lentil rice

thulsi

Part 1: Chennai

amma taught me to sing sweet notes when i was tender five to help me speak. the first clear words that came out of my moist baby lips was the fourth note, ma. amma, my high voice squealed with glee along with jingling anklets tied to my sienna soft feet. the thulsi in our back garden sprouted leaves to my laughter and cries, grew with me. moist soil under moist leaves on moist branches in moist rains, along with moist tears. the four o'clock morning child i was, detested the thulsi's bitterness. my chubby face scrunched with the bitter aftertaste, tongue sticking out and hands scrunched up to will the pungency away.

yet the thulsi grew with me. through crayon-coloured days in yellow uniforms in kindergarten to blue pinafores and black shoe days. the bitter branches pierced into my life and looped itself along my music and dance and art classes. like messy lines of brown and green wax crayon lines, the branches tore into my scenic salad days. 

amma adds some into boiling water and made me drink it to cure my flu. we had a stainless-steel tumbler which chimed when shaken. she pours a bit into the chiming-cup and blew it. the scent of bitter thulsi and cooking sambhar pervaded my senses and the kitchen. my short plump feet tapped against the granite counter along with the 1980s tamil hits on the radio. was it 1980s hits? i forgot.

summer felt like one hundred years of untamed heat. arms and face sweaty, clumps of talcum powder mixing with the distasteful bodily fluid. amma was obsessed over looking fair. scrubbing soap after soap, creams after creams until her skin flakes away into the white maelstrom of fair and lovely ads and skin-bleached models of european origin. evening walks along with amma and appa and patti in marina beach, thirty rupees merry go round rides and soaking our sandy feet in cool waves. i thought of how far the waves must've traveled to get to the shore of chennai and lap on our sand and lick our feet. perhaps the same water has touched america (a mythical land for childhood me). soaking my girlish chocolate body into waters of ancient origin was a thrilling act for my age. i held onto my appa's strong arms and lathered in the embosom of the century old blue traveler. 

temple bells ringed every sunrise. grandma bought packets of aavin milk to offer ganesha, wrinkled hands pressed together oh her sagging bosom everyday in front of the idol wishing for eternal happiness. her corroding limbs slowly takes her to the temple every sunrise and sunset where she tittle-tattled with other grandmas with corroded limbs and wrinkly mouths like her's. i visit the temple sometimes. the priest offers us thulsi water. my mouth scrunches up in disataste.

potato curry, snake gourd soup and kozhambu on every fridays. weekends in sherone's house where i gnawed off feet of barbie dolls and braided their plastic hair until there was none on their plastic heads. we pretend to be adults and wear our mothers' shawls and sling our mothers' handbags on our arms and cook mud cakes and mud rice for our dolls. 

amma was a music teacher. she brought children elder than me to my home to sing with them. ayarpadi maligayil/ thaymadiyil kadrinaipol/ mayakannan thoongigindran aarero. the thulsi plant in out backyard withered when i was 8, when my dad left for dubai in search of a better life for us. and my mom stopped bringing children to sing at our home. my passion for singing and dancing withered with it. my chalangai gathers dust in its brass bells in the attic. i like to imagine that the thulsi leaves are floating along with the churning sea, travelling to places i've never been to and seeing things i could never imagine seeing. the bitter taste of the leaves boiled down into the salty seawater. my mouth scrunches up in distaste.