My Achan and I liked black tea. He often asked me to make ‘Kattan Chaya’. When a chance discussion with neighbours about customs and traditions sparked an idea, I combined our love for Suliamani Chaya and brewed this short fiction. This was written in July 2022 for the Tell Me Your Story (TMYS) project, titled ‘Food and Drinks- Cultural Identity and Ideology II.’
SULAIMANI CHAI
I trudged down the stairs with palms spreadeagled under my football belly. The chanting of AUM from the stereo pervaded the room. On the swaying wooden swing sat my Appa rolling the beads of the tasbih (Islamic prayer beads).
‘Do you still listen to this every day, Appa?’ I eased into the high-backed chair and rested my swollen feet on the footstool.
‘Old habits die hard, kannamma. Along with your Umma’s coffee, this too percolated into my system. I will get you coffee.’ Appa ambled to the kitchen, not before thrusting a cushion for my back.
My Umma smiled, perched on the wall behind the haze of incense. We took this picture on vacation in Ooty. Umma made matching outfits for us. She looked adorable in any attire. I was a pale shadow of her. A recurring joke amongst my friends was that the hospital must have swapped me as an infant.
Umma hailed from an affluent Iyengar family of lawyers and was widely criticized for eloping with the son of an Imam. Fortunately, the families were non-believers in honour killing, and Appa and Umma became the poster couple for religious harmony. Well, I addressed Umma in the Malayalee-Muslim way and Appa in the Tamil-Brahmin manner.
‘Nothing like a fresh decoction coffee.’ Appa’s eyes crinkled as he cautiously handed over the steaming cup.
‘Ah, the aroma! Where’s yours?’
‘Ramzan roza (fasting), Kannamma.’
‘Tch, I forgot. Suraj has sent a box of dates for you.’
‘Alhamdulillah.’
‘Nowadays, I am turning into a tea person. Suraj prefers tea. He loves sulaimani (spiced black tea).’The colourful bangles on my hands from the valakaapu (baby shower) ceremony tinkled like the wind chime back home. Hah, wasn’t this also my home? I missed Suraj. Already. While there, I missed my Appa. If only one could have everyone around.
‘Hmmm. My choice changed into Umma’s beverage, so the cycle continues.’
The caffeine smell conjured a memory, and a smile tugged at my lips. When I was in grade six, Umma was unwell, and I wished to surprise my Appa by making coffee, unaware that he always had tea first in the morning. So, mixing a smidgen of filter-coffee powder into a cup of lukewarm milk, I offered it to Appa. He beamed at me, unmindful of the flotsam, gulped it, and declared it the best coffee ever.
‘You are glowing in the valakaapu pictures. Masha-Allah! The black sari you draped while coming home contrasts perfectly, too! The traditional gifting of a black sari to a pregnant daughter in her fifth month to ward off the evil eyes makes absolute sense.’
‘But Umma never wore black. She said it reflected and darkened her face. If only evil eyes could have been….’
‘Kannamma, only happy thoughts now. OK, idlis for breakfast. For lunch, I will try your granny’s special Iyengar puliyodharai (tangy tamarind rice).’
‘Wow. That would be a miracle, Appa, for someone who loves biryani to make puliyodharai. But when you are fasting….’
‘Hah, I can’t starve you NOW. Remember, once you wanted to observe Ramzan fasting and fainted. You and your Umma cannot handle hunger.’
I gazed at his creased forehead with the darkened centre as he pored over a tattered booklet, handwritten recipes of my nine-yard sari-clad granny.
I left Appa to stew and called Suraj’s mobile, but couldn’t connect. According to his uber-traditional dad’s dictum, Suraj was sent out on an errand when I departed for my Appa’s house. It’s considered bad luck if the husband sees his pregnant wife leaving for her delivery. I shook my head as images of the seemantham (baby shower) function came alive. They tied the choicest of sweets and savouries onto my belly with my sari end and dispatched me to our bedroom like a new bride. His aunt ordered us to polish off the snacks before morning. I made Suraj eat as much as he could, and in the morning, he complained of indigestion, poor darling. Yes, silly customs, but Suraj loves his family and their traditions, so I gave in. A way to showcase my gratitude to his family for accepting me, a product of mixed religions.
While relishing idlis and onion chutney, I asked Appa if I would have valakkappu and seemantham for all my successive deliveries.
‘Are you planning for a cricket team?’ Appa winked and continued, ‘Valakkappu can be done if one wishes, but seemantham, as the name suggests, is done only during the first pregnancy.’
‘Hmm… Suraj’s family follows so many customs! His Amma asked me if I had celebrated my puberty function, and how I blushed! Reading my face accurately, she explained it. Traditionally, the mother is not supposed to see the daughter for the first time when she gets her first period, and on the third day, a special sweet puttu (steamed rice cake) is given to the girl. On the fourth day, five women, other than the mother, pour turmeric water along with neem leaves through a sieve over the girl’s head. If I have a daughter, she will go through this rigmarole!’
‘Your Umma didn’t want to advertise your menarche. I love customs and rituals. However, unfortunately, nowadays, reeking of modernism, people often abhor such traditions. So slowly, these customs will disappear unless elders insist and impart.’
‘Oh, but that neighbour auntie forced me to gulp cups of gingelly oil and some gunk made of urad dhal. Argh! How I hated her.’
‘Kamala maami was a kind soul. Those food items are believed to strengthen a woman’s childbearing muscles. It’s like strike when the iron is hot, right when a girl is….’
‘Appppaaa, your love for idioms, proverbs, whatever is annoying. Grr!’
‘You are your mother’s daughter. She used to shut her ears!’
‘Suraj calls me Daddy’s girl. He says, although I look nothing like you, I have some of your mannerisms.’
A click escaped my lips as I noticed a fleeting grimace on Appa’s face before he said, ‘Kannamma, you watch TV. It’s time for Dhuhr namaz.’
Appa rarely called me by my name. It was always Kannamma. He loved Bharathiar’s poetry. Appa read both in Tamil and Malayalam. Sadly, I never picked up Malayalam from Appa, as my parents conversed in the common language, Tamil.
Once in anger, when a neighbour mocked my parents’ religious disparity, I shoved a Ganesha statue from the table. Appa replaced the broken statue before Umma noticed. He sat me down and explained how, as parents, they didn’t want to force their religious beliefs on me. To let me choose my path. Non-vegetarian food didn’t gel with me, so I grew up vegetarian. I enjoyed wearing ethnic clothes and visiting the temple with Umma. Although I watched Appa performing namaz every day, I never asked him to teach me. And in college, Suraj, a typical brahmin lad, proposed, and I accepted.
A bowl of pomegranate materialized next to me.
‘Appa, sit here with me.’
‘OK, but later, I will ace your granny’s puliyodharai. I know you crave it.’
‘We can cook together. You, the MasterChef, and I, the sous-chef. Deal!’
With the TV on, I dozed, and Appa was on the phone with my mother-in-law when I woke. She treated me like her own, perhaps pitying a motherless girl. I watched my stocky, stooping Appa talking obsequiously.
Umma’s accident had completely transformed Appa. He discarded exercise and eating right. Age was catching up as well.
As parents, Umma was a disciplinarian, while Appa sanctioned all my whims. Appa stopped smoking after the accident as if he had to live Umma’s deprived quota too. Although he never scolded me, he gently assured that I reigned in my rebelliousness.
‘Let’s start cooking. Before the little one begins kicking and demanding food.’ Appa tenderly tousled my hair.
‘What did Amma say?’
‘She will send me a list of what to feed you after delivery. It seems a new mother should avoid red and green chillies. Instead, food is to be prepared using pepper and cumin seeds. And to feed you loads of snake-gourd and broad beans.’
‘Hmmm. Have you found someone to bathe the baby?’
‘Yes, Kannamma.’
‘I will make sulaimani chai while you reread the recipe.’
‘Subhan Allah!’
This has been our family thing. Always. A light black tea, a stick of cinnamon, and a spoonful of sugar served with a sprig of mint leaves in a glass mug, just like Appa’s Umma had practised. I loved to watch my parents unwind every night with a sulaimani, discussing their work, my future, and me. Suraj and I implemented this now—our special time.
“You drink milk with saffron, not black tea!”
“APPA…”
A whirlpool of Deja vu slapped me while Appa and I worked like the two needles of a clock. I mutely added coriander, sesame, and methi seeds while Appa dry-roasted them.
We had been cooking aviyal (mixed vegetable stew). Appa chopped the veggies while I ground the coconut and green chillies, and then churned the sour curd with a fork when we received the news of Umma’s road accident. Appa left me with Kamala Aunty and returned after two days, haggard and dazed, with the lines on his face never dissolving.
The image of Umma waving from her bike on her way to work was tattooed forever in my mind. It was her birthday. And last day.
Appa and Umma were labeled the lovebirds of our colony.
Our neighbours regaled stories of how Umma folded Appa’s banana leaf inwards at a Hindu wedding after lunch to indicate satisfaction and a wish to return for happier events, unlike when it was folded outwards at unfortunate events. And once, at a Muslim ceremony, Umma was aghast at seeing people sitting around a large plate and sharing food. Appa explained the significance of communal camaraderie and served her a bowl of curd rice.
They were each other’s constant, Guiding and Complementing. Time never healed Appa. But these days, he was excited and certain of having a granddaughter.
‘Hello, where are you lost in thoughts? This is your granny’s powder with the secret ingredient that takes the puliyodharai to the next level.’
I sprinkled the powder and gently mixed the rice.
‘You are handling it like it’s a rare specimen. I wish you had pursued science. Suddenly, you hated science. Weird.’
Securing the utensil with a lid, I let it rest, and followed Appa to the living room as he switched on the TV for the noon news. How could I tell him that the results descried during a science project in Genetics during college impelled me to hate science?
A confrontation would create insecurities.
After losing Umma, in its aftershock, paranoia gripped me. Fear of losing my other parent. Many nights I watched if Appa’s chest rose and fell. If he stayed late at work, I was scarred with images of Appa lying in a pool of blood on the road.
Suraj saved me from sliding into neurosis and wrecking my life. Destiny paired us at a cookery competition. In replicating a street food, however clichéd it might sound, sparks flew, the universe collided, and we won the event and each other with our dhabeli (a Gujarati snack). The butter-slathered buns filled with peanuts and sev (fried gram flour) sealed our hearts together. His patient love and positive vibes helped me overcome my anxieties.
This pregnancy had me thinking about the choices my parents made. But why didn’t they expose me to the truth? Giving life to an abandoned child was a noble deed. My questions will remain unasked and unanswered.
I watched Appa’s wrinkled face as he rested his head on his hand, the thumb under his chin, and the gnarled index finger across his cheek to his temple. My love spurted through my eyes. Ah, wretched hormones! Then, padding across, I linked my hands around his neck and kissed his bald pate.
My Appa.
Like the golden colour seeping from the tea leaves into the sulaimani, Appa is one ingredient integral to my life.
&*&
Photo By – Unsplash Zeki Okur
