Rain, Bhajjis, Chai, and Illayaraja—a Yearning (Plateful of Memories #2)
Memories work in mysterious ways. You listen to a song, watch an old cartoon, hear a certain word, or sometimes simply ‘feel’ a moment — you’ve been immediately transported to a memory, into the universe of what was, even if only for a brief second. I am an extremely sensory person and little triggers send me back in time. One of my strongest triggers though, is food. My urge to write of memories, of what was ,and how that makes me feel now reaches the crescendo through smell and taste…and there enters this food series: Plateful of Memories.
It was raining today in Columbus, Ohio. If you know Columbus, she pours down one minute and then lets up like a child with crocodile tears who gets what they want. But in the moment that she cries and the windows outside splatter with rain and the sky a dusty grey, they get what they want. I would have already given in, gone outside of the moment and into a memory. Rain always reminds me of Madras, no matter where it lands—the smell of earth (we call it mann-vasanai or the “smell of the soil”), hot filter coffee or tea, sitting around a table in a moment of togetherness and solitude with the people you love, and if you’re lucky, perhaps some of the maestro Illayaraja’s music in the background (here’s what I am listening to as I write this)… that is what the memory of a rainy evening look like.
Rain and its many moods present itself like early 80s-90s Tamizh cinema’s violin strings, romance, and a sense of yearning/longing. It reminds of late evenings on the Marina beach and its salty air caressing my face. That brackish smell is very distinct and in that, Marina always espoused solitude and collective comfort all brewing through one long coast line. She always reflected all of my emotions on other people’s faces—aunties holding up their sarees at their ankles to avoid getting it wet, semi-naked children, brave older kids who tried to swim past a point most don’t venture, lovers under an umbrella, trotting horses, the ballistic dogs, daring crows… I could watch them all for hours on end. In that solitude in a sea of hundreds of people, I felt safe, seen, and soothed. I could go into my shell and do nothing but stare at the waves or have my brothers literally carry and throw me into the waters—both of these scenarios were equally on the cards. Both of them felt right in that moment, too. All was well on the beach for after, we got together with some bhajji and a cup of hot chai.
Bhajji* vendors would set up their carts at the beach letting its smell float through the air—people always followed the smells and landed at the tiny shops. A portable transistor or radio played Illayaraja from back in the day and the most used vegetables for the bhajji, green banana peppers (mirchi) were strung about like garlands for a moment now dead. Stacked, bright plastic stools, a large utensil with water to wash our hands, adolescent boys who distributed the bhajjis on shiny paper plates, and that amazing red chutney that I will never ever be able to replicate…I can’t imagine anything more befitting in that moment. When it’s about to rain in Madras, the gloom hangs heavy over your head and when the tea hawkers come by with their kettles, all you need is a cup of cutting chai and some bhajjis to dwell on the blues amidst conversations with your people.
All of us sitting around a stool holding the shared platters of mixed bhajjis, I always felt like I belonged…like I belonged with the people I am with, the people on the beach, the waters, and just with myself. During all those times I sat there looking at the sun setting over the ocean, I have imagined where I might be ten or fifteen years from that moment—what the future holds for me. That imagination lingered with some longing. Rain and chai and bhajjis were that yearning and hope of what everything could roll out to be. That moment allowed you a private emotion so publicly and when your friends/ family saw it in your eyes, they allowed you to experience it without interruptions. I can’t count the number of times where I have been with a group of friends or family, all of us sipping at our chai and staring at the waves, none speaking a word. Yet, there we are together.
And now that I am in that future of my past self, rain and chai and bhajjis are still that yearning, except it’s not for the unknown future but for that girl from ten or fifteen years ago sitting on a red plastic stool digging into the sand, looking at me. I want to tell her that all I want 15 years later is to sit with her in comfortable silence as we watch the crashing waves, twilight now turned dusk. Then, we’d shake the sand off our clothes, our shoes, let in the distant music from a radio reach us again, and start the long walk back home, wherever that is.
*A bhajji is a spicy, fried hot vegetable snack found in south India. Thinly-sliced vegetables (most popular ones being plantain, potato, onions, and long banana pepper) are coated in batter and fried in hot oil.
