, looking at Aishu and me. “Not as good as Aishu’s Palada, though..” he added, reaching his hand for hers. “Yeah..” I whispered back, barely able to let out a sound.

​

She took it and smiled at him, the same smile she once kept for me. “We should go…” she said. “Yeah.. come to the hall fast”, announced my brother, walking away with her. As he turned his back, Aishu looked at me, warning or maybe even begging me to get it together, to forget everything, to walk away like her.

​

I stared at her hands as she walked away, the lines on them, the faint pulse I once felt on my tongue. The sweetness that made me feel alive, and the only reason I would ever find myself cooking in the heat. Relentless hunger gnawed through me, sharp and silent.

​

I searched my memory for the moment when I first longed for payasam, but all I could feel was the sour, sick taste of bile in my mouth. I adjusted my saree, tidied up my face, and walked away to maintain civility and blend in with the other actors in the marriage hall. The taste lingered, and I endlessly swallowed, leaving another hunger unnamed.

​_______________________________________________________________________

​

​