A Culinary Poetic Journey: Exploring the Heart of Indian Cuisine

Elayada

As dawn breaks, my taste buds awaken to the vibrant embrace of a tender plantain leaf. It has gracefully climbed over the wall, unfurling its green arms in a welcoming gesture. The aroma from the steamer fills the air with fragrant joy—a delightful trio of rice cakes, melted jaggery, and fresh coconut, nestled sweetly in emerald leaves. I hope my neighbor, the owner of this bountiful plantain tree, won’t mind if I take just one half-cut leaf from his generous yard.

There’s something magical about the early morning—the birds chirping, the sunlight filtering through, and the smell of delicious food in the air. The simplicity of this dish and the beauty of its presentation remind me of home.

Chapati

The process of making chapati is more than just cooking; it’s an art form. My mother kneads the dough with care, mixing it with harsh words that seem forgotten with every ball of dough she forms. She rolls out twelve smooth chapatis, each touched lovingly with ghee. Among them, she gives extra care to one she names “Judas,” perhaps as a reminder of betrayal.

Once flattened, these chapatis look like twelve full moons gleaming before her. She cooks them on a hot pan, flipping each one with precision. Some may burn around the edges while others dance and puff up—each chapati carries its own story. They all end up folded neatly in a casserole, waiting patiently for the family to gather around the dining table.

The table itself is adorned with a delicate lily-white runner, yet the atmosphere feels heavy. The serious faces around the table hold secrets that are not spoken. The chapatis may look perfect, but they bear no mark of the struggle my mother withstands. Her tired expressions and hidden scars tell a different story, one of resilience mixed with love.

Porotta

When you think of Kerala, one dish that stands out is the famed porotta. This flatbread is a must-try, rolling effortlessly on the tongue, bursting with crispy flavors. Historians may trace its origins back to West Asia, but it has surely found a special place in the hearts of Keralites.

Prepared with oil, salt, milk, and a sprinkle of sugar, the dough dreams under a moist cloth, waiting to be transformed. The chef, with a flourish, tosses the elastic dough into the air, performing a dance on a tiled platform.

With names like “nool porotta,” “bun porotta,” “paal porotta,” and “kothu porotta,” the various versions are a testament to Kerala’s rich culinary heritage. Each type holds its unique flavor and texture, all vying for attention and admiration.

Seven Nights of Mourning

The ebony flag on the gate marks a period of grief for our family. Living near the burial ground, the moon seems to linger longer than usual, almost as if sharing my sorrow. I often sit on the terrace with a bowl of rice, contemplating the loss around me.

The moonga (owl) hoots nearby, as if an old friend is keeping watch. For seven sleepless nights, I have felt the weight of silence, with only the bats flapping above to break the quiet. The barren jackfruit tree in the graveyard reaches out to me, as if to draw me into its ancient embrace.

My mother, adorned in her Kanchipuram wedding sari, seems alive again in my memories. Her blazing eyes were like a pair of stars, fierce and protective. I grip the rosary tightly, remembering how, as a child, I resisted her efforts to feed me. Now, that longing for connection and the body that once nurtured me feels almost unbearable.

Cracked Feet

Women in my village often enter the church with their heads covered, wrapped in pastel-colored clothes that carry both joy and sorrow. As they fast on Sunday mornings, their mothers-in-law remind them not to drink any water until the service ends.

The Bread and Wine in the priest’s hands tremble under the weight of unwavering faith. These women, with their cracked feet, embody a history steeped in resilience. The fissures on their feet tell stories of struggles and strength, reminiscent of the journeys they undertook from their childhood homes to the places where they were married.

These cracks didn’t appear overnight; they represent years of hard work, from walking through kitchens to working in the fields. Each scar signifies a life filled with both joy and hardship. On Sundays, these women’s feet find a moment of rest, as they share in the sacred act of communion. For them, this is a moment of reflection, even if the history etched on their feet is hardly visible to others.

Through these poems, we embark on a gastronomical journey that resonates with the flavors and emotions of life. Each dish tells a story, weaving together the intricate threads of culture, family, and memory that shape our experiences. If you cherish culinary tales rich in texture and heartfelt sentiments, these poems speak your language.

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Original Text – https://scroll.in/article/1088912/she-balled-the-rice-in-my-plate-i-gripped-the-rosary-these-poems-are-a-gastronomical-journey?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=public