Repast
Nayana Ravishankar
The smell of caramel filled the house. From the kitchen it floated above people’s heads in the bustling hall to the porch outside. It meandered lazily over the well and outhouse in the backyard before it finally reached Jaya on the terrace. One sniff and she knew. It was time. A second too late and the sugar would burn. She rushed down the stairs just in time to grab the ladle, stirring the sweet sticky mixture as her mother poured in the gram flour. Stirring constantly, Jaya watched the mixture turn golden and bubble up. It greedily drank up all the ghee that was offered, developing a beautiful airiness. Finally, the golden mixture was poured into a massive pan and quickly cut into bars before it could harden. Now they just had to wait for it to cool.
The Mysore pak would be crisp on the outside, tender and melt in the mouth on the inside, it’s sweetness lingering on the tongue for hours after. Amma’s Mysore pak was famous all over the village. On the rare occasion she made it all the neighbours would find an excuse to visit, hoping to be served the sweet treat with steaming cups of tea. Jaya hovered in the kitchen, watching her mother clean. She was impatient to taste the Mysore pak. It had been nearly a year since Amma had made it last. She inched towards the pan, hoping to snag an edge piece when she felt her mother’s hand land heavily on her shoulder. Guiding her away from the pan, Amma glared. Jaya knew better than to argue. Smarting at the unfairness of it all, she stormed out leaving her mother alone in the kitchen. Careful to avoid stepping on the colourful saris and the pristine white panches of the many visitors in the hall, Jaya settled into her spot in the corner beneath the stairs. From this vantage point she had a view of the hall and the entrances to the two rooms. She had spent many an hour there eavesdropping on the adult’s conversations. Using these half heard dialogues to make sense of her world. Lately though Amma barely spoke. Her parent’s loud fights from the last year had transformed into thunderous monologues by Appa. Before, when Appa was away in town after the harvest, Amma would sing and chatter endlessly. She would imitate bears, lions and elephants and chase Jaya and her sisters around the fields. Jaya would secretly pray for Appa to be away so the house would lighten as it always did in his absence. She carried the guilt of her prayer until he returned.
Jaya leaned against the cool mud walls and admired the sight of the decorated house. The air was filled with the scent of the jasmine adorning the women’s plaits and the marigold garlands that hung from the walls. Along with the sweet perfume, snippets of conversation amongst the guests washed over her.
“Mmmm … Mysore pak gama gama antha idhe.”
“Howdu ri. Last time they had only boondi and payasa. This time Mysore pak too.”
“And why not? Finally goddess Lakshmi is entering this house. That wretch in the kitchen brought him nothing but misfortune. Three. Three girls she gave him. Poor man.”
“Tch tch … that is true…. What else is a man to do?”
“But having her prepare the Mysore pak…” The voices faded as the group of women wandered away. Feeling the warmth creep across her face, Jaya was inexplicably embarrassed and irritated. She emerged from her spot and hurried outside, away from the women. The noise around the side of the house drew her attention. Large vessels had been set up atop roaring fires, the fields behind them shimmering in the heat. Groups of men and women sat around the vessels, peeling and chopping mountains of vegetables for the banquet. Jaya’s stomach growled as the smells of all the delicious food assailed her. She watched a man in a once white undershirt, now thoroughly stained with splashes of rasam, fry up a fresh batch of crisp sandige. Over there the payasa bubbled happily, waitng for the final garnish of ghee, raisins and cashews. The boondi was briskly bathed in the sugar syrup for just a few seconds to maintain the perfect crunch. And in the middle of it all sat the Mysore pak glistening in the afternoon sun. Absorbed in the wonder of these sights she almost didn’t hear the familiar voice call out.
"Jayu! Come here.” It was her favourite Aththe. She was on her haunches finishing up an elaborate rangoli in front of the house. “Look at you lovely girl. You are growing more beautiful by the day”. Dusting herself off, her aunt straightened and pinched her cheek playfully leaving a smudge of pink powder on Jaya’s face. Laughing and squirming away, Jaya joined Aththe’s daughter, Girija, and they were soon absorbed in the sight of the colourful jeerjimbe that fluttered and thrashed in Girija’s palm. The emerald green of the beetle matched her new langa. Jaya admired her cousin's new clothes and looked down at her own plain ones which were just a little too short. Jaya wore mismatched ribbons. No flowers graced her hair, no bangles clinked merrily on her small wrists.
