Achamma and Amma fed me till I burst

A short story of realizing nothing beats home made food.

@thesanchh

Our house in Mangalore always smelled of food: Achamma’s bisi bele bhaat, Amma’s kara chutney, and Akka’s rasam. With thirteen people in the house, someone was always hungry. And a lady was in the kitchen, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the edge of her saree, serving with a smile.

All the ladies of my home laughed and teased each other while trying both old and new recipes. One would think my grandmother would school them to work quietly. No. My Achamma was the most likely to crack not-so-appropriate jokes, attracting all the ladies from village to spend their evenings at our home.

I was never a part of this group. I never bothered to go inside the kitchen and learn like my cousin sisters. My mother worried I would starve by myself while Achamma served me outside the kitchen, “Not while I am alive”, she’d say to Amma.

So, I never learned to cook until I moved to Delhi. The ladies had packed two bags of dry chutneys, powders, and batters in tin boxes under Achamma’s supervision.

Appa made sure to store them properly. My father was diligent in pasting my old school name chits on all the boxes. He wrote on them with a black permanent marker so I wouldn’t mix them all up.

Those two bags lasted me a month. I thought that the old lady in front of my flat would help me, just like the ladies back home who would go to each other’s house to lend a hand during feasts. My hope vanished when she slammed the door in my face the morning I went to introduce myself. I returned back to the flat crying, forgetting my packet of milk on the doorstep. A stray cat got to it before I left for the office.

My apartment smelled like Maggi and fried rice for a month until I gave up and hired an aunty to cook for me. The first one only knew how to make dal and chapati. Aloo subji graced my plate if she was in a good mood.

The second one promised me she knew how to make South Indian food, but got irritated when I asked her to make dosa every night. She left when I couldn’t eat her vadai and gave it to the cat outside. The feline played with the fried snack for hours before she got tired of smacking it across the wall.

The third aunty kept muttering about me being skinny, yet she poured no ghee over my idli. Before I could compromise with her, the couple living in the next flat lured her with an offer of better pay and less work.

I didn’t bother looking for another aunty after her. I tried learning how to cook from Youtube.

The videos demanded more ingredients and patience than I had. No matter what I made, it never tasted anything like home. Asking Amma for help would have been a defeat. She would just gloat, saying I should have listened to her and learned to cook for myself when I had the chance.

I was slowly growing sick. Of the instant coffee I gulped down in the morning, the stale bread I made for lunch, and then the noodles that resembled my dried hair without Achamma oiling them every Sunday.

No one was surprised when I fainted in the office one day. They gave me pitying looks and I was sent back to my flat in a cab to rest. I packed my bags and left for home that night, placing the milk out for the cat.

The reflection in the bus window barely resembled the girl who had left home six months ago. I was running a fever of 104, my under eyes were darker than my hair, and I could barely get my ticket checked by the conductor before falling into an uneasy sleep.

Woken up by a bony hand, I saw the blurry image of an old lady. I tried to sit straighter, but she gently pushed me back, offering crispy banana chips from her tin tiffin. I looked at her in question. She pushed the chips further into my face with a smile. I took some and gave her a nod to be polite.

Achamma’s lessons about taking food from strangers echoed in my head. But I was not a child anymore, and the greasy feeling of the treat tempted me to gulp it down. It melted in my mouth. A sigh left my lips. I fell back asleep as the salt made its way down my throat.

My brother took my bags while I leaned my whole body on Appa as we got home, thankful for their silence. The street was barely lit at midnight, and the drizzle had made the ground slippery. I just wanted to sleep in my bed.

But that thought flew out as soon as I stepped inside the house. Every member was waiting for me in the thinnai, front of the house, not letting me step into the Verandah before they descended on me.

Achamma pushed them away with her walking stick and took my face with trembling hands. She moved it from side to side and exclaimed how thin I had gotten. She took my hand in a tight grip and led me through the Verandah to the kitchen in front of the main door. She pushed me down to sit on the ground before taking a seat in her wicker chair. It had been her throne since I could remember. It was an unspoken rule to not sit there. She gave one look to Amma and a banana leaf was placed in front of me.

Amma put heaps of hot rice on my leaf. Just the aroma of fresh food made me forget how tired I was. My face must have fallen at my mother pouring only ghee on my rice, which made Achamma laugh out loud. The whole family followed her in their amusement at my disappointment. I looked around in confusion when they all sat beside me. Akka put the leaves out for all of them.

@justanothersketcher

Amma waved her hand to the ladies, and they went in to bring out the feast. Three types of chutney, papadum, spicy podi powder, sambhar, and my favorite goli baji. I was amazed at how they managed to keep my cousins from eating all those fritters before I reached home. The fights over every last piece had been a constant in the house since we were kids. But that night, I got a full plate for myself. It must be the threat of Achamma’s walking stick that kept them away.

Everyone sat down to eat, except Achamma who had dinner at dusk, and Amma. I looked at her when she sat beside me with a smile. She shook her head when I reached for another leaf for her and started mixing my food the way I liked. She fed me like she did when I fell sick as a child.

I leaned my shoulder on the wall beside me, sounds of familiar discussions and laughter washing over me. My fever must have gone down. I felt better with each bite.

In the end, I shook my head at Amma to stop. But Achamma stood up to serve Mysore pak and payasam, my favorite desserts. I sighed at her grin, which spread across her wrinkled face in glee as she patted my mother's shoulder, telling her not to listen to me.

I did not refuse Amma's hand again. I never will.

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This story was first published by Mysticeti Magazine.

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