Her envy was soon forgtten as Aththe brought the girls bowls filled with steaming payasa. She handed Jaya the larger bowl to share with her sisters. Scooping a bit into her mouth first, Jaya set out to find her younger sisters Sunita and Beena. The payasa was just a little too hot and burnt her tongue. But the ghee coating her mouth soon soothed it. She searched for them everywhere, despairing that the payasa would get cold. Finally she found them in the old granary which was now used as a storage room. It was filled with the odds and ends that they imagined would be of use one day. There, her mother was feeding the two girls between sacks of old newspapers and a broken vanity table. The girls happily abandoned the rice and rasam for the payasa and Jaya fed them patiently. Jaya was used to feeding her sisters. Some years when Amma’s belly would grow really large, she would tire easily and sleep a lot and Jaya had to help take care of her sisters. Sometimes Aththe came over to help but she couldn’t stay long. The first time Amma’s belly grew Jaya was only three and Sunita arrived. Two years later it grew again and Beena appeared. After that Amma’s belly had grown three more times but there were no more babies. Those years, even after her belly had flattened again, Amma barely noticed the three girls. She stayed locked up in her room for weeks on end ignoring them all. Every time Jaya peeked in through the keyhole she would see her mother just lying motionless on the thin mattress staring at the ceiling. It seemed that was all she did. Each time though Amma had returned eventually. When the payasa had been thoroughly licked clean from the bowl the younger girls contentedly settled in for a nap. Jaya quickly made her escape before her mother could gather her in too. There was too much excitement outside today that couldn’t be missed. Out on the porch the older women had gathered to sing. As the afternoon wore on they sang all kinds of folksongs. Songs with wisdom and lessons, songs with anecdotes and histories. The songs contained the essence of the village and its people. The crowd around them grew. People withered in the heat as they waited for the feast to begin. The flowers in their hair had wilted. The saris and crisp ironed shirts had creased. But still people stayed, entranced by the songs.
The air was filled with melancholy as the women sang of childhoods past, innocence lost and the impossibility of return when suddenly they heard a loud shout “They are here! They are here! The bus broke down on the way but they are finally here. Come, everyone come”. The spell was broken and crowd scattered. The cooks hurried to add the finishing touches. The guests assembled at the gate. Up front was Aththe who held the aarthi plate, ready to welcome them. The tractor covered in flowers approached the house and a hush fell over the crowd. Jaya stood on her tiptoes to get a better look. She watched Appa steady himself on the girl’s shoulder as he got off the tractor. Despite her heavy sari, the girl jumped down with ease. They stood in their matching garlands while Aththe performed the aarthi. Appa, smiling wider than Jaya had ever seen before, looked softer in the warm glow of the aarthi flame. The girl was so short, Jaya could only see the top of her head. The girl stood with her head bowed, staring at the floor. She didn’t look up even as she kicked the small pot of rice before entering her new home.
Lowering herself back on her heels, Jaya stepped back and watched the crowd drift. Most of them rushed to the meal they had been waiting for all day. The unlucky ones who weren’t able to snag a spot followed Appa and the girl into the house for the rest of the rituals. Jaya stood still as the evening breeze dried the sweat on her neck. Despite the lingering heat of the day she felt a chill envelop her. Pulling her arms around herself gently she walked slowly back to her family. Back near the storage room, she found her sisters outside, fighting over a doll. Shushing them impatiently she called for her mother but got no response. She tried the door but found that it was locked. Bending slightly, she scrunched one eye closed and peered into the room through the keyhole.
In the fading light she spotted her mother seated at the broken vanity table. Amma sat still looking at herself in the dusty mirror. Bringing her palm up to her forehead she slowly wiped off her battu, leaving a dull red smear across her brow. Her movements quickening, she yanked at her thali saraa, the black beads scattering all over the small room. She brought her wrists up to the edge of the table and began to slam her glass bangles against it. As they broke, some of the bangles pierced the delicate skin on her wrist. Jaya’s eyes traced the rivulets of blood as they ran down Amma’s hands.
***
Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine
